Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "I'll call them myself," Jolie said. "Stall him until the police get there...something." She pushed to her feet and walked to the desk to re-sort the mail, keeping an eye out for the alleged envelope Gary said he'd sent, but the only thing unusual was Mrs. Janklo's AARP magazine that the mail carrier had put in Jolie's box by mistake. "I just want this to be over."

  "Me, too," Leann said.

  Jolie tried to smile. "I'm trying to forget about Gary, at least for one night. I wish you could drive up and crash the party with us." She glanced at her watch. "If you left now, you could make it."

  "Yeah, right. Besides, you don't need me there, not with your new friends."

  Jolie wasn't sure if the envious tone made her feel needed or crowded. She'd never before had multiple female friendships to maintain. She missed Leann, but she was grateful for Carlotta's companionship, especially since Leann would be in Florida for a few more months. Torn, she said, "Hopefully, by the time you get back to Atlanta, this mess will have blown over and all of us can be friends."

  "Okay," Leann said, but she still sounded forlorn. "Hey, aren't you afraid that Sammy will throw you out of her party?"

  "Carlotta is a master of disguise. Sammy won't recognize me." Jolie frowned suddenly, thinking she was getting way too blasé about deceiving others. This would be the last party she would crash, she promised herself.

  "Is it a costume party?"

  "No, actually, it's a pajama party. I think it's Sammy's version of a costume party."

  "Sounds decadent."

  Why the word "decadent" conjured up the face of Beck Underwood, Jolie wasn't sure, but she pushed him out of her mind. When she met with him tomorrow to try to sell him an expensive house, she would be all business. If the man had decided that she was his cause for the week, she would take it, but she wasn't going to risk more than her time. If there was such a thing as too good to be true, it was Beck Underwood. If nothing else, Gary had taught her a lesson about keeping her heart under wraps until her head caught up with it.

  "With Sammy, I don't know what to expect," Jolie said. "I forgot to mention that she came by today, too. Tried to give me a bribe."

  "For what?"

  "I think she's in trouble for a deal that went bad and she's afraid I'll be questioned."

  "Did you take the money?"

  "Of course not!"

  "You should have taken the cash and told the truth anyway. What's she going to do—fire you?"

  "I don't want to have anything to do with the woman's money...unless I have to go back and beg for a job. And after the spectacle I made of myself today, I might get fired from Neiman's."

  "So how is your brokerage business?"

  She flipped on her desktop computer so it could boot up while they talked. "Anonymous. But I'm sending out a mailing today to some of my former customers. And I'm meeting with a guy tomorrow who's looking for a house."

  "That sounds promising."

  "Uh-hm," she murmured casually.

  "Anyone I would know?"

  Because of her interior design connections, Leann knew almost everyone. "Er, possibly. Beck Underwood?"

  "Of Underwood Broadcasting? How on earth did you meet him?"

  "Remember I told you about running into a guy when I was carrying that armload of shoes my first day on the job?"

  "It was him?"

  "It was him."

  "Wow, what a coup. I can't imagine what kind of a house he's going to buy."

  "Well, I don't have his business yet." She'd seen plenty of customers—especially wealthy ones—drop agents at the last minute to give their business to a buddy or to a buddy's wife, son, daughter, hairdresser.

  "Oh, Jolie, I hate to go, but I have to get ready for a doctor's appointment."

  "Sure," Jolie said. "Thanks for listening. Give your sister my best."

  "I will. Good luck with Beck Underwood, and have fun tonight."

  "Bye." Jolie hung up the phone reluctantly, conceding that she dreaded spending the afternoon alone. She leaned against the desk and surveyed her surroundings with an eye toward what Carlotta and Hannah would think when they arrived.

  The living room-slash-office, galley kitchen, breakfast area, all visible from where she stood. A sad collection of odd-lot furniture she had accumulated situated on gray builder-grade carpet. The layer of dust on every flat surface seemed to sum up her general mindset over the past few weeks, since Gary's...departure. Well, enough of that.

  She unearthed the feather duster and gave everything a good going over. In the bedroom, though, she paused at the sight of finger marks in the dust on the top of the bookcase that was built into the headboard. She swiped her own fingers in a dusty patch, and the marks were much smaller. Her neck prickled with unease.

