Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  She didn’t have to be told he was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lucy’s cell rang.

  She had ordered two poached eggs and wheat toast and had managed to eat some of it. She and Dallas had put a discussion about Layla aside for a few moments, but then had devolved into carefully polite conversation that seemed to go nowhere and made her acutely aware that she was on an uphill climb if she thought they could be friends, somehow.

  Friends ...

  The Evie secret.

  They could never be friends.

  She couldn’t think about that now either. Too many other more pressing issues. No way to say: There were consequences to that night, Dallas. Our daughter, Evie. She’s wonderful. The best part of my life. I wish I would have told you. But now you can meet her, and I hope you love her as much as I do. . . .

  Her cell rang again, sounding almost more insistent.

  Lucy plucked the phone from her purse. “It’s Layla,” she said, shoving the Evie situation to the back of her mind. She answered. “Hey, how are you doing? You okay now?”

  “Lucy . . .” Layla’s voice was strangled.

  Her radar spun into high gear. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone catching Dallas’s attention.

  “Neil’s . . . dead. I’m at his condo . . . and he’s dead.”

  “What? Jesus, Layla!” She half-rose, as if pulled up by an unseen string, banging her knee on the underside of the table. Now Dallas was on his feet, too.

  “I’ve called nine-one-one. They’re on their way. . . .”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be right there.” Out of the blur of her vision, she saw Dallas throw down some cash. She stepped out of the booth and headed blindly toward the door, Dallas on her heels.

  “I think he’s been dead a while,” Layla said faintly.

  “I’m coming. . . .”

  “We’re coming,” Dallas corrected, sounding grim.

  “Hurry,” Layla whispered and clicked off.

  In the blast of cool air outside, Lucy stopped short. Dallas put his arm over her shoulder and led her toward the parking lot. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Neil’s dead. He’s . . . he’s . . .” She couldn’t seem to breathe. She had a vision of John in the bed, in a coma, just before he died. John ... and now Neil . . .

  He absorbed that news. “Is she at Neil’s?”

  “Yes. My . . . my car’s over there. . . .”

  They were walking in the opposite direction of her silver Escape.

  “We’re going in mine,” he said, steering her in the direction of a black BMW SUV.

  * * *

  An officer from Portland PD was already in Neil’s condominium by the time Lucy and Dallas arrived. Two detectives and the coroner were on their way. The officer hustled Layla, Lucy, and Dallas into the eighth-floor foyer. Layla was white as a sheet and seemed to have lost her voice. Lucy caught a quick glimpse of Neil’s feet and then had a mental image of his waxy pallor and sightless eyes.

  “What happened?” Lucy asked, though she didn’t expect an answer.

  Dallas warned, “Layla, don’t say anything to the police. We’ll give a full report later.”

  “I already told the officer I let myself in with the key and walked down the hall.” Her voice was a scared whisper.

  “Okay. Just don’t volunteer anything further.”

  “Why?” She turned horror-filled blue eyes to him. “Maybe he fell ... There was blood on the corner of the counter. I saw it.”

  “We don’t know what happened yet.”

  It was the same nightmare Lucy had just lived through. “You think there’s been foul play?” she asked.

  “We don’t know,” he said again, his expression grim.

  And then there were hours of a nightmare that didn’t end, with gawking neighbors and questions from the two detectives who clearly found it suspicious that Layla’s lawyer was already on the scene. Dallas explained to them the circumstances of what had occurred, but they just stared at him coldly, two men, one older and one fairly young, both wearing I’ve-seen-it-all expressions. Almost reluctantly, they allowed Layla to leave, but not before letting Dallas know she would likely be called into the station.

  “Intimidation,” Dallas said, when he, Lucy, and Layla were back in his SUV. Layla had insisted on the backseat, her arms wrapped around herself, her knees tucked in.

  Lucy suggested she come back to her house and she agreed.

  “My God, I’m cold inside,” Layla said, shivering like she was afflicted with ague.

