A Murderous Game

by Paris Patricia

  "Simms, there's lady out front to see you." Jack Moyer said from the doorway. He wiggled his eyebrows and shot Gene a lascivious grin.

  "Does the lady have a name?" he asked, rubbing a finger over his lips to hide a grin. Moyer was a consummate letch, and although the guy meant no harm, Gene tried not to encourage him.

  "Gooding," Moyer said, "and she's sizzling. I'm talking hot-cha-cha, Simms." He glanced over his shoulder then back, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Mad, too. Oh yeah, is she mad. Steaming." He blew on his fingers and shook them in the air.

  The corners of Gene's mouth curled up at the memory of their first encounter. "Send her in." His nerves tingled, and he felt a rush of anticipation course through his veins. One of the challenges had come to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

  Less than a minute later she blew into his office, sashaying sass and, just as Moyer had said, a whole lot of sizzle. He stood up. "Miss Gooding, this is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?"

  "Let me give you the fit for prime time version, Detective. And I do use that term lightly. If you truly believe Abby Carpenter had anything to do with her ex-husband's murder, you've either got your head buried up your own personal waste expulsion device, or you are the aforementioned orifice." She flashed a smile that managed to be scornful and oddly seductive at the same time. "Take your pick, Detective."

  Gene extended an open palm toward the chair next to his desk. "Would you like some coffee?" he asked, biting back a chuckle at her colorful description. "It's hot, but that's the only recommendation I can give it."

  "This isn't a social visit." She made sitting down look like an X-rated ballet. "I'm not going to let you frame my friend." She crossed one leg over the other, prompting a pagan drumming to take up a beat in his head. "As much as I'd enjoy watching you embarrass yourself if you try to base your case on Abby's old diary, I can't sit still while you harass her when I know for a fact you're dead wrong." She made impatient, jerky little circles with her right foot. Boom, boom, boom. The rhythm began to pump through his blood.

  He sat back down and turned his chair sideways, facing her. Leaning one elbow on the armrest, he forced his eyes to stay focused on her face and not the mile long legs that were making his fingers itch and his throat go dry.

  "Framing and harassment, for shame," he mocked. "I'll need to work on my image." He contrived to look repentant. "As to my embarrassment, I hate to disappoint you, but there isn't anything in your friend's diary I haven't seen, heard, or—" He paused. Damn it, what the hell was he saying?

  "Done?" she suggested with a low, affected drawl. It sounded more like a purr as it rolled over him. He shifted position.

  "Detective, don't you know anything about young girls or their dreams?" She gave him a sideways glance and batted thick fanning eyelashes. Tease, he thought. She'd probably practiced that look until she'd perfected it, and he had no doubt she used it with deliberate intention to taunt, torture, and intimidate. He'd be damned if he'd let her see he was no less immune than the droves of men who probably salivated in her wake.

  "Abby had a horrible crush on Gage Faraday when we were teenagers, but it never developed into anything beyond that. Everything you read in the diary was a product of her imagination."

  "You're saying she made it up?" He slanted a dubious brow. "That she wrote about an affair that never happened?"

  "Of course she made it up. At the time of their supposed liaison, every girl down the shore wanted Gage Faraday. And although she's a beautiful woman now, if you saw pictures of Abby when she was fifteen, seventeen, even nineteen, you'd realize how ridiculous it is to believe everything she wrote was true. He was an older guy who had his pick of older girls. Why would he go after a gawky fifteen-year-old kid?"

  She reached up and twirled the pearl stud in her ear with long, highly polished fingernails he could almost feel digging into his back. "What you read was nothing more than an adolescent girl's fantasy." She gave him a wicked grin that mocked as surely as she'd intended. "Haven't you ever fantasized about anything, Detective Simms?"

  He rubbed the back of his neck and ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Never one to back off from a challenge, he met her gaze straight on. The silence crackled, a hot wire snapping dangerously between them. The air oozed tension, all of it sexual, none of it appropriate, dripping over them thick and sticky and hot as a sultry August night. Under other, far more private circumstances, he might be tempted to explore it a little further.