  Had someone been in her apartment—in her bedroom—or had she somehow made the marks herself when she'd reshelved the books strewn around the apartment? She experimented again, this time putting her weight on her hand, and, to her relief, the impressions were more similar. She wiped away the marks, telling herself that she truly was becoming paranoid.

  After dusting and running her ancient vacuum cleaner, she looked around the small apartment where she'd lived for four years and tried not to feel depressed. Having worked in real estate for most of her adult life, she knew that the sooner she invested in a home, the better. Yet some small part of her resisted the idea of buying a home to live in alone. She had always envisioned that she and her husband would shop for a first home together. Between school loans and living expenses, she had managed to squirrel away a few thousand dollars, but when she'd opted to invest in her own brokerage firm, she had postponed owning a home for a while longer.

  Now she wondered if that hesitation had been some kind of unconscious decision to wait for Gary—or someone else—before buying a home.

  She shivered. The outside temperature had plummeted to an unseasonable low, and the apartment had acquired a distinct chill. Rebelling against turning on the heat in the middle of October, she donned jeans and a sweatshirt to work at her desk.

  To the tune of a smooth jazz station, she assembled a postcard mailing to a list of former clients, providing her new e-mail address and cell phone number if they had referrals. Sammy would probably shoot her if she caught her poaching clients, but Jolie reasoned that she had developed a relationship with the clients and had a right to ask for their future business. She welcomed the mindlessness of labeling and stamping the postcards. It was, she realized, the most normal thing she'd done in days and it took her mind off the disturbing tangents her life had taken lately.

  She was actually humming under her breath as she bundled the postcards into a bag and left to drive to the post office. A surprisingly cool wind gusted around her, tossing her hair into her eyes. Two young girls skipped along the sidewalk, holding hands, pigtails bouncing. Their pink cheeks and exuberant feet made Jolie smile. Had she ever been so carefree? At what point in life had she begun to accumulate baggage, to make poor decisions that had led her to this moment?

  She dropped off the postcards, purchased more stamps, and on the way back to her apartment, pulled into a drive-through to pick up dinner. While she waited for her order, she leaned forward and peered through the windshield, squinting into the sun. The day was so luminous, it was difficult to imagine that anything was wrong with the world, much less the horrible mess that Gary had gotten himself into. When her order came through the window, she snagged a French fry from the bag and glanced in the side mirror in preparation for pulling away.

  A gray Mercury Sable sedan sat behind her. With one occupant. A man whose build resembled Gary's. Was he following her?

  She choked down the fry and looked harder, but the man wore a ball cap pulled low over his face. Coincidence or intentional? She kept her foot on the brake and reached for her cell phone. After retrieving Detective Salyers' number, she waited for the call to connect while her pulse climbed. Another car had pulled in behind the Sable, so as long as she stayed put, he
would be trapped by a curb and some rugged landscaping. The young man in the drive-through window frowned at her.

  At last the woman answered. "Salyers."

  "Detective Salyers, this is Jolie Goodman. I think Gary Hagan is in the car behind me."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "It looks like my car, and a man is driving it."

  "Are you sure it's Mr. Hagan?"

  "No, I'm not positive."

  "Is there some way you can get behind the car to check the license plate?"

  "No. I'm sitting at a drive-through window."

  "Where?"

  "Holcomb Bridge Road."

  "What's the cross street?"

  She glanced around frantically, trying to remember. "East of Old Alabama Road."

  "I'll dispatch a cruiser there. Can you sit tight?"

  A horn blared a couple of cars back. "I'll try."

  "Stay on the line."

  More horns blared. She shut off the car engine, put on the hazard lights and locked her doors, all the while keeping the phone to her ear and her eye on her driver's side mirror.

  The young man at the window waved to get her attention. She rolled down the window and said, "I'm so sorry—my engine light flashed, then it went dead."

  From the look on the young man's face, it was clear the training manual hadn't prepared him for this. "I need to get the manager." Then he disappeared.

  The horns kept blowing, although the man in the car behind her seemed calm enough.

  "Ms. Goodman, are you still there?"

  "Yes," she said into the phone. "But I have a bunch of angry, hungry people behind me."

