A Southern Promise. Jennifer Lohmann

wrinkled her nose, then sniffed. “No, and it’s hard to think of him as my cousin. He grew up in Virginia but didn’t come down to visit his grandmother often, nor was she invited north. Like most people, the Carries think Aunt Binnie is...was crazy.” Her words shuddered and rolled in the wake of her sobs. “Rupert’s parents encouraged him to come see Aunt Binnie when he was looking at colleges. Hoping she would pay for it, my dad said. Which is probably true. Now that he’s living in Greensboro, he still only visits to ask for money.”

      “And?” Again Howie opened his palms in invitation.

      “And what?”

      “And there’s more to how you feel about Mrs. Somerset’s grandson than that he was a gold-digging relative.” Howie purposely didn’t use the word cousin again. He didn’t want to encourage any familial protectiveness where there hadn’t been any before.

      “Rupert always made me a little uncomfortable, even as kids. Don was better friends with him than I was.”

      Don Somerset would have been the natural person to step in to Somerset Tobacco had the business stayed in the family and in Durham. Instead, he’d gone to North Carolina State University and was doing something at one of the tech firms in Research Triangle Park—no one much cared what.

      Still, Cousin Rupert was a promising thread. Not all cops believed in instincts, but Howie did, especially in the “tingle at the back of the neck” instincts that women had about men.

      “What about him made you uncomfortable?”

      Julianne could play haughty and privileged, but poker would never be her game. Experiences she’d had with Rupert Carrie flickered in her eyes until she settled on one that was especially meaningful. Only, instead of sharing, she shook her head. “He just made me uncomfortable, is all.”

      “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Howie could still see her rolling the experience over in her mind.

      A dark pink tongue flickered out between light pink lips. “No.”

      She lied with such conviction in her tone—and doubt in her face—that Howie added the question to a mental list to ask again later, and later again if needed. He could approach the question from one hundred different directions if necessary—she’d answer it eventually.

      “It sounds as if your aunt donated a lot of money,” he asked as a distraction. “Was she having money problems? Did she give money to the wrong person? Or borrow money from the wrong person?”

      “No,” Julianne said with conviction. “Aunt Binnie hasn’t had control of her own finances since I came home.”

      Howie raised an eyebrow.

      “When I first moved back to Durham, she was giving money to anyone who knocked on her door and said they could lower the crime rate. Politicians. Nonprofits. Companies seeking investment. Scam artists.” Tendons in her neck appeared when she turned her head to look out the window. When she turned back to face him, her long neck was smooth again, and kissable.

      Shit. She’s a family member—one that might have killed her aunt. He wasn’t supposed to look at Julianne Dawson—of all people—and want to put his lips all over her.

      “Mom didn’t want her giving away any money, so she fought my mom’s attempts to take control. I suggested that I could vet each person, and that we’d agree on a set of nonprofits she could give money to without my signature. That seemed a good compromise.”

      “And your cousin? Were you vetting him, too?”

      She flushed. “Yes. He had something planned, but he wouldn’t tell me any more than he would tell Binnie.”

      Howie didn’t entirely know how his mind managed detective work, but he’d described it to a friend once as if there was a little boy in his head hunting for clues while some jerk played the hot-cold game. Right now, that jerk was saying, “Getting warmer.” But his tone implied he thought Howie might trip and fall on his face before he found something.

      Julianne was running her tongue along the bottom of her lip. Howie’s eyes followed it, both because he wanted to and because he’d learned this was a nervous response of hers. And that she clammed up afterward.

      “Who inherits Mrs. Somerset’s money?” he asked, approaching the question of money from a new direction.

      She sniffed. “My brother and I. She...she and the Carries never reconciled enough for Binnie to change her will.”

      Howie figured that was Julianne’s polite way of saying that Binnie’s own family had called her crazy, maybe even to her face, and only found her useful if he needed money.

      Was there an expectation there? Rupert expecting Mrs. Somerset to give him money because she had some and he was her grandson? Maybe even expecting that his relationship with her was enough reason for Binnie to leave him something in her will.

      And he couldn’t discount what money problems Julianne and her brother might be having. A healthy inheritance wasn’t a guarantee of a financially secure adult. And he knew well that people killed each other—relatives—for far less money than what was at hand here.

      “Do you have financial problems?” he asked flat-out.

      “I am quite secure.” She didn’t say as you probably know, but he heard the indignation in the way her voice rose at the end of the sentence.

      Howie did know some, but he would double-check.

      Whenever he’d come across articles about Julianne in the Herald-Sun, he’d always skimmed over them. His general interest in Durham and Durham’s history was enough to make him read the brief reports about Julianne Dawson’s plans to renovate a tobacco warehouse into a tech incubator. Not to mention his memories of Julianne the couple times he’d seen her, there by her father’s side. Those stuck out as much as his mother’s comments about Howie’s biological father, David, and the unfairness of the world as it fell to the haves and the have-nots.

      “I read the papers, but the costs of a business venture like yours can grow. Will you have enough when it does?”

      “My plan,” she said with a proud lift of her chin, “has always been to give what’s left of Aunt Binnie’s money to the charities she supported.”

      Not a full answer to his question, but he let it pass. Banking records would give him what he needed to know. “And your brother?”

      Julianne deflated before his eyes, barely recovering enough to respond. “Isn’t this just a robbery gone wrong?” she asked in a sinking voice.

      Her question shocked him, until he realized that she was being both disingenuous and completely honest. The way she’d shimmied away from discussion of her cousin suggested that she knew he was capable of harm, but blood was powerful, even if you didn’t like the person the blood connected you to. And now she was acting similarly in regards to her brother...

      “We will investigate every possibility,” Howie said as gently as he could. “But your aunt was likely killed by someone who knew her.”

      “Oh.” She looked past him, but the blank look in her eyes meant she probably wasn’t seeing any of the activity happening outside the patrol car window.

      “Tell me what happened to my aunt.” Julianne whispered the words. He knew her tone and understood the horror uncertainty caused.

      “Ms. Dawson, please answer the question about your brother. You can’t help Mrs. Somerset now, but you can help catch her killer.”

      “Can I see her?” Her voice was small, tiny compared to the magnitude of her family’s influence on Durham—like the voice of anyone in her situation would be.

      “No. Even if...”

      He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Julianne started shaking as she began to realize the truth of what had happened to her aunt. Her head