Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  “Marilyn!” She had a beautiful laugh. “Marilyn Foley. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”

  “Oh, yeah! You and I went to school together back in Stonybrook,” he said quickly, feeling his ears go red even after so many years. How could he have forgotten? The only daughter of the number-one family in town. As an adolescent, he’d drooled over her for two years before she’d agreed to go out with him on one date. And one date had been the extent of their romance, too. Fifteen-year-old Ted had made a total fool of himself that night. She’d been experienced, and he’d been clumsy and overeager. It had been a disaster.

  “Your food, sir?”

  Ted turned for the trays.

  “You need a hand with those?” Without waiting for an answer, she forfeited her spot in line and came to help him.

  “Thanks. Are you here alone?”

  “No, I came with a friend and his kid. They’re somewhere out there.” She tilted her head toward the ballpark seats and smiled. “He’s into that father-daughter bonding stuff. It’s getting just a little boring. Do you have any kids?”

  “Yes. Ten of them.” Her shocked expression was priceless. Ted couldn’t hold back his smile. “But only for today. A friend of mine and I have a group of inner-city kids out with us.”

  “Oh…like a charity.”

  “No, it’s more like mentoring.” He dropped the food by a condiment table and motioned to the loud group making their way slowly toward them. “They’re a great bunch. We are going out for pizza after the game. If you want to bring your friend and his daughter, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “Too many people.” She shook her head and handed him the tray. “So, do you live around here?”

  “Yeah. Center City.”

  “Have a business card?”

  He reached inside his pants pocket, and was surprised when Marilyn’s eyes followed the movement of his hand as he took a card out. She stared down at it.

  “Pharmaceuticals. Impressive. Actually, there are few things about you that seem…pretty impressive.”

  The comment and the body language that went with it were one hundred percent sexual.

  She reached inside her purse and took out a pen. “What’s your home number?”

  As Ted gave it to her, she turned the card over and pressed it against his chest, trying to write the number down. Their bodies brushed. Her scent filled his head.

  “I’ll call you,” she whispered tantalizingly. “And you can take me out on a date.”

  All Ted could do was nod. All he could think of when she walked away was what she would wear…or not wear… on their date.

  He couldn’t wait to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Léa went out ahead of Browning into the first-floor lobby. The reporter had disappeared, and nearly everyone else had cleared out, as well.

  “Do you need a ride back to your hotel?”

  “No, I’m all set,” Léa answered curtly. As they walked out side by side, it was impossible to remain civil to the lawyer. Of course Ted’s life depended on her. On her and not the ineffective legal dog-and-pony show Browning and his people had put on.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You do that.” She turned away as soon as they reached the sidewalk. Léa felt like a woman possessed. She was racing against time.

  Angry at the world and at herself for not acting sooner, she turned her steps toward the small hotel where she had been keeping a room on a monthly basis during the trial.

  There was a message waiting for her when she got up to her room. This morning, before leaving, she’d tried to get hold of the real estate agent who was selling their house in Stonybrook. The woman’s voice and message were crisp and businesslike, and gave no indication of whether she had good news to convey or not. The realtor just said that she would be working late in the office, if Léa could call her.

  Their family house—the same one that her parents had died in so many years ago—was the only asset they had left. For years following the tragedy, the house had been rented out by a local agency, providing a small but steady income. Though Léa couldn’t see any point to hanging on to it, Ted had insisted they maintain and keep the property. Léa didn’t share her brother’s sentimentality about the place, but she had let him have his way.

  As the years passed, Léa had thought less and less about the house. She hadn’t cared at all what happened to it, and she had never gone back there.

  But now she did care, for all of her plans depended on the money she could get for that house. Whether it was finding a new attorney or paying David Browning’s outstanding bill, or even hiring a private investigator to see who was sending her these letters, she had to sell the house.

  The house had been sitting empty for a year and a half. Though the last tenants had apparently trashed the place, Léa put it on the market as soon as it became evident they’d need the money for Ted’s defense. The real estate agents had told her on the phone that the property was a “perfect fixer-upper.” But “perfect” did not mean a quick sale. In fact, they hadn’t received even a single bid on it.

  Léa dialed the real estate office. The woman was out on an appointment, another agent told her, but he’d have her call when she got back.

  While she changed out of her suit, the local television news broadcast a ten-second clip on Ted’s sentencing with a promise to report more after the commercials. She shut it off, knowing that she couldn’t fall apart now.

  Léa hung up her suit, trying to think what the real estate agent might have to say to her. The last time they’d talked was two months ago, and at that time Léa had again agreed to reduce the price.

  Dropping the mail that had been forwarded from Maryland, she picked up her note pad and a thickly stuffed manila envelope the real estate agency had sent to the hotel address. With a sigh, Léa stretched out on the bed. She hadn’t had a chance to go through any of it yet.

