Jolie knew that she should at least pretend to be outraged over her friend’s hard-hearted reaction to Chris’s death...but in all truth she couldn’t because after the initial shock of last night, she’d begun to feel the same way. Sadie was right. Dying didn’t make him a saint. She wasn’t going to pretend to mourn him--she didn’t own the necessary attachment, the emotion needed to pull it off. He’d made her wretched. She’d hated him. Those were the unhappy facts. Did that mean she was glad that he was dead? No...but it certainly made things easier.
Last night after she’d gone home with her mother, she’d had a real good bone-wringing cry. She’d whimpered, wailed and sobbed, and not necessarily in that order. She’d cried for her mistakes, for the things she’d lost, the pointless time she’d spent away from her mother. She’d had years of despair built up and being able to simply let it go and finally be with her mom had been very...cathartic.
When the storm of emotion had passed--leaving behind a raging headache, a splotchy face and a mountain of soggy Kleenex--she’d felt unbelievably better, like she’d been baptized by her tears, redeemed of the guilt.
It had been the oddest thing. She’d been sitting there at the kitchen table--the southern equivalent of a shrink’s couch, Jolie thought wryly--had been watching her Mom scoop coffee from a generic can into the pot. Her mother had never spared any expense when it came to buying good coffee. It had always been her little extravagance, the one thing she wouldn’t compromise on. Jolie had inwardly winced, had thought that her mother wouldn’t have to buy generic coffee once Jolie gave her money back.
The fleeting thought had triggered an epiphany and the brain, which had been numbed by the horror of finding Chris and the lengthy crying jag, had suddenly been enervated with what needed--had--to be done.
Immediately.
She knew that Chris’s assets would most likely be frozen--they usually were when a person was murdered--so she’d needed to act before that happened, which had only given her a narrow window of opportunity. She’d explained things as best she could to her mom, had left her standing in the doorway in a frayed robe with a worried frown, then armed with a sense of purpose and a thermos of generic coffee, she’d hurried down to the office.
She’d been here all night, going through files and folders, systematically scouring his office until she’d found the numbers and pass codes for the off-shore accounts--he’d cut a small hole in the leather beneath his executive chair and had tucked them there for safe keeping, where he could figuratively sit on the money--and she’d just accomplished the final wire transfer into her own account when she’d heard Sadie at the front door.
The minute Marge, their secretary, came in this morning, Jolie planned to instruct her to fill all open orders, issue checks to their creditors and pay their employees their last check along with a hefty severance bonus. She’d take care of seeing to the investors, make sure that their original investment as well as their correct returns were given to them. Between what Chris had stashed in his private accounts and what she’d managed to slip aside, she’d have enough to do that as well as still have a nice little nest egg for herself.
It was finally over, Jolie thought, letting go a relieved sigh.
She relayed her plans to Sadie. “By five o’clock this afternoon, we’ll close the doors and Marshall Inc. will be no more. I’ve got to go down to the sheriff’s office, file the official report, bury him, and that’ll be it.” Her shoulders sagged with relief and the first tentative bloom of hope blossomed in her chest.
Rather than looking impressed her with her speedy efficiency, Sadie’s brow folded into a small frown. “Jo, I hate to burst your bubble...but I don’t think that’s going to be it. He was murdered. There’ll be an investigation.”
Jolie nodded. “I know that. Jake’s in charge. He, uh... He was there last night.” And she’d never been more thankful to see another soul. He’d been amazingly kind given the circumstances and though she hadn’t been completely at herself, he’d seemed a little nervous talking to her. In retrospect, it was oddly endearing.
“That’ll definitely work to your advantage, but you realize that you’re going to be a suspect. At least, initially.”
