"You tell her I built this restaurant over the last ten years, regardless of whose money started it, and I don’t intend to give up control of it. Got that?"
"Loud and clear."
Lisa stepped aside, and Jennifer scurried past her.
"I won’t let her have it," Lisa called after her."No matter what!"
Chapter 10
When Jennifer got to Mrs. Walker’s condo at O’Hara’s Tara, she was still reeling from her encounter with Lisa. That girl had muscles, not to mention one major attitude.
Shakily, she pressed the doorbell. Tones of “Georgia” sounded over Johnny’s mellow tenor, which was now on to “The Twelfth of Never.” Jennifer could only hope that CD hadn’t been on continuous loop since their phone call.
Mrs. Walker threw open the door and hugged her. A faint growl heralded the arrival of a small, furless creature that skidded across the entryway, threw himself at Jennifer’s shoe, and attached himself like a tiny octopus about her foot. Mrs. Walker seemed totally oblivious to the unruly behavior of her dog.
“Come right in, dear. We’ve been engaged in some work of our own.”
“Tiger, Jennifer managed to squeak out.
“Yes, dear. He’s so glad to see you.”
Jennifer took a step. He was, indeed, firmly affixed—like a tick.
She was having trouble hearing above the music. “What’s with Johnny Mathis? I thought you preferred classical.”
“Oh, that’s Jessie’s contribution. She refused to listen to the 1820 Overture again.”
Love songs were definitely more Jessie’s style, and, Jennifer had to agree, one time through that battle was plenty in one day.
Mrs. Walker led Jennifer—and Tiger—to the plush living area. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the back of the large room and created a breathtaking backdrop of the night lights of Atlanta.
Hunched around the dining table were Mrs. Walker’s pals: of course, Mae Belle, with her toothy grin, and a well-rounded Jessie, and three people Jennifer had never seen before—a nice-looking elderly gentleman, and a young man and woman, probably a few years older than herself, who shared a startling appearance.
They were both tall and pale, with blond, almost white hair, his nearly trimmed, hers straight and chin length. They shared the same slim build and narrow shoulders, but the man wore an expensive, custom-made suit, while the woman had donned a free-flowing, ankle-length frock.
Discreetly, Jennifer slipped out of her flats and scooted them—and their cargo—under the table. At least for the moment, Tiger seemed to need them more than she did.
“You know the girls,” Mrs. Walker said, “And this is Walter Ornsby.”
“Attorney at law, retired,” Mr. Ornsby assured her, bowing politely. His hair and mustache were both full, more salt than pepper, and Jennifer wondered if he was what a small-eared Clark Gable would have looked like had he made it to his seventies.
“Walter lives upstairs,” Mrs. Walker explained, “but don’t let him fool you with that retirement line. He’s still my lawyer. Has been for more years than we can both remember.
“And I don’t believe you’ve met the twins, Babs and Benny.”
They smiled the same smile with the same lips. It was eerie.
Benny shook Jennifer’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
As he let go of her hand, the woman took her turn. “Aunt Emmie has told us—”
“All about you,” Benny interrupted. “We’re her younger sister’s—”
“Alma’s children,” Babs finished.
It was like watching a Ping-Pong match.
The twins have been so concerned,” Mae Belle explained.
Benny looked down, studying his fingernails. “Nasty business.”
Babs nodded enthusiastically. “Nasty. Uncle Edgar—” She choked on the name. “We can’t believe he’s gone.” Benny pulled her to him while Jennifer could only stare. If was like hugging a mirror, except for their clothes, of course.
“I told them they should both be at work.” Mrs. Walker sighed. “But they’ve insisted on being here ever since the, uh, occurrence. They simply won’t listen to me. Never have. Even when they were the tiniest tots.”
“Family comes first,” Babs declared. “The restaurants will do—”
“Just fine,” Benny said.
“Restaurants?”
“Babs manages the Down Home Grill in Marietta. Benny has the one on Peachtree,” Mrs. Walker explained.
