“Crespo thinks it’s to cloud the investigation.” Hank stood. He walked over to a cabinet under the lone window of his office and pulled a K-Cup from a caddy next to the coffeemaker. “Do you want some?”
“None for me.” She already had enough acid burning in her stomach after seeing the blurry picture of blood and brain matter.
Jordan nodded and thumbed, page after page, through the report. “That doesn’t put her in the clear. She could’ve killed him, cleaned up, and called the police. All she had to do was to wait for them to arrive.”
She glared at him. “Whose side are you on?”
“The truth’s.”
The hiss and noise of the brewer, along with the rich, dark aroma of coffee, filled the air. Hank handed a steaming cup off to Jordan.
“What about Mrs. Hirschberg?” Jordan pointed at the report. “She might have killed Juliette.” He frowned and cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing in thought. “But not David.” His focus returned to the tablet.
“My gut says no. But I’m not lead on this case. I handle the forensic end, but it’s Crespo who calls the shots.” Hank sipped his coffee with satisfaction and went back to his desk. “Her husband may have strayed, but there’s too much money involved to kill the mistress. The woman’s highly strung—not stupid.”
They were getting nowhere—fast. Rumors flew around the studio like bats at a vampire convention, but no solid leads had materialized. Her enthusiasm for detective work fizzled, in spite of what she’d said earlier.
“I’m sorry. We haven’t seen or heard anything around the studio that might be of help.” She’d hoped someone at the studio might have seen something out of the ordinary. So far—nothing. She understood Hank’s frustration, even if it was buried under the stony expression. What arrogance to think she could solve either crime. Jordan was right; she was a chef, not a cop. From now on, she’d leave the detective work to the professionals.
“What about David’s ex-wife, Sienna Hudson?” Jordan looked at Hank, one brow raised in question. “There was bad blood there.”
“She’s been in Hawaii with her husband for the past two weeks. The Hirschbergs were taking care of the granddaughter when this happened. Sienna flew back to New York this morning.”
“You can’t exclude the possibility of murder for hire.” She made one last attempt to bring something to the table. She was tired of being useless—a lemon on a counter.
“What about Gretchen?” Jordan mentioned Gretchen’s name so nonchalantly it caught Tilly off guard. Surely he wasn’t serious?
It irked her to hear him throw Gretchen’s name into the mix. She’d done such a marvelous job of stepping in for her father and brother. Working the investigation was Tilly’s way of supporting her. “I can’t see her as a killer.”
“Why not? Everyone is capable of murder.” Jordan went back to perusing the tablet. She hoped he could find something the police had overlooked.
“Not everyone. If that’s the case, Jake would be eatin’ dirt from six feet under.” She had to admit she’d devised horrible ends for her ex-lover while she’d waited tables at eight months pregnant. “They might think about killin’ someone, but not do it. As Ruby would say—”
Jordan and Hank rolled their eyes in unison.
“As Ruby would say,” she continued, “their better angels prevailed.”
“Someone’s better angel played hooky. Juliette and David are dead.” Jordan shoved the tablet back toward Hank. “The report says Gretchen and Mrs. Hirschberg changed clothes after the reception. Then they went to dinner and came back to the studio once they found out about Juliette’s death.”
“That still gave both of them time to go back and talk to the victim.” Hank’s words did little to lighten her heart. She had to speak up, even if the odds didn’t look good in her favor. The police clearly had Lena slated for David’s murder, and mother and daughter were hanging by a slender thread for Juliette’s.
“Gretchen doesn’t have a motive for killin’ Juliette, and certainly not David. She’s torn up about him.” She sat back with a huff and glared at the men who seemed intent on tearing down Gretchen. “Her first loves are the Culinary Channel and her family, especially her niece, Mina. Have you seen her office?”
“It’s like Noah’s Ark on steroids—a genetic experiment that’s run amok. The place is covered in Technicolor animals made of Play-Doh. Framed pictures of the kid everywhere. She loves Mina and would do anything for that kid.”
