String of Lies

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  And Gary would just have to handle it.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jo found Heather Bannister’s house without much trouble. A two-story colonial, it looked more expensive than what an average young couple could afford. Jo wondered if this particular couple had banked on Heather’s higher paying job at Pheasant Run at the time of its purchase, and if her change of employment put their ownership at risk. Real estate could be an iffy career, particularly, as Jim Price had mentioned, in January.

  Jo tapped the heavy, brass knocker on the front door, and a striking blond woman in her late twenties, answered.

  “Jo McAllister?”

  “Yes, hi. And you must be Heather?”

  The woman acknowledged she was, smiled, and invited Jo in. She wore a blue cable-knit turtleneck that set off a perfect complexion, and black knit pants that clung to her slim figure. Her blond hair hung smoothly just below her chin in a cut that reminded Jo of a local news anchor – casual and chic.

  “I was pretty surprised,” Heather said, “when Kevin’s Uncle Jim called.” She took Jo’s jacket and hung it on a brass coat tree in the corner.

  “I appreciate you’re willingness to see me,” Jo said, “and I want to make clear right away that I’m not a lawyer.”

  “But you had questions about my employment at Pheasant Run?” Heather led Jo into a living room decorated in pastels, with glass-topped tables and much light. A wedding photo dominated one of the side tables, showing a smiling couple beside an elaborate wedding cake. Heather gestured to one of the two sofas, inviting Jo to sit, and asked, “Coffee or anything?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. To answer your question, yes, I wanted to know about your experience working for Parker Holt. I don’t mean to be intrusive, but someone I know had a fairly bad experience in his employ, and I need to know if she was alone in that.”

  Heather crossed her legs, and one foot, clad in an ankle boot, bounced. “You know, I think I’d like something to drink. Come on with me to the kitchen. We can talk there.” She jumped up and led Jo into a sparkling kitchen, one that didn’t look much used, with black granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances. Heather took a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and pulled glasses from a nearby cabinet. She set one down in front of Jo who had slid onto a tall stool on the other side of the counter, and filled it without asking, then filled her own.

  Heather took a long sip from her glass, then set it down, staring at it. “My time working at Pheasant Run was enlightening, to say the least,” she said.

  Jo took a taste from her own glass and waited.

  “I was doing a damn good job there,” Heather said. “I came in when the place was just ready for occupancy, and those condos were seventy percent sold when I left in a year.”

  “Then why were you fired?”

  Jo watched a series of emotions fly over the woman’s face, the mascara-coated lashes flicking and her highly-glossed lips pressing tightly.

  “Because I found out what Parker Holt was doing.”

  “What was that?”

  “Misusing the condo fees, for one thing.” At Jo’s raised eyebrows, Heather elaborated. “It took me a while to catch on. But one day I spotted the landscape crew that was supposed to be sprucing up the grounds of Pheasant Run, taking off in their trucks with loads of shrubs and seed, and stuff. When I asked one of the workers about it later, he said they had gone to Parker’s house and worked on his yard. I drove by his house, and it was looking a whole lot better than it had before.”

  “Did you ask Holt about it?”

  “No. I convinced myself it was a one-time thing, and that he had paid them out of his own pocket. But then it was clear they were going there regularly, cutting grass, planting flowers, pruning. And things that were supposed to be planted on the condo grounds, weren’t. I checked into it. Those shrubs and stuff were paid for by the condo fees. And the crew was getting paid from the same fund for the hours they spent at Parker’s house.”

  Heather took another gulp of her wine. She leaned an elbow onto the counter and twirled her glass on the granite countertop. “I finally asked him what was going on. He just blew it off and said not to worry about it. But I did worry about it, and I started noticing other things like the inflated cost for furniture in the great room and for the exercise equipment in the fitness area. I’m sure the difference went into Parker’s pocket.”

  “So he fired you because you caught onto him?”

  “Yes.”

  “But wasn’t he worried you’d blow the whistle?”

