Sucker Punch

by Sammi Carter

  “He was going to sue her? On what grounds?”

  “Breach of contract, what else?”

  “Over his participation in this play? Was he crazy, or just vindictive?”

  “He was the injured party.”

  “Not even close,” I muttered. “He could probably have bought and sold the Playhouse a dozen times over. Why sue over one little job? I’m sure he wasn’t being paid much.”

  “It was a matter of principle.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Somehow I doubt that. Why was he so determined to destroy Vonetta?”

  “They had a history.”

  “I know they did,” I said. “But in the version I’ve heard, he owed her.”

  Geoffrey’s expression grew sober. “You know about that?”

  I had no idea if we were talking about the same thing or not, but I nodded. “I do.”

  “Vonetta told you?”

  “Serena did.”

  Geoffrey laughed through his nose. “Serena. Do you have any idea how angry I was to find out she was here? I checked. I double-checked. She hadn’t been back in years. Then Larry and I showed up, and there she was.”

  “How did Laurence feel about seeing her again?”

  “What should he feel? She practically ruined his life. Almost destroyed his career. He was furious.”

  I wasn’t buying it. “How? How did she almost ruin his life?”

  Geoffrey looked around to see if anyone could hear us, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “She tried to trap him. Got herself pregnant, and then tried to blackmail him into marrying her. Do you have any idea what that would have done to him?”

  “A wife and a kid? Yeah. Brutal.”

  His expression grew somber. “Larry was just getting started in his career. He was a rising star, but that would have sunk him.”

  “They could have survived,” I insisted. “People did.”

  “Yeah, but very few of them were successful. Laurence Nichols wasn’t created to survive. He was born to soar.”

  “So he insisted that Serena have an abortion, even though she believed that she was killing her unborn child.”

  Geoffrey’s frown etched deep lines around his mouth. “She could have said no.”

  “She didn’t think she could.”

  “That’s not my fault, and it wasn’t Larry’s.”

  Men like these gave them all a bad name. “What about other women?”

  “What about them? Laurence had ’em, that’s for sure. He kept me busy lining ’em up and getting rid of them afterward.”

  “Was Colleen Brannigan one of them?”

  “Colleen?” Geoffrey nodded once. “A long time ago.”

  “So her husband was right to be jealous of Laurence.”

  “Not now. At least not from Larry’s end. She’s a bit long in the tooth these days.”

  “Yeah, all of forty. Practically decrepit.”

  “What can I say? He liked ’em younger. She was none too happy when he sent her packing recently, I can tell you that.”

  That got my interest. “I thought you said it was a long time ago?”

  “It was—but there was another flare up a couple of days before he died. I don’t know why he suggested her for the job with this production, but I think she saw it as an invitation to reunite. Then she caught him with some twenty-year-old he met at dinner, and went nuts.”

  “And who did he send the candy to? The twenty-yearold? Colleen? Or was it Serena? Or maybe there was someone else entirely?”

  “It wasn’t anyone involved in the production,” he said firmly. He scribbled his signature on the dinner check and wagged the black leather folder so his server could see that it was ready. “If you want to know who wanted him dead, you don’t have to look very far.”

  “What does that mean? You think Colleen is responsible for his death?”

  He shrugged and pushed his chair away from the table. “One of the women in the play did it. I’d make book on it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  “Yeah,” I said absently. He walked away and I returned to the table where a minuscule glass filled with assorted seafood waited for me. Jumbo, my ass. “Sorry about that,” I told Rachel. “I didn’t expect it to take so long.”

  “Not a problem.” She’s that kind of friend, too. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said with a glance at Geoffrey’s retreating back. “But I did find out that he has no intention of letting us use the music in the production. He sees dollar signs floating in front of his eyes.”

  “He looks the type,” said my friend, who’d just blown a hundred dollars on dinner. She slathered butter on a roll and pushed the bread basket in my direction. “The question is, did he see those dollar signs before Laurence was killed?”

  It was a very good question. One I had every intention of answering before I was through.

  Chapter 20

  My conversation with Geoffrey Manwaring bothered me all the next day. I still hadn’t been to the Avalanche to check out Doyle’s alibi for myself, but with Valentine’s Day just around the corner, work was seriously ramping up. I couldn’t skip out again tonight, so I stayed late, melting and pouring and dipping and wrapping until every muscle I hadn’t strained learning the dance steps the night before ached from exertion of a different kind.

  A few minutes before ten, I climbed the stairs to my apartment, filled Max’s dish with kibble, and carried a cold takeout box of crab rangoon into the living room. My apartment is a far cry from the Sacramento condo I once shared with my ex. There’s not a stick of furniture that matches any other in the whole place. Everything is secondhand, cast-off from family and friends.

  Aunt Grace’s old plaid sofa bed holds the place of honor. Uncle Butch’s dinged-up coffee table sits in front of it. Near the door is the hideous space-age chair that used to belong to my parents. I sleep on my grandmother’s bed and keep my clothes in a dresser that came from the Goodwill. Taken one by one, the pieces are wretched, but together they suit me. Just don’t ask me why.