  Her entire body seemed to stiffen, as if she'd suddenly sensed danger, and with a sudden jerk she looked away. Had he imagined a brief flash of fear in those deep sable eyes?

  Interesting. She flirted with fire but was afraid of the flames. Was all that sauce a smokescreen, and if so, for what? He tucked the observation away. It was a distraction, one he'd think about later.

  "How do you know it isn't true?" he asked, getting back on track. "And if she made it up, why didn't she just tell me that yesterday?"

  "I'm not sure why she didn't tell you, probably because she was so shocked to see you with her diary. I know she made it all up because I was there when Abby's heartless father publicly humiliated her in front of dozens of people by accusing Gage of statutory rape, forcing her to admit she made everything up so the bastard wouldn't press charges."

  "Why should I believe you? You're her friend. I get the impression you'd be willing to say anything to try and protect her."

  Gooding smiled with smug assurance. "You're right. I'll do whatever I can to protect her. But you don't have to take my word about the diary being a fantasy. I can give you the names of several other people who still live in the area who can verify what happened."

  He leaned back. "Why don't you start from the beginning and tell me everything you know about your friend's relationship with Gage Faraday and your claims about the diary?"

  She did, recounting what she termed the diary debacle and more. She was a showcase of emotion—humor, sympathy, vengeance, and sassy sarcasm.

  Gene watched her eyes, her mouth, her fingers, observed all her gestures, looking for inconsistencies. He listened for the inflections, the wavering, and the fillers that might give her away. In the end, he wondered how anyone could lie so convincingly. They couldn't. Rachael Gooding had told him the truth; he believed it. And if necessary he could check the story out with some of the other people she said were present at the time.

  He still considered Carpenter and Faraday his primary suspects, but it was conceivable when Carpenter said she'd only known Faraday a little over a month she hadn't intentionally lied. If their prior association had been as one-sided as Gooding said, Carpenter might not have considered it relevant.

  "Let me ask again. If all this is true, why didn't she tell me the diary was a fabrication yesterday when she had the chance?"

  She made brow arching look like an audition for Broadway. "She didn't really have much of a chance before Gage was able to rescue her from your harassment. And even if she had, would you have believed her? From what she told me last night, you did everything but come right out and accuse her of murdering Dick. And a word of advice, someone needs to smack that partner of yours up the side of his face."

  "Baker gets a little excited sometimes. He's young," Gene said. She started to sit forward, and he held up a hand. "I spoke with him."

  Somewhat pacified, she sat back with a muffled harrumph.

  He shifted the puzzle pieces again. If Carpenter had told the truth, then Billings or her ex had to have lied. Most likely it had been the ex, but if it had been Billings, why would he claim the Carpenters had been on the verge of reconciling if they weren't?

  Simms tugged his bottom lip. "Tell me, Ms. Gooding." He leaned back and brought his ankle across his knee. "Have you ever met Harold Billings?"

