"And is there an insurance policy? I don't have a copy of one. Maybe one of the other wives bought the thing."

"You took it out on him and you pay the premiums," he countered.

She inhaled deeply and let it out in a whoosh. "I forgot about that."

Waylon bit the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. So he could fluster the ice queen. That made the ten-minute wait worth every second.

"Which leads me to believe maybe you forgot about something else," he said.

"It's only for twenty-five thousand dollars, for God's sake, and I had the premium set up for automatic payment. I figured if he died out there on the road it would pay for his funeral expenses. It's damn sure not enough to kill him over," she protested.

Her tone had gone an octave higher, and her body language said she was even more rattled. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Did you find out about those other two women before he died?"

Millie brought in a tray and set it on the desk. "Anything else?"

"No, that's all for now," Mrs. Kate Steele said.

Millie shut both doors behind her as she left. Waylon reached for coffee, and Kate picked up a glass of water, downing a third of it before setting it back down-in his books a sign that she was guilty as hell in some way and her mouth was dry from her lies.

Kate hit a couple of keys on her computer and brought up her calendar. "I told you all this before, but if you want the minute details, here they are. I arrived at work at eight thirty. I came in thirty minutes early to get my files in order for a meeting with the acquisitions department concerning buying out a smaller company. I went from my office to the conference room at nine o'clock. I did not have time in that five-minute ride in the elevator to dash down to the flower shop and kill my husband," she said. "We were there until noon, hashing out the finer points of a buyout. Millie had lunch delivered, and we took a forty-five-minute break. I didn't leave except for ten minutes in the ladies' room, and there were at least two other women in there at the same time I was. We were back at the table at one o'clock and wrapped it all up by two. I went back to my office to make phone calls. I did not kill Conrad or have him assassinated."

Waylon took out his notebook and wrote down the timeline as she talked. Most of the time folks got real antsy when he made notes in his book. It didn't seem to affect Kate Steele as much as he wanted. She sat across the desk from him sipping her ice water as if he were no more than a gnat that she would squash with that glass paperweight any minute. He put his pen and notebook into his pocket and finished off his coffee.

"You got anything else you want to say this morning?" he asked.

"Only that if I'd wanted to kill Conrad, I would have done it years ago and I would not have hired someone to do my dirty work," she said curtly.

"Don't leave town. I might have more questions. Thanks for the coffee." He rose up out of the chair slowly and settled his hat back on his head.

"I am leaving town next weekend, but I'll still be in the state," she said. "You have my cell phone, and before you accuse me of murder again, why don't you pull your head out of your butt and do some real detective work? Who was he sending flowers to? They damn sure weren't for me. And if there are three of us, there might be another wife in the wings. Find them and see if that person has a gun to match the bullets that killed dear old Conrad."

Waylon nodded. "Good day, Mrs. Steele."

"Think about what I said." She raised her voice slightly as he left.

"Dammit!" he muttered as he pushed "L" on the elevator.

She'd brought up two good points that he was already investigating. Was she covering her own tracks by throwing him off course, and why was she taking a vacation right now? Hiding evidence?

CHAPTER THREE.

On Tuesdays the trash man picked up the garbage, but since that particular day was a holiday, they wouldn't get it until Wednesday. Still, Jamie was determined to get rid of anything in her house that had belonged to Conrad. She did leave one picture of Gracie with her father in her daughter's room. Even though Conrad had been a son of a bitch, he was still her father.

Was it something in the genes? Jamie's mother hadn't had a lick of sense with her relationship, and Jamie had been the result. She twisted her black hair up the back of her head and held it with an oversize clamp, dragged two bags out to the curb, and returned for a third big black one that held their actual garbage for the week. It would be ready for the trash man when he came the next day, and it would damn sure be out of her house.

