She had never been a woman who rolled out of bed looking particularly good, and this morning was especially unkind.
She straightened the covers on her bed and ventured into the hall. The shower was still going full blast and she hurried past so as not to dwell on the fact that Beck Underwood was standing naked in her shower, using her soap and her towels. Her face burned when she thought about the relative inelegance of her bath accoutrements, but at least he would have found everything clean—it was only dusting that she abhorred.
She scanned the couch where he’d slept and wondered if the big, lumpy sofa had afforded him any rest at all. Her extra feather pillow was still indented from his head. She returned it to her bedroom, thinking Gary had been the last person to share her bed or her pillow, although he had spent the entire night on only one or two occasions.
Tears filled her eyes when the breathtaking sadness of him not being alive hit her anew. Maybe Gary Hagan wouldn’t have saved the world, and maybe he’d been in his share of trouble, but he didn’t deserve to be shot in the chest and abandoned under a pile of outerwear.
The cordless phone rang, jangling her nerves. She couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to talk to at the moment—unless it was Detective Salyers saying the murder had been solved and she was off the hook. But without caller ID, she had to take her chances and hit the button to receive the call. “Hello?”
“Jolie?” a man asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Michael Lane. I just opened my paper—I called to see if you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” she said breezily, wondering if she should ask what the paper said. “A little shaken up, but fine.”
“Yes, well, under the circumstances, I was thinking it might be better for you to take some time off from Neiman’s.”
She gripped the phone. “Michael, please—I need this job.”
He sighed. “After the incident at the Manolo event yesterday—”
“Give me another chance,” she pleaded. “Michael, to be blunt, I need the money.” Else, how would she pay off the nightclothes?
He sighed again. “Okay, but only because I’m a wonderful person.”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She disconnected the call before he could change his mind, but the phone rang again almost instantly. She punched the TALK button. “Hello?”
“Jolie? This is Trini Janklo, upstairs.”
Jolie rolled her eyes upward. “Hello, Mrs. Janklo. How are you?”
“Shocked, frankly. I opened the Atlanta Journal-Constitution this morning to find your name connected with the murder of a young man. Is that the same man I heard you arguing with?”
Her heart fluttered and she closed her eyes briefly. “We weren’t arguing, Mrs. Janklo. This is all a big misunderstanding. You can’t believe everything you hear…or read.”
“It says you were so distraught that you tried to drown yourself.”
Her eyes widened—no wonder Michael had been concerned. “That’s simply not true—”
“I want you to know that I’ve already contacted management about having you evicted.”
Her jaw dropped. “What? Why?”
“How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing there’s a murderer living right underneath me?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mrs. Janklo, I’m not a murderer.”
But the woman had already hung up, leaving an angry dial tone in her wake.
Jolie stabbed the DISCONNECT button and exhaled, dragging her hand down her face. She went to the door and unlocked it in search of her own Sunday paper. She opened the door and retrieved the paper, but when she straightened, a reporter was sprinting down the sidewalk toward her, his cameraman running behind him. “Ms. Goodman! Will you answer a few questions? Is there a love triangle between you, Gary Hagan, and Beckham Underwood?”
She was stupefied. “No!”
“Didn’t Mr. Underwood spend the night here?”
She spun and scrambled back inside the door, slamming it hard. The door to the bathroom opened and Beck came out dressed in his jeans, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. He was frowning. “What was that?”
“A TV reporter,” she said, distracted and comforted by his appearance…and self-conscious about her own.
He picked up his cell phone from a side table and began punching in a number. “What station are they from?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“What did he say?”
She wet her lips. “I don’t think you want to know, but they’re aware that you spent the night here.”
He put down the phone before he finished dialing, then jammed his feet into his sneakers and strode toward the door. “I’ll take care of this.”
She wanted to watch, but decided she’d better take a peek at the paper. There she was, bottom half of page two: PARTY CRASHERS TERRORIZE BUCKHEAD HOME—BODY DISCOVERED.
Her heart dropped. Peppered with appropriate amounts of “allegeds” and “unnamed sources,” the article mentioned her name (“questioned for the murder of the boyfriend for whom she filed a missing persons report a month ago”), Carlotta’s name (“questioned in connection to widespread looting in the host’s home during the party”), and Hannah’s name (“reportedly assaulted a guest and held other guests hostage”). The article stipulated that no charges had been filed and hinted that it was due in part to “Goodman’s unexplained association with Atlanta socialite, Beckham Underwood.”
She closed the paper with a crunch just as Beck walked back in the front door. “That guy won’t be bothering you anymore,” he said.
“What did you do?” she asked, biting into her lip.
“Smashed his camera.”
She held out the paper. “You might want to read this before you…do anything else on my behalf.” She jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower. If you’re gone when I come out, I’ll understand.”
He gave her a pointed look. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“Oh.” She tried to smile. “Right. I’ll hurry.”
She closed the door behind her and stripped off the offensive sweat suit, tossing it into a heap in the floor. Beck’s towel was draped neatly over the shower-curtain rod. She withdrew a fresh towel from a tiny closet, then stepped under the shower spray and adjusted the head back down to her level. Her skin tingled at the intimacy of sharing a bathroom with Beck, and her mind reeled at the series of events that had brought them together in this—how had the newspaper worded it?—“unexplained association.”
Protecting her bandaged hand from the water as much as possible, she scrubbed her hair and skin, then toweled off and shrugged into a long terry robe to make the dash to her bedroom to dress. When she opened the door, the smell of strong coffee reached her, as well as the sounds of cooking. She poked her head around the corner to see Beck, his back to her, tending to something on the stove that smelled wonderful. At least the article hadn’t scared him off. He caught sight of her and waved her forward. “I made grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches—hope that’s okay.”
Jolie’s stomach growled and she nodded. “Let me change.”
“You’re okay,” he said. “Let’s eat while the food is hot.”
If he was so nonchalant about her being in a state of near undress, she didn’t want to overreact. She joined him in the kitchen nook and withdrew plates and napkins from the cabinets, maneuvering around him with an ease that belied their impending discussion. A few minutes later they were settled at the rectangular plain maple table that doubled as her desk, sharing the space with her desktop computer. The chairs were mismatched, a collection of odds and ends from her parents’ home that she’d painted white. Beck claimed a chair, seemingly unaware that he looked out of place in the quaint domestic scene.
Jolie sipped the coffee, murmuring in appreciation when the warm liquid spread through her. She waited until s
he had eaten one sandwich and Beck had eaten two before she said, “I guess you read the article.”
He nodded. “Want to fill in the holes?”
She set down her cup and retold the story, starting from when Gary had first disappeared.
“So the day I first met you, the detective had come to tell you about Hagan’s car being recovered.”
“Right.” Then she told him about agreeing to attend the party with Carlotta on the chance she’d meet someone who had known Gary. “I didn’t know we had crashed until we were already there,” she felt compelled to explain, then realized the ridiculousness of minding that she’d been labeled a party-crasher in the larger scheme of things.
“I recognized Roger LeMon from a picture I found in one of Gary’s photo albums. And later, Kyle Coffee.”
“Do you have the photo?” Beck asked.
She nodded and rifled through papers next to her computer until she found it. “That’s Gary next to LeMon, and Coffee is in the middle.”
When Beck looked at the photo, he blinked.
“Do you recognize someone?” she asked.
He glanced up. “Besides Russell Island?”
She frowned. “Hannah’s boyfriend? Let me see.”
He pointed. “Different hair and he was heavier, but that’s him. And that’s his wife next to him.”
She gasped. “So there were two more people at the party who knew Gary. Is the woman next to LeMon his wife?”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I never met his wife.”
“How about the woman standing next to Kyle Coffee?”
“I don’t know her either.”
“Do you know the fifth man?”
He studied the picture, then rubbed his hand over his mouth. “I’ve seen him before. I want to say his name is Gordon something.”
Jolie’s head whipped around. “Gordon?” Gary’s scribbled note on the pad rose in her mind: Extra door key for Gordon. It was too pat to be a coincidence. “Beck, please—can you remember his last name?”
He scratched his head. “I want to say it was a German name—something like ‘bear,’ but an unusual spelling.” Then he shook his head. “I can’t say for sure, but I can find out.” He held up the picture. “May I borrow this?”
She hesitated, then felt foolish—Beck had done nothing but help her. “Sure. Do you know how these men are connected?”
He splayed his hand. “Movers and shakers, second-generation family businessmen. Like me,” he added wryly. “They might belong to the same country club, or live in the same neighborhood.”
“Have you ever heard of them doing anything illegal?”
Beck cleared his throat and sat back. “Like what?”
Surprised by his retreating body language, she spoke carefully. “Detective Salyers told me that Gary had a record for dealing cocaine in Orlando.”
“And you think he might have gotten back into the business?”
“I don’t know.” She wet her lips. “Do you remember last Wednesday when you found me sitting in my car outside the High Museum?”
“Yeah, you were spooked.”
“I was spooked because when I got in the car, Gary was waiting for me. He had just gotten out of the car before you walked up.”
His head jutted forward. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. He told me he’d been set up, that he hadn’t murdered the woman who was found in his car.”
“I take it he didn’t say who had set him up?”
“No. But I wondered if drugs might be involved.”
Beck pulled on his chin. “I guess it’s possible.”
There was that hesitation again, that reluctance. Beck had a lot of money at his disposal—perhaps he had dabbled in drugs himself. Unease invaded her chest and she decided to change the subject. She pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from the office clutter on her table and did a rudimentary sketch of the tattoo on Roger LeMon’s wrist. “Does this symbol mean anything to you?”
He squinted at the paper, then shook his head. “What is it?”
“A tattoo that LeMon and Coffee both have.”
“Fraternity?”
“Friday night at the media reception, Carlotta and I cornered Coffee and asked him about the tattoo. He said it had ruined his life.”
“What did he mean?”
“I don’t know—Roger LeMon interrupted us, made some joke about Coffee’s wife not liking the tattoo, then put Coffee in a cab. I think by that time LeMon had recognized me.” She took a long drink from her mug. “Last night LeMon filed a restraining order against me.”
“What?”
“He told the police that I’ve been harassing him, that he came to Sammy’s party but had to leave because he was afraid I would ‘accost’ him.”
“I was there, and it was clear you were trying to avoid him. Do you think he had something to do with the murder?”
She nodded. “I think he did it and set me up, then filed the restraining order to prove he left the party.”
“To give himself an alibi.”
“Right.” Jolie stood and began clearing their impromptu meal.
He joined her, his expression thoughtful…and bemused. “So your theory is that LeMon killed the woman in your boyfriend’s car and set him up for it, then killed your boyfriend and set you up for it?”
Jolie’s hands stilled. When he put it that way, the story did sound too fantastic to believe. She flushed and leaned against the kitchen counter, her energy suddenly zapped. She was focusing on the puzzle pieces to detach herself from the fact that Gary was dead. She covered her mouth with her hand. “You’re right. It’s probably much simpler than I’m making it out to be—a debt owed, a drug deal gone bad. Roger LeMon might have nothing to do with it.”
“Didn’t you say that your boyfriend’s apartment burned a few days after he disappeared?”
She nodded.
“Was the cause ever determined?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you considered that the fire might have been directed toward Hagan as a warning? Or maybe to destroy evidence of, say, a drug deal?”
She shook her head, then sighed. “The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I guess I didn’t want to think that Gary could be involved in something that…sordid.”
“So…were you in love with this guy?”
Startled, she looked up, and the air sizzled without the benefit of a fried sandwich.
Beck lifted his hand. “Never mind—that’s none of my business.”
Before she could agree or disagree, his cell phone rang. He stepped to the doorway to take the call, and Jolie decided to take advantage of the time to dress. She walked to the bedroom and closed the door, her mind racing with conflicting emotions—how did she feel about Gary…before, and now that he was gone?
Betrayed, mostly, on so many levels. She had genuinely believed that he cared for her, although she had sensed that Gary himself had been surprised by his feelings for her. It was almost as if he’d gone out with her on a lark—the handsome, eligible man about town who dates a quiet, spindly girl—with no pedigree or particular promise as a socialite—and becomes enchanted by her lack of pretense. At times she wondered if her conservative sensibility had attracted him because it helped to keep him grounded, or if he simply liked the idea that she would never compete with him. Regardless, she was beginning to think she loved the idea of Gary loving her more than she actually loved him. Had she mistaken flattery on her part for love?
And on those occasions when he’d looked at her with contrite eyes—when she’d thought that he was silently apologizing for underestimating her—had he instead been trying to think of a way to reveal the underhanded side of his life? She had sensed that he was struggling with something, but she hadn’t asked.
Hadn’t cared enough to ask. If she had, maybe he would’ve confessed the truth and she could have persuaded him to go to the police.
She pursed her mouth. On the other hand, she could have wound
up as fish food in the Chattahoochee River.
She dressed quickly and opted for a few makeup basics to perk up her complexion while pondering Beck’s interest in her feelings for Gary. Maybe he was feeling guilty over kissing her at Sammy’s party. Or maybe if she admitted that Gary had been the love of her life, he could bow out with no pressure, no strings.
Jolie opened the bedroom door and walked into the living room quietly because Beck was still on the phone, his back to her.
“…Jolie doesn’t know,” he said.
Her stomach plunged—at his words and at the guarded tone of his voice. She stepped back out of sight and strained to hear him, her heart hammering.
“…You should be thinking of a story. Yes, I got it from her and I have it with me…I shouldn’t be here much longer.”
She tried to make sense of the words—a story, the photo he’d gotten from her…
The answer hit her so clearly that she almost laughed out loud at her stupidity—she’d just given an exclusive interview to a man who had his own news organization! Of course he was going to use it to his advantage. A part of her didn’t even mind. Beck had saved her life, after all, and provided her with an attorney. But she felt so damn foolish, thinking he was helping her for altruistic reasons or maybe simply because he liked her.
She shook her head, blinking back tears. Then, it was as if something inside of her switched to “on.” She straightened and inhaled deeply, filling her chest with resolve. She was almost relieved Beck was using the information she’d given him; it put their relationship on a professional plane. Neither of them would have emotional ties to the situation. She would no longer feel guilty about involving him, and she would no longer entertain fantasies about the man. Her head would be clear to navigate through the mess that Gary had left behind.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Jolie fumbled with her bedroom door to make noise, then acted as if she were just walking out.
Beck looked up and had the grace to blush. “Yeah,” he said into the phone, his voice louder. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Okay.” He closed the phone and looked apologetic. “I assumed you weren’t exactly in the mood to take me house hunting today as we’d planned.”
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