Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  Lucy’s hot anger and hurt was immediately buried under a frigid avalanche of shock. What the hell was going on?

  She went to look for her father and found him closeted with Lyle in another, larger glass office, Abbott’s. She pushed open the door, and they stopped talking as if she’d pulled the plug. That added to her fury, but she ignored it for the moment and stated bluntly, “Why isn’t Babette getting paid?”

  Abbott frowned. “The dress designer?”

  “Yes, the dress designer! Maybe our best designer. One who’s been exclusive to us, although without a box store I don’t see how we can possibly keep her!”

  “Calm down,” Abbott said, which sent her temper into the danger zone.

  “How? How do I calm down?”

  “How did you hear about Babette?” Lyle asked soberly.

  “She just called me! Asked me why she hadn’t been paid. Expects me to take care of it, but ... is that even my job anymore? I don’t know what my job is. Maybe you don’t know what my job is,” she said, sweeping a hand to include them both. “What is going on?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Rafferty seemed like a straight arrow. If she says she’s working for the Linfield wife, she’s probably telling the truth. She wants to follow up on Linfield’s death, I’d say let her. Save me some time.” Luke Denton was sprawled in one of Dallas’s client chairs, his lanky frame spilling over the side. He delivered this pronouncement with spread hands. Luke’s that’s-all-I’ve-got posture.

  “She’s Westerly now. September Westerly.”

  “Got married, huh?” He smiled crookedly.

  “Yep.”

  Luke had begun a relationship with a woman the year before and it appeared to be heading to the altar as well. Dallas could see the difference in his brother. A stilling of his basic restlessness. A happiness that had eluded him for most of his life. Had eluded them both, maybe.

  “We’ve got a few minutes before she gets here. What about Grassley? Found out anything about what’s going on there?”

  “Neil Grassley wants an heir. A son. We know that.”

  Dallas nodded. It was the very reason Layla Crissman had appeared on his radar, according to Layla herself. “The surrogate they chose is due in about, I don’t know, eight weeks? Six weeks? Coming right up anyway. But apparently, that wasn’t enough. He used another surrogate, too. The Mayfield woman. Implanted an embryo in her, too. Looks like he got involved with her as well, to have a kid. Another son, but it seems like Neil and Courtney Mayfield no longer are together. Grassley told Layla that Courtney lost the baby.”

  “Huh. I’m not sure I’d believe it, if Grassley said it. He’s an odd duck.” Luke was scratching about a day’s worth of beard stubble.

  Dallas suggested, “Maybe losing the baby was the cause of the breakup.”

  “Haven’t confirmed that yet.” Luke shook his head. “Mayfield’s a hard one to pin down. Has an apartment on the east side, but she’s never there, as far as I can tell. She’d moved in with Grassley . . . maybe she hasn’t moved out. Works at a data processing center Deep East.”

  Deep East was Luke’s way of describing the eastern reaches of Portland, the sprawl that reached the edge of Gresham.

  Luke went on. “But Grassley, he’s different, easier to follow. He has a usual routine. Goes out for coffee in the morning. Walks to a place about a block from his condo. Doesn’t talk to anybody, except on the phone. And he kind of shouts—you know how people do on a cell phone, to block out the surrounding noise, like traffic and other pedestrians—so I was able to piece together some of what he says. For the most part it sounds like he’s talking with a stockbroker, or someone managing his assets. Once I heard him with an accountant, I think, by the conversation.

  “Yesterday, though, he was on the phone with his lawyer, talking about that will of his. I was walking about two steps behind him and he was so engrossed in what he was saying, he was totally unaware of me or anyone else, for that matter. Almost walked into a man waiting for the next TriMet bus.”

  “What did he say?” Dallas asked.

  “Well, he didn’t mention Layla Crissman’s name, but he indicated he was ready to sign on the dotted line.” Luke glanced through the window and added, “The man’s making plans.”

  “No idea on his sudden desire for matrimony?”

  “Got a couple things to follow on that.” Luke met his brother’s eyes again. “He’s got some kind of a doctor’s appointment coming up, but I don’t know what it’s for. And it sounds like he’s leaving town.” Luke was frowning again, seeming to be trying to piece information together. “And that IVF clinic he and Layla used? It’s the same one he used with Mayfield.”

  “You got that from eavesdropping.”

  “No. Hell, I’ve got other means,” Luke said with a smile. “Anyway, I’m working on something there, but they’re tight with their information. All that HIPAA stuff.”

  “HIPAA stuff is important,” Dallas said.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fully aware,” Luke said with a grin. His insouciance was one of his best and worst traits.

  “Nothing illegal. I don’t want to have to defend my methods and yours in court.”

  “Hey, I’m an ex-cop,” Luke protested.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “There’s something there, though. I think . . .” He trailed off.

  “What?” Dallas asked.

  “I’ll do some more digging. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.”

  As if on cue, Billie buzzed Dallas and said, “September Westerly is here.”

  “Send her in,” said Dallas.

  * * *

  Lucy had stalked out of the fight with her father and brother, infuriated and hurt, but her brother followed her to her office, closing the door behind them.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lyle demanded.

