Party Crashers

by Stephanie Bond

  Jolie jerked awake, the sheen of perspiration cool on her brow and neck. She inhaled deeply to relieve her squeezed lungs and to slow her elevated heartbeat. Closing her eyes, she wondered how long she’d been asleep— five minutes? An hour? She didn’t care, she just wanted to lie there for a few more minutes in the blessed dark.

  Voices came to her, agitated and low…threatening. Slowly she recognized one of the voices as Carlotta’s. She was arguing…with a man.

  “—ever come here again, I’ll call the police.”

  “Do that, Lottie. I’m sure the people you work with would be interested…”

  Jolie sat up and scooted closer to the wall, where their voices were being funneled through an air vent.

  “—dare threaten me,” Carlotta said in a hoarse whisper.

  A man’s harsh laugh sounded. “You know that I don’t make idle threats. Two grand by next Friday.”

  The stone-cold tone of the man’s voice sent a chill down Jolie’s neck. The silence stretched on, then Carlotta murmured, “H–how will I find you?”

  “Don’t worry, Lottie,” he said. “I’ll find you.”

  Footsteps sounded against the tile floor, then receded. Jolie held her breath, wondering what kind of trouble Carlotta was in, and what was going through the woman’s mind right now. A couple of sniffles sounded, then a thump, as if Carlotta had brought her hand down on the counter in frustration. Jolie felt an instant kinship, then shook her head at the absurdity of suddenly feeling aligned with the woman because they both were in dire straits.

  A light knock at the dressing-room door sent Jolie scooting away from the wall.

  “Jolie, it’s me,” Carlotta said, then opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” Jolie said, then stood and flipped on the light. She blinked against the glare and glanced at her watch. She’d been asleep for twenty-five minutes.

  “Were you able to get some rest?” Carlotta asked, showing no signs of being threatened only a moment ago.

  “Yes, thank you so much,” Jolie said, then slid her feet into her shoes and reached for the jacket she’d shed.

  “Wait, I want you to try on something.”

  Jolie gave her a wry smile. “I don’t have the time or the money.”

  “Oh, shush, Michael can spare you for five more minutes. Get a load of this.” She held up a sleeveless butternut-colored Ultrasuede jumpsuit with wide legs and a silver-tone belt that hung low on the hips.

  Jolie’s lips parted and she felt an irrational gush of appreciation for the designer. “Oh, my.”

  “It’s perfect for you; try it on.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you can,” Carlotta said, stepping in and closing the door behind her. “Just try it.”

  Jolie wavered, then reached forward to touch the fabric and was lost in the exquisite liquidity of the cloth. “Okay, but I’m only trying it on.”

  Carlotta eased the jumpsuit off the hanger while Jolie undressed a bit self-consciously. Carlotta hummed and eyed her figure critically. “Wow, if you were a few inches taller, you could be a model.”

  “I’ve lost weight recently,” Jolie said, glad that at least her Wal-Mart white underwear matched, but knowing it made her look bluishly pale. “I guess I haven’t adjusted to my new schedule.”

  “How’s your real-estate business coming along? Have you called that hunky Beck Underwood yet?”

  Jolie stepped into the jumpsuit, nervous at the mere sound of his name. “He’s supposed to call me.” She didn’t add that she’d left her cell phone turned off all day. She wasn’t sure who she wanted to hear from less: him or Detective Salyers.

  “Are you kidding me?” Carlotta gaped. “Do you know how many realtors in this city would sell their soul to be Beck Underwood’s agent? We’re talking a multimillion-dollar home. The commission would set you up for a year!”

  She’d told herself the same thing a thousand times. “I know.”

  “You act as if you’re afraid of him,” Carlotta said. “Or is it men in general?” She wet her lips. “Um…Michael told me that your boyfriend is…missing.”

  Jolie glanced up from shrugging into the top of the jumpsuit.

  Carlotta winced. “Don’t be angry with Michael—he thought you could use a little moral support.”

