"Who called the police?"
"Must have been part of the security system because they were there in no time flat."
"Is it true Emma broke into the estate?"
Hah! There it was, that journalistic phrase: Is it true? He wasn’t getting another word out of her. "I don’t know and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you." She crossed her arms and leaned smugly back against the sofa.
Sam looked gravely at her. "Maybe you’re right. I don’t think I want to know."
He stood up, grabbed his sports jacket and briefcase, and then bent to give her a quick peck on the lips. "I’ll call you later."
He was all the way to the door before she managed two syllables: "Thanks, Sam."
He nodded, and then he was gone, leaving her with a half cup of lukewarm coffee and a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.
It was one thing to be frightened herself. It was quite another to see that same fear reflected in the eyes of someone she’d expected to assure her that everything was going to be all right.
Chapter 6
"You look awful," Leigh Ann declared, getting right up in Jennifer’s face and staring at her with jade green eyes, her dark, chin-length hair cupped behind each tiny ear. "You do know that, don’t you?"
Of course she knew it. She had mirrors in her house. She even looked in one occasionally. Not everyone could be a sexy, sultry vixen like the heroines Leigh Ann wrote in her romance novels. They could make it through a five-page sob session without a single mascara streak, not to mention a puffy eyelid or a lipstick smear.
Jennifer squirmed away from Leigh Ann and scooted closer to Teri on the floor, her back leaning against Monique’s sectional sofa. She should have stayed home tonight—she had only been released by the police that morning—but attending her writing group’s Monday night sessions was almost an obsession. She never missed one. Writing was her focus, her beacon, her link to sanity. And right now it would be nice if her critique partners would cut her a little slack. They were her friends, closer than sisters. Only sometimes they acted a little too much like sisters.
"You been in some kind of fight?" Teri asked, examining Jennifer with her big, brown eyes in that deceptively sweet cocoa face. "You look pitiful with those huge circles sagging at your cheeks."
Now even Teri was turning on her. She’d like to see what Teri looked like after being up half the night, sneaking onto an estate to find a murdered man, being dragged down to the police station, fending off some crazed tabloid reporter, and then coping with Sam.
Monique took in an audible gasp of exasperated breath, and everyone paused. As irritating as Monique could be, she did keep an iron hand on the group—being older and, Monique thought, wiser, than the rest of them. Not to mention published, even if it was only one book. "Let’s get back to the business at hand. April was telling us about a new book she has in the works when you came in, Jennifer."
"Could be an iron deficiency," April suggested, munching on a piece of peanut butter-stuffed celery and staring straight at Jennifer’s face. She patted her rounded belly. It seemed like April was perpetually pregnant. "I have to take pills for that. This little guy gobbles up every nutrient I take in."
Looked like there might be one or two calories left over padding out April’s rosy cheeks and arms.
"Your book," Monique reminded April from her rocking chair throne.
"Well, you all know I’ve been working on the Whacky the Duck adventures, but the market for picture books is really tight right now and there are so many ducks out there. I mean, it’s hard to make Whacky stand out from the flock. Anyway, I thought why not go for something really, really different, like a bat!"
"Does a witch go with that bat?" Teri asked, folding her long, bronze legs into a lotus position.
"Of course not. This is a good bat." April tugged defensively on one of her long, blond curls.
"I don’t know about that. Anything that produces guano..." Leigh Ann said.
"Let April tell us her proposal. You all know better than to interrupt," Monique declared.
April cleared her throat. "Barney Bat is not your stereotypical flying mammal. He is nocturnal. I didn’t think I could change that even for artistic purposes, but he does come out during the day. It’s on one of those day outings that he runs into four-year-old Billy, who, of course, at first thinks he’s rabid. They team up and I thought I might make it a mystery series. So whatcha think, Jennifer? I realize the plot might be a wee complicated for the pre-school set, but what’s the fun in writing fiction if we can’t push our limits now and then?"
Poor April. She never quite got the respect she deserved, and this crazy picture-book mystery series wasn’t helping. How could she tell April to trash the whole stupid idea without demeaning her talent or crushing her creative spirit? Jennifer was too tired to devise a tactful comment, and her mother had always taught her, "If you can’t say something good about someone, don’t say anything at all." So she decided to pass the buck to Leigh Ann. "What do you think?"