  Before opening the large envelope, she looked at the pad of paper with her own scribbles on the top sheet. Her budget…though it hardly deserved the name. The miniscule income from her job was based on a ten-month contract tied to the school calendar. She wouldn’t see another paycheck for two more months, when she went back to work.

  Léa pulled a folder out of a case beside the bed and opened it. She already had the name of a possible lawyer to replace David Browning. This time, she had done her homework. She’d even sat in on one of the woman’s cases when it had gone to court, during the same week that one of Ted’s hearings had taken place. In court, Attorney Sarah Rand looked sharp and powerful. The woman exuded confidence and credibility. Léa knew the lawyer also had an excellent record in homicide cases. But there was another interesting facet to Rand’s credentials that Léa couldn’t help but consider an asset. Married to Owen Dean, a movie actor and television star, Sarah Rand was also a local and national celebrity. And to Léa’s thinking, forcing Ted’s trial into that kind of spotlight was a way of avoiding the neglect Ted had faced the first time in the courtroom.

  From the folder Léa pulled out a paper with the estimates she’d been given by the attorney’s office. Of course, all of it was contingent on whether or not Sarah Rand decided to accept the case.

  The phone rang, and she picked it up on the first ring. Betty Walters, the real estate agent, was on the other end. The woman was polite but formal. Léa was certain she must have already heard about Ted’s sentence.

  “Ms. Hardy, early this week we sent a file on your property to the hotel address you gave us.”

  “Yes, Betty, I got it.” She reached for the manila envelope and shook it out. Leafing through the items quickly. “Sales flyers. Advertisements. Notices on the reduction of the price. The clippings from the local newspaper ads. You’ve put a lot of work into this. I really appreciate it.”

  “Then you received our letter, too.”

  Letter. Léa leafed through the other mail and found an envelope. “Can you hold on a sec?”

  Tearing it
open, she pulled out a folder with a letter clipped to the front. Quickly, she scanned the contents. The agency was sorry, but considering the condition of the house, they recommended taking it off the market until the property could be put into a more marketable state.

  She stopped reading and let out a frustrated breath. “So you no longer wish to represent us in selling the property.”

  “No one can sell it, Ms. Hardy. The house has been in the multiple listings database for nearly two years. We’ve done everything imaginable, but there has not been so much as a nibble.”

  “But I’ve been reading all about how the economy is so good in Stonybrook—about the building boom that is going on there. Someone must be looking for a house that needs a little work.”

  “We are not talking about a little work, Ms. Hardy. If…if you would drive down and take a look yourself, you’d see the extent of—”

  “Unfortunately, my schedule right now won’t permit it,” Léa replied, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “But I am still very much interested in selling this property. So if you have any ideas. You’re the expert in this field. There must be something creative that we can do. From all I hear, you are the best, Betty.”

  The praise seemed to have some effect, for there was a pause on the line. “The only other option that you might consider is to put the house up for auction.”

  “Auction,” Léa repeated, suddenly hopeful with the prospect. “That could work.”

  “Yes, it could, possibly. The only problem that you should know up front is that the final selling price might be far below what you are asking.”

  Léa pulled up the sheet with her estimated expenses scrawled on it.

  “How much less?”

  “No way of telling. It may go for half the present asking price. Maybe even less. You see, in this case, we would have to set the minimum bid very low. Otherwise, no one will show up.”

  Half the asking price would give them just enough to pay off Browning. There would be no money for anything else. “No, I can’t live with that option.”

  “Then, I am sorry, Ms. Hardy. I’m afraid there is nothing more that we can do.”

  Léa listened to the woman’s polite explanations for a moment more and then said goodbye. Frustration stabbed away at her.

  “Nothing can go right, can it?” She lay back on the folders and envelopes, and stared up at a long thin crack in the plaster ceiling.

  She remembered uttering these same words to Ted the summer that Janice had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. In their family, she’d complained, good luck came in tiny spoonfuls while bad luck came in buckets. Before she could go on about the injustice of life, Ted had painted her a picture of the positive side of all of it—of importance of a close family—and returning some of what they both owed Janice. And how lucky they were to be in the position of being able to help the older woman.

  As always, Ted the optimist.

  Every challenge, he’d asserted, every setback, could only make them stronger. They had their health. They had each other. They should be grateful for that and try to build on it each day.

  “Ted the wise.” She smiled bitterly, knowing that she had to use his own words to convince him that there was reason to fight. Guilt, coercion, begging—whatever it took—Léa had to convince him to allow the lawyers to file the right papers. And then she had to be ready with other plans.

  She reached for the real estate package again. Every day, there was another article in the papers about the real estate boom in Bucks County. Stonybrook was at the center of it, since it was the perfect commuting distance to Philadelphia.

  She considered what it would take to do a little cosmetic work and approach these agents again. From the time she was a teenager, she’d liked painting and doing little fix-up jobs with Ted and Janice on their place in Maryland. She’d even put in some time with Habitat for Humanity while she was in college. There was no way she could afford to hire someone else for the job. But it meant she’d have to go back to Stonybrook and try to do the work herself.

