by Sheryl Lynn
“Tell our man to give it up. I just put the spider book in the mail, so I’m out of contract. I need the work.” Catherine slumped on a chair. She wanted to whine about how having nothing to do gave her too much time to worry about Jeffrey Livman and Easy Martel. Finding herself perilously close to tears, she pinched hard on the bridge of her nose. “I’m perfectly happy with the money situation. Honest.”
“Halladay and his publisher are going to make a fortune on this and you’re getting a mere pittance.”
Catherine lifted her eyebrows. Even if she never earned out a penny in royalties beyond the advance, a million bucks qualified as a lot more than a mere pittance.
“In any case, free up your calendar. Doc Halladay has a two-day break in his schedule one month from today. His publicity agent is making arrangements for the taping.”
Catherine looked around the studio. A month might give her enough time to make the house look presentable. If the dry weather held, she might even manage to have the driveway graded and graveled. In any case, she’d have so much to do she wouldn’t have time to sit around and feel sorry for herself.
After the call ended, she wandered around the main floor. Considering its age, the house was in excellent shape, but sorely outdated. When she moved in, she’d ripped out the avocado green shag carpeting, exposing oak flooring. Gouges and stains marred the wood, however, and the finish had worn through in places. The dogs followed her, making anxious little noises, and tried to herd her toward the door. She’d been too nervous to make her usual morning runs; the dogs were restless.
The walls needed painting. The upstairs bath had green fixtures and lime green-checked floor tile. The kitchen needed a complete makeover. She found a notepad and began making a to-do list. Every time she turned around, she tripped over one of the dogs.
“Why can’t you guys grow thumbs? You could help me instead of getting in the way.” She shifted her glower from Oscar to Bent. They wagged their skinny tails and pleaded with their soft eyes. Her sternness faded under the onslaught of their optimism. “All right, all right. Want to chase the ball? Where’s the ball?”
The greyhounds scrambled to race each other into the studio. They bounced on the sofa and dug under the cushions. Oscar pounced, coming up with a well-chewed soft-ball. Catherine opened the door and scooted out of the way before the dogs bowled her over.
She stepped out on the deck. Sun glare made her squint. Silence pummeled her ears. She looked around the property, seeking any signs of life. The curve of the driveway concealed the road from her view. Tall trees ringing the property made it seem as if she were in the middle of a wilderness. Resentment filled her—she hated being afraid. Shoving down the fear, she marched across the deck and called for the dogs.
Bent had stolen the ball away from Oscar. With the large ball straining her narrow jaws, she ran with that peculiarly beautiful, humpbacked run of her breed, her powerful haunches thrusting her forward at blinding speed. Catherine prepared to jump out of the way. The dogs were a lot better at starting than stopping. As Bent ran past, Catherine shouted, “Drop it!”
Bent circled, dancing away from Oscar, clearly unwilling to give up the prize.
Catherine held out a hand. “Drop it.”
Bent growled at Oscar, then dropped the ball. Catherine scooped it up. “Ready?” The dogs followed the ball with hypnotic intensity. They were sight-hounds, relying not on their noses or ears, but their eyes. Catherine threw the ball with all her might, sending it sailing over the scrub grass. The dogs lunged after it, leaving trails of floating dust.
Enjoying the sunshine and the dogs at play, Catherine threw the ball until her arm was tired. She chased the dogs and let them chase her. Then Oscar ran straight at her. She tried to dodge him, but he hit the back of her knees. She pinwheeled her arms for balance, but fell heavily to the ground. Unhurt, she laughed while both dogs fawned over her, licking her face in apology.
The sound of a car coming up the drive dried up the laughter. She leaped to her feet. The trees were closer, but the telephone was inside the house. She’d make for the house, she determined, if it were Jeffrey.
A white car came around the bend. Easy. Panting as much in relief as weariness, she leaned over and grasped her knees. When the car stopped, she straightened. She tried not to feel so happy about seeing him. She warned herself that jumping into a relationship with him right now would be the second biggest mistake of her life. She had her career; she had her own home; she was vulnerable after the mess with Jeffrey.