"I don’t feel qualified to respond. Romance is my area." Leigh Ann took in a seductive-sounding breath and looked over at April. "Now if you have Barney meet up with Bettina Bat, then maybe I could give you a few ideas. You’ve got that deep, dark cave to work with, and sonar. Sonar’s very sexy. Sending off throbbing signals into the steamy darkness, never knowing where they’ll wind up..."
Why had Jennifer thought talking to Leigh Ann would help? Her version of Barney Bat’s adventures would have an NC-17 warning label plastered across the cover.
Jennifer turned to Teri. Surely, Teri would save her. She wrote romantic suspense. "And you?"
"I’m still lost in that pulsating cave with Leigh Ann."
"Jennifer. You’re the mystery writer," Monique demanded.
She’d have to bite the bullet and answer. "I think preschoolers are a little young for mystery stories. What if you bump the kid’s age up to eight or so and try for an early reader? And you might use another mammal, one that’s more cuddly, one with fur. Maybe a flying squirrel. It worked for Bullwinkle."
April looked startled, as if the peanut butter in the celery had bonded her teeth together. She tapped the last bit of the stalk against her cheek. "You know, maybe I could. Thank you, Jennifer."
Monique turned her powerful, smug expression in Jennifer’s direction. In her haste to get to the meeting, Jennifer had walked out the door without the latest pages of Maxie Malone’s newest adventure.
Well, she had an adventure of her own going on, one that could definitely use a little editing. They’d hear all about it later—probably already had on the news. Only they didn’t know she was involved, which was just as well. Or that Mrs. Walker was her Mrs. Walker. It was best not to confuse this group with facts. While their minds worked well in fiction mode, real life was quite another matter.
"Did you bring something to read?" Monique asked.
"No. I’ve got an idea for brainstorming. You know that guy I killed off in chapter one?"
"Rock on," Teri said, lifting her feet off her thighs and twisting at the waist. "I loved it. Industrial espionage. Drowned in a vat of chocolate syrup." She licked her lips. "What a way to go."
"You can keep the drowning part, but let’s make it a swimming pool, and add a knife wound through the heart."
"A swimming pool filled with chocolate?" Leigh Ann asked.
Jennifer sighed. Why was she doing this? "Make it water."
Teri stared at her indignantly. "Water? You’re trading in chocolate syrup for water?"
"Okay. Leave the syrup, I don’t care. But the guy’s now well into his 70s, married to his second, much younger wife. So who killed him?’
"Wife number one, of course," Leigh Ann offered.
"No, it wasn’t," Jennifer insisted.
"Always is," Leigh Ann declared from her place on the sofa. She picked up one of the throw pillows and batted it at Jennifer’s head.
"I’m writing this," Jennifer reminded Leigh An
n as she disarmed her. "And I say it wasn’t the first wife."
"Good alibi, huh?" Teri concluded.
"No alibi, but she didn’t do it."
"Better work on that alibi, or you’ll never get the police to believe it was someone else," April offered. "But maybe that’s what you want. It’s the first wife who hires Maxie Malone, right?"
Jennifer nodded. If only Mrs. Walker could hire Maxie Malone. If only she could be as brilliant as her own creation. Suddenly a strange, crazy idea came over her. Maybe in some weird, mixed-up kind of way, Mrs. Walker could hire Maxie Malone. Maybe...
"Yeah," Jennifer said, wondering for a moment if she’d completely lost her mind. "She hires Maxie Malone."
Chapter 7
Rufus Donaldson’s body bobbed in the open vat like a chunk of unmelted baker’s chocolate. Some murderous swine had devised a most apropos end to the candy mogul’s life—swallowed by his own sweet obsession. Maxie could hardly take her eyes from the scene. All she could think was what a waste of good cocoa.
The police would be there any minute, but Maxie had something more important on her mind at the moment. She had found Donaldson while making her security rounds of the factory. She would have missed him entirely if she hadn’t heard the moaning coming from the grid just above the tank. She’d hauled herself up the treacherous scaffolding only to find Emily Donaldson dazed and half out of her mind. And now she was trying to make the older woman comfortable until help arrived.