  “Oh, he took care of that.” One side of Heather’s glossy mouth pulled up.

  “How?”

  “When I threatened him with exposure, he threatened me right back, said he’d destroy my marriage.”

  “Your marriage? How could he do that?”

  “You have to understand. Parker Holt has a reputation.” Heather tossed her head, flicking the blond hair off her face. “People here know he plays around. Sometimes he uses that to his own advantage. He threatened to tell my husband we had an affair. That all those evenings I worked late were evenings spent with him. And if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, he’d claim I was just a jilted lover, trying to get even. I knew he’d make good on that threat. I couldn’t risk it. I was afraid he could cook the books enough to cover his tracks. He had all the power on his side.”

  “Pretty rotten,” Jo said.

  “He was,” Heather agreed.

  She held up the wine bottle. “More?”

  <><><>

  “So what did you think of her?”

  It was early Saturday morning, and Jo stood in front of a mirror in Javonne’s bedroom. Javonne’s dentist husband was downstairs fixing pancakes for their kids’ breakfast, and Jo had been invited to rummage through Javonne’s closet for something to wear to the Founder’s Ball that night. Dresses lay scattered across Javonne and Harry’s king sized bed, and Jo was filling Javonne in on her talk with Heather Bannister during the process of trying them on.

  “I’m not sure,” Jo said. She turned to see the back of the ivory-colored dress she currently wore. “Javonne, how did you accumulate all these gowns?”

  “Oh, Harry has all these dental functions we have to go to, mostly in Baltimore, sometimes in Annapolis or D.C. You wouldn’t think dentists were such party people, would you? We’ve gone to a couple of Founders Balls too, but decided to skip it this year. Good thing too. With James’s asthma acting up today, I’d hate to leave him. So,” she said, repeating her question, “what did you think of Heather Bannister. Was she mad enough at Parker Holt to kill him?”

  “She was mad, that was clear. Mad enough? I don’t know. But she did have that threat of Holt’s hanging over her, to ruin her marriage and her reputation if she spoke up about what he was doing.”

  “But she told you about it, so maybe she wasn’t all that worried. Take that dress off, Jo. Ivory is just not your color.” Javonne reached for the dress’s zipper.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Jo agreed. “It’s a gorgeous gown, but I look pretty sickly in it.” She stepped out of the dress and looked over to the bed. “As far as Heather’s telling me about Holt’s threat, maybe now that he’s dead and can’t contradict her, she feels safe enough to talk about it.” Jo picked up a red silk number with spaghetti straps. “Maybe I’ll try this.”

  “I don’t know,” Javonne said. “I mean about that woman talking, not the dress. Go ahead and try it, though it might be - well, try it and we’ll see. It sounds to me like Heather’s maybe working hard to make herself look good and him look bad.”

  “But we already know from Sylvia what Parker Holt was like, so Heather’s account of his threats seemed credible to me. Well!” Jo looked at her reflection as Javonne zipped up the red dress. “Well,” she repeated, grinning, “maybe not.”

  Javonne laughed. “I bought that not too long after Terrell was born and I still carried some pregnancy weight. Plus I was nursing.”

  “Yes,” J
o said, holding up excess red silk at the bodice, “I can see that. Since I don’t have the time – or inclination – to get implants, I think I’d better keep looking.”

  “Too bad, that was a good color for you.” Javonne poked through a few dresses in the pile and held up a green chiffon. “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking I should probably consider that I’ll need to wear shoes, too. Dresses we can adjust, but not shoes. I do have a pair of black strappy sandals, and they wouldn’t go all that well with pale green. But I see something black under there.”

  “Good point. Here you go.” Javonne pulled out a long, slinky-looking dress that had fluttery sleeves trimmed in white. She helped Jo slip it over her head. “Anyway, I still don’t know about that Bannister woman’s motive for killing Holt. I mean, if it was to shut him up, why would she go telling people like she did with you? Maybe there was more to it – something she’s not telling?”

