All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [69]
“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 errands. Nothing special. I have a great many responsibilities, and I have a tendency to run around quite a bit. Sometimes I forget to charge my cell phone, sometimes I forget to check my answering machine. And Jake was in town, so I certainly wasn’t going to answer the phone. My husband is out of town quite a bit and I try to make time for him when he’s here. So we had a nice dinner, and went to bed early. This morning I went out for a walk and didn’t bring my phone with me. By the time I got back and noticed that all the calls I’d received were from Whitney, it was too late. She’d already been in the accident.”
Quinn’s voice caught and she turned to the French doors. Taylor gave her a moment to compose herself, then asked a question.
“Mrs. Buckley, were you and your sister close? Did you talk every day, once a week?”
Quinn had recovered her composure. “No, Lieutenant, we weren’t terribly close. Strange for identical twins, but we just grew apart as we got older.” There was a gleam in her eye, either tears or a memory, and Taylor made a mental note to find out why they’d grown apart. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m being horribly rude. Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? I think I’ll have a Diet Coke, if that’s okay with you.