Still, the sight of his shiny black hair and broad shoulders sent a thrill of pure delight coursing through her midsection.
“Hey, Tink,” he called. He sauntered across the grass, his loose-limbed walk radiating pure male sexuality. A black T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo printed on the front stretched alluringly across his chest. A pulse down deep in her midsection shook her to her toes.
Bent took advantage of the distraction to snatch the ball away from Oscar. She took off with Oscar in hot pursuit.
Settling her face into a neutral expression, she folded her arms over her breasts. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer the telephone.” He watched the dogs chase each other.
“You drove twenty-five miles because I didn’t answer the phone? Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. I worry about you.” He boldly looked her up and down, making her self-conscious about her paint-smudged T-shirt and ragged denim shorts. “You’re looking good.”
“Your taste is appalling.” She reveled in the compliment anyway. “As long as you’re here, want something to drink?”
“Sure. So why didn’t you answer the phone? I can’t even get your machine.”
She whistled for the dogs. “Jeffrey called. I didn’t want to deal with him, so I unplugged the telephone.”
She headed toward the house. When Easy demanded to know what Jeffrey had said, she regretted telling him anything. “He wants to talk to me.” She laughed wryly. “He says he forgives me and we should put all this nastiness behind us. Right.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“He still wants to get married.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “I cannot for the life of me imagine what I ever saw in him.”
Inside the house, she glanced at the answering machine and was relieved to see a steady red light instead of a flashing message indicator. She offered Easy iced tea.
“I think I might have a break in the case,” he said.
“Really?” She used a paper towel to wipe her sweaty face. Twin thumps marked the dogs flopping onto the wood floor to cool off. “What kind of break?”
“The last time John spoke to Roberta, he came away with the impression she was afraid of Livman.” He perched on a stool and accepted the tall glass of tea.
“I thought that was a given.” Catherine sipped her tea, wondering where this might lead.
“Livman abused her. Maybe it was verbal or emotional abuse. Maybe it was physical. We’ll never know for sure. I can understand why she wouldn’t want to rile the waters by telling her brother. But if she thought Livman meant to kill her, that’s a different story.”
Catherine mulled over her father’s vile temper and the rages that had sometimes turned physical. He’d never actually beaten her, but he had lashed out, striking her with a fist or slamming her against a wall. Easy had been the only person she’d ever told about the physical abuse. Each admission had been accompanied by heart-wrenching shame. She’d always blamed herself for her father’s temper. If she were a good girl, he wouldn’t get so angry.
“She may have been ashamed. Or she couldn’t believe he would want to kill her.”
“How could she ignore the insurance policy? No matter how embarrassed she felt, half a million must have made her nervous. Unless she didn’t know.”
Catherine pulled a face. “Impossible. A man can’t insure his wife without her knowledge.”
“Exactly. So I talked to Liv
man’s insurance agent. He gave me all kinds of goodies.”
Remembering her father’s furious frustration whenever he had to deal with insurance companies, she was impressed. “Is that legal?”
“I didn’t ask him for details about the policy. I showed him photographs of Roberta. He isn’t sure she’s the woman who purchased the policy. So he let slip the name of the nurse who gave Roberta her physical. She isn’t positive about the ID either.”
As his meaning sank in, Catherine scowled. “Jeffrey used an impostor to fool the insurance company?”
“A healthy impostor. There’s no mention of Roberta’s asthma in the physical report.”
She chewed over the implications. “Could Roberta have concealed her condition?”
“The nurse claims she always checks for chronic, potentially lethal diseases. She doesn’t think she’d have missed the asthma. Besides, John says his sister would never falsify that kind of information.” He waggled his eyebrows and saluted her with his iced tea glass. “If I’m right, then this proves premeditation. He took out the policy only three months before she died.”
“How in the world could he get someone to pose as Roberta?”
“How did he get you to agree to marry him?”
