“You have an address?”

  “Yes. Twenty-Two Boulevard de Cimiez. It’s the big white one with the belltower. You won’t miss it. Apparently, Kiki likes it just as much as Frankie did, because she’s there all the time. I hated the place.”

  “Thank you, I’m on my way to check it out.”

  “Call me as soon as you speak to the little gold-digger,” Goldie said. “And be careful. I’m wise to her, so she can’t fool me. She may play a deer in headlights, but she has fangs and claws.”

  Daisy didn’t buy too much into that assessment, since it sounded like the typical thoughts of an ex-wife. “Thanks for the warning,” she said as she walked to the street to hail a cab. “And I will call you as soon as I speak with her. Talk to you soon.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  She may play a deer in headlights, but she has fangs and claws.

  Though she hadn’t paid much attention to those words when she first heard them, the more Daisy played Goldie’s words over in her head, the more she wondered just what this Kiki Tate would be like.

  She’d had plenty of fodder to put a solid mental picture in her head—a young twenty-something woman so indescribably beautiful, she made men of all ages sigh with desire. Someone vain and self-obsessed, someone well-kept and high-maintenance, who liked the best of everything, and expected to get it.

  Basically, your average trophy wife.

  It was still hot, despite the sun dropping in the sky, so on the ride to Nice, Daisy rolled down the window and let the sea breeze toss her hair about. Meanwhile, she thought about how to approach the interview with this trophy wife.

  If Kiki would even let her into her villa.

  Daisy saw the belltower, long before the cab approached the winding street that cut off the main seaside highway. The tower was as huge as a beacon, standing head and shoulders among the other villas carved into the hillside. The golden bell inside gleamed like the sun, declaring, Here I am! to everyone around.

  Flashy, Daisy thought. Just like Franklin Tate. All shine, no substance.

  Apparently, after all she’d heard from people that day, that description was one he shared with his young wife. She liked to be noticed, too.

  Which did make it rather odd that she’d traveled to Nice so soon after his death. What was she hiding?

  Though the tower was obnoxiously large, the villa itself was small, a shoebox-shaped building sandwiched between two bigger villas. It was far more opulent than anything Daisy had ever lived in, but it didn’t even come close to the grandeur of the Venice estate. Yet another red flag—why would Kiki come here when she had that whole palace near Venice, unless she was trying to escape?

  The cab dropped her off at a wrought iron gate which was, surprisingly, open and unguarded. Daisy walked up the steep stone staircase to the front door and rang a bell. When there was no answer, she knocked. Getting desperate, she crept through the overgrown flower beds and peered in a window. Inside, it was easy to tell this was Franklin Tate’s place. There was no one inside, but she saw another wall-sized painting of a gorgeous woman in a bikini, and a grinning older man, probably by the same artist who’d done the one in Venice. This time, riding horses along the beach, hand in hand.

  Creepy, Daisy thought, but no less creepy than what she was doing, peering in their windows.

  She started to back away when she saw a purple velvet chaise lounge, a pink silk robe carelessly tossed atop its surface. There were two glasses of wine next to it, one half-empty. And there was a slip of pink shiny fabric, discarded on the tile floor.

  As she strained to look closer, she noticed a discarded bra top, under the chaise.

  As she stared, trying to put the pieces together, she heard a sharp, female cry.

  Jumping to attention, she scanned the area, trying to decide where the sound had come from. It hit her almost instantly—somewhere inside the house.

  Rushing to the front door, she pulled on the knob. Locked.

  As Daisy scanned to either side of the house, noticing the tall wooden gate, half-covered in ivy, the voice came again. “Oh! No! No! Nooooo!”

  The woman sounded in distress. Daisy’s heart pounded in her chest as she reached the gate and worked to lift the latch, her knuckles scraping the rough wood. She finally undid it and rushed into a small, enclosed backyard.

