Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "The one what?"

  Carlotta waved her hand. "Oh, honey, we definitely have to talk after this waste-of-time meeting."

  Jolie had hoped to spend the time between the meeting and the beginning of her shift at the copy store printing flyers, so she didn't encourage the woman's attention. But when the meeting ended thirty minutes later, Carlotta turned and said, "I'm starving—have breakfast with me."

  "Well, I—"

  "What time do you clock in?"

  "Noon, but—"

  "Good," Carlotta said with a gap-toothed grin. "We have plenty of time to get to know each other. I'm meeting my friend Hannah and you'll love, love, love her."

  Joining them seemed like a foregone conclusion, and the decision was cinched by Jolie's howling stomach—the waffles had been forever ago. "Okay." Besides, she missed having Leann around to talk to. She could use a friend or two.

  Carlotta walked liked royalty, her shoulders hyper-extended and her chest thrust forward. She was a head taller than Jolie, and she had the longest neck Jolie had ever seen.

  "How do you like it in shoes?" Carlotta's voice was rich and velvety.

  "My first day was a little rough," Jolie said.

  "You'll be great—you have the perfect look for selling shoes."

  Jolie glanced down at her non-designer uniform of khaki-colored skirt, pale blue blouse, black blazer, and low-heeled sandals. "Okay."

  "Relax, I meant that in a good way. You look...approachable. That's important for shoes. Now where I am, in designer wear, it's best to look unapproachable. That scares off the riffraff who want to waste your time trying on things they can't afford. Only the people with serious money have the balls to come up to me."

  Jolie was beginning to see why this woman was a star sales consultant. "How long have you worked retail?"

  "All of my adult life, and trust me, it doesn't get better than Neiman's. Are you working part-time?"

  "Yes, through the holidays."

  "Did your company downsize? We've gotten a lot of part-timers from widespread layoffs."

  "Um, no, actually, I'm in real estate."

  "Ah. Say no more. Plenty of my good customers are realtors, and they're hurting, skipping trunk shows and buying clearance instead." She sighed and shook her head. "It's so sad."

  Jolie could only nod.

  "On the other hand, there are just as many women who can no longer afford their shrinks or their Zoloft, so they're practicing shopping therapy." Carlotta grinned. "It all evens out."

  The mall wasn't as busy today and the food court was nearly empty. Jolie eyed the spot where she had met Detective Salyers and felt a stirring of anxiety.

  "We're meeting Hannah at the Crepe Café." Carlotta said, nodding toward the end of the corridor.

  Jolie groaned inwardly, wondering how big a dent breakfast would put in her wallet. She'd lain awake most of the night wondering what she could sell if she needed an attorney, but all she could come up with was a kidney. She was a frugal person—she could get by on one.

  "Hannah knows the chef here," Carlotta said, "so we'll eat for free as long as we leave a nice tip."

  The woman was either a mind reader or she thought Jolie looked poor. Regardless, Jolie was grateful.

  Carlotta's friend hadn't yet arrived, but they were shown to a cloth-covered table in a sunny alcove. Carlotta flirted outrageously with the waiter and asked for Pellegrino bottled water. Jolie asked for hot water and lemon, and scanned the menu, which sported some rather alarming prices.

  "So, Jolie," Carlotta said over the top of her menu, "I must hear all about your encounter with Beck Underwood."

  Jolie lifted her eyebrows, and the man's face came into her mind. "My encounter? I sold him a pair of shoes."

  "No, back up," Carlotta said, waving her hand. "I haven't seen a picture of him in ages. What does he look like these days?"

  She recalled that Michael had said Carlotta was a bona fide celebrity groupie. "Um, he was sunburned, mostly."

  "Come on, is he still gorgeous?"

  Jolie shrugged and her cheeks warmed. "I wouldn't say 'gorgeous,' maybe...striking."

  Carlotta grinned and her shoulders shook with a dramatic shudder. "You know he's one of the most eligible bachelors in Atlanta."

  "Um, no, I didn't."

  "Do you have a boyfriend?"

  Jolie swallowed hard and shook her head.

  "Really? You're so pretty. With the right makeup, you could pass for Charlize Theron. I met her once at a club—her skin is perfection."

  A little overwhelmed, Jolie simply nodded. "Where are you from?"