  Léa pressed her fingers against her temple. Just thinking about walking back inside that house made her head pound. She forced herself to find the single white envelope she’d received in court today. Pulling out the letter, she stared at the words again.

  Ted is innocent. I know who did it.

  All the other letters had been mailed to her apartment address in Maryland. She’d checked the post office stamp and knew that some were mailed from Stonybrook. Others were from neighboring towns, all in Bucks County. She ran her fingers across the words again. The police detective that she had first spoken to about the letters—one of David Browning’s friends—had told her that receiving this type of thing was very common. He warned her that there were people out there who got a kick out of doing things like this. They enjoyed seeing a family member build up their hopes, only to have the world come crashing down later. Browning and his people had sent off those letters to the Stonybrook Police, but nothing had ever come of it.

  Léa was not convinced, that someone’s twisted sense of humor could keep at it this long. That was why she was dead-set on hiring someone to look into it. A professional. She searched through the pile on her bed again, looking for the investigators’ brochures.

  A stack of identical envelopes peeking out of the realtor’s folder caught her eye.

  Léa pulled them out. Six white ones, neatly typed, addressed to her. All mailed to the Poplar Street address in Stonybrook. She checked the faint postmark imprint. The dates varied from early last year to this past spring. All were postmarked from Stonybrook. She ripped open the first one.

  Ted is innocent. Come to town and I’ll tell you who did it.

  She reached for the next one. There was dirt on the white envelope. She opened it.

  I saw him get there. But she was already dead.

  Léa sat up on the bed and grabbed the next envelope.

  He didn’t hate her as much as the rest. Come to town.

  “The rest? The rest who?” She pulled open the last of the letters. They all said the same thing.

  Come to town…

  Despite the police reports, Léa had been certain that someone other than Ted had been there that night. The real killer. But now the idea of a third person—someone who had witnessed everything—sent her hopes soaring.

  She pulled out the cover letter from the real estate agent. At the end of it, Betty mentioned the enclosed mail. The envelopes had been found inside the door of the house since the last tenants had moved out.

  She reached for the first letter again. She read it out loud.

  “Ted is innocent. Come to town and I’ll tell you who did it.”

  Léa had to go back. It was up to her.

  ~~~~

  “You’re playing with my head,” Marilyn whispered when Ted pushed her chair in and went around the table to take his own seat.

  “How is that?”

  “All of this!” She touched the loose rose petals strewn on the table. “The wine. The candlelight dinners. The music. Taking me so many places these past couple of months. We’re already having great sex, Ted. Why are you going through all of this?”

  “Because I think you’ve been missing it.”

  “I’ve had sex before.”

  He laughed.

  “Not sex, Marilyn…romance.” His fingers entwined with hers, and her gaze was drawn to his handsome face. “You act tough. Talk tough. You even claim sex is the only thing you’re looking for in a relationship.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Is it?” His thumb made small circles on her palm. “Then what are you doing here? How come you haven’t gotten tired of us? Moved on?”

  He was doing it to her again. Making her think. Making her remember how lonely her life was every minute that she wasn’t with him.

  “I understand you, Marilyn. For all of your life you’ve been pressed to conform because of your family name. You’ve mastered the eleg
ant public persona of what it takes to be Marilyn Foley. But in private, you rebel in every way you can. You shock. You even hurt people. But I know you do things to get attention. It’s all part of a deep need you have to be noticed. To be cherished.”

  It was all part of wanting to be loved. As if that were possible. A tight knot was growing in her throat. Her fingers tightened around his.

  “You can’t reform me, Ted. No matter how hard you try. I’ll always be me…and you’ll eventually end up hating me, too.”

  “Have faith in me, Marilyn. Have faith in yourself. We’ve been cursed with the family names we were born with. But we can change anything.”

  Chapter 3

  The bell above the glass door jingled, and Sheila Desjardins knew she was not quite done for the day.

  “I’ll be right with you,” she called from the rear of the hair salon.

  Quickly folding the last towel, Sheila put the clean pile between the hair-wash sinks. Squirting some moisturizing cream on her hands, the hairdresser came around the divider and then paused in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” She smiled at the man standing by the register.

  Mick Conklin pulled the Red Sox cap off his head. “Nice welcome. You still cut hair here?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Sheila laughed self-consciously. It was amazing, even after knowing Mick for practically all of her life, how flustered she got when she unexpectedly came face-to-face with his raw masculine looks. Heck, it wasn’t only her. Most of her female customers—and a few of the men in this town, she’d wager—shared her sentiments. With intensely blue eyes that looked right into your libido, and a stubborn mouth that made a girl dream, Mick had been Stonybrook’s own heart throb for close to three decades. Brian Hughes referred to him as a tall Paul Newman. And just like the actor, Mick was only getting better as he got older.

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “I just thought you would have gone to Doylestown for Ted’s sentencing. Everybody else in town went.”