  "The obnoxious sludge that works with Abby?" She lifted her chin. "I know him. I don't like slimy little creatures so I try to avoid them if possible." She was back in her groove.
"But since he and Dick were friends, and Abby is my best friend, I've had to stomach my share of encounters with the creep. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason in particular. I was going to ask what you thought of him, but I think I already got my answer." He made a mental note to do a little digging on Harold Billings.

  ~~~

  Abby and Rachael huddled together under the green and red awning in front of the Westville Café as they waited for a cab. So far, this spring had been one of the rainiest Abby could remember.

  The weather hadn't kept people off the streets. Most of the restaurants along Walnut seemed even more crowded than usual. There must be a lot of conventions in town, she thought, averting her gaze from a group of men who checked her and Rachael out as they walked by.

  A couple of minutes later a cab pulled up to the curb to let out a fare, and the two women hurried out from under the awning to snag it.

  Abby came to an abrupt halt, her hand going to her breast as the long, muscular form of Detective Simms unfolded from the backseat. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up as he stepped up to the sidewalk.

  "Well, well, if it isn't Sherlock," Rachael mocked with a throaty drawl.

  Simms head snapped around, a guarded expression on his handsome face. When he saw them, he gave a slight nod, one corner of his mouth curling up in a half grin.

  "Ladies," he said, his dark eyes going from one to the other although Abby thought they seemed to linger on her friend a few extra seconds.

  "Are you following us, Simms?" Rachael asked, hiking her chin so it appeared she was looking down her nose at him, a difficult feat since, despite topping five-eight, Simms still had at least six inches on her.

  "Should I be?" Angling his head, he returned the challenge with a hiked brow that made Abby wonder if she'd missed something.

  "Are you?" Rachael returned, her tone containing a definite bite that bewildered Abby even more.

  Simms grinned and a dimple carved his cheek. "No, I'm not following you, Ms. Gooding. Even I have to take time off for an occasional meal." He glanced toward the Westville Café and asked, "I've never eaten here. Do you recommend it?"

  Abby glanced over her shoulder. "We've been coming here almost every week for a couple of years, so I guess you could say we like it."

  Simms cocked his head as if considering her response. He glanced toward the restaurant again, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "Have you," he said, almost to himself.

  "Dining alone?" Rachael asked. "I suppose it must be difficult for someone like you to make friends," she quipped, and Abby sensed her friend was on a roll. "I mean, people are probably afraid to talk to you for fear they'll somehow incriminate themselves in something. I doubt you've ever had a normal conversation with anyone, Detective, where someone actually could let down their guard."

  He stuck his tongue in his cheek. "I manage an occasional casual exchange."

  Feeling uncomfortable, Abby caught Rachael's wrist. "The cab's waiting," she said, hoping to cut short whatever private battle these two had engaged upon.

  "Enjoy your dinner," she said to Simms and gave Rachael a tug. Angering the man with insults didn't seem like a good idea when he already thought she'd murdered Dick.

  "Yes, Detective," Rachael quipped as Abby tried to pull her toward the cab again, "enjoy your—"

  "Gene." A woman's voice called from several feet away. Abby and Rachael turned in unison to see an attractive blonde hurrying up the sidewalk toward them. Her gaze flicked over them briefly before landing on Simms.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said as she sidled up to the detective. Rising on her toes, she planted a not so platonic kiss on his lips. "I hate to think you've been standing out here in the rain waiting for me." She smiled seductively. "How will I ever make it up to you if you come down with a cold?"

  Simms lips curved sensually as he looked down at her. "I'll think of something," he drawled. His tone left no doubt as to the payment. He turned, and placing his right hand over the woman's hip, led her into the restaurant without looking back.

  "He just got here," Rachael called out as the door closed behind Simms and the woman. She snorted as if disgusted by the whole scene. "And you can't catch a cold from the rain." She rolled her eyes. "Airhead. I hate the way some women make fools of themselves over men."

  Abby gave her an appraising glance. "What's with you? Every time you're around that guy you go on the attack. I don't think we want to make an enemy of him."

  "I don't like him," Rachael snapped hotly. "And I can't believe you're defending him when he's trying to railroad you into a murder charge."

  "He's just doing his job. And I wasn't defending him. I just don't understand what it is about him that turns you into a snarling pit bull."

  "Yeah? Well, maybe if he did his job instead of wasting time with some ditzy bimbo, he'd be able to find Dick's murderer and stop harassing you."

  "Get in the cab," Abby said, wondering if Rachael had told her everything about the little impromptu visit she'd made to Simms that afternoon.

  As they pulled away from the curb, Abby studied her friend. Rachael's arms were crossed tightly, and she was gazing out the window. She mumbled something about stupid, something, something, make it up to you, something. Abby shook her head and looked away. She had too much on her mind right now to worry about Rachael's mood.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "What could they possibly have that's so incriminating?" Abby asked Quentin Robertson, the attorney who'd flown in from Dallas two days ago to represent her. She twirled the phone cord around her finger, keeping a nervous eye on her office doorway.

  "Simms wouldn't say, but since I told him any further contact with you had to go through me, he suggested, rather strongly, that I arrange a meeting." Robertson paused. "Is there anything the cops could have stumbled onto that you haven't told me about? If I'm going to help you, I need to know everything, no matter how embarrassing it might be."

  "I've told you everything. You know about the property, finding the diary, everything." Frustration sharpened her tone. She was so tired of having to defend herself. Pushing her hands through her hair, she closed her eyes and took a moment to regroup. Quentin was on her side.

  "Unless Simms uncovered something else Dick was involved in that I knew nothing about," she said more softly, "then I'm afraid I'm clueless."

  "All right, try not to worry about it," the attorney suggested. "We'll just have to wait to find out what this is all about. What time can you meet me?"

  Abby closed her eyes. "I can't keep leaving the office in the middle of the day to talk to the police. I can probably get out by six."

  "That's fine. Do you want me to meet you at your office or at the station?"

  "The station. I think I saw a reporter hanging around outside again yesterday, and I'd rather not have them find out things have progressed to the point I need legal counsel."

  "It's not a guilty sentence, you know."

  "I know, I'm sorry. I just don't want to give them any more fuel for their fire."

