with open arms and never bothered by the stories from their past. At least that was the surface impression. In reality, the whispers and stares were done discreetly, the stories told quietly behind closed Junior League doors, the privileged teens murmuring during cheerleader practice and football games. The walls of Belle Meade Country Club oozed the story, wiping themselves quickly if any member of the Connolly family appeared.
But the Connolly girls were readily accepted, invited to all the right parties, dating the best and brightest boys, making excellent marks and never failing to fit in. Or so it appeared. Their scandal, instead of hurting them, made them.
The summer skies were darkening with a typical afternoon storm. Taylor opened the sunroof, catching a breath of cool air that preceded the storm. Crossing Interstate 40, traffic was slow and aimless. Passing through the quiet streets of West End, she finally came to the intersection of Harding Road and White Bridge Road. The Starbucks date she’d shared with Sam seemed like days ago, not just this morning. She’d managed to put aside all the emotions from her two-day roller-coaster ride during the afternoon, but seeing the Starbucks brought the news, or non-news, back in a flash. Talk about dodging a bullet.
She supposed she’d have to tell Baldwin about the false alarm, share the near miss with him in as lighthearted a manner as she could. God knows she didn’t want anything to screw with their relationship. Things were good. She was content. She loved him, he loved her. End of story. She didn’t want the same things many women craved. A great man, a wonderful bedmate, relative companionship. That was enough for her. Certainly, her plan didn’t have room for two point five kids and a dog. She’d never been married, hadn’t ever come close. Before Baldwin, she’d always taken her physical pleasure where she could, avoiding all emotional entanglements. Discreet, short-lived affairs on her terms. Sex, not love. Funny, she’d never realized how lonely she had been.
She slowed as she came up on the entrance to Belle Meade. The accident had been cleaned up and the road was back open, but there was still glass scattered carelessly in the roadway and the grass of the median. Cars whizzed through the intersection without a care in the world, their drivers oblivious to the four lives that were lost in this very spot. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her, and she put the window up, blaming the feeling on the breeze billowing forth from the gray skies. She turned left and began making her way along the sedate and gracious boulevard.
She ignored the side street that led to the home she grew up in.
The drive for Quinn Buckley’s mansion appeared. She turned into the entranceway and came to a black wrought-iron gate with a small box standing at window level to her left. She opened the window and stuck her head out.
“Taylor Jackson to see Mrs. Buckley, please.”
There was no verbal acknowledgment, but after a few moments the massive gate creaked open. As Taylor maneuvered her car through the gates onto a narrow path, a deciduous forest swallowed her, beckoning and forbidding. The drive meandered through the woods for a few hundred feet. As she rounded a curve, the estate sprang into view. Even by Belle Meade standards, the property was massive. The plantation-style house was a white two-story washed-brick colonial with substantial columns forming a protected area that had been made into an elegant front porch. Four stone chimneys danced toward the sky. East and west wings abutted the main residence, and Taylor could see a separate five-car garage with a transom covered in ivy that led into the east wing. The west meandered into the woods, the architect finding natural beauty within his design. Black shutters blinked mournfully and the air seemed heavier as Taylor drove closer, as if the house itself was grieving.
She parked in front of a fountain reminiscent of the Italian Renaissance, taking in the care and nurturing that had gone into the landscaping around the front of the house. The place reeked of money. Taylor rang the bell and waited. Walked up and down the steps. Just as she started to get impatient, the ornate double doors to the main house swung open and Quinn Buckley appeared.
Taylor hadn’t seen Quinn in a very long time. If she had spent any time paying attention to the upscale magazines of Nashville, she would have recognized Quinn Buckley for herself in an instant. But all she could see was Quinn’s sister’s face. Whitney Connolly floated at Taylor and she had to shake her head slightly to realize that it wasn’t her. As she climbed the stairs to the front door and Quinn came into clear focus, she could see some of the minute differences between the two women. Quinn wasn’t as curvy as Whitney, her mouth, though generous, wasn’t as full and pouty. Taylor caught herself wondering just how much plastic surgery Whitney Connolly had undergone over the years.
