J.A. Jance's Ali Reynolds Mysteries 3-Book Boxed Set, Volume 1: Web of Evil, Hand of Evil, Cruel Intent

by Jance, J. A.

  On Tuesday morning, Ali didn’t bother making coffee at home. Instead, she drove straight to the Sugarloaf Café and took a seat at the counter, where her mother, coffeepot in hand, was holding forth on the previous week’s local school board election, where her slate of candidates had won walking away.

  Edie Larson glanced in her daughter’s direction. “Ali’s here,” she called to her husband, who waved from his workstation in the kitchen. Edie hurried down the counter and filled Ali’s mug. “From the look on your face, I take it I’m in trouble again,” Edie said.

  Ali suspected that it wasn’t just the expression on her face that had alerted her mother. It was more likely Chris had stopped by the restaurant on his way to school to give his grandmother a heads-up on the engagement-ring situation. Ali tackled her mother straight on. She was glad Chris was close to her parents, but she worried that sometimes being close went too far.

  “Why would that be?” Ali demanded. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that you and Dad knew all about the engagement situation, including the ring, and never said a word to me?”

  “Chris asked us not to,” Edie said. “He and Athena wanted to surprise you.”

  “I was surprised, all right,” Ali said.

  “Chris came to your father asking for advice about a ring,” Edie explained. “Naturally, your father mentioned it to me. Evie’s diamond wasn’t doing anybody any good just lying around in my jewelry box, so I suggested he use that. End of story.”

  Ali realized that her parents had always regarded Christopher as the greatest thing since sliced bread. Things could be a lot worse. At least her parents cared, which was a lot more than could be said for Chris’s other grandparents.

  “What would you like?” Edie asked, changing the subject and writing on her order pad as she spoke. “Eggs over easy, bacon, no hash browns, biscuits?”

  Because Ali was still a little provoked with her mother, she was tempted to order French toast out of spite—just to prove her mother wrong for a change—but for today eggs, bacon, and biscuits were what she actually wanted. She loved her parents dearly, but there were times when she could have used more distance.

  Edie tore Ali’s order off her pad and slapped it on the wheel in the kitchen pass-through. After delivering someone else’s breakfast, she returned to Ali. “Have you talked to Bryan yet?” she asked.

  Ali shook her head. “No,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I don’t really expect to. I’m sure he has plenty of other things to deal with.”

  “Dave’s on the case?”

  Ali nodded. In the old days, when Dave Holman had been an almost daily visitor at the Sugarloaf, Edie wouldn’t have needed to ask that question. She would have had the answer straight from the horse’s mouth. Now that Dave had his girls with him, he was evidently eating most of his breakfasts at home.

  “People are really up in arms about what happened,” Edie said. “The idea that someone could be murdered like that in broad daylight in her own front yard is appalling. And having those poor little girls be the ones who discovered their mother’s body…” Edie clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Sedona is supposed to be a nice place. Things like that don’t happen here.”

  Yes, they do, Ali thought. Things like that happen in all sorts of places.

  “They’re all saying Bryan did it,” Edie Larson continued. “Although how a man could do something like that to the mother of his children is beyond me!”

  “Mom,” Ali objected. “Wait a minute. What makes you think Bryan is responsible for what happened?”

  “I didn’t say I thought it, but it’s what people are saying. The husband is usually the responsible party.”

  Ali was taken aback. The article she had read online a few hours earlier had stated that investigators had yet to establish a person of interest in Morgan Forester’s death. In the meantime, the good citizens of Sedona were already declaring Bryan Forester guilty before even being charged.

  “What people?” Ali asked.

  “Cindy Martin, for one,” Edie said. “She works at the Village of Oak Creek salon. She’s the one who always did Morgan’s nails.”

  Ali sometimes forgot that her mother’s unfailing ability to see all and know all was based in large measure on the fact that Edie Larson was tuned in to an intricate network of small-town gossip.

