Jaclyn inhaled. There wasn’t any point in not telling him, and she really needed to finish dressing and get to the office. “The police questioned me last night, after I talked to you,” she blurted, evidently so desperate for support she’d even turn to Jacky. “They suspect me of killing one of my clients.”
“How stupid can they be?” he demanded instantly. “Of course you didn’t.”
That swift, unquestioning faith in her made tears swim in her eyes. “They aren’t so sure about it. Thanks for not doubting me.”
“Not for a second. Now, if they suspected me—” He stopped, as if realizing he’d been about to admit to something he might want to leave unsaid, then smoothly picked up the conversation again. “So, who got dead? Anyone I know?”
“Her name is—was—Carrie Edwards.”
“Well, isn’t that still her name, whether she’s dead or not?”
“I guess … I mean, of course it’s still her name, but she’s a was, not an is.” And this was a weird conversation to be having so early in the morning.
“Carrie Edwards, Carrie Edwards,” Jacky mused. “I don’t—Wait a minute. The state senator, the one who’s running for Congress, Dennison … his son’s fiancée was killed. Was she your client?”
“Yep. Until yesterday afternoon, anyway. She fired me before she was killed.”
Jacky was silent a moment, then said, “Ouch.”
“It was a pretty big coincidence.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said blithely. “The cops will get things straightened out.”
Don’t worry about it. There it was, Jacky Wilde’s philosophy of life, which he applied to all situations no matter how dire. “I hope so. In the meantime, I’m worrying.” She cast a glance at the clock; she couldn’t stay on the phone much longer or she’d be late … at least, later than she wanted. Being her own boss was great, but in a small firm like Premier it also meant she and Madelyn had to work long hours to make sure they prospered. “I’m sorry, I have to run. We have a really tight schedule this week and—”
“Wait, wait! Before you hang up, have you thought any more about loaning me the Jag?”
Jaclyn took the phone away from her ear and for several seconds stared at it in disbelief. Only when she heard him saying, “Hello? Hello?” did she put it back to her ear.
“No,” she said firmly. “I haven’t thought about it at all. I was more concerned with the fact that I might be arrested for murder than I was about you having a set of nice wheels to impress your latest floozie.”
“Hey! There’s no need to be disrespectful, young lady. Lola isn’t a floozie.”
“How old is she?”
“What difference does that make?” he asked evasively.
“Younger than I am?”
“I haven’t asked.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Not that it matters. Even if she was an appropriate age for you, I’d still say no. You go through cars the same way you go through money. I have one car. I need it.”
“Not at night!”
“Jacky! At least half my work is at night! That’s when a lot of people get married or have parties, you know. I’ll be working every night for the rest of this week, and there’s no way I can do without my car. But even if I wasn’t working, the answer would still be no.”
“Fine, if that’s the way you’re going to be about it,” he said sulkily.
“It is.”
His good-bye was curt. Jaclyn hung up, figuring she wouldn’t hear from him for the next few months. Part of her was relieved, part of her was sad, and all of her was exasperated; the latter was pretty much her default setting when dealing with her father. She loved him, but she never relied on him. Her rose-colored glasses had been broken a long time ago and she saw him as he was, warts and all.
Funny how exasperation made her feel a little less worried about her precarious legal situation. No, she wasn’t less worried, just not as focused on being worried. Jacky was good for that, at least.
She hurriedly finished dressing, grabbed her appointment book, then for a split second looked for her briefcase before memory slammed into her head. The cops had her briefcase. “Oh, no,” she groaned, momentarily closing her eyes in dismay. She needed her briefcase; it held all the details of the rehearsals and weddings that were rushing at her like high tide. Surely she could get it back today … couldn’t she? She couldn’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t be able to get it, because her briefcase didn’t have anything to do with Carrie’s murder, other than just lying there at the scene. Or would they consider it evidence? Maybe it was covered with Carrie’s blood.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap!
