“So how long is he staying?” Jake asked abruptly, and A.J. didn’t bother to pretend she didn’t know who he meant.
“Andy? Just a few days.”
“And why is he staying with you?”
A.J. examined her instinctive flare of resentment. Jake had reason to ask, right? They were seeing each other, even if not exclusively, and gay or not, the fact that Andy was her ex-husband certainly put a different spin on things than if he’d simply been a longtime pal of the masculine persuasion.
She said, “I think something has gone wrong in his relationship.”
Jake snorted.
“I mean, really wrong,” A.J. said. “I’ve known Andy a long time. Since college, and I’ve never seen him like this. Like all the stuffing has been knocked out of him. I think . . . I think Nick might have hit him. When he showed up Saturday evening he was limping. And his face was bruised.”
“I noticed that on Sunday,” Jake said. “It didn’t look to me like someone punched him, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t shoved into a wall. Either way, this isn’t something you want to get involved in. Domestic disputes are poison.”
Yes. A.J. could vouch for that. Yet she heard herself say, “It’s not that simple.”
“It is, yeah. After what that guy did to you? It’s that simple. Let him work his own problems out.”
The parking lot at Bill’s Diner was empty, which was a surprise because when they walked inside, the first person A.J. spotted was J.W. Young. He was in one of the red leather booths with Bryn Tierney, and they were eating supper.
The eating supper was not the amazing thing—neither was the fact that J.W. and Bryn were dining out together. What was amazing was the absence of any reporters or news vans. A.J. had received several phone calls asking for her “story,” and she knew J.W. would be the focus of near-relentless media attention for some time to come—certainly until Nicole’s murder was solved.
Awkward! A.J. thought, glancing up at Jake. He had noticed J.W. and Bryn as well, and he asked the waitress for a booth on the other side of the room. A.J. suspected he wasn’t being considerate of J.W.’s feelings so much as positioning himself the better to watch the other two without being observed himself.
Patsy Cline was singing “A Church, A Courtroom, Then Good-bye” as Jake and A.J. were seated beneath a long row of colorful vintage lunchboxes. A.J. ordered a Diet Coke, Jake ordered coffee, and the waitress departed.
Staring across the empty dining room, A.J. could see Bryn talking quickly, agitatedly, while J.W. listened gravely and nodded.
Jake was watching, too, and A.J. asked, “Was my phone call about Jane Peters helpful?”
His green eyes met hers. “Very. Thank you.” A grim smile touched his mouth. “It turns out Jane Peters is J.W. Young’s estranged wife.”
“Wife? You mean ex-wife?”
Jake shook his head. “Wife. They never divorced.”
“Nicole’s boyfriend’s wife was seen fleeing a few minutes before Nicole’s body was discovered?”
“Yep.”
“So . . .” A.J. worked it out. “ That’s why you were able to take time for dinner. You think you have your killer?”
Jake’s hard mouth curved into brief smile. “I made time for dinner because I miss you.”
The direct honesty of that warmed her cheeks. “Oh.” A second later, she said, “But you do think Jane Peters is your killer?”
“ Too soon to say. She’s sure got some explaining to do.” Jake added, “First we have to find her. We’ve run a couple of local spots asking for information on her whereabouts, asking her to come in. There hasn’t been any word since you spotted her in town.”
“She must not want to be found.”
He shrugged.
The waitress—humming along with Patsy Cline’s warm alto—dropped off their beverages, took their meal orders, and headed over to J.W. and Bryn’s booth. Bryn hastily wiped her eyes. She had been crying—although it appeared to be more of a drizzle than a downpour.
“I guess you didn’t call Lydia Thorne?” A.J. asked, tearing her attention away from the other table.
“We tried. The cell phone number Nicole had was out of date. There’s no indication that she ever knew the Thorne name was an alias, and without Thorne’s real name we don’t have much chance of tracking her down. From what we can tell, she and Nicole stopped being pals several months ago.”