  I turned on the television, more to keep me awake until I could finish eating than out of any desire to watch what was on. While I munched, I flipped through channels, searching for something that might hold my interest for a few minutes. When I passed a local channel and realized that their news department was running a story on Laurence Nichols’s death, I paused to listen.

  Maybe I should have expected it, but the focus on Richie and the repeated mention of him as a “person of interest” in the case made my blood run cold. Even worse was the shot of him leaving the inn with Dylan, doing his best to ignore the questions shouted at him, the flash of the cameras, and the microphones shoved in his face.

  If you asked me, Nate was being reckless to turn the media’s focus in Richie’s direction. There just wasn’t enough evidence to support the theory. With very little effort at all, I’d come up with nearly half a dozen suspects, all of whom had stronger motives than Richie for wanting Laurence dead.

  I turned the station quickly. If I let myself get worked up about the murder now, I’d never get to sleep. After passing up a couple of reality shows and a news magazine show, I settled on an episode of Burn Notice I’d only seen twice and tossed the remote onto the couch beside me. While Michael, Fi, and Sam pulled a scam on some unsuspecting bad guys, I worked on cold crab and cream cheese inside fried wanton wrappers. I’d just popped the last one into my mouth when the phone rang.

  I knew instantly that it was Jawarski. Or maybe I should say, I wanted it to be Jawarski. I just didn’t want Jawarski to know how much I wanted to hear from him. Going this long without hearing from him had made me realize how much I missed him. Not having him around to bounce ideas off of only made it worse. But all of that left me feeling vulnerable, and vulnerable is a problem for me.

  “You still up?” he asked when I finally unearthed the cordless phone from beneath the ratty cushions of m
y plaid couch.

  “Yeah. Barely.”

  “I’m not calling too late, am I?”

  His deep voice felt like a warm blanket. I lay down on the couch and let it wrap itself around me. “No, it’s not too late. I was just watching TV and having a late dinner. How are things going up there?”

  “Good. I went to Ridge’s basketball game tonight, and I’m taking both kids to dinner tomorrow night.”

  He sounded happy. Relaxed. Another reason not to bother him with the murder. “That sounds great. I’m sure they like having you around.”

  “They seem to, I guess. Cheyenne’s been giving her mother some trouble the past few months, but I think it’s just the age.”

  “Thirteen?” I thought back to my own teenage years and grimaced. “I’m sure it is. Most girls that age exist just to give their mothers grief.”

  Jawarski laughed and I heard something rustle through the phone. “That’s what Bree says, too. I’m gonna have to trust the two of you since this is my first experience with a teenage girl.”

  The warmth I’d been feeling evaporated and a cold, hard jealousy stabbed me at the mention of his ex-wife’s name. I didn’t know for sure whether he still had feelings for her, or she for him. I didn’t even know if the divorce had been her idea or his. But I did know that she’d invited him to Montana, and he’d dropped everything to go.

  I sat up and tried to regain my earlier feeling. Comfort. Ease. Trust. “Were you able to get a hotel close to the house?”

  He didn’t answer at once, and with Jawarski that’s a bad sign. “I decided not to get a hotel room,” he said after what felt like forever. “Bree offered to let me stay in the guest room so I could spend as much time as possible with the kids.”

  “You’re staying there?” I tried to sound normal, but my voice came out sounding high and tight. “In her house?”

  “You’re upset.”

  “No. Yes.” Too agitated to sit still, I dropped the take-out box on the coffee table and paced around the living room. “Tell me how I’m supposed to feel about you staying with your ex-wife.”

  “You’re not supposed to feel anything. I’m in the guest room, Abby. It’s not like I moved back into the bedroom.”

  My throat grew tight and dry. Somehow, knowing that she still lived in the same house where they’d been a couple made it worse.

  Knock it off! I told myself sternly. I hate jealousy, and I hated Roger fiercely for cheating on me and leaving me worried and frightened that it would happen again. “I think it’s great that you and the kids can spend so much time together,” I said, and I meant it. I just hated everything else that came with it.

  “Yeah.” A long silence fell between us, and I wondered if he could hear the fear in my voice. “Got a call from Nate Svboda the other day,” he said, just as I was about to make an excuse to hang up. “He told me about Nichols.”

  Terrific. Thank you, Nate. “Why did he call you? Can’t he just let you take some time off?”

  “He thought I should know. So I’m guessing from that comment you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “You’re on vacation,” I said. “I didn’t want to interrupt the time you have with the kids.”

  “Yeah? Well, thanks. So what’s going on? Are they making any progress?”

  “You think Nate would tell me if they had?”

  “Probably not. But you do have a way of finding out anyway.”

  Yeah. One of my dubious skills. “Did Nate tell you that he thinks Richie is the killer?”

  Jawarski’s voice grew guarded. “He told me about the evidence they’ve gathered so far. You have to admit, Abby, it doesn’t look good.”

  “Every bit of that evidence is circumstantial,” I said firmly.

  “Until I can see what they’ve got, I’ll have to take your word for it. I assume you’re up to your eyeballs in it.”

