Then Regina scoffed at her musings, realizing she was letting her stress level override her good sense. The most likely story was that the item listed was simply a duplicate or a reproduction. The reserve price was steep—$750. Out of her price range, but she could at least make an inquiry for more details. The seller’s nickname, a43987112, meant nothing to her. She clicked on seller history, but there was none, and, strangely, a search for other items offered by the seller produced zero hits.
She clicked on the link to e-mail the seller directly and typed in: “Can you tell me the origin of the Russian sterling letter opener, when it came into your possession, and identify the silversmith markings?”
She sent the note, then bit into her lip when she realized her buyer nickname, ReginaM, would be visible to the seller. A few seconds later she laughed at herself—in the unlikely event that a43987112 had stolen the letter opener from the murder scene and was now, twenty years later, trying to unload it on the ‘Net, he wasn’t apt to connect her indistinct nickname to Monroeville, North Carolina, and even less likely to connect her to Lyla’s murder. Her emotional energy would be much better spent preparing to deal with her impending visit home. She shut down her computer.
The penne marinara had set up in the container like red mortar. She dropped it into the trash and grabbed a Fudgsicle from the fridge. Her briefcase called to her, so she answered with a sigh and dragged out the paperwork she didn’t want to do. Her mind wandered idly to Alan Garvo, as it was prone to do during bouts of loneliness. A perfectly decent man with no visible defects. But they seemed to have run out of things to talk about after a few dates. And after they’d seen every movie released, there wasn’t much left to do. In truth, most of the time they both preferred a good book to each other’s company. When a book wasn’t enough, they spent the night together and parted as satisfied friends until the next occasion.
She wished, however, that she missed Alan other than just the lonely times—she wanted a lover who would make her pause when she dressed in the mornings, distract her from business meetings, sidetrack her when she read on the train. But she’d come to the conclusion, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, that a woman couldn’t endure that kind of attraction without losing too much of herself. If she needed proof, she had no further to look than her derailed sisters.
A news title on the television caught her attention. “Shooting at Cocoon Cosmetics in Shively, Pennsylvania.” Recognizing Justine’s workplace, her pulse spiked. She leaned forward and nudged up the volume.
“—the woman, identified as Lisa Crane, is accused of seriously wounding her husband, Randall Crane, with a handgun, then storming the Cocoon headquarters and wounding a female executive whose name has not been released.”
A picture of an attractive, smiling woman flashed on the screen. Lisa Crane didn’t look like someone who would go on a shooting rampage, but then again, everyone had their breaking point.
“Police are warning residents in the Shively area that the suspect is armed and considered dangerous. If you see Lisa Crane, do not approach her. Contact the state police or the FBI at the numbers on your screen.”
How bizarre. If the employee shot was an executive of Cocoon, Justine probably knew her. The sketchy details suggested some kind of a love triangle.
Justine. Regina lunged for the phone.
Chapter 5
When you’re in deep relationship hooey, DO stop digging.
Justine frowned at the emergency room nurse. “Shouldn’t you keep me overnight for observation or something?”
The nurse angled her head. “I know you had a scare, Ms. Metcalf, but you’re free to go after you talk to the police. Change the Band-Aid every day, and it probably won’t even scar.”
Justine rubbed her forearm where a chair leg had gouged her. “Okay.”
“Your friend is waiting outside.”
“Friend?” She didn’t have any friends. Even her Secret Santa at the office had left her a gift-wrapped broom.
“A Ms. Birch, I think she said her name was.”
Oh, shit. “Thanks.” She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the hospital bed. She still had no underwear. She retrieved her soiled suit jacket from a sterile-looking credenza and found her shoes. She needed a cigarette but bad.
After slipping into her jacket, she exited the emergency area through a series of ominous-looking doors. To prevent the sweet medicinal odor from turning her empty stomach, she brought her sleeve to her nose. Terri and Jim Birch sat on a bench in the hall just inside the registration desk. Terri looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedge. She saw Justine and stood, clutching Justine’s Hartman briefcase and Prada bag. Jim Birch stood, too, but hung back and kept his gaze lowered as Terri stepped forward.
“Are you okay, Justine?”
She nodded. “Just a scratch. How is Bobbie?” Apparently the Barbie Doll had saved the day by tackling Lisa Crane and had been shot in the shoulder for her heroics.
“She’s out of surgery. The doctors say she’ll have a full recovery.”
“That’s good news.” She’d send huge flowers, of course. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Randall Crane?”
“We heard on the television that he’s still alive, but that’s all I know.”
That was something anyway. “And the Crane woman?”
Terri fingered her hair where the barrel of the gun had pressed into her head. “According to the news reports, she’s still a fugitive.”
How hard could it be to find a middle-aged woman waving a gun in Shively, Pennsylvania?
“I thought you’d need these,” Terri said, extending the briefcase and purse. “And Jim drove your car over. It’s in visitor parking.”
Justine squelched a flicker of annoyance that someone had driven her car, even if she had slept with the man. “Thanks. Really.” She glanced at her watch. Only three-thirty—unbelievable. “Under the circumstances, Terri, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off.”