  “According to Cindy, Morgan was tired of doing all the behind-the-scenes paperwork for her husband’s construction company and was ready to do something else. I can certainly understand that,” Edie added. “Not everyone can handle working in a family-owned business. When you spend every minute of every day with someone, it can turn into way too much togetherness. It’s not easy, you know. There are times when I think I need to have my head examined for spending my whole life putting up with your father’s foolishness on a day-to-day basis.”

  The Sugarloaf had been started by Ali’s grandmother, who had eventually handed it over to her two daughters, Edie and her twin sister, Evelyn. Up until Aunt Evie’s death, the two sisters had waited tables and managed the front of the house while Ali’s father had done most of the cooking. Edie’s current complaints notwithstanding, Ali knew that neither one of her parents would have wanted it any other way.

  “And then there’s the boob job,” Edie went on, lowering her voice.

  “What boob job?” Ali asked.

  “Morgan had one a couple of months ago,” Edie said. “When a woman signs up for a surgical enhancement, you can usually bet that she isn’t doing it for the poor dope who happens to be her current husband.”

  In southern California, where Ali had lived previously, that hadn’t been her experience. From Ali’s point of view, lots of women had breast augmentation, many of them with their husband’s encouragement and approval. That Morgan had joined ranks with other consumers of enhancement surgical procedures didn’t necessarily mean the Foresters’ marriage was in trouble. And it certainly didn’t seem like an adequate reason for anyone to declare Bryan a person of interest in his wife’s homicide.

  Bob Larson pounded twice on a bell in the pass-through, announcing that one of Edie’s orders was ready to be picked up. Edie shot off to deliver plates of food, leaving Ali to mull over what had been said. Yes, Ali knew Morgan Forester handled the bookkeeping part of her husband’s company, Build It Construction; she sent out the invoices, paid the bills. The neighbor had said she was a stay-at-home mom, although Ali thought she had been more of a work-at-home mom.

  Edie returned and refilled Ali’s cup. “Cindy also said that Morgan was always complaining that her husband was a workaholic—that he lived and breathed for his business. That’s not good for a marriage, either.”

  The idea that Edie Larson was disparaging someone else for being a workaholic would have been downright laughable if Ali could have found anything in this dreadful situation even remotely funny. Bryan Forester had lived in the community all his life. Ali didn’t like the idea that people were already turning against him based on nothing more than flimsy hearsay from his wife’s manicurist. Ali felt obliged to defend him.

  “One person saying it doesn’t make it so,” Ali declared. “Yes, Bryan Forester is a very hard worker, but that doesn’t mean he’s a workaholic. And it doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, most workaholics don’t have time for affairs.”

  Edie seemed taken aback by Ali’s remark. “I see,” she said, although Ali wasn’t at all sure that her mother did see. It seemed instead that this was a subject on which they would simply agree to disagree.

  Bob sounded the bell once again. This time Edie brought Ali’s breakfast. While Ali ate, a seemingly abashed Edie hustled up and down the counter, busying herself with other customers. When she returned, she had evidently decided it was time to change the subject.

  “About Thanksgiving,” she began. “If the new house isn’t going to be ready—”

  “Bryan’s crew is coming to work today,” Ali interrupted. “Let’s see how much they get done in
the next few days. For right now I don’t want to cancel.”

  “All right,” Edie said. “Suit yourself. I hope it all comes together.”

  So did Ali. After breakfast, she drove from the restaurant to the house on Manzanita Hills Road. When she had left the night before, Bryan Forester’s Dodge Ram pickup had still been parked at the bottom of the hill. Now the pickup was gone, but vehicles belonging to other workers lined both sides of her driveway. True to their word, Bryan’s crew had turned up for work even if their boss hadn’t. The same thing went for the videographers. Their van was there, too.

  When Ali pulled into the yard, she was surprised that she had to move aside in order to make way for the departing building inspector. Yvonne Kirkpatrick had obviously stopped by first thing to sign off on that permit.

  Thank you, Billy, Ali thought. You’re getting things done after all.

