by Linda Howard
“There is that,” Peach agreed after a moment. “I didn’t like him, either, on a personal basis. But on an impersonal basis, tall, dark, and rugged does it for me every time.”
Jaclyn put the brownie down on a paper towel, thinking that she’d choke if she tried to eat it just now. She didn’t know who would be more embarrassed, herself or Madelyn and Peach, if she told them now that she’d had a … a thing with Eric. That was all it was—just a thing—because one night did not a relationship make. But even a thing was too much to talk about in light of everything they’d just said. Not that it mattered, because the “thing” was over and nothing else was going to happen between them, assuming he didn’t end up arresting her for Carrie’s murder on circumstantial evidence alone.
She couldn’t say anything now, because that would be making too big a deal over it, when it wasn’t. Being investigated for murder, on the other hand, was definitely a big deal. She should forget the thing with Eric and deal with the most important issue, though she had no idea how she could be proactive in this situation.
“I can’t do anything except work,” she said aloud, drawing her mother’s and Peach’s attention from their argument.
Both of them looked at her. “What?”
“This whole situation. It’s out of my control. I don’t like it, but I have to step back and concentrate on what is in my control, which is work. But … oh, damn, when he was here I could have asked him about getting my briefcase, and instead I blew up at him and then hid in my office like a scared little kid!” She smacked herself on the forehead.
“I thought you and Diedra had already re-created the file,” Peach said.
“For the Bulldog rehearsal and wedding, yes, because that was the most immediate, but now we’ll have to do the others, too.”
Madelyn pinched off a corner of her brownie, chewed it. “That’s an annoyance, but we can handle it. We have all the information on everything; it’s just a matter of pulling it all together in one neat list.”
“I know, but it’s time we could spend doing other things.”
“Like eating brownies,” said Peach, smiling at her. “Honey, I know this is stressful, but it’ll be over soon and everything will work out. You didn’t kill her, therefore they can’t prove that you did.”
“Circumstantial evidence—”
“Will apply to a lot of people, all of whom had a grudge against Carrie. I’m assuming they took your clothes because they were looking for blood. You didn’t kill her, so there won’t be any blood. As soon as they run all their tests and get the reports back, you’ll be in the clear.”
“Is that the way it happens on CSI?”
“Well, all the guys I date love CSI, so I end up watching a lot of it. On the show, the most obvious suspect is never the one who did the deed, so that’s a comfort. But CSI aside, common sense says they’re looking for blood; that’s the only reason they’d have taken your clothes. Hey, sweetie, did they maybe swab your hands or something last night, looking for gunshot residue?”
“No, why?”
“Then that means she wasn’t shot. If she had been, they’d have done that.”
Evidently her assumption that Carrie had been shot was wrong, Jaclyn thought. She was conditioned by the news to assume every murder was committed with a gun. Probably when gangs were involved they mostly were, but how about other types of murders?
“There are a lot of other ways to kill someone,” said Madelyn, giving the idea some thought. “Strangling, conking her on the head, stabbing, pushing her and she falls and hits her head on something, though I’d say that’s an accident. Um, there’s poison, but then they’d be looking at either Irena or Audrey, because they brought food samples, right? Forget poison, then.”
They could probably go on for quite a while listing possible ways Carrie had been done in, and Jaclyn thought she could probably come up with some entertaining possibilities herself, but she had things to do. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much longer Diedra would be gone. “I need to pick up some dry-cleaning before my appointment in Dunwoody. If the newspaper says anything interesting, call me.”
She fetched her purse and appointment book from her office, as well as the file folder with the new list she and Diedra had assembled—drat, she needed her briefcase—and let herself out the back door.
Eric was leaning against her car, ankles and arms crossed, waiting.
Jaclyn skidded to a halt, her kitten heels sliding a little on the concrete pad. An almost uncontrollable surge of panic, combined with anger, made the bottom drop out of her stomach and her hair feel as if it were lifting away from her scalp. She almost bolted back inside—her hand was already on the doorknob—but that would be cowardly, and she was still annoyed with herself for not punching Carrie when she had the chance, so she forced herself to stand her ground.
He straightened away from the Jag and closed the short distance between them.
There wasn’t a thing wrong with cowardice, she thought, and started to shove the door open. If he had anything to say to her, she wanted witnesses.
“I thought I should probably tell you not to leave town,” he said in that flat, cold cop tone, his hazel eyes narrowed.
Not leave town? She was already out of town, because she was in Atlanta instead of Hopewell. “What constitutes ‘town’? Hopewell, or the greater Atlanta area? I was just on my way to Dunwoody for an appointment. Is that out of town?”
A faintly impatient expression crossed his face. “Dunwoody is fine. Don’t leave the area. Don’t go to the Bahamas for a vacation.”
Now that she’d had a second to think, she wondered what the heck he was doing there. She looked at his car, parked next to hers. If he had something to say to her, why hadn’t he come back inside? For that matter, why hadn’t he called her? He had the number of Premier, and he knew she was there. He also had her cell number. He’d been leaning against her car as if prepared to wait for however long it took her to come out, but for all he knew she would be in the office all day.
