“She might be an actress,” she said slowly.
Jake’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he went back to looking noncommittal. It was a little annoying. She understood that he had a job to do, and that it was crucial to keep a professional distance, but . . . still. Irksome.
“So the redhead runs out the door and Bryn Tierney, the PA, tells you Nicole is in her office. You walk in and . . . describe again for me . . .”
A.J. described again walking into the room: the pounding music, the smashed ice sculpture, the phone off the hook—
She broke off her narrative. Through the window she could see several uniformed men wheeling a gurney across the drive to the waiting vehicle marked Coroner. On the gurney was a black body bag.
Following her gaze, Jake glanced at the window. He cleared his throat. “You said you tried calling Nicole before you left the studio.”
A.J. blinked and turned back to him. “Right,” she said. She was relieved that he was picking up this point. No one else had seemed to think it was significant. “ The line was busy—now I realize that it was because the phone was off the hook. At the time it didn’t make sense to me because Nicole had specifically told me to call her right back, and I knew she was frantic about her phone.”
“And this mysterious phone call she was waiting for.”
“I don’t know if the phone call was mysterious. She said it was her producer.”
“Why wouldn’t her producer call her house number?”
A.J. had no answer for that; she had wondered the same thing.
Jake asked, “When did you try calling?”
She did some mental calculations. “Probably between one forty-five and one fifty. I left right after that.” He was watching her closely, confirming her own suspicions. She said, “Of course Nicole could really have been speaking on the telephone part of that time. Either way I’d have got a busy signal. There’s no way of knowing for sure when she put the phone down.”
Even assuming she had put it down voluntarily.
“It’s possible,” Jake said noncommittally. But as his eyes met A.J.’s eyes, she knew with a sick feeling in the pit of stomach that Nicole had probably been dead by the time she left the studio.
Four
“Okay,” Jake said, as his cell phone began to ring. “I’ll follow up with you on a couple of points, but you can go.”
A.J. rose and hesitated. “I’m guessing dinner is off?”
He grimaced, and for a moment the hard, professional mask slipped. “Yeah. Sorry. There’s no way I’ll get free tonight. This is high-profile stuff.” His voice dropped. “I’ll call you, okay?”
A.J. found that tentative “okay?” revealing. She had the impression, though Jake had never come right out and said so, that he was used to women not showing much understanding of his work schedule.
“Okay,” she said, and offered a cautious smile.
He smiled—fleetingly—in return, and pulled out his cell phone. She turned away.
“Oh, and A.J.?”
She glanced back, and Jake admitted, “ That was sharp thinking—using your cell phone to take pictures of the position of the murder weapon.”
And she actually blushed! As though he had paid her the rarest of compliments. Granted, compliments from Jake were pretty rare. Unlike Andy, A.J.’s ex, Jake was not much given to flowery sentiments. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it just took some getting used to. Andy had been a wonderful communicator—in all but one thing—Jake, not so much.
“It must have been all those Trixie Belden books I read as a kid,” she offered. She had been prepared for much harsher words since it had been her suggestion to Bryn that they freeze the mostly melted lumps of ice—all that remained of the ice sculpture someone had used to smash Nicole over the head. She had yet to hear what the forensics people thought of her method of preserving the murder weapon.
Jake raised his brows, clearly having no idea who Trixie Belden was, and answered his cell.
As A.J. left the dining room where the police had set up base, she heard his crisp, “ The boyfriend? Good. Let him through. I want to talk to Mr. Young.”
An attractive, bearded blond man of about forty was walking across the lawn toward the house as A.J. started down the wide porch steps. She recognized J.W. Young, Nicole’s live-in boyfriend. Young was a director—mostly documentaries and programs for public television—and he collected Civil War memorabilia. That was the extent of what A.J. knew about him, although they had met a couple of times. She watched as he made his way through the police and troopers, while from down the drive and behind the yellow police line, media photographers snapped pictures.
Gray-faced and grim, Young passed A.J. without seeing her.
“Oh, J.W.!” cried Bryn from inside the house.
A.J. glanced back in time to see Young framed on the porch with his arms around Nicole’s sobbing PA. Not that A.J. blamed them. She could relate to the need for a hug about then, but down the road the photographers were clicking away frantically, zoom lenses focused unsparingly on their target.
As a former freelance marketing consultant it was second nature to A.J. to consider image, and she had a feeling the likeness of Young and Bryn locked in an embrace might not look quite so platonic on the cover of The National Enquirer or other supermarket tabloids. She could imagine the headlines now: TV Mob Wife Gets the Business in Hollywood Love Triangle. Right next to the ever-popular space alien babies and amazing pet rescues.
Young gently freed himself from Bryn’s embrace and seemed belatedly to notice the photo op they had provided. He slammed the white front door shut with a resounding bang. The cameras continued to snap away.
A.J. proceeded to her car, backing carefully down the drive, avoiding all the crime scene personnel and vehicles, the florist and catering vans. Everyone on the premises had been held for questioning, and she realized that she was lucky to be one of the first permitted to leave. Apparently dating a cop did have a perk or two attached to it, though she’d just as soon not require a Leaving the Crime Scene Early pass too often.
A few yards farther down the drive she had to negotiate her way through a gauntlet of reporters shouting questions and photographers peering inside her car, flashbulbs popping. Beyond the reporters and the photographers, sightseers had begun to gather.
It was a relief to reach the main highway. A.J. drove without thought, now completely oblivious to the beauty of the scenery around her. It still seemed unreal that Nicole was dead—that someone had taken a section of the ice sculpture from the buffet table and whacked her over the head with it. And this in a house full of people.
So many people. Caterers, florists, the household staff. Nicole’s killer was either crazy or had coldly counted on all those extra bodies to provide some needed camouflage. Either way someone had surely seen something that would set the police on the right trail. It could only be a short time before an arrest was made.
A.J. thought again of the red-haired woman who had bumped into her as she rushed from the house. Talk about suspicious behavior. Still, there were all kinds of reasons a young woman might be observed running around as though her hair were on fire—A.J. had done her share of that when she had worked freelance.
And how glad she was that those days were over, even if now and then she did wind up trying to balance a normal life with the occasional murder investigation.
Glancing at the clock in the Volvo dashboard, she decided there was little point in returning to the studio. It was nearly five o’clock and Lily would likely be gone for the day. Of course she could always call and make sure—even ask the other woman to wait—but the idea of another confrontation with Lily was more than A.J. could handle. There had been enough bloodshed for one afternoon.
Not for the first time she wondered at the terms of her aunt’s will. Diantha Mason had been a wonderful woman—one of a kind—but she had been as stubborn as she was innovative, and a perfect example of that stubbornness was tying up A.
J. and Lily in a business partnership that was probably destined to end—at best—in an ugly lawsuit.
Perhaps the stubbornness was genetic, though, because A.J. wasn’t about to give up Sacred Balance, despite the fact that if someone had told her a year ago she’d be living in rural New Jersey running a yoga studio she’d have checked the bushes for the Candid Camera.
On impulse she turned off the exit and drove into the small town of Stillbrook, past the graveyard where Aunt Di rested with her one great love, the naturalist and photographer, Gus Eriksson.
Stillbrook was the kind of village one might expect to find along the California coast. While it wasn’t precisely an artist’s colony, there was a strong arts and crafts element to the town. In addition to the art galleries and bookstores, there were little bakeries and specialty shops. Several museums were within twenty minutes driving time, and the Mauch Chunk Opera House was less than an hour away. In the center of town, cute historic buildings circled an old-fashioned village green with a large pond and a bronze statue of a WWI soldier and mule.
A.J. loved all these things about Stillbrook, but she also loved the fact that there was a Starbucks, and a conveniently located Kentucky Fried Chicken—not too far from an equally conveniently located Taco Bell. Not that she didn’t try to eat sensibly most of the time—that was part of the commitment to her new life—but nothing triggered her fast food cravings like stress, and today had topped the charts.
First things first. A.J. stopped first by the market to pick up a movie. The woman behind the counter greeted her cordially, recommended the Sex and the City DVD, and asked if she’d heard the terrible news about Nicole.
A.J. paid for her DVD rental and admitted she had.
The woman peered over her thick, black-framed glasses at A.J. “Mob hit,” she said wisely.
A.J. started to say she couldn’t picture a mob enforcer using an ice sculpture to knock someone off, but then it occurred to her that the method of Nicole’s death might not be public knowledge. Jake hadn’t told her to keep it to herself, but perhaps he had thought that too obvious to need mentioning.
She said cautiously, “You mean because she was in Family Business?” Not that the popular cable TV show was exactly the stuff of hard-hitting crime exposé.
“ That and . . .” the woman leaned across the counter. Reluctantly, A.J. bent forward to hear this revelation. “Barbie Siragusa had a vendetta against her.”
“A vendetta?”
“It means blood feud.”
“I . . . right. But why?” A.J. remembered something Barbie had said at the studio that morning. “Because she thought Nicole was making fun of her in Family Business?”
The woman shrugged mysteriously.
A.J. decided this had gone far enough. Not that she didn’t enjoy a little juicy gossip as much as the next person, but this was verging on slander. She said, “Well, that is certainly an idea.”
“Yep,” the woman said, and handed A.J. her change.
The theory at KFC was that a demented fan had done Nicole in.
“You read about that kind of thing all the time,” an earnest ponytailed teen informed A.J. while they waited in line.
“I guess so,” A.J. said. Stranger things had happened; there were people out there who would sell their souls for Neil Diamond tickets. And while Nicole had never struck her as the type to inspire a cult following, anything was possible in this crazy world—especially in New Jersey.
“I bet the police will find all kinds of crazy letters from fans and stalkers,” the girl told her knowledgeably.
“I saw that on an episode of Law and Order,” the gangly youth at the cash register put in. “She should have hired a bodyguard. The police can’t do anything until the guy tries something, and by then . . .” He snapped his fingers. It had a final sound to it.
The girl in line behind A.J. shivered in pleasurable horror. In fact, all of Stillbrook seemed in a state of titillated shock. A.J. realized it had probably been the same after Aunt Di’s death, but at that time she had been living the drama herself and had been unaware of public scrutiny.
“Did you ever hear anything about Nicole being stalked?” she couldn’t help asking.
The two teens looked blank.
“You usually hear about it after something like this happens,” the boy told her, and A.J. supposed there was some truth in that.
She ordered the weekly special: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw, biscuit, and a soft drink, paid for her dinner, and headed out to Deer Hollow Farm determined to put all thoughts of death and violence out of her mind.
Not that this was easily done—Nicole’s death had opened some scarcely healed wounds.
A.J. had been living at the farm since her aunt’s death eight months earlier, and during that time she had come to love Deer Hollow. As she drove down the dirt track that evening, dust turning gold in the sunset, the car fragrant with meadow-sweet scents—and fried chicken—she was thinking of how very happy she was to be coming home.
Deer Hollow had been in the Eriksson family for generations, and although Diantha Mason had lived there many years, in most ways the 1920s farmhouse reflected the taste and attitudes of its previous owners rather than the famous yoga-guru. That was because, uncharacteristically, Diantha had submerged her own strong personality and preferences beneath those of her predecessors. She had left the house virtually untouched, and it retained all the original charming features such as gleaming wood floors, decorative moldings, and floor-to-ceiling stone fireplaces.
It had fallen on A.J. to renovate the less charming kitchen, replacing much of the old plumbing, adding new appliances and cherrywood cabinetry, which she had done following a small fire the previous fall. She had also installed a heated garage next to the house, and a breezy stone patio where, in warm weather, she did her morning yoga. The patio was also nice for dining al fresco, and she and Jake had already enjoyed a couple of summery evening meals beneath the flowering vines.
She rounded the bend in the dirt track and the house stood before her, white clapboard and gray stones surrounded by perennial flower gardens and fruit trees.
An unfamiliar blue sedan was parked in the front yard.
“Oh hell,” A.J. said. She was not in the mood for company, let alone someone offering to steam clean her carpets or save her soul—or vice versa. Of all the terrible timing! Five minutes later and she probably would have missed this caller.
But as she pulled up beside the sedan, she realized the occupant was not moving. In fact, the front seat had been tipped back in the reclining position and the driver appeared to be sleeping.
A.J. peered at him through the lightly tinted glass, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She knew him.
In fact, once upon a time, and not that long ago, she used to be married to him. Andy Belleson, her ex-husband, was sleeping in her front yard.
Five
A.J. tapped on the window and Andy jerked upright and blinked sleepily at her through the tinted windows.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
He opened the car door, and A.J. backed up as he climbed stiffly out.
“Hey,” Andy said. “I thought you were trying to get away from working late.” He moved to hug her.
She accepted it gracelessly. They had grown friendlier since Diantha’s death and A.J.’s move to Back of Beyond, but things were still not entirely easy between them. Not on A.J.’s end anyway, and she wasn’t sure that they ever could be, despite Andy’s desire to remain close.
He was smiling, though there was something not right in his face. She realized that it wasn’t a trick of the dying light—there was a bruise on his left cheekbone—and found herself unable to tear her gaze away. People always said they looked enough alike to be brother and sister, both tall and slim and chestnut-haired. A.J.’s eyes were brown and Andy’s blue, but they could still pass for kissing kin. And, in one sense, they had been kissing kin, if a decade of marr
iage counted for anything. They would still have been married if Andy had not discovered that he was gay.
Of course that wasn’t fair. Andy hadn’t discovered he was gay, he had just finally admitted it.
And that was the part that was hard to forgive, even while understanding that the last thing Andy had wanted was to hurt her. Or to hurt anyone. Which was one reason A.J.’s stomach did an unpleasant flip as she took in the bruise on his face. That hadn’t happened shaving.
“How’s . . . Nick?” she asked, trying for casual.
“Good,” Andy said quickly. Too quickly? “He’s out of town. Business.” He shrugged. Nick Grant, Andy’s new “partner,” was an FBI agent, and he traveled a lot. Something that did not make Andy happy.
A.J. asked, “And how is business? Your business, I mean.”
It used to be their business, but A.J. had sold her half of their partnership back to Andy after she had decided to accept Aunt Diantha’s gift of a new beginning.
“Business is good. Business has never been better.” And apparently this was not a source of joy, either.
“What happened to you?” A.J. questioned, abruptly out of polite conversation.
He laughed awkwardly. “I fell.”
Fell? A.J.’s internal alarm bells were ringing. But she was distracted by a familiar yowl. Peering into the back seat of the car, she spotted a pet carrier. A well-known, thuggish feline face was smooshed against the mesh.
“Lula Mae?” She stared at Andy and he smiled that not-quite-right smile again.
“I thought you’d like to see her again.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“And she misses you.”
She reached in and hauled the carrier out. Lula Mae was small, sleek, and black. She had huge green eyes and a broad vocabulary for a cat—which she demonstrated long and loudly as A.J. lifted her out of the carrier.
“Oh, I’ve missed you, too,” A.J. told her, kissing Lula Mae’s nose. To Andy, she said, “I don’t know how Monster is going to feel about this.”
Dial Om for Murder Page 3