She just wanted her mother.
Fran Caplan’s lined face folded into a sympathetic frown when she saw Jolie. She abandoned Jake, hurried forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Oh, honey,” she said softly as Jolie quietly sobbed into her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be fine, okay? Let’s get outta here,” she murmured softly. “You don’t need to be here, Jo. Let me take you home.”
Home, Jolie thought, envisioning lavender gingham and a canopied bed, worn hardwood and high ceilings.
Finally.
CHAPTER 14
Feeling equally useless and helpless, Jake watched Fran do the one thing he’d wanted to do since the moment he’d walked back into the living room and sat down with Jolie--comfort her.
Every broken cry, every slight shake of her slim shoulders chipped away at the professional demeanor he’d tried to keep in tact. He had to do things correctly here, had to make sure that every I was dotted, every T crossed.
With his and Jolie’s past history he knew Dean would try to pull him off the case, would want to appoint another detective, but Jake firmly intended to fight for it. One, he’d taken the call, so technically it was his case, and two--his gaze inexplicably slid to Jolie and he swallowed--she needed him.
Particularly since something was off with her alibi.
Jake didn’t know exactly what yet, but he knew she was hiding something. Hell, even the most unseasoned detective would have picked up on the way she’d mangled that particular question. Even if she hadn’t cut her answer off mid-sentence, the frozen look of alarm that had captured her pale features had been enough to cause major concern.
Furthermore, he knew Jolie, was familiar with every nuance of her face--every expression--and the one he’d seen when he’d asked for her alibi was equivalent to an “Oh, shit.” Jake felt a smile catch the edge of his mouth. She’d worn the same look when she’d accidentally dropped his first badge off the side of the fire tower, one of their favorite old haunts. Or the time she’d backed his truck into the barn. She’d been “helping” him haul hay, had insisted that she could do it.
Fran caught his gaze, absently patted Jolie’s back and mouthed a thank you. For what, he didn’t know. She gestured toward the door. “We’re going to go now. You can get in touch with her at the house if you need to, Jake.”
Jolie turned around. Her face was wet with tears and red with embarrassment. She hated to cry, had always begrudged the presumed weakness. She used her sleeves to wipe away some of the damage. Pulled in a bolstering breath. “I’ll, uh... If there’s nothing else I should do tonight, then I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jake nodded. “We’re good,” he assured. “Go with your mom.”
Fran took Jolie’s bag and, murmuring soothing noises, ushered her outside. Jake watched her go, felt the weight of impending disaster settle on his shoulders. At some point in the near future the other shoe was going to drop. He knew it. Could feel it.
“She’s not doing the official tonight?” Mike asked.
Starting guiltily, Jake passed a hand over his face and turned around. He hadn’t heard him walk in. “Er...no. She wasn’t in any shape,” he said, letting go a pent-up breath. “She went with Fran tonight, will come down in the morning.” He cocked his head toward the back of the house. “How’s it going in there?”
“Todd’s processing. Leon’s getting worse. He needs to go home, but can’t until the bathroom’s done.”
“What about Dean?”
Mike shot a quick glance over his shoulder, then looked back at Jake. “Oblivious,” he said with a long whoosh of resigned air. “We’ve got to tell him.”
A rectal exam would be more fun, Jake thought, grimacing, but Mike was right. It had to be done. “You’ve got the pictures?”
Mike nodded. “They’re in my car, locked in the glove box.”
“Get’em,” Jake told him. “Might as well get it over with.”
Mike’s mouth settled into a grim line as strode around him and Jake silently echoed the sentiment. This sucked, but there was nothing for it. Dean had to be told, and the sooner the better given the current circumstances. If Marshall had been destined to have his dick cut off, it was probably better that it had happened post mortem. Had Dean found out before the bastard had gotten himself killed, he wouldn’t have been so lucky.
Manila envelope in hand, Mike walked back into the house. “Where do we want to do this?” he asked, glancing around the open living room. “He might not appreciate us whipping these out in front of Leon and Todd.”
