by Kylie Logan
She had never been close friends with Lori. Back in high school (it seemed more like a million years ago rather than ten), Jazz and Lori traveled in different circles. Jazz was a jock—cross-country, track, swimming in the winter to keep in shape. Lori ran with the drama-club crowd, and in spite of those buck-teeth of hers—Owen was right, Lori had definitely had major dental work since last Jazz saw her—she’d even starred in a couple of the plays at St. Joseph Academy, the all-girls school they attended. Though they hadn’t been close, they had been friendly; their lockers were next to each other senior year, and Jazz remembered that Lori had dreams of hitting the stage in New York.
She was pretty enough.
Lori had clear skin, intense blue eyes, and light hair streaked with metallic emerald green. She had a small nose turned up slightly at the end and obviously the kind of upbeat personality that was an asset to bartenders far and wide. When she swung around to see what the newest customer at the bar wanted, Lori was already smiling, even before she realized that customer was Jazz.
Then that smile of hers sagged around the edges.
“Hey, Lori!” Jazz leaned forward, her elbows on the bar. “What’s up?”
Lori swiped a bar rag over the space in front of Jazz. “What can I get you?”
The bar took up an entire wall of the pub. It was made of gleaming dark wood, and there was a beer list artfully chalked onto the blackboard above Lori’s head. Jazz was not a connoisseur like her brothers. She passed on exotic things like sour blueberry porter and went for the tried-and-true. “Dortmunder Gold.”
Lori poured from the tap and set the glass in front of Jazz. “You’re not here to bust my chops, are you?”
“Why would I—” Jazz sat back, honestly surprised. “You think I’m here to talk to you about Owen?”
“Yeah, well…” One corner of Lori’s mouth pulled tight. “Everybody knows about the Ramsey family. You’re as fierce about each other as you all are about the damn fire department.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’d try to interfere in your relationship. Even if I didn’t like you, it’s none of my business. And I do like you. I always have. As far as I’m concerned, you and Owen can date all you want.”
Lori didn’t even try to control her grin. “We’re doing a whole lot more than dating. And yeah, we do it all we want.”
This was more information than a younger sister should know about her brother.
Jazz washed the realization down with a sip of beer. “His work schedule is a bitch.”
“Tell me about it.” Lori took an order for a vodka and tonic and expertly mixed and delivered it. “I haven’t seen Owen in a week,” she told Jazz when she was done.
Jazz didn’t mention she had been out with her brothers just a few days earlier. There is such a thing as too much sharing.
“I hear…” Lori paused, obviously trying to decide if this was a subject she should even bring up. Finally, she lifted one shoulder in a what-the-hell sort of shrug. “He’s had a lot of girlfriends.”
“Owen’s a handsome guy.” He was, though that hardly explained his serial dating.
“Should I be worried?”
Jazz couldn’t make any promises. “I know he likes you.”
“I bet he liked all those other girls, too. He did tell me he’s going to be off on Easter. He said he’s going to your mom’s and he asked me to come along.”
“Well, there you have it.” Absolute truth, and Jazz was grateful she didn’t have to sidestep any more uncomfortable questions. “He’s never invited any of his other girlfriends over for Easter.”
Lori grinned. “I’ll see you there?”
If only Lori knew! Missing a holiday with family was a mortal sin. “I’m bringing the deviled eggs. They’re Owen’s favorite.”
“So why are you here?” Lori asked, more relaxed now that they’d gotten the family stuff out of the way. “I heard from some of the other girls from Joe’s that you’re living in Tremont. Not enough bars there for you?”
“Plenty of bars. But actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”
Someone at the end of the bar waved Lori down, and Jazz knew better than to try and delay her. A bartender counted on tips, and fast service was part of the deal. She waited until Lori was finished and when she was, she scooted back over.
“I’ve got a break,” Lori told her. She tipped her head toward the front of the pub and the windows that looked out at the stone patio there. “Meet me outside?”
The patio was surrounded by a low decorative iron fence, and in nice weather, it was filled with tables and chairs. This time of year, it was still chilly and there weren’t many people outside. There were just a few chairs set here and there to accommodate the smokers. By the time Jazz grabbed her beer and got out there, Lori was already in one of those chairs, lighting up.
“Not something you’re going to want to do on Easter. My mom is a fanatic about the evils of smoking.”
Lori paled, and as if Claire Ramsey was lurking somewhere in the shadows, watching and judging, she waved a hand in front of her face, dispersing the smoke.
“You won’t tell?”
“Not my business. I’m sure Owen will warn you.” Jazz dragged over a chair and sat down. “You like it here?”
Lori nodded. “I love it! The customers are friendly, the people I work with are great, and the money’s not half-bad. Way more than I was making waiting tables at the last place I worked.”
“You dreamed of being on Broadway.”
“You always said you were going to join the fire department.”
Touché.
Jazz smiled to let Lori know she didn’t take it personally. “I heard there was a confrontation here a while ago. Two young women?”
Lori pressed her lips together, thinking. “Maybe I wasn’t here.”
“I was hoping you were. One of them was the girl who got murdered over in Tremont. You probably saw it on TV.”
