Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  “. . . wealthy Neil Grassley with baby on the way found dead on his kitchen floor ... police not ruling out homicide ... Layla Crissman, daughter of Crissman & Wolfe’s Abbott Crissman, first at the scene ... Grassley and Crissman purported in custody fight ... Crissman & Wolfe brick-and-mortar store shuttered over increasing losses ... Crissman’s sister, Lucretia Linfield, in the news after husband’s poisoning ... black widow sisters? . . . IVF at the center of Grassley’s life ... second baby on the way with Grassley girlfriend . . .”

  Layla, who’d been feeling like she was having an out-of-body experience, reading all the clips, zeroed in on that last article. An interview with Courtney, who was very clear that Neil and Layla’s relationship had ended months before and that she was the new woman in his life. “We are having a baby together,” she added, going on, then, about how devastated she was, hinting that maybe the police should look into Layla’s motivations as Neil had told her Layla was suing him. . . .

  Was it true? Was Courtney really still pregnant, and if so, was the baby really hers?

  Thoughts swimming, Layla sank down on the couch, switched on the television, and watched mindless programs and infomercials. She must have fallen asleep with her phone in her hand because when it rang she jerked awake, her cell slipping to the floor.

  She saw it was Lucy and hesitated before refusing the call. She didn’t want to talk right now. Lucy then texted: You at home?? OK?? Please let me know.

  Layla heaved a sigh. She felt gritty and exhausted. She texted back: Home and OK. Don’t worry. Taking a shower and staying in. Not talking to the press. Will call later.

  Lucy responded: OK. Here if you need me.

  Layla sank back on the couch, then checked the local news on her phone again. More of the same, and now a new interview with Steven Berkhauser, the man whose wife died in that fateful accident, baldly claiming that Neil Grassley wasn’t the first person Layla Crissman had killed. “My wife’s gone and it’s Layla Crissman’s fault. Maybe this time she’ll get what’s coming to her. . . .”

  * * *

  “What are you talking about?” Kate practically shrieked when she got home and Lyle, standing near the sliding door to the deck, hit her with the news that Neil Grassley was dead, probably murdered.

  She couldn’t fathom it. First John and now Neil . . . ?

  He said, “I tried to call Layla, but I think her phone’s off. I texted Lucy and she texted back that Layla was fine.”

  Kate shook her head. “Maybe I should go see her. . . .”

  “What about Dad and . . .” He glanced around, as if looking for Daphne, who’d run upstairs to change her clothes. “Have you thought about the will?”

  “We have to bring the new will to light. We have to.”

  “Dad’ll fight it,” he said nervously, glancing outside to where a few empty, forlorn pots were waiting for spring plantings.

  “What if all his ‘new investments’ don’t pan out?” Kate demanded. “What about all that money, Lyle? Your money.”

  “Well, and Lucy and Layla’s.”

  “What about Stonehenge?” she suddenly asked. “Goddamn it, I mean Wolfe Lodge?”

  “The sale’s going through. We need the cash,” Lyle said by rote, like someone had pulled a string.

  “When? When?”

  “We’re supposed to sign this week. Well, Dad’s supposed to sign. It’s really his, outside of the company.”

  “You’ve been his proxy.”

  “Well, yeah,” he snarled with a return of some spunk. “What did you want me to do, say ‘Oh, no, Dad, you can’t do that. You might spend all our money?’ You sure as hell were on board.”

  “I didn’t have all the facts!” She wanted to hit him, he was so dense. “God, Neil Grassley . . . and John ... and this! Jesus H. Christ. I could just scream!” She grabbed her purse, nearly blinded by rage. “We’ve got to get that will and take it to your lawyer ... no, he’s your father’s lawyer, too. I’ll find a different one. We need to do it tomorrow, as soon as we can.” She smacked her palm against his chest.

  “What about today?” he asked.

  “It’s Sunday,” she snapped.

  “I mean, what about the dinner we’re supposed to have with Abbott and Ainsley?”