Jordan glanced down at his watch. “We’re going to have to go in a few minutes.”
Tilly blinked. “David didn’t have a single picture of his daughter in his office.” Some men weren’t cut out for fatherhood, and David was a jerk through and through when it came to Mina.
“I can’t imagine Hirschberg as a father.” Hank’s disbelief echoed hers.
“Neither could he.” Jordan’s face twisted in distaste. “The guy bolted the minute Sienna told him she was pregnant.”
“It’s an old, familiar story. At least Mina’s parents were married.” The conversation struck too close to the heart for Tilly. “He probably did them a favor.” Just like the bad boy she’d hooked up with when she was barely fourteen.
“Sienna got her pound of flesh and then some.” The grin on Jordan’s face said it had hurt David’s wallet more than his heart.
“Good for her.” She picked up her purse from the floor. It was time to leave. The emotional roller coaster had her worn to a frazzle. Ruby would show up this evening expecting a rundown on events. There was no telling what Sarah had in mind.
“Now she’s married to Chatan Hudson.” Hank supplied that little tidbit of information.
The name should mean something to her. She racked her brain, trying to come up with the connection. Then the answer hit her. “The football player for the Jets?” Sunday afternoon football proved good for something other than hot dogs, popcorn, and sex.
“Yeah.” Jordan smirked and stared off in the distance as if reliving a pleasant memory. “David gave Sienna a hard time about custody last year. He didn’t want Mina but used her like a club to hurt the kid’s mother. Hudson stepped in, six-five and all three hundred pounds of muscle, and told David to back off.”
“Good for him.” She liked Chatan Hudson already, even if she didn’t care a rat’s patootie about football.
Hank rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. “Did you know he filed to review their custody agreement last week? But it does lead to a motive for murder. So the question is—do we have one murderer, or two separate crimes? There’s nothing to connect the crimes except for one thing—purple glitter. It was at Hirschberg’s apartment as well.”
“You mean the stuff you collected from my skirt the night we found Juliette?” She thought of the purple glitter she’d seen on Lena’s shirt when she argued with David in the studio. No, she still believed in Lena’s innocence.
“Yeah. There wasn’t much, but it was there. We found it on the back of an armchair. Lena owns a T-shirt with purple glitter.” His finger tapped his tablet and glanced down at the screen. “The lab is still processing the glitter to see if it’s the same color and cut as the stuff found near DuPres’s body.”
“So what?” she insisted. “I have a purple glitter shirt, but that doesn’t make me a killer.”
“You weren’t wearing it the night you found DuPres’s body, were you?”
“No.” She had to give him that point. The purple glitter could be a bigger clue to the killer than they first thought, but she knew, bone-deep, that they were headed in the wrong direction. “Did Lena wear it the night of Juliette’s murder? No. She had on a white T-shirt with a This Little Piggy BBQ & Smokehouse logo in red. Bright blue bandanna, jeans, and black running shoes with red laces.” She glared at the two men. “Women notice these things. The pictures of Lena at the crime scene don’t show a speck of glitter.” She pointed at the tablet lying in front of Hank. “It might be freakin’ fairy dust for
all we know, or some woman who liked to decorate her woo-ha.”
“What?” The men’s heads popped to attention.
“Lena said he was a lyin’, cheatin’ asshole. Maybe he invited a vajazzled, vadazzled, vaglittered acrobat over for some fun before Gretchen and Lena got there.” She pumped her fist into the air. “Really gave the armchair a workout.”
Jordan snorted and coughed to cover up a laugh. “That’s intriguing, but ridiculous.”
“No more than Detective Crespo thinkin’ she killed both of them.”
“He’s looking into everyone, including both of you.”
“Why? I thought we were in the clear.” The bad vibes filled the room again.
The two men looked at each other. Guilt radiated from them, filling the air with the stink of lies. “We are in the clear?”
“You are. It’s Jordan he’s interested in.”
Her heart plummeted. “What?”