Knowing it was her own fault—leaving her briefcase behind—didn’t help the situation. She had Eric’s card in her purse, with his private cell number written on the back. She hated to call him for anything, but maybe he’d say No problem, the briefcase wasn’t the murder weapon, you can pick it up at headquarters. Maybe. Doubtful, but maybe. Because she was a suspect, she thought they’d probably keep the briefcase as proof she was there, as if they needed any more proof. Maybe the briefcase was circumstantial evidence, a reason for her to go back to the reception hall after meeting Madelyn.
She’d never know if she didn’t try. A quick glance at the clock, though, told her that it might be too early to call. The fact that she didn’t even know what hours he worked pointed out to her all over again how incredibly reckless she’d been to sleep with him on such short acquaintance.
Even if she couldn’t retrieve the briefcase, she still had all of the information in physical files and on her computer at the office; it would be time-consuming to access all the files and pull the pertinent information out, but she could do it.
Frustrated, she made the drive to Premier; the parking lot was empty, the building dark, so she got her little bash-and-dash flashlight out of the console. Armed with the flashlight and her pepper spray, she unlocked the back door and let herself into the building. With the lights on and the door securely locked again, she put on a pot of coffee and began the daily routine of making a list of everything that had to be done that day. They had two wedding rehearsals that night; Madelyn was taking the pink one, and Jaclyn had the Bulldog one.
The Bulldog in question was, of course, the University of George’s mascot, Uga. This wasn’t the first football-themed wedding she’d done, and wouldn’t be the last. They were, after all, in the South.
Diedra arrived next, surprising Jaclyn because her assistant was just twenty-four and had a very active social life, which meant she wasn’t habitually an early riser. She was punctual, usually getting into the office at eight on the dot, but “early” seldom happened in Diedra’s world.
She struggled in, carrying her purse, her briefcase, a venti Starbucks cup, and a large covered platter. When she saw her, Jaclyn leaped up from the worktable and hurried to take the platter before Diedra dropped it. It was surprisingly heavy, considering its size. “What’s this?”
“Food. Double-deluxe brownies, to be exact, with fudge icing. Made by my own dainty hands, because I figured if there was anything a murder suspect needed, it was chocolate.” Diedra set her cup of coffee down and shed her other burdens.
Jaclyn’s mouth started watering as she set the platter on the table. “Double-deluxe?” She didn’t know what that meant, but if it had to do with chocolate, it had to be good. Then she said, “How did you know?”
“Your mom called Peach, Peach called me. It’s silly, thinking you’d have killed the bitch, though if you had I’d give you an ironclad alibi, and you wouldn’t even have to pay me.” Diedra’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but, damn, it’s tough not to when you can’t think of anything good to say.”
“She can’t have been all bad. She had family and friends who loved her. We only saw the demanding side, and, really, no one deserves to die just because they’re demanding.”
“And petty and spiteful,” Diedra sai
d drily. “Don’t forget those parts.”
“Okay, she was demanding, petty, and spiteful. She still didn’t deserve to die.” Jaclyn didn’t know why she was defending Carrie; she hadn’t liked her, was glad Carrie had fired her, and the only reasons she was upset about the murder were because of where it had happened, and because she herself was a suspect. She did feel sorry for Carrie’s fiancé, but she’d have felt a lot sorrier for him if nothing had happened and he had actually married her.
“So, how did it happen? Was she shot? Clobbered over the head?”
Jaclyn paused, realized that last night neither Eric or Sergeant Garvey had said exactly how Carrie had been killed, and she’d been too rattled to ask. “I don’t really know. I just assumed she was shot.”
“You mean you didn’t ask?” Diedra looked astounded, as if she couldn’t believe Jaclyn’s oversight.
“I didn’t think about it. I was pretty upset when the detectives were interviewing me.” The smell of the still-warm brownies was getting to her, bringing her appetite back with a vengeance. She lifted the aluminum foil and took a deep breath. “How early did you get up to make these?”