  That comment fell into the plus column. Sure, he was living with his ex-wife for a couple of weeks, but I can overlook a lot for a man who doesn’t try to control me. “Richie’s my friend,” I said. “He’s our friend. I can’t just let Nate lock him up for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Give the guy a break, Abby. He’s doing his job.”

  “I think we’re going to agree to disagree when it comes to Nate. Richie didn’t do it.”

  “If you have proof that Nate’s not doing his job, take it to the chief. Otherwise, be careful, okay? Stay out of his way.”

  “Not a problem,” I promised. In Nate’s path was the last place I wanted to be. I was about to say something else when a woman’s voice floated through the connection.

  “Pine? Are you coming?”

  My breath caught and my stomach lurched. ‘Are you coming? ’ Where? How many options could there be at nearly eleven?

  “Listen,” I said, struggling to sound normal in spite of everything, “I have to be up early in the morning so I should probably—”

  “Oh.” He cut me off. “Sure. I understand. The kids are waiting to watch a movie anyway.”

  The kids. And Bree. “You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  “Right. Listen, I’ll call again in a day or two. And Abby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not taking Nate’s side, you know.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  “I just worry about you, especially when I’m not there to make sure you’re all right.”

  I wanted to believe him, but the insecurities I’d been battling since the divorce made it damn tough. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I love you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  The air escaped my lungs in a whoosh, and for the first time in recent memory I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I love you? Was he kidding? What kind of man says a thing like that over the phone? On the heels of being beckoned away from the phone by another woman? An ex-wife? While staying in her house—allegedly in separate bedrooms?

  I don’t know how long I sat there before I realized that he’d hung up and I was listening to a dial tone. I only know that the conversation had just made everything a whole lot more difficult between us.

  Chapter 21

  Friday morning dawned gray and dreary. Low-hanging clouds had moved into the valley overnight, bringing with them the threat of another storm. The overcast sky didn’t help my mood, already at a low point thanks to the conversation with Jawarski that had left me jittery and confused, and too wound up to sleep.

  Jawarski had some nerve saying he loved me, especially under the circumstances. What was I supposed to do with it now that he’d said it? Did he expect me to say it back? That wasn’t going to happen until I was absolutely certain I meant it, not one minute before. And I had no intention of saying it until I knew a whole lot more about what was going on with him and his ex.

  Unfortunately, going to work didn’t do much to relieve the stress. A small cluster of reporters had taken up residence in the parking lot, and they’d dogged me while I took Max for his morning constitutional. Back in the shop, the hearts hanging from the ceiling fluttered each time the heater kicked on, dancing around my head and taunting me with every spin. That only made my mood worse. I tried to find comfort in the soothing smell of chocolate and the rhythm I’d established in the kitchen, but my timing was off this morning. What should have been a smooth series of actions as I rolled nougat centers and dipped them in tempered chocolate felt jerky and unnatural.

  I stayed busy until late afternoon, but the first chance I got, I packed up the boxes ready to ship and escaped to the post office. I decided to walk, hoping that the exercise and fresh air would help clear my mind. I had to run the gauntlet of reporters again, but since I had Max with me, it wasn’t difficult to get through. After following halfway up the block, they seemed to realize I wasn’t going to talk and fell away.

  After that, the walk was almost pleasant. The clouds had trapped warm air in the valley, so for the first time in weeks the
temperature climbed above the freezing mark. Small trails of water ran from beneath mounds of snow that had been lying in the streets and on the edges of parking lots for weeks.

  To my surprise, there was no line at the post office, so I was in and out in less than ten minutes. I wasn’t ready to go back to Divinity yet, so I told myself I could take ten more minutes to walk around the block.

  After half a block, my mood slowly began to lift. I’d find solutions to every one of my problems, I promised myself. It was only because they’d all hit at once that I felt overwhelmed and out of control. Even my questions about Jawarski and our relationship felt overblown in the clear light of day. He’d be home in a few days, and we’d work everything out. I had nothing to worry about.

  I reached the corner and waited for a short line of traffic to pass. As I stepped off the sidewalk, a dark-haired man of about thirty fell into step with me. He wore jeans and a ski jacket, the usual fare for most of Paradise’s population, and he had a broad, open face and a friendly smile.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I nodded, oddly pleased to be having a conversation—however brief—that had no connection to Valentine’s Day, the murder, or Jawarski. “Looks like it’s going to snow again. Let’s hope we don’t get the cold trough with it this time.”

  “This last one lasted a long time,” my companion agreed. “You know it’s cold when it has to warm up to snow.”

  With a laugh, I stepped onto the curb on the other side of the street. The beauty of meaningless conversation with a total stranger is that it’s so brief. One or two sentences is more than enough. There’s no pressure to sound intelligent, or to say the right thing. There are no feelings to consider.

  I started to offer one of the socially acceptable conversation enders, like “Have a good one,” when I realized that the man beside me wasn’t playing by the rules. Instead of walking faster or falling behind, he matched my pace. And when he asked, “You’re Abby Shaw, aren’t you?” I started growing suspicious.

  “Who wants to know?”