One thing was for certain: he hadn’t been there when Diedra left, because she’d have called in an alert. So he’d left, then returned.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked suspiciously, though she didn’t want to talk to him more than she had to. Something fishy was going on, and she wanted to know what it was. “Were you about to search my car?”
“Can’t do that without a search warrant,” he said calmly.
“Maybe you were about to do it without a search warrant.” She could feel her jaw set as she glared up at him.
“No, ma’am. I’m doing this by the book.”
“You were leaning against my car, so if you weren’t about to do an illegal search, what the hell were you doing?” she asked sharply. She could hear the hostility in her voice—she, who made it a practice to stay cool and calm, but she didn’t care.
“Waiting for you.”
“For what reason? Why didn’t you come inside and say whatever you want to say? For that matter, why come back at all? You could have called.”
“I thought I might get some runaround about you not being available if I called.”
She jerked her head up, anger glittering in her eyes. “I’ve cooperated completely. So has my mother. I haven’t given you any reason to think you might get the runaround.”
“Yes, ma’am, you have cooperated,” he said in a bland voice. “I appreciate it, too.”
The way he kept calling her “ma’am” was setting her teeth on edge, and he knew it. “Then your excuse doesn’t hold water, Detective.”
“I wanted to make certain you got my message.”
“I got it, loud and clear,” she said tersely. She looked at his car, parked beside hers, and a couple of questions came to mind. “How did you know which car is mine?” After all, she and Madelyn drove identical Jags.
“I ran the license plate.”
Great. She didn’t like the idea of her name being sent all over law enfo
rcement land, but there was nothing she could do about it. The fact that she was a suspect in a murder case probably wasn’t a state secret, either. Without commenting, she moved on to the second question: “How did you know I’d be coming out?” Surely he hadn’t been intending to lean against her car, waiting for her, until she went out for lunch. She thought she knew the answer, but she wanted to make certain.
“I have your briefcase, remember? I’ve read everything in it. I know what your schedule is, so I figured you’d be leaving for your appointment in Dunwoody pretty soon.”
Just as she’d thought. She clenched her teeth. She hated to ask him for anything, but this was the perfect opportunity. “May I have my briefcase back?” Before he could refuse, she tacked on, “Or keep the briefcase and let me have the contents. I need my files. Failing that, could you have someone just copy the files for me?”
“The briefcase is evidence recovered at a crime scene,” he said, which she took for a big fat No. Then he continued, “I don’t see any reason why copies of the contents can’t be made for you. I’ll check with the lieutenant. If he gives the okay, I’ll make sure you get them.”
Crap, now she had to thank him. The words were like sawdust in her mouth, but she got them out. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
God, talking to him was like ripping a bandage off a wound that had just that moment stopped bleeding. She would not let him get to her like this. She would get angry, but she refused to let him hurt her, refused to let him mean that much to her.
Too late, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. She should have listened to that little voice the night before last when she’d invited Eric over, but instead she’d shoved it aside. She should have listened then, but she still didn’t want to listen now. She wanted both the little voice and Eric to just go away. She could deal; she would deal. It might take some time, but she’d do it.
“Is there anything else?” she asked, her voice stiff.
“No, that’s all for now.”
Keeping her expression as blank as possible, she edged past him to her car, got in, and drove away without looking back.
That had gone well, Eric thought sourly as he got back in his car. He’d known she wouldn’t like being told not to leave the area, but he’d done it because she was a person of interest and that was what he was supposed to do. He’d followed the book; he’d played by the rules. He hadn’t given her any indication of special consideration, hadn’t offered to do her any favors, not even a tiny one. As his reward, she’d looked at him as if he were a slug she’d just stepped on, and she needed to wipe the slime off the bottom of her fancy shoe.
It especially pissed him off because he was doing everything he could to get her removed from their suspect list, and if he didn’t play by the rules, he’d be removed from the case. Any of the other detectives on the force would do their best to solve the case, and they were good guys, but they didn’t have the extra motivation he did.
He’d been up late the previous night, and he’d gotten an early start today. He hadn’t even been in to headquarters yet because he’d wanted to interview Madelyn Wilde and get that over with. The fact that she was so organized helped; he doubted she took a piss break without making a little note of it in her schedule—coded, of course, so no one glancing at her paperwork would know she’d actually had to stop and take a leak. She was a solid alibi. Unless the lab report came back saying Jaclyn’s black outfit had been covered with Carrie Edwards’s blood, which he sure as hell didn’t expect, then Jaclyn was well on the way to being cleared.
Not that she appeared to give a shit. She was so pissed at him she wasn’t even going to give him the benefit of the doubt.
But, damn, he liked the way she looked with fire in her eyes. The cool lady could be pushed out of control, and he bet that would be a lot of fun. He’d broken through that control in bed, he’d had her digging her fingernails into his back and biting her pillow to keep from screaming, but he liked knowing he could get to her out of bed, too. It was kind of the same thing as the fact that she made lousy coffee. He felt a little bit of the princess and the pauper with her, even though she hadn’t said or done anything to suggest she felt the same. Maybe he was a little insecure.
He thought about that for a split second, then shook his head. Nah. He just wanted to know if he could roll and tumble with her, without her freaking out if her hair got messed up, or if she’d break down in tears if he so much as raised his voice. From what he’d seen this morning, he had no worries on that score—assuming she’d ever give him the chance to roll and tumble with her.
First things first: clear her of suspicion, then work on getting back in her good graces.
With an eye toward the first requirement, the next stop on his list was Gretchen Gibson’s dressmaking shop, Elegant Stitches, which was in a small, fairly exclusive shopping area, built in a U shape around a center fountain, with parking on all three sides. The shop was situated on the left leg of the U. Because of the relatively early hour—before nine—there were no cars in the parking lot, but he checked the rear of the building and a Honda Civic was parked just outside the back door of Elegant Stitches.
He went to the front and firmly rapped on the glass. After about ten seconds a short, plump, middle-aged blonde appeared and pointed at the “Closed” sign. Eric pulled his wallet out and flipped it open to show his badge. The woman’s mouth made an O of surprise, then she held up one finger and disappeared toward the back of the shop. She reappeared almost instantly, a key ring in her hand. He waited while she unlocked the deadbolt and threw the chain, then opened the door.
“Gretchen Gibson?”
“Yes,” she said warily. “May I help you?”
“I’m Detective Eric Wilder. May I come in?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. He stepped through, and she firmly closed the door and locked it again. “This is about Carrie Edwards, isn’t it?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Ms. Edwards, if you don’t mind,” he said, keeping his tone easy and low-key. A big part of being a detective was getting people to talk, and they were more likely to talk if they felt comfortable with him. He was about a foot taller than Gretchen Gibson, so she might already feel intimidated. He couldn’t do anything about his size, but he could make a conscious effort to come across as a nice guy.
“I read in the paper that she was killed yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Well, and a couple of friends called me last night to tell me, too.” She heaved a sigh, then squared her plump shoulders. “I guess you know about the argument we had.”
“I gather she was a difficult client.”
Her face turned red. “Difficult? That’s like saying Charles Manson is a little disturbed. She was a mean, vicious bitch, and I don’t mind saying it.”
“Tell me what happened,” Eric invited.
Gretchen Gibson pressed her lips together. “I have a pot of fresh coffee in the back. Would you like some? Let’s go to my office and sit down, and I’ll tell you what it was like dealing with Carrie Edwards.”
Eric left the shop half an hour later with a few pages of notes, and another person of interest crossed off his list. Carrie Edwards had still been very much alive when the dressmaker had left the reception hall, and she’d been here taking measurements and discussing a wedding gown with a new client when Carrie had been killed.
Gretchen Gibson had filled his ears. If he went by what she said, the list of people who would have liked to kill Carrie Edwards far outnumbered the people who wouldn’t. The maid of honor had even quit the wedding party, after a screaming argument with Carrie.
With most victims, he’d find one or two people who wanted to do them harm. With Carrie Edwards, he could practically fill a football stadium.
Chapter Sixteen
ON THE WAY IN TO HEADQUARTERS, ERIC HIT THE McDonald’s drive-through window for another cup of coffee. The coffee Mrs. Gibson had offe
red him had been regular coffee, not one of those flavored ones, but so weak he could see the bottom of the cup through the liquid. He needed caffeine. Mickey D made good coffee, and he didn’t want to risk another convenience store. A drive-through had to be as uneventful as possible, right?
The cashier, a gangly teenage girl who looked about six feet tall, slid the window open. “Cream or sugar?” she asked, then widened her already slightly protruding eyes and rolled them twice toward the direction of the counter before mouthing Call the cops.
“No, just black,” he replied as he gave the interior of the restaurant a quick survey. Everyone behind the counter was standing stiffly, instead of dodging around filling orders as they usually did. He couldn’t see many of the customers, but the ones he could see were doing the same thing: standing still.
No fucking way. Not again. What were the odds?
“Shit on a fucking stick,” he muttered, fighting the urge to beat his head on the steering wheel. All he wanted was a cup of coffee, but some dickhead was in the process of robbing the place. What was wrong with the universe that he couldn’t just get some coffee and drink it in peace?
He couldn’t see the robber, but had a real good guess at the dickhead’s location; he was actually standing close to the side door that would open almost in front of Eric’s car. What he also couldn’t see was whether or not the robber was maybe holding a weapon to a little kid’s head, or something.
Swiftly he looked around. Yeah, there it was, parked to his right: a beater with the engine still running, exhaust pouring from the tailpipe. No driver, so that meant this stupid shit was on his own.
The google-eyed girl handed the coffee out to him. He gave her a brief nod, pretended to take a sip of the coffee, then said loudly, “This coffee is old. Could you make a fresh pot, please?”
She gave him an agonized look. He said, “Look, if you think it’s too much trouble to make some fresh coffee, then let me speak to the manager.” As he was talking he flipped open his wallet, let her get a quick flash of his badge. She took a deep breath, gave a nod as brief as his, then said, “Yes, sir. It’ll take a minute, though.”