And then I hit pay dirt.
After reading a few of his updates and comments, I found out he planned to attend a retirement party for a colleague the following evening. Conveniently, for them, the bar was located right across the street from the courthouse. Crashing the party seemed like a better idea than just storming into his office at the county government building. This was where his being single would work to my advantage.
The only question left remaining was, what should I wear?
Before I executed my plan, I filled Abby Lee in on my little scheme. She came right over with a bottle of red wine and helped me pick something suitable to wear for undercover work.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you tomorrow?” Abby Lee asked as I debated what outfit was appropriate for infiltrating a bar full of drunken prosecutors.
“No way! If you so much as set foot in the general vicinity of the ADA, you’ll be alligator bait. You’re a murder suspect,” I reminded her. “It’s better you stay here.”
“Still, I don’t think you should go alone.”
I laughed. “Abby Lee, I’m not meeting a serial killer for a night of dinner and dancing. I’m seeking out an officer of the court. I’ll be safe.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Yeah, but if he finds out you’re on a fishing expedition, you’re the one who’s going to be bait.”
“I have a plan,” I said.
“Using your feminine wiles to get a guy to talk doesn’t sound like much of a plan,” she said.
“You don’t know men very well,” I said. “You forget I work primarily with men. Overworked, stiff, uptight men who still cave to a pretty woman. I know how they think.” Not that I considered myself a pretty woman, but it was worth a shot. “Especially if they’ve been drinking.”
It was Abby Lee’s turn to giggle. “If you say so.”
In the end, I settled for a pair of white denim capris—a cursory glance on the bar’s website told me the place was casual—and a sleeveless navy light-silk top. Something told me Hartley Crawford didn’t go for the trashy look. I glanced at myself in the mirror and decided that I looked good enough to pass for a conservative, girl-next-door type.
The next evening I slid the Bronco into the parking lot of the bar just after six. The event details on Facebook said the retirement party had started at five, but the timing was perfect. Plenty of time for Hartley Crawford to have a few beers and get his buzz on.
I walked in and looked for a group having a retirement party. It wasn’t hard to spot the lawyers. Cheap but well-cut suits—they were on the state’s payroll not Wall Street’s—and a lot of laughter between swigs of beer. All I had to do now was look for Hartley and play my part.
Bingo. I finally spotted him at the bar, buying another pitcher of beer for his colleagues. This was my opportunity. It was now or never.
I made my way over to the bar and bumped into my target, spilling his beer in the process. I didn’t mean to do that, but it was as good an introduction as any.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
At first he was annoyed at being drenched with cheap beer, but he quickly softened when he saw my horrified expression. “It’s OK. I’m sure my dry cleaner can get it out.”
“You have to let me buy you another pitcher,” I said.
“Thanks for the offer, but not necessary,” Hartley said.
“No, really, I insist.”
“Well, if you insist. Who am I to argue when a lady offers me a drink?”
As we waited for the bartender to pour him another pitcher, I got into character. In person, the ADA seemed like a nice guy, and was much better looking than his photo. I felt crummy about spilling beer on him, but not bad enough to stop my undercover mission altogether.
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
He looked at me curiously. He was probably not used to being asked this question by a woman who’d just dumped beer on his best suit. “I work for the district attorney’s office.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I asked in feigned wonder.
Hartley seemed amused. “Does this surprise you?”
“No, I just took you for a banker,” I said, “or something having to do with business.”
Hartley chuckled, and I had to admit hearing him laugh brought tingles down my spine—the good kind. Flirting in order to get the info I wanted wasn’t going to be a problem. But I had to be careful not to blow my cover.
“I’m an assistant DA.”
“You look too young to be an ADA,” I said.
“I’m thirty-five,” he said.
“I didn’t mean to insult you or anything. I just meant that government lawyers tend to be old and stuffy. You don’t seem like that at all,” I said.
Hartley relaxed and smiled. “And what do you do for a living?” he asked.
Fortunately, thanks to Aunt Lula, I had the perfect cover and didn’t have to lie—at least not entirely. “Oh, I work for a clothing boutique on Trouble Island,” I said.
The bartender finally came back with a Shiner Bock for me and a replacement pitcher of Bud for Hartley. I handed the bartender a ten and told him to keep the change.
“You live in Trouble?” Hartley asked.
“Born and raised,” I said proudly.
“Small world. I have a case from there.”
I pretended to be in total shock. “You don’t mean Harvey Boyette’s murder, do you?”
His cocked his eyebrows. “Did you know him?”
“Well, yeah. Everyone on the island knew Harvey. Wow, I can’t believe you’re working that case,” I said. “The whole island is on alert since they haven’t caught the killer yet.”
“I can imagine a small town like Trouble being worried, but we’re actually close on getting a warrant for an arrest,” he said.
“Really? Who? Maybe I know them?” Please don’t say Abby Lee.
“And that’s exactly why I can’t tell you. It’s still an open investigation, and we can’t let information like that leak out.”
Damn. I was afraid he was going to say that, no matter how much I flirted. But it didn’t keep me from trying again.
“Don’t the police already have a suspect? I heard they think it was one of Harvey’s employees. Is that true?”
“You heard that, huh?” he asked, evading my question.
I shrugged. “It’s a small town. Everybody loved Harvey.”
“So tell me, who do I have the pleasure of thanking for the beer? You never did tell me your name.”
“Julia,” I said, once again not answering in full truths and feeling guilty about it. Even though technically it was my given name, I doubted anyone outside my immediate family knew what my actual first name was—everyone on the island knew me as Jules. I found it hard to lie to this guy. Despite my first impressions from looking at his Facebook profile, he was very easy to talk to.
“Hartley Crawford,” he offered, not giving me the chance to ask first.
“What kind of a name is Hartley?”
“I know, ambiguous, right? It’s my mother’s maiden name. She wanted to make sure the name stayed in the family.”
“Me, too. I mean, my middle name is my mom’s maiden name.”
Wait. Was he was one of the Hartleys? They were well-known throughout the state. The Hartley family had dealings in oil, cattle, and even dabbled in technology. I’m sure they were even involved in business dealings that went above my pay grade. They were like the Bushes, only with more money. I’m talking major oil money.
“I can tell from your expression you’ve heard of my family.”
I recovered quickly, but there was no way I could deny knowing who his family was. I tried not to be too impressed. “Who hasn’t?”
“And I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing working in public service, huh?”
Actually I was, but it didn’t really matter. I could tell just from our brief conversation that there was real depth to this guy—more than just dollars and cents.
“Because you want to help people,” I said.
He laughed. Damn. Even his laugh was intoxicating. “From your lips to my parents’ ears.”
“I take it they don’t approve,” I said. I was sure his parents expected him to take over and run the family empire, not spend his time enjoying happy hour with friends over five-dollar pitchers.
“They tolerate my career choice now, but they didn’t at first. Now they seem to think they can parlay this experience into a career in politics.”
“And I take it you don’t approve,” I joked.
Hartley gave me a small smile and sighed. “I can’t say that I’m not intrigued by the prospect of running for office one day. But I’d feel so removed from the people I’m trying to help. I like to get my hands dirty.”
You and I both, I thought. Going undercover to help my best friend definitely counted in the get-your-hands-dirty department.
“And what about you?” he asked. “Any ambitions besides working retail?”
I was momentarily taken aback. Would a guy like Hartley be interested in someone who just worked in a clothing boutique? In a way, I felt a little embarrassed that he only saw me as a retail sales associate. I wanted to tell him that I had a master’s degree and worked for the FBI, but I couldn’t. The question lingered in the air like the stench of stale beer.
“To be honest, I’m not sure what I want to do with my life. I’m not really happy where I am at the moment,” I said, thinking of my current situation at work with Weight Watcher Wendy. As soon as I uttered the words, I knew I wasn’t just feeding Hartley a line. I wanted to help people directly, like him, not by sitting in front of a computer screen all day.
A voice yelled above the music. “Hey, Hart, you coming back? You’re missing the roast!”
“In a moment,” Hartley yelled back to the guy seated at the four top before turning his attention back to me. “Sorry about that. They’ve been drinking awhile.”
“That’s OK,” I said. I really wanted to tell him to go back to his party, but I couldn’t until I got what I came for. And I felt like a total heel for doing it. “Anyway, you were saying the police were ready to make an arrest?”
“I hope so. The police seem to have narrowed down the suspects, so we should have an arrest warrant soon.”
This was all I was going to get out of him. It was time to head back to Trouble.
“I must have lost track of time,” I said, looking at my watch. “And from the looks of it, you need to get back to your friends.”
“It was nice meeting you, Julia,” he said, rising from the bar stool as I rose. “You can bump into me anytime.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around.” Not likely. I had to remind myself that this was the man that could ultimately prosecute my best friend.
In another time or place, I would have considered myself lucky to meet someone like Hartley Crawford.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The only good thing that came out of working at Palmetto Pink was that it temporarily kept my mind off the investigation. Though one could hardly consider what the Trouble Island PD was doing an investigation. Every time I folded a shirt, hung up a dress, or assisted a customer, it diverted my attention away from the problems facing Abby Lee. For a few hours every day I went into denial mode—I didn’t want to face the reality that if my best friend was arrested, tried, and convicted, I would never forgive myself.
A customer called out from one of the dressing rooms. I groaned as I made my way over to assist her. She walked out of the room and stood in front of the floor-length mirror. It was obvious she had picked the outfit out herself without any direction from me; I wouldn’t have chosen something so tight.
“So what can I do about this?” She pointed to her bulging abdomen. The dress she was trying on did nothing to complement her figure. I had pulled out several dresses that would have been more flattering, but she’d insisted on trying on the red halter dress—that was also a size too small.
Uh, wear Spanx? Hell, even I was known to wear control-top underwear from time to time. Quickly approaching my thirties, my body didn’t metabolize the way it used to.
“Do you want me to get the size ten?” Like I suggested in the first place?
“No. I’m a size eight,” she insisted.
Why did women always obsess about numbers? If something fit, it fit. Who cared if the dress was a size eight or a ten? But now that I’d entered the world of retail fashion, I’d come to realize that many women came into the store expecting miracles—clothes that would transform their bodies into figures they simply did not possess. Sure, there were some fabrics and cuts that could make you look slimmer, but that was not always the case. Then there were others that came in our store complaining that our clothing exposed their flaws. This might very well be true, but it wasn’t our fault.
I quickly rushed over to one of the racks near the dressing room—the sooner I could get her out of the store, the better—and picked out a nice, loose cotton tunic that would flatter her figure. “Here, why don’t you try this one on?”
The woman gave the dress I was holding the once-over. “Hmm, I don’t know. It looks like something Mrs. Roper would wear, don’t you think? Oh, you probably don’t even know who that is.”
I knew exactly who Mrs. Roper was. Anyone who’d ever watched an episode of Three’s Company was familiar with the sexually frustrated, muumuu-loving landlady of Jack, Chrissy, and Janet. She had great taste for a lady her age if you asked me. Besides, the customer was well into her sixties; where did she think she was going to wear a red spandex dress?
But I had to keep my opinions to myself if I wanted to make a sale. “I bet if you try it on, you’ll see how flattering it is,” I said.
“No, that’s OK. I’ll just try another store.”
And good luck with that, I wanted to say. I was so not in the mood to argue with her. It was a good thing I didn’t work off commission. Not the way I was functioning today, anyway.
“Sorry the dress didn’t work out for you,” I called after her.
I’d had enough of customers for the day, and I’d only been at work for two hours. A pint of beer and a hearty sandwich were just what I needed to get out of my funk. I waved to Aunt Lula as I headed out to lunch.
Engrossed in my oyster po’boy and Shiner, I didn’t hear Justin sneak up behind me.
“Mind if I join you?”
I glanced up to see Justin hovering over my table. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for company, especially Justin, but I reluctantly offered him the seat opposite mine. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about being around him—I wasn’t one to let sleeping dogs lie—but I couldn’t show him I was uncomfortable, especially since he wasn’t doing anything to help steer the investigation away from Abby Lee.
“Sure.”
“So—fancy seeing you here.”
He was up to something. I could tell by the way he had accidentally bumped into me here at the diner.
“Not really. Considering it’s one of the few places open for lunch around here,” I said. “Are you following me around town? Keeping tabs on me?”
“No, but while we’re on the subject, had myself a nice little chat today with the ADA in charge of Harvey’s case,” he said. “Seems you’ve been keeping your eye on someone yourself.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, not giving anything away.
“Yeah. He wouldn’t stop talking about someone named Julia from Trouble Island. The question I’m dying to know is, why were you there asking about the case?”
Damn. I’d been made. “Why do you automatically assume it was me?”
“You’re the only one on the island that fits the description. And
the only one named Julia.” He stressed the syllables of my given name.
He had me there. I thought hard before answering. There was nothing he could really do if he found out I had spoken with Hartley about the case, but I decided to play it safe just in case.
“Yeah, well, if you must know, I just happened to bump into him,” I said. “Literally. I accidentally spilled his beer.”
Justin did that thing he always did with his chin. If he rubbed it any harder, he’d leave a permanent mark. “Now why don’t I believe that?”
“I don’t know, Justin. It’s the truth. I knocked his beer, and we chatted for a bit. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with that.”
“See,” he said, leaning over the table. “That’s the problem, Jules. There is no such thing as just chatting with you. I know damn well you were fishing.”
I shrugged. “I can’t help it if he offered information about Harvey’s case. Anybody would have been interested in what he had to say. There’s a murderer on the loose, you know.”
This set him off. “Damn it, Jules,” he said, slamming his hand on the table. “You are not working this case, and furthermore, you aren’t a federal agent. You can’t go around town pretending that you are.”
“Now you’re just getting technical,” I said. “And I wasn’t impersonating an agent. I acted just like any other concerned citizen of Trouble.”
“You know, you could get into some serious trouble if you keep digging.”
“Why whatever do you mean?”
“Cut the coy crap, Jules. You and Lula need to stop interfering in police matters. I happen to know for a fact the feds wouldn’t stand for you meddling in their cases, even if you are technically one of their own, and I sure as hell don’t intend for you to do the same here.”
“You don’t even know who killed Harvey!” I accused. “I know you don’t actually believe Abby Lee did it. Admit it! You have no more of an idea than I do. So why is Hartley saying you guys are close to making an arrest? Do you have another suspect that’s good for the murder, or have y’all just given up looking?”
Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1) Page 12
