Extreme Exposure

by Alex Kingwell

  “One other thing.” Emily ran both hands through her hair. “My mother was right about my hair. I have to do something about it. I’ll let the color grow out, but maybe the cut can be tidied up.”

  “Do you have somebody you normally go to?”

  “I’d rather go somewhere they don’t know me, where I won’t get too many questions.”

  “We’ll find something first thing in the morning. After that, we’ll go see Jason.”

  Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.” Matt got to his feet at the same time and she found herself staring at his chest. Leaning forward, she rested the top of her head against him. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. Turning her head to the side, she heard his heart thumping against his chest. Warm hands caressed her back and she felt herself get light-headed.

  Releasing her, he picked up the car keys. “Pizza okay?”

  When he’d gone, she walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was naked need in the flushed face, the shining eyes. But something else was imprinted there, an awareness that her feelings for Matt were much deeper than physical need. She shivered. It was almost as if she was looking at a stranger, someone who looked terribly exposed and vulnerable.

  Like somebody who wasn’t in control at all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At ten the next morning, Matt was finishing up a cell phone call to his company in Boston when Emily came out of the hair salon. The ultrashort cut was one only a woman with her delicate features could pull off. He wanted to lean over, kiss her, but held back. She seemed to have put a wall between them.

  “It suits you,” he said, pulling away from the curb. Murmuring thanks, she looked ahead, not meeting his eyes. Earlier, at her bank, she’d withdrawn a wad of cash, insisting she would be paying for everything from here on in.

  A few minutes later, they reached the street of postwar bungalows where Jason Hatt lived. A gray sports car was parked in the driveway beside his house. Matt drove by, parked down the street and they walked back.

  “Nicky, my friend, grew up on this street, about two blocks down. I used to hang out there a lot. Her sister made a mean tuna casserole.”

  “Did your mother cook?”

  “Never. She had a housekeeper for that and we ate at the hotel a lot.”

  Her tone was flat. He wanted to ask her about that but let it go. Now didn’t seem the time to push it.

  They got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to Jason Hatt’s house. He said, “You sound pretty tight with this Nicky.”

  She smiled. “She’s a great friend. We’re like night and day. I didn’t talk to her much about this. I didn’t want to drag her into it.”

  They reached the front step and she rang the doorbell. Seconds later, the door opened just wide enough for a man to put his head out.

  Emily introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Emily Blackstock, Amber’s cousin. Can we talk to you?”

  He was easily six foot two, in his late thirties, with angry eyebrows that gave him permanent frown lines. “I’ve got nothing to say. Go away.”

  Emily stepped forward before he could shut the door. “We want to help.”

  The door opened farther. Scowling, he shot Matt a glance. “Help? How could you possibly help me?”

  Emily didn’t flinch, but Matt stepped closer. She said, “We want to find out who really killed Amber.”

  Jason’s expression softened a degree, from outright menacing to merely surly. “I don’t know anything.”

  She said, “Just talk to us. Any little thing that you could tell us might be useful.”

  Jason gestured to him. “Who’s he?”

  “He’s a friend, Matt Herrington. He’s helping me.”

  “Ten minutes, that’s it.” Jason opened the door and they stepped into a small foyer off the living room. He was wearing a navy-blue bathrobe and told them to sit in the living room while he got dressed. Jason returned in a couple of minutes, wearing jeans and a navy-blue polo shirt. He lowered his big frame into a swivel chair opposite the sofa where they were sitting and looked at Emily. “How can you possibly help me?”

  “Do you think Amber killed herself?”

  “Of course not. She had plans. She talked about going back to school with some of the money from her insurance payout. I don’t believe it for a minute.”

  “Was she on drugs?”

  “I know she wasn’t—and I’m trained to look for that kind of thing.”

  “Did she tell you she was scared?”

  He twirled a chunky gold ring with a red stone around his middle finger. “She was getting paranoid, making comments about the legal system, how corrupt it was.” After a silence, he added, “We had a fight about it. I mean, it was like it was really personal. It was like an attack on all of us.”

  Emily said, “Us?”

  “She said the whole system was corrupt.” His anger seemed to have deflated, like air from a balloon, although he was still edgy, bouncing one of his knees up and down.

  Emily sat forward. “What did she mean? The police?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Look, I don’t know anything. I already told you that. It maybe had something to do with the insurance thing. It kept getting delayed, but I don’t know.” Jason got up quickly. “You want anything to drink? Water?”

  When they said no, he went off to the kitchen, came back a moment later with a bottle of water for himself.

  Matt said, “What about your alibi? You were with another woman?”

  Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “It was a woman, but not a girlfriend, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Emily said, “Who is she?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The police won’t believe her. But I didn’t kill Amber. I would never have done that.” Matt said, “So who did?”

  “I have no idea. But I think they’re trying to set me up for it. They’ve got no evidence, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone’s buying it. You’re the first people who’ve come here since the news about me broke. It’s like I have a disease.” He chugged back the water. “The funny thing is I could have avoided it.”

  Emily perked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you think they reopened the case?”

  “It sounded like they wanted to cover all the bases and they found a problem with your alibi.”

