by Jance, J. A.
Ali poured herself another cup of coffee and prepared for what she thought would be a long search, but she found what she was looking for almost immediately among the list of Arizona-based female profiles: the screen name Morgan le Fay.
From Camelot, Ali thought, drawing on her knowledge of Aunt Evie’s extensive collection of musical comedies. Like the fairy princess who caused all the trouble by packing off Merlin.
It took some time for her air card to download the profile, which consisted of several paragraphs of printed bio-style material along with a video clip. When that one finally opened, Ali saw a young woman sitting in a wooden swing, probably on the very porch where Morgan Forester had been murdered. She was a blond beauty with fine features, a winning smile, and an air of absolute innocence. Had Ali not heard what Billy Barnes had told Dave Holman about Morgan, Ali might have believed that look. Instead, she hit the play button, and the taped image of Morgan Forester began to speak:
“My grandmother loved records. Not CDs, but the old-fashioned black vinyl ones that played on phonographs. One of her favorites—one she listened to when she was washing dishes or doing the ironing—was done by a woman named Peggy Lee. I came into the house one time and found my grandmother sitting on the sofa crying with a record playing in the background. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me, ‘Oh, honey, it’s just so sad.’ ‘What’s so sad?’ I asked her. ‘This lady and her song,’ she said. ‘She’s singing about her life.’
“I loved my grandmother to pieces. It worried me that something could make her that upset, so I made it my business to find out which song it was that bothered her so much. ‘Is That All There Is?’ Eventually, my grandmother divorced my grandfather and came to live with us. She brought her records with her. I still have that one by Peggy Lee, and now I understand it. Too well. I’m living that same kind of life.
“If you asked any of my friends, they’d be surprised. They all think I have the perfect life, and maybe I do. I have a nice house, a nice car, good kids, and a nice husband, but it seems like nice is not enough. I keep asking myself the same question: Is this all there is?
“My husband and I started dating while we were still in high school. From the time I first knew him, he dreamed of having his own business. At first he worked construction for other people. When he was able to go off on his own, we both thought his dream—our dream—had come true. Now that he’s successful, it’s more like a nightmare. That’s all he thinks about all day long—his business. He lives, eats, and breathes his job. Yes, I’ll admit he brings in good money, but what good is money if we never do anything together or if we never have any fun?
“As far as I can see, I’m nothing more to him than a live-in cook and babysitter. Don’t get me wrong. I love my two girls. And I guess I even still love him a little. But I’m looking for something more. I want someone who will look at me and value me for the person I am. Someone who will see that I’m more than an attractive doormat in a very nice house. I don’t want to go to my grave still asking Peggy Lee’s old question, because I believe with all my heart that there is something more out there for me. Something better.”
For a long time after the clip ended, Ali sat staring at Morgan Forester’s features, slightly distorted but frozen in place on the computer screen. The whole thing left Ali feeling incredibly sad. The vital and attractive young woman who had filmed that clip was no more. The life she’d had—with her boring but hardworking husband and challenging seven-year-old daughters—really was all there was or ever would be, just like in the song. It sounded like Morgan had fallen out of love with her husband and was looking for more than a quick roll in the hay. But then she could be lying about that, too, Ali thought.
Whatever Morgan had wanted, or however much she had cheated on her husband, it seemed clear that she had cheated herself even more. Her craving for temporary excitement had robbed her of a lifetime of joy—of watching her children grow up and become adults themselves; of watching them marry and have children of their own. The real tragedy of Morgan Forester’s life was that she had missed it.
How could a few tawdry sexual encounters have been worth all that? Ali wondered, although Morgan couldn’t have known that she was putting her entire existence at risk.
