"What's this about?" Dean asked, settling his sizable hands at his waist.
Jake pulled his thoughts together, then glanced at Mike who wore a distinctly uncomfortable expression—one that plainly said, "You tell him."
Jake looked away, pulled in a deep breath to summon his nerve, then let it go and faced Dean. There was no easy way to say what had to be said. "Mike and I found out about something … and we thought you should know."
Dean nodded, acknowledging him.
Now or never Jake thought. "Emily's been seeing Marshall."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'seeing him?'" he asked suspiciously.
Mike handed over the pictures. "Seeing him," he repeated, evidently reluctant to elaborate.
Several emotions streaked across Dean's face as he flipped through the damning photos—shock, disbelief, outrage, then anger. His face reddened and he sucked in a harsh breath, then let it go. "Where did you get these?"
Jake stared at the jewelry box to avoid looking at Dean. It seemed disrespectful somehow to intrude on such a private sort of pain. "Jolie brought them in last week when she filed the assault report against Marshall."
His head jerked up. "Last week?"
"Yeah. She showed them to Mike."
A white line emerged around his thinned mouth. "If you've known about this for a week, then why the hell am I just hearing about it now?" Dean demanded. "For God's sake, Jake. Mike." He threw his hands up in futile frustration, swearing hotly.
Mike shifted guiltily. "She showed me the pictures last week—she was keeping them until she filed for divorce—but she didn't give them to me until a couple of days ago. We didn't want to tell you without the proof. It's…" Mike kicked awkwardly at a silver candy wrapper on the floor. "It's not the sort of thing you tell a man about his wife without proof, Sheriff."
Jake shoved a hand through his hair. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry. It's ugly business and I—" He shook his head. "I know we should have told you sooner, but given present circumstances—" Jake jerked his head meaningfully down the hall "—it's probably better that we didn't."
It took Dean less than three seconds to absorb that reality. Granted he'd just learned that his wife had been balling the deceased, but he was still a cop and they all knew that if he'd had prior knowledge of the affair, he'd have been a suspect. At least a temporary one. He swallowed. "Who else knows about this?"
"Besides us? Jolie, of course, and Sadie Webster—she's the one who took the pictures. But she's got a good head on her shoulders. She's discreet." Jake hesitated. "And whoever your wife or Marshall might have told," he reluctantly pointed out.
Dean nodded curtly, then indicated the photos still clutched in his hand. "When did Sadie take these?"
Jake told him and Dean seemed to be mulling it over. After a moment, Jake blew out a breath. "As far as this investigation's concerned, it never happened, Dean. It's dead and buried."
Dean shot him a considering look. He knew what Jake wanted in exchange and was obviously debating the merit of letting him have it. He finally sighed. "I appreciate it. It's your case," he said. "Keep me informed." He nodded at them, then, pictures still in hand, turned and strode out of the room. "Call me if anything comes up," he called without turning around. "I've got to go have a talk with my wife."
Mike glanced at him, released a deep pent-up breath and shook his head. "Cheatin' wives, missing dicks," he said tiredly. "This has been a busy night in Moon Valley."
Yep, Jake thought. And it was only getting started.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sophia added a shot of whiskey to her coffee and joined Meredith and Bitsy at her kitchen table. "Got there in the nick of time, didn't we?" she remarked, letting go a profoundly relieved sigh.
"I'll say," Bitsy confirmed with a significant eye roll.
"Don't kid yourselves," Meredith snorted. "If you think for one minute that he didn't notice that something was off, then you'd better think again." She dumped a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. "I was watching him. He's smart."
Bitsy tsked, snagging a lemon cookie from the plate Sophia had automatically put on the table. "Oh, Meri, why do you have to be such a prophet of doom? What's he going to do?"
"Dig around," she direly predicted. "Mark my words. This isn't over. He knows her, knows her friends." A humorless laugh erupted from her throat.
"Sadie, her very best friend in the whole world doesn't come to her rescue, but three old ladies who barely know her drag themselves out of bed and hurry to her side?" she asked skeptically.
