Dying to Get Even

by Judy Fitzwater

  "You know better, Jennifer." Now Monique was shaking her head. "We don’t defend our work. It’s either on the page or it isn’t. A book doesn’t come with a copy of the author attached to explain what the reader doesn’t understand."

  Jennifer had used that argument just last week about a scene Monique had read. How she hated it when someone turned her own words against her. She should never have uttered a word about that chapter. It was payback time.

  And Monique wasn’t finished. "I’m assuming you’ve outlined the rest of the book and know exactly where you’re going with this. Would you like to fill us in on how you plan to end it? Maybe then we could see if all the elements you’ve included are going to work for you."

  Teri, Leigh Ann, and April all turned toward her.

  Monique knew she didn’t outline, that she wrote by the seat of her pants. Besides, how could she? She didn’t have a clue what was going to happen next. But if Maxie didn’t do something soon, Emily Donaldson was headed straight for prison.

  Jennifer set the punch, untouched, on the table. She was angry even though she knew she shouldn’t be. Take it or leave it. They spoke the truth. The story wasn’t making any sense—not to her, not to them, not to Maxie.

  They all looked so concerned, so caring, so sure she’d lost what little talent she had ever possessed. So certain that her plot was too big a jumble to be believable, too big a confused mess to ever make any sense. And suddenly she saw it, too. They were right.

  She’d been going about this solution business all wrong. What she needed was a fresh approach. She had to answer each question separately, one at a time, and worry about how the whole thing fit together later. No more compound questions. She needed to know who Natalie Brewster was before she could even think about what role she played in this mess. She needed to know who had a big enough grudge against Edgar Walker that they would actually kill him.

  But first she needed to know what Emma Walker was really doing at Edgar Walker’s estate the night he was killed.

  Chapter 28

  "How lovely of you to surprise me with a visit, Jennifer," Mrs. Walker said, hugging her with surprising ferocity. "I was just thinking about you."

  When the older woman let go, Jennifer thought she detected a tear in her eye. It was the first time she’d ever seen her cry, and it almost broke Jennifer’s heart.

  "You know my trial begins tomorrow," Mrs. Walker continued, composing herself, "and I’m feeling a bit alone."

  Anyone with Tiger for a pet could never feel entirely alone, Jennifer reminded herself, as she felt a tug on her shoe. The dog was untying the laces of her sneakers and tangling them around himself as he growled and spit as though trying to pull a worm from the ground.

  Mrs. Walker bent down and extracted the creature, excused herself, and carried him down the hall. She returned a moment later without him and carrying a china coffee cup and saucer.

  "I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I don’t want Tiger to hear what it is I’m about to say."

  Jennifer didn't mind at all, but she didn’t like the ominous tone in Mrs. Walker’s voice, and she wasn’t at all sure she was going to like what she was about to hear.

  "Shall we? I was just about to have some morning refreshments," Mrs. Walker explained, leading Jennifer into the living room, where a full silver service of coffee was waiting on the coffee table. She set the cup and saucer down next to her own.

  The two women fell silent as they sat on the couch. Jennifer watched Mrs. Walker’s gaze wander out the window. She had no doubt that her thoughts had nothing to do with the morning energy of the city.

  Jennifer squeezed the older woman’s hand. It was deathly cold, and the lump in Jennifer’s throat grew even bigger. "We’ve got to believe everything will be all right, that the truth will come out," Jennifer said.

  She had come to Mrs. Walker’s condo to confront her, to force the truth from her, but Emma looked so fragile, so alone, so vulnerable that Jennifer was having trouble finding the words. She was an old lady with no husband, no children, and an improbable beast for a pet. If she were found guilty, who would visit her in prison? Her friends were people very like herself. And Mae Belle and Jessie didn’t even drive.

  "Tiger is rather an acquired taste, I’m afraid," Mrs. Walker began, continuing to stare at the city outside, "but he is so terribly fond of you."

  If that was fondness, she’d hate to see what he did to someone he didn’t like.

