Black. He sounded the word slowly, deliberately, in his mind. No one word could have described this day better.
“Nick, your brother-in-law is looking for you at the gravesite.”
Jamie hurried up the stairs, dressed in a black skirt and sweater, now soaked and clinging tightly to her body. Wet strands of auburn hair plastered themselves across her cheeks. The same urge to hold her he’d had at his house swept through him. The same urge to not be alone; to be with someone who cared. He left the cover of Danny’s umbrella and gave her a quick hug. “Here,” he said, moving her under the spot he’d just vacated. “You need this more than I do. Your mascara’s going to smear if you keep standing in the rain.”
“Thanks.” She ducked under the umbrella.
She hadn’t called or stopped by the office in a couple of days, and Nick was pretty sure he knew why. That stupid, drunken kiss he’d foisted on her, and his spoken desire to take her to bed. Must have made her uncomfortable. Or was her obvious response to his touch what bothered her? Drunk as he’d been, he hadn’t missed it. He wondered if she knew how vividly he remembered their kiss. Or did she figure he’d been too drunk to recall? Her woman’s intuition was pretty sharp. She must have known it was more than a drunken indiscretion.
Moving quickly through the rain, he put thoughts of kissing Jamie behind him and stubbornly focused his thoughts on Janelle’s final good-bye. The hole for her casket had been dug yesterday and was now covered with a black tarp to keep it from filling with water. Her casket would remain inside the chapel for now, waiting for the rain to subside before the actual burial could take place. Reverend Moloney, however, was old school, and insisted on giving his final prayer at the gravesite, despite the downpour. He stood at the head of the burial site when Nick arrived, holding a Bible in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
Directing the mourners to bow their heads, he began speaking, and Nick’s thoughts drifted off to happier days. The wedding and honeymoon in Tahiti. Running The Tattletale and getting Just the Facts, his first serious news magazine, launched. He’d sold off the TV and radio stations owned by Ty-Ken, the company he’d bought from Janelle’s brother, Preston, and used the money to make Just the Facts a product he was really proud of. Preston had been pissed about that. Accused Nick of selling out the Tyler family legacy. But Nick was a news guy through and through. And he didn’t want to be anything else.
The first year of his re-marriage to Janelle had been great. Until the day he’d brought up children. Though officially resolved, the issue had never gone away, and remained like a blistering resentment between them. Even though he’d given up asking, she’d never forgiven him for wanting children in the first place. And he’d never gotten over being denied something he wanted so badly. The last months of their marriage had been miserable. And he couldn’t think of a worse way to have it all end.
Reverend Moloney finished his prayers, saying, “Amen,” and Nick left quickly, sure if he continued to stand there any longer his sorrow would win out and he’d break down. And some Tidbits photographer would sprint from behind a tree and capture the moment for posterity.
He needed to get through this day. Get through this one day, and then maybe he could start dealing with his life again. He’d reached the limo before he heard the sound of footsteps following him. Turning, he saw Preston. He couldn’t think of anything to say that mattered, so he stood silently, waiting to see what the man wanted.
Preston approached the vehicle. “Nick, I’m sorry about the dirty look I gave you for hurrying off after Reverend Moloney finished his prayer. I didn’t realize what was going on with the Tidbits story today.”
Nick glanced at him and the small group of mourners who’d followed. Maggie, his wife, sported a noticeable baby bump, their adopted son Scott stood beside her. Her friend Tracy stood at her other side. Tracy’s husband, Janelle’s Uncle Henry, and Tracy’s two girls were there, too. All standing in the rain, umbrellas pushed up over their heads, watching him. He’d barely been aware of them before. He certainly hadn’t been aware of any dirty looks. It surprised him to hear it now.
An uncomfortable feeling smothered him. Like he’d been placed on trial, with every response, every action and reaction, scrutinized to ensure they were what was expected of a man in his position. To hell with them, he thought dully. He’d been his own man since the day he left home, and he wasn’t about to change now. He’d grieve in his own way. Just as he had been doing for most of the last year.
Already he felt less like family. The marital connection had been severed. Wouldn’t be long before invitations to family holidays and celebrations stopped coming and he went back to being an outsider in the Tyler clan.
Actually, he reminded himself, he’d always been an outsider. No one in the Tyler family had ever bothered getting to know him. He couldn’t remember a single conversation he’d had with any of them that wasn’t superficial.
“Thanks, Preston.” He nodded at his brother-in-law. Or rather, former brother-in-law. “Peter Arnold’s been out to break my balls since the day I started The Tattletale. Told me flat out the day would come when he’d make me regret it. Unfortunately, my grief is nothing but a field day for him.”
“I can’t believe that man.” Maggie’s voice filled with indignation. “You’d think he could at least show you a little professional courtesy. You are colleagues.”
Nick managed a chuckle that came out sounding more like he was choking. “I’m afraid professional courtesy only works for doctors. In the gossip business it’s dog eat dog.”
“No kidding.” Tracy sounded equally indignant. “I never thought I’d see the day when a tabloid owner scooped another tabloid owner on the murder of his wife.”