“Too damn early. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”
“Well, thank God you came in early today of all days. One of the reasons the detectives were questioning me was that I left my briefcase at the reception hall, which means they have it and I don’t.”
Diedra looked taken aback. “You don’t ever forget your briefcase.”
“I did yesterday. I didn’t even realize I’d left it until the detectives mentioned it. The time with Carrie was upsetting.”
The question in Diedra’s eyes made Jaclyn draw a deep breath. She hated to go into the sordid details, but Carrie had slapped her in front of so many witnesses there was no way to keep it quiet. “It was a disaster from start to finish,” she said. “Gretchen quit, Estefani was about to quit, then Carrie slapped my face and fired me.”
“Oh. My. God.” Diedra’s mouth dropped open. Appalled, she stared at Jaclyn.
“I’m embarrassed that I just took it, that I didn’t hit her back,” Jaclyn confessed. “On the other hand, I’ve never been in a fight. She might have mopped the floor with me. But Bishop said she’d sue me, us, if I hit her, so I didn’t. I kept the legal and moral high ground, but, damn, I didn’t like doing it.”
“You were smart. She probably slapped you hoping she could get you to do something she could sue Premier for. I’ve met a few people like her before. They’re always pushing, always stirring up trouble and seeing how far they can go. It’s like they get off on it.”
That description summed up Carrie pretty well, Jaclyn thought. “Anyway, all I could think was to get the vendors out of there before she slapped one of them, too. Estefani was a little volcano, threatening to blow. I could just see the whole thing turning into a brawl that made the papers. Carrie demanded a refund, though, and I reminded her that the contract she’d signed stated any refunds were prorated. She didn’t like that, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Then I left. Melissa was in her office so she didn’t see me leave. A man drove up as I was getting in my car and he saw me, but I don’t know who he was so I don’t know how to find him, and he might have been the one who killed her, anyway.”
Diedra gasped. “You saw the killer?”
“I saw a man. He could have killed her. I don’t know that he did or didn’t.” Neither Eric nor Sergeant Garvey had seemed very impressed by her tale of a gray-haired man, and if Melissa hadn’t seen him, there was no way to prove he’d been there at all. After all, Jaclyn thought, she hadn’t actually seen him enter the building, either. Melissa might have already locked the front door, if she hadn’t had any other appointments coming in that day. The man might have gone around to the front, tried the door, then left.
“Did he see you?”
“He parked right beside me. I don’t know how he could have missed seeing me.”
Maybe Diedra watched too many crime shows on television, but her dark eyes got wide again. “If he’s the one who killed Carrie,” she said sharply, “then you’re the only one who can place him at the scene. He knows you saw him. You have to go into hiding!”
Chapter Fourteen
GOING INTO HIDING WASN’T AN OPTION—AT LEAST NOT this week, with their schedule so packed, not to mention she was pretty sure the Hopewell PD wouldn’t look kindly on her disappearing. Besides, how could the man she’d seen have had any idea who she was? For all he knew, she was someone there to inspect the hall with an eye toward booking it. And that was assuming the gray-haired man had killed Carrie, that he’d have any interest in her at all.
Still, the very idea was unsettling. She took solace in one of the brownies—there really was something comforting about chocolate—as she began going through her files and pulling out the details she needed for her working list for the day. Something in her balked at the idea of calling Eric for a favor; she’d rather go to the extra trouble of reassembling her file. Diedra helped her, combing through the computer for salient details, printing out photographs, digging out phone numbers.
Madelyn and Peach arrived within five minutes of each other, and each new arrival necessitated a rehashing of yesterday’s disastrous meeting, Carrie’s murder, speculation on who could have done it—the list was long and varied—as well as going over and over all the questions the police had asked. All of this was punctuated by expressions of outrage, concern, and support, and all of it took up time. So did their repeated raids on the brownies, but, damn, they were good.
