She grinned and pecked him on the cheek, her nails digging deep into the crook of his arm. "Isn’t he a gem?" she asked through clenched teeth. "Well, we must run. Doctor’s appointment. Amniocentesis. His family carries some ghastly disorders." She shook her head. "Shouldn’t be allowed to breed actually, but by the time I found out, it was too—"
"Thanks for your time, Hilda." Sam was shaking the woman’s hand, as he shuffled her out the door.
Hilda was looking more than a little confused. "Right." They left her standing, bewildered, on the apartment building steps.
Jennifer carefully laid her purse in the backseat and then jumped behind the steering wheel of her car. Sam was almost as quick. He pulled on his seat belt as Jennifer took off as quickly as the Bug would go toward the gate.
"Genetic disorders?"
"You’re the one who made me pregnant." She stopped short. "Figuratively, of course. And gave me bloating. And mood swings."
"Yeah. That last one was a stretch."
She gunned the engine.
"Is that why you’re so angry?"
"No. I’m upset because Natalie Brewster brought you here, to this apartment, and you didn’t even notice she wasn’t living here." She took one more look in her rearview mirror at Hilda who was still transfixed on the spot.
"What’d you find in the bedroom?"
"Carpet. How could you let her get this past you?"
"She served me coffee. We worked at the table. She had papers that looked legit. Why should I be suspicious?"
She scowled at him. If he’d been looking at anything other than Natalie, he would have noticed.
"Okay. Don’t answer that. I goofed up. I guess I thought she was new in town."
This time she growled. "Yeah, new in town with enough money to pay a year’s lease worth of rent upfront. Any news on the bank records?"
"Not yet. I’m still working on it."
Somehow, they had to find this Natalie Brewster, for lack of a better name to call her. She had managed to worm her way into Edgar Walker’s confidence and the confidence of all the people involved with his plans to franchise. But she couldn’t have done it alone. She had to have had help. If Jennifer remembered correctly, Mrs. Walker had mentioned something about Edgar’s attorney, Walter Ornsby, introducing the two of them. If anyone knew who this mystery woman was, it had to be Ornsby.
Chapter 22
Walter Ornsby, Southern gentleman and semiretired attorney at law, had some explaining to do, and Jennifer wasn’t about to wait to make another trip to Atlanta so he could do it.
"Don’t you want to get a bite to eat before we barge in?" Sam asked in the elevator of O’Hara’s Tara.
Sam was used to missing meals, so what was his problem? They could get something on their way home. All she wanted right now were some answers.
"It’d give you a minute to sit down, relax..."
He didn’t add "cool off" which, she had to admit, was to his credit. Still, she refused to speak. She didn’t want to get into another argument right now, and she couldn’t think of a single remark that wouldn’t start one. She was still smarting from the curve he’d thrown her at Natalie’s apartment building. It was bad enough that he’d told Hilda they were married. He didn’t have to make her pregnant, too. Bringing a child like Jaimie into this world was far too important a responsibility to be treated so lightly.
"You used pregnancy before in a disguise," he reminded her, apparently not smart enough to just let it go.
"No, I did not. I used a towel to make myself look fat. It’s not my fault other people thought I was—"
"Okay, okay. No more about any of this. Next time you’re suddenly taken ill, I’ll say it was food poisoning."
"And nothing about mood swings," she added.
"Got it," Sam agreed. "One more thing. Who is this Jaimie you were muttering about in the car on the way over here?"
"Jaimie?" she asked, wincing. People weren’t supposed to listen to mutterings. If they weren’t private, the mutterer would say them out loud.
"Yeah. Jaimie."
There was no way she could explain to Sam that she had established a relationship with the egg that was to become her firstborn child. Actually named it. Men didn’t understand these things. Heck, nobody who wasn’t female, pushing thirty, and definitely on the wrong side of neurotic, could possibly—
The elevator door popped open, and Jennifer led the way down the hall. She found the apartment near the end and pressed the bell.
"You were about to tell me about Jaimie—”
"No, I wasn’t. Now just act normal," she told him, giving him a quick once over and straightening his tie. "Let me do the—"
The door came open and Ornsby’s immaculately groomed and handsomely thin self was looking at them as if they’d rung the wrong bell. "Yes?" he asked, belting a smoking jacket over his dress shirt and slacks.
Jennifer offered her hand. "We met at Emma Walker’s."
"Oh, yes, Miss Marsh." Ornsby accepted her hand. "And…"
Sam reached across Jennifer and the two men shook. "Sam Culpepper."
"Of course. I remember. Won't you come in?"
Jennifer brushed past the man and down the hallway. His condo was a carbon copy of Mrs. Walker’s, the most expensive model, the one with a view.
She sat on a dark green leather sofa. The place was decorated with a hunt motif. Sam joined her.
From a mahogany end table, Ornsby selected a meerschaum pipe carved in the shape of a wood sprite, filled the bowl from a canister of sweet-smelling tobacco, and settled into a wing chair. "May I offer you some coffee or perhaps a brandy?"
Jennifer shook her head. "Who is Natalie Brewster?" she asked, she hoped, politely. After all, the man was supposed to be on their side. He was Mrs. Walker’s attorney. She shouldn’t have to tiptoe around him.
Ornsby flicked open a silver lighter, brought it near the pipe and drew hard on the stem. The flame dipped into the bowl, and small puffs of smoke escaped his mouth. She had a feeling nothing hurried this man.
He stared at her from under his full eyebrows, and then spoke to Sam. "Would you care to explain the nature of this inquiry?"
Definitely old school. She knew there was something about the man she hadn’t liked.
Sam leaned forward. "We’re talking to some of the people Edgar Walker was working with, trying to get an idea of what was going on at the restaurant, who might have had a grudge against him."
Ornsby continued to puff on his pipe as though studying the two of them. He had a smug expression on his face. "I see. And you think that you are likely to uncover some pertinent fact that Mr. Larue and Mr. Heckemyer might overlook?"
Jennifer didn’t share Ornsby’s confidence in the old boy network, and she’d had just about all the male chauvinist behavior she intended to tolerate, elder or no. She slipped forward on the sofa. "Who is Natalie Brewster?" she repeated.
"Emma told Jennifer that you recommended Ms. Brewster as a consultant to Edgar Walker," Sam explained.
"Why, yes. Miss Brewster has excellent qualifications. I reviewed her resume. She’s well-trained, experienced—"
"She’d dead," Jennifer finished.
Ornsby breathed deeply, filling his lungs with smoke, and looked straight at her. He was irritatingly calm. He held the smoke for several seconds and then blew it out. Pipe smokers who inhaled were asking for the worst kind of trouble. But then maybe Walter Ornsby liked living dangerously.
"When did this happen?" he asked.
"Three years ago," Sam said.
Ornsby pursed his lips. He looked almost relieved, but whatever he was feeling, he was covering it well. He rested the pipe in a glass ashtray. "Obviously we are speaking about two different—"
"That’s right," Jennifer jumped in, aware of how hostile she sounded but unable to do anything about it. Maybe Sam had been right. She should have waited, had something to eat, calmed down. Because right now she was feeling aggressive, and she had no time
for games. "The woman you introduced to Edgar Walker is not the woman who earned a master’s in business administration from Emory University."
Sam’s hand was on her arm, warning.
"I knew Miss Brewster’s parents. She contacted me, asked me to make the introduction." The older man’s words were calm and measured. "I assure you, Miss Marsh, that at my age, I have a tendency to take people at face value. How do I know you are who you say you are? I have asked for no identification, and you have offered none. Yet, were someone to come to my door right now, I would not hesitate to introduce you as Jennifer Marsh. If this child who called herself Natalie Brewster misrepresented herself to me, I can only say that it was in good faith that I perpetuated that fraud."
It sounded reasonable enough. And why shouldn’t she believe him—other than the fact that he was a lawyer and had agreed that Emma should plead guilty? Okay, so she didn’t believe him, but he didn’t have to know that. She let out a breath and forced herself to sound more relaxed.
"I’m sorry if we’ve been rude," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. "I’ve been—"
"Distraught, obviously," Ornsby finished. "We all have." He smiled for the first time. "Would you like that brandy now?"