Her grandmother had suggested giving his things to a charity, but Jamie was a little superstitious. She sure didn't want another man to put on one of Conrad's shirts or even his socks and feel the urge to become a con artist. The trash truck rumbled down her street before she even made it back to the porch of the small three-bedroom house that she and Conrad had bought together the week after they'd married. They'd planned on at least two children-a boy and a girl was what Conrad wanted. Moving from a small one-bedroom apartment, she'd felt as if she had bought a mansion when she first moved in. Now it seemed small, because memories lurked in every corner and every damned one of them fueled the red-hot anger inside her.

She would sell the place and move into an apartment. There was no way she could make the mortgage payment, pay taxes and insurance, and keep up with all her other bills on her teacher's salary. He might have been a bastard, but he did give her the money for the mortgage every month.

"Unless I can sell the cabin and put the money on the house." She sat down on the porch, propped her elbows on her knees, and put her chin in her hands. "That has to be Gracie's inheritance, since she is his oldest living blood kin. As her guardian, I could sell it and pay off most of this house. I'll make a will leaving this property to her, which I would have done anyway."

"Who are you talkin' to, Mommy?" Gracie plopped down beside her. She smelled faintly of cinnamon from the french toast they'd had for breakfast, but the rest was sweaty kid that had been playing jump rope in the backyard.

If anything could ease the feelings inside Jamie that day, it was love for Gracie. She hugged her up next to her side. "I was talking to myself, trying to get things figured out. How would you like to go to the cabin for a few weeks?"

Gracie jumped up and clapped her hands, her black ponytail flopping up and down in excitement. "Yes, yes, yes! We can swim and go to the snow-cone stand down by the store and will we be there for the festival? And Daddy can share cotton candy . . ." Gracie stopped and tears filled her eyes. "Daddy won't be there, will he? Do you think he's in heaven like the preacher said?"

Jamie pulled her down on her lap and buried her face in Gracie's hair. "Only God knows that."

"Maybe Mama Rita will know. She talks to God."

"You'll have to ask her." Jamie smiled.

Gracie wiggled out of her mother's embrace. "Can we go to the cabin today?"

"We've got some stuff to take care of first, and tonight we have to go see the fireworks display with Mama Rita. How about this weekend? That will give you time to get your toys packed and decide which outfits Barbie will need to take." Jamie smiled.

There would be memories at the cabin, but they only spent a week there each summer. It would be a far better place to figure things out than sitting in the house all summer, and besides, Gracie loved it there.

"I think I left one of my Barbies there last time we went. I bet she's lonely." Gracie sighed. "I will miss Daddy. We never been there without him."

"I know, sweetheart, but we'll have a good time, and maybe you can turn some balloons loose when we leave. They can rise right up in the sky and he might even see them." Jamie fought the desire to cross her fingers behind her back.

"Okay," Gracie said with a serious nod. "Now I'm goin' to start packin' my Barbies and their clothes. They'll need bathing suits and I'll have to take Snugglies or I won't be able to sleep." She disappeared into the house in a blur, leaving the sound of a slamming screen door in her wake.

An official-looking black vehicle slowed down as it passed her house, then backed up and pulled into her driveway. She shaded her eyes with her hand and hoped to hell it wasn't more bad news. That detective from the funeral got out, shook the legs of his jeans down over cowboy boots, and tipped his hat toward her. Tall and dark haired, he shot a winning smile her way and swaggered over to lean on a porch post.

"Mrs. Jamie Steele?"

"That's me," she said.

"Could I come inside and ask you a few questions?"

"No, but you can sit on my porch with me and ask anything you want," she said.

The hat and clothes might make him look like an innocent cowboy, but she'd been conned by a professional for seven years. Detective Waylon could barely be classified as an amateur in the field, even with his winning smile and those sexy eyes.

"Hot one, ain't it?" He sat down on the top step and rested his back against a porch post.

"I've never expected snow in July," she said. "Let's cut to the chase. What do you want to know?"

He pulled out a notebook and a pen. "You are a schoolteacher, right?"

She nodded.

"Are you angry right now?"

"Not that it's a bit of your business, but hell, yes, I'm mad. I just found out my husband is a polygamist and he's got at least two other wives. Have you found more?"

