Love Can Be Murder Box Set

by Bond, Stephanie

"I'll get some blankets," he said, then hoisted himself up out of the pool. Once again she was struck by the inappropriateness of noticing the man's physique, but he was mesmerizing in blue cotton boxers molded by the water. She had wondered what he was wearing underneath the robe, but she hadn't planned on going to these lengths to find out.

  They had managed to turn the pool into an ocean—their splashing had extinguished most of the floating candles. Their robes and purses littered the bottom. Their wigs bobbed on the surface like dead animals. Speaking of dead, she needed to tell someone—everyone—about Gary. She suddenly felt light-headed, and she couldn't stop shaking.

  "My book," Carlotta whispered, gazing into the water.

  "Your celebrity book was in your purse?" Jolie asked.

  Carlotta nodded miserably.

  "I'm so sorry," Jolie murmured. "Can you forgive me?"

  "Jolie Goodman."

  Jolie looked up to see Sammy staring down at her. Unhappily.

  The woman walked closer, hands on hips. "I thought that was you earlier, but I told myself that you wouldn't dare put on a disguise and crash my party! That was you last night at the media reception, too, wasn't it?"

  Jolie could only wince.

  "And you had the nerve to bring these two troublemakers with you!"

  "I brought you a hostess gift," Carlotta muttered.

  "Candles?" Sammy shrieked. "Are you kidding me? I ought to call the police!"

  "They're from Neiman's," Carlotta retorted.

  "I mean to have you arrested for trespassing!" Sammy screeched, her volume off the chart in decibels. She jabbed her finger at Hannah. "And you, for assaulting one of my guests!"

  Hannah glowered at a man across the pool touching his swollen eye. The woman next to him, presumably his wife, appeared ready to black his other eye. Russell Island seemed dazed...and vaguely familiar.

  But enough stalling.

  "Sammy," Jolie said, pushing herself to her wobbly feet. Water ran off her, splashing onto Sammy's shoes. "You do need to call the police."

  "You're bleeding," Sammy said, looking disgusted, as if something might get stained.

  "Yes," Jolie said, feeling bout of nausea coming on. "But it actually gets worse."

  Re-dressed in his black robe, Beck walked up and settled a chenille throw that Jolie had seen on a couch around her shoulders. The warmth was heavenly, but having Beck behind her made her even more nervous—his desire to help her was about to change.

  Sammy flinched at the sight of the expensive throw soaking up pool water. "Jolie, what are you talking about?"

  "G–Gary Hagan is upstairs in the coat check room."

  "Gary Hagan?" Sammy's expression turned lethal. "What on earth is that criminal boyfriend of yours doing in my coat check room?"

  "He's dead," Jolie murmured, seeing starbursts. She was going to faint. And God help her, she aimed herself at Beck for one last favor.

  * * *

  Jolie sat at a table in a holding room wearing an oversized gray "Property of Fulton County, Georgia" sweat suit and flip-flops since the police had confiscated her "borrowed" clothing. How she was going to pay for those nightclothes, she didn't know.

  Of course, at the moment, paying for outrageously expensive clothes wasn't the biggest worry on her plate, but concentrating on the more mundane details helped her not to dwell on the fact that Gary was dead.

  And that the police seemed to think that she and Carlotta and Hannah had something to do with it. The girls were elsewhere, in similar rooms, she assumed. Just like on television, the police had split them up so they couldn't devise a story. As if they would even try to come up with a better one.

  Fatigue weighted her limbs, and her lungs felt raw. Her hair was a crusty nest. She had chewed her fingernails to the quick. She touched a goose egg on her forehead—Beck had caught her when she'd fainted, but she'd cracked her head when she'd gotten into the police car for the ride to the clink. The threesome was instructed by Salyers and her partner not to talk to each other, so Carlotta had cried the entire trip, and Hannah had conjugated her boyfriend's name with every expletive ever conceived.

  Jolie had concentrated on counting the squares in the metal grate between the front seat and the back, trying to forget the look on Beck's face as she was being stuffed into the cruiser. Condescension? Disappointment? He had turned away to put a comforting arm around Della's shoulder, and Jolie imagined they were saying how glad they were that Beck hadn't become involved with the poor-white-trash-shoe-salesperson-slash-real-estate-agent-slash-murderer.

