Dying to Get Even

by Judy Fitzwater

  "I spoke with Arlene Jacobs. She tells me you think I killed my husband."

  Oh, this was just great. She was trapped in the back of a noisy restaurant with a killer who was most likely going to confess her crimes and then try to do her in like she had Edgar.

  Lisa probably planned to chop her up and make barbeque like they did in Fried Green Tomatoes. Well, she was as well read as anyone, and she was not about to let Lisa outdo her. She rummaged in her purse, and her hand closed on what she was searching for. She’d once read an article titled "101 Ways to Defend Yourself with a Ball Point Pen". Hah! Let Lisa come after her now.

  But Lisa dropped her gaze, tucked her bleached hair behind her ears, and licked her lips. For a moment, she looked sad, not menacing, like she’d been through a lot. This murder business must be taking a toll.

  When she raised her eyes, they were again full of fury. "I didn’t kill Edgar," she said, her voice harsh and strong, "and you have no right to suggest to anyone that I did. You may not believe it, but I loved him."

  Yeah, right. Hard-as-nails Lisa was hardly her idea of the grieving widow, and it hadn’t been fifteen minutes since she’d seen her in the arms of another man.

  Lisa hugged herself and half turned away. Was she actually crying? Boy, she was good. Quite a convincing actress and quite a different persona from the one that went with the netted midriff mini dress and boots she had on.

  "Go on," Jennifer said, curious what this black widow was going to come up with next.

  "I don’t feel sorry for Emma, and I won’t let her get away with killing Edgar. She took my life away."

  Lisa’s voice broke, and Jennifer felt a tear well in her own eye. She blinked it away and silently chastised herself. Movies, puppies, babies, TV commercials, even greeting cards made her cry. Her reaction was no proof of Lisa’s innocence.

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I know you’re her friend, but Emma didn’t love Edgar. When he died, I lost someone I cared for deeply and I won’t be robbed again by someone trying to defend his murderer." A hard edge had returned to her voice. Jennifer’s hand tightened around the pen.

  For a moment, she had almost believed her, almost swallowed that the woman might have found something in ol’ Edgar that rang her bell, but she’d laid it on an inch too thick. This had to be an act. No one could love Edgar Walker like that. Could they? Besides, Lisa didn’t know she knew about Benny.

  "Is that it?" Jennifer asked.

  "That’s it."

  "Can I go now?"

  Lisa nodded. "But remember this: you don’t know me. I may not be who you think I am."

  If Lisa were even half of who Jennifer thought she was, she’d do well to get out of that office fast.

  “I can’ find her." Sam’s voice resonated across the phone line as Jennifer finished the last bite of her lunch, sliced red pepper and cheese on toast with potato chips. He sounded out of breath.

  "I know that. I was with you when you went to Natalie’s apartment, remember?" Jennifer let out an exasperated sigh as she popped the last chip into her mouth. Even the mention of the woman sent her blood pressure flying.

  "No, I mean I can’t find a record of her. I’m calling from Emory. I checked with their alumni office. The only Natalie Brewster they have listed over the last decade died in a car accident three years ago."

  The potato chip stuck in her throat. She had read about this sort of thing happening. She’d even written about it in her Jolene Arizona novel, but she’d never come face-to-face with it in real life. It sent goose bumps dancing up her arms. She held the phone in the crook of her neck as she shoved her tray onto the coffee table, brushed off her hands, and swallowed hard.

  "Let me guess. The deceased received an MBA and, had she lived, would now be in her late twenties. Were you able to get a description of her?"

  "Yeah. Medium height, dark hair, green eyes."

  The green eyes should have been the giveaway. She could kick herself for letting it get past her. "How green were Natalie’s eyes?"

  "Bright. Emerald."

  "Artificial."

  "You think?"

  "Only in books do people have eyes that color. They had to be contact lenses. I don’t suppose you bothered to look for that telltale ring on the iris." She didn’t wait for an answer. She knew he hadn’t. "Her hair was probably dyed, too."

  For a moment neither of them spoke. She knew he was kicking himself, too. And probably mourning the loss of a beautiful creature that never was.