"Not yet, but I'm still investigating." Waylon smiled.

Might as well pack that grin up in your shirt pocket, because it's not going to win you any favors in my court.

"Then why are you here?"

"I want to know where you were on the day he died, from early morning until after three," he said.

"Why until then? Why not until midnight?"

He looked up from the notepad. "He died instantly at three o'clock in the flower shop."

"And who were the flowers sent to? They damn sure didn't come here," Jamie said.

"It's an ongoing investigation, so I can't tell you that."

A new rush of pure old mad flowed through Jamie. Conrad never sent flowers to her, not one time. When they were courting, he'd brought her a bouquet of wildflowers in a quart jar, and on their first anniversary he showed up with a box of chocolates that he'd bought on the half-price after-Christmas sale shelf. At the time she'd thought it was sentimental. Now that she knew he was shopping at an expensive florist, it was just downright cheap.

"Did that son of a bitch spend money for flowers on those other two hussies? He never sent me a damn thing, or Gracie, either, for that matter," Jamie fumed.

The detective poised his pen over the notebook. "I told you I can't answer that. But it will help if you can tell me where you were all day."

"Thursday, I spent the morning with my grandmother. We went to a farmer's market and bought vegetables. At noon we stopped by a burger joint down near Desoto, and then we went came home and put away the produce, had waffles for supper, and I heard about the murder on the television that evening. My grandmother and Gracie were with me all day. Do you think I killed him?"

Was the detective mentally challenged? If Jamie had killed him, she would have been standing on the roof of that flower shop shouting to the whole world. She was not a woman to run and hide, and Mr. Detective could write that in his little notebook.

"We are covering all bases," he said. "Tell me the truth. Did you find out about those other women before or after he was killed?"

"If I'd known about those other two wives, he wouldn't have been alive on Thursday to be buying flowers in that shop. Now let me ask you something. He owns a cabin up near Lake Kemp. Since Gracie is his oldest living blood kin, won't she inherit that?"

He put his notebook and pen back into his shirt pocket and got to his feet. "I have no idea about property. You'll have to talk to a lawyer if you want to get into it with his first wife."

"Surely that hoity-toity witch won't end up with the cabin, since he has a child," Jamie said.

"She is his legal wife unless one turns up from before fourteen years ago, but a lawyer will have to help y'all with the property thing." He started to walk away and then turned back. "Don't leave town. I'll have more questions as the investigation continues."

"I'm not guilty of jack shit, and I'm going up to that cabin this weekend. It's Gracie's, and nobody is taking it from her," Jamie declared.

Amanda heard the squeak of the door to her tiny one-bedroom apartment open and didn't need to open her eyes to know that her aunt had stopped by-again. She could hear her in the kitchen putting food in the fridge, right along with what she'd brought the past three days. Very little of it had been touched.

Amanda hugged her wedding picture closer to her chest and curled up around it on the sofa. She couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep in the bed they'd shared last week. She could barely look at the bassinet with the cute little airplane mobile above it. Conrad was dead and those other two horrible women were telling lies about him. He might have been married to them, but he'd divorced them long before he even met her. And that little girl didn't look anything like him, so she couldn't be his child.

Conrad loved her with his whole heart, and he would have told her if he'd had another child. He talked all the time about the excitement of his first baby with her. She frowned. Or had he said his first son? She couldn't remember, but still, he would have told her.

She opened one eye to peek at the picture and then snapped it shut as the hole in her heart grew bigger and bigger. She vowed that there would never be another man in her life. She'd given all her love to Conrad, and he'd taken it to heaven with him.

"You might as well open your eyes," Aunt Ellie said. "This has gone on long enough. Today you are going to take a shower and get dressed, and you will leave this apartment. We are going to the store and you are going to do your job. You've had three days past the funeral to wallow around in sorrow."

"I can't," Amanda whined.

"You will or I will drag you into the bathroom and put you in the shower. This is not good for that baby," Aunt Ellie said with enough conviction that Amanda opened her eyes and sat up.

