Read Online Death Loved A Woman (Happy Holloway Mystery Book 2) by Audrey Claire - Free Book Online
Authors: Audrey Claire
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lavish grounds. Wesley’s family had gone all out by designing the bushes to look like various animals.
“Pretentious,” Omen muttered when they stepped out of the car. “I wonder if they’ll consider us beneath them.”
He pulled a large invitation from his jacket, and Annie read the glossy script. The card looked authentic. Not that she doubted it, but nerves stirred in her stomach. Omen worked as a teller at a local bank, and Annie was a mystery writer, not even a New York Times best selling one. Neither of them had money.
As Omen handed his keys to a valet, Annie gazed around at the other cars arriving. She winced at the fact that Omen drove a Smart Fortwo, while Jaguars, Porsches and BWMs among other expensive car models arrived after them. These weren’t the vehicles she saw zipping around Mars Cove. They must have come from farther away.
“I’ve never felt so common,” Omen muttered, his expression tense.
Annie tugged him in the direction of the house. “I wouldn’t think this kind of thing would bother you.”
His eyes widened. “If you tell me you’re not nervous, Annie, I’m going to ask you to marry me right now.”
She grinned. “It’s all in the attitude, Omen. I’m an international plus size model, and you’re a bank manager.”
“But—”
“We’re not going to say it. Unfortunately, they’ve already met me.” She snapped her fingers. “Pretending to be a model would have been fun for the night. Darn, maybe next time.”
He shook his head, and then the tension drained from his face. “Okay, I’m Hinkle.”
“Huh?”
He laughed. “That’s my boss’s name. Not very romantic, but he thinks he’s top shelf. So it doesn’t matter. I’ll project his confidence.”
She patted his arm. “Good for you. Let’s do this.”
They strode into the house and handed the doorman their invitation. Annie experienced a moment of panic with the man whose nose was higher in the air than Mr. Witman’s last time she had seen him. The doorman nodded and waved them in after they gave their names.
Annie paused to take in the opulence. The house was larger than she’d at first thought. Her Victorian included five bedrooms and a den, but the Wesley’s foyer was easily bigger than her living and dining rooms combined.
Omen stared up at the chandelier highlighting a painting of a woman with a sheet hanging off both bare shoulders. Annie estimated the canvas was taller than her or even Flynn. The woman’s face looked familiar, but young and pretty with smooth porcelain-like skin.
“You there. Don’t gawk in the hallway. You’re blocking the entrance!”
Annie looked down from the painting into the muse’s face. Mrs. Witman was far from young and beautiful, although Annie didn’t judge her harshly. She’d just aged quite a bit from whenever she’d posed for the portrait. She wondered how the woman felt seeing herself immortalized, a reminder of what was gone forever.
“I apologize, Mrs. Witman,” Annie said, stepping forward, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Annie Holloway, wasn’t it?” Racine frowned at her. “You’re a friend of Flynn’s. I hear you’re a writer, and your aunt is Bridget Blankenship. How is Bridget?”
“You know my aunt?”
“She used to make the same rounds with her husband but fell out of sight. I haven’t seen her for many years.”
Annie wouldn’t tell the woman that Aunt Bridge had all but forgotten her existence, except when Nan brought her up. Then again, Mrs. Witman could just be pretending to recall Aunt Bridge. She seemed like the kind of woman who armed herself with information before facing her audience.
Annie started to answer, but Mrs. Witman dismissed them and moved on to another guest arriving. She didn’t acknowledge poor Omen’s presence.
He grumbled as they headed into a room where Annie spotted others milling about with plates. “I didn’t get to put on my Hinkle performance.”
“Aw, maybe later. She knows
“Pretentious,” Omen muttered when they stepped out of the car. “I wonder if they’ll consider us beneath them.”
He pulled a large invitation from his jacket, and Annie read the glossy script. The card looked authentic. Not that she doubted it, but nerves stirred in her stomach. Omen worked as a teller at a local bank, and Annie was a mystery writer, not even a New York Times best selling one. Neither of them had money.
As Omen handed his keys to a valet, Annie gazed around at the other cars arriving. She winced at the fact that Omen drove a Smart Fortwo, while Jaguars, Porsches and BWMs among other expensive car models arrived after them. These weren’t the vehicles she saw zipping around Mars Cove. They must have come from farther away.
“I’ve never felt so common,” Omen muttered, his expression tense.
Annie tugged him in the direction of the house. “I wouldn’t think this kind of thing would bother you.”
His eyes widened. “If you tell me you’re not nervous, Annie, I’m going to ask you to marry me right now.”
She grinned. “It’s all in the attitude, Omen. I’m an international plus size model, and you’re a bank manager.”
“But—”
“We’re not going to say it. Unfortunately, they’ve already met me.” She snapped her fingers. “Pretending to be a model would have been fun for the night. Darn, maybe next time.”
He shook his head, and then the tension drained from his face. “Okay, I’m Hinkle.”
“Huh?”
He laughed. “That’s my boss’s name. Not very romantic, but he thinks he’s top shelf. So it doesn’t matter. I’ll project his confidence.”
She patted his arm. “Good for you. Let’s do this.”
They strode into the house and handed the doorman their invitation. Annie experienced a moment of panic with the man whose nose was higher in the air than Mr. Witman’s last time she had seen him. The doorman nodded and waved them in after they gave their names.
Annie paused to take in the opulence. The house was larger than she’d at first thought. Her Victorian included five bedrooms and a den, but the Wesley’s foyer was easily bigger than her living and dining rooms combined.
Omen stared up at the chandelier highlighting a painting of a woman with a sheet hanging off both bare shoulders. Annie estimated the canvas was taller than her or even Flynn. The woman’s face looked familiar, but young and pretty with smooth porcelain-like skin.
“You there. Don’t gawk in the hallway. You’re blocking the entrance!”
Annie looked down from the painting into the muse’s face. Mrs. Witman was far from young and beautiful, although Annie didn’t judge her harshly. She’d just aged quite a bit from whenever she’d posed for the portrait. She wondered how the woman felt seeing herself immortalized, a reminder of what was gone forever.
“I apologize, Mrs. Witman,” Annie said, stepping forward, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Annie Holloway, wasn’t it?” Racine frowned at her. “You’re a friend of Flynn’s. I hear you’re a writer, and your aunt is Bridget Blankenship. How is Bridget?”
“You know my aunt?”
“She used to make the same rounds with her husband but fell out of sight. I haven’t seen her for many years.”
Annie wouldn’t tell the woman that Aunt Bridge had all but forgotten her existence, except when Nan brought her up. Then again, Mrs. Witman could just be pretending to recall Aunt Bridge. She seemed like the kind of woman who armed herself with information before facing her audience.
Annie started to answer, but Mrs. Witman dismissed them and moved on to another guest arriving. She didn’t acknowledge poor Omen’s presence.
He grumbled as they headed into a room where Annie spotted others milling about with plates. “I didn’t get to put on my Hinkle performance.”
“Aw, maybe later. She knows
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