“About the time the cyber attacks started. What exactly happened between them?”
“No one seems to know. Or at least no one is saying. From all appearances Thorne wasn’t replaced as president of Manning’s fan club until after she started writing nasty reviews. The hate mail dated from the point that Manning fired her.”
“So . . . the nasty reviews weren’t supposed to be personal?”
“I have no idea how this stuff works. Those reviews seemed pretty personal to me.”
A.J. said, “I worked with a lot of people when I was doing marketing and PR—a lot of different egos—and I can tell you that very often people miscalculate how vulnerable we all are.”
Jake stirred his coffee. “How so?”
“Everyone talks about the male ego and the professional ego and the adolescent ego and the artistic ego, but the truth is, everyone has an ego, and no one enjoys having it bashed.”
“Sure,” Jake said with the easy confidence of the possessor of a stainless steel ego. “But a person in Nicole Manning’s profession must be used to criticism.”
He didn’t say—didn’t have to—especially with Nicole’s lack of talent.
“Yes and no. I’m sure Nicole had toughened up considerably when it came to anonymous reviews or professional reviews, but a venomous review from someone she considered a friend and a fan? That would hurt.”
A lot. A.J. could guarantee that having watched Elysia’s reactions to the critics through the years. Happily, her mother’s methods of coping had improved from the days when she had drowned her sorrows in Gilbey’s and Noilly Pratt.
A.J. added, “I’m betting from the tone of those reviews that Lydia Thorne has as much ego as anyone—and that somehow Nicole managed to wound it.”
“ That makes sense, I guess,” Jake said. “Hell hath no fury and all that. Jane Peters’s ego must have taken a hit when her husband took up with Nicole Manning.”
They both glanced over at the other booth. Bryn was chuckling—a watery sort of chuckle—but whatever the crisis had been, it seemed to be over. J.W. was listening and nodding while he studied the bill. Observing them, A.J. decided that they probably were innocent of any involvement in Nicole’s death because surely guilty people wouldn’t be so dumb as to be seen together following the death of a spouse.
They made a nice couple, though. Not stunningly good looking, but attractive in a non-Hollywood way. And they were obviously comfortable with each other, obviously liked each other.
She said quietly to Jake, “I guess Jane was still in love with J.W.?” How terribly painful that would be. It was impossible not to remember the shock of those first days after Andy had told her he was leaving her, that he had fallen in love with someone else. At least in Andy’s case it had been more than a simple falling in love with another woman—maybe it should have made it worse, but somehow it was easier for A.J. to accept knowing that Andy had been fighting his own nature, his own sexuality.
Jake cautioned, “We don’t know for sure that the Peters woman killed Manning. It’s a pretty big coincidence that she was running away from the house after Nicole was dead, but . . .”
A.J. followed his train of thought and said, “How long had Nicole been dead when I found her?”
“About an hour.”
Why would Jane Peters have hung around for an hour after killing Nicole? That was what Jake was wondering, A.J. knew.
Jake said slowly, “You know, I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”
“Believe it or not, I can be discreet. And it’s not like I’m involved this
time. I mean, unless you suspect me of knocking Nicole off.”
“No.” And he didn’t even crack a smile! “It’s just . . . this isn’t the kind of job you can talk about to your girlfriends.”
Girlfriends. In the plural. Well, good to know where she stood.
Malicious humor flickered within A.J. “Even when your girlfriend is the local incarnation of Miss Marple?”
“Ha.” Jake looked anything but amused. “Yes, I saw the paper this morning.”
“Now don’t worry,” A.J. assured him. “I’m not going to take over your case. This time.”
Jake met her eyes. After a long moment, his mouth quirked into a reluctant grin. “I hope not. It’s going to put a real crimp in our relationship if I have to throw you in the hoosegow for interfering in police business.”
“So you threatened once before.”
“Yeah. Well . . . I blame the last time on your mother.”
“Me too.” A.J. was smiling, her good humor inexplicably restored as Jake laughed, too.