  “Quite possible. I did learn, however, that she doesn’t have a good alibi for that critical time period. She mentioned before I left that she’s been sitting home alone every day this week, working the phone and the computer for her real estate sales efforts.”

  “Well, there you go. She had the opportunity. Jo, that dress is YOU, girl! Va-va-voom!”

  Jo saw that the black dress followed her minimal curves closely, perhaps too closely. “Javonne, how did you ever dance in this?”

  “That was from my skinny period,” Javonne explained. “After I did Weight Watcher’s for a few months. Overdid it, actually. Harry doesn’t dance, so I just sauntered around on his arm that night and showed off my fabulous figure.”

  “I don’t know,” Jo said, looking over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. “This might be too tight.”

  “Yeah, it is a little snug in the hips. All you need, though, is a good body shaper. Something to suck you in a bit. You got anything? It’ll smooth out all those, ah, ripples.”

  “I don’t have one, but I could pick one up, I suppose.” Jo looked over the many dresses she’d already tried, lying rejected on the bed. This was the best of the lot, and if it took that minimal investment on her part to get her to the ball dressed appropriately, she could manage it.

  “I guess,” she said, “if I’m going to do any sleuthing tonight, a black dress would be the thing to wear. To be inconspicuous, I mean.”

  Javonne threw her an odd look, but only said, “Right.”

  A knock on the door was followed by Harry’s voice. “Is everyone decent?”

  When both of them told him to come in, Harry opened the door. “I just need to get my…. Wow!”

  “Doesn’t she look great?” Javonne asked.

  “Yeah, terrific!” Harry smoothed back a stray hair on his nearly bald pate as he took in the sight of Jo in her gown. “I remember that dress, but I don’t remember it looking quite that good!” Harry rapidly backpedaled. “I mean, ah, I don’t, that is, didn’t it used to have a big flower on it or something?”

  “No, Harry, it never had a big flower on it!” Javonne said, looking at her husband mock-sternly, her hands on her hips.

  Javonne’s oldest, James came up behind Harry and peeked around him into the room. “Wow-ee!”

  Jo and Javonne both burst out laughing. “I think,” Javonne said, “that means the dress works. Have a ball, Jo.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Jo heard the knock at her door, precisely at eight. Who knew that Rafe Rulenski was a promptness freak? Just when she could have used another few minutes. She scrambled to strap on her high-heeled sandals, fumbling with the buckles.

  Jo had spent far too much time on her hair, something she hadn’t done in a long time. The colorful bruises from that car incident of four months ago had long since faded, but her hairdo hadn’t yet regained its balance. Parts of it were still growing out from what had been cut away for the stitches in her scalp, requiring her to struggle with curling iron and spray in an effort to produce some semblance of sanity to it. She ended up stealing a white silk camellia off of a work-in-progress wreath and using it as camouflage on her sparse spot.

  “I’m coming,” Jo called, then hustled from the bedroom toward her front door, finding movement to be, disconcertingly, a bit of an effort. That compression garment she’d picked up at Lily’s to help her fit into Javonne’s slinky dress, turned out to be much sturdier than she’d realized. From what long-ago era had Lily stocked it? Comparisons to bone-constricting Victorian corsets ran through Jo’s head. This was, she feared, going to be a long night.

  “Well,” Rafe said when she opened the door. “I guess you dug up something to wear all right.”

  “Just don’t expect a lot of conversation tonight. I’m having trouble breathing.”

  “No problem,” Rafe grinned. “I’ll do all the talking.” He glanced down at her feet. “You might want something to cover those,” he said, pointing to her open shoes. “It’s starting to accumulate.”

  “What? Oh-my-gosh,” Jo said, looking past Rafe’s shoulder to see snowy white flakes floating downward. “I never noticed. All I own are clunky galoshes. I can’t wear them!”

  “Suit yourself. But don’t expect me to whip my coat over any puddles for you. It comes straight from the playhouse costume department and has to go back in the same condition.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Jo pulled Javonne’s black hooded, street-length coat from the hall closet, grateful for its cozy lining of fake fur. At least she’d be warm from the knees up. Rafe helped her slip it on and they bustled out to his car, Jo carefully protecting her silk camellia from the snow with Javonne’s hood.