“That girl?” She sat back, took a drag on her cigarette, studied Jazz carefully. “Owen says she went to St. Catherine’s where you work. And it’s funny you should mention her. He’s working, and he called from the station a little while ago, and he said he needed to talk to you. He told me that he remembered bumping into that dead girl—”
“Florie?”
“Yeah, Florie. He said he forgot all about it. He bumped into her somewhere or another and he remembered her from your cross-country meets. She told him she lived on Murray Hill, right next door to where there was a fire a couple months ago. Owen, he said it was no big deal that he talked to her and he forgot all about it. That’s why he didn’t mention it to you the last time he saw you, but he said he was going to give you a call and tell you.”
He hadn’t, but then, like Owen said, it really was no big deal. Florie and Grace’s fight at the bar was.
“Think about it.” Jazz hoped to get Lori back on track. “Were you here the night Florie stopped in?”
Another drag, and when Lori exhaled, the smoke floated out to the sidewalk and from there, over the redbrick pavers of Market Street. Like Tremont, Ohio City was an old part of town, and on this short block, there was a coffee shop, a wine bar, and an upscale eatery across the way along with a building on the corner that housed a barber college that had been there for as long as anyone could remember. This side of the street had been completely swallowed by Great Lakes years before, much to the delight of the neighborhood. Ohio City home and business owners were dedicated to their urban neighborhood and determined to keep it vital. They welcomed and supported its shops and restaurants and, like the suburbanites who came from all around and made it an institution, they shopped at the massive West Side Market across the way, a landmark that included indoor market vendors and outdoor stalls that sold everything from fruits and vegetables to seafood and meat.
“I’m trying to remember. But like I said, maybe I wasn’t here.” Lori dragged her cigarette butt across the stone patio to put it out.
Jazz did her best to be patient. She’d brought her beer outside, and she took another drink.
“One of the girls who was here is blond and pretty,” Jazz told her, hoping to jog her memory. “Probably stylishly dressed.” Since Jazz didn’t give a damn about style, she wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but she knew Lori would figure it out. “Her name is Grace. Grace, she told me that the other girl, the one who got killed, she told me that girl, Florie, knocked over whatever she was drinking.”
“That’s the fight you’re talking about?”
It wasn’t so much the question as the way Lori said it that caused a shiver to zip up Jazz’s back like a current of electricity. “You do remember.”
“When you said two young women, that’s what threw me off.” Thinking, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Intrigued and anxious to hear more, Jazz ignored the guy from behind the bar trying to get Lori’s attention, waving through the window for her to come back inside.
“They are young. They only graduated from St. Catherine’s a couple years ago.”
“Oh, the blonde was young, all right. And like you said, she was all dressed up. She came into the pub with friends. Four, five other girls. They were waiting for a booth to open up and while they did, they came over to the bar to order drinks. Not that I served them alcohol. None of them was old enough to drink, I could tell from just looking at them.”
“One of the girls with Grace wasn’t Florie, was it? The girl whose picture you probably saw on TV?”
Jazz was so far off base, Lori waved away the questions.
“No, no. That other girl … if she’s the one you’re talking about … she was already sitting at the bar. I mean, that’s the person this other girl, this blonde, got into a fight with. It was a corker! No way I was going to get between the two of them. My manager finally came over and handled it. But the way the other girl looked…” Lori paused to think and this time, her fellow bartender knocked on the window.
“Got to go!” Lori popped out of her chair. “Don’t worry about the beer. I’ve got it!”
“Thanks,” Jazz told her. “Only you didn’t explain. Why did you think the other woman wasn’t young? Was she dressed weird? Black leather? Streaks in her hair? Scary makeup?”
Her hand on the door, Lori stopped and turned. “No. Nothing like that. She was really frumpy. And I wasn’t working that end of the bar, so I never paid a whole lot of attention to her face. I guess I saw the clothes and just assumed she was one of the old batty women from the neighborhood. She was wearing this ratty raincoat and big black boots. Not like fashion boots. Like granny galoshes. You know, the kind that have those funny metal fasteners on the front. And her hair…” Lori made a face.
Jazz got up from her chair and closed in on Lori. “What about her hair?”
“I couldn’t see it really well. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention and she had this hat on, anyway. A knitted hat with earflaps that tied under her chin. I do remember walking by and wondering what the heck was sticking out of her hat. It took me a minute to realize it was actually hair. It was gray and it gleamed in the light like it was made out of plastic. That’s how shiny it was.”
Jazz thanked her and told her she looked forward to seeing her again on Easter, and she meant it.
She only hoped Lori wouldn’t have the bad sense to light up in front of Mom.
* * *
It seemed like the more information Jazz found out about Florie, the more confused she got.
First it was goth clothes and makeup, then the news delivered by Grace (and therefore suspect) that Florie was sleeping with Tate Brody.
Florie was borrowing a neighbor’s child.
She was dressed in rags and obviously wearing a wig.
She was looking for a divorce attorney even though she wasn’t married.
Jazz’s head was in a spin. And it wasn’t from the beer.