  The clincher was that she wasn't particularly good at any of those things.

  The door to the holding room opened and Detective Salyers walked in, looking none-too-pleased to be awake at three in the morning. By the time she and other officers had been summoned to the scene and guests had been questioned, Carlotta's car impounded, and the three of them transported to jail, a few hours had slipped by.

  "Hi, again," Jolie ventured.

  "Alone at last," Salyers said, tossing a pad of paper on the table. "Ms. Goodman, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble."

  "Trust me, this wasn't intentional."

  Salyers blinked. "Was that a confession?"

  Alarm blipped in Jolie's chest. "No. I meant that I was just going to a party. I had no idea Gary—alive or dead—would be there."

  Salyers emitted a long sigh. "Why don't we start from the beginning. Want some coffee?"

  Jolie nodded.

  Salyers exited and Jolie glanced at the notepad—the first several pages were waffled with handwritten notes. Even upside down, she could make out "Goodmans" all over the page. She covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to knock back the panic. This could be bad.

  Salyers walked back in carrying two large cups of coffee. Jolie sipped with gratitude. It wasn't Starbucks, but it was hot.

  The detective dropped in the seat opposite her. "Okay, Ms. Goodman, tell me everything that happened since you called me today—er, yesterday."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "No."

  Jolie swallowed another mouthful of coffee. "Do I need a lawyer?"

  "That's up to you. If you want to call a lawyer, I can get you a phone."

  "I don't know any criminal lawyers."

  "Then I can get you the phone book."

  Jolie shook her head. "I just want to get this over with and go home."

  Salyers gave a curt nod, then removed a pen from her jacket pocket and clicked the end. "Ms. Goodman, what did you do after you left the drive-through yesterday?"

  "I went back to my apartment."

  "Did you talk to anyone on the phone?"

  "No."

  "E-mail?"

  "No."

  "Did you go anywhere?"

  "No."

  "Then?"

  "Then Carlotta and Hannah came over, and we got ready for the party."

  "You were aware that the party was being given by your former boss?"

  "Yes."

  "And you were intending to crash the party?"

  Jolie squirmed. "Yes."

  "You didn't know Mr. Hagan would be there?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Do Ms. Wren or Ms. Kizer know Mr. Hagan?"

  "No."

  "Do you have any idea why Mr. Hagan was at the party?"

  She lifted her hands. "No...unless he followed me there. As we walked into the house, Carlotta and I both saw a car sitting at the end of the driveway."

  "Could you tell what kind of car it was?"

  Jolie shook her head.

  "Were you and your friends wearing disguises?"

  Jolie hesitated. "We were wearing wigs."

  "And very expensive garments with the tags still attached—can you explain that?"

  She swallowed. "We...were planning to return them."

  "I see. Are you in the habit of buying expensive clothes, wearing them, then returning them?"

  Jolie pursed her mouth. "I wouldn't say it was a habit,
per se."

  "But you've done it before."

  Jolie nodded.

  Salyers gave a little "the nerve" snort, then looked back to her notes. "Ms. Sanders said you were also wearing colored contact lenses."

  "That's right."

  "And Ms. Wren said she altered your features with makeup."

  "It's true that I didn't want Sammy to recognize me."

  "Because she wouldn't have wanted you at her party?"

  Jolie flushed. "That's right."

  "The two of you have a history. She said she fired you from her agency."

  "That's a lie—I quit."

  "When was that?"

  "About three weeks ago."

  "Why did you quit?"

  "Because Sammy asked me to do something unethical."

  "What was that?"

  Jolie sighed. "We were representing the seller in a commercial real-estate deal. She asked me to reveal to the buyer the amount the seller would settle for, which was much less than the asking price and confidential between the agency and the seller."

  "And you refused?"

  "Yes. And I quit."

  Salyers leaned back, tipping her chair on two legs. "Ms. Sanders said that you came to her party to rob her."

  Jolie gasped. "What? That's absurd!"