Of course. Daddy’s money. But Jennifer wondered how the two could function separately, each being incapable of more than half a sentence.
“And someone else is here, too,” Mrs. Walker said just as Sam Culpepper meandered in from the hall and the direction of the powder room.
Jennifer caught her breath. What the heck was he doing here? His articles about Edgar’s death for the Telegraph had been sympathetic, and he’d managed to include the fact that she was an aspiring novelist. Still, he was first and foremost a member of the press, and therefore, in this particular case, a potential adversary. Why Mrs. Walker would consider involving him—
“Close your mouth, Jennifer, and come over here and help us,” Mrs. Walker ordered.
“Help you what?”
Sam came up beside her and squeezed her arm. “Don’t panic,” he said in her ear. “I’m off duty.”
As if a reporter was ever off duty.
“We’re planning strategy,” Mae Belle explained.
“That is, if there’s anything left to plan,” Jessie added.
“But I thought you had the best defense team the South has to offer,” Jennifer said.
The group exchanged glances. Mr. Ornsby stepped forward. “I’m afraid my learned colleagues—Mr. Larue and Mr. Heckemyer—are of the opinion that Emma should plead guilty.”
“Cop a plea?” Jennifer asked, her stomach doing a quick churn.
“Sadly, yes, if you care to put it that way,” Mr. Ornsby drawled, his distinguished steel gray eyebrows drawing together in dismay.
“How dare they?” Jennifer demanded.
Babs nodded enthusiastically. “How dare they?”
Benny was nodding, too.
Mrs. Walker shook her head. “I appreciate all of your concern, but they’re looking at the evidence. I was seen holding the murder weapon. They even have an eyewitness.” Jennifer blushed hotly, all too aware of her role as a nail in Mrs. Walker’s coffin. “We can hardly expect them to work miracles, now can we?”
For the amount of money Mrs. Walker was shelling out to that duo, a miracle was the least Jennifer expected.
“Mr. Larue and Mr. Heckemyer believe that in view of Mrs. Walker’s advanced age and spotless reputation—” Ornsby began.
“And a tendency toward the fanciful,” Jessie threw in.
“Ah, yes. Well, in view of all the, ah, factors involved and her most sympathetic appearance,” Ornsby continued, “she might be looking at no more than two or three years in prison if we can get the charge reduced to second degree murder.”
“You can’t be serious,” Jennifer choked out. She found a chair and sank into it.
Babs and Benny surrounded her, one on each side. Sam looked on, his hands in his pockets.
“Now don’t get yourself into a fret,” Mrs. Walker soothed. “We’re simply examining options.”
Prison was not an option, not for a year or even a few months, at least not as far as Jennifer was concerned. She’d spent most of one day in a cell herself when she was accused of communicating threats, and it was no place for a decent human being like Mrs. Walker. But then, if Emma pleaded not guilty and were convicted without a plea agreement… Jennifer couldn’t let herself think about that.
Sam found her hand and bent down in front of her. “Don’t underestimate Emma,” he whispered.
Sam was right. Mrs. Walker was not one to go down without a fight. She straightened. “So what’s the plan?”
Mrs. Walker sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve been re
legated to a defensive posture. My attorneys—and Walter is in agreement—have assigned me the task of accumulating all the evidence that would demonstrate how Edgar’s death will work to my disadvantage.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, perhaps looking toward a higher power, but most likely to keep from rolling them. “They forbid me to go to the restaurant or have any contact with Lisa or any of Edgar’s associates. I’m afraid, dear, I’ve been hog-tied.”
Mrs. Walker looked at Jennifer with big, round eyes. “And I’m afraid you have, too, which is why I asked you to stop by this evening. Mr. Heckemyer called. He received a communication from Lisa’s attorney, a friendly chat, as he described it.”
Mae Belle humphed. “A threat’s more like it.”
Mrs. Walker sighed. “In any case, he is of the opinion that you simply can’t be appointed acting manager. Benny has volunteered. As a matter of fact, he and Mr. Heckemyer had already discussed it and simply hadn’t bothered me with the details. In any case, Mr. Heckemyer doesn’t want you down at the restaurant. He says we’ve already compromised what little objectivity we could have claimed with you as a witness.”
Well, she had no desire for another go-round with Lisa. What’s more, she’d seen more beef today than she had hoped to see in her lifetime. Still, the situation was worse than she’d let herself imagine. The defense attorneys wanted to cut their losses. But at what ultimate price for Mrs. Walker? A few months could be a death sentence in and of itself, considering Emma’s age.
“My attorneys will conduct a full-fledged investigation, of course,” Mrs. Walker continued.
“We’ve every reason to believe they’ll find the culprit and put an end to these horrid accusations,” Mae Belle threw in.
Jessie’s head bobbed in agreement
“And exonerate Aunt Emmie,” Babs insisted.
The group fell silent as Johnny Mathis continued to croon that love could conquer all. Boy, was he out of touch.
Jennifer stood. It had been a long day, too long, and she’d been exposed to more assaults on her morality than should be permitted in a single twenty-four hour period. And keeping up with the Doublemint Twins was putting too much of a strain on her tired brain. “I’ve got to go.”
“Once you get home, I want you to forget about this case and get on with your life,” Mrs. Walker insisted. “Write that breakthrough novel of yours.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jenifer agreed, ducking under the table to retrieve her shoes. She pried Tiger loose, he snapped, and she swatted his nose. She crawled back out, slipping on the shoes and handing the creature to his owner.
“I think this belongs to you,” she said absently.
Mrs. Walker took the wiggling mass, chastised him for being a naughty boy, and held him behind her back as Jennifer bent and kissed her on the cheek. Then Jennifer let herself out the door. Sam was right behind her.
She punched the down button on the gleaming brass elevator, as Sam rested his shoulder against the elevator’s frame.
“You can’t print any of this,” she insisted.
“I don’t intend to.”
She had been pretty dreadful to him. She hadn’t returned either of his last two messages. They were supposed to be dating, but once Jennifer latched onto something—a new novel or some other obsession, such as who killed Edgar Walker—she instantly developed tunnel vision. Her friends, the few she allowed close to her, had to deal. She didn’t mean to be thoughtless, and when he looked at her with those deep, dark soulful eyes like he was doing now, she couldn’t quite remember what it was that had been so much more important…
She offered him a crooked smile. “My place, not this coming Friday, but next, say seven o’clock. Pasta all right?”
“Anything you make is fine.”
The elevator dinged open. Almost too tired to move, she forced herself inside and punched L. He kissed his fingertips and touched them to her lips. “See you later.” Then he turned and sauntered back down the hall.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
“I’ve got a few more questions for Emma,” he called back over his shoulder.
If it wouldn’t have made her look completely foolish, Jennifer would have lunged after him, out of curiosity to know what he wanted to ask Mrs. Walker, and out of her childlike concern that she’d be missing something.
The elevator door thumped in her face. Well, that was fine. She’d had enough time to get through most of the personnel files before Roy pulled her out of the office to help, so she knew a thing or two that Sam didn’t. Like the fact that Edgar had hired a young woman as a “special consultant” for fifty grand, although she hadn’t had enough time to find out just what kind of consulting she was supposed to do.
And then there was Roy, who was hauling in a cool two hundred grand a year as assistant manager. No wonder he didn’t care what title he had. If someone would pay her that kind of money, they could call her just about anything they wanted.
If the lawyers didn’t want her at the restaurant, it was okay with her. She had a more compelling assignment: find out what made Roy the most expensive assistant manager in the state of Georgia and maybe the whole Southeast.
Chapter 11
So this was what being on a stakeout felt like—dull, boring, and exceedingly uncomfortable. Jennifer squirmed in the front seat of her Volkswagen. Her rear end had gone numb fifteen minutes ago, and still no sign of Roy.
Wednesday was his day off, at least that was what he’d told her. Of course, he did keep late hours, working at a restaurant that didn’t close until eleven. Still, he only had one day in the whole week to call his own. Would he really waste it sleeping in?
Actually, that didn’t sound like a bad idea, especially after getting up at the crack of dawn to drag herself to Atlanta to find Roy’s apartment building. She yawned and glanced at her watch. It was almost eight-thirty. He’d better get a move on, because if he didn’t and she didn’t find something to do while watching, she was going to fall asleep.
She rummaged in the backseat and pulled out an apricot Danish left over from a breakfast job she’d catered with Dee Dee last week, and chomped it down. It was a little stale and a little gooey, but it was food.
She was licking her fingers when Roy appeared through the front doors of building number nine. She scrunched down as best she could and peered over the dashboard. He was wearing a white T-shirt, sweat pants, and athletic shoes. Not exactly an Adonis, but he looked to be in pretty good shape. He jogged down the steps, back up again, and then down. Oh, great. He must be out for his morning exercise.
He made a full circle of the parking lot, then trotted over to a Ford Bronco, got in, and zipped out before she realized what was happening.
Frantically, she cranked the engine with her sticky fingers, threw it in gear, and puttered after him. As she pulled onto the main street, she could just make out the dark green vehicle turning left at the light at the intersection ahead.
Jennifer rolled down her window, threw out her arm, and waved up and down, forcing her way across two lanes of traffic, horns blaring. Maybe Roy wouldn’t notice. He was already out of sight.
She made it to the turn lane as the yellow threatened red. Saying a little prayer, she floored the gas pedal. The engine kicked in, and she zipped across the intersection, her heart in her throat. Tailing suspects sure looked a lot easier in the movies.
They were in a residential area now. Roy had to be taking some sort of shortcut, but to where? She lagged back, letting him wind through the neighborhood, speeding up as best she could whenever he made a turn and left her sight.
As she came around a curve, she saw a four-lane highway directly ahead. The Bronco didn’t even pause at the stop sign before turning right. Jennifer’s single tap on the brakes allowed a swoosh of traffic to block her path. She gnashed her teeth. She hadn’t come all that way and spent all that time to be foiled by Atlanta’s rush hour traffic.
Closing her eyes, she scooted out in front of a
silver Lexus, not her smartest moment. The Lexus nudged up against her bumper. She glanced in her rearview mirror. The driver was actually shaking his index finger at her. The nerve. He swung up beside her and showed her one of his other fingers.
She kept her eyes on the road and chugged forward, intent on finding the Bronco somewhere up ahead, but the next light caught her. She craned her neck, searching. Where the heck had it gone?
She needed to get her bearings. She knew Atlanta fairly well but had no idea where she was. But as she moved forward, the road suddenly became familiar. The Down Home Grill couldn’t be more than a few blocks ahead.
Jennifer spied Roy’s Bronco parked next to the Dumpster in the back alley of the restaurant, only a few yards from the kitchen door. She swung onto a side street, parked, and walked back to the Down Home Grill. Wedged into the front pocket of her jeans was a healthy canister of pepper spray. Maxie would, of course, be toting a gun. Roy was one big guy, and she had no idea what role, if any, he might have had in Edgar’s death. But Jennifer had a phobia about guns ever since she’d fired one once. Too loud, too much of a kick, and far too scary. If the spray didn’t work, maybe she could hit him over the head with the can.
She crept up to the kitchen door, trying to look as nonchalant as possible—the last thing she needed was some nosy neighbor calling the police—and put her ear to the door. It was solid metal.
Maybe she could find something in her purse to jimmy the door. She pulled it open and rummaged in the bottom. Her hand hit against a bulky ring of keys, the set that Roy himself had given her and she’d forgotten she had. Well, if he hadn’t wanted her to use them, he shouldn’t have given them to her.
She circled to the front door and searched the gloom through the glass. She could see a light coming from the direction of the kitchen. What the heck was he doing in there?
Carefully, she tried keys until she found one that fit. Poised to run, she turned it and waited. Nothing. No alarm. Roy must not have reset it when he went in. Good. She slipped through the door and into the darkness.
Dying to Get Even Page 5