She’d voiced his thoughts exactly. He didn’t like getting scooped on any news story, let alone one he was a part of. He had a publishing business. His family tragedy was breaking news. Yet, it was the competition breaking the news and dissecting the details.
“I, for one, commend your restraint,” Preston said. “Having my sister’s murder smeared all over the press is not the sort of thing I care to see.”
Nick cleared his throat. “Like it or not, it’s in the press now, and I can guarantee Peter Arnold won’t be backing down. In fact, you can probably expect everyone from People to the Weekly World News to jump on the bandwagon any day. That’s the way this business works. I need to get out in front of this before my competitors turn me into some kind of joke.”
“Does that mean you’ll be turning Janelle’s death into fodder for your paper?”
The tone in Preston’s voice couldn’t have been colder if it were an iceberg. No point in trying to deflect it either. He’d have as much luck as the Titanic. “I still have a business to run. And I am not going to become the laughing stock of the industry while every paper in the country but mine reports on Janelle’s death. I intend to be the one breaking the news from now on. The first headline trumpeting the arrest of Janelle’s killer is going to be mine. I promise you that.”
“I see.”
There it was; the beginning seeds of conflict. The old dislike that had passed between them years earlier, before he’d rescued Ty-Ken from Andy Clarke’s unwelcome takeover bid, sprouted back to life. Preston opened his mouth, as if to say something more, but Maggie touched her husband’s arm, and he remained silent. Nick had always liked Maggie. He’d have to remember to thank her someday for sparing him a family feud at Janelle’s funeral.
He excused himself and got into the waiting limo. Nothing left to be said. And he was soaked to the skin. He’d gotten through the day, but he didn’t feel any better.
Chapter 7
Marianne Clarke sat alone in her kitchen drinking coffee, a copy of Tidbits in hand. She read the story on Janelle Tyler-Beck’s murder with keen interest. Two years ago she’d suffered the nightmare of losing her only child, her daughter Taralynn, after Nicholas Beck ran nearly x-rated photos of her in that gossip rag he published. “How do
es it feel, Nick?” she asked, listening to the sound of her own voice. “Not so much fun losing someone you love, is it?”
She’d studied the photos in depth. The shot of Nick punching Peter Arnold in the jaw on the steps of the police station was priceless, and made her laugh. Even better was the one of him on his knees outside the country club, getting his first look at his dead wife’s body. That one was her favorite. “I have photos, too, you know,” she said to no one in particular. And to confirm the statement, she looked around her kitchen, taking in the many framed photos of her daughter. Taralynn had been so beautiful. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Flawless skin.
Instinctively, Marianne put a hand to her face, touching the creamy smooth complexion that had once been young and wrinkle-free, just like her daughter’s. Getting up from the table, she walked over to the center island and picked up a large silver-framed picture of her daughter taken just after she graduated high school. Lovingly, she touched the face still smiling out at her. “You had such a bright future ahead of you,” she said. “You were captain of the cheerleading squad. You went to finishing school in Switzerland and to a good, Ivy League college. Your marriage to a wealthy man from a prominent family was practically guaranteed.”
Marianne set down the photograph and went back to her coffee, which had now grown cold. Her dreams for her daughter had died two years ago when Taralynn killed herself. Her dreams for her own life had died many years earlier, when the handsome, ambitious man she’d married after college turned out to be a womanizing cad, constantly threatening to divorce her and cut her off the gravy train. She only had one dream left now, and seeing Nicholas Beck’s grief-stricken face on the cover of Tidbits brought it one step closer to reality.
Chapter 8
Was Nicholas Beck involved in his wife’s murder? Ernesta Freeman, Sarge as she called herself, regarded the man seated in front of her. Three frustrating weeks had passed since Janelle Tyler-Beck’s murder. A murder with no physical evidence: no fingerprints, no trace fibers, no DNA left at the scene, save the vic’s. Also, no witnesses, no surveillance camera footage, and as far as she could tell, no real motive.
This was her second interview with the vic’s husband, Nicholas Beck, and he was much more in control this time than during his first visit to the station. And, she noted with interest, still not represented by counsel. Given his airtight alibi, she supposed he didn’t see the need.
A very handsome face stared back at her. Strong jaw line. Dark, brooding eyes. Salt-and-pepper wavy hair. More pepper still than salt. And well-built. His biceps strained in the confines of the white dress shirt he wore. No doubt any number of women would willingly jump into bed with him, married or not. The real question was, had he been willing to jump into bed with any of them?
She’d checked him out, of course. Learned he’d been active on the bachelor circuit during the five years separating his first marriage to Janelle Tyler-Beck from their remarriage. Rumors still circulated he’d spent a night or two with Taralynn Clarke prior to her swan dive off her condo balcony two years ago. But, by all accounts, he’d been a true-blue husband since he and Janelle hooked back up. Even the vic’s relatives thought so, all describing Mr. Beck as a man faithful to his wife. They’d all known about the Beck’s disagreement over having children. And they’d all agreed with Nick’s statement that the matter had been settled. With one notable exception, the vic’s brother. For reasons he wouldn’t elaborate on, Preston Tyler remained convinced his sister’s marriage was on shaky ground. Though when pressed to identify why, he claimed it was just gut instinct. Even Preston Tyler, however, insisted Nicholas Beck was not a man who would have harmed his wife, let alone had anything to do with her death.