"Sadie doesn't have a scanner," Bitsy argued, blithely unconcerned.
Nevertheless Sophia agreed with Meredith. This was by no means over. Tonight they'd avoided immediate disaster, but steps were going to have to be taken in order to preserve the Club. So long as everyone kept their mouth shut—and she fully believed that Jolie was capable of that—then everything should be fine.
Despite the reassuring thought, she couldn't seem to shake the odd sensation that their world was about to suffer a significant shift. All of Moon Valley's for that matter. The last person to be murdered in their little town was Amos Bolen, but there hadn't been any mystery attached to his death. Sophia rolled her eyes. His ignorant, hot-headed brother had shot him over a tub of butter.
But this? This had all the makings of a real drama. Stolen money, adultery, a hated victim and the town darling. If word leaked out about the FWC they'd undoubtedly wind up in a made for TV movie, portrayed by fat, aging actresses with fake Southern accents, bouffant hair, mobile homes and muumuus. Sophia inwardly shuddered.
"So what now?" Meredith asked. "Should we call an emergency meeting? Maybe avoid having meetings until this is resolved?"
Seemingly horrorstruck, Bitsy appeared oblivious to the cookie crumbs tumbling out of her gaping mouth.
"No," Sophia said. "But we need to make sure everyone sticks to the story." She turned to Bitsy.
"I'll handle it," she said with a succinct nod. "As it happens, I know how to play bridge."
Staring unblinkingly into the distance, Meredith cocked her head. "I should probably pick up a few card tables."
"Good thinking," Sophia told her. "A few decks of cards would probably be good, too."
With everything seemingly settled—or as settled as it could be for the moment—Bitsy carelessly bit into another cookie, then slid them both a sly glance and asked the one question that they'd all been wondering. "So, who do you think did it?"
Sophia leaned back in her chair, grimacing. "I dunno. Jake's got his work cut out for him, that's for sure. The man had a lot of enemies. Any one of them could have done it."
Meredith arched a brow. "Sheriff Dean could have snapped."
Deciding that chewing would improve her ability to sleuth, Sophia gave into temptation and filched a cookie from the plate, then munched thoughtfully. Meredith definitely had a point. Marshall had been sleeping with Dean's wife. That would certainly incite some men to murder.
"Emily Dean's just who he's been seeing recently," Bitsy said. "We can't rule out a jilted lover. Or a jilted lover's husband."
"Then there's always the money trail," Meredith chimed in. "He's certainly screwed a lot of people over in that regard."
Bitsy grunted darkly. "If Jolie were my daughter, I'd want to see him dead, I know that. Especially after what happened last week."
Sophia felt her eyes widen. "Fran?" she gasped. She immediately shook her head, resisting the idea. "No, she wouldn't do that."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Sophia," Meredith remarked, surprisingly concurring with Bitsy. She lifted a brow. "Mother's aren't above killing to protect their young."
Sophia knew that. Still… If Fran had wanted Chris Marshall dead, the last thing she would have done was suggest that Jolie join the FWC. It would have been too risky. Her actions over the past week—the life insurance, the pre-burial pamphlets, the outfit—were going to be under intense scrutiny as it was without factoring in her secret membership in the
FWC. Right now the only thing she had going for her was her "bridge" alibi and the fact that she truly was innocent. She related her thoughts to Bitsy and Meredith.
Bitsy who was able to be both fat and happy—unlike her, Sophia thought enviously—scarfed down another cookie. "I think you're worrying for nothing. She didn't do it. The truth will speak for itself."
"Ultimately, yes," Sophia admitted. "But in the mean time she'd better brace herself for sheer hell."
Meredith shrugged lightly. "She's been living in sheer hell for two years. She's trading one for another now, but without the primary source of her misery." She smiled shrewdly. "Which one do you think she's going to prefer?" She grunted as though it were a forgone conclusion. "I know which one I would."
And there was that, Sophia thought. She felt a smile flirt with her lips. "Spoken like a true Future Widows' Club member, Meredith."