Quinn Buckley had the look of her sister, that was for sure. But where Whitney Connolly had come across the television screen as well put together, Quinn Buckley oozed class and money. In her low-slung jeans and cowboy boots, Taylor felt slightly frumpy, an L.L. Bean figure next to a Lladro figurine. Noting Quinn’s perfectly highlighted coif, she instinctively reached to smooth her own ponytailed blond hair, then caught herself, straightened to her full five foot eleven and strode purposefully the rest of the way up the stairs to the door.
Quinn extended a small, well-manicured hand to Taylor as she reached the top of the steps. “Lieutenant Jackson?”
Even her voice was different from Whitney’s. It was softer, slightly higher pitched and definitely had more of a southern flavor to it. How two women could be so much alike and yet so different was amazing.
Taylor took Quinn’s hand and nodded. “I am. How have you been, Mrs. Buckley? I don’t think we’ve seen each other in several years. I’m so sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances. I was a fan of your sister.”
Quinn’s face closed for an instant, then she smiled graciously. “Of course. Please, won’t you come in?” She turned and led the way into an oversize foyer with dual staircases creeping up either wall. Taylor felt a quick pang. Her parents’ home had been set up just the same, and she remembered sliding down the curved balustrades. Quinn caught her staring and gave her a questioning look.
“Reminds me of…well, never mind.” Taylor had gotten that look before, and it caused a moment of heat to flare up in her chest. Like she’d never been inside a fancy home. Please. She almost burst out laughing at the slightly imperious look Quinn was giving her. Among her former peers and their parents, Taylor always got the same reaction. Her parents had money, and yet she’d chosen police work instead of the privileged life that Quinn Buckley had obviously built for herself. Some of them just couldn’t understand that money didn’t mean anything to her.
“Yes, I see. Would you mind following me? I thought we could talk in the study.” Quinn turned to her left and entered a huge, beautifully appointed room. The rich scent of leather tickled Taylor’s nose, and she caught the fleeting tang of lemon oil. As she got farther in the room, she nearly gasped aloud. A study, my foot. This was one of the most beautiful libraries she had ever seen. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, warm furniture, oh, she could get lost in here for years. It didn’t have the coldness and sterility Taylor had sensed from the rest of the first floor. This was a comfort room, a getaway room. Someplace to literally let down your hair and get cozy. She looked at Quinn and noted her lips twitching in amusement.
“I assume you’re a reader?” Quinn walked over to one of the walnut shelves and plucked a book at random. “I am, too. Whitney was once, but she stopped enjoying it when she was in her teens. Me, I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon than curled up in a chair losing myself in a good book.”
“I’m the same way, but I don’t have such a wonderful place to do it. This room is amazing.”
Quinn gave her the first genuine smile Taylor had seen. “It’s mine. I encourage the rest of the family to allow me my privacy when I’m in here. It’s my own little escape from the rest of the world.”
She sounded so weary that Taylor felt sorry for her. She’d just lost her sister, and here was Taylor, scoping out the room like a kid in a candy store. She got herself back under rein and turned to Quinn, her features carefully aligned to project the appropriate amount of grief and professional concern. She wondered briefly why Quinn would bring the police into her sanctuary-it seemed out of character. Quinn didn’t strike her as the chummy type.
“I truly am sorry about Whitney. My captain told me you mentioned she’d been trying to get a hold of you?”
Quinn sank into a chair, pulling up her feet and curling them under her, like a cat. “Trying is understating it a bit. She must have called twenty, twenty-five times in the past day. My cell phone, my home phone, she left messages at the country club.”
Ah, Taylor thought. Belle Meade Country Club. The social denizen’s favorite Nashville campground.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where were you?”
Quinn gave her an unreadable look, then stood and walked around the room, touching things as if to reassure herself that they were still among her possessions. “I was just…out and about, getting ready for dinner, running