She parked in her driveway, locked the car, and headed for the back door. She already had her key out, so when she froze, her hand in the air and the key pointed to where the lock should have been, she supposed she must have looked as stunned as she felt.
But then she could hardly help it.
Her back door was wide open.
CHAPTER 13
It was dark outside and in, and from where she stood on the back porch, it was impossible to see anything except the eerie blue glow of the time on her microwave.
“Luther!” Jazz got no response, and it was that more than anything that made her pulse thump and her heart race and her mouth go dry.
If the door had somehow swung open and Luther ran off …
If someone had broken into the house and hurt the dog …
If Billy DeSantos was stupid enough to come back when she’d clearly warned him away …
“Luther!” She tried again, and this time heard the faint scrambling of claws on the floor.
If something terrible happened to Luther, she’d not only have to break the news to Greg, she’d never forgive herself.
She poked her keys up through her fingers like a weapon, took her phone out of her pocket in case she needed to make a quick call for help, and stepped into her kitchen.
The moment she did, the lights flicked on to reveal Luther sitting like a good dog in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. He was wearing a headband with pink-and-white bunny ears on it, and he had a green Easter basket in his mouth.
“Surprise!”
When Claire Ramsey stepped around the corner, Jazz wasn’t sure if she should give her a hug or read her the riot act.
She decided to pass on the riot act when she saw her mom was grinning. It was an expression that had been all too painfully absent in the year since her husband died.
“Mom!” Jazz pressed a hand to her heart, and the moment her mom let go of Luther’s leash, she called the dog over. He deposited the Easter basket at her feet. “What’s this?”
“It’s just a little something from me and Big George.” Claire came over and gave Jazz a peck on the cheek.
Jazz made sure she was smiling when she said, “So you let yourself into my house and scared me half to death?”
“Did I scare you?” The blood drained from Claire’s face and she looped an arm around Jazz’s shoulders and pulled her into a quick hug. “I’m sorry, Jasmine. You’re so smart, I thought you’d figure it out. Who else has a key but me? Unless…” The kitchen was far smaller than Jazz’s office back at St. Catherine’s—stove, refrigerator, sink, a table for two next to the back window. When Grandma and Grandpa Kurcz owned the house, the room was a mishmash of dark wood, red linoleum, and corny signs that said things like KISS THE POLISH COOK. It was the first room Jazz had remodeled when she bought the house from them three years earlier, and she was still in love with the white cabinets and black granite countertops she was able to afford only because Hal knew a firefighter who spent his days off working with a kitchen remodeler.
There wasn’t anyplace in the kitchen for someone to hide.
Not unless that someone happened to have superpowers and a cloak of invisibility.
That didn’t stop Claire from peering into every corner.
“Nick’s not back, is he?”
Jazz groaned. “No, Nick’s not back.”
“Well, he had a key.” Claire defended her jump to conclusions. “If you’re not sure who could have let themselves in, it’s only natural to assume that Nick—”
“No.” Jazz dumped her purse and her keys and her phone on the kitchen table, and while she was at it, she closed the back door and plucked the bunny ears from Luther’s head. It was that or he’d end up eating them. “How long have you been here lurking in the dark?”
“I wasn’t lurking.” Claire went over to the strip of counter between the stove and the refrigerator, and Jazz saw that she’d been there at least long enough to boil water and pour herself a cup of tea. She grabbed a spoon from the drawer, fished the tea bag out of her cup, and tossed it
in the trash can under the sink. “I turned the lights off and opened the back door as soon as I saw your car coming down the street. Luther and I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you surprised me, all right.” Jazz picked up the Easter basket and peered into it.
“You’re never too old for Easter candy,” her mom said. “There’s Reese’s cups and Cadbury eggs!”
When it came to Cadbury eggs, Jazz was an addict. Years before she had sworn she’d never buy them, because when she did, caloric disaster ensued.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Her mother poured milk into her cup and sat down at the table. She was five-foot-two, the same height as Jazz, and had the same brown hair, though Claire’s was cut short and, Jazz noticed, recently highlighted with a warm red that made her mom look younger than fifty-two. Her hips were rounder and her face was fuller than Jazz’s, but her hands were small and dainty. Her fingers were slim and always busy.
Claire sipped her tea. “Have you had dinner?” she asked.
“No.” And now that she thought about it, she was starving. Jazz dug through the fridge, found a tub of hummus, and took it over to the table along with a bag of pita chips. She got two plates out of the cupboard. Though Claire would surely say she wasn’t hungry, she was a sucker for hummus.
“Oh, I’m not hungry.” Claire reached into the bag for a handful of chips. “But I guess hummus can’t hurt.”
“Good for what ails you.” Jazz dragged a pita through the hummus and chowed it down and watched her mom do the same. “It’s Wednesday. Why aren’t you at Grandma Kurcz’s for dinner?”
Claire always went to her parents’ house on Wednesdays for dinner, just like they always came to the Ramsey house on Sunday. “I was there. Grandma made breaded pork chops. She wants to know why you don’t stop by more often.”
“I’ll go next Wednesday.” Jazz made a mental note. “Maybe she’ll make beet soup.”
“If you call and tell her you’re coming, I’ll bet anything Grandma will whip up a batch.”