Terri glanced at her husband. “Wait for me outside.”
Jim flashed Justine a panicky look, then left. The man wasn’t nearly as good-looking in the daylight when she was stone sober. Terri Birch was a loyal, low-maintenance coworker who didn’t deserve to be humiliated behind her back. For the first time in a long time, Justine experienced a stab of remorse for her behavior. A person can’t just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it.
“Terri, thank you for—”
“Justine, you’re suspended.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re suspended without pay for three weeks. During that time a panel of managers will convene to determine if you will remain at Cocoon in the same capacity, or perhaps in another position.”
She smiled in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You’re blaming me for that lunatic storming in with a gun?”
Terri sighed. “Justine, you’ve run roughshod over your coworkers for years—”
“I get results.”
“—and your indiscretions are legendary.”
“My private life is no one’s business.”
“It is when you sleep with the husbands of your peers.”
Justine balked at the hurt in Terri’s eyes. Jimbo had a big guilty conscience, and a mouth to match. “Look, Terri, Jim and I were both drunk—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She surveyed the woman’s lifted chin, the careful stare, and she understood. Terri couldn’t very well contribute to her demotion for personal reasons, so she would deny knowledge of any incident between Justine and her husband.
“But I do know, Justine, that your immoral behavior led to today’s episode. It’s a miracle someone wasn’t killed, or all of us. At the very least, it’s bad publicity for Cocoon.”
Justine took a deep breath. “I’d like to talk to Deidre about this.” She and the CEO had never been friends, but the woman respected Justine’s role in improving the company
’s bottom line.
Terri pressed her lips together. “Deidre wanted you fired. Legal insisted on a review period.”
Okay, that hurt.
“It’s a gift, Justine. Accept the suspension gracefully and reflect on… what you’ve done.”
Like a child being put in time-out. Justine blinked rapidly, tightening her grip on her briefcase until her fingers ached. She refused to cry.
The door opened and two police officers walked in. The taller one she vaguely recognized, although it took a few seconds to remember that she’d had an affair with his partner last year—or maybe it was the year before. She’d met them both in a bar, and this one hadn’t approved of his friend’s extracurricular activities. At the moment, however, the names of both men escaped her.
The man’s stiff demeanor indicated that he remembered her, too. “Ms. Justine Metcalf?”
She nodded.
“We’re Officers Lando and Walker.”
Ah—Lando. Broad guy, receding hairline. His friend had been a lean, dark-headed looker.
“We need to ask you some questions.”
Terri nodded to the men as she left—apparently she’d already chatted with them.
Justine sat on the bench and opened her purse. “Care if I smoke, Officers?”
Lando lifted an eyebrow. “This is a hospital.”
“Oh. Right.” She closed her purse. “What can I do for you?”
The other guy, Walker, flipped open a notebook. “How well do you know Lisa Crane?”
“I’d never seen her until today.”
“But you knew her?”
She watched Lando watch her cross her legs. “I know her husband, Randall, and he’d mentioned her name. By the way, how is Randall? She said she shot him.”
Walker made a rueful noise. “Got him in the business area, if you know what I mean.”
She winced.
“He’s at the university hospital, in stable condition,” Walker added. Then he pulled a plastic Baggie from inside his jacket pocket. “Ms. Metcalf, are these yours?”
Lando looked up at the ceiling. Justine smirked. Her panties—were they to be exhibited all over town? “Yes. May I have them back?”
“I’m afraid not,” Walker said, and stuffed the evidence back into his pocket. “You were having an affair with Randall Crane?”
“I was.”
“He’s a partner in the firm Crane and Poplin?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how his wife found out about the affair?”
“No, I don’t.”
“When and where did you meet Mr. Crane to… you know.”
“During our lunch hour at the Rosewood Hotel.”
“Every time?”
“Yes. Same room. Four-ten.”
“How many times did the two of you, um, rendezvous?”
“I didn’t count.”
“More than ten?”
“Yes.”
“More than twenty?”
She sighed. “Two or three times a week, for about three months now. Do the math.”
“Did you use your real names when you booked the room?”
“Randall always got the room; I don’t know what names he might have used.”
“When did you last meet with Mr. Crane?”
“Let’s just say I put on those panties this morning.”
Walker squirmed, then scribbled something on his pad. “We haven’t been able to locate Mrs. Crane.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Do you have a friend you can stay with tonight?”
“Why? Do you think she’ll come after me again?”
“It’s a possibility. We have a guard posted at Mr. Crane’s hospital room.”
She swallowed hard. “I have a state-of-the-art security system.” And she had nowhere else to stay, unless she went to a hotel.
“Still, be careful. And you might want to avoid going into your office until we have Mrs. Crane in custody.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she murmured. “I’m taking some time off.”
He nodded. “Keep us posted on your whereabouts. Meanwhile, if you see Mrs. Crane, call nine-one-one.”
“Sure thing. Can I go home now?”
Lando cleared his throat. “Would you like for us to drop you off?”