“I know,” she said, undeterred. “But I didn’t do it, so I’m not going to waste my time worrying about it.” She let go a heavy but determined breath, crossed her arms over her chest. Not altogether true--she would worry to some extent--hell, she’d be a fool not to--but she fully intended to move on. “I’ve wasted all the time I intend to waste, Sadie. I’m washing my hands of it--all of it.” She gestured around the office. “I’m moving out of that house and I’m putting in an offer on that little house over on Lelia Street I told you about. I want to move on. I need to. I want my life back.” Not an unreasonable request given what she’d been through, Jolie thought.
A worried line wrinkled Sadie’s brow and she weighed her words carefully. “Jo, nobody knows more than I do how difficult things have been for you, but...you might want to rethink this. Being hasty could give the wrong impression.” She bit her bottom lip. “A guilty impression.”
Jolie squashed a frustrated wail. She knew that, dammit, but frankly she didn’t care. She was innocent. Being in an unhappy marriage didn’t make her a murderer. More like a survivor. Chris Marshall had dictated practically every aspect of her life for the past two years and she’d be damned before she’d let him do it from the grave. His days of yanking her chain were over. She was taking her life back.
Effective immediately and, though she was concerned about possibly going to jail for crime she didn’t commit, she didn’t intend to lose any more time at Chris Marshall’s expense.
“Jake knows I didn’t do it,” Jolie told her. “He’s damn good at his job. He’ll find out who did it and when he does I’ll be exonerated.”
“I’m sure that you will, but it would be better for you to make his job easier for him than it would be to make it difficult. Dean will be looking over his shoulder.” She grunted. “Given the personal history between the two of you, Jake may not end up being the one in charge of the investigation. Dean may pull him and assign another detective.”
Jolie paused as a note of alarm hit her belly. That scenario had never occurred to her. She completely trusted Jake to find the truth. Not only was he good at what he did, he knew her. Knew that she wasn’t capable of doing what had been done to Chris. But another detective might not be so discerning and she’d definitely make a convenient suspect. Still, she hadn’t murdered Chris and furthermore, she had an alibi.
She told Sadie as much. “I’m innocent. Regardless of whether I move out or close this company or anything else, nothing changes that fact.” She shrugged, trying to cast off the weight of worry dragging at her determination. “They can investigate me until the cows come home for all I care. They’re not going to find anything.”
* * *
Jake leaned back in his uncomfortable desk chair, passed a weary hand over his face and futilely wished he hadn’t taken this call. “Look, Andy, I wish I could help you, but I don’t know when or even if you’ll get the body. Once the autopsy is complete, Jolie will have to make those arrangements. I’m just the detective in charge. I’m not making the funeral arrangements.”
“I realize that,” Andy explained with exaggerated patience, “but after calling around all morning, you were the person I was directed to.” He paused. “Has Randy already called you?” he asked with irritated suspicion. “Is that why I’m getting the run around?”
Dubbed “Double Death” by the citizens of Bless Her Heart, Andy and Randy Holbrook were identical twins who’d gone into the funeral profession. Together, to start with, but three years into a prosperous career, they’d had a falling out and had since started individual businesses.
Bless Her Heart could comfortably support one funeral home, but the population simply wasn’t sufficient to support two and, as such, every time somebody died Andy and Randy fought over the body and bereaved
like a couple of mongrels over a soup bone. Dean had been called in to intervene countless times, and the issue had even been raised at several town hall meetings. People ought to be able to bury their loved ones in peace, they’d argued, not be harassed and hounded until they wished they were dead as well.
Jake swallowed a beleaguered sigh. “No, I haven’t heard from Randy,” he told him, hoping to end the call.
“Good, because if he tells you that she’s planning on using Eternal Rest as opposed to Heavenly Harvest then he’s lying. She was in here just last week checking out pre-burial plans.” He chuckled grimly. “Bet she wishes she’d gone ahead and purchased one then,” Andy remarked somewhat gleefully. “Now it’s really gonna cost her. Dying isn’t cheap, Jake,” he sighed sagely. “Not cheap at all.”
Jake stilled as every sense went on point. “She was in there last week?”