"Don't forget that Jolie's one, too," Bitsy added knowingly. "Once that reality sets in, she'll be fine."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jolie's head jerked up as a knock rattled the glass. She leapt up from Chris's desk, moved to the window and peeked through the blinds onto the sidewalk. A sigh of relief leaked out of her mouth—Sadie. She hurried around to the front of the office and opened the door, quickly ushering her friend inside.
"You're here early," Sadie said, breezing into the room. She brought the faint scent of hairspray and strawberry jam with her. "You're not going to believe the crazy rumor I heard this morning. Bitsy Highfield called before I even left the house and said—" Her gaze caught Jolie's and stopped short. Her tentative smile fell. "Is it true?" she breathed disbelievingly. "My God, it's true, isn't it? He's dead."
"He is," Jolie told her.
Sadie's eyes widened. "Oh, my God," she said again.
"I, uh… I found him last night after I left your house." She shuddered, still feeling a chill land in her midsection every time she recalled seeing his face. "It was too late to call you and I didn't want to wake up the girls."
Sadie sagged against the reception desk, then shot her a shaky look. "What happened?"
"Other than the fact that someone walked into the house and shot him, I don't know."
Sadie sat there for a minute, seemingly absorbing the fact that they now inhabited a world where Chris Marshall no longer existed. She blew out a deep breath, then lifted her shoulders in a small unrepentant shrug. "Wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm not," she said bluntly. "I didn't like him when he was alive, and I'm not going to pretend to like him now just because he's dead." She scowled. "I hate it when people do that. He was a mean-spirited bastard who made you miserable. Dying doesn't make him a saint. Far as I'm concerned, it's the first act of kindness he's ever shown you."
Jolie knew that she should at least pretend to be outraged over her friend's hard-hearted reaction to Chris's death … but in all truth she couldn't because after the initial shock of last night, she'd begun to feel the same way. Sadie was right. Dying didn't make him a saint. She wasn't going to pretend to mourn him—she didn't own the necessary attachment, the emotion needed to pull it off. He'd made her wretched. She'd hated him. Those were the unhappy facts. Did that mean she was glad that he was dead? No … but it certainly made things easier.
Last night after she'd gone home with her mother, she'd had a good bone-wringing cry. She'd whimpered, wailed and sobbed, and not necessarily in that order. She'd cried for her mistakes, for the things she'd lost, the pointless time she'd spent away from her mother. She'd had years of despair built up and being able to simply let it go and finally be with her mom had been very … cathartic.
When the storm of emotion had passed—leaving behind a raging headache, a splotchy face and a mountain of soggy Kleenex—she'd felt unbelievably better, like she'd been baptized by her tears, cleansed of her guilt.
It had been the oddest thing. She'd been sitting there at the kitchen table—the Southern equivalent of a shrink's couch, Jolie thought wryly—watching her mom scoop coffee from a generic can into the pot. Her mother had never spared any expense when it came to buying good coffee. It had always been her little extravagance, the one thing she wouldn't compromise on. Jolie had inwardly winced, thinking that her mother wouldn't have to buy generic coffee once she got her money back.
The fleeting thought had triggered an epiphany and her brain, which had been numbed by the horror of finding Chris and by the lengthy crying jag, had suddenly been enervated with what needed—had—to be done. Immediately.
She knew that Chris's assets would most likely be frozen—they usually were when a person was murdered—so she'd needed to act before that happened, which had only given her a narrow window of opportunity. She'd explained things as best she could to her mom, then left her standing in the doorway, wearing a frayed robe and worried frown. Armed with a sense of purpose and a thermos of generic coffee, she'd hurried down to the office.
She'd been here all night, going through files and folders, systematically scouring his office until she'd found the numbers and pass codes for the off-shore accounts—he'd cut a small hole in the leather beneath his executive chair and had tucked them there for safe keeping, where he could figuratively sit on the money—and she'd just accomplished the final wire transfer into her own account when she'd heard Sadie at the front door.