She clamped her arms over her chest and threw him a dark look. “Okay, fine, he’s persuasive.” So was Easy, she mused, if he’d convinced the insurance company employees to concede they may have royally screwed up.
“Romoco Insurance is reopening an investigation. They’ll bring in big guns from the national fraud bureau. If we can prove Livman used a ringer, it ought to be enough for the district attorney to rethink the coroner’s findings.” He reached into his back pocket and brought out a clumsily folded envelope. He gave it to her. “In the meantime, check this out.”
Catherine pulled a Polaroid photograph from the envelope. It pictured children swinging in a park. On the white border below the picture, someone had scrawled, “Any time, anywhere.”
“What does this mean? Who are these children?”
Easy pointed out two little girls. “Those are John’s kids. The picture was stuck in his door.”
Queasiness rolled her stomach. “Did Jeffrey send this?”
“I imagine so.”
“This is so sick! How can he threaten children? Did John go to the police?”
“They can’t prove anything. We have to catch Livman in the act before we can press charges. So if he calls you, or sends you any messages, save them. Document whatever he says. Can you record calls on your answering machine while you’re talking?”
She nodded affirmatively. She touched Easy’s eye. The stitches were gone, but yellowish remnants remained of the bruise. “What happens if he sends those men around again? Or if he sends them after John or his family?”
“John is sending his wife and kids to visit his in-laws out of state. Neither of us think Livman will try anything outright. He likes his victims meek and mild.” He held up his right hand, his forefinger and middle finger crossed. “I think the fraud investigation with the insurance company is going to pan out.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I have a hunch whoever the impostor is, it’s bugging her. She shouldn’t—”
Catherine jolted as if hit with an electric spark. “No-reen.”
“What?”
She held a hand level with her head. “She’s about my height, but much thinner. She’s blond.” She thumped her head with the heel of her hand, seeking solid memories. “She’s a very strange woman.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s a closer at the title company where we signed all the papers for buying this house. Jeffrey appeared to know her very well. He was teasing and joking with her, but she seemed very uncomfortable. I remember wondering, why doesn’t he notice how much she dislikes him? She was at the Grape and Olive when Jeffrey proposed. She seemed upset. I thought maybe she had a thing for him. But after you gave me all that stuff about Jeffrey, I called her at work. She hung up on me.”
“That is strange. And it sounds guilty. Where does she work?”
“Downtown at Morgan Title. But why would she pose as Roberta? She has to know it’s illegal.”
“Why don’t we ask her?”
“We, kemo sabe?” She shook her head emphatically. “I’ve had all the spy snoop nonsense I can stomach.”
“Seeing you might push her over the edge.”
“She won’t talk to me. She hung up on me.”
Easy made spaniel eyes, batting his lashes and turning up the wattage on his smile. “Please?”
She made as if to throw her iced tea on him. “Stop it. I don’t want to get involved. My life is already a total mess. Look at this place. I have a ton of things to do.”
He picked up the photograph of John’s children. He gazed sorrowfully at it and clucked his tongue. “I guess I can try to talk to her. I might get lucky—”
She slammed down her glass. “You are shameless. You don’t need me and you know it. You’re just jerking me around.”
He sniffed as if offended. “I do, too, need you. If No-reen is our girl, then she’s feeling guilty as hell. If she thinks you know what she did, then she’ll crack. I’m sure of it.” He smiled sweetly.
Her stony glare didn’t affect his smile one little bit. Truth was, Catherine’s curiosity about Noreen nagged at her. If the woman knew about Roberta’s murder, then quite possibly she knew about Jeffrey’s plans for a second marriage and a second victim. Anger at Jeffrey returned full force.
“Well?” Easy asked.
Catherine turned her gaze on the notepad containing her extensive to-do list. Doc Halladay and his camera crew and the book contract suddenly seemed paltry. An image of John’s stricken face flashed through her mind. “All right. I’ll go with you.”
Easy’s smile rivaled the glory of the morning sun. “We’ll nail him, Tink. I know it.”