  “I’ll get you a brandy,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You need it,” she insisted more firmly. “You’re not driving. You’re not going anywhere. But I’ve got to pick up Evie.”

  “Would you like me to do it?” Dallas asked. He’d followed them into Lucy’s house.

  “No.” Her abruptness surprised him, and he turned to look at her. “No, thank you.” She offered a tentative smile that abruptly fell away. “But I need my car. Can you take me back to Lucille’s? I’ll pick up Evie.”

  “All right. Sure.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said to Layla, who was on the couch under a blanket, her teeth chattering. “Then we’ll have that brandy.”

  As Lucy and Dallas headed back outside, the late afternoon sun was peeking through the clouds. Dallas pressed the buttons on his phone to call Luke, bringing him up-to-date on Neil’s death and the fact that he needed to find Courtney Mayfield ASAP.

  Once he was off the phone, Lucy asked him, “You think Courtney’s involved somehow?”

  “I don’t know. I just find it hard to believe Grassley’s death was a complete accident.”

  Lucy thought about that. About the vomit on the floor beside him. So much like John ... What were the chances that Neil had died from poisoning? Was that reaching? Could it be just an accident?

  No. That was too unlikely.

  Could it be someone who’d targeted both John and Neil? Lucy’s husband and the father of Layla’s child?

  Was that just as unlikely?

  It was the question that followed her the whole time it took to drive to her car, say good-bye to Dallas, pick up Evie, then down a snifter of brandy with Layla, who barely touched hers no matter what medicinal purposes it offered, and fall into bed, consumed with exhaustion.

  She woke up the next morning with it still all on her mind, and no closer to an answer.

  * * *

  “Let go of my hand,” Daphne whispered loudly into the expectant quiet of the church.

  Kate jerked as if stuck by a pin, then released her tense grip on her daughter’s fingers as the organ music swelled and people all around her began singing a hymn she didn’t know.

  Palm Sunday. Kate had dressed with care. Her hand drifted to her bare neck, where the pearls should have been. Fake pearls, okay. He’d used the money he’d stolen to pay off Lauren Paulsen and had bought her an imitation. But the necklace had looked real. Lyle had yet to give it back to her.

  Lyle. They’d made love twice yesterday and once this morning. If you could call it making love. It was a little soul-destroying, knowing he didn’t really want to, that he was just going through the motions. But he owed her. What he’d done ...

  Daphne yanked at the collar of her dress, a sweet A-line covered in a print of tiny pink roses. She’d balked at the dress when Kate had pulled it out for her. Lately she’d balked at a lot of things. In fact, she’d decided for inexplicable reasons that she only wanted to wear pants. “No dresses,” she’d declared belligerently this morning, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Kate had had it. “You’re wearing a dress to church.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you just do.”

  “Isn’t Dad coming?”

  Another sample of her new annoying behavior. Daphne had taken to stressing Dad every time she said Lyle’s name, suddenly needing to make it clear he wasn’t her biological fathe
r at any chance she got. Oh, sure, she’d called him Daddy last night, when she’d wanted to go to Stonehenge, but that daughterlike attitude had lasted about two seconds. Had Daphne overheard more of their fight than she acted like? She’d stared at the ruined bathroom door this morning and then at Lyle with solemn eyes, not saying a word. Did she blame him for it? Had that crystallized her negative feelings?

  “Dad isn’t coming today,” Kate had told her, and Daphne had harrumphed in a way that infuriated Kate. She’d had to let that one go, however, as her daughter had then, somewhat reluctantly, slumped over in acquiescence, arms hanging down as if she were heading to the gallows, and deigned to let Kate help her change her clothes. So, now Daphne could just yank on her collar till kingdom come. Fine. Just how many battles was Kate supposed to fight?

  Now Kate picked up one of the hymnals—opened to a random page because she couldn’t really tell which song it was, and who cared anyway?—holding it so tightly her knuckles showed white.

  What should she do about what Lyle had told her? What if that Lauren bitch asked for more money? Lyle had admitted later that he was tapped out. He thought his dad had money squirreled away somewhere, but it wasn’t in the company.