  ~~~

  "What do you mean they've got a witness?" Gage asked, coming off the couch.

  Abby wrung her hands. "James," she said, "from the Westville Café."

  "Who the hell is James?"

  "He's a waiter. He usually works Tuesday nights when Rachael and I meet for dinner. We almost always get him as a server."

  He studied her a moment, his grey eyes clouded over, stormy, unreadable. He turned to Quentin, who'd agreed to meet him at Abby's after they'd left the station so he could fill him in on the latest developments.

  "Is this for real?" Gage asked the attorney.

  Quentin put his hands in his pockets. "I'm afraid so, and Abby's explanation probably did more harm than good."

  "Wait a minute. What did the guy say he saw?"

  "It's not what he saw," Quentin explained. "It's what he heard."

  "And what did he hear?" Gage asked with growing frustration.

  Abby swallowed
and looked at her hands.

  Quentin cleared his throat. "According to his testimony, he heard Abby and her friend talking about how Abby was going to murder her husband."

  "That's ludicrous." Gage exploded. "She's innocent! Someone must have paid the guy to spill that crock."

  "No one paid him," Abby said. "James was telling the truth."

  Gage swung back to stare at her.

  "Unfortunately, that's the same thing she told Simms," Quentin said.

  Gage's expression turned to disbelief. "Why?" He shook his head. "Why would you tell them it was true?"

  "Because it was." She threw her arms in the air. "He did hear us talking about killing Dick, but it wasn't what he thought. I told you about it, how I used to think up ways to kill Dick whenever he upset me. I told you."

  "Oh shit," he said before looking at Quentin. "Tell me you didn't just sit there and let her answer their questions."

  "I advised her not to say anything." The attorney looked at Abby and frowned. "She had her own ideas."

  "I thought I could clear things up," she said in her own defense. "It was a misunderstanding. I thought it would look more damaging if I refused to answer when there was a simple explanation."

  Gage sat down beside her again and took her hand.

  "I just wanted to clear things up," she said again, swallowing. "I should have known they'd—" She closed her eyes a moment. "I should have listened to Quentin. He tried to stop me, but it seems the police keep finding more reasons to suspect me and I…I thought this was one thing I could explain."

  She'd been wrong, though. They hadn't believed her. She should have learned from the other times. Baker had called it a very clever story. Simms had just watched her with those hawk's eyes that never revealed anything. God, how could she have been so foolish.

  Gage wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "It's all right." He kissed the top of her head. "You did what you thought you had to."

  Over the top of her head, he said to Quentin, "What if Rachael Gooding verifies her story?"