She stood. “No, my car is here. Thanks anyway.”
“We’ll walk you out—there’s quite a press mob outside.”
The crush of reporters shouldn’t have surprised her. In Shively, where the headlines usually consisted of art festivals and school board meetings, a workplace shooting was big honking news. Toss in a disgruntled housewife of a community pillar and heck, a local reporter might land a twenty-second spot on the network evening broadcast.
Justine held up her purse to cover her face until they were clear of the crowd, then used the panic button on her key chain to locate her custom yellow Mercedes in the parking lot. As she walked, her mind raced in conflict to the pleasant July weather, trying to process the day’s events and figure out what might happen next.
“Nice ride,” Lando said as she opened the door.
“Thanks.” She set her briefcase on the floorboard, her purse on the seat, and nodded toward his partner, who stood on the sidewalk talking on a cell phone. “What happened to your other partner?”
“Milken?” Lando worked his mouth side to side. “He and his wife split up, then got back together and decided to move closer to her family for the sake of the kids.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
He shuffled his feet. “Listen, it’s not every day a person gets shot at. Are you going to be okay?”
“Fine.”
“A unit will patrol your street. If the Crane woman shows up, we’ll know about it.”
“Thanks, Lando.” She slid behind the driver’s wheel.
“Justine?”
“Yeah?”
Lando scratched his head. “I don’t get it. You’re a great-looking dame with a good job, and you’re no slouch in the smarts department. Why do you fool around with married men?”
Molten anger hemorrhaged through her at his self-righteous stance. “Don’t you dare judge me because the men I sleep with don’t have the fortitude to be faithful to their wives. They took vows, not me.”
Lando stepped back, and she slammed the door. She turned over the V-8 engine and revved it twice before peeling out. Lando looked after her, shaking his head. She offered him her finger in the rear-view mirror and pulled out of the parking lot onto a side street. When she stopped at an intersection, she lit a cigarette and flipped on the radio.
“—armed and dangerous. Bobbie L. Donetti, the Cocoon employee who subdued the assailant, is recovering from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Doctors report her prognosis is good. No official word on the motivation behind the shooting, but unofficial sources say the Crane woman was distraught over an alleged affair between her husband, who was seriously wounded in an earlier incident, and another Cocoon employee. Lisa Crane was last seen wearing a brown sweater—”
She flipped off the radio and gripped the steering wheel. A cold sweat enveloped her, and her arms shook as the gravity of the situation slowly sank in. She could be dead right now. Or maimed like poor Randall. Dead over an affair whose importance to her fell somewhere between having a pleasant meal and finding the perfect shade of red lipstick.
A beeping horn sent her heart into her throat. Spent ash dropped from the tip of her cigarette and scorched a circle of precious pearl leather next to her thigh. Her gaze shot to the rear-view mirror, her pulse pounding in anticipation of seeing Lisa Crane at the wheel of the car behind her. Instead it was a minivan mom, with kids hanging out the windows. The woman honked more insistently, and Justine pulled through the empty intersection, tingling with new awareness. She drove slowly, glancing back and forth, expecting to see the madwoman leap out behind every tree to gun her down.
What if Lisa Crane was lying in wait for her in her driveway? In
her garage? In her bedroom? Justine had no illusions about the ability of the police to protect her.
At the next light, she snubbed out her cigarette and turned away from the expressway that led to her zip code. Twenty minutes later, the surroundings had deteriorated considerably. After two more turns her car was starting to attract attention.
She scoured the retail frontage until she spotted a faded sign for a pawnshop. Bars covered the store windows, and a dented Ford Pinto sat in the grubby parking lot. She parked carefully, then set her car alarm. A bell sounded as she entered the shop. A skinny redneck-looking guy gave her the once-over and a curt nod, then turned back to a young man looking at cameras. Justine pretended to browse the jewelry cases until the camera purchase was made and the other customer left.
“Can I help you?” the grungy guy asked. He needed dental work. Badly.
“I’m looking for a handgun.”
He made a rueful noise in his throat. “Computer is down, and we can’t sell handguns without a background check. System should be up and running tomorrow, though.” He thumped on the jewelry case. “Meanwhile, we got some great-looking watches.”
She pulled up her jacket sleeve and unhooked her own great-looking watch. “Want another? Solid gold.”
His eyebrows went up.
“It’s yours for a thirty-eight revolver and a box of shells. No paperwork.”
He inspected the watch with a magnifying glass, then weighed it. He looked impressed but concerned. “I could lose my license.”
“I can keep a secret.”
He squinted. “You a cop?”
“Do I look like a damn cop?”
He looked out the window and considered her ride. “Guess not.” He regarded her for a few more seconds, then set the watch aside and disappeared into a back room. Several minutes later he emerged with a zippered handgun case and a box of shells. She removed the revolver from the case, then inspected the cylinder and the sights.
“You know how to use that thing?”
“Uh-huh.” She opened the ammo box and loaded six rounds in the cylinder, then clicked it home.
I Think I Love You Page 6