She shook her head. She never drank except for a glass of wine now and then. Brandy was way out of her league, and she needed her wits about her.
"Well, then, if there’s nothing else..."
Sam was half on his feet when she tugged him back down.
"One more thing," she said. She had to get this interview over with. She didn’t think she’d have the courage to confront him again. "You drew up Edgar’s will, and you probated it upon his death. Who are his heirs?"
"It was very simple. Edgar left most everything to Lisa."
"But he was paying alimony to Emma—"
"Only a small stipend. I believe Emma viewed it more as Edgar’s monthly penance. She certainly didn’t need the money. She made more from the business than he did," Ornsby assured her, "and then she has the inheritance from her family. One can only spend so much."
She wouldn’t know. She always ran out of money before she ran out of spending.
"What about Babs and Benny?"
"Edgar did leave each of them his interest in the restaurants they manage."
"Anything else?"
"Only a small trust fund to one Melissa Bordeaux of Lorraine."
Chapter 23
Maxie Malone frowned at the distinguished white-haired man, his mustache neatly trimmed, sitting behind the desk in the office of his law practice. He’d been dancing around her questions for the last ten minutes. She’d like to grab him by the throat, or better yet, the ends of that mustache, and shake that self-satisfied expression right off his face. What she’d come to ask him was a matter of public record, but she wanted to hear it now, from his own lips. Who had Rufus left his money to?
"All right, Ms. Malone, I’ll tell you," Walt Bigsby assured her, drawing on his big cigar. "Rufus Donaldson’s heirs included his current wife Lorelei, his first wife’s nephews, and his second wife’s great aunt.
His second wife’s great aunt?
Jennifer tapped lightly on the keyboard before pressing the save button. She rubbed the back of her neck. How’d that aunt get mixed up in all of this? The same way that Melissa Bordeaux had gotten herself into Edgar Walker’s will.
It was late—close to eleven—and she’d forgotten to eat supper—again. Maybe there were still some of those little chocolate-covered doughnuts she’d bought at Kroger’s the other day. Now that they’d come to mind, she wouldn’t stop thinking about them until she ate one.
She went to the kitchen. Sure enough, there were four left. She might as well finish them off. She wouldn’t want them to get stale.
When she opened the refrigerator door to pour a glass of milk, Muffy bounded from her spot on the rug and skittered to a stop, with her nose poking in at the deli bin. As if Jennifer were going to slice cheese just for her.
"Not this time, Muff." She kneed the dog out of the way, closed the door, and carried her milk and doughnuts back to the couch. She settled down with her feet on the coffee table, eating directly from the box. Mmmmmm. The heck with gold. The streets of Heaven must be paved with chocolate.
A loud knock hit her apartment door, followed by a slam made by what sounded like an open palm. "Open up! Jen, let me in!"
Jennifer stopped chewing as Muffy broke into a barking/dancing frenzy. The voice sounded like Leigh Ann’s, but what the heck—
"If she kills me, my blood will be on your hands!"
Jennifer swallowed the bite of doughnut whole. In less than two seconds, she had the door unbolted. Leigh Ann, who was dressed in her oversized chef’s jacket, practically fell into her arms.
"Just get me inside," she croaked.
Quickly, Jennifer slammed the door and threw both the dead bolt and the regular lock. Before she was able to get the chain on, another loud thump shook the entry. Jennifer jumped and then looked through the peephole.
Suzy’s young face, distorted almost beyond recognition, stared back at her. She was beyond angry. She looked homicidal.
"I know you’re in there, Leigh Ellen. Now open this door before I have to get really tough." Each word was emphasized with a thump of her small fist.
Muffy whined and slunk back toward the coffee table.
Jennifer turned to glare at Leigh Ann, her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
"That crazy woman followed me all the way from Atlanta—chased me right out of the restaurant. I thought I’d lost her near Forsyth when I slipped off the interstate and then back on again. But dang if she didn’t show back up in my rearview mirror. And then I—"
"All right!" If Leigh Ann wasn’t careful, she might find as much danger on this side of the door as she would in the hall. "What did you do?"
"Let me in! I’m not leaving before you talk to me," Suzy hollered through the door.
"If she keeps that racket up, one of my neighbors is going to call 911," Jennifer warned.
Leigh Ann peeped through the viewer, jerking back as another slam rocked the door. "But you can’t—"
"Over there," Jennifer ordered, pointing to the couch.
Meekly, Leigh Ann backed to the sofa.
"Sit!" Jennifer ordered.
Both Muffy and Leigh Ann obeyed.
Jennifer turned back to the door, unbolting it.
"Don’t!" Leigh Ann shrieked as Jennifer threw open the door, blocking the entryway with her body.
"Miss Marsh? What are you doing here?" Suzy gasped in surprise. "I thought—"
Jennifer pulled her inside and slammed the door.
Just then Suzy caught sight of Leigh Ann and lunged, but Jennifer took hold of her around the waist as she strained toward the petite brunette who was again on her feet.
"You, down," she ordered. Leigh Ann and Muffy slipped back into their places.
"You, too." She dumped Suzy in one of the upholstered chairs. Suzy reared up but Jennifer kept an arm on her shoulder.
"Now what the heck is going on here?" Jennifer demanded.
"She—she—she—" Suzy dissolved into tears, crying like a three-year-old who’d had her favorite toy swiped by some other kid.
Jennifer slipped onto the chair arm and cradled the young woman as Suzy sobbed loudly on her shoulder, soaking the cotton of her blouse. Muffy crawled on her belly to Jennifer’s feet and lay whimpering.
Leigh Ann sat forward and tentatively reached out a hand in Suzy’s direction.
Jennifer frowned and shook her head. Not good to pet an injured animal, particularly when she was the one who had caused the injury.
"There now," Jennifer soothed, stroking Suzy’s hair. "Tell me what happened."
"Roy asked her to the Mayfield family reunion." Suzy let out a wail, collapsed back against Jennifer, and began hyperventilating.
"Quit that," Jennifer ordered, "or you’ll pass out." But Suzy continued to draw great, no
isy breaths.
"I didn’t realize she was so—" Leigh Ann began.
"Well, she is," Jennifer snapped.
Suzy gulped. "Do you realize what this means?" she asked.
Jennifer nodded and continued to stroke her hair.
"No one takes a date to a family reunion unless...unless they’re as good as engaged." Suzy whined and collapsed again against Jennifer’s shoulder. "Me and Roy," she managed between sobs, "we were pre-engaged."
Again Jennifer glared at Leigh Ann. All she was supposed to do was gather a little information, not break this young girl’s heart.
Leigh Ann looked like she’d been knocked silly, her lips parted as if in shock. She shook her head and closed her mouth. "I had no idea."
"And you wouldn’t have cared if you did," Suzy choked out.
Leigh Ann drew herself up. "Of course I care."
Suzy rubbed the tears from her eyes, cleared her throat and sat up. "You do?"
Leigh Ann licked her lips. "Gee, Suzy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the two of you were so serious."
Suzy squeaked. "I don’t know about Roy anymore, but I know I am."
Suddenly, Suzy’s eyes darted back and forth between Jennifer and Leigh Ann. She pulled away. "How is it you came to be in Leigh Ellen’s apartment?" she asked Jennifer. "Do the two of you know each other?"
At that moment Jennifer wished she could deny any involvement whatsoever with Leigh Ann, but that wouldn’t be fair to either Suzy or her friend. Leigh Ann was at the restaurant for only one reason—to help her out. If anyone bore any responsibility for Suzy’s suffering, it was her.
"This is my apartment, Suzy."
"Yours?"
Jennifer nodded.
"But, Miss Marsh, why would—"
There wasn’t anything to do but tell the poor girl the truth. "Leigh Ann is helping me find out who really killed Edgar Walker."
"You mean she’s not—"
"That’s right. I’m not really a chef’s assistant," Leigh Ann confessed.
"I already knew that," Suzy said. "Anyone could tell—"
"And Leigh Ann’s not actually in love with Roy. It was all part of an act," Jennifer said emphatically.
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