  "Is it? Ms. Sanders said that some items are missing, including one thousand dollars in cash from her purse. She also said that her medicine cabinet had been ransacked, and a sterling picture frame was taken."

  And the picture frame had been found in her biggish purse at the bottom of the pool. Jolie closed her eyes and when she opened them, Salyers was still there, unfortunately.

  "Is there something you'd like to say for yourself, Ms. Goodman?"

  Jolie steepled her hands over her nose. "I put the picture frame in my purse because of the photo, not the frame."

  Salyers arched an eyebrow. "A photo of Ms. Sanders?"

  Jolie frowned at the detective's implication. "The rock she was sitting on and the background reminded me of a photo in Gary's album." She lifted her hands. "I thought maybe Sammy was with him the day it was taken."

  "Meaning you think Mr. Hagan and Ms. Sanders were romantically involved?"

  Jolie shrugged. "I don't know, but it seemed like too big of a coincidence to ignore. I thought if I could take the photo out of the frame, I'd be able to compare the film processing date and the paper. I went into Sammy's bathroom to remove the photo, but I couldn't find anything to use as a screwdriver."

  "So you were the one who ransacked the medicine cabinet?"

  Jolie nodded. "And the only thing I could find was a razor blade. It didn't work and I cut myself." She held up her re-bandaged hand.

  "You said that's where the blood came from."

  "The blood on my gown? Yes. Where is the photo now?"

  "Taken into evidence, I would assume."

  "Then you can look into my theory?"

  Salyers gave her a skeptical look. "Sure. Okay, let's back up. What about the money that's missing?"

  "I don't know anything about that."

  "Ms. Sanders said you were aware that she normally carried a lot of cash."

  "Anyone who knew Sammy well knew she carried cash."

  "Did your friend Ms. Wren know?"

  Jolie remembered the conversation she'd had with Carlotta about the hush money Sammy was trying to give her. Her heart sank when she realized that lifting cash from Sammy's purse would solve her friend's financial dilemma. "I might have mentioned it."

  "The money was found in the pool filter. You, Ms. Wren, Ms. Kizer, and Mr. Underwood were the only ones who took a swim."

  "We fell in," Jolie said.

  "Are you sure you didn't jump in?"

  She frowned. "Why would I have jumped in?"

  Salyers shrugged. "Maybe you couldn't live with yourself."

  Jolie's breath stuck in her throat. "You think I was trying to kill myself? That's crazy!"

  "Or maybe you were trying to destroy evidence."

  "I wasn't," Jolie said evenly.

  Salyers leaned forward, settling her chair on the floor. "Ms. Goodman, how well do you know Carlotta Wren and Hannah Kizer?"

  "Carlotta and I work together at Neiman's. Hannah is a friend of Carlotta's. I've known them for less than a week."

  "So you really don't know them that well, do you?"

  Jolie splayed her hands. "No, but they seem nice."

  "Nice? They trespass for kicks. And the one with the pierced tongue, besides fooling around with a married man, looks like she's into some pretty kinky stuff."

  "You'd have to ask her."

  "Have either of them ever mentioned owning a gun?"

  "No." Then a memory surfaced, and she snapped her fingers. "But Sammy owns a gun. She was at Neiman's yesterday and she paid for her purchase in cash." Jolie decided not to mention the five-hundred-dollar tip that Sammy had offered on the chance it might lead to questions she'd rather not answer. "When she opened her purse, I saw a gun."

  But Salyers seemed unfazed. "Ms. Sanders informed us that she has a permit to carry a concealed weapon, that she kept a nine-millimeter handgun in her purse, and that it's missing. Do you know if the weapon you saw was a nine-millimeter?"

  "I couldn't say—I'm not familiar with guns. Was that the type of gun used to kill Gary?"

  "Officers are still on the scene searching for the murder weapon."

  "Everyone at the party had access to Sammy's gun." Jolie said. "I saw the green purse sticking out from underneath her bed. I pushed it back."

  "Does that mean we'll find your fingerprints on the purse?"

  Jolie closed her eyes briefly, then nodded.

  "Did anyone see you push the purse underneath the bed?"

  Loath to implicate Beck, she hesitated, but she'd seen the police officers on the scene talking to him. "Beck Underwood was in the room."

