badge, but that might make waves. I had to be on more professional behavior than I sometimes wanted to be, or knew how to be. I hadn’t been a special agent for long and acting like one wasn’t second nature to me. I frowned at him, but he just grinned, unrepentant and probably thinking he was cute, or that giving me mints gave him the right to leer.
Before I went down the hall, I took a moment for a good look at the kitchen and the huge room beyond it. There were white marble countertops and an island covered with bags of commercially made bread and buns, wilted lettuce, and tomatoes. There was a huge copper farmer’s sink, a heavy-duty breadmaker’s mixer, a copper-clad baker’s oven, and a six-burner gas stove. The glass-fronted upper cabinets went to the tall ceiling, displaying white dishes; copper lights descended in strategic locations; and the floor was pristine interlocking white vinyl tile.
Through a cracked-open door I spotted private stairs up to the second story. I figured they gave direct access to the bedrooms for midnight snacks.
The gathering room had comfy, squishy green furniture, lots of pillows, and a fireplace big enough to roast a small hog. Stella Mae’s home was beautiful, like one in a house design magazine, but everything looked utilized, not just for show, the sink with lizard-skin patina, the copper on the oven showing indications of heat.
The kitchen and gathering room struck a chord of lust in my heart, the sin of covetousness the churchmen always talked about. Thinking about my own home and the discord waiting for me there, I turned down the spacious hallway with natural plank flooring and wide doorways. At the end, near the staircase, the stench of death hit me and I slowed. The smell circulated on the air, ripe, foul, sickly sweet. As if they didn’t smell it, there were clumps of chatting LEOs—law enforcement officers—uniformed, plainclothes, and one member of my team. Occam looked up, wearing his cop-face expression, and my heart gave a little jolt of joy.
“Ingram,” he said, the smile in his voice telling me he really meant, Nell, sugar. The scarred skin pulled around his lips and his amber-hazel eyes crinkled with happiness as he excused himself from the officers and strode toward me, meeting me midway down the hall.
His hair had grown back blonder and he wore it longer than before he’d been burned, to cover up the patchy, hairless scars above his ear. “You made good time from Knoxville,” he said softly, his tone saying so much more. “You run lights and siren in your new official vehicle?”
I wrinkled my nose at his teasing. “I did not. But I did discover the joys of cruise control and audiobooks. What we got?”
Occam’s eyes went warmer and tender and my middle melted. “You mean between us?” he murmured.
My heart sang at his words and I resisted the urge to rub my curled fingers along his jaw. Wereleopards adored physical affection, and a cat-claiming face rub was especially pleasing to my cat-man. “The case, if you please? And why I’m here?” I managed, sounding far too prim.
Occam’s expression slid to business-serious. Softly he said, “Three dead, two days after the end of Stella Mae Ragel’s last concert tour. Her band, production crew, manager, and grips were supposed to meet here at ten, unload and organize gear, then eat lunch together and discuss the financial results of the last tour. Which I understand were better than expected.”
“Money,” I said, naming a common reason for murder.
“Yes, ma’am.” His Texan twang was moderated, the way he talked in public, just as my church-speak was moderated. It was a shame, but some idiots seemed to think Southern dialects were a sign of lack of intelligence, when in reality they were a sign of location-location-location, culture, history, immigrant influxes, and location. “Her crew last spoke with Stella at nine a.m. to confirm the meeting time, and she told them she and Verna Upton, the housekeeper, were heading down early to start work.”
“Down?”
“Basement studio with work area, lounge, and sound production room. About two thousand square feet of expensive sound equipment, instruments, and liquor. Stella has a stellar liquor collection.”
What I knew about alcohol could be written on my little fingernail in longhand, but I nodded for him to continue.
“The crew—band and roadies—started arriving, but no one answered the door. After twenty minutes, they used the hidden key and found the two women in the basement, dead. They