CATHERINE TAPPED her knuckles lightly on the open office door. She prayed she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. Before Easy confronted Noreen Dawson, he had checked around and gathered some information. It looked damning. The woman behind the desk lifted her head and smiled. Recognition lit the woman’s eyes and the smile turned frozen.
“Hello, Noreen,” Catherine said. “Do you remember me?”
“Umm, yes, Ms. St. Clair, isn’t it?” Noreen’s voice quavered.
Easy stepped into view. He put a hand in the small of Catherine’s back and urged her to step into the tiny office. He closed the door. Noreen’s face paled to the color of ash.
“Miss Noreen Dawson, I’m Earl Z. Martel, private investigator. I’m looking into the death of Roberta Livman. I understand you’re a friend of Jeffrey Livman’s.” Without awaiting her reply or invitation, he pulled a chair around for Catherine. Easy remained standing.
“I, umm, I really don’t know Jeff all that well.”
“According to brokers I’ve talked to, Mr. Livman uses Morgan Title almost exclusively for his real-estate transactions. He’s used you as a closer for several years.”
Noreen pressed a hand over her eyes. “It’s only business,” she whispered.
Catherine leaned forward. As gently as possible, she said, “We talked to Howard Greer, Jeffrey’s old boss. He said you and Jeffrey were very close. Were you having an affair with him?”
Easy placed a wallet-size portrait of Roberta on the desk in front of Noreen. “You and Mrs. Livman resemble each other. You could be sisters.”
Tears welled in Noreen’s eyes. Her chin quivered.
Nausea rose in Catherine’s throat. Everything Easy suspected was true. She glanced at him; he nodded slightly. Catherine cleared her throat. “You know Jeffrey murdered Roberta, don’t you? And you know why. You helped him purchase the insurance policy from Romoco.”
“Both the insurance agent and the nurse who conducted the physical are willing to identify you, Miss Dawson.” Easy leaned both hands on the desk, looming over the tearful woman. “What did Livman promise you for helping
him kill his wife?”
“I didn’t know!” Noreen wailed. She shoved away from the desk and jumped to her feet The chair skittered across the floor. She pressed her back against the wall and grabbed her pale hair in both hands. “I didn’t know he was going to kill her!”
Chapter Twelve
Noreen Dawson blew her nose. With cosmetics washed away by tears, and her cheeks and forehead blotched with heat, she’d lost her prettiness.
Instead of pity, Catherine seethed with gelid anger. How, she wondered, why had the woman done what she had? Money? Noreen wore a chic, peach-colored suit that probably came from a fine boutique. Layers of gold necklaces encircled her throat and her fingers glittered with jeweled rings. Catherine guessed the woman’s fingernails were acrylic, and expensive to maintain. The thought of Noreen’s frivolity being paid for by Roberta’s death made Catherine feel sick.
Easy rested a hip on the corner of Noreen’s desk. “Were you and Livman having an affair?”
Noreen pulled another tissue out of a box. She scrubbed at her eyes. “No. We were friends, just friends, nothing more. I only saw him at work. It’s always business.”
“Did you know Roberta?”
“I met her a few times. She was nice.”
Catherine pressed a fist against her mouth to stop a disgusted groan. Unable to contain herself, she cried, “So nice you helped him murder her?”
The woman blanched, cringing. “I didn’t know that’s what he meant to do. I didn’t know anything about it.” Avoiding Catherine, she beseeched Easy with her eyes. “He never said he wanted to kill his wife. And—and—and the newspapers called it an accident! It was an accident. He didn’t kill her.”
“You know better,” Easy said, while taking notes in a small spiral-bound pad. “You knew better when it happened. Did he pay you, Noreen?”
“No!”
“So you committed fraud for the fun of it.”
Noreen doubled over and clutched at her belly. “No, no, no!” She dragged in a long, snuffling breath. “You don’t understand. I thought I was doing him a favor. Roberta was sick. She had a condition. They’d been turned down by insurance companies. It was all her idea anyway.”