  Ainsley Hershey-Smith was Abbott’s “friend.” Someone close enough to Kate’s age who, though she claimed to have a boyfriend she was living with, went out to dinner with Abbott occasionally by herself. Kate wasn’t certain they were sleeping together, but she was pretty sure what was on Ainsley’s mind: money. The kind Abbott was taking out for “investments.”

  She and Lyle had been at two excruciating dinners with Ainsley before. The woman pretended she and Abbott were just such good friends. She even talked about the mythical boyfriend enthusiastically.

  “Maybe we should cancel. We should see Layla and Lucy, not Ainsley. Hopefully, Abbott will cancel first.”

  * * *

  “. . . Courtney just got back last night,” Luke said. “Something fishy there, Dallas. She was all set up to talk to the press.”

  “Like she knew about Grassley already?” Dallas asked. He was looking out through his window in the direction of the clubhouse.

  “Or she’s a very cagey opportunist. I tried to connect with her, but she won’t talk. I’m working on the theory that she might have been staying with her parents. Get this: they live in Glenn River.”

  That woke him up. “That’s . . . coincidental.”

  “I thought so, too. Want me to check with the folks to find out if she’s been there?”

  “Let’s pass this one to September, if she’s willing. She’s got history with Wharton County already.”

  “I’ll call her,” Luke said.

  Dallas turned away from the view and dumped the rest of his cold coffee into the sink. It was getting on in the afternoon and he was sick of being in this house. A lot of stuff coming out of Wharton County ... John Linfield’s death . . . a woman calling the police to steer the investigation to Amanita ocreata poisoning . . . those same mushrooms on the Kilgore property. Was Courtney Mayfield somehow involved? Had Grassley pulled the same about-face on her that he had on Layla? Pretending they were a couple and then just using her for the child she could give him? The son?

  IVF . . . Luke was half-convinced Neil had used some of Neil and Layla’s embryos and possibly implanted them in Courtney. His source said there were none left, so they’d either been destroyed or used....

  In listening to the news, he’d gleaned Courtney was acting like she was still pregnant. If that were true, was it really her baby, or was it Layla’s? DNA would tell. And with Grassley gone, the baby would legally be Layla’s.

  He had a bad feeling about that. He knew Layla hadn’t killed Grassley, but there was a circumstantial case building against her that was even stronger than the one against Lucy for Linfield’s death. Layla had been in the process of suing Grassley for joint custody of their upcoming child after being paid to give up all rights. She and Grassley’s relationship had fallen apart and he’d taken up with another woman, Courtney Mayfield. Mayfield was, or had been, pregnant with another son, according to Mayfield—that still needed verification—and there was a possibility that that child was also Layla and Grassley’s. The surrogate having the original child, a boy, was due very soon and if Neil Grassley were gone, that child would be Layla’s.

  Dallas had been lied to by the best of them, had fallen for those lies a few times, but Dallas sensed Layla Crissman didn’t have it in her. She wasn’t the calculating mastermind who was being created by people who were angry and/or jealous of her.

  His thoughts turned from Layla to Lucy. Like Layla, he didn’t believe Lucy capable of doing harm to anyone, but again, a circumstantial case against her could be put together. She and her husband had been fighting at the benefit. She hadn’t taken John into the ER, even though they’d gone there, which was easily explained by Linfield’s refusal to enter, but the orderly who’d talked to
Lucy seemed to want to place the blame on her. Possibly worse yet, the consensus among people who knew the Linfields, according to Luke’s reporting, believed the marriage was nearing a crisis point just before the poisoning.

  Still ... Dallas couldn’t seem to get Lucy Linfield out of his mind. Was it because of their past history? Partly. But she’d also reached him in a way he’d wondered if he could still be reached. He sensed she felt the same way.

  He shook his head, mentally kicking himself. She was a recent widow and a client, two good reasons to steer clear of any personal relationship.