When Ali had watched the tape of Dave’s interview with Billy Barnes, it had struck her as odd that Billy would have such intimate knowledge about Bryan and Morgan Forester’s private lives. Some men might go around pounding each other on the back and bragging about their various sexual exploits, but Ali couldn’t see Bryan admitting to anyone—especially one of his employees—that his marriage was going south and that his wife was screwing around on him. If Bryan hadn’t admitted any of that to Billy, how did Billy know so much? And why was the man so outspoken in his antipathy toward his boss’s dead wife? And why had he taken it all so personally?
Ali had been about to exit the website. Now, though, working on a hunch, she clicked back to the navigation page and pulled up the list of Arizona would-be bachelors, the men who were stalking the Internet in hopes of hooking up with like-minded women, sexual partners who were willing to play around with no strings attached.
This time the search took slightly longer, but as soon as she saw the screen name Billy Boy, she knew she was on the right track. After a few more clicks, there he was—Billy Barnes himself. His run-of-the-mill profile contained no film clip, just a still photo and a laudatory bio that made Billy sound like a well-to-do contractor in his own right rather than a guy working for someone else. Ali also remembered noticing that Billy wore a wedding ring, but that was hardly a surprise. After all, this site was a place for people who were single at heart as opposed to being single really.
Was it possible that Morgan and Billy had hooked up and had a fling? If so, it would have been a stunning double betrayal—an unfaithful wife deliberately carrying on an affair with a man who was both her husband’s friend and his employee. If it had happened, and if Bryan had somehow caught wind of it, would that—along with the missing cabinet deposits—have been enough to push him over the edge and set off a murderous rage?
But did it really happen? Ali wondered. Am I leaping to conclusions here?
The fact that both Billy and Morgan were members of Singleatheart didn’t necessarily mean that they’d been involved. But still, it was possible, and it meant that if nothing else, Billy knew about Morgan’s posting.
I know, Ali told herself. When I get to the other house, maybe I’ll ask Billy Barnes about this outright and see what he has to say.
Just then, though, her phone rang.
“Good morning, madam,” Leland Brooks said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it seems you have an unexpected guest. Mr. Jackson is here.”
“Mr. Jackson,” Ali repeated. “As in Jacky Jackson, my agent?”
“I believe that is correct,” Leland said. “He evidently came into Phoenix on an early flight from L.A. and drove straight here to see you.”
“Without calling in advance?”
“So it would seem,” Leland replied with a sigh.
Ali knew that Leland Brooks held an exceptionally low opinion of people who failed to observe the niceties of polite behavior. In his book, showing up uninvited and unannounced at someone’s home was a serious faux pax. Social anathema was more like it.
“I’m not sure how he knew to come here,” Leland went on, sounding aggrieved.
That was easy. Jacky was the one who had set up the Home & Garden TV gig. That meant he knew all about the house on Manzanita Hills Road. He probably also knew that Ali spent time there on a daily basis.
“What does he want?” Ali asked.
“Other than hinting it’s a matter of some urgency, he didn’t say,” Leland answered. “I gave him a cup of coffee and stowed him at the table outside. I used the excuse of making him an omelette to come inside and call you. If you’d like me to tell him you’re unavailable and send him on his way…”
“No,” Ali said with a laug
h. “I’ll handle it. I’ll be there in a few.”
“Very well,” Leland said. “I’ll do my best to keep him occupied in the meantime.”
Putting down the phone, Ali closed her computer and threw on some clothes. After pulling her hair into a ponytail and without bothering to apply any makeup, she headed for Manzanita Hills Road. All the time she was getting dressed, she was trying to figure out what Jacky was doing here. After all, Sedona was a long way out of his natural habitat in southern California.
Although Jacky had been Ali’s agent for years, she was more than ready to be done with him. In the aftermath of her divorce from the network bigwig Paul Grayson, Jacky had distanced himself from her completely. Yes, he had come up with the home-remodel filming project, but Ali suspected he had done that more because it would be good for him than because it would be good for her. Ali really was interested in the process of bringing back and preserving architectural treasures that were in danger of being bulldozed. Jacky, on the other hand, was interested in Jacky.