Jaclyn was in her office on the phone to the restaurant where the post-rehearsal dinner was being held that night, confirming the reservation, when she heard the discreet chime of the security system that signaled the opening of the front door. A second later Diedra said, “Good morning, may I help you?”
“I’m Detective Wilder. Is Madelyn Wilde in?” a man asked, and Jaclyn went rigid. What was he doing here? Oh, right: asking more questions. Just hearing him speak made the bottom drop out of her stomach. She knew that voice, in ways she wished she didn’t. She’d first heard it fewer than forty-eight hours ago, but the fabric of it was ingrained on her consciousness. She’d heard him casually making small talk; she’d heard the deeper, rougher tones as they had sex; she’d heard him flat and dispassionate as he grilled her on whether or not she’d committed murder.
Instantly she was on her feet, then hesitated. Her instincts recognized him as a threat, but, realistically, what could she do? Deny him access to her mother? No way; he was a cop. If Madelyn refused to talk to him because she wanted to defend Jaclyn, that would only result in her mother being taken to police headquarters to answer questions there, and Jaclyn definitely didn’t want that.
Her only recourse, then, was to ignore him. That was the best-case scenario, if he and Madelyn would allow it. If Madelyn kicked up, Jaclyn would have to convince her mother to cooperate and answer all his questions. Anything else was up to Eric. She hoped he didn’t have any more questions for her, but if he did, she’d have to answer them as calmly as possible.
She was damned, though, if she’d go to the door, or even acknowledge his presence unless she was forced to; she sat back down, recovered herself enough to say “thank you” to the restaurant manager, and hang up while she checked that little item off her list. Then she very determinedly didn’t raise her head or even glance in the direction of the doorway.
Except she felt exposed, as if she’d been tossed naked into the middle of I-285. Before she could stop herself, she got up, leaped for the door, and slammed it shut.
The loud crack of the slamming door resounded through the office. Thoughtfully Eric stared at the glossy wooden panels. All he’d seen was a slim arm reaching for the edge of the door, but he didn’t have a second’s doubt whose office that was: Jaclyn’s. She was definitely pissed, and she definitely didn’t want to see him.
He looked back at the pretty young mixed-race woman who wa
s now glaring at him, all welcome wiped from her expression.
No doubt about it, he was in an enemy camp.
The Premier office didn’t look like an armed camp; it was feminine without being froufrou, more Old World traditional than anything else, with heavy curtains at the windows, rich-looking furniture, and a sense of permanency, as if it had been there since the Mayflower landed. Having been inside Jaclyn’s town house he could see some of her taste here in the office, in some of the pieces of furniture, in the artwork and flower arrangements. Even the desk of the young woman wasn’t a real desk, at least not a desk like the battered metal thing he had, but looked like an ornate table that just happened to have a sleek computer monitor on it.
The slamming door brought two more women into view, both of them middle-aged and attractive, though in different ways. One was shorter, rounder, with bright green eyes and pouffy red hair, and a sparkle in her eyes that said “good times had here.” She was obviously not Jaclyn’s mother, while the other woman just as obviously was, not in coloring—her hair was blond, though probably a shade found in a bottle, and while her eyes were blue they weren’t the vivid Black Irish blue of Jaclyn’s eyes—but in facial structure, with the same chiseled cheekbones, slightly squared-off chin, and the softly full shape of her mouth. Looking at Madelyn Wilde gave him a preview of what Jaclyn would look like in twenty-five or thirty years, and it was good.
Mentally he shook himself. What Madelyn Wilde looked like now, and how Jaclyn looked years from now, had nothing to do with him. “Madelyn Wilde?” he asked politely, even though he knew exactly who she was. He flashed his badge again. “Detective Eric Wilder. May I speak with you, please?”
She coldly eyed him, her pretty face taking on a belligerent expression. “What police department are you with?” she asked, though he thought she already knew damn good and well where he worked.
“Hopewell,” he replied.