  Maybe she should go to Abbott, let him know she knew the truth?

  But if you confront him, he’ll cut you dead ...

  But if you don’t, and this comes out later ...

  But it won’t come out. The will’s hidden. Safe and secure ...

  But Lauren knows . . . she’s a blackmailer . . . .

  And God knows what Abbott is doing with the money ... Lyle’s money . . .

  The last note of the hymn ended on a crescendo, voices raised in song. Emotion swelled inside Kate’s chest, nearly bursting. She closed her eyes, felt tears star her lashes. Generally, she loved church. Loved walking in and seeing the parishioners dressed in their best clothes; well, except for some of the teenage boys who looked like they had no idea what a comb was and those jeans and T-shirts? What kind of parent would allow that? Still, today, she just felt sick at heart.

  She had to do something.

  She couldn’t let this fester and become worse.

  Besides, who was to say that Abbott might not arbitrarily change his mind about his own will? What if he got mad at Lyle in the future and cut him out? Wasn’t a third portion of the true will better than nothing?

  Kate opened her eyes. The minister was droning on about something. Oh, yeah. Giving ... That’s what it was. Giving. She had to be more giving. Sharing. Like in sharing with Lyle’s sisters.

  Daphne squirmed beside her. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Can’t you hold it?”

  “How long are we going to be here?”

  “Not much longer.”

  “I’ll try,” she said dubiously.

  Kate looked over at the teenage boy with the uncombed hair. Okay, maybe that was a nicer shirt than she’d originally thought. It just didn’t have a collar, which was still too casual for church, but he did have a jacket he’d tossed over the pew because the room was hot today, the body heat adding to the discomfort. People were fanning themselves with today’s program leaflet. Spring had finally arrived.

  Tomorrow she would confront Abbott with the truth, she decided.

  “Mommy, I can’t hold it,” Daphne whimpered.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  She clasped her daughter’s hand again and left by the side aisle, waiting outside the bathroom, her thoughts churning.

  Maybe she would confront him today. Or maybe next week, or next year ...

  Maybe she wouldn’t have to face him at all, but it was dangerous to wait.

  After you get pregnant, she told herself, aware it might never happen. What was the name of that surrogate? Naomi. She was due to pop anytime now, so maybe she’d be ready for another trip to the IVF clinic soon.

  Lyle was going to be on board this time. That, at least, was something she could count on.

  * * *

  Neil’s death was on the front page of The Oregonian.

  Lucy snatched the paper from her front porch, then hurried back inside the house, shutting the door and shooting a look down the hall to where Layla had moved to the guest room. It was late. Evie was up and outside, playing some imaginary game on the back patio, enjoying the watery sunshine.

  There wasn’t much more in the article than she already knew, but she found herself breathing hard by the omission of Neil’s death being an accident. They weren’t saying homicide yet, but it was implied, and though there was no mention of cause beyond head trauma, Lucy sensed there was something more to come.

  That other shoe she’d been expecting to drop.

  She pulled in her shoulders as if protecting herself. And she did feel the need, as unnamed fear assailed her. “Someone’s out there,” she said softly. “Someone’s got a plan.”

  Her cell rang, and she jumped a foot at the sudden sound. Glancing around, she caught a glimpse of her phone on the kitchen counter. She swept it up. Dallas.

  Seeing his name made her feel giddy with trepidation. Was it always going to be this way? No matter what else was happening in her life, anything to do with Dallas Denton shot through her like an electric current?

  No time for that now.

  “Hello there,” she greeted him.

  “Hi. Is Layla still there?”

  “Yeah, but she’s still in bed.”

  “Okay.” He paused a moment, and she could visualize him thinking hard. She’d seen that intense look on his face. “I’m putting both my brother, Luke, and September Westerly on this. I want to know as much as the police do, as soon as they can find out anything about Grassley.”

  “Have you heard anything more?” Lucy asked.