A sudden movement caught Maxie’s eye. They weren’t alone.
"Make any sudden moves, and you’ll be picking buckshot out of places you didn’t even know you had."
The voice came from somewhere below. Slowly, Maxie raised her hands and turned to stare straight into both barrels of a shotgun.
It was Lorelei Donaldson, Rufuss’s second and much younger wife.
Maxie practically laughed in the bimbo’s face. "We’ll see who’s picking what out of whom," she declared.
What kind of dialogue was that? The kind that could get Maxie killed. Jennifer blocked out the last sentence and deleted it.
Maxie silently searched the woman’s face. What was Lorelei Donaldson doing at the factory?
Good question. She’d figure that one out later.
Lorelei might have won this round, but the match wasn’t over. Once the police arrived and confirmed Maxie was in Donaldson’s employ...
Jennifer hung her head. She’d already gotten that far in real life. Just let it flow, Jennifer, she told herself. She took a deep breath, sat up straight, and let her fingers find the keyboard.
...Maxie would turn Atlanta upside down if she had to to find out who wanted Rufus Donaldson dead. And she knew exactly where to start...
Muffy nuzzled her head under Jennifer’s elbow.
Rufus’s Chocolate Heaven.
"Of course. That’s it," Jennifer told Muffy, pushing back from the computer and giving the dog a much appreciated scratch behind her ears. "I’ll call Mrs. Walker, find out what I can about Edgar’s restaurants, and then do a little snooping."
Woof, Muffy barked her approval, of either the scratching or the plan. It was hard to tell which.
Jennifer grabbed the phone and punched in Mrs. Walker’s number. Surely she’d been released by now, Tuesday morning.
Someone answered on the first ring. "Mrs. Emma Walker’s residence. Mrs. Walker is not accepting calls at this time, if you would like—"
"Mae Belle, it’s Jennifer."
"Jennifer. Oh, thank God. We tried to reach you last night, but no one answered. I had no idea when I called you that—”
"It’s all right, Mae Belle. Is Mrs. Walker there?"
"Certainly, dear. But she’s so distraught over what happened, I’m not sure now is a good time."
No doubt Mrs. Walker had some feeling for her ex-husband. They had to have been married for a good while.
"I’m sure it will take some time for her to adjust to the fact that Edgar’s dead," Jennifer began.
"No," Mae Belle said. "It’s Tiger."
Tiger was Mrs. Walker’s pet. Most likely he was a mutated Chihuahua, although Jennifer still wasn’t convinced he could be classified as canine.
"Tiger?" Jennifer offered, visualizing the ugly little creature with its ragged potato chip ears sticking out from a head the size of an orange, and black, beady, unearthly eyes that hid an unhealthy obsession with leather.
"They’ve had to rush him to the hospital, I’m afraid. Jessie was feeding and watering him, of course, but Emmie was gone for so long, he must have thought she’d abandoned him. When the police released her and she finally got home, she discovered him prostrate on the floor in some kind of respiratory distress."
Sure he was. Tiger probably waited until he heard the key turn in the lock and then threw himself gasping onto the floor. That wretched creature was not to be trusted. She’d had dealings with him before.
"He’s being kept overnight for observation."
They’d better watch him closely. Jennifer suspected he changed forms in the dark. "I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s a hardy little fellow. Now, do you think I might speak with Mrs. Walker?"
"I’ll see, dear."
She could hear murmurings in the background. Sounded like Mrs. Walker had a houseful.
"Jennifer, how very thoughtful of you to call." Mrs. Walker’s voice was strong and steady—a good sign.
"How are you holding up?"
"Well enough. I’d find this all quite interesting if I didn’t have this irritating murder charge to contend with. It was, after all, simply a matter of time."
"What?"
"My dear, you can’t screw everyone you come in contact with and not eventually get screwed yourself. Oh, my, I don’t mean that literally."
