Chapter 25
The tears were gone, and the adrenaline—the good kind—had kicked in big-time. Jennifer's mind was as sharp as she ever dreamed Maxie Malone's could be, at least on a Saturday night after spending most of the day in jail. So why, with a super dose of sleuthing hormones racing through her, didn't she have a clue how to start solving the puzzle of Penney Richmond's death?
A murderer—the bad kind, the kind who actually killed people—was loose out there somewhere, and she was being blamed. And it looked as though the police would be content to let her fry. She couldn't blame them. After all, she'd planned it that way, planned that the police would have no choice but to see her as their only suspect. Success. Why did it have to be so selective?
Jennifer stared at the blank tablet that lay on her dining table. Two sharpened number-two pencils lay idle beside it. This was as hard as staring at the first, blank page of a novel, hoping something, anything, would somehow magically appear, like lemon-juice writing brought near a flame.
Muffy shifted near her feet and rested her chin possessively on the toe of Jennifer's shoe. Since she'd come home, Muffy hadn't let her get more than a few feet away.
"Drink this," Sam ordered, coming in from the kitchen nook and plopping down a big mug of steaming coffee.
She grabbed it up and took a big swallow, burning off most of her taste buds in one fell swoop.
"Careful. It's hot," Sam warned.
She nodded, her tongue swelling. She was not about to complain. Sam had come to her rescue, brought her home, and fed her a cheese omelet. This could be true love.
She liked the way he looked, rather domestic with his tie off, his sleeves rolled up, and a dusting of toast flakes dotting his white shirt.
"Come up with anything yet?"
"Only that Penney Richmond received more threats than the ones I sent. They all came in envelopes with Macon postmarks."
"Then our murderer is right here," Sam concluded.
Jennifer screwed up her face and took another scalding gulp of coffee. "Not necessarily. I made threats but I didn't kill her."
"You have… unusual thought processes."
Jennifer shrugged. It didn't matter. She had to follow the threats. They were the only lead she had.
"I don't know how the police think I could have written those other notes."
"Did they present them before the judge when you were charged?"
Jennifer nodded. "The whole M.O. was different: printed, not handwritten, on plain paper, sent through the mail, and the wording… the wording was so unimaginative."
"What'd they say? Do you remember?"
"Something like, 'You know what you did. How can you sleep at night? You'll never hurt anyone else again.' B-movie stuff like that. A whole different style from Marcus's classic, Poe-esque ramblings."
Sam yawned. "Right. So where do we start?"
Suddenly it seemed so obvious. No wonder Sherlock Holmes kept Dr. Watson around to ask the questions, to force an answer. And the answer was as logical as any synopsis she'd ever put together. Maxie Malone always started her investigations by running down the victim's associates and by visiting the crime scene.
"Two places: Steve Moore's guest list for his party and O'Hara's Tara. I assume most of Penney's Macon clients would have been invited."
"That's assuming it was a client that killed her."
"I'm not assuming anything, but I'm sure most of them had motive, and we've got to start somewhere."
"And the apartment building?"
"I wasn't the only one at O'Hara's Tara that night. The place was teeming with people, and one of them had to be the murderer, unless Penney got wind of my plan and committed suicide just to frame me. She wasn't a very nice person, you know."
"So I've been told. How do we get a copy of Moore's guest list?"
"It's got to be in his office. I'm sure Edith was involved in planning the party. Moore couldn't tie his shoelaces by himself."
"You can't go back to Channel 14. Sunday's paper will carry an article about your arrest. By the way, you do have a good publicity photo, don't you? If not, we'll have to lift one from your high school yearbook."
Betrayal had a name, and it was Sam Culpepper. "We? Tell me you didn't—"
"The Telegraph can't ignore a story like this one, you know that. But I did some fairly clever damage control. I led off with a paragraph about your writing—"
"You 'led off'?"
Anger was not an appropriate reaction. Jennifer kept telling herself that, but the shudder that threatened to radiate from her gut wasn't asking for intellectual approval.
Suddenly her brain intervened with a scary flash of realization. Just as she'd anticipated in her demented, murderous planning stage, she was going to get some publicity out of Penney Richmond's murder. That publicity, thanks to her connection with Sam, was going to center around an aspiring novelist, not a caterer. And if she helped him, she just might come out of this mess with some part of her reputation intact. Not that anyone had heard of her, but she'd been brought up to believe she could survive almost anything as long as she kept her dignity.
"I'll get you that photo before you leave. I had it taken last year when an editor almost bought the first Maxie Malone book. I keep it in what I call my hope chest, along with a bio and some possible blurbs for book jackets. You can have those, too, if you want."
"I do. Now, how are we going to get into Moore's office?"