Jake considered the kitchen, but deemed it unsuitable for their purposes. He looked down the hall. “How about one of the other bedrooms? That’ll give us a little privacy.”
Mike bobbed his head in assent. “You wanna go get him, then?”
Want to? Hell no. But he would. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” he said resignedly.
Jake made his way back to the master suite. Dean and Leon--who did look worse, Jake noted--were standing outside the bathroom door, both of them watching Todd do his job.
“Twenty years on the job,” Leon was saying, “and I’ve never come across anything like it. What sort of killer emasculates a man, Dean?”
The sheriff merely shook his head. “A severely pissed off one, I’d say,” he sighed.
Jake cleared his throat. “Sheriff, a word please.”
Dean looked up, excused himself and followed Jake down the hall. “Mike and I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, I need to talk to you as well,” Dean replied grimly. “Look, Jake. You know I can’t leave you on this case. You’re too close. It’s too personal.”
Jake felt every muscle clamp with dread. He’d been expecting it, of course. Still, he’d hoped that Dean would let it be. “Er...that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” He continued through the living room down the hall that led to the other end of the house.
“Where’s Mike?” Dean asked.
“Back here. We, uh...” He looked back over his shoulder. “We wanted a little privacy.”
Dean nodded, seemingly baffled, but followed him all the same. They found Mike in one of the spare rooms, Jolie’s, Jake knew instinctively. The faint scent of vanilla hung in the air and the room was littered with small reminders of her. A jewelry box--one he’d made for her in shop in their junior year, Jake noted, mildly surprised--and various perfumes, lotions and creams lined the dresser. A couple of books, a candy dish of Hershey’s kisses, a tube of lip balm and a ponytail holder lay scattered on the bedside table.
A pair of black pumps had been kicked carelessly off next to the door and her bathrobe had been slung over the end of the four-poster bed. It was the only part of the house that remotely resembled her, that suggested that she lived here as well as Marshall. The rest of the house had a modern feel--sleek chrome and glass, lots of white, gray and black, trendy artwork--but not this room. It was warm, had heart. An old quilt covered the bed, mismatched plates had been grouped together on one wall and framed pictures of family and friends covered the top of the chest of drawers.
“What’s this about?” Dean asked, settling his sizable hands at his waist.
Jake pulled his thoughts together, glanced at Mike who wore a distinctly uncomfortable expression--one that plainly said, “You tell him.”
Jake looked away, pulled in a deep breath to summon his nerve, then let it go and faced Dean. There was no easy way to say what had to be said. “Mike and I found out about something...and we thought you should know.”
Dean nodded, acknowledging him.
Now or never Jake thought. “Emily’s been seeing Marshall.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘seeing him?’” he asked suspiciously.
Mike handed over the pictures. “Seeing him,” he repeated, evidently reluctant to elaborate.
Several emotions streaked across Dean’s face as he flipped through the damning photos--shock, disbelief, outrage, then anger. His face reddened and he suck
ed in a harsh breath, then let it go. “Where did you get these?”
Jake stared at the jewelry box, avoided looking at Dean. It seemed disrespectful somehow to intrude on such a private sort of pain. “Jolie brought them in last week when she filed the assault report against Marshall.”
His head jerked up. “Last week?”
“Yeah. She showed them to Mike.”
A white line emerged around his thinned mouth. “If you’ve known about this for a week, then why the hell am I just hearing about it?” Dean demanded. “For God’s sake, Jake. Mike.” He threw his hands up in futile frustration, swore hotly.
Mike shifted guiltily. “She showed me the pictures last week--was keeping them until she filed for divorce--but she didn’t give them to me until a couple of days ago. We didn’t want to tell you without the proof. It’s...” Mike kicked awkwardly at a silver candy wrapper on the floor. “It’s not the sort of thing you tell a man about his wife without proof, Sheriff.”
Jake shoved a hand through his hair. “Look, Dean, I’m sorry. It’s ugly business and I--“ He shook his head. “I know we should have told you sooner, but given present circumstances--“ Jake jerked his head meaningfully down the hall. “--it’s probably better that we didn’t.”