  "If I’m no longer able to care for him," Mrs. Walker turned her large, blue eyes on Jennifer, "I want you to promise you’ll take him."

  God was punishing her. She’d made an error in judgment by getting up in the middle of the night to go out to Edgar’s estate (where she had no business whatsoever) and setting off the pool alarm before Mrs. Walker could wake up and escape. And now she was going to have to pay for it by taking in Tiger. Poor Muffy. Poor Jennifer.

  "You will take him, won’t you?"

  Jennifer fought back tears, and the worst part was she wasn’t sure if she was crying for Mrs. Walker or herself. "Of course," she croaked. And she meant it. Tiger would die—of old age—in her arms. If it came to that.

  Mrs. Walker let out a huge sigh and smiled. "Thank goodness. I’m so relieved! I have no idea what I would have done if you’d said no."

  Jennifer cleared her throat. "Have you decided about the plea arrangement they offered you?"

  "Oh, I couldn’t accept something that was a lie, dear." The energy had returned to Mrs. Walker’s voice. "I couldn’t live with myself in or out of prison. When it comes right down to it, our most important possession is honor, now isn’t it? I can’t say I killed Edgar when I didn’t. It would defame his memory and allow his true murderer to go free. Coffee?"

  Jennifer shook her head, the tears again welling in her eyes. It reminded her of the women accused at the Salem witch trials. Spare their lives by confessing the practice of Satanism or save their immortal souls and be hanged. She brushed the tears away with her fingertips.

  "Oh, now, dear, you mustn’t be upset. Everything will work out one way or another. It always does. Everyone is doing their very best—"

  "No, they’re not!" Jennifer exploded.

  Mrs. Walker shrank back.

  She hadn’t meant to frighten the old dear, but anger was a lot easier to deal with than grief. And if she’d thought she had everything invested in this trial before, Tiger had upped the ante even more.

  She lowered her voice. "I’m sorry, but your lawyers think you’re guilty and your friends are being forced to testify against you."

  Only one friend actually—Jennifer—but she felt better including herself in the company of others even if they were imaginary. "If all of us were doing everything we could, somebody would have found something, anything, to prove your innocence."

  "My goodness. Now you’ve got yourself into a fret. You mustn’t—"

  "And you’re the worst of all." There. She’d said it. She couldn’t hold it in one second longer, and she knew if she didn’t take the courage to say it before the trial started, she never would. "You’ve got to tell me why you were at Edgar’s estate that night."

  Mrs. Walker looked stunned. Calmly, she set down her coffee cup. "I don’t know what to say."

  "The truth." Jennifer whispered the words.

  For several seconds Mrs. Walker studied Jennifer’s face. "I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m so sorry. Edgar and I both made a lot of mistakes in our lives. People have been hurt. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else."

  That, Jennifer believed.

  "Edgar began calling me about a year ago. He was very persistent. He wanted a reconciliation, said he’d been quite the fool in years past. At least he and I saw eye to eye on that one. He said he wanted us to grow old together. I pointed out to him that he was a bit late for that. We each seemed to have accomplished that feat quite nicely on our own. In any case, I blew him off, as you kids say. About six months ago, he called again."
>
  She looked at Jennifer. "I know you’re going to think me quite foolish, but Edgar offered me something he knew I could never resist—the plan for the franchise. All my life I’ve adored a challenge, and while I could never get interested in his restaurant business, the idea of dotting the country with something over which I’d had some small influence was thrilling."

  "And that business about playing pranks on his estate?"

  "There were never any pranks, dear. I got that off of TV. I could hardly tell Mae Belle and Jessie that Edgar and I were trysting."

  "So you were meeting him to..."

  "To discuss the plans for the franchise. He had this marvelous young woman helping him. She had some wonderful ideas, but he was never really confident in his own business ability."

  "But why meet covertly, in the middle of the night? You had more right to make those decisions than Edgar did."