"Moore and Allen were using a temp company before he hired me. I overheard Edith on the phone with them the day I was hired. What if a rep calls Monday morning saying a replacement is on the way over?"
"Not the wig again."
Jennifer tried to stick out her swollen tongue. "Are you kidding? The police kept it as evidence. I'll send Teri. She's off Mondays, and she's great with computers."
"Who's Teri, and can she pull something like this off?"
"She writes romantic intrigue. She'll do great."
"What if Moore's secretary recognizes your voice?"
"Edith doesn't come in until nine. I'll speak to the front desk receptionist and have her leave a note. Edith usually has two or three messages waiting for her each morning."
"And O'Hara's Tara?"
"That one I'll have to deal with myself. Mrs. Walker deserves an explanation. I wouldn't be surprised to find she'd set up a college fund for 'our little one,' a.k.a. my towel."
"She's sending your towel to college?"
"It was a complicated relationship."
Sam nodded knowingly. "Will they let you back into the building?"
"The judge didn't issue a restraining order, so I don't see why not. We'll try first thing tomorrow morning."
The Sunday paper lay crumpled between the bucket seats of the Accord.
"It's a long way to Atlanta. Don't tell me you don't plan to talk to me the whole hour and a half it'll take us to get there." Sam had tried cajoling, joking, and a sterner, no-nonsense approach. Now he was back to coaxing.
Jennifer continued to stare out the car window. How could he? How could he let them put that awful, terrible, no-good headline over her lovely photo? It had been shot through a soft filter, in black and white, one slender hand supporting the side of her face, a half smile on her lips, her hair curled softly in a kind of Forties glamour look. And over the top of that picture were supposed to be the words: LOCAL AUTHOR ASTOUNDS CRITICS BY ACHIEVING NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LIST WITH FIRST NOVEL. Instead, the headline read: MACON WOMAN INDICTED FOR THREATENING MURDER VICTIM.
"I don't write the headlines. I told you that. I was lucky to get the article past the editor without any major revisions. Besides, it's not a bad headline. It doesn't say, 'Mystery Novelist Suspected of Having Lived out Murderous Fantasy' or 'Bitter Writer Takes Revenge on Literary Agent.'"
Jennifer wondered if Sam realized how truly futile his lame, insensitive attempts to get her to talk really were. Under the circumstances, she wished he would show some maturity and just
accept her decision to pretend he didn't exist. Besides, despite what he continued to say with almost every combination of words possible—she'd been admiring his ingenuity for the last fifteen miles—she doubted he really wanted to hear how she felt.
"Did you read the fourth paragraph? I got in two of the titles of your books, and I was even able to slip in a brief synopsis of your new Jolene Arizona novel."
He would pick that one. Any juror who got wind of Jolene's exploits would but her creator in jail on both literary and moral grounds. And justly so for the sheer act of devising that plot.
Jennifer had hoped to make a scrapbook for little Jaimie, detailing his/her mother's success before her/his—dang this gender nonsense—birth. Clippings from local and not-so-local newspapers, proclaiming her achievements, her honors, her—
"Jennifer, this has got to stop."
Now he was taking a paternal stance. She hated that tone of voice even when her own father had used it. He was recycling, running out of ways to force a response. But then all languages, she supposed, had their limits.
"Look. I did my best for you. I really did and if—"
"Thank you." The words surprised Jennifer almost as much as they did Sam, who had to swerve to recover his lane.
Sam was trying. He really was, and she knew that. Yesterday evening she thought she had her feelings under control, that she was going to be able to deal with having her name and image splashed across the media. And she'd continued to think so right up until she saw the article, in real black ink on flimsy newspaper stock, right up until the moment it had become tangible—and delivered to almost every doorstep in the Macon area. Shame. It was such a Southern emotion.
Jennifer had yet to count her allies, and she realized with her last shred of rationality that if she were going to keep Sam, she'd better get with it.
She'd seen Dee Dee only briefly when she dropped off Muffy, and she hadn't spoken to any of her critique group. They wouldn't know about her arrest unless they read the paper this morning. She hoped her answering machine was accumulating their words of support even as she and Sam sped toward Atlanta. But one never knew. Friends were unpredictable. They must be tested to know which ones stand strong and which ones disappear at the first hint of trouble. And an accusation of murder was more than a hint.
Sam was her friend. He was practically begging to be her friend, and she'd been treating him like… well, with less respect than he deserved. She could count on him.
When they got to Atlanta in just a few minutes, she'd find out about another important player in this drama, one who could help her or hurt her. Yes, there was a significant question to be answered at O'Hara's Tara. Whose friend was Mrs. Walker—Jennifer's or Sophie's?
Dying to Get Published Page 25