It took Dean less than three seconds to absorb that reality. Granted he’d just learned that his wife had been balling the deceased, but he was still a cop and they all knew that if he’d had prior knowledge of the affair, he’d have been a suspect. At least a temporary one. He swallowed. “Who else knows about this?”
“Besides us? Jolie, of course, and Sadie Webster--she’s the one who took the photos. But she’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s discreet.” Jake hesitated. “And who ever your wife might have told,” he reluctantly pointed out.
Dean nodded grimly, indicated the photos still clutched in his hand. “When did she take these?”
Jake told him and Dean seemed to be mulling it over. After a moment, Jake blew out a breath. “As far as this investigation’s concerned, it never happened, Dean. It’s dead and buried.”
Dean shot him a considering look, knew what Jake wanted in exchange and was obviously debating the merit of letting him have it. He finally sighed. “I appreciate it. It’s your case,” he said. “Keep me informed.” He nodded at them, then, pictures still in hand, turned and strode out of the room. “Call me if anything comes up,” he called without turning around. “I’ve got to go have a talk with my wife.”
Mike shot him a look, released a deep pent-up breath and shook his head. “Cheatin’ wives, missing dicks,” he said tiredly. “This has been a busy night in Bless Her Heart.”
Jake poked his tongue in his cheek. Yep, he thought. And it was only getting started.
CHAPTER 15
Sophia added a shot of whiskey to her coffee and joined Meredith and Bitsy at her kitchen table. “Got there in the nick of time, didn’t we?” she remarked, letting go a profoundly relieved sigh.
“I’ll say,” Bitsy confirmed with a significant eye roll.
“Don’t kid yourselves,” Meredith snorted. “If you think for one minute that he didn’t notice that something was off, then you’d better think again.” She dumped a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. “I was watching him. He’s shrewd.”
Bitsy tsked, snagged a lemon cookie from the plate Sophia had automatically put on the table. “Oh, Meri, why do you have to be such a prophet of doom? What’s he going to do?”
“Dig around,” she direly predicted. “Mark my words. This isn’t over. He knows her, knows her friends.” A harrumph of humorless laughter erupted from her throat. “Sadie, her very best friend in the whole world, doesn’t come to her rescue, but three old ladies who barely know her drag themselves out of bed and hurry to her side?” she asked skeptically.
“Sadie doesn’t have a scanner,” Bitsy argued, blithely unconcerned.
Nevertheless Sophia agreed with Meredith. This was by no means over. Tonight they’d avoided immediate disaster, but steps were going to have to be taken in order to preserve the Club. So long as everyone kept their mouths shut--and she fully believed that Jolie was capable of that--then everything should be fine.
Despite the reassuring thought, she couldn’t seem to shake the odd sensation that their world was about to suffer a significant shift. All of Bless Her Heart’s for that matter. The last person to be murdered in their little town was Amos Bolen, but there hadn’t been any mystery attached to his death. Sophia rolled her eyes. His ignorant hot-headed brother had shot him over a tub of butter.
But this? This had all the makings of a real drama. Stolen money, adultery, a hated victim and the town darling. If word leaked out about the FWC they’d undoubtedly wind up in a made for TV movie, portrayed by fat aging actresses with fake southern accents, bouffant hair, mobile homes and muumuus. Sophia inwardly shuddered.
“So what now?” Meredith asked. “Should we call an emergency meeting? Maybe avoid having meetings until this is resolved?”
Seemingly horrorstruck, cookie crumbs tumbled out of Bitsy’s gaping mouth.
“No,” Sophia said. “But we need to make sure everyone sticks to the story.” She turned to Bitsy. “I’ll handle it,” she said with a succinct nod. “As it happens, I know how to play bridge.”
Meredith cocked her head, stared unblinkingly into the distance. “I should probably pick up a few card tables.”
“Good thinking,” Sophia told her. “A few decks of cards would probably be good, too.”
With everything seemingly settled--or as settled as it could be for the moment--Bitsy carelessly bit into another cookie, then slid them both a sly glance and asked the one question that they’d all had been wondering. “So, who do you think did it?”