  Salyers' eyebrow arched. "You and Mr. Underwood were in Ms. Sanders' bedroom?"

  Her cheeks warmed. "We were taking a tour. Mr. Underwood had asked me to help him find a house—he was pointing out his likes and dislikes."

  "Are you and Mr. Underwood friends?"

  "Acquaintances."

  "No offense, Ms. Goodman, but how did you become acquainted with one of the richest men in Atlanta?"

  So it was obvious to everyone that they didn't exactly move in the same circles. "I sold him a pair of shoes at Neiman's, and our paths crossed again at a couple of parties."

  "Parties that you and your friends crashed?"

  Jolie bit the end of her tongue, then nodded. "But I went to the parties looking for people who might know—have known—Gary." Her voice caught and she inhaled deeply. "That's when I ran into Roger LeMon."

  "I see."

  "He was at the party tonight," Jolie said, lurching forward on the hard chair. "LeMon's the one you should be questioning—he probably killed Gary!"

  Salyers nodded, but Jolie could tell the woman was only humoring her. "Why do you think Mr. LeMon killed Mr. Hagan?"

  "Because Gary was set up. He didn't kill that woman who was in his car."

  The detective leaned forward on her elbows. "And how would you know that?"

  She swallowed. If she told the detective about talking to Gary Wednesday night in her car, she could be in even more trouble for not coming forward sooner.

  There was a rap on the door, then Salyers' dark-haired partner stuck his head into the room. "Got a minute?" he asked Salyers.

  "Sure, Alexander."

  He darted a worried look at Jolie that made her pulse pick up and handed a note to Salyers. After she read it, they had a murmured conversation, then he closed the door and left.

  Salyers walked back to the table, note in hand, working her mouth from side to side. "Ms. Goodman, you were wearing a long, blue all-weather coat, Sears brand, size six, is that correct?"

  She nodded. "Did you find it?"

  "Sure did. And guess what was in the pocket?"

  E
xhaustion was closing in. Jolie dragged her hands down her face. "Breath mints? Ticket stubs?"

  "Try the murder weapon."

  Jolie's mouth fell open. Tiny lights appeared behind her eyelids. A whining noise sounded in her ears.

  Salyers crossed her arms. "Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

  That I'm gullible. "I might be needing that phone book after all."

  Chapter Nineteen

  DETECTIVE SALYERS SLID TWO three-inch-thick volumes of the Atlanta Yellow Pages across the table, then handed Jolie a cordless phone. Jolie stared at it and wondered if they were afraid jailbirds would hang themselves with a phone cord. Which, under the circumstances, seemed a preferable way to meet one's Maker than a needle in a vein.

  "I'll be back in a few minutes," Salyers said, then left the room.

  Jolie choked down her panic and gripped the phone so hard it made a popping sound. She had no idea how to go about choosing a criminal attorney—all the attorneys she knew represented irate buyers and sellers at mortgage closings. Generating enough paperwork to kill someone probably didn't qualify as the kind of experience she needed.

  The L-Z volume had telltale curled pages near the beginning—countless other inmates had rifled through the "Legal Services" listings, which were handily categorized under "Attorneys, by Practice Area." She ran her finger down the page: Bankruptcy (she'd probably need an attorney for that later), Corporate, Criminal. She scanned the listings and the ads. Names (singular and multi-partnered), pictures (from stern to smiling), and slogans ("If you're in a jam, call Pam!") ran together after a while. Jolie was secretly hoping to find an ad offering representation to the wrongly accused, while conceding that she'd accumulated enough circumstantial evidence to incriminate herself pretty convincingly. If she were the detective, she would arrest her.

  Knowing that time was running out, she narrowed the choices to office addresses that sounded affluent (Buckhead, downtown, anywhere on Peachtree Street), and had launched into the scientific elimination process of eenie, meenie, miney, moe when the door opened suddenly and Salyers stepped in. "That was quick," she said to Jolie.

  Jolie frowned in confusion as a woman who looked amazingly like Barbara Bush, except she was wearing a nylon running suit instead of a blue dress and pearls, strode into the room. She set a big, black briefcase on the table, and turned to Salyers.