  The front door of the house stood open, with workmen coming and going. Ali followed one of them inside, where she was thrilled to see that after months of seemingly no progress but the framed skeleton of a building, studs were now disappearing behind sheets of expertly installed wallboard. She found Billy Barnes in the bathroom of what would be a master suite. He was deep in conversation with one of his crew of wallboarders, walking the worker through some thorny issue.

  “Looks like you’re making good progress,” she said when he looked up and noticed her. “And I saw that the permit got signed off on after all.”

  Billy Barnes nodded. “That one took some doing,” he said.

  “What about Bryan?” Ali asked. “Have you heard anything from him—how he’s doing?”

  “About how you’d expect,” Billy answered. “I didn’t talk to him directly, but I talked to his parents.”

  “So at least he wasn’t alone,” Ali said.

  Billy nodded. “His dad said Bryan was in pretty bad shape—still in shock, couldn’t believe what had happened, and all that. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe it myself.”

  “It was great that you and your guys came to work this morning. I really appreciate it.”

  “We’re not the only ones,” Billy said, waving aside her praise. “Bryan’s other crews are doing the same thing. We’re moving forward as well as we can without him. He can’t afford for us to shut the jobs down. If he does, he’ll go broke, and so will we. If any of us could afford to work for free, we wouldn’t be here every day busting our butts, Bryan included.”

  That answered one of Dave Holman’s questions: The employees being on the job had very little to do with loyalty to their boss or with sympathy for him, either. Their showing up had far more to do with enlightened self-interest. They were working because they needed the money. Bryan’s regular paychecks fed their families and covered their bills.

  “If you have a chance to talk to him directly,” Ali said, “let him know I’m thinking of him, and if there’s anything I can do to help—”

  “Knock, knock,” someone called behind her.

  Ali turned to find that Dave Holman had followed her down the hallway. One hand held his notebook. In the other, he clutched a half-eaten doughnut. Dave glanced at Ali and then back at the doughnut. “At least I’m eating breakfast,” he said, then he turned to Billy. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Obviously, no introductions were required. From the guarded way the two men looked at each other, Ali was reasonably sure they were already acquainted—and that there was no particular love lost between them.

  Billy had been cordial enough with Ali. Now he glanced pointedly at his watch, as if to say that he did mind—a lot. “I suppose,” he allowed gruffly. “As long as it doesn’t take too much time.”

  Dave polished off the last of his doughnut. “So tell me about yesterday,” he said. “We’re trying to get a time line on Mr. Forester’s activities. He claims he was here on the job all day long. Do you happen to recall what time he showed up?”

  Ali knew better than to hang around listening to the interview. Leaving the two men alone, she went back outside and made her way over to the canopy-covered patio. Leland had started the propane heater, and the outdoor space was warmer than it was inside the house. The butler had covered the redwood table with a clean white cloth and had stocked it with several thermal carafes of freshly brewed coffee and stacks of Styrofoam cups. The spread included a selection of baked goods—a platter of blueberry muffins and a box of mixed doughnuts with one (Dave’s, presumably)—conspicuous in its absence.

  Ali was pouring herself a cup of coffee as Leland emerged from the fifth wheel with sugar, cream, and a fistful of spoons. “A good morning to you, madam,” he observed. “A bit nippy, but lovely.”

  Ali looked out at the bright, cloudless sky arching overhead. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is lovely.”

  “I see that Detective Holman is hot on the trail, as it were,” Leland continued. “He’s asking some of the same things he asked yesterday and checking our recollections for any inconsistencies.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. I told him that Mr. Forester is usually soft-spoken and remarkably even-tempered, but that he seemed a bit out of sorts yesterday—impatient and irritable.”

  That was how Bryan had seemed to Ali as well. They fell silent as Brooks laid out the spoons, lining them up with military precision.

  “From the way Detective Holman asked his questions, I’m quite sure he believes Mr. Forester is responsible for what happened to his wife,” Leland continued thoughtfully.

  Ali nodded. “He’s not the only one. According to my mother, everyone in town has already decided he’s the guilty party.”

  Leland shook his head. “I’d hate to think he would be capable of that kind of thing. Then again, I know for a fact that you can’t always tell what someone is capable of, even if you think you know them.”