  So that was why Carlotta was being nice to her. Jolie wondered if everyone would be as supportive if they knew all the details of her “missing” boyfriend.

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Carlotta murmured.

  In answer, Jolie dropped her gaze and allowed Carlotta to fasten the silver-tone buttons running up the front from waist to breastbone. In light of the conversation she’d overheard, the woman had her own problems.

  “There,” Carlotta said, then stood back. Her face lit up, then she turned Jolie around to look in the wall mirror. “You,” she said over Jolie’s shoulder, “look like a goddess.”

  Okay, “goddess” was stretching it a bit, Jolie thought, studying her reflection with wide-eyed wonder. But “good” was not inappropriate. She slid her hands into the hidden side pockets and drank in the sight of herself in the luxe designer outfit. The style, the color and drape of the fabric—everything about the jumpsuit was perfect for her figure type and skin tone. She didn’t look like herself. The woman staring back looked…accomplished. Situated. As if she knew who she was, and other people be damned.

  With the impact of a thunderbolt, Jolie suddenly realized the attraction of haute couture: it wasn’t how high fashion made a woman look, it was how high fashion made a woman feel.

  “Well, was I right?”

  She glanced at Carlotta in the mirror and nodded miserably. “It’s incredible, but I couldn’t possibly afford something like this. How much is it?”

  Carlotta fidgeted. “Well…”

  Jolie picked up the dangling tag and her heart dropped. “Oh. My. God. This is more than the Blue Book value on my car.” A car that she didn’t even have. She began fumbling with the buttons. “Carlotta, I shouldn’t even be trying this on.”

  “Relax, Jolie…relax. I’ll help you work out the financials. You simply must have this outfit.”

  “Even with my employee discount, it’s an impossibility.”

  Carlotta put her hands on Jolie’s shoulders. “I have a system.”

  Jolie was instantly wary. “What do you mean?”

  “Buy the outfit at your discount, wear it to a big bash tomorrow night that you simply must attend with me, then return it.” She lifted her arms in a happy “see?” shrug.

  “I can’t do that,” Jolie said, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t be honest.” Then she squinted. “What bash?”

  “It’s a big reception for journalists—some kind of award nominations are being announced. I’m going, and you have to go with me.”

  Jolie gave her a wry smile. “You mean crash with you?”

  Carlotta grinned. “All the best people will be there.”

  She thought of Roger LeMon. “Some of the same people that we saw the other night?”

  “Sure, that pack runs together.”

  She’d like the chance to get close to Roger LeMon to find out more about his relationship to Gary, and why he cared that she had connected them. But how could she do that when he already knew who she was?

  Jolie looked back at her reflection…She didn’t look like herself. “Carlotta, do you think I could borrow one of your wigs for tomorrow night?”

  Nine

  Jolie sat slumped in her car, questioning her judgment for agreeing to meet Carlotta in the parking garage of the hotel. Sitting in the dimly lit structure, she was an easy target for anyone who might have followed her. Not that she’d noticed anyone following her, but between Gary’s stealth, Roger LeMon’s secrecy, and Detective Salyers’ perseverance, she couldn’t be certain.

  Except surely Gary wouldn’t have the kahonas to tail her in her own car.

&nbs
p; She glanced at her cell phone display: 2 MISSED CALLS. Salyers had called twice yesterday, twice today. Jolie wondered if she were breaking some kind of law by not answering and not returning the detective’s calls, but she’d promised herself that she’d call Salyers tomorrow about Roger LeMon, regardless if she learned something solid tonight. She picked up the folded sheets of paper she’d printed last night after researching her subject on the Internet.

  Roger LeMon was thirty-four years old, graduated from Vanderbilt University with a degree in finance, worked in the Buckhead office of LeMon and Pride, Ltd., the investment company his late father had founded. By all appearances, the man was a success in his professional and in his personal life. Recipient of various humanitarian awards for philanthropic contributions, winning member of an Atlanta tennis club, on the board of a local business college, on the vestry of his church. Married Janet Chisholm in 1995, lived in a gated neighborhood in Buckhead, no children that Jolie could find a record of. And no direct link to Gary that she could pinpoint, other than the photograph.

  On the opposite end of the parking garage, headlights appeared, then a dark sedan…slowly climbing the ramp…turning into the aisle where she had parked. Carlotta had told her to look for a white Miata convertible, so she slumped lower and watched in her side mirror for the sedan to pass by.

  Instead, it stopped…directly behind her car, trapping her. Tinted windows hid the face of the occupant. Realization of her stupidity hit Jolie full force, and she scrambled for her cell phone. The hypocrisy of calling the police now was not lost on her, but she didn’t care. And how petty was it that she was thinking if she were shot wearing the jumpsuit, she wouldn’t be able to return it?

  The tinted window started to buzz down just as she punched in 9-1-1. Oh, God…“they” were going to get her. Her heart pounded in her ears so loudly, she could barely hear the phone ringing.

  “Nine-one-one. Where is the emergency?”

  Jolie opened her mouth to unload on the answerer, her eyes riveted on the car window as the top of Carlotta’s head appeared, then her gapped grin. Jolie sighed in relief. “Operator, I’m so sorry, I made a mistake.”

  She disconnected the call, then climbed out of the car, irritated with herself. “I thought you were driving a white convertible!”

  Carlotta frowned. “My battery was dead. I had to borrow my brother’s car.”

  “Oh.” Jolie gave herself a mental shake. She was either going to have to go to the police or calm the heck down.

  Carlotta handed a Mui Mui shoe box out of the window. “I have your shoes, but put the box in your car so you’ll have it to make your return tomorrow.”

  Jolie put the empty box in the trunk, already dreading the return tomorrow. Would Michael know she’d worn them tonight?

  “Get in,” Carlotta said, “and I’ll find a place to park.”

  She locked her car doors, then shouldered her “biggish” purse and checked to make sure the shocking price tag of the jumpsuit was still secure, tucked down inside the bodice beneath her armpit, held in place with a tiny safety pin.

  She climbed into the sedan and closed the door. The interior was luxurious and clean, but reeked of cigarette smoke. “What does your brother do?”

  “He’s a hacker,” Carlottta declared. “Mostly he plays computer games, but sometimes he’ll get in the mood to work, help companies with their security, things like that.”

  “He must be smart.”

  “Yeah, especially for a nineteen-year-old.”

  Jolie’s eyebrows went up.

  Carlotta sighed as she turned into a parking place. “Yes, there’s a big age difference. Mother thought another baby would help their marriage.”

  Jolie could tell by the tone of her voice that it hadn’t. “Sounds like you’re close to your brother.”

  She shrugged. “He lives with me.” Then she turned off the ignition and smiled with approval. “You look great.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  Carlotta preened in her “borrowed” red bugle bead jacket over a silvery three-quarter-length dress. Her lustrous dark hair was skimmed back and twisted into a chignon. Against her black, black hair and her olive skin tone, her blue eyes were captivating.

  Jolie leaned in. “I thought your eyes were brown.”

  “Tonight they’re blue.”

  “Contact lenses?”

  “Yeah, I have green ones, too, and a pair that looks like cat eyes—those freak everyone out a little. Are you ready for your shoes and new hair?” Carlotta had already turned to retrieve a bag from the backseat. “Here are the shoes.”

  When Jolie opened the bag to find the soles of the silver-colored cut-out leather pumps covered with several layers of tape, she worked her mouth from side to side. “I feel like a thief.”

  “Let’s don’t go through that again. Come on, we’re going to be late. Remember to leave in the cardboard stays.”

  Jolie removed the low heeled sandals she’d worn and pushed her feet into the yummy shoes.

  “Put your other shoes in your bag, just in case you have to…leave in a hurry.”

  “You mean in case we get caught crashing and are chased out?”

  “It’s rare, but it happens,” Carlotta said with a sniff. “It’s just best to be prepared. Here’s your wig.” She hoisted a medium-brown pageboy wig, then angled her head. “But your hair looks great—are you sure you want to do this?”

  Jolie nodded, then, using the visor mirror, tucked her curls into a hairnet that Carlotta handed her and stretched the wig over her scalp. She tugged at the ends until all was even. The transformation was startling. She touched her face to prove to her brain that she truly was looking at herself.

  “Let me see,” Carlotta said, then gasped when Jolie turned her head. “You look…completely different. Your boyfriend wouldn’t even recognize—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, Jolie, I didn’t mean to upset you…Wait a minute.” She gestured vaguely toward Jolie’s getup. “Does this have something to do with that?”

  Jolie’s throat constricted. “Maybe.”

  Carlotta squinted. “At the museum the other night when you were talking to Roger what’s-his-name, was the mutual friend you mentioned your boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Roger denied knowing him.”

  “He lied.” Jolie hesitated, then pulled from her purse the photo she’d saved from Gary’s album. “Gary is the one standing next to Roger. They look chummy to me.”

  Carlotta hummed her agreement. “But why would the man lie?”

  Jolie was silent, knowing she could use an ally, but not sure if she could trust a woman who “borrowed” merchandise from the store and was having money problems. Then she glanced at herself—bewigged and wearing her own “borrowed” outfit—and realized that she was in no position to cast stones.

  Carlotta looked up. “What’s your boyfriend’s name again?”

  “Gary…Hagan.”

  “He’s cute. I don’t recognize him, but wow, that name still sounds so familiar.”

  Jolie took a deep breath. “You’ve probably heard it on the news. His car was pulled out of the Chattahoochee River earlier this week.”

  Carlotta’s big blue eyes got even bigger. “He’s dead?”

  “His body wasn’t found,” Jolie said carefully. “But there was…a woman’s body…in the car.”

  Carlotta gasped. “Who?”

  “The police don’t know yet.”

  “Christ. Oh, you poor thing.” Carlotta reached out to touch her arm. “You must be going crazy.”

  Jolie sighed. “I’m muddling through.”

  “Do you think he’s alive?”

  “The police do. My car was stolen the same night Gary disappeared.”

  “Christ. He killed somebody, then he stole your car?”

  Jolie wet her lips. “Actually…I don’t believe he killed anyone.”

  “You think it was an accident?”

  “I don’t know,” she sai
d, weighing her words. “Gary had friends in high places. I’m thinking maybe he got in the middle of something, maybe he was…set up.”

  Carlotta’s jaw dropped. “Christ, this is like something on TV. Are you on a mission to clear the name of the man you love?”

  Jolie squirmed. “Well—”

  “Christ, the police don’t think you’re involved, do they?”

  “Well—”

  “They do?”

  “Not directly. But…the detective who questioned me practically accused me of giving Gary my car to get away.”

  “Christ, Christ, Christ.” Carlotta bounced in her seat. “Your life is so much more exciting than mine!”

  The woman’s exuberance alarmed her. Jolie looked all around and lifted a quieting hand. “Carlotta, please…I need the job at Neiman’s. If Michael or anyone else there thought I was somehow linked to a murder—”

  “Say no more,” Carlotta said, suddenly sober. “I hear what you’re saying about the people you work with knowing your personal business.”

  Jolie remembered the quiver of fear in Carlotta’s voice yesterday in the conversation she’d overheard from the dressing room, and wondered if she should tell Carlotta that she’d inadvertently overheard. But since she wasn’t in a position to help the woman monetarily, she felt sure that Carlotta would rather not know that she knew.

  “Thank you for understanding,” was all Jolie said.

  “So are you hoping to run into Roger LeMon again tonight, ergo the disguise?”

  “Right. I shouldn’t have given him my name. If I do see him, I’m hoping he won’t realize I’m the same person he talked to the other night.”