“Yep, so this fish is dangling on my hook. Randy has no claim.”
“Do you remember what day she came in, Andy?”
“I do. It was Thursday. I know because I always do a follow-up a week after initial contact. I tried to call her yesterday, but she wasn’t available.”
A week to the day then, Jake thought grimly. That wasn’t good.
“She took some pamphlets home, said she wanted to show them to her husband.”
“These plans, were they for her and him?”
“Nope. Just him. But that’s not really uncommon, I’m afraid. Lots of people have a hard time coming to terms with their mortality. To their detriment,” he tutted woefully. “You should really think about having a little look-see yourself, Jake. It’s never too early to make arrangements. Death is certain, you know.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jake told him distractedly. He uttered an abrupt goodbye, then sat back in his chair and rubbed his gritty eyes with the palms of his hands. What the hell had she done? he wondered, absolutely flabbergasted. Why in the hell had she been scoping out a pre-burial plan for her husband a week before he was murdered?
She hadn’t killed him--he knew it.
Last night while Todd worked his magic and Leon dozed on the couch, he and Mike had tossed some scenarios around and Mike had skeptically suggested that she might have hired it done. That didn’t fit either. Murder just wasn’t in Jolie’s character. Furthermore, a hired hit man wouldn’t have cut off Marshall’s dick. That was a personal attack, one that suggested the killer was intimately acquainted with the victim. If not directly, then at least indirectly enough to truly despise him.
And this case was going to be hard enough to crack without Jolie’s bizarre behavior factored in. Leon had finally been able to take the body this morning around four. Jake and Mike had walked the perimeter of the house, looked for forced entry, discarded cigarette butts, footprints, anything that might account for the presence of another person at the house.
They’d found nothing.
With the exception of the scene of the crime, focusing their search inside had been equally futile. Jake had taken one end of the house, Mike the other. A glutton for punishment, he supposed, Jake had searched Jolie’s room first. He’d found a box of sentimental mementoes stored deep in the back of her closet--a pressed posy necklace he’d made for her in grade school, several cartoon valentine cards signed in his untidy juvenile scrawl, pictures of them at various dances, an empty bottle of strawberry wine, the very one they’d shared the first time they’d made love. Jake swallowed. God, it had been so long ago, and yet the memory was still so vivid it could have been yesterday.
Graduation night. While other kids were hosting or attending parties, most of them getting hammered, he and Jolie had strolled hand-in-hand off the football field and headed straight for his truck. They’d been waiting for years, planning this particular night for almost as long. He’d gotten an older cousin to buy the wine, had stopped at a gas station and fed the condom machine a handful of change until it had spit out ten of the damned things.
Jake grinned, remembering. What the hell, he thought, tapping a pen against his desk. He’d been optimistic.
Then they’d headed up to their secret spot at the lake. He’d built a fire, spread a blanket and they’d talked about the future for hours, had shared that bottle, laughed and cut up, had simply enjoyed the night...then on an old quilt under a blanket of bright stars and the vision of a bright future, they’d enjoyed each other.
To this day, nothing could compare to the absolute perfection of that time. He’d been head over heels in love, half drunk and nervous as hell, no longer a boy, but not quite a man. She’d been sweetly shy, but eager and trusting, and she’d made him feel like the most important guy in the world.
Jake released a slow breath. What he’d give to go back and have a talk with that boy, to tell him the things he knew now so that he could avoid making the mistakes he’d made. But he couldn’t, and no amount of wishing would make it so.
At any rate, aside from the bathroom, they hadn’t found anything incriminating anywhere in the house. The best Jake could figure, the killer had walked through the front door, followed the sound of the shower to the bathroom, then shot Marshall at point blank range. They’d turned off the water--Todd had found smudges consistent with gloved hands--had cut off his dick, with what, no one knew yet. Nothing in the house, they were relatively sure. A hand towel was missing from the rack behind the commode. Todd figured--and he hoped Jolie could confirm--that one had definitely been there, that the killer had used it to transport their odd trophy. Afterward, the killer had turned the water back on, presumably to alert Jolie when she came home.
Jake hadn’t found any evidence to support it yet, but he firmly believed that whoever had killed Marshall had been waiting for Jolie to leave. Waiting where was anyone’s guess. Probably the street. Not in the yard, he didn’t think. He’d looked last night, but planned on going back over this morning as soon as he finished taking Jolie’s official report. He wanted to go back through the house and surrounding area again today. Who knew? Maybe a few winks and the benefit of daylight would give him a fresh perspective.
Talking with Andy this morning certainly had, Jake thought grimly. Those were not the sorts of discoveries he was interested in, that was for damned sure.
Dean knocked a couple of times on the doorframe, walked into Jake’s office. Lines of fatigue fanned out around his eyes and he had the pinched look that marked a night of too little or no sleep. “How’s it coming?” he asked.
Jake relayed the pertinent facts, then told him about his conversation with Andy. He pulled a tired shrug. “My gut tells me it’s a dead end, but it’s still--“
“Odd,” Dean finished. He arched a brow. “She’s coming in this morning to file the official?”
Jake nodded.
“Are you keeping it under your hat, or are you going to ask her about it?”
“I’m gonna ask her about it,” Jake told him. “I want to get a read on her.” He rubbed his eyes. “Like I told you last night, she hated him--no question there--but Jolie’s not a murderer. She’s just not wired that way.”
Dean hesitated. “You can’t rule her out, Jake. You’re gonna have to stick to her like glue. Given your history, can do you that? Better still, can you do it objectively?”
Jake nodded, felt his gut clench at the impending lie. Be objective where Jolie was concerned? Ha. “If I couldn’t, I wouldn’t have asked to keep lead.”
“Keep me updated,” he said. “And let me know when you find his dick,” he added darkly. “I’d like to hold a separate sort of ceremony for it, if you get my drift.”
Jake suddenly imagined Marshall’s dick glued to the center of a bull’s eye, a calmly furious Dean using it for target practice.
He cleared his throat. “Er...how did everything--“
“She’s packing as we speak,” Dean told him flatly. His lips twisted with bitter humor. “This wasn’t the first time, Jake. It was just the last damned straw.”
Surprised, Jake swallowed, said the onl
y thing he could think of and that felt wholly inadequate. “Shit, Dean. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, it’s my own damned fault,” he said wearily, leaning against the doorframe. “I should have washed my hands of her the first time. She blamed the job, made me feel guilty. Said I wasn’t paying enough attention to her.” He pulled an offhand shrug. “I thought I owed it to the marriage to give it another go. So I did. At least this way I know I did everything I could to make it work.” He lifted a shoulder. “Wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t my fault. She’ll be the one to carry the weight of that mistake, and better her than me, eh?” He managed a half-hearted smile, then turned to go. “I’ll expect daily reports, updates on all new developments.”
Jake nodded. “You got it.” He glanced at his watch, noting the time. He’d give Jolie another ten minutes and if she wasn’t here, he’d run her to ground. If she’d checked into pre-burial plans, just what the hell else was she hiding? he wondered. What else had she checked into? Jake tensed as the obvious answer to that question dawned in his puzzled mind. He swore, pulled the phonebook from the desk drawer, flipped to the yellow pages--to the I section, specifically--until he found the listings he was interested in.
Insurance.
If she’d taken out any new policies on Marshall recently, things would take a nasty turn from bad to worse. Dread ballooned in his gut, anticipating what he feared he’d find.
Four calls later he found it. One-hundred thousand. Added last Tuesday.
A stream of profanity spewed from his lips. He blew out a heavy breath, sagged back in his chair and felt the beginning of one helluva headache claw through his skull. For someone he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was innocent, she was certainly doing a damned bang-up job of looking guilty.
The Future Widows' Club Page 11