Jennifer hoped not. She’d seen Edgar’s Down Home Grill commercials on TV. Not a pretty sight. Her least favorite had Edgar sporting a cowboy hat and standing next to a plaster of Paris bull, holding a noose around the monstrosity’s neck and a cup of Edgar’s Special Steak Sauce in his other hand. She’d thought the first time she saw it (and before she realized he was Emmie’s ex) that the man should be shot on principle. Of course she had to admit that being a vegetarian might color her response. Still, if her reaction was anywhere near typical, the suspect pool for Edgar’s murder could extend to the entire Atlanta viewing area.
But maybe Mrs. Walker had someone more specific in mind. "Who do you think did it?"
"If I were going to make a list, I’d certainly put my own name at the top, but as I know I didn’t—not that I haven’t thought about it—we’ll have to go on from there, won’t we?"
If worse came to worst, Mrs. Walker could plead insanity. Jennifer cleared her throat. "Is there a number two on that list?"
"I’m sure that at one time or other the thought must have crossed the minds of most of his business associates, staff, suppliers. Perhaps an old school chum. Fortunately, we had no children or they’d be up there, too, I should think."
If Mrs. Walker’s assessment were correct, Edgar must have come across nicer on the tube than in real life—which meant nobody liked him. Jennifer sighed. People could have been standing in line to off Edgar Walker. The question was who got to him first.
"Actually, I’m probably giving you entirely the wrong impression of Edgar. It wasn’t that he was malicious. He was simply careless—careless with those he loved, careless with those he didn’t. I’ve often thought carelessness should be the Eighth Deadly Sin. Don’t you agree?"
She did. It was far easier to deal with people who hurt others intentionally than those who never gave a passing thought to the destruction they caused.
"Where did Edgar spend most of his time?" Jennifer asked.
"At the original restaurant, not too far from his home. That was his main office. He had managers for all of the others. Kept them in line more by phone than in person, I understand, but he did drop in occasionally."
Just as she (and Maxie) had suspect
ed. "Do you think I might go by the restaurant?"
"That’s a wonderful idea, Jennifer. Infiltrate," Mrs. Walker gushed. "I’ll see that you get a position there."
"No, really…” Jennifer hadn’t realized Mrs. Walker had any influence over the actual operation of the restaurant.
"Now don’t be silly. It’ll only be for a week or two, however long you need to get the lowdown on Edgar’s situation. Why don’t you drop by the restaurant, shall we say, about four Friday afternoon? That should give me time to make the arrangements."
Jennifer didn’t have a catering job scheduled with Dee Dee that weekend anyway. And working at the restaurant might be the easiest way to get a feel for the business. She could waitress or hostess for a few hours, blend in with the scenery, keep her ears open. She just hoped she wouldn’t wind up bussing tables or washing dishes. "Okay, I’ll give it a try."
She might even hear some gossip about Lisa. After the first wife, the most likely suspect had to be the second. It might help to have some idea where she fit into all of this.
"Do you think it’s possible Lisa stabbed Edgar?" Blunt, but how else was she going to ask it?
"Oh, dear, I suppose so. They had a prenup, but a will is quite another matter, isn’t it. She will be a far wealthier widow than she would be a divorcee. But she won’t get all the restaurants, if that’s what you’re thinking. I own the controlling share, dear. After all, it was Daddy’s money."
Chapter 8
Great! Mrs. Walker had plenty of motive for Edgar Walker’s death. She despised the man, and if her lawyers wound up letting her testify, Jennifer felt sure she’d tell the jury exactly how she felt. It was good Jennifer didn’t live in Fulton County. She’d hate to be called for jury duty on this one.
She pulled her little powder-blue Volkswagen into the parking lot of the original Down Home Grill, cut the engine, and turned to look at the restaurant facade. It was even tackier than it appeared on TV. How could any self-respecting person work in a place decked out like that? The walls were a turquoise stucco creating a bizarre mingling of Mexican and Floridian styles. Turquoise and pink striped awnings shaded the large windows and were echoed in pink and white stripes directly under the clay-tiled roof. And there, near the door, was that hideous plaster of Paris bull that costarred in Edgar’s commercials.
Dying to Get Even Page 3