Ali had considered leaving him on more than one occasion, especially now, when she had no intention of going back to work. But with only a few months left on her contract, she had decided to run out the clock rather than making a break. Letting their agreement simply disappear would be a lot less messy than going to the trouble of ending it prematurely. Had he somehow gotten wind of her possible defection? Had someone mentioned to him that Ali Reynolds was about to flee the Jacky Jackson coop?
That brought her back to her original question: What was Jacky doing here? Maybe he had ridden into town at the behest of Raymond and Robert, the camera guys. Was it possible the enterprising videographers had found someone willing to pay top dollar for the off-limits homicide-investigation portion of their film? Ali suspected it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to find someone willing and able to outbid Home & Garden TV’s lowball offer. If Raymond and Robert were hoping to transform their remodeling gig into something else, maybe Jacky had come to see her in hopes of convincing Ali to change her mind and let them run with it.
As usual, the lower part of Ali’s driveway was lined with pickup trucks, which meant that even without Bryan Forester, his work crew was on the scene. After threading her way up the hill to the top of the drive, Ali found a rented Lincoln Town Car in her accustomed parking spot. Count on Jacky to grab the prime spot, she thought as she made her way over to the covered picnic table where Jacky was seated. Wearing a down vest and huddled next to the roaring propane heater, her uninvited guest was polishing off the last few bites of what appeared to be one of Leland Brooks’s fluffy three-egg omelettes.
“My, my, my,” Jacky cooed as Ali approached. “Wherever did you find such a marvelous cook way out here in the sticks? I don’t think I’ve ever had a better omelette.” He handed his empty plate over to Leland, who took it with a stiffly polite nod and walked away. Jacky’s referring to Leland Brooks as a cook was a joke. He might as well have called a Kentucky Derby–winning thoroughbred a nag. Yes, Leland cooked on occasion, but he was far more than that. At a time when he might reasonably have put himself out to pasture, he had stayed on to help Ali with the complicated remodel and had morphed into a friend. She sometimes suspected that in helping her, Leland was also helping himself as he, too, tried to move beyond his own set of betrayals.
“If you ever want to unload him,” Jacky continued tactlessly, “I’m sure I could come up with a list of ten people who would be happy to snap him up.”
“Mr. Brooks is fully employed,” Ali said. “He’s not available.”
“Too bad,” Jacky said. Belatedly, he rose to greet her. After a peremptory kiss on each cheek, he held her at arm’s length and examined her. There was no disguising the dismay that registered on his face.
“My goodness, Ali!” he exclaimed. “Just because you’re stuck here in lovely, charming, perfect Sedona is no excuse for letting yourself go. What are you thinking? No makeup, bag-lady clothes, hair in a ponytail? Bad for your image, darling, very bad. What would people think?”
“They might think I was having to deal with company that hadn’t bothered calling in advance,” she said. “And if you’ll pardon my saying so, you don’t look all that great yourself.”
“Oh, that,” Jacky said with a dismissive wave. “That comes from flying at such an ungodly hour. Had to be at the Burbank airport at oh-dark-thirty this morning. I’m missing several critical hours of beauty sleep. And can you believe it? Even at that ungodly hour, the plane was totally packed. Not a single empty seat to be had. Squalling babies everywhere.”
“Yes,” Ali agreed. “I see what you mean. It’s always a shock to see how the other half lives.” It annoyed her to realize that Jacky somehow brought out the worst in her. It was as though his perpetual bitchiness were a communicable disease.
Leland returned from his trailer, poured Ali a cup of coffee, and handed it over. “Will you require anything else, madam?” he asked formally, nodding imperceptibly in Jacky’s direction.
Ali smiled at him. “We’re fine for now, Mr. Brooks,” she said.
As Leland headed back to his fifth wheel, Jacky watched him go with mouthwatering intensity. “Such a lovely man,” he said admiringly.