  "I didn’t want to hurt Edgar’s relationship with Lisa. It was already under a strain, and she had worked so hard in the restaurant herself. How could I have condemned her as a home wrecker if I allowed any of my actions—however innocent—to wreck hers?

  "The problem was that Edgar didn’t trust Lisa’s taste or her business acumen. It’s not that she’s stupid, dear, just unpolished."

  And maybe Mrs. Walker simply needed to feel needed. "So you met with him."

  She nodded. "At the pool house. I would come about midnight. Lisa goes to bed fairly early, you see, ten-thirty or eleven. Edgar always did suffer from a bit of insomnia, and I’m up all hours of the night. He would keep the dogs up. Turn off the alarms. Normally I’d come in through the fence. Two of the rails—"

  "I know. I found them the night of the murder."

  "Yes, well, I suppose you think it’s terribly undignified of me, slipping through a fence and tromping about in the dark like that." There was a bit of a gleam in Mrs. Walker’s eye. She might have aged on the outside, but she was still a bright-eyed sixteen-year-old inside, one who had been relegated to a world of bridge games and bingo. A night out in the dark must have seemed like an irresistible invitation to adventure.

  "Normally Edgar met me, but he wasn’t there that night. I assumed he’d been delayed somehow, so I made my way up to the cottage."

  "Did you see anything in the pool?" Jennifer asked.

  "Oh, you mean the body. Actually, I came around from the far side. I didn’t want to get too close to the back of the house in case Lisa was still awake. I had noticed some lights when I came past the front, more than the normal security bulbs, that is."

  "I don’t suppose you saw anyone inside." Knowing Mrs. Walker as she did, she couldn’t imagine her going past without a peek.

  "Heaven’s no, dear. I’m too short to get much of a view and I couldn’t find a thing to stand on."

  "And what did you find at the pool house?”

  "Nothing. I was coming up the steps when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I don’t remember anything after that. Not until the alarm went off and you called to me."

  "Why didn’t you tell all of this to the police?"

  "I did. All except the reason I was on the property. It didn’t matter why, you see, only that I was there. You, Jessie, and Mae Belle would all have to testify to my going out to play pranks, as you put it. I didn’t think it beneficial to have the police brand me a liar from the start. Besides, what possible difference could it make?"

  Probably not much, with the kind of evidence lined up against Mrs. Walker.

  The trial began tomorrow. It looked as if Mrs. Walker was doomed. Somehow, someway, Jennifer told herself, she had to find a way out. She had to keep from telling the prosecution what she’d seen that night at Edgar’s estate.

  Chapter 29

  But Jennifer had been forced to testify. Arlene Jacobs had her declared a hostile witness and then ripped the truth from her.

  She’d expected no less than a miracle. For Paul Drake to come dramatically through the courtroom doors and hand the attorneys a note, something, anything to exonerate Mrs. Walker. But it hadn’t happened. And now, God help her, if her friend was convicted on her testimony, she’d carry the guilt with her to her grave.

  She strained against the back of the passenger seat of Sam’s car and brought her thoughts back to the here and now. They were somewhere on I-75 headed south, away from Atlanta and the scene of her betrayal.

  "Are you going to stare out that window the rest of your life?" Sam asked.

  She kind of liked that idea, considering how her life was going. At least he didn’t sound quite so angry with her anymore.

  "Look, I’m sorry I ragged on you," he said, reaching over and finding her hand. "It’s not the two hundred dollars I had to put up for the contempt of court charge. It’s not even the fact that I had to go to three ATMs—"

  "I know," Jennifer said, more to herself than to him. "I'm sorry, too." She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. He was every bit as worried about Mrs. Walker as she was.

  "Something will break," he promised.

  She didn’t believe him anymore than he believed himself. Yet it was good to hear the words, to send positive thoughts into the universe.

  Who was she kidding? Mrs. Walker was going to fry.

  She punched the car door. "I feel like breaking something."

  "Do you think you could hold that thought until I can get you home and out of my car?"