  “You know, you’re really pissing me off. You and Dad both. You don’t want me here, okay, fine, I’m not here. I’m leaving.”

  “Calm down.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. Calm down. Relax, Lucy, you’re upset. Why don’t you just say ‘you’re such a woman’? That’ll go over big with me.”

  He actually rolled his eyes.

  “You and Dad have been plotting ways to get rid of me. Well, congratulations, I’m gone. But first, why don’t you tell me why Babette isn’t being paid? Are there other people not being paid? What’s the financial status of Crissman and Wolfe—I mean, Crissman?”

  “Shhh . . .” He shot a glance toward the door that led to the central cubicle area.

  “I doubt they can hear us in this hermetically sealed glass box.”

  “Would you stop being a bitch for just a second?”

  “I’m not sure I know how. Once a bitch, always a bitch. What about all those new employees? Who are they?”

  “Jesus, Luce. They’re our online people. How do you think we’re doing business?” he demanded.

  “Hope you have a bigger online sales force than that or there won’t be enough orders to sustain the business.”

  “We’re just getting it together.”

  “What about the system we had ... just last week? Or a couple of weeks ago?”

  How long had they been “restructuring”? It felt like they’d been pulling the rug out from under the company far longer than she knew.

  “It’s all been changing. You just haven’t paid attention.”

  “Oh. Right. I’ve been so in the loop all this time.”

  “You don’t approve of anything, Luce. That’s who you are.”

  “Who told you that? Dad? That isn’t true!”

  “You just want to be an obstructionist.”

  She took a step backward and really looked at her brother. “You and Dad have been talking about me a while, I see. That’s your conclusion?”

  His jaw set in a stubborn line.

  “Tell the truth. Did you really plan for me to be here at all?”

  “Of course we
did. We just ... know you’re still getting over John’s death. We thought it was better if you stayed home for a while.”

  “And if John had lived?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Absolutely. You’d be here.” But he looked away.

  “What about the missing sixty thousand?”

  “I don’t know about that, Lucy! How many times are you going to ask me?” he exploded.

  “Shhh . . .” she whispered back at him.

  “I don’t have to take this.” He grabbed for the door.

  For reasons she would ask herself about later but didn’t understand in the moment, she popped out with, “Did John know something about the business he shouldn’t? Is that what happened?”

  Lyle whipped around to stare at her. “What did you say?”

  Immediately after the words were out, she heard how terrible the unspoken accusation was. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” She lifted her hands. “I just ... I don’t know.”

  He said through his teeth, “We’re having a hell of a time around here convincing people you didn’t kill him and that’s what you say?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. . . .”

  “Yeah. Fine. You’re right. There is no job for you. You’re not needed. John wasn’t needed, but we gave him a job because Dad felt responsible for your family. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now there’s not enough to justify either of you.”

  Having it so boldly thrown at her was a blow, even though she’d suspected it, and she was too tired and too hung over to be having this fight, but here it was. “There’s not enough?”

  “We’re fighting for survival. What part of that don’t you get?”

  He yanked open the door with enough force that the glass quivered as he stalked away.

  Lucy watched the door close behind him.

  She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand another moment of being here, of being lied to.

  She grabbed her purse and walked out.

  * * *

  September’s gaze fell on Luke as soon as she entered Dallas Denton’s office. Luke rambled to his feet, greeted her warmly, shook her hand, and, grinning, commented on her new name before dropping into his chair once more.

  They’d met over the Wren case, September’s last case before she was let go from Laurelton PD, and it had taken a bit of time before they’d learned to trust each other. Luke was a PI, and even though he’d been with Portland PD, September had warned him not to get in the way of the investigation. A fat lot of good it had done; Luke had been on a path to protect Andi Wren from a stalker and killer and hadn’t been interested in warnings from September or anyone else in law enforcement.

  “So, you’re an ex with the PD, too, now,” Luke observed.

  “Not by choice.”

  She’d stopped in at Laurelton PD before this meeting, her real focus of the morning ostensibly to check in with Gretchen but also to test the mettle of the new Captain Calvetti. She was slightly alarmed that Lieutenant Aubrey D’Annibal had been ... repositioned, which could mean anything. D’Annibal had been a fair man. More than fair. He’d been distraught that he’d had to let her go, even though he’d done a great job at hiding his feelings. She’d just suspected how he really felt from knowing him, and Gretchen had confirmed it.

  As for Captain Dana Calvetti . . . she did possess the massive chest Gretchen had remarked on. It did enter the room before she did. But the jury was still out on whether she was the tyrant Gretchen called her. She’d seemed nice enough, and September didn’t think there was anything sneaky underlying her comment, “Oh, you’re the detective we’ve seen on TV.” Maybe there’d been something snarky in there somewhere, but September was trying very hard to keep an open mind. She hated the thought that Wes Pelligree was leaving—she’d had a crush on the man when she’d first gotten the job with Laurelton PD and before reuniting with Jake, the boy she’d loved mostly from afar in high school and now was her husband—but she wasn’t going to wait around to see if someone else was going to fill his position if there was any chance she could have it. She’d asked Calvetti about any openings and had received a “go ahead and turn in a résumé to HR.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was likely Calvetti just wanted to dot every i and cross every t, making sure she wasn’t accused of favoritism.