  "An officer is on the way, ETA less than five minutes."

  Which sounded like an eternity to Jolie. Sweat gathered on her hairline.

  "Can you still see him?" Salyers asked.

  "Yes."

  "What is he doing?"

  "Just sitting there."

  No sooner had she spoken than the door of the Sable swung open as far as the narrow driveway would allow. A jean-clad leg emerged.

  "He's getting out," she said.

  "Don't risk it," Salyers said. "Drive away."

  She dropped the phone and fumbled to turn the ignition key. As the engine roared to life, she gunned the gas and vaulted out of the drive-through, tires squealing. When she looked in the rear view mirror, the man took off his hat to scratch his bald head. Definitely not Gary.

  Relief flooded her limbs and she pulled into the next shopping center to retrieve her phone. "Detective?"

  "I'm still here—what happened?"

  "It wasn't him. Sorry."

  "No problem," the detective said. "Hang on—let me cancel the call."

  Jolie alternately berated and calmed herself until Salyers came back on the line.

  "Ms. Goodman, are you okay?"

  "Yes. Sorry for the false alarm."

  "Don't worry about it. Gary Hagan is a fugitive. Even if you think you see him, I want you to call me, is that clear?"

  "Yes."

  "Because we both know he's still alive, don't we, Ms. Goodman?"

  Jolie caught herself, then murmured, "Like you, I'm assuming that Gary stole my car."

  "Ms. Goodman, when we spoke before, you neglected to mention the condo that Mr. Hagan owned."

  Jolie frowned. "Condo? Here in Atlanta?"

  "In midtown, on West Peachtree—ring a bell?"

  "No. I don't know anything about it."

  "Hm, that's interesting, since you're listed as the buying agent."

  Jolie's mind raced. "That's impossible. It had to be someone else named Goodman. I never handled a property for Gary."

  Salyers sighed. "It won't do you any good to cover up business dealings you had with Mr. Hagan."

  "I'm not," Jolie said hotly. "Why would I lie about something like that?"

  "Because when we raided the condo this morning, it was clear someone had recently been there. Plus, the freezer was full of coke—and not the cola kind."

  Jolie's stomach roiled. "I don't know anything about...anything."

  "Of course you don't," Salyers said, and Jolie couldn't tell if the woman was serious, or if she was mocking her. "Will you agree to come down to the precinct to be fingerprinted?"

  Her skin crawled just thinking about it. "What for?"

  "Well, if you don't know anything about the condo, your prints won't be there, will they?"

  Jolie swallowed. "No. I mean, yes—I'll be f-fingerprinted. I don't have anything to hide."

  "In that case, you wouldn't mind submitting to a polygraph as well?"

  Her breath caught in her chest. "A lie detector test?"

  "Right."

  Could she unwittingly incriminate herself? "I...this is a little overwhelming."

  "It's nothing to worry about, unless of course you're hiding something."

  Jolie closed her eyes, her heart hammering.

  "There's my other line. I tell you what, Ms. Goodman—why don't you come by the precinct Monday morning at ten o'clock? We'll have another cup of coffee and discuss the new developments in the case, and I can take your prints, just for everyone's peace of mind."

  She hesitated, already dreading the meeting. "What about the polygraph?"

  "That will have to be scheduled—we'll talk more about it Monday."

  "Okay."

  "Meanwhile, Ms. Goodman, try to stay out of trouble."

  Jolie disconnected the call and puffed her cheeks out in a sigh, thinking at least she would be safe crashing Sammy's pajama party tonight. The most trouble she and the girls were likely to encounter was unbridled pretentiousness in Realtor Barbie's funhouse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "THIS IS COZY," Carlotta said as she and Hannah walked into Jolie's apartment. The women's hands were full of shopping bags. "How long have you lived here?"

  Jolie smiled. "Too long."

  Hannah studied her shabby collection of furnishings as if Jolie were an oddity to the stripe-haired woman. She picked up a coaster that Jolie's mother had crocheted from orange yarn and scrutinized it. As a distraction, Jolie offered them something to drink, and Hannah helped herself in the refrigerator, emerging with a bottle of water each for Carlotta and Jolie, and a bottle of beer for herself.