  "Here. I grew up in Virginia-Highland."

  "That's nice," Jolie said, referring to the area of Atlanta and to Carlotta's circumstances. The woman was obviously from money.

  "You?" Carlotta asked.

  "I grew up in Dalton," Jolie said.

  North of Atlanta on Interstate 75, Dalton, Georgia was the carpet capital of the Southeast. Both of her parents had retired from flooring factories, and she wasn't the least bit ashamed, although she was prepared for the woman to wash her hands of her.

  Instead, Carlotta's eyes lit up. "Do you know Deborah Norville?"

  Jolie smiled. Celebrity newswoman Deborah Norville was Dalton's other claim to fame. "I met her once at a charity walk, she seemed really nice."

  "Darn, I'd love to have her in my book."

  "Your book?"

  Carlotta reached into her bag and pulled out a small pink, leather-bound book. "I started when I was a teenager—I met Jane Fonda at a Braves game, and it changed my life." She flipped through the book, showing Jolie the tabbed pages. "I record who I meet and where, and every category has its own alphabetized section: actors, athletes, singers and musicians, politicians, newspeople, businesspeople, and personalities."

  "Personalities?"

  "You know—people you recognize, but you're not really sure what they do...like Fergie, former Duchess of York. Who, by the way, I would kill to meet."

  This woman would have loved Gary, Jolie thought. He could have introduced her to all kinds of celebrities. Jolie nodded toward the well-worn book. "So who's the biggest celebrity you've met?"

  "Hmm, it's a toss-up between Antonio Banderas and Elton John, but since Elton has a home here, I guess I'd have to say Antonio. And maybe Bill Gates."

  "Wow. How did you meet Bill Gates?"

  "At a party. Elton I saw at a restaurant. And I've met lots of celebrities at the Sunglass Hut right here in the mall."

  "No kidding?"

  "Yeah, everybody famous needs sunglasses. Atlanta is a fabulous place to spot celebrities because there aren't that many places for them to go, and they usually don't have a paparazzi guard with them because it's the South and most people don't really care who they are as long as they wipe their feet."

  Jolie laughed, grateful for the woman's entertaining banter. The waiter brought Carlotta's Pellegrino and Jolie's hot water, and while Jolie squeezed the lemon wedge into the steaming cup, Carlotta looked up and waved at someone behind Jolie. "Oh, here's Hannah."

  Jolie turned in her seat to see a woman with short black-and-white-striped hair coming their way. She wore a white culinary smock, jeans, and black combat boots. A plain canvas bag slung over her shoulder hung almost to her knees. She smiled and swung into the seat adjacent to Jolie. "Hiya."

  Carlotta made introductions. Hannah Kizer was more reserved than Carlotta, but adventuresome, judging by her hair and the large silver barbell through her tongue. Jolie was so fascinated, she could barely focus on what the woman was saying. When the waiter took her drink order, they placed their food orders, and Hannah excused herself to say hello to the chef.

  "Is she a chef too?" Jolie asked, watching her walk through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

  "She's still a culinary student," Carlotta said. "But she works for one of the best caterers in town, and she flat-out knows food."

  A minute later, Hannah came back and settled into her chair.
"Sorry I was late—traffic was worse than usual." She tapped short, neat nails on the table and Jolie caught a slight whiff of cigarette smoke.

  "We were just getting to know each other," Carlotta said. "Jolie works in shoes, so when you're ready for a new pair of ugly boots, she can help you out."

  Hannah smirked, and Jolie, a loner all of her life, admired their teasing relationship.

  "Have you heard about the bash at the High Museum tomorrow night?" Hannah asked, her tone slightly mocking.

  Carlotta leaned forward, her eyes shining. "No—what is it?"

  "A wine tasting for the big contributors, eight o'clock. The guest list is hush-hush, so I'm guessing there are some important people attending."

  "We have to go!" Carlotta said.

  "I have to work it," Hannah said, sounding disappointed.

  "Jolie will go with me," Carlotta said, then turned to Jolie. "Doesn't it sound like fun?"

  Jolie felt sheepish. "I'm kind of on a tight budget."

  Carlotta pshawed. "I got you covered. Do you know where the entrance ramp to the museum is?"