  Now, Dallas invited her to take a seat and she sat down in the unoccupied chair. He asked her to lay out her plan to help Lucy.

  “My client says you were a cop and now that you aren’t, you just want to help her due to some need to . . . how did she put it? ‘Do the right thing.’”

  “I said I wanted to make a difference.”

  “Ah.”

  September could tell Dallas didn’t quite believe her motivation was altruistic, and well, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she had something to prove. Solve the case and head back to Calvetti with something that would demonstrate her worth.

  If she could do it.

  “I think I can help.” September explained about her intention to follow Pelligree’s work in Wharton County, interviewing the people he talked to again, elaborating on what she’d told Dallas at Lucille’s earlier. She also revealed her feeling that John Linfield’s homicide and his wife’s apparent guilt seemed like a setup, finishing with, “I want to call the sheriff’s office and ask about angel of death mushroom poisoning found in the autopsy. They have to know something. Maybe they’re even on to the killer.”

  “What about Pelligree? He won’t like you stepping on his toes,” Luke said, and Dallas was staring at her hard, as if still trying to size up her intentions.

  “He’s taken a job with Portland PD. My ex-partner is probably getting this case, among others, until someone else is hired.”

  “All right,” Dallas finally said, though he didn’t seem totally convinced.

  She flashed him a smile. She’d been half afraid he’d put his foot down, demand that she cease and desist, but of course he really couldn’t. He had no authority over her, and neither did the police at this point.

  “If you need help, let me know,” Luke said as she stood.

  Dallas’s voice stopped her at the door. “Jerome Wolfe is set to buy Wolfe Lodge back from the Crissmans.”

  September hesitated, her hand on the knob. “I heard.”

  “Both of the Crissman daughters are against the sale, but their brother, Lyle Crissman, and father, Abbott Crissman, are pushing forward. Luke’s done a bit of research and learned that there’s an adjacent property Wolfe’s looking in to, too.”

  “Who owns the property?”

  “The Kilgores,” Luke answered. “Daniel Kilgore’s deceased. His surviving wife is Mona, and they have a grown daughter, Brianne. I’ve been trying to talk to them, but they don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “So, what ... You’re thinking that maybe they’ll talk to a woman?” September guessed.

  Luke gave her a thumbs-up, and Dallas said, a bit reluctantly, “You might ask Lucy Linfield about them.”

  She turned her attention back to him, her eyebrows raised. “Are you giving me carte blanche to interview Lucy Linfield?”

  “Well, why don’t we find a time to talk to her together,” he said, earning him a baffled look from Luke, who said, “Maybe after the trip to Wharton County?”

  September appreciated that Luke understood she was anxious to get started. She’d been about to say the same, but Dallas took the hint and, holding up a finger, indicating she should wait, picked up his desk phone receiver with his free hand. A few moments later, he said, “Mrs. Linfield? It’s Dallas Denton.” His gaze was on September, still standing at the door. “I’m at the office with September Westerly. She said you and she spoke earlier. If possible, we’d like to meet with you later today to discuss the case and our plans. Is there a time that’s good for you?”

  * * *

  Lucy clicked off her cell phone and stepped out of her car and into the teensy Easy Street Bistro parking lot, where she’d been lucky enough to g
rab a spot. She’d called Layla before she left the warehouse, found out her sister was working, and headed back across the Willamette River to the west side when Dallas Denton had phoned.

  As always, whenever she talked with Dallas, her insides tightened, her heart beat a little faster, which she assumed was normal, considering her situation. She climbed out of her car, locked it, then headed, head bent against a gust of brisk air, into the warmth of the small café.

  Layla was just finishing with an order at one of the tables when she spied Lucy. Her broad smile of greeting nearly did Lucy in. The one family member she thought she could count on. Layla pointed to an empty two-person table and Lucy moved toward it, feeling emotional enough to break into tears. The table sat in the northwest corner of the restaurant and was surrounded by windows that looked out on the drying street, a spate of rain having moved through, the wind scuttling down the sidewalk, cars moving steadily through the city street.

  Inside, the scents of coffee and scones and maple sugar and bacon assailed her, making her feel slightly ill. She sank down at the table, her thoughts churning.

  Layla cruised over. “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’ve . . . well, I was going to say I’ve been fired, but I don’t think I’ve had a job for a while; I just didn’t know it.”

  Layla glanced around the small dining area, assessing her tables to see if any of her customers needed help. Another waitress was taking an order at the other end of the room, where a group of eight people had cobbled together a number of tables and was taking an inordinately long time to order. Apparently satisfied that she had a few seconds free, she turned back to Lucy. “I’m sorry. Fired? Really?”

  Miserably, Lucy nodded.

  “Why? What’s their story? Dad and Lyle’s, I mean.”

  Lucy gave her a short rundown of what had just occurred at the Crissman warehouse, finishing with, “It’s not the same. Nothing about it’s the same. It makes me . . . sad, and worried.”