The minute Marge, their secretary, came in this morning, Jolie planned to instruct her to fill all open orders, issue checks to their creditors and pay their employees their last check along with a hefty severance bonus. She'd see to the investors, making sure that their original investment as well as their correct returns were given to them. Between what Chris had stashed in his private accounts and what she'd managed to slip aside, she'd have enough to do that as well as still have a nice little nest egg for herself.
It was finally over, Jolie thought, letting go a relieved sigh.
She relayed her plans to Sadie. "By five o'clock this afternoon, we'll close the doors and Marshall Inc. will be no more. I've got to go down to the Sheriff's office, file the official report, bury him, and that'll be it." Her shoulders sagged with relief and the first tentative bloom of hope blossomed in her chest.
Rather than looking impressed with her speedy efficiency, Sadie's brow folded into a small frown. "Jo, I hate to burst your bubble … but I don't think that's going to be it. He was murdered. There'll be an investigation."
Jolie nodded. "I know that. Jake's in charge. He, uh… He was there last night." And she'd never been more thankful to see another soul. He'd been amazingly kind, given the circumstances, and though she hadn't been completely herself, he'd seemed a little nervous talking to her. In retrospect, it was oddly endearing.
"That'll definitely work to your advantage, but you realize that you're going to be a suspect. At least, initially."
"I know," she said, undeterred. "But I didn't do it, so I'm not going to waste my time worrying about it." She let go a heavy but determined breath and crossed her arms over her chest. Not altogether true—she would worry to some extent—hell, she'd be a fool not to—but she fully intended to move on. "I've wasted all the time I intend to waste, Sadie. I'm washing my hands of it—all of it." She gestured around the office. "I'm moving out of that house and I'm putting in an offer on that little place over on Lelia Street
I told you about. I want to move on. I need to. I want my life back." Not an unreasonable request given what she'd been through, Jolie thought.
A worried line wrinkled Sadie's brow and she weighed her words carefully. "Jo, nobody knows more than I do how difficult things have been for you, but … you might want to rethink this. Being hasty could give the wrong impression." She bit her bottom lip. "A guilty impression."
Jolie squashed a frustrated wail. She knew that, dammit, but frankly she didn't care. She was innocent. Being in an unhappy marriage didn't make her a murderer. More like a survivor. Chris Marshall had dictated practically every aspect of her life for the past two years and she'd be damned before she'd l
et him do it from the grave. His days of yanking her chain were over. She was taking her life back.
Effective immediately. And though she was vaguely concerned about being investigated for a crime she didn't commit, she didn't intend to lose one more moment of her life because of Chris Marshall.
"Jake knows I didn't do it," Jolie told her. "He's damn good at his job. He'll find out who did it and when he does I'll be exonerated."
"I'm sure that you will, but it would be better for you to make his job easier rather than more difficult. Dean will be looking over Jake's shoulder." She grunted. "Given the personal history between the two of you, Jake may not end up being the one in charge of the investigation. Dean may pull him and assign another detective."
Jolie paused as a note of alarm hit her belly. That scenario had never occurred to her. She completely trusted Jake to find the truth. Not only was he good at what he did, he knew her. Knew that she wasn't capable of doing what had been done to Chris. But another detective might not be so discerning and she'd definitely make a convenient suspect. Still, she hadn't murdered Chris and furthermore, she had an alibi.
She told Sadie as much. "I'm innocent. Regardless of whether I move out or close this company or anything else, nothing changes that fact." She shrugged, trying to cast off the weight of worry dragging at her determination. "They can investigate me until the cows come home for all I care. They're not going to find anything."
Jake leaned back in his uncomfortable desk chair, passed a weary hand over his face and futilely wished he hadn't taken this call. "Look, Andy, I wish I could help you, but I don't know when or even if you'll get the body. Once the autopsy is completed, Jolie will have to make those arrangements. I'm just the detective in charge. I'm not making the funeral arrangements."
THE FUTURE WIDOW'S CLUB Page 10