"I loved him so much," she said with a long sigh.

"I reckon he was good at making the women love him." Aunt Ellie pointed toward the shower. "Go. I'll be right here when you get back. Put on makeup and something nice. You're not going to the store looking like hammered buzzard shit."

It took an hour to shower, get dressed, and put on enough makeup to cover the circles under her eyes, but when she finished, Aunt Ellie nodded in approval.

"Now eat," she said. "I made bacon, eggs, and toast. Your plate is in the microwave. Coffee is in the pot. You've got fifteen minutes, so don't argue."

Amanda wanted to revert to her old rebellious days, flip off her aunt, and curl up back on the sofa with the picture for the rest of the day. But she'd promised Jesus when she accepted him into her heart that she would put her wild ways behind her, and so far she'd kept her word. Besides, Conrad had told her repeatedly how much he loved her sweet goodness and that she was going to make a wonderful mother to their son. She could not let him down, not even if it meant eating food that would taste like sawdust.

"I want to start my maternity leave next weekend," she said.

"Fine by me, but you are not holing up in this place with the curtains pulled and the lights turned off," Aunt Ellie said.

"I'm going to the cabin. Conrad said he was leaving it to me, and I can spend time on the deck looking out over the lake. We were supposed to go up there next week anyway. I think I can find closure there. Maybe I'll even stay longer," Amanda said.

"I can agree with that," Aunt Ellie said. "But a week before the baby's due date, you should come on home. Your doctor is here."

"And I will make all my appointments." She laid a hand on her baby bump. "I'll take good care of this little guy. That's the least I can do for Conrad."

Waylon arrived in Wichita Falls right at noon, so he stopped at a pizza place advertising an all-you-can-eat buffet and had lunch. He'd found out this morning that the florist had no idea where Conrad was taking the dozen yellow roses he'd bought that day. He hadn't signed a card before he was slain. He had only just been in the process of paying for the roses, which he'd had in his hands when the two men in masks burst through the door and shot him.

Mr. Drummond, the florist, let Waylon look at the record of Conrad's purchases. At least once a week for the past three months, he'd bought yellow roses on Thursday. In the past year, he usually bought flowers right after the first of the month, and that order varied from daisies to orchids. The store owner was too eager to help, which meant he was probably hiding something big. Waylon made a note to call him later or go back to see him in a week or so. Maybe he'd deleted a couple of orders to protect someone?

Waylon couldn't manage to keep one wife at a time happy. How in the hell did Conrad keep three on the hook and still have time to buy flowers for other women? He had to have had a date book or a calendar somewhere. Waylon made a note to go through all the evidence they'd found in his van. He had to be a smart man, so he would not have kept it in any of the three wives' houses. The only other place it could be was in his van, with that load of clothing he was peddling across the state. If he didn't find it in the evidence boxes, he'd tear apart the van, one piece at a time.

He snagged the last parking space in front of Ellie's Boutique that afternoon. He left his cowboy hat and sunglasses in the car but pasted on a big smile when he opened the door.

"Whew, it's a hot one. This cool air feels good." He spotted a lady with two little girls looking at children's clothing in one area and an older woman flipping through hangers on the other side of the store.

"What can I do for you?" the woman who'd been sitting beside Amanda at the funeral asked. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

"Yes, ma'am, we have. At Conrad Steele's funeral. I am Detective Waylon Kramer." He showed her his badge. "I came to talk to Amanda, if she's available."

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "She's not."

Amanda rounded the end of a rack of clothing. "I'm right here, and I have questions for you, Detective. Follow me back to the office." She led the way past the checkout counter and into a small room, where she pointed at an old straight-back wooden chair. "Have a seat right there. Would you like a soft drink or a cup of coffee? We've got both."

"Something cold would be nice." Waylon sat down in a chair that was more uncomfortable than the sofa in Kate's fancy office.

Amanda took a Pepsi from a small refrigerator and twisted the lid off before handing it to him. "Did you find out who killed my Conrad?"