  “Ever been to the Bradford Hotel?” Rafe asked, as he slipped behind the wheel of his several years-old Miata.

  “Is that where this is? No, I’ve never been inside. But I’ve driven past, and it looks regal.”

  “That’s a good word for it. The place is close to a hundred years old. Built, I suppose when Abbotsville was in its heyday, whatever that was.”

  Rafe put the car in gear and pulled off. “They use the entire downstairs area of the hotel for the ball, a regular rabbit warren of rooms to circulate through. Lots of polished wood and brass wall sconces and such.”

  “Sounds elegant.”

  “It makes a good setting,” Rafe agreed. “Unfortunately, the cast of characters doesn’t always live up to the scenery, but what can you do.”

  Jo thought that neither she nor Rafe in their borrowed finery qualified as anyone who fit into a regal setting but wasn’t too concerned about it. She was more interested in seeing Mallory Holt up close for the first time. And hearing what Holt’s acquaintances might say about him once they had downed a drink or two.

  Before long Rafe pulled up to the front entrance of the Bradford, an elegant, old-brick building with Tiffany-style windows. Jo wiggled her naked toes with relief as she saw a protective green canopy stretched out from its door, as well as valet parking in use. A doorman in quasi-military uniform loaded with gold braid reached down to open her door. Jo swung her legs out, and as she took the doorman’s hand, she looked up to his face.

  “Randy!”

  Randy Truitt gave an embarrassed smile. “Hi. I mean, good evening.”

  “You’re working here?”

  “Just for tonight. They actually hired me to clear the snow. Then the doorman called in sick so I’m filling in.”

  “Well, you look really nice in that uniform.”

  “I feel kinda dumb. But the tips have been pretty good so far.”

  “Great. I hope you can keep warm enough.”

  “Yeah, I can go inside once in a while, as long as I keep the snow shoveled.” Randy was already looking toward the next approaching car, so Jo moved out of his way and took Rafe’s arm as he came around, passing Randy rapidly enough to avoid a tip.

  “Let’s head for the food table first,” Rafe said. “I’m starving.”

  “Fine with me. But could you slow down a little, please? I’m a bit too constrict
ed tonight for jogging.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Rafe slowed, and let another couple sweep past. “It’s just that all the better stuff disappears first at these things.”

  “I understand. By the way, did I mention you look very nice tonight? You wear a tux very well.” Jo meant it. Rafe had surprised her with his look of casual elegance, the ‘casual’ coming from his perpetual day’s growth of beard, and the ‘elegance’ from the actor in him having risen to carry his evening attire with aplomb.

  “Thanks.” Rafe brushed a few flakes of snow from his shoulder as he tossed off, “And you’re not looking so bad yourself.” They followed others into the Bradford, and left their coats at the cloakroom, Rafe looking about and fairly sniffing the air for food aromas. “This way,” he declared, and led Jo accurately to the room that held bountiful tables of every kind of food Jo could imagine, from fruits and cheeses to platters of meats, salads, and delicate sweets.

  “Dig in,” Rafe invited, and immediately did so himself, grabbling a plate and proceeding to pile it high. Jo picked up a succulent-looking strawberry and took a bite out of it. The food was presented so beautifully that it was enough pleasure for her at this point to simply soak it up visually. She sauntered along beside Rafe as he moved from station to station.

  “Wine, Miss?” A pony-tailed waitress in dark vest and slacks came up to her with a filled tray.

  “Thank you,” Jo said, and plucked off a glass of red wine. She sipped it, then reached for a square of cheese from a nearby tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  Jo looked about at the slowly gathering crowd, not recognizing a soul so far. Many couples greeted each other, but the names she overheard didn’t ring any bells. She heard music begin to play in another room.

  Rafe rejoined her, holding a brimming plate and munching on a roast beef-crammed roll. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked.