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“Of course I want answers,” he said a little irately. “But I’m not going to get them by stomping around like Godzilla and needling the police until they give me those answers, am I? Besides, I’m sure that if it really is Vicky, that I’ll be suspect number one. Again.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous. Everyone knows how crazy you always were about that girl.”

Her lips pressed together in an expression of disapproval, as they usually did when mention of Vicky was made. Marcia had never been fond of her brother’s young wife, and had never made a secret of her sentiments toward her. Not that Vicky cared. She was too self-absorbed to care what anyone thought of her, not even Quintin. It was an aspect of her that had fascinated Quintin: the way Vicky’s life revolved around herself to a great degree, andto hell with everyone who didn’t give her what she felt she deserved.

“How are things at the factory?” he asked.

“Fine, fine,” said Marcia dismissively. “Bobby is on top of everything as usual.” She gave her brother a penetrating look, and he knew exactly what was coming next. “When are you finally going to make it official? You know how hard that boy works, and how much he’s invested in the business. Don’t you think he deserves a little assurance?”

“I’m not dead yet, Marcia,” he snapped.

“You’re not going to live forever, you know,” she said, in that direct way of hers. She got up. “Anyway, I expect the police will show up on my doorstep next. What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them whatever you want,” he growled. “I don’t care.”

“Fine,” she said. “Be that way. But make up your mind about Garibo, will you? Bobby isn’t going to wait forever. He’s had a very tempting offer from Unilever, and he’s seriously considering taking them up on it.”

Quintin looked up at this.“Bobby is thinking about leaving Garibo?”

“What do you expect! You’re practically pushing him out the door! Your own flesh and blood!” And with these words, she stalked off, and moments later slammed the door.

He heard the engine of her lime-green BMW gun and her tires spray gravel as she took off.

A grim set had come about Quintin’s mouth. Marcia was being pushy, as usual. Pushy and obnoxious. But maybe she had a point. He wasn’t going to live forever, and this whole business with Vicky being found dead had rattled him to a great degree.

And as he got up and picked up a portrait of his beloved wife, he sighed deeply.

Maybe it was finally time to let go…

Chapter 20

“Did you see that? Did you take a picture?”

“Yes, I saw that and yes, I took her picture,” said Scarlett as she studied said picture on her phone. She frowned. “Look at that dress, and that hair!” She zoomed in. “Oh, and those pores. They look like craters! She definitely needs a facial scrub and maybe a seaweed mask. And her hairdresser should be arrested and shot—look at those roots!”

“Oh, who cares what she looks like,” said Vesta as she craned her neck to follow the BMW as it raced off. “Did you get a shot of her license plate? I’ll have Alec run a check.”

“Can he do that? Is that allowed?”

Both women were seated in Marge’s little red Peugeot, conveniently parked across the street from the Gardner residence, where they had an excellent view of the front door.

“Of course he can do that. I’m his mother. He’ll do whatever the hell I tell him to do.”

“She reminds me of someone,” said Scarlett slowly, and then it hit her. “I got it! Marcia Gardner—Quintin’s younger sister!”

Vesta drew up her eyebrows in surprise.“Are you sure? I thought she moved to Switzerland. Or France—or some other European place.”

“No, it’s definitely her. I’d recognize those bushy brows anywhere.”

Vesta grinned.“Only you would recognize a person by their eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows are my specialty,” said Scarlett proudly. “They’re the windows into a person’s soul.”

“Pretty sure that’s the eyes,” grunted Vesta as she took out her own phone and dialed her son’s number.

“No, it’s the eyebrows,” said Scarlett with a nod. “Everybody knows that.”

“Alec? I want you to run a check on a license plate number. GAR130. What? Not allowed? Oh, don’t give me that crap. Just run the number already, will you? Why else have I got a cop son for?” She glanced over to her friend and nodded. “Marcia Gardner. Thanks. Oh, and when you see Charlene, tell her not to overdo it on the plastic surgery, will you? Would be a shame to ruin that lovely face on a whim.” And without saying goodbye, she disconnected, as was her habit. “You were right,” she said. “It was Quintin’s sister.” She tapped her dentures with her phone. “Can’t be a coincidence, for her to show up here so soon after the discovery of that dead body.”

“Do they know who it is yet?”

“Nah. Alec gave me some lame excuse about the coroner having to do an autopsy. Cops are even worse than politicians. All that bureaucratic claptrap. Who’s that?”

Scarlett had called up a picture on her phone of a young man with aquiline features and a widow’s peak, his jet-black hair in a ponytail.