  “Is that what they told you?” He shook his head in disgust. “I was the one who got it reopened.” Matt sat forward, waited for Jason to explain.

  “I was at court one day, ran into a reporter I know. We were talking about it. I told her it was fishy. She checked it out and got some pushback. The story went nowhere. Don’t look so surprised. In a town like this, it happens all the time.” He finished the water. “Listen, I don’t know anything more. But there was nothing wrong with my alibi.”

  Emily said, “So why won’t they accept it?”

  He lowered his voice. “Because the woman who gave my alibi is an addict, that’s why. She actually introduced me to Amber at a meeting. She hasn’t done as well with staying clean and she’s got a record for possession.” He stood up. “I don’t want to talk any more about her. I’ve said all I can say.”

  He walked them to the door, stood in the doorway as they stepped outside. “Talk to Celia.”

  Emily raised her eyebrows. “About what?”

  “Amber kept going on about Celia trying to beat a DUI.” He held up his hand to stop more questions. “Just be careful they don’t come after you.”

  In the car, Matt swiveled in his seat so he was facing her side-on.

  She said, “A lot of what he says backs up what I was saying. He didn’t think Amber was back on drugs, either. My gut is still telling me he didn’t kill Amber, but I also get the feeling he’s holding back.”

  “He could be. But what? Who is this woman?” He put the key in the ignition. “We have to talk to Celia about this driving under the influence thing. Do you know anything
about that?”

  “First I’ve heard of it. But what could that have to do with Amber’s death?”

  Up the street, Jason came out of the house. He was wearing shorts and a sleeveless neon-green T-shirt. It wasn’t the shirt that caught their attention, though. It was the tall blond woman who stepped out of the house behind him.

  “So much for gut instinct.” Emily’s jaw had dropped. “I’d say that puts a whole different light on things.”

  He swore under his breath, watched Jason lock the door and set off with the woman down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. “We’ll have to visit him again, see if he’ll tell us the truth this time.”

  A fierce look darkened her eyes. “You’ll have to put me in a straitjacket. Otherwise, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Don’t give me ideas.” He smiled but she gave him a hard look. Clearing his throat, he said, “In the meantime, I’m meeting the photography guy, his name is Bill Murphy, this afternoon. We can see if he found anything.”

  “Do you mind going alone? I should pop into the hotel, see what preparations have been made for my mother’s party tomorrow. Supposedly, all I have to do is show up, but I’d like to be sure.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I do mind, actually. I’d feel better if we stayed together.”

  Her response was a roll of her eyes. “Just drive. I’ll be fine.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Early the next afternoon, Matt surveyed the party-ready backyard at Mona Blackstock’s house. If this was informal, he couldn’t imagine what she considered formal. It looked like a setup for a fancy wedding, with four circular tables, each set for five people, arranged in the middle of the yard. They were covered in long white tablecloths, and crowded with plates, cutlery, and glasses.

  Mona Blackstock and Celia Williams flitted from table to table, adjusting a plate here, a fork there, but not really doing much of anything that he could tell. Cold beer beckoned in a tub of ice on the ground next to a bar in front of thick shrubs at the back of the big yard. He’d wait until Mona and Celia cleared out. With no bartender yet, it might be against the rules.

  In the house, a short hallway led to the kitchen. Emily, her hair tucked under a white cap and dressed in a white jacket, stood at a five-burner stove. She turned around to say something to a male chef working behind her at a granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen, and they both laughed. Catching Matt looking, she smiled, turned back to the stove.

  He walked over, leaned against the counter, and fingered the stiff fabric of her jacket sleeve, reached up and brushed her hair off her cheek. “How do you work in this? It looks like a straightjacket.”

  Smiling, she stirred something in a small frying pan. “There’s beer in the fridge.”

  “You want one? It must be ten degrees hotter in here.”

  She took the pot off the burner and wiped her brow with a white bandana from her pocket, exposing the scar near her hairline. “Not allowed, I’m afraid.”

  The kitchen was big, but not big enough for three chefs and two waiters and a guy emptying a steamy dishwasher. The male chef couldn’t keep his eyes off Emily but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he popped the cap, leaned against the counter, his elbows touching her arm. “If you have some of mine, I won’t tell.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. My mother has eyes on the back of her head.” She poured the ingredients from the frying pan—some sort of herb in a vinegary-smelling liquid—into a mixing bowl and added mayonnaise and diced pickles.

  “Who’s he?” Matt gestured to the dishwasher guy, who was now scouring pots at the sink.

  After a glance at the man, Emily turned and began slicing a bunch of green onions. “That’s Junior, at least that’s what we call him. I don’t know his real name. He’s worked for my mother at the hotel for a few years.”

  “Parolee?”

  She stopped cutting, shot him a quizzical look. “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s got a tattoo of a spiderweb on his neck. That could mean he’s been in prison.”

  Her eyes widened. “That explains a lot. He’s got some sketchy friends.” She added mustard, anchovy paste, and sliced green onions to the bowl. “But he’s okay. Not too sociable, but he works hard.”