  “Nothing specific. But I want to get ahead of this thing. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.” She was trying hard not to think about Neil Grassley’s body again ... the blood ... the vomit ... the fixed eyes ... with limited success. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Keep the press away. They’ll likely figure out where Layla is, so expect them. They’re going to want to talk to her and Courtney Mayfield. Luke is searching for her. We just need to keep Layla buttoned up.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll check in later.”

  He clicked off and Lucy did the same, placing her phone back on the counter. She called Dallas’s image to mind, holding it close. It was the one positive she wanted to cling to through all this.

  Pulling herself together, she heaved a sigh. Couldn’t daydream like a sap about nice things all day. She needed to keep moving forward.

  Deciding it was time to get Layla up, she tapped lightly on the bedroom door, opening it at the same time. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked as the door swung open, revealing an empty bed, remade.

  What? Damn!

  Evie had come inside and skipped down the hall after her, and she, too, peered inside the empty room. “Where’s Aunt Layla?” she asked.

  Lucy pushed down her concern and smiled at her daughter. “Oh, she probably had to get going early.”

  “So, you don’t know either?”

  Lucy sighed. “That’s about right,” she admitted.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On the Uber ride back to her apartment, Layla had realized she had four messages. She’d turned her cell ringer off on Friday afternoon when she’d met with a small group of Realtors about doing their home staging for them and forgotten to turn it back on by the time she met Layla and Dallas at the diner, and then she’d discovered Neil and she’d practically gone into a trance. So now it was Sunday morning. She’d sneaked out of Lucy’s home early, not wanting to disturb her, and waited in a crisp, quiet dawn, the air cold in her lungs, dew glistening on the leaves of the shrubs lining Lucy’s driveway.

  Her head had cleared and she felt calmer. Scared shitless, really, deep inside, but less frantic. Neil was gone. That was a fact. And Naomi was still pr
egnant with Neil and her child ...

  Naomi. Layla’s mind had fluttered to her in the past eighteen hours or so, but she’d been too distraught to do more than let the thought slip in and then out of her consciousness. Now she realized Naomi was one of the four calls and she’d left a message. Layla listened to it as the driver dropped her off outside the Starbucks on the first floor of her building. The scent of coffee followed her up the steps and through the door. Once inside, she had a moment of weakness, a wave of horror and grief. Neil was gone ... killed?

  She listened to Naomi’s call, basically a sober message for Layla to please call her. It had come in the night before, probably shortly after the first news of Neil’s death. Naomi had also sent her a text about the same time: Layla, can you call me? I saw the terrible news. I’m stunned.

  It was still too early to contact Naomi, but in an hour or so, she would phone her.

  Another call was from Mary Jo, who clearly hadn’t seen the news at that point. She’d been cheerfully thrilled about an offer coming in on the cold house, and the people had asked about the painting, wanting it thrown into the deal. That would be a way to ignore Jerome Wolfe’s suggestion that she pay him half, but now that she’d had some time to feel ownership of the painting again, she wasn’t sure that’s what she wanted to do.

  The third call was from Jerome Wolfe himself, and it chilled her blood. “I thought your sister was supposed to be the killer, but maybe it runs in the family . . .” came his mocking voice. She immediately deleted that voice mail.

  The fourth message was from Neil’s attorney, Penelope Gaines, whom Dallas had just mentioned yesterday. She saw that, in reality, it had come in first, on Friday afternoon. The attorney had introduced herself, then said, “Mr. Grassley has made a change in his will that he wanted me to discuss with you. He asked that a meeting be set up for early next week, when he’s available as well. Would sometime Monday or Tuesday work? I’m putting this in an email to you as well. Thank you.”

  Changed his will ... maybe to include Eddie?

  She made a pot of decaf coffee, watching the brown liquid puddle into the carafe as the sun rose higher in a cool gray sky.

  She picked up her phone again, searching the internet for local news. It didn’t take long ... and there she was. A picture of her, not a great one, from the Black Swan Gallery. But it was the stories that were coming out that made her throat close in fear, words leaping off the page: