Nicole’s wardrobe—and that was the right word, this many garments could never simply be called “clothes”—was organized by type and color. On the left were silk T-shirts of the palest cream graduating to long-sleeved blouses in every shade of the rainbow, which then gave way to cashmere blazers and ended in black leather jackets. Sweaters were neatly stacked in plastic see-through containers. On the bottom rungs of the closet were pants—everything from summery capri’s to leather jeans. And shoes . . . the shoes alone would make this year’s charity auction.
The wardrobe carried the faint but distinct fragrance of Alfred Sung—ginger and bergamot—bringing Nicole vividly to life for a strange instant. A.J.’s throat tightened with unexpected emotion. She hadn’t cared much for Nicole, but there was something moving about these tidy rows of clothes waiting for a woman who would never return.
“This is most generous of J.W.,” Elysia said, fingertips brushing the beaded sleeve of a sage green Valentino gown. “These are worth a fortune.”
Bryn said, “J.W. never wanted Nicole’s money. Money isn’t important to him.”
That seemed a safe bet. J.W. made his living making conscientious and well-researched documentaries that mostly ran on public television.
“How is he doing?” A.J. asked.
Bryn’s face was in profile, so A.J. couldn’t read her expression. Bryn fingered the ruffle of a tangerine Versace pleated dress. “He’s trying to get on with his life. What else can he do?”
“He’s been a great friend to Jane Peters.”
“He’s a great friend to everyone,” Bryn said. “He’s a great guy.”
“Did you ever meet Jane?”
Bryn shook her head.
“Do you remember seeing her here that day?”
Another shake of Bryn’s head. It seemed for a moment that she would say something else, but then she moved away to Nicole’s dressing table and studied the astronomically expensive array of bottles and jars.
“He’s going to miss you, my dear,” Elysia said.
Bryn blinked rapidly against the sudden moisture in her eyes.
“You must be leaving soon?”
“Yes.” Her voice was husky. “Wednesday is my last day. It’s going to be . . . strange.”
“I imagine so. Will you work after you’re married?”
Bryn smiled wryly. “Ross doesn’t go in for working women.”
“Ah, they still make that model, do they?” Elysia murmured. “I thought it was discontinued.”
Bryn didn’t seem to hear that. She was still examining Nicole’s belongings, touching them gently; a kind of taking farewell, it seemed to A.J.
It struck her that this could very well be the first time Bryn had entered this room since Nicole’s death. The bed was made, but garments were still laid out as though Nicole had yet to decide between them.
She said softly, “How did J.W. handle the news about the bracelet Oz Siragusa gave Nicole?”
A.J. had dropped the bracelet and note off at the police station the evening she and Bryn had discovered it in Nicole’s locker. She remembered now that she never had heard from Jake about it. Perhaps he viewed it as another example of her failure to mind her own business?
Bryn stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell him.”
Somehow A.J. had not expected that. Granted, it would be an awkward conversation to have with the bereaved spouse of a murder victim. “The police must have asked him about it.”
“I wouldn’t know. J.W. isn’t under suspicion.”
“Will there be any final films?” Elysia inquired smoothly, changing the direction of the conversation as Bryn grew more and more stiff.
It did the trick. Bryn stared at Elysia, puzzled.
“Was she working on anything at the time of her death?”
“Oh. No. Family Business was the last thing Nikki worked on. She did a couple of public service announcements, but those have already aired. She was looking at different projects. She always got sent the same kinds of scripts. She was hoping for something a little more . . . meaty.”
A.J. said, “She and J.W. were working on something weren’t they? Or talking about doing something together?”
“They were, but then . . .” Bryn stopped. “I don’t think anything was ever decided.”
Elysia said brightly, “That’s right. They were starting their own production company weren’t they?” Then she frowned. “Or no. Come to think of it, I’d heard that had fallen through. J.W. changed his mind . . . was that it?”
Bryn opened her mouth but caught herself.
She must have been a good PA, A.J. thought. She hoped Nicole had rewarded her accordingly.
It was her turn to charge the drawbridge, A.J. said lightly, “That would have been an odd couple project, wouldn’t it? Nicole and J.W.? I can see why he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his credibility as a filmmaker.”
“J.W. didn’t pull the plug. That was Nicole.” Bryn stopped, her mouth tightening.
“Nicole?” A.J. feigned surprise. “You’re kidding. I’d have thought she’d have jumped at the chance to do something serious, to really test her acting chops.”
Bryn said coolly, “Nicole was looking at a number of properties. J.W. supported her in all her creative efforts.”
“He’s heading back to Mexico quite soon, I expect,” Elysia said.
Bryn turned to her. Elysia smiled. “He’ll be wrapping up shooting on that documentary about the teacher’s strike?”
“That’s in the can,” Bryn said shortly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some last-minute packing. If you need any more boxes just ring housekeeping.” She pointed to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed.
She left the room. A.J. listened for the sound of her foot-steps retreating down the corridor.
“Not hard to tell where her loyalties lie,” she whispered. “But you know . . . I think Bryn was fond of Nicole. Something about the way she was touching her things. It wasn’t covetous, it was . . . like she was remembering her alive. And even though she’s obviously fond of J.W., she avoided trashing Nicole. She avoided saying anything critical of her at all.” She stopped at Elysia’s expression.
Elysia was smiling—it reminded A.J. of a well-groomed lady crocodile.
“What?”
“Do you see one single article in this room that belongs to a man?”
A.J. stared around herself at the cream silk and ecru satin furnishings. It was certainly a feminine room. But more than that . . . there wasn’t so much as a man’s comb or handful of spare change anywhere.
“Maybe he moved his things out after . . .”
Elysia shook her head. “There are lots of photos but not a single one of him. There aren’t any empty shelves or empty drawers. This was her room and hers alone.”
It took several trips to empty the closet and drawers of Nicole’s garments. In between one of their final treks to the Land Rover, J.W. looked in on them.
“How is it going, ladies?”
“Just about finished,” Elysia said cheerfully. “We can’t thank you enough for your generous donation.”
J.W. smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad these things will go to good use.” He turned to A.J. “Are you still planning to do the documentary on the studio?”
For an instant she blanked. “Er . . . yes!” she said, recovering. “You mean you’re interested?”
“Hey,” J.W. said wryly. “I have to keep busy. And beggars can’t be choosers.”
“That’s terrific. Why don’t you come by Sacred Balance one night this week and I’ll show you around.”
“Any night in particular?”
“What is today? Monday? Really any weeknight.”
“I’ll check my calendar and give you a call.”
“Great.”
J.W. nodded pleasantly and departed.
“Brilliant,” Elysia whispered jubilantly. “Well done, pumpkin!”
So much
for A.J.’s decision to give up sleuthing. She’d let herself be roped into accompanying Elysia here today, and now she was going ahead with commissioning a documentary just so she could pump J.W. for information.
Granted, he did nice work, and a well-made documentary on Sacred Balance and Diantha might turn out to be a wonderful promotional tool.
Anyway, now that Jake was out of her life, she had to keep herself occupied somehow.
The next two days passed without incident. With no further breaks or developments, the Nicole Manning murder investigation slipped from the front pages, and slowly . . . slowly life returned to normal.
In fact, A.J. began to wonder if Nicole’s death might go unsolved—assuming that the police did have the wrong woman in custody. That was debatable, although, a little irritatingly, Elysia’s faith in Jane Peters never wavered.
The problem was . . . who else could have done it? One by one, all the possible suspects seemed to have fallen out of the race. Nicole’s live-in lover had an alibi. And so did her part-time lover, Oz Siragusa. Elysia herself had knocked Barbie Siragusa out of the running with her own crack-of-dawn test drives to Nicole’s mansion. And to put the seal on it, A.J. heard through the grapevine that Barbie was planning to divorce the Big Bopper and marry her personal trainer Corey Lovesy—now revealed to be the father of her unborn child.
It seemed that Barbie had lied about an affair with J.W. in an effort to get back at Nicole—an effort that had back-fired badly when Nicole was murdered.
The last possible suspect—and that had been a stretch—was Bryn Tierney, and A.J. had ruled Bryn out. Not only had Bryn seemed genuinely grieved the afternoon A.J. had accompanied Elysia to collect Nicole’s clothes for charity, but Bryn had left Nicole’s mansion right on schedule, moving home to Virginia to begin planning her wedding.
So that was that.
A.J. went back to her comfortable and peaceful routine. Life was good. Except that she missed Andy and Lula Mae. She missed Jake even more—certainly more than he appeared to miss her—but apparently she was going to have to get used to it. She hadn’t seen him since the evening of Nicole’s funeral.
She toyed with the idea of calling him, but she wasn’t sure she could take the pain of being brushed off. Jake had never struck her as someone prone to changing his mind once it was made up, and she’d had all the romantic rejection she could take for one lifetime. She would just have to hope that maybe time would soften his attitude, although it was more likely he had realized he just didn’t care that much about her.
“You still love me, don’t you?” she asked Monster when she got home Thursday night. Monster agreed, panting adoringly into her face as she ruffled his silky ears.
When the reunion of the mutual admiration society was concluded, A.J. went into the kitchen to try and think of something quick she could make for supper. She wasn’t very hungry these days, but she was determined not to give into the lure of Pop Tarts and Yoo-hoos.
She needed to go shopping, she decided as she checked the fridge’s contents. A head of cabbage and half a head of lettuce. She inspected the pantry and found a can of salmon. Remembering the salmon salad Elysia had served the previous week, she decided to prepare one for herself.
She was on the patio eating her salad and admiring the sunset through the trees lining the meadow when she heard a car drive up. Monster got up and went trotting to the front, woofing in that undecided way.
A.J. rose and followed.
A heavy, plain, middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair was getting out of a Toyota.
“Hi.” A.J. waved from the side of the house.
Spotting her, the woman left the front path and came toward her. “Alice Hart?”
“Who?” Recollection came belatedly to A.J. And then she had it: the night she and Andy had phoned Nicole’s cyber enemy, Lydia Thorne.
Except . . . there was no Lydia Thorne. Just as there was no Alice Hart.
A.J. straightened her shoulders. She had put this ball in motion; she had to play it out. “Lydia Thorne, I presume?”
Lydia stopped short. “You’re not Alice Hart. Alice Hart is a writer. She wrote a book about tea cups. She’s never heard of you. She’s never heard of Nicole Manning. I want to know what you think you’re doing, harassing me?” Behind cute red spectacles, tiny, angry eyes blinked furiously at A.J.
“We’re not harassing you. We—”
Lydia—or whatever her real name was—glanced at the house and repeated sharply, “We?”
A.J.’s embarrassment—there really was an Alice Hart somewhere?—gave way to unease. “Yes, my husband and I were concerned—”
“Where’s your husband?” Lydia demanded. “I want to talk to him. I want to find out why you’ve been impersonating Alice Hart. That’s against the law. You’ve broken the law. I could have you arrested. It’s against the law to harass people.”
Unwisely, A.J. said, “Then why were you harassing Nicole Manning?”
Lydia’s pasty face went scarlet. She stepped right up to A.J., thrust her face into hers, and said venomously, “That woman was scum. She got everything she deserved. I was tired of reading about how everyone loved her, how adorable she was, how pretty she was. She was a third-rate actress and a first-rate bitch. She just used people. Used them and tricked them.”
Monster, fangs barred, huff raised, began to bark in short, furious barks. A.J. took a step back, and said, “My dog thinks you’re threatening me. You better calm down.”
“I am threatening you! You can’t treat people like this and think you’re going to get away with it. You can’t pretend to be someone else and harass them and try to turn everyone against them.”