They looked up as J.W. and Bryn paused beside their table on the way out of the diner. Up close and personal, they both looked tired. Bryn’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There were little lines of tension around J.W.’s eyes and mouth.
“Is there any news?” he asked Jake.
“I’m sorry. Nothing since we spoke this afternoon.” A.J. liked Jake’s combination of sincerity and professionalism. There was a distance there, but there was also compassion.
J.W. slanted a look at A.J.
She offered her hand. “A.J. Alexander. We met at the April reopening of Sacred Balance. I’m so sorry about Nicole.”
“Thank you.” He shook her hand but then stiffened. “You’re the one who said she saw Jane running away.”
Bryn caught her breath.
“You’re wrong about Jane,” J.W. said. “I don’t care how it looks or what anyone saw.”
“Hey,” Jake said, and it sounded like a warning.
J.W. ignored him, frowning down at A.J., and she felt compelled to say, “I didn’t really see anything. I mean, I saw Jane running away . . . but that’s all I saw.”
“I don’t believe Jane was there.” J.W. didn’t raise his voice, but there was no doubt of his intensity. “And if she was, she had a damn good reason—and it didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Nikki. Jane is a genuinely good person.”
Unmoved, Jake said, “Good people do bad things. Everybody makes mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes are fatal ones.”
“Not Jane,” J.W. said.
Bryn watched him without comment, her expression unreadable. Meeting A.J.’s gaze, she looked faintly apologetic, but A.J. was not offended. J.W. was not aggressive, just absolute in his belief in Jane’s innocence. It was sort of nice, really.
J.W. said to Jake, “I’ve been doing what you asked: racking my brain trying to think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Nikki. Did you know she received threats from some kind of koala preservation league?”
“But I thought Nicole was active in koala preservation?” A.J. said. Nicole had her faults, but she had been generous with the causes she believed in.
“She was,” Bryn put in. “But Nicole wanted to start her own mini preserve here in New Jersey, and not all conservationists agreed with her on that. In fact . . . none of them did.”
J.W. said, “Nikki had the best intentions, but she had a tendency to view all animals as . . . potential pets. That didn’t go over well with wildlife preservationists.”
“Let me get this straight,” Jake said. “You’re saying wildlife preservationists threatened your wife?”
“Nicole and J.W. weren’t married,” Bryn said.
“Right,” J.W. said, although whether he was answering Bryn or Jake, A.J. wasn’t sure.
“You have letters from these wildlife activists?”
J.W. turned to Bryn. Bryn shook her head. “We didn’t take them seriously. Nicole didn’t take them seriously.” She said earnestly, “But the fact that someone used that koala ice sculpture to kill Nicole . . . well, that can’t be a coincidence.”
A.J. could see from Jake’s expression that he was unconvinced on that point. Personally, she thought it was probable the killer had grabbed whatever was handy to clobber Nicole. It seemed unlikely these crazed conservationists would know what the planned table décor was for Nicole’s party.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Jake said. To Bryn, he added, “Do you think you can locate names or contact information for these koala kooks?”
“I can try.”
He nodded approval. “Do what you can. We’ll look into this, of course—let you know what we find. In the meantime”—and this was directed toward J.W.—“if you do hear from Ms. Peters, let us know as soon as possible.”
“Will do.” J.W. nodded a curt good night to Jake—and then to A.J. He followed Bryn out of the diner into the May night.
A.J. watched Jake watching J.W. and Bryn.
“What do you think?” she asked.
His expression was sardonic. “Very touching,” he said. “You don’t often hear exes speaking so loyally about each other.” He added, “Present company excepted.”
A.J. did not want to say good night to Jake. His mouth moved on hers with warm expertise, but as pleasurable as it was to be in his arms again, she couldn’t quite manage to forget that although the grassy front yard of the farmhouse was empty of Elysia’s Land Rover, the light in the front room indicated Andy was home—possibly even waiting up for her.
She swallowed hard—it was sort of a gulp—as Jake’s mouth trailed down her throat, burning softly through the thin silk of the camisole covering her breasts. Nice. Very nice. It had been a long time since A.J. had acknowledged these feelings—well, maybe not the feelings themselves, but the unsettling power of those feelings. Jake’s touch was setting her nerves on fire, setting uneasy desire crackling through her. He couldn’t have had worse timing if he’d planned it.
“How long is Belleson staying again?” he murmured against her skin.
A.J. shook her head. It was hard to find words. Heck, it was hard to find coherent thoughts.
Jake stroked her hair, her face, ran his hands over her bare shoulders, down her arms, but he was not gathering her close. He sighed, drew back, and said, “I guess that’s just as well. I have to get back to work.”
And though A.J. was disappointed, she was also a little relieved. She wasn’t ready to move her relationship with Jake forward, was she? Not to mention the fact that she just couldn’t relax knowing Andy was a few yards away. He might even be peering out the window at this very moment.
“Good night,” she said hastily, shoving open the door of the SUV.
“I’ll call you,” he said—and there was a funny note in his voice.
The phone was ringing as A.J. let herself into the house.
She patted Monster and swiftly crossed the hall—pausing as she spotted Andy sitting motionless in the front room.
“Hi there! When did Mother leave?”
“About half an hour ago. Let it go to message, A.J.,” Andy ordered as she moved to the phone.
“What?” She was already picking up the receiver.
“Hi, A.J.” The voice that answered her greeting was male, deep, and attractive—unfamiliar to her. “ This is Nick Grant.” Into her silence Nick added, “Andy’s partner.”
Like she could possibly have forgotten the name of the man Andy had left her for?
“Hi, Nick,” she responded coolly.
Andy had moved to the doorway. He shook his head fiercely in answer to her glare.
Okaaaaay . . .
Nick said very casually, “I’ve been out of town for a few days and . . . anyway, I wondered if by any chance . . . Andy was staying with you?”
A.J. looked at Andy. He stared back at her, willing her to say nothing. No. Willing her to lie for him.
Which took a fair bit of gall given their history and the fact that she was unlik
ely to be sympathetic to the idea of Andy lying to anyone ever again. But as she glared at him she couldn’t help noticing how drawn he was—the faded bruise on his cheekbone stood out starkly—and she heard herself say, surprised at how calm and collected she sounded, “No, he’s not. Is he supposed to be?”
“Not that I know of,” Nick said. There was an undernote in his voice that A.J. couldn’t quite pinpoint. Disappointment? Frustration? Worry? She could imagine how hard this must be for him, having to call his lover’s ex-wife and basically admit that he didn’t know where Andy was. Presumably Andy had a good reason for this subterfuge. Because if he didn’t, this wasn’t just selfish, it was downright cruel.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. And she meant it.
There was a beat, and then Nick said quietly, “Me too. If you hear from him, will you ask him to give me a call? Please?”
“Yes,” A.J. said, scowling at Andy. “I will.”
The phone was replaced softly on Nick’s end. Not so softly on A.J.’s. She turned to face Andy.
“Well, that was interesting. Maybe you better tell me what’s going on.”
She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but at last Andy scrubbed a hand across his face. His gaze met hers. “I’ve left Nick.”
Eleven
“Oh, I think I got that part,” A.J. said, beginning to give in to her temper. “Did you bother to tell Nick you were leaving him? Because he sounds a little confused.”
“I left him a letter.”
“A letter?”
For a moment A.J. was so angry she wasn’t sure she could speak without screaming. This was the relationship for which Andy had shattered their own decade-long marriage. And now, after less than a year, he was walking away from that, too, this time leaving his bewildered spouse with nothing more than a letter to explain his hurtful, cowardly, selfish actions.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He said with difficulty, “You don’t know . . . the full story.”
“Well, what’s the full story?” Her suspicions returned. “ That bruise on your face. Nick hit you, didn’t he?”
Dial Om for Murder Page 9