  They needn’t bother checking out the rest of her resume. Phony name, phony degree. Why would she sprinkle it with truth? Even her physical description was all wrong. She could easily have had help with that perfect figure, too.

  "Where’d Edgar do his banking?" Her throat constricted around the words.

  "We’ll have to get a release to look at the records."

  "Call Emma. She still owns most of the business. She can give you the go-ahead."

  "Right," he said.

  The phone clicked and began to hum in her ear. She let the receiver fall into its cradle.

  Jennifer’s mind was racing ahead. Maybe this had all been a mistake. Maybe the alumni office at Emory had made some kind of error, and Natalie Brewster wasn’t the scheming, swindling thief that Jennifer’s mind was rushing to make her out. Maybe she was all wrong.

  Sure, and maybe she was a bestselling author.

  Leigh Ann moaned from somewhere amid the stack of throw pillows piled on the corner unit of Monique’s sofa.

  "Would someone just shoot that girl and put her out of her misery?" Teri asked. "I’m tired of listening to her whine."

  It was a tempting suggestion.

  "Why don’t you quit?" Jennifer asked. It'd be a relief not having to worry about whether or not these two were safe. "I can’t see that you’re getting much of anywhere, anyway."

  Leigh Ann dug her way out through the pile of chintz. "Not getting anywhere? Excuse me?"

  The effort must have been too much for her. She collapsed back on top of the pillows.

  "The girls seem to be doing fine," April observed. "You didn’t have to call me up and terrify me into going down there." She munched on a carrot stick. At least it was healthier than the square of fudge she’d just finished.

  "That was a misunderstanding. I never said—"

  "Enough!" Monique had stopped rocking. "If anyone has anything to report, I suggest they do it now, so we can get on with this meeting. Teri?"

  "Lisa is the main man. I mean that girl really hustles." Teri lay flat on the floor on her stomach apparently too tired to flex a muscle.

  "I thought Roy—" Jennifer began.

  "Ah, Roy...." Leigh Ann purred from her pillow fortress.

  "Roy knows what’s what," Teri went on, "but Lisa’s got it in line. That girl has her eye on everything and everybody. If there’s a problem, she’s right there. I’ve even seen her wait tables when things got really out of hand. She has one of those photographic memories. Doesn’t even write down an order."

  "Yeah, and it drives Gus nuts, too," Leigh Ann said. She rolled over on her side, her chin propped on her hand. "I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she has the most incredible clothes."

  Incredible was one word. At least Lisa had the most expensive bad taste money could buy.

  "Have you ever seen anything that might suggest that Lisa and Roy might have something going on?" Jennifer asked. She couldn’t see whatever it was that had both Suzy and Leigh Ann gaga over this guy. He couldn’t sing and he wielded one heck of a frying pan. Okay. Strike the Leigh Ann part. The fact that Roy was male was probably sufficient to explain her interest. But Lisa did dress like a flirt, and Roy seemed to get around.

  Leigh Ann started to giggle. "You’re not suggesting incest, now are you?"

  Her words left Jennifer practically speechless. "What?" she managed.

  "Silly, I thought you knew. Lisa and Roy are first cousins."

  "Get outta here!" T
eri raised up and slapped at Leigh Ann’s knee. "They sure don’t act like kin, but now that you mention it, they do have a similar body type, kind of round all over."

  "How’d you find out?" Jennifer asked.

  "He told me. Guess he didn’t want me getting jealous. One of the other gals who work there is after him hot and heavy."

  She had to mean Suzy.

  "But I don’t think he’s interested in her," Leigh Ann went on.

  This whole conversation was descending into the Days of Our Lives at the Down Home Grill. Monique had begun tapping her foot. Not a good sign.

  Jennifer jerked to attention. "Anything else?"

  "Well, I did hear one thing," Teri volunteered. "Two days before old man Walker was murdered, some woman who works there but doesn’t really work there—"

  "Yeah, I’ve heard about her," Leigh Ann interrupted. "She’s supposed to be God’s gift to men."

  "Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, she brought in a couple of guys, one wearing a Rolex, the other one of those diamond pinky rings, to look the place over right at the height of the supper rush."