  She nodded, but she hardly heard his words. Something else was bothering her. Something had stuck in her mind when she’d thought back over everything that had happened, something that should have seemed obvious but somehow wasn’t.

  "I’d like to take you out tonight. Buy you dinner someplace nice," Sam offered.

  He was being good. Real good. "Will there be dancing?" She liked dancing.

  "Not by me, but I’m more than willing to watch."

  She allowed herself a pout. Why was it most of the good ones couldn’t dance? She never thought when she danced, and she could definitely do with a little less thinking. Too many unrelated ideas were cramming her brain.

  "Of course, I’ll have to go by the newspaper and file my story first."

  Jennifer let out a loud groan.

  "What? It won’t be that bad, I promise. I won’t quote you."

  No, he wouldn’t, but he wasn’t the only reporter in court. "I was thinking about Teague McAfee’s story."

  Sam actually cringed. It was going to be even worse than she’d imagined, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.

  "Do you think he has a journalism degree?" she asked.

  "Don’t remember."

  "What do you mean you don’t remember?"

  "Just that, but I’m sure I could find out. He applied for a job with the Telegraph a couple of years ago. If he’d been hired, I would have been the one to train him. If you’re really that curious, when I get to the office, I’ll see if I can find it in my files. And if I don’t have it, I’m sure personnel—"

  Jennifer bolted upright. "Turn the car around," she ordered, her hands fluttering up and down like a caged pigeon. What had been nagging at the back of her mind had finally coalesced. They had to get back to Atlanta.

  Sam let go of her hand and grasped the wheel. "What?"

  "You heard me. Turn around."

  "We’re on a major highway. We can’t just turn around."

  "Okay, then take the next exit."

  "Where’re we going?"

  "Emory University. She could be at the alumni office. If we don’t find her there, we’ll check the registrar’s. It almost has to be one or the other."

  "Who’s the she?"

  "The woman calling herself Natalie Brewster—how did she know that Brewster was dead?" Jennifer turned in her seat and hovered close to Sam. She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her veins.

  He gave her a skeptical sideways glance and shrugged. "Obituaries? Old newspaper reports?"

  "If so, how did she get Brewster’s transcripts sent to the Do
wn Home Grill?"

  "I imagine she wrote a formal request, forged a signature and sent in a money order—"

  Jennifer shook her head. "No way. You said yourself the records were clearly marked. The woman was dead. Nobody would have sent out those reports unless..."

  "Unless what?"

  "Didn’t you tell me you had trouble getting access to the alumni records?" Jennifer could barely sit still as this section of the puzzle started falling into place.

  "Do you think you could finish one coherent thought before starting another?" Sam asked.

  "Just answer the question. Did you have trouble getting a look at the alumni information?"

  "Not really. The woman who was supposed to help me was busy someplace else. I had to wait until someone was free."

  "Just stepped out, as in when you stepped in?" Jennifer added.

  "Something like that."

  "As in she saw you, recognized you, and ran for cover."

  "What?"

  "Don’t you see? It explains how she knew the name of a dead MBA graduate and how she had access to her files and how she could get a transcript sent, because she sent it herself."

  "Are you expecting me to follow any of this?"

  Jennifer stared at him. Sometimes Sam could be so dense. "Our Natalie Brewster impersonator—she has to work at Emory."

  "Stay!" Jennifer ordered Sam in the hallway outside the alumni office. "If she sees you, she’ll bolt. She’s going to be scared enough anyway, and the fact that you’re a reporter—"

  "This is nuts. Do you know that?"

  A woman passing by with an armful of folders looked at them strangely.

  Jennifer shushed him. "We’ve got a real chance at finding out who this woman is, and—"

  Sam took her by the shoulders. "Jennifer," he said with deep, baritone authority.

  Sometimes he sounded just like her father had, and while she loved them both—well, loved her father and maybe, someday, could love Sam—she didn’t need him pulling some kind of paternal power play on her.

  She leaned in close and whispered, "Trust me. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and I’ll pay for dinner."