  Jolie nodded.

  "Meet me there, eight thirty sharp."

  Her mind raced and it occurred to her that the kind of people that Gary had worked for could be found at such get-togethers. Who knew? She might be able to find out something about his "work," and maybe a clue to the identity of his scary ex.

  When her practiced excuses not to socialize rose in her mind, Jolie reminded herself it meant she wouldn't be sitting at home alone, imagining herself with a big red X on her head. "Okay...but what should I wear?"

  "A black dress and great jewelry. Oh, and bring a biggish purse."

  Chapter Five

  THE NEXT EVENING Jolie was lucky enough to find parking along Peachtree Street, a mere block from the High Museum of Art. When she climbed out of the car, her stomach fluttered with nerves. Had she worn the right dress? Would she say the right things? Would she stumble across someone who knew Gary? And more immediate, how much, if any, of Gary’s story should she share with Carlotta?

  She had sidestepped Michael Lane's questions at work, thinking that even if he'd seen the news, he couldn't possibly connect a car and a woman being pulled out of the river with her comment that her boyfriend was missing. She'd simply told him they were checking in with her. In fact, in the light of day, it was easy to convince herself that everything would work out all right. In was only after the sun set, like now, that her imagination went into overdrive, projecting all kinds of atrocities onto the slightest sound or movement.

  She had taken only a few steps down the sidewalk when from the depths of her "biggish" purse, her cell phone rang. She stopped under a streetlight to remove the phone. She didn't recognize the local number, but she punched the CALL button anyway.

  "Hello?"

  "Ms. Goodman, this is Detective Salyers. Is this a bad time?"

  "Um, no," she said, stepping back to allow a well-dressed couple to walk by.

  "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner, I got slammed yesterday and today. I did have a chance to go through the box of items you dropped off. I assume you looked through them, too."

  "Yes, I did."

  "Did anything jump out at you as being odd?"

  "You mean other than the photo with my face crossed out?" she asked wryly.

  "So you did see the pictures?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you think that Mr. Hagan was the person who drew that X over your picture?"

  Jolie sighed. "I just don't know. I can't imagine why he would do something like that, unless he was getting ready to break off our relationship."

  "Did you recognize anyone in the other pictures?"

  "The pictures of us tubing were from a work outing of mine that I invited Gary to, so of course I know those people. Otherwise, no."

  "Did you send Mr. Hagan the note with the lipstick print?"

  "No."

  "And you don't have any idea who might have?"

  "That's right."

  "Did you realize that Mr. Hagan was heavily in debt?"

  "We didn't discuss our finances with each other."

  "When you were out together, did he use cash or credit cards?"

  She squinted, trying to remember. "Cash, mostly."

  "His bank account is overdrawn. I ran a check on Mr. Hagan's credit cards, and they haven't been used since the Friday of his disappearance. Does he have access to any of your cards?"

  Jolie frowned. "No."

  "He might have stolen one of your cards. Have you noticed unusual activity on any of your accounts?"

  Jolie opened her mouth to say no, then realized she hadn't received this month's statement on her VISA and American Express. She'd been in such a hurry to get inside her apartment the last two nights, she hadn't even stopped to check the mail. "I haven't noticed, no."

  "Have you heard from Mr. Hagan?"

  "No," Jolie said. "But I had a hang-up on my home phone Monday night."

  "What time?"

  "Between seven thirty and eight."

  "You don't have caller ID?"

  "It's an old phone and the display is shot."

  "Do you think it was Mr. Hagan?"

  "I don't know," Jolie said. "I'm just trying to keep you informed."

  Salyers sighed into the phone. "Ms. Goodman, I want to believe that you had nothing to do with this, but I talked to the woman who lives above you. She said she had her window open one night a few weeks ago and heard you and a man arguing on your doorstep."

  Jolie frowned. "Mrs. Janklo? The woman has a hearing aid."

  "Well, she must’ve had the volume turned up. She said the two of you were arguing about your car."

  Jolie's mind spun, trying to recall what the woman might have overheard. A memory surfaced, and she gave a little laugh. "Oh, one night when Gary left, he was teasing me about how boring my car was, and I got a little indignant. That must have been what Mrs. Janklo heard."

  Salyers made a little snort of disbelief. "Do you remember when that conversation took place?"

  "Not really...maybe a week before he disappeared."

  A voice sounded in the background and the detective covered the phone to say something to someone, then came back on the line. "I have to take another call. But we'll be talking again, Ms. Goodman." Then she hung up.

  Jolie frowned at the phone, irritated that she was being cooperative and the woman still seemed intent on implicating her in this mess. In fact, the more information she shared, the more the detective seemed to misinterpret. Detective Salyers' response made her feel determined to find out more about Gary on her own. Maybe she could find him herself, encourage him to give himself up...and return her car.

  She stashed her phone and resumed walking toward the museum, which was lit up like a big luminaria adorning midtown. The building sat back from the street on a rise, and the long, sloping, ramped entrance was part of its architectural grandeur. A spectacularly dressed woman as tall as Carlotta Wren waited near the bottom of the ramp, but as Jolie drew closer and slowed her pace, she realized the woman was blond.

  "Thank God. I thought you had left me hanging," the woman said.

  Jolie squinted and walked closer. "Carlotta?"

  The woman laughed and touched her Marilyn Monroe-like hair. "Sorry—I should have told you that I might alter my appearance."

  "Is that a wig?"

  "Of course—don't you have wigs?"

  "No," Jolie said, feeling rather stodgy.

  Carlotta waved her hand. "Well then, let's get a look at you."

  Jolie stood stock still while Carlotta walked around her, perusing her modest black swing dress, clucking like a hen. "Not bad—are those real pearls?"

  Jolie nodded and touched her throat. "My mother's...mine now."

  "Nice touch." Then Carlotta looked down and frowned. "But your first purchase with your employee discount really must be shoes—what are those?"

  Jolie squirmed and looked down at her chunky-heel
ed slingbacks. "I don't know—I've had them for a while."

  "Hmm. Remember, vintage is good. Old is not good. But your makeup is great, and your hair is fabulous—what did you do to it?"

  "Washed and combed it."

  "Hmm. If you tell me it's naturally curly, I'm going to kill you."

  "Trust me, curly hair is much more trouble than it's worth."

  Carlotta sighed in obvious disagreement. "Let's go in before all the booze is gone."

  Jolie took a deep breath and followed the woman up the ramp. Carlotta had not adhered to her own advice to wear a black dress—her zebra-striped coatdress fairly glowed, and would have been almost loud, except it was overshadowed by her strappy pink and rhinestone shoes.

  Jolie gaped. "Those are the shoes kept under glass by the register."

  Carlotta looked down. "Oh, right—the Manolos. Limited edition. Aren't they amazing?"

  "Yes," Jolie murmured, stunned that star sales consultant or no, the woman could afford a four-thousand-dollar pair of shoes. Then she remembered that Carlotta had inferred that she'd grown up with money. Maybe she had a trust fund. Jolie trailed her to the entrance, where a woman in a staid suit eyed Carlotta suspiciously. "Tickets?"

  "Of course," Carlotta said, producing two long tickets and extending them with a glib smile.

  The woman frowned and lowered her reading glasses from her forehead to her nose. "Those aren't the right tickets."

  Carlotta laughed, then took the tickets back and opened her purse—which was quite "biggish," Jolie noticed. "I'm so sorry," Carlotta said, reaching into her bag. "I simply have too much on my calendar this week. Are the tickets blue?"

  "Yes," the woman said.

  "Ah. Here they are." Carlotta withdrew another pair of tickets, this time pale blue.

  The woman glanced at them, then nodded and dropped the tickets through a slit into a wooden box. "Have a nice time, Ms. Holcomb," she said with a magnanimous smile.

  "Oh, we will," Carlotta said, then clasped Jolie by the arm and pulled her forward.

  "Are the Holcombs friends of yours?" Jolie asked.

  "Hmm? Oh...I guess you could say that."

  They walked down the narrow foyer, which made an abrupt left turn and opened into an extensive atrium, open to the top story of the museum. Suited men and decked-out women mixed and mingled on a shiny white marble floor. The room whispered money. The hum of voices and low, sporadic laughter were background to a quartet playing cymbal-brushing jazz. Wine and perfume wafted on the air, tickling Jolie's nose. In the presence of so much privilege, her pulse picked up.