  "Franchisees," Jennifer said, more to herself than anyone else.

  "Is that a word?" Leigh Ann asked.

  "Yeah, look it up," Jennifer said. "I’d expect Natalie Brewster had a parade of these potential franchisees through the place."

  "Maybe," Teri continued. "But after that day, she never came back, and no one’s seen her since."

  Disappeared. Like the woman in that old joke who took off her wig, her dentures, her false eyelashes, her contact lenses—and she wasn’t there anymore.

  Chapter 21

  "But she’s my sister." Jennifer hiccuped between big gulps that were supposed to simulate sobs. She didn’t do well with lying, although she should be getting better at it. She’d certainly had enough practice. She hoped God had a special clause for people trying to help unjustly accused little old ladies because otherwise she’d have some serious explaining to do when she met St. Peter.

  Sam leaned over and awkwardly put his arm about her, the bucket seat of her Volkswagen getting in the way. The pen in his sports jacket pocket dug painfully into her shoulder.

  "You’ll have to excuse my wife. She’s very upset," he told the man in the guard house.

  Jennifer stiffened. When they’d decided to pull this con on the second-shift security officer at Natalie Brewster’s apartment complex, nothing had been mentioned about their pretending to be married. Marriage was not something to be taken lightly. It was serious stuff, and while the notion that someday something might happen between the two of them had not escaped her...

  Sam nudged her waist. He was staring gravely at the guard, and, she supposed, waiting for her to make her next brilliant move. Fine, then. She would.

  She stopped hiccuping and went straight for the kill. Dry-eyed, she looked unflinchingly at the security guard and raised one eyebrow. People threatening to sue always raised one eyebrow. It was to signal that she had an ace in the hole, and he’d better think twice before refusing to let her into the complex. "My sister suffers from grand mal epilepsy, and I haven’t been able to get her on the phone for over a week. If—"

  "Okay. Go to the office. It’s down the first right. Tell Hilda I said to let you in, but you’ll have to sign a waiver."

  She flashed him a smile and floored the gas pedal of the Beetle. It puttered forward.

  She shrugged out of Sam’s arm. "Married?"

  "I had to tell him something. It seemed reasonable."

  Not to her. At least not yet. She grumbled and took the first right.

  Most of the lot in front of the office was empty. Few people were home at four in the afternoon, and the resident manager was more than happy to be of help.

  "Now calm down," the older woman soothed, turning the key in the lock of Brewster’s apartment. She looked like the housemother of a sorority. Plump, friendly. "My mother always said, ‘Don’t worry before it’s time.’ Your sister is probably just fine. I had no idea she suffered from anything serious," she confessed. "Such a perfectly beautiful young woman. You wouldn’t think—"

  "Yeah, you wouldn’t," Jennifer cut her off short, adjusting her shoulder bag. She felt Sam’s hand on her arm.

  "My wife’s a bit on edge," Sam explained.

  And she was going to be a bit more on edge if he didn’t cut out this wife bit.

  "And she has every reason to be," the older woman observed. "Family has to watch out for family. One of my sisters went missing once for three days. When she came home, she told us she hadn’t been lost. Said she knew exactly where she was every minute, which, I suppose, is one way to look at it. I suspect your sister knows where she is, too. Of course, mine didn’t have a medical condition."

  The woman took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Obviously afraid of what might lie inside, she let Jennifer and Sam go in first.

  It looked like one of those ads for furniture stores that come in the Sunday newspaper. White sofa and loveseat, glass end table and coffee table, matching lamps, airy rattan dinette set. Tasteful, pleasant, but something seemed wrong.

  Quickly, Jennifer’s eyes darted about the room. Suddenly, it struck her. It wasn’t what was there, but rather what wasn’t. Not a personal item in sight. No TV, no stereo, no photos, throw pillows, mail, keys, books, jewelry. Nothing on the walls. Nothing anywhere. The place was completely sterile.

  "Neat, isn’t she?" Hilda observed.

  "Too neat," Sam muttered.

  Jennifer jabbed him with her elbow and then clutched his sleeve. "I need some water," she croaked. He led her into the small kitchen cubicle. No toaster—an absolute necessity of life—and no microwave. Only a lone two-cup coffeemaker and a single roll of paper towels.