  Ali knew he was thinking about Arabella Ashcroft. Her seemingly normal appearance had belied the fact that she was a remorseless serial killer.

  Before Ali could reply, tires sounded on the driveway. She looked up to see Bryan Forester’s pickup truck come to a stop near the garage. As Bryan strode toward her, Ali hurried to meet him. Not surprisingly, the look on the man’s face was grim.

  “That’s Dave Holman’s car, isn’t it?” he asked. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Asking questions about whether or not you were here yesterday, which you were,” Ali said.

  “Great,” Bryan said. “Just what I needed, having him going around to all my jobs asking questions.”

  “But what are you doing here?” Ali asked. “Your guys are doing a great job on their own. After what happened yesterday, I would have thought—”

  “We need to talk,” Bryan interrupted. “In private.”

  CHAPTER 4

  With a discreet but understanding nod in their direction, Leland disappeared into his fifth wheel. Ali led Bryan over to the canopy-covered table. “What about?” she asked.

  Bryan sighed and ran one hand over his eyes as though he couldn’t imagine where to begin. “It’s about your cabinets,” he said.

  “The kitchen cabinets?” Ali asked. “What about them?”

  “Since it seems likely that I’m going to have to be off track for a while, I was trying to line up materials so the guys could keep on working and we can finish up the jobs that are already in process,” Bryan said. “I’m self-employed. If the jobs don’t get finished, I don’t get paid, which means I’ll probably end up firing my crews and declaring bankruptcy. With the drywall going up, I knew it was only a matter of days before we’d be ready to install your cabinets. I noticed yesterday that they hadn’t been delivered yet, so I called to check. The person I talked to said she’d look into it. Today she called me back to say that they were never ordered.”

  “Not ordered?” Ali asked. “How can that be? I distinctly remember giving you a check. You said I needed to pay half at the time we ordered and the remainder when they were delivered and installed.”


  “That’s right,” Bryan said. “I remember that, too. You did give me a check. So did the people on the other two jobs. All three checks were deposited in the company account, but as far as I can tell, Morgan never faxed the order to the cabinet company. They have no record of it. The good news is that I have a copy of the three files on the laptop in my truck, so at least we don’t have to start over from scratch. I’ve already e-mailed the specs for each of the three jobs to High Design Cabinets. The problem is, they don’t have any record of the payments, even though the money for those three deposits is no longer in my business account.”

  “It’s not there?” Ali asked.

  Bryan shook his head morosely. “None of it.”

  “But that was a lot of money,” Ali objected. “I seem to remember the check I wrote for the cabinet deposit was well over thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty-three nine, to be exact,” Bryan answered. “And the other two orders came to nearly the same amount. One was a little more and the other a little less. Altogether, it comes to right around a hundred thousand.”

  “So where did the money go?” Ali asked. “Maybe your wife simply made a mistake.”

  “I believe I’ve found the money, and it’s no mistake,” Bryan said grimly. “A couple of years ago, when Morgan’s grandmother passed away, she left her daughter a tidy little sum of money. Morgan had always been self-conscious about her figure. We agreed that she’d set that money aside in a separate account so she could use it if she ever decided to go ahead with breast enhancement surgery. Which she did. Once the surgery was over, I thought the account would be empty, but it’s not. It has well over a hundred thousand dollars in it—almost the exact amount that’s missing from the three cabinet deposits.”

  “You think Morgan was embezzling funds?” Ali asked.

  Bryan nodded. “That’s how it’s starting to look. I think she was hiding money away and getting ready to take off. It’s also what I need to talk to you about today. The money is in an account that’s in Morgan’s name only. With everything that’s happened, the bank says I won’t be able to touch a dime of it until after probate and this is all straightened out. High Design says they’re willing to start building the cabinets on a rush-order basis, but to do that, I need to send them money—money I don’t happen to have at the moment. I mean, I do have some money, but if I use that to pay the cabinet bill, I won’t be able to meet payroll. One way or the other, I’ll be out of business.”