Somewhere a cuckoo clock was chiming the hour—warning A.J. it was time to get away from the increasingly virulent Ms. Thorne. Or whoever she really was.
She took another step back, saying, “I’m sorry if you think I invaded your privacy. We just wanted to know what you had against Nicole. We just wanted to ask you that one question. We’re not harassing you, and we—”
“Oh no,” Lydia said. “You don’t get to decide when this is over. I’m going to tell everyone about your studio, Ms. A.J. Alexander. I’m going to write every yoga site on the web and warn them about you. About how you’ve harassed me and tried to ruin me and what you’re trying to do with that yoga studio. You’re not even a real yoga teacher. You’re a liar and a cheat and—”
She moved forward into A.J.’s space again, and A.J. put a hand up to ward her off. Lydia slapped her hand away and Monster lunged forward biting her.
It wasn’t a hard bite—Monster wasn’t really much of an attack dog. His sensibilities were outraged, but biting people was not his oeuvre. However, Lydia screamed as though the dog had removed one of her limbs, and began to kick and flail with the remaining ones, shrieking a stream of obscenities.
A.J. ran for the back porch and the broom that she had been using to chase spiders away during her yoga practice. Snatching it up, she returned to the scene of battle. Monster had one of Lydia’s pant legs in his jaws, and he was growling and jerking on it while Lydia screamed and kicked at him the best she could.
“Let go of my dog!” A.J. commanded. She smacked the broom against the stone siding of the house. “Get off my property!”
Monster yanked tug-of-war style on Lydia’s shredding pant leg, and A.J. grabbed for his collar with her free hand. Lydia slapped at her, but A.J. ducked, whacking awkwardly with the broom as she backed away, dragging the dog with her. She retreated quickly into the house.
Panting, she locked the back door behind her. Monster was still growling and barking, fur standing on end so that he looked about twice his usual size.
A second later one of the patio chairs hit the back door.
“Oh my God,” A.J. gasped. “She’s crazy.”
No argument from Monster. He was now beside himself with rage. A.J. grabbed for the phone, dialed 911—then dropped it as it occurred to her that the windows all along
the side of the house were open to let in the cool evening breeze.
On trembling legs, she raced from room to room, slamming windows and locking them, heart hammering in overdrive as Lydia threw something else—the picnic table?—at the back door. When she got back to the kitchen and picked up the phone, the 911 operator was placidly asking what her emergency was.
“Someone is trying to break into my house,” she gulped.
“That happens to you a lot,” the 911 operator said. And before A.J. could register her astonishment, he added, “Are you in a secure location, A.J.?”
Who was this guy?
“Doubtful,” A.J. replied shakily. “She wants in here.”
“Help is on the way. Stay on the line.”
Well, on the bright side, she had plenty of weapons available with which to defend herself. Everything from knives to the heavy cutting block itself.
A flower pot came crashing through the window over the sink. A.J. screamed and the 911 operator began squawking questions.
“Are you still there? Can you describe your attacker?”
“Her name is Lydia Thorne. That’s not her real name, though. I don’t know her real name. But she’s crazy. And not very attractive!”
Abruptly the silence from the back porch reached her. Monster was snuffling frantically at the base of the door. A.J. put the phone down, creeping to the broken window and trying to see out. There was no sign of Lydia Thorne on the empty patio.
Uneasily, A.J. crept to the front room. Lydia’s car was still parked out front.
A.J. realized she had a clear view of the New York license plate number and she repeated it aloud. “AUU 2574.”
The faraway wail of a police siren cut the tense silence.
There came a scrabbling, crunching sound from under the very window where A.J. stood, and to her horror, Lydia Thorne rose up. A.J. jumped back, nearly falling over a small footstool. Lydia banged, frustrated, on the window with her fists, then lumbered to her car, throwing herself in it and reversing in a wild arc.
Dial Om for Murder Page 20