He was a man with an obvious temper though. The shot of him punching Peter Arnold on the police department steps weighed heavily on her mind. Was that an isolated incident brought on by grief? Or a glimpse of a personality trait he worked hard to keep hidden?
Her gut told her she was looking at a man genuinely upset over his wife’s death. He could still be guilty, of course. Wouldn’t be the first person in history to have offed his spouse and then gotten an attack of conscience after the fact. She’d been on the force long enough to have seen some Oscar-worthy performances, but she got the feeling this wasn’t one of them.
“Why don’t you tell me what all the cloak and dagger stuff is about?” he asked.
“Cloak and dagger stuff? What do you mean? You make this sound like some sort of spy novel.”
“I’m in the newspaper business,” he said wearily. “And I can tell by the guarded way you’re looking at me you’re not telling me something.”
“That good at reading people, are you?”
“I told you. I’m in the newspaper business.”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. “Why don’t we just get down to the facts then?”
“I assume that’s why you’ve asked me here.”
She nodded. “It is. Can you tell me the name of your wife’s drug dealer?”
“What!?” He nearly choked. “What the hell are you talking about? My wife didn’t use drugs.”
Man certainly acted like it came as a surprise. “You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure about that. Smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol, sure. But that was it. No pot smoking. No pill popping. Nothing that would require a drug dealer.”
She continued staring at him. Either his late wife didn’t use drugs, or he was lying. That wasn’t the kind of thing a person could really hide from their spouse. Especially not one in the business of tracking down news.
“My wife did not use drugs,” he repeated. “Why would you even think that?”
Sarge pulled a stapled report from a manila folder on her desk and slid it in his direction. “Because she died with enough methadone in her system to give a hard-core junkie a good high.”
He couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d hooked him up to an electric chair and zapped him. Taking the sheets of paper offered, he read through Janelle’s autopsy report. He took his time, appearing to take in every morbid detail. Sarge had memorized the details the first time she’d read the report. Cause of death was strangulation. News of the methadone appeared halfway down the second page, under the toxicology report. The drug had been injected, and this dosage, according to the coroner, would have proven fatal even without the strangulation.
Nick looked ill. Like someone had just punched him in the gut. “Now that you’ve had some time to think about it,” she said. “Do you have any more thoughts on who was supplying your wife with drugs?”
“I don’t believe my wife was using drugs.” He sounded calm. Like he’d already digested the news and decided on the answer. “The killer must have injected her with the methadone either before or after killing her. Have you considered that?”
If he had been involved, and that’s how it went down, would he bring it up as a possibility? Try to make it look like he wasn’t hiding anything? “I’ve considered it,” she replied, not telling him the absence of prior track marks on the victim was one reason why. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to latch onto that theory just yet. I can’t think of any motive for the killer to do that.”
“Whether we know the killer’s motivation or not, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“That remains to be seen. In any event, our department has decided to keep the drugs found in your wife’s body out of the press, just in case it’s related to her murder.”
He let out a small sigh of relief. “Whatever the reason, I can tell you Janelle’s family and I appreciate it.”
She noted he didn’t include himself when referring to his wife’s family. A sign of trouble in paradise? Despite her gut instinct he was innocent, he bore watching. “Don’t show too much appreciation yet,” she warned. “How this investigation proceeds will determine what information is, or is not, disclosed to the press.”
The responding tight set to his
jaw gave away his displeasure. “I don’t see how disclosing my wife died with methadone in her body could help your investigation. Regardless of how it proceeds.”
“You could be right.”
“But you’re not going to guarantee anything?”
“This is a police department, Mr. Beck; not an infomercial. You’ll find guarantees few and far between around here.”
“Fine.”
He seemed resigned to that fact.
“If you do decide, for some legitimate, investigative reason, to make the methadone detail public, please let me know first, so I can prepare her family.”
There it was again. Referring to the vic’s family in a way that excluded himself. She made a note to question the Tyler woman’s family members about their relationship with Mr. Beck. Find out why his relationship with them might have been strained.
He rose to leave, but she wasn’t quite done with him. “Mr. Beck, I wonder if you’d be willing to let a couple of my detectives come by your house and look for any journals or diaries your wife may have kept?”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“In case your wife wrote about anything, appointments or disagreements, she might have had. Things that might help explain her murder.”
“I’ll check my calendar and let you know.”
Obviously, he wanted to be home for any police searches, and possibly even dig up his lawyer, too. “Very well. I’ll wait to hear from you. Thank you for stopping by.”
“No problem.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Happy to cooperate.”
As soon as he left, she buzzed the intercom on her desk. “Sanchez, start working on a search warrant for the home of Nicholas Beck.”
If the man had anything to hide, she would find out.
Gossip (Desire Never Dies) Page 3
