Finley liked sending guilty people to prison.
Sometimes defense attorneys had to defend guilty people. Not something she would do well.
When she stepped out of the building, the heat pressed in on her. She pushed her sunglasses into place and drew in a deep, humid breath. Temps would only get worse next month. August was always hotter than hell in the South.
Next stop—Cherry Prescott Inglewood’s house.
She wouldn’t call. Surprise visits were always the best.
At her car Finley paused. A note had been stuck beneath the driver’s side windshield wiper. She pulled it free and opened the single fold in the piece of paper.
You are ice cold. Not even close.
She surveyed the parking lot. Spotted a man leaning against the streetlamp post watching her. He grinned, gave her a two-fingered salute.
A follower of Mr. Holmes, she surmised.
When he pushed away from the streetlamp and turned to walk away, her guess was confirmed.
Charlie is innocent! was emblazoned across the back of the T-shirt he wore.
Henderson Residence
Canterbury Rise
Franklin, 5:00 p.m.
Since Cherry Prescott Inglewood was currently unavailable according to her personal assistant, the widow Henderson was next on Finley’s list. Henderson’s personal assistant had assured Finley that she would inform the duty guard at the gate to allow her entrance.
The gated neighborhood was located in the Franklin community, where life was purportedly quieter and slower paced. Like Belle Meade, Franklin was one of those areas where the rich and glamorous flocked to avoid the commercial downside of Nashville. A good many young families who could afford the cost of living settled in Franklin to send their kids to the premier schools.
Gloria Henderson had sold their prestigious family home in Belle Meade right after her husband’s fall from grace and built this home, leaving him to waste away in a cheap apartment on the less desirable end of Nashville’s West Side.
Finley paused at the gate and showed her ID before moving on to her destination. The Henderson home was stately like the rest in the neighborhood, with pristine landscaping and the requisite luxury automobile in the garage. Finley had checked. Gloria Henderson drove a one-year-old Bentley she’d purchased with part of the proceeds of her husband’s insurance. No wonder she’d never bothered with a divorce. A two-million-dollar policy was nothing to sneeze at.
The door opened as Finley crossed the veranda. A twentysomething woman with hair in a painfully tight bun and wearing what looked like a yoga outfit smiled in greeting.
“Welcome, Ms. O’Sullivan. I’m Donna. Mrs. Henderson is waiting for you in the library.”
Finley followed Donna across the marbled entry hall and deeper into the home. The library was on the right beyond the main living area. No wood paneling or heavy furniture here. The room was decorated in pastels, and walls of bookcases were filled with books. Several sat face out, the revealing covers suggesting romance novels. The lady of the house appeared to adore one author in particular.
“Aurora Reynolds.”
Finley turned to Gloria Henderson, who’d spoken. “She must be your favorite,” Finley suggested.
“In a manner of speaking. Join me.” Henderson waved a hand to the floral sofa. “Would you like tea, or perhaps something stronger?”
“Water would be great.” Finley settled on the comfy sofa. Down filled, she decided.
“I’ll have the same,” Gloria announced.
Donna nodded and rushed away. Finley considered that next time, instead of a husband, she’d have herself a Donna. A personal assistant who could bring her tea or coffee or whatever. Do the laundry and shopping. The problem was, she doubted she could afford a Donna.
Mrs. Henderson snuggled onto the end of the sofa opposite Finley. “You’re here about the P-trap. Alex called me.”
Finley was grateful the lady didn’t want to beat around the bush. “I’m specifically interested in how the incident affected Mr. Henderson’s relationship with Mr. Legard.”
Gloria Henderson was your usual high-society matron. She was closer to seventy than sixty but had the smooth skin of a woman half her age. If that was what made her happy, Finley had no issue with her life choices.
The lady had a fetish for pink. Soft pastel-pink trousers, pink blouse. Pink cheeks and lips and ice-blonde hair. Her manicurist had ensured her nails matched her fav shade of pink. Pastels had never been Finley’s thing, much to the Judge’s dismay. In her opinion all refined ladies wore something pink in their wardrobe every day. Maybe it was that age group.