  There was a huge splash, and the first thing she saw was the swimming pool. Only about the size of a large hot tub, it took up half the space in the yard, with a bubbling waterfall. The place was like some odd Japanese garden, with a pagoda and bridge over a koi pond. It might have looked nice, except for the obvious astroturf and fake purple flowers everywhere.

  Then she saw the man standing over it. He was huge, tanned, muscled . . . and naked.

  So not only was Kiki a trophy wife . . . she’d clearly had no reservations about awarding herself to someone else, even before her husband was in the ground.

  Muscles turned to Daisy as a woman surfaced from the depths of the pool. “You idiot!” she snarled. “You ruined my blow--”

  Her eyes fell on Daisy.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The man looked over, reached down, and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around himself. He grabbed another towel and handed it to the woman, then headed for Daisy, pointing forcefully at the gate. “This is private property. You’re not allowed back here, so you’d better leave before we—"

  “I’m a private investigator, here at Goldie Tate’s request,” she said, enjoying the way the woman’s eyes widened. “I’m here to see Kiki Tate. She was expecting me at her villa in Venice, but I learned she left there early, and came here?”

  The muscled man turned back toward the woman, waiting for her direction.

  She simply climbed out of the pool, wrapping the towel around her body, and huffed, “I don’t care who you are. I don’t have to talk to anyone.”

  Daisy planted her feet and crossed her arms. “I’ll take it that’s you, then. You’re right, you don’t have to talk. But Goldie is in the process of building a case against you for the murder of your husband.”

  The woman came up close to her. Even drenched, she was unquestionably beautiful, with big blue eyes, long lashes, a pert little nose and a pink bow of a mouth. She also didn’t look like the typical vapid supermodel. Maybe it was the warning she’d gotten from Goldie, but there was something more behind her eyes. Something calculating. It almost gave Daisy the urge to blink and look away, but she managed to hold firm as the woman said, “That’s ridiculous. Goldie always was a nasty one. Jealous of me, jealous of all of us, even though she had no reason to be.”

  “What do you mean by that? You don’t think she had a reason to be jealous if you took her man?”

  “No. Because what happened to her, happens to all of us.”

  “What does that mean.”

  She waved it away. “It doesn’t matter. My husband’s dead now, and I’m not going to say bad things about him. Besides, she has no proof.”

  “She might not have proof, but there are at least five things that have led her to be suspicious.”

  Kiki snorted. “Oh? Like what?”

  Daisy easily counted them off on her one finger. “One. Several people said that you and your husband had an argument the night before he left on his trip. Two. You had never packed his protein drink but decided to, that day. Three. You were the sole beneficiary of his life insurance policy. Four. You suddenly flew out here rather than meet with me, which looks like you were trying to escape. And Five—”

  Daisy glanced at the man who was sitting at the pool, flexing his muscles.

  Kiki looked over her shoulder at him and said, “Bruno is my friend and Yoga instructor.”

  Bruno winked beneath his shock of blonde hair, snapped his fingers, and pointed at her. “Love you, babe.”

  Daisy’s lips twisted. Sure, naked yoga was a thing, but she wasn’t buying it. “Is there a reason you left Venice so suddenly when you knew that I was coming to investigate?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Goldie did tell you I was on my way, yes?”

  Kiki sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t listen to anything that old bag says. I’m in mourning. I just had to get away from that house,” she said with a pout. “And I was lonely. So Bruno was keeping me company. You don’t know how many tears I’ve cried over my poor, dear husband.”

  “You weren’t the least bit curious about what the coroner’s report said?”

  Her eyes widened. “I’ve been asking. They told me it wouldn’t be ready for another day. Do you have it?”

  Daisy checked her phone and shook her head. “Not yet. What about his funeral?”

  “He was to be cremated. I was planning to come back for the service, when I was more . . . together.” She stalked back to the patio and collapsed in a wooden lounge chair, fanning herself. Finding a pair of obnoxiously large sunglasses, she put them on and clapped her hands at Bruno.

  “Bruno! Fetch me a drink, would you, please?”

  He popped up like a faithful servant and rushed into the house, leaving the two women alone.

  There was no other chair in the area, and Kiki hadn’t asked her to sit, so Daisy remained standing as the woman laid out, finger-combing her hair. Her nails were long and manicured, her hair was gold-kissed, and her skin was like sparkling champagne. “Who did you say you were, again?” she asked, staring at her hand and the enormous diamond ring on it.

  “Daisy Fortune.”

  “Right.” Her lip curled a bit in disgust. “I’m sorry you wasted so much time coming all the way out here. Goldie is wrong. My husband died of natural causes. I’m sure of it.”

  “At sixty?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Old.”

  That was a matter of perspective. “I’ve heard that he was very fit. What makes you think he wasn’t?”

  She shrugged. “He was fit. But sometimes, these things happen. Old people just drop dead. He liked to party like a young guy, too.”

  “And that’s enough of an explanation for you?” Daisy asked, tilting her head. “Most people would want to be absolutely sure.”

  Unless, of course, she knew that it had something to do with the illegal drugs they were fond of consuming. A drug overdose had a way of looking bad, and for a woman who was all about image . . .

  “I don’t want to think about it too much,” she said, curling the hand with a ring on it into a fist. “It makes me sick to think of what he went through.”

  “Does it?”

  “Of course.” She dipped her sunglasses. “I don’t know what Goldie was telling you, but I loved Frankie. We may have only been married a year, but he was everything to me. I met him right out of school, and he took care of me. I was lucky to have him.”

  “Did you have an argument the night before he left?”

  Her face paled. “You said that before . . . no, I didn’t. We never fought. Who told you that?”

  “Some people I’ve spoken to. Your housekeeper, and—”

  “Roberta’s a snotty old windbag. She listens at doors,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Now I remember what it was about. It was nothing. We made up right away.”

  “You did?”

  She tapped her phone. “Yes, he even sent me a sweet little note, apologizing. It was one of the last texts he sent me.”

  Daisy stared intensely at the phone. She’d gone through the police report but hadn’t seen any mention of Franklin Tate’s phone. Had he texted her? “Do you mind if I look at those texts?”

  She clutched the phone to her chest. “Yes. Of course! Those are private love notes from my husband to me. You have a lot of nerve asking if I’d mind. Absolutely, I do.”

  “Was the fight about your spending habits?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No. What would make you think that? The truth was, I don’t mind when Frankie spends time with other women. In fact, I encourage it. He encouraged it, with me.” She glanced toward the door, where Bruno had gone. “It keeps things interesting. But sometimes, I got the feeling . . .”

  She stopped and bit her lip.

  Daisy picked up the thread. “That he’s getting too serious? That he might replace you, too?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Sometimes. There was one woman. And I thought maybe he was going to Lyon to meet with her. She’s beautiful and rich, and an old flame of his. But he assured me, he wasn’t. It was just a party for Matteo.”

  “What was her name?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s on his phone. That’s all.”

  Bruno returned a moment later in a pair of board-shorts, holding an orange drink with a pineapple slice on the rim. He placed it on the table next to Kiki and produced the silk robe Daisy had previously seen discarded on the living room furniture inside. Helping her slip it over her shoulders, he said, “All she does is cry and go to therapy.”

  Kiki shooed him away. “I’m so glad the internet exists,” she said, opening up her phone to her video chats. “See how many times I’ve called Dr. Tamblin? Six times today.”

  Daisy barely had time to study the screen before she yanked it away. “He prescribed medication for you?”

  “I’ve always taken a little something. But lately, he’s been having to up my dosage and give me something for my anxiety,” she said with a pout. “I can barely sleep anymore. I’m not used to being alone in bed. The stuff I take, it gives me nightmares.”

  Her eyes met Bruno’s, and she sipped her drink greedily, sucking half of it down in a matter of seconds.

  “You probably shouldn’t drink if you are on medication,” Daisy observed.

  “Thanks, Mom. Anyway, are we done here? I have to go do something with my hair,” she said, standing up. “Tell Goldie I can’t help her. She’s wrong. And to leave me alone and let me grieve. You’ll see yourself out, I’m sure.”

  She pointed to the gate, tossed her hair, and went into the house, not looking back.

  Daisy was left alone with Bruno, who gave her a disapproving look. “Look, she’s really hurting. I know what it might have looked like, but I’m just trying to keep her mind off it. She’s really down. So if I were you, I’d look for someone else. There’s no way Kiki would’ve hurt her husband. She loved him.”

  Daisy gave him a doubtful look. After everything she’d heard and seen, she wasn’t about to take this big lunkhead’s word for it.

  She wanted to see what was on that phone.

  Through the sliding door, she saw Kiki toss her phone on what looked like a kitchen island and jog up the stairs, her robe billowing behind her.

  “You’d better get out of here,” Bruno said, tossing his shock of blonde hair from his face and motioning to the gate. “I have to go check on her and make sure she’s okay.”

  He stepped through the door, sliding it closed as he went.

  Daisy stared after him, watching his defined calves working as he jogged up the stairs after Kiki.

  Then she stared at the phone, sitting alone on the counter.

  This was her chance to see if Kiki Tate was telling the truth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Daisy didn’t think too hard. The phone was right there, less than ten feet from her. The only obstacle between her and the confirmation she was seeking was a flimsy sliding door. That, and the fact that if she went inside the Tate villa without an invitation, she’d technically be trespassing.

  But it was worth the risk, if she could easily make sure that Kiki Tate was telling the truth about making up with Franklin before his death.

  And if Kiki was lying . . .

  Well, that would make her all the more suspicious, and very likely, Franklin’s killer. She had the motive, the opportunity.

  Yes, she had to know.

  She took a step toward the door, then another, eyes planted on the staircase, making sure neither occupant of the home would return. When she reached the door, she pulled slightly, quietly, on the handle.

  The door stayed firm. Locked.

  She hadn’t noticed Bruno stopping to lock the door, but apparently, he had. She had to give him credit. He was smarter than he looked.

  Then she noticed the nearby picture window, to the left of the door, over the eating nook. It was large, wide open, and easily accessible.

  Side-stepping her way over, climbing through the overgrown flowerbeds, she calculated the size of the opening, determining that yes, she could fit inside.

  A small setback, but still worth the risk.

  Hoisting herself up on the sill, Daisy lifted one leg onto it, and slipped in on her stomach, easily rolling onto a padded bench in the bay window.

  She sat up and crept the rest of the way, to the island.

  The phone was already lit up with a message. She could only see part of it, but it was from her doctor: Tamblin: Miss Tate, please don’t hesitate to contact me should you be h . . .

  She tapped the phone display. Of course, it was locked with facial recognition, and didn’t open.

  Dumbly, she stared at it, realizing how stupid she’d been. She had no idea what code to use. Daisy supposed if Kiki was being genuine, she’d have chosen her wedding date to Franklin, or Franklin’s birthday, but she didn’t know those.

  As she set the phone down, she heard floorboards shift upstairs.

  Then, what sounded like inconsolable sobbing.

  It sounded like Kiki.

  Someone with her voice said, “You don’t understand. No one does. They think I killed him. Just leave me alone.”

  Closer, Bruno’s high-pitched, surfer-boy voice said, “No more alcohol. I’m going to fetch you some tea. You need to rest.”

  More shifting floorboards.

  Tea. He was coming downstairs.

  Then, her phone started to buzz in her pocket. It was on silent, but in the perfect quiet, the buzzing felt like thunder.

  Wasting no time, Daisy vaulted for the window and slipped through, landing on her hands and knees in the flowerbed. Scrambling to her feet, she didn’t waste time dusting herself off. She rushed to the gate and made her exit, then grabbed her phone.