Free Killing Her Softly by Beverly Barton Page B

thought it sweet that Annabelle had been like a big sister to her young cousin. More than one person had mentioned how much the girls resembled each other, both blue-eyed blondes with strong Vanderley features. But that had been before Lulu reached puberty and blossomed into a model-thin, bosomy, leggy version of her mother, who'd been Uncle Louis's third wife and twenty-five years his junior.
    Annabelle glanced away from the mirror and returned to the bedroom. No one would have noticed anything more than a vague resemblance between the cousins in the past fifteen years. Lulu had been considered the family beauty; Annabelle had been thought of as the brains. It wasn't that she envied her cousin—quite the contrary—but there had been times when she'd wondered what it would be like not to feel the heavy weight of family responsibilities she bore on her shoulders. Lulu had been irresponsible and frivolous, but Annabelle knew only too well that her cousin's life had been far from perfect.
    Just as she zipped her overnight bag closed the telephone rang. Rounding the bed she lifted the receiver from the base on the bedside table. "Hello."
    "Ms. Vanderley ."
    "Yes." She didn't recognize the man's voice.
    "This is Sanders, Mr. Powell's assistant. I'm calling on his behalf."
    "Yes, Mr. Sanders—"
    "Just Sanders, ma'am."
    "What's your message from Mr. Powell?"
    "He'll be in Memphis tonight and would like to meet with you at the Peabody at eight. Shall I let him know to expect you?"
    "Yes, of course. And please, tell Mr. Powell thank you." "For what, ma'am?"
    Slightly flustered by the man's comment, Annabelle said "Uh. . . hmm . . . well, I assumed that if he's coming to Memphis, he plans to work for me."
    "Possibly, but I couldn't say for certain."
    "Oh, I see."
    "Good day, Ms. Vanderley ."
    The dial tone droned in her ear. She replaced the receiver. Odd man, she thought. Such strange comments. But surely if Griffin Powell was coming to Memphis this evening, he intended to take her case. Why else would he make the trip?
    She remembered meeting Mr. Powell several years ago at a charity function in Chattanooga. More than likely anyone who ever met the man, never forgot him. Like Quinn Cortez, Griffin Powell possessed enormous animal magnetism, albeit a more subtle charisma. If she hadn't been engaged and totally devoted to her fiance when she met Mr. Powell, she might have accepted his overtures, but at that time Chris had still been the center of her universe.
    Suddenly, her mind was filled with images of three different men. Chris, her first love, who would always be a part of her. She liked to remember the way they had been before the accident, the two of them young and in love and looking forward to a lifetime together. But more and more lately, thoughts of Chris during the last few years of his life haunted her. Helpless. Melancholy. Begging her to make a new life for herself and yet clinging to her at the same time. And now memories of Chris became overlaid by images of two men she barely knew—men who, each in his own way—had made a strong impression on her. Big, blond Griffin Powell. A reserved secretive man who reminded her of the old saying about still waters running deep. And then there was Quinn Cortez—dark and dangerous.
    Annabelle shivered. Had Quinn Cortez killed Lulu? Had the man who had come to her rescue this morning murdered her cousin last night?
    If the police had any proof whatsoever that he had killed Lulu, they would have arrested him. Right? Of course they would have. He'd been Lulu's lover, the person who discovered her body, so naturally he headed their list of possible suspects.
    Stop thinking about Quinn Cortez. If he's an innocent man, then he is of no interest to you. Your only concern must be making sure Lulu's murderer is caught and punished.
    Uncle Louis was counting on her. He trusted her to do what he was physically and emotionally unable to do. Staying the course until the family could achieve