  * * *

  Walking into the living room of her home, September clicked off her phone and looked at the time. Four o’clock. Did she have time to drive to Wharton County again? Luke had given her the address of Courtney Mayfield’s parents and she was glad to be back in the investigation, thankful Dallas had suggested she be the one to check it out.

  Neil Grassley’s death was being handled by Portland PD, and though she’d called Wes Pelligree and Gretchen and her brother, Auggie, who should have been the best source of information because he worked for Portland PD, no one knew anything yet. They’d promised to pass anything along they learned, and fortunately, each had asked for, and received, approval from their superiors.

  She was still finding it hard to believe Grassley was dead. It had been a distinct shock when she’d heard the news earlier that morning. She’d wondered at the interviews that had followed. Trouble, dire trouble, seemed to circle the Crissman women. Was there something else at play?

  If she went back to Wharton County, she could head over to the StopGo again, see if Rhonda and/or Barry were around, press them a bit. And she could check on Brianne Kilgore. She’d had a churning feeling about Brianne, and not a good one, since their meeting. She’d liked Brianne, but could she trust that the odd woman wasn’t involved in the mushroom poisoning somehow? Brianne seemed to believe John Linfield wasn’t the killer’s target. Had Lyle Crissman been the intended victim? September had been chewing on that possibility and not come up with any clear answer.

  And what about Courtney Mayfield? She’d come from the same area. That seemed more than coincidental, but was it?

  You need to know what definitively killed Neil Grassley.

  Was it a blow to the head or was it something else?

  Jake was outside on the deck, cleaning off the barbecue. It was still cold enough that he was wearing a jacket and the wind was blowing his hair. September pulled open the sliding glass door, came up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, snuggling close.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What, uh-oh?”

  “You’re hugging me. Something’s happened.” He turned around, holding out one arm to keep the scraper away from her, wrapping his other arm around her.

  “Can’t I just hug you? I hug you a lot!”

  “I can feel the difference.” He was smiling, teasing her.

  “Okay, I’m thinking of going back to Wharton County, so I might miss dinner. . . .”

  His eyes probed hers. “This about Grassley’s death?”

  “That was Luke Denton on the phone. Courtney Mayfield’s parents live in Glenn River. Gives me an opportunity to check in with Brianne Kilgore again.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off before he could utter the first syllable. “I’m fine. You don’t have to accompany me. Just don’t burn the steaks and save me one.”

  “I never burn the steaks,” he said, affronted, turning back to put down the scraper on the grill.

  “Yeah . . . well . . .”

  Jake had always had an uneasy relationship with her job, but after months of September moping around, he seemed to finally be kind of getting it. At least she hoped so.

  “Quick interviews. Nothing too dangerous,” she promised.

  “I’ll wait till I see the whites of your eyes before I put your steak on the grill.”

  She kissed him. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” she said, then hurried out before he could change his mind.

  * * *

  Lucy debated calling Dallas. Touched open her phone three times and let the screen die to black again. She didn’t have any reason to call ... well, she didn’t have any reason that didn’t have to do with Evie, and she didn’t want to deal with that subject. Not yet. Especially with her daughter wandering in and out wherever Lucy was, claiming to be bored. Though this was probably a good sign, based on all the terrible upheaval in their lives, Lucy found it annoying. She tried not to feel that way. Evie hadn’t known Neil Grassley, so his death wasn’t something she could process, and though John’s death had deeply affected her, she seemed to have turned a corner. Good. Great.

  “Maybe we should go out for pizza?” Evie suggested hopefully.

  Why not? “Good idea,” Lucy said. “Grab a jacket.”

  Evie ran up the stairs and was just coming back down when the landline rang. Lucy inwardly groaned, wanted to just vamoose for a while, but Evie was already beelining for the phone.

  “It’s Grandpa,” she called, reading the caller ID.

  “Don’t pick up—”

  “Hi, Grandpa.”

  Lucy closed her eyes. He’d called earlier today, as had Lyle. She’d texted them both back that Layla was fine. Her father had said he wanted to talk to her and she’d ignored that. Now she’d been had.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, taking the handset Evie was holding out to her.

  He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I’m having dinner tonight with Kate and Lyle . . . and Ainsley. I want you and Layla to be there.”

  “Layla’s out, and so am I. Evie and I are just heading out for pizza.” She almost asked, “Who’s Ainsley?” before remembering Kate had once mentioned Abbott’s friend. She believed Kate’s description had included the phrase “grasping bitch.” Lucy had written that off to Kate’s basic insecurity when it came to her place in the family, but now she wondered.

  “Cancel the pizza. We’ll be at the Pembroke Inn.”

  Oh, great. The Pembroke. “I’m not canceling the pizza, and you can call Layla, but—”

  “She’s not answering.”

  “—she won’t answer. But she’ll text you, and I can guarantee what her answer will be: no. If you have something important to say, just say it.”

  “I just want a family dinner,” he said petulantly.

  She rolled her eyes. “Dad, we all need a little more lead time, and that’s on a good day.”

  Evie had heard a lot of this and was vehemently shaking her head. Pizza, she mouthed, hooking a thumb toward the garage.

  “I know you’re upset about your job. I’m not saying it’s over. If we get turned around soon, you can have it back.”

  “Can I? Gee, thanks.”

  “Lucy . . .”

  “I gotta go, Dad. Really. Have a nice dinner. Oh, and did you ever pay Babette what you owed her?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The designer. The one the store owes money to.”

  “We’re up to date on all our accounts,” he snapped.

  “Good . . . and good-bye.”

  She hung up and walked briskly toward the garage, catching up to Evie and passing her, so that Evie hovered at her heels.

  In the garage, she climbed in the Escape and Evie jumped in the passenger seat. “You’re not old enough,” Lucy said, hooking a thumb to the back.

  “I think I am,” Evie said but reluctantly obeyed. “You were kinda mean to Grandpa.”

  “‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap . . .’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “What goes around, comes around, only in biblical style, it being Palm Sunday and all.”

  “You’re kinda acting weird, Mom.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  It kind of runs in the family....

  * * *

  September reached the StopGo convenience store at around five-thirty, only able to arrive that quickly
because it was Sunday and the traffic was light. She planned to go to the Mayfields’ house next, which was on the far side of Glenn River, almost in a straight line east. There were a couple of people wandering around the store, two kids poring over the candy section, a man carrying a six-pack to the counter, while a woman was buying lottery tickets. Barry was at the register. There was no sign of Rhonda.

  The guy with the beer was in a suit, although with his full beard, fuller belly, tattoos, and general beefiness, September thought it might be his Sunday best. He paid for his purchases after the woman pocketed her lottery tickets. Next, it was September’s turn to stand in front of Barry.

  “Remember me?” she asked.

  He shot a glance toward the tan door. “Yep.”

  “You sure you don’t recall the woman who bought the disposable phone?”

  The kids with the candy, two boys around eleven, were behind September, pushing and shoving each other, giggling.

  Barry looked down at the counter. “Rhonda doesn’t want to be involved.”

  “It’s a homicide, Barry,” September reminded him soberly. “Keeping something back, anything, isn’t going to play well.”

  He mumbled something under his breath, but she couldn’t catch it with the boys roughhousing behind her. Their giggling had turned to laughter, which sounded like it could escalate into fighting.

  “What?” she asked.

  “She had gray hair,” he said.

  One of the boys fell into September, and she turned around and gave him the evil eye. They both straightened, as if someone had put a rod up their backs, but she barely noticed. Gray hair.

  She turned back to Barry. “Was she young or old?”

  “She didn’t look old in the face.”

  Brianne.

  “Thanks,” September said, and turned to leave with a final stern look toward the boys. They watched her, but one of them elbowed his friend. The friend elbowed back. September half-expected the pack of Skittles clutched in the first boy’s hand to drop and spill across the floor, and as another elbow was thrown, that was exactly what happened, multicolored candies scattering across the floor. Barry yelled and Rhonda charged through the tan door, but September was already in the parking lot and striding to her car.