  Quickly and silently, Jennifer opened and closed cabinets and drawers. Everything was empty. She then peered in the cabinet over the sink. Two tumblers, two mugs, spoons, a small canister of coffee, a creamer, and sugar packets.

  Sam turned the faucet on loudly while Jennifer dug a pen from her purse and managed, with a paper towel, to slip the glassware off the shelf, wrap it, and secrete it in her purse.

  "They look like they’re clean. I doubt we’ll find any fingerprints," he whispered.

  "Someone put them in the cabinet," she insisted. "We need a look at the bedroom," she added.

  They joined Hilda in the living room as she was drawing back the drapes and opening the sliding glass door to a small balcony. "This place still has the smell of paint."

  "When did this complex open?" Sam asked.

  "About six months ago. Your wife’s sister was one of our first tenants."

  "I was afraid her rent might be overdue," Jennifer suggested.

  "Oh, no, dear. Miss Brewster paid in cash upfront for the term of her lease. She still has a good while before she owes us anything."

  Jennifer nodded at a closed door. "Is that the bedroom?’

  "Yes," Hilda assured her. "This is our smallest unit, basically three rooms with a bath, but high quality."

  Jennifer opened the door a crack and let out a squeak. Quickly, she pulled it shut. Hilda could not be allowed inside that room. She might start asking questions, and Jennifer was fresh out of answers. She turned, bumping into Sam, who was at her shoulder.

  "I’m not feeling well. I wonder if I could lie down. Alone. I’m a little dizzy."

  Sam frowned, apparently confused. But Hilda was coming up fast from behind. He turned and, taking the woman’s elbow, led her back toward the sofa.

  "Let’s give her a moment." He nodded in Jennifer’s direction. "Morning sickness. You know how it is."

  "Oh, really? Even this late in the day?" Hilda asked.

  "Morning, noon, evening. Sometimes in the middle of the night…" she could hear Sam saying as she closed the door behind her.

  That man. Not only did he have them married, now he had her pregnant. Well, she wasn’t about to let him drag Jaimie into this or into her thoughts. She had work to
do. She had to find something, anything, that might help her clear Mrs. Walker, but it sure didn’t look like she was going to find it here.

  Jennifer scanned the bedroom. Except for the light gray carpeting and mini-blinds on the windows, it was totally empty, not even an indentation from a furniture leg.

  Quickly, she crossed to the bathroom. It, too, was empty except for a roll of toilet paper and another roll of paper towels. Not even a shower curtain. She pulled open the medicine cabinet. Empty.

  Well, if Natalie Brewster had stood in that bathroom with her long, dark hair for even a minute, she almost certainly had left something behind.

  Jennifer tore off a paper towel, got down on her hands and knees, and ran it over the linoleum. Sure enough, when she turned over the towel, gathered with the dust were two long, dark strands of hair.

  A sharp thud sounded on the bedroom door. "You all right in there?" Sam’s muffled voice called. "Hilda’s getting concerned about you. She wants to come in and check on you."

  Quickly, Jennifer rolled the towel into a tight ball and stuffed it in her bag. She scooted to the bedroom door, opened it a crack, and slipped through into the living room.

  "…water weight gain. Of course. But don’t have that ring resized yet. You’ll just have to have it redone again later. It doesn’t really matter if she wears one or not unless it makes her too self-conscious once she starts to show," Hilda was saying.

  "Oh, dear. You look a bit flushed," Hilda went on catching sight of Jennifer’s face. "You sure you’re all right?"

  "Perfect," Jennifer assured her. "Sis must be fine, too. Probably on a business trip. She takes those sometimes. Must have forgotten to tell me."

  Hilda was smiling broadly. "Your husband was explaining to me why you don’t wear your wedding band and about your mood swings. Hormones will do that to you, honey, especially when you’ve got a bun in the oven."

  She’d stepped out of the room for two seconds to do some real detective work, and Sam had accused her of mood swings. From a bun in the oven. As if she needed an excuse. She’d be as moody as she pleased, anytime she pleased, thank you, and she didn’t need to be pregnant to do it.