Sophia leaned back in her chair, grimaced. “I dunno. Jake’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. The man had a lot of enemies. Any one of them could have done it.”
Meredith nodded, arched a brow. “Sheriff Dean could have snapped.”
Deciding that chewing would improve her ability to sleuth, Sophia gave into temptation and filched a cookie from the plate, munched thoughtfully. Meredith definitely had a point. Marshall had been sleeping with Dean’s wife. That would certainly incite some men to murder.
“Emily Dean’s just who he’s been seeing recently,” Bitsy said. “We can’t rule out a jilted lover. Or a jilted lover’s husband.”
“Then there’s always the money trail,” Meredith chimed in. “He’s certainly screwed a lot of people over in that regard.”
Bitsy grunted darkly. “If Jolie were my daughter, I’d want to see him dead, I know that. Especially after what happened last week.”
Sophia felt her eyes widen. “Fran?” she gasped. She immediately shook her head, resisting the idea. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Sophia,” Meredith remarked, surprisingly concurring with Bitsy. She lifted a brow. “Mothers aren’t above killing to protect their young.”
She knew that. Still... If Fran had wanted Chris Marshall dead, the last thing she would have done was suggest that Jolie join the FWC. It would have been too risky. Her actions over the past week--the life insurance, the pre-burial pamphlets, The Outfit--were going to be under intense scrutiny as it was without factoring in her secret membership in the FWC. Right now the only thing she had going for her was her “bridge” alibi and the fact that was innocent. She related her thoughts to Bitsy and Meredith.
Bitsy who was able to be both fat and happy--unlike her, Sophia thought enviously--scarfed up another cookie. “I think you’re worrying for nothing. She didn’t do it. The truth will speak for itself.”
“Ultimately, yes,” Sophia admitted. “But in the mean time she’d better brace herself for sheer hell.”
Meredith shrugged lightly. “She’s been living in sheer hell for two years. She’s trading one for another now, but without the primary source of her misery.” She smiled shrewdly, chewed the corner of her l
ip. “Which one do you think she’s going to prefer?” She grunted as though it were a forgone conclusion. “I know which one I would.”
And there was that, Sophia thought. She felt a smile flirt with her lips. “Spoken like a true Future Widow, Meredith.”
“Don’t forget that Jolie’s one, too,” Bitsy added knowingly. “Once that reality sets in, she’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER 16
Jolie’s head jerked up as a knock rattled the glass. She leapt up from Chris’s desk, moved to the window and peeked through the blinds onto the sidewalk. A sigh of relief leaked out of her mouth--Sadie. She hurried around to the front of the office and opened the door, quickly ushering her friend inside.
“You’re here early,” Sadie said, breezing into the room. She brought the faint scent of hairspray and strawberry jam with her. “You’re not going to believe what I heard this morning. Bitsy Highfield called before I even left the house and said--“ Her gaze caught Jolie’s and stopped short. Her tentative smile fell. “Is it true?” she breathed disbelievingly. “My God, it’s true, isn’t it? He’s dead.”
“He is,” Jolie told her.
Sadie’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she said again, invoking the Almighty.
“I, uh... I found him last night after I left your house.” She shuddered remembering, still felt a chill land in her midsection every time she recalled seeing his face. “It was too late to call you and I didn’t want to wake up the girls.”
Sadie sagged against the reception desk, shot her shaky look. “What happened?”
“Other than the fact that someone walked into the house and shot him, I don’t know.”
Sadie sat there for a minute, seemed to be absorbing that they were now inhabiting a world where Chris Marshall no longer existed. She blew out a deep breath, lifted her shoulders in a small unrepentant shrug. “Wish I could say I was sorry, but I’m not,” she said bluntly. “I didn’t like him when he was alive, and I’m not going to pretend to like him now just because he’s dead.” She scowled. “I hate it when people do that. He was a mean-spirited bastard who made you miserable. Dying doesn’t make him a saint.” She pulled a lazy shrug. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s the first act of kindness he’s ever shown you.”
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