  Matt felt a tiny alarm bell go off in his head. He would have to keep an eye on Junior. He pointed to the bowl. “What is that?”

  “Remoulade sauce, better known as tartar sauce. It’s for the grilled salmon.”

  “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Most of the work has been done. I wasn’t really needed. It’s way crazier at the hotel.” She gestured to the good-looking chef, who was giving instructions to another woman in a chef’s uniform. “Joe told me I could slip out.”

  Finished with the sauce, Emily transferred it to a glass bowl and put it in the fridge. She turned around in time to catch him snatching a tiny tart from a tray on the end of the island. He popped it into his mouth, tasting crab. “I guess you know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “Joe made those.”

  “You have a way of ruining all the fun. Did I ever tell you that?”

  Smiling, she leaned back against the counter. “Someday I’ll make you some, how about that?”

  “I thought you didn’t like cooking,” he said, leaning in close so they were touching.

  “I didn’t say that. It’s being a chef in a restaurant that I don’t like. You get tired of making the same thing, the long hours, not having a life.”

  A young woman appeared in the doorway and Emily gave a yelp of delight. “Nicky! I didn’t know you were coming.”

  The woman, a tall, slim brunette who looked about Emily’s age, gave Emily a big hug. After a minute, she stepped back and Emily introduced her.

  Smiling, Nicky shook his hand before turning back to her friend. “I can’t stay long. I’m doing an extra shift tonight, but I stopped by on the chance I would see you. Why haven’t you come to see me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Things are kind of hectic.”

  She looked at him, then back at Emily. “I’ll bet they are.”

  Emily’s face reddened, and the three chatted for a few minutes, until Emily’s mother appeared in the doorway, gave her daughter a look that was hard to read. Nicky pursed her lips, whispered, “I have to go. Call me, okay?” She smiled at Matt, then disappeared down the hallway.

  Catching her mother watching, Emily shot him a look of mock guilt and pushed away from the counter. “I’d better start on the sherbet.”

  Mona’s blond hair was scraped back so tightly into a bun on top of her head it looked like she’d had Botox. Either that or she was startled, although she didn’t seem like the type who got startled easily. As the people in the room became aware of her presence, they lowered their voices.

  After talking to the chef, her mother approached Emily, who was putting frozen raspberries and sugar in a blender. “Will the sherbet have enough time? It can’t be too soft.”

  “It will be fine,” Emily said plainly.

  “I’m so glad you came, my dear. And Celia, too, I’m so glad she took the afternoon off.” With that, Mona walked into the hallway, smoothed the skirt on her pale silk suit, and disappeared.

  When she had finished making the sherbet, they stepped out of the kitchen and stood in the back doorway. He said, “Do you know any of these people?”

  “Mostly they’re old friends of my mother’s, but I don’t really know them.” She chuckled. “I don’t think you have to be too concerned about my safety, though. I think we could fight this group off. And the police chief is here.”

  Smiling, he brushed a stray hair back from her face, taken aback again by the delicate beauty that belied the steel within. “Depends what kind of weapon they have. And maybe somebody will get emboldened by booze.”

  Emily laughed. “You know that cliché about the aunt or
uncle who always gets drunk at parties? Well, that never happens with my mother. Everybody knows they have to behave themselves or risk the wrath of Mona Blackstock. She even threw somebody out once.” She tapped his chest with her index finger. “So you better behave yourself.”

  He caught the finger, held on to it for a long second, stared into those big eyes. “I consider myself forewarned.”

  People were scattered around the yard, talking in small groups. Mona was sitting on a brown rattan sofa on a flagstone patio near the back door, talking to a woman perched on the edge of the sofa beside her. The police chief sat in a chair opposite them.

  “It’s a Fantin-Latour. This is its fourth year,” Mona told the woman, who was squeezed into a canary yellow dress. “It’s named after the French painter. You may have seen his paintings at the Musée d’Orsay. It’s lovely, but I didn’t realize it would get so big. I may have to have it yanked out.” The woman nodded knowingly.

  Celia Williams was at the bar, talking to a middle-aged guy who kept glancing away, as if looking for an escape route. Nearby, the judge, sipping on red wine, was showing a middle-aged couple a picture from his wallet. They laughed about something as he put it away.

  Emily said, “Let’s go talk to Celia.” At his skeptical look, she added, “Don’t worry. She’ll be on her best behavior.” She took off her cap and jacket and hung them on a black iron hook in the hallway. She was wearing a white peasant blouse and a long, crinkly skirt that she’d retrieved from her mother’s house earlier in the week. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her and some of the color was back in her cheeks. For once, it didn’t look like fear was eating away at her.

  It took a couple of minutes to get to the bar, because Emily stopped several times to say hello to people and introduce Matt. When they reached Celia, she was talking to the same man and they waited until he had been dispatched before they stepped forward.

  Emily asked Celia how her mother was doing.

  “She’s okay. I spoke to her this morning, briefly.” Her eyes were cool and her manner distant. On her lips was the same lipstick she’d worn the other day, Dried Blood Red. A bit of it was smeared on one of her front teeth. “She needed time away, just with everything that’s happening. I wish I could get away, but it’s just too busy this time of year.”