  With a start, Jolie stared at the bottle that Hannah lifted to her mouth. It was the premium label that Gary preferred. Hannah stopped. "Is it all right if I drink this?'

  "Of course," Jolie said, recovering. She had bought a few to keep on hand and he hadn't had the chance to drink one before he...disappeared. She remembered thinking later that she had cursed the blossoming relationship with that casual act of intimacy—stocking his favorite beer.

  "Wait until you see what I brought," Carlotta said with a grin, lifting a shopping bag. "We're going to knock 'em dead." From a bag she withdrew a burgundy-colored velvet robe with bishop sleeves. "I thought this would be perfect for you, Jolie."

  Jolie petted the thick pile and began to salivate. "I hope you shopped the clearance rack."

  Carlotta looked perplexed. "Why would I shop the clearance rack if we're going to be returning everything?"

  "Will they let you return nightclothes?" Hannah asked, peeking into the bags.

  "Robes they'll take back," Carlotta said. "And pajamas if they haven't been worn." She made a face. "Doris in Intimates actually sniffs things. It's disgusting."

  "Uh, actually, I think it's a health code," Hannah said, pulling out a black high-necked satiny robe. "This is wicked."

  "That one's yours," Carlotta said, then pulled out a teal-colored raw silk robe with a ruffled shawl collar. "This one's mine." She dug in a different bag and removed handfuls of colorful silk. "Pajamas for all of us: a cream chemise for Jolie, pink tap pants for me, a red gown for Hannah."

  Jolie balked at the sight of the knee-length chemise. "Er, I was thinking more along the lines of cotton pajamas."

  Carlotta looked horrified. "What? No!" She handed Jolie the chemise as if she were
dressing a child who didn't know better.

  Jolie rubbed the pale, thin fabric between her fingers with awe. "What if I ruin it?"

  "You're not going to ruin it." Carlotta whipped out packages of what looked like shoulder pads. "Dress shields, so we don't sweat on the silk. And be careful what you eat and drink."

  Jolie turned over the dangling price tag on the chemise and gasped. "Eight hundred dollars? You can't be serious."

  "Your robe costs twelve hundred."

  Jolie looked at that tag, then dropped it as if it were dangerous. "You don't expect me to wear two thousand dollars' worth of pajamas to this party?"

  "Of course not," Carlotta said, then reached into another bag, withdrew a shoebox, and flung off the lid. "Don't forget the two hundred dollar mules!"

  Jolie gawked at the delicate burgundy shoes trimmed with feathers. "Two hundred dollars for house shoes?"

  "Designer house shoes. The kind that Garbo and Hepburn used to wear." She sighed and angled her head. "It's one night—you'll look so fabulous."

  Jolie chewed on her lower lip. "I promised myself I wasn't going to do this again."

  Carlotta rolled her eyes. "Okay, just this last time. Think of how much fun it will be to pull one over on your ex-boss." She raised her eyebrows. "Who knows? Beck Underwood might even put in an appearance."

  A ridiculous flush burned her face. "This sounds petty, but I really just want to see the inside of Sammy's house. When I worked at the agency, she talked about it nonstop. I actually drove by it once for a look, but this could be my only chance to cross the threshold."

  "All the more reason for you to look like a million bucks," Carlotta urged, then leaned in. "I brought you a long red wig. We'll do your eyebrows, and with the contact lenses, she'll never know who you are."

  "Are you wearing a wig too?" Jolie asked.

  She nodded. "I'm going as Marilyn tonight, and Hannah is going to wear the brown page-boy that you wore a few nights ago." Carlotta looked at her watch, then shrieked. "We only have two hours. Where's your bathroom?"

  * * *

  Jolie felt more than a little absurd leaving her apartment wearing a nightgown, robe, and feathered mules, but thankfully, the dipping temperatures necessitated a coat, so her long, navy all-weather coat covered most of her garb. Her new auburn tresses were stiff against her neck, the green contacts, swimmy in her eyes. Thank goodness it was close enough to Halloween so that anyone who spied them would assume they were headed to a costume party. Still, she already regretted not wearing a bra—the slippery silk slid over her breasts like a constant caress, with predictable results.