“Knock it off, Jacky,” Ali ordered. “I already told you Mr. Brooks is not available. He’s fully employed. He’s also taken.”
“Spoilsport,” Jacky said.
Ali was tired of small talk. “I’m pretty busy at the moment,” she told him. “What is it you want?”
“Don’t be so cross,” Jacky purred. “I’ve got this wonderful, wonderful opportunity for you, something you’d be utterly perfect for. And you know me. I never discuss important negotiations over the phone. I’m a face-to-face, belly-to-belly kind of guy. So that’s why I’m here: to offer you a golden opportunity to go back to work doing what you love—to get you back where you belong, in front of a television camera. Fortunately, the project is being put together by some very talented people who happen to have enough money at their disposal to do things right.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Ali said. “What project do you have in mind?”
“All right, so maybe it’s a bit of a knockoff—a second-generation America’s Most Wanted, if you will, but do you know how long that program has been on the air? Besides, as they say, imitation is the highest form of flattery. You’ve built up a bit of a crimefighting reputation since you’ve been off the air. It seems to me this would be a great fit.”
“What are you asking me to do?” Ali asked. “Host it?”
“Oh, no,” Jacky said too quickly. “Nothing like that. They’ve already lined up a man-type to do the actual hosting job. They want you to be one of their personalities—one of the team of on-air folks and producers who go around the country and pull together various independent segments. You’d have a lot of autonomy, Ali. You’d be able to call your own shots.”
Unfortunately, Ali was able to read between the lines. She understood what Jacky wasn’t saying as much as what he was. No doubt one of his other clients—a male big-name client—was being tapped for the host job. What Jacky was doing was pulling in people to fill out the rest of the package.
“I’m calling my own shots now,” she said. “I’m not interested.”
“But you’re not working,” Jacky insisted. “Come on. Let me at least show you the proposal and bring you into the picture as far as the dollars are concerned. This is a good deal, Ali, darling. A very good deal, and despite the fact that you’ve been out of the loop and really need to make a comeback, they’re still willing to pay some real money.”
“Who says I need to make a comeback?” Ali returned abruptly. “And I don’t care that much about the money. I don’t need more money.”
In Jacky’s world, everyone wanted more money. The idea that Ali didn’t left him stunned. The lingering silence between them was broken by the ringing of Ali’s cell phone. A glance at caller ID told Ali her mother was on the phone. Oddly enough for that time
of day, Edie Larson was calling from home rather than the restaurant.
Ali felt a moment of panic. Is Mom sick? she wondered. Or has something happened to Dad?
“This is a good deal, Ali,” Jacky went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “Surely you wouldn’t just turn your back on it.”
But Ali’s attention was focused on her phone. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I’ve got to take this.” She got up and walked far enough away to be out of earshot before she answered. “Hello, Mom,” she said. “What’s up? Are you all right?”
“I just had a call from Chris,” Edie said. “And it’s all so upsetting. He lit into me something terrible. He’s never spoken to me like that before, Ali. Not ever. He made it sound like the baking I did yesterday was some kind of criminal offense. I was trying to help out. I wanted to make their engagement party a special occasion. How could it go so wrong?”
There was an odd sound. It took Ali a moment to realize that her mother was actually snuffling into the phone. From what she was saying, Chris had taken Ali at her word and tackled his grandmother on the subject of wedding planning. Ali remembered mentioning to Chris that he should try to be diplomatic. Evidently, that part of the message hadn’t gotten through.
“Mom,” Ali said, “are you crying?”
“Well, maybe a little,” Edie admitted. “I’m so upset, though, that I can’t help it. Your father sent me home. He said he didn’t want me making a fool of myself in front of all the customers. He’s right about that, of course. Fortunately, the restaurant isn’t busy, and Jan is holding down the fort.”
Jan Howard was the Sugarloaf Café’s long-term waitress. She and Edie handled the front of the house while Bob Larson handled most of the kitchen chores.
“Hold on,” Ali said to her mother. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