Hank’s usual give-away-nothing cop eyes softened. “Was Jordan really with you the entire time from the reception for DuPres until you found her body?”
“Yes. He was in a hurry to get goin’ so we could make our dinner reservations. We left the studio and went to the restaurant. We came back for my glasses and found the body. You already know that. Why are you askin’ again?” She clutched her huge purse close to her body like a life preserver. Her world shifted as Jordan’s eyes glanced at Hank’s for a heartbeat and shifted away just as quickly.
Hank’s hand scrubbed at his jaw, visibly uneasy. “It’s Jordan’s past history with the victim.”
A flush streaked Jordan’s high cheekbones. The bunched muscles of his jaw twitched. It meant trouble of the worst kind. He didn’t have to say the words. The emotions racing across his face—anger, fear, worry, and sorrow—gave him away.
Hank looked ready to mop the floor with him. “Damn it. You didn’t tell her—did you?”
She knew then, without a doubt, that Jordan had had an affair with Juliette. Why hadn’t he told her? Pain wrapped little razor blades of hurt around her heart. It wasn’t the affair that shook her, it was his lack of trust.
“Tilly.” Her name held a wealth of regret and guilt.
Jordan held out his hand, but she couldn’t take it—not until he said the words.
“You better tell me now, or so help me God, I’m walkin’ out that door.” For one awful moment she wanted to fall into the chair and pretend this wasn’t happening. Instead, she did what she’d done over the years. She pulled herself out of the pity party and lifted her chin. “You’ll never be welcome around me if you’re not man enough to say what needs sayin’.”
Hank stood and came around the desk. “Detective Crespo doesn’t like loose ends, and this one has his back up. I’m going outside for five minutes. I’ll track Sarah down and tell her you’re about ready to go.”
Hank gave Jordan a curt nod and left.
Jordan swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling. She knew from past experience he was trying to buy some time.
“It’s like this. I meant to—”
“Are you goin’ to hem and haw all afternoon, or do I end this now?” She stared out at the window. Nothing about the view registered except for the storm clouds billowing off in the distance.
“Juliette and I had an affair.” He stood quietly behind her, waiting.
She turned. It was clear from the way his eyes probed her that he was judging her for a reaction. She was too numb to do anything. Sure, it was a lie of omission, but she’d thought better of him. The past was the past, but why would he do something like this if Juliette hadn’t mattered much to him? She would’ve understood. He knew about all her past relationships. Now he’d proven himself no better than Jake or John.
“You lied.” She turned back to him, hands clenched at her sides. “It’s the one thing I can’t abide. I thought you were the one man who would always be honest with me. I have to think things through.”
He made a move to come closer, but she held up her hand.
“I can’t be near you right now. Just stay away.”
“Tilly—”
Her heart squeezed with pain. “Ruby says if you lie about the little things, the big ones can’t be far behind.” She wouldn’t allow the tears burning her eyes to fall.
“Where’d she get that one?” Jordan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Farmer’s almanac?”
“No. The Bible. Look it up.”
She left him standing there with a stunned Sarah at her side. Her life had been turned upside down, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected it to happen. Why was she so surprised?
Chapter Seventeen
Topaz blue shimmered. Jordan twisted the ring in the dim light of his living room. Bright sparks of the diamonds on either side reminded him of the tears glistening on Tilly’s cheek when she’d left him standing alone in Hank’s office.
He swallowed two fingers of scotch and let out a hiss, savoring the pain burning in his chest. The oaken-flavored drink hit his stomach with the ferocity of a bomb. Another shot followed.
The ring was a symbol of all he’d lost. Why had he thought he knew what was best for her? It should’ve been easy to tell her about Juliette. Hey, guess what. I had an affair a long time ago with the new French chef. She tore my heart out, stuffed it full of misery, and burned it to a crisp. I didn’t want you to see I’m not worthy of a woman like you. The pain he’d felt at that bitch’s hands was nothing compared to the churning ache that ate him alive now. He palmed the ring and glanced around at the destruction in the room.
She’d said she hated his place, that it was a symbol of how different they were and how she didn’t fit into his lifestyle. He couldn’t take out his pent-up anger at himself on anyone else, but he’d let his apartment take the brunt of his temper and frustration.
The glass table was turned upside down, the dining table and chairs were thrown around, and the couch lay on its back. He’d even torn the pictures from the wall. The clock Tilly detested had ended up in the bushes below his terrace. Anything he could destroy lay in pieces on the floor. The red bowl had shattered. No more lemons. Now the mute testimony to his anger and hurt made his guilt worse. It accomplished nothing. Proved nothing.
Damn Tilly, and damn me. He tossed the ring as hard as he could. It plinked and skittered across the tiled kitchen floor.
He glanced down at his drink and at the empty bottle lying by his bare feet. The bar was depleted, but he half remembered a fifth of scotch he’d put in the kitchen pantry. He pushed himself out of the club chair and shambled into the kitchen. None of the shelves yielded his prize. Spices, flour, and sugar littered the floor.
“It’s here someplace.” He reached into the back of the pantry, searching. “Where the hell is it?” He swept his arm across the shelf, and a jar of pickles fell to the floor. It exploded like gunfire against the black-and-white marble tiles, dousing the legs of his jeans with pungent pickle juice. “Shit, shit, shit.”
He crouched, picked up the larger pieces of glass, and dumped them in the sink. Tiny shards glinted in the kitchen light. Dustpan—I need the dustpan. He took a good look around his kitchen. This was where he lived and developed his recipes—and he’d torn the heart out of it. He fumbled around in a small closet next to the pantry until he found what he wanted.
The dustpan won’t cut it, Kelly. Hell, it will take a bulldozer to clean this mess.
He turned and stepped on a chunk of glass. “Well, hell.” Blood welled around the cut. He started to laugh. Why, he didn’t know, but it was impossible to stop.
His legs turned to jelly.
He slid down the front of the pantry and sat cross-legged on the floor. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. His throat burned in the effort to hold them back. He’d never been a maudlin drunk before—he didn’t plan to start now.
There was no way he’d sit in the middle of pickle juice with the glass stuck in his foot. He tried to concentrate on getting it out, but his scotch-soaked br
ain refused to cooperate. His hands shook. The room began a nice carousel spin.
“Hell. You’re in a pickle.” He chuckled at his awful pun and gripped the edge of one shelf to steady himself. It gave. The contents spilled out, and a can of imported kalamata olives hit his head. The cartoons were true, he marveled—the stars came out in force. The throbbing in his head made him sick. He touched the side of his face, and his hand came away bloody.
He sat in the middle of the pickle mess, trying to figure out his next move with the room spinning. There was only one person he needed. He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and looked at the clock on the microwave. It was almost three in the morning. He closed his eyes and hit speed dial.
“Hello?” Her voice was thick with sleepiness. The rustle of sheets and her soft groan made the ache in his heart grow until it overshadowed the pain in his head. She’d pulled away from him as if he were a leper. He yearned to touch her, but she’d made it crystal clear that he wasn’t welcome in her life. Need consumed him.
Nothing came out. He couldn’t speak. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t call her. He’d vowed to give her space, but he was hollowed out and needed to hear her whiskey-smooth voice.
“Jordan? Is that you?” More rustling. He could envision her sitting up and sweeping her red curls from her face. “It’s almost three.”
He blinked the burning in his eyes away. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Her words battered at him until he wished he couldn’t feel anything.
“Don’t hang up,” he slurred. “I want you. Have to explain.” It was getting harder to speak without sounding like he should be sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge.
“You’re drunk.” Her disgust cut deep.
He went on the defensive. “Yeah? Sho—ah—so what?”
“I’m not comin’ over there to hear a drunken rant at three in the mornin’. Good-bye.”
She hung up on him.
He stared at the phone in disbelief and slipped it back into his pocket. “I don’t need thish—or you.” It was a damned lie, but it justified his anger.
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