"I'd like a few minutes alone with my client before questioning resumes." Salyers nodded, then left.
Still holding the phone, Jolie looked up at the woman. "I'm sorry—who are you?"
"Pam Vanderpool."
Jolie squinted. "'When you're in a jam, call Pam' Vanderpool?"
The woman grinned. "That's right. I'm your attorney, Ms. Goodman."
At a loss, Jolie shook her head. "How?"
"We have a mutual friend—Beck Underwood."
Jolie's eyes widened. "Beck called you?"
The woman nodded and pulled out a steno pad. "We go way back, Beck and I." With a rustle of nylon, she sat down in the seat Salyers had vacated. "Now, bring me up to speed. Tell me everything you told the police, and everything you didn't."
Jolie tingled with wonder, gratitude, and concern that Beck would take it upon himself to help her. Pam Vanderpool had a stern, motherly quality that comforted.
"I don't know where to start," Jolie stammered.
The woman shrugged. "Start at the beginning. How are you acquainted with the deceased?"
The deceased. Jolie's chest ached and her eyes blurred with unexpected tears. "I didn't kill Gary," she murmured. "I'm innocent."
The woman reached across the table and patted Jolie's arm. "I wish I could say that's going to make my job easier, sweetheart, but it's too early to tell." She sighed. "You're exhausted, so let's get through this real quick-like, so you can go home."
Jolie gave her a brief background and repeated the conversations she'd had with the police, startling with when she'd first filed the missing persons report to her most recent tête-à-tête with Salyers. Vanderpool wrote furiously, asking questions here and there. Jolie ended with Salyers' announcement that they'd found the murder weapon in her coat pocket.
"Do you know how the gun might have gotten there?" the woman asked, looking eerily calm for someone defending a murder suspect.
Jolie shook her head.
"Have you ever fired a gun?"
"No."
"And you have no inkling as to the identity of the woman found in Mr. Hagan's car?"
"That's right."
Pam Vanderpool played with her pen, turning it end over end. "Ms. Goodman, if there's anything you haven't been truthful about with the police, I need to know now, so there aren't any surprises."
Jolie swallowed hard and clasped her hands together. "Well, there's this one little thing."
Vanderpool squinted. "What?"
"Wednesday night when I left a party at the High Museum, Gary was waiting in my rental car."
The woman wet her lips. "And?"
"And he told me not to go to the police, that if I did, both of our lives would be in danger."
"Did he say why?"
"He said that he hadn't killed the woman found in his car, that he'd been set up, but he wouldn't tell me anything other than 'they' were out to get him, and if I went to the police, 'they' might come after me."
"Why would 'they' come after you?"
"He said because of an envelope that he'd sent to me. When I told him I hadn't received an envelope, he grew frantic and said 'they' must have intercepted it."
"Did he say what was in the envelope?"
"No. He wouldn't answer any of my questions about the dead woman or who he was afraid of. He said the less I knew, the better. He wouldn't even let me see his face."
"And you didn't report this to the police?"
She shook her head. "I convinced myself that he hadn't said anything that would help them in their investigation and that I might actually make things worse."
The woman pursed her lips. "You still haven't received this alleged envelope?"
"No."
"Did you see Mr. Hagan again after that?"
"No, not until...tonight."
"You didn't see him at the party alive?"
"No."
"Okay, well, since you withheld information, no polygraph for you, young lady, but I'm going to try to convince the police that arresting you right now wouldn't be in anyone's best interests."
Jolie swallowed. "Okay."
"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me before I call Detective Salyers back in?"
"I don't have much money to pay you."
The woman winked. "But Beck does."
Jolie sat in stunned silence while her prepaid attorney summoned Detective Salyers. "My client wishes to go home."
Salyers smiled, tapping a rolled sheath of papers against her palm. "We all wish to go home, Ms. Vanderpool, but there's the little matter of a murder."
Vanderpool crossed her arms. "A man is shot at a party with dozens of people around—no one hears a thing. You're not even sure that the victim was actually shot at the party, are you, Detective?"
At Salyers' hesitation, hope bloomed in Jolie's chest.
"We're still waiting for the M.E.'s report," Salyers said. "Meanwhile, we want Ms. Goodman to take a polygraph test."
"No," Vanderpool said bluntly. "But my client is willing to submit to a gunpowder residue test."
Jolie's eyes widened. She was?
Salyers' mouth quirked to the side. "Your client took a swim in a pool. Any gun powder residue on her person or her clothes was washed away."
Vanderpool lifted her arms. "Then you got nothing."
"We have the murder weapon in Ms. Goodman's coat pocket."
"Which anyone at the party could have placed there. Besides, if my client were guilty, why wouldn't she simply have left the party rather than raising an alarm?"
"Maybe she panicked."
"Detective," Vanderpool cooed. "Does Ms. Goodman strike you as a cold-blooded murderer?"
They both swung their heads toward Jolie. Her entire left arm throbbed from the cut in her palm. Her head felt as if it were in a vise. Every cell in her body sagged. If she looked half as pitiful as she felt, Salyers would give her a cookie and send her home.
Salyers frowned. "Looks can be deceiving. Case in point," she said, withdrawing a sheet of paper from the stack she held. "Ms. Goodman, you've just been served with a harassment restraining order, filed by Mr. Roger LeMon."
Jolie pushed to her feet. "What?"
"This is the man you told me about who was at the party?" Vanderpool asked her.
Jolie nodded, fury burning in her empty stomach.
"What's this all about?" her attorney asked, taking the form.
"Mr. LeMon said he came to the party, but was forced to leave because he was afraid Ms. Goodman would accost him."
"Accost him?" Jolie said. "That's ridiculous!"
Salyers shrugged. "Ridiculous or not, if you knowingly come within fifty yards of the man, you will be arrested."
"Don't you see?" Jolie asked, flailing her good arm. "He's giving himself an alibi! Roger LeMon killed Gary and is trying to pin it on me!"
"Another conspiracy theory?" Salyers asked, her eyebrow arched.
Jolie inhaled sharply and hiccupped.
Salyers considered her, then jerked her head toward the door. "You're free to go, Ms. Goodman. But I'll be keeping tabs on you—and your friends. Don't even think about leaving the city."
"Where are Carlotta and Hannah?"
"Ms. Wren and Ms. Kizer were released...with similar warnings." The detective hesitated, then said, "I think you should know that both of your friends have had run-ins with the law before."
Jolie blinked.
"Until this investigation is over, Ms. Goodman, you might want to steer clear of questionable company. And trust me, this investigation is only beginning."
On that ominous note, Jolie skedaddled before the woman could change her mind. She walked out of the room one step ahead of her attorney. They stopped at a counter to retrieve Jolie's personal effects which, since everything she'd been wearing and her purse had been confiscated as evidence, consisted of her keys and waterlogged wallet. As they rode down one floor on the elevator, she asked, "Now what?"
"Now you sit tight," Vanderpool said. "
Remember, the police and the district attorney have to build a case—let them do all the work." She handed Jolie a carbon copy of the restraining order. "And steer clear of this Roger LeMon—I know the man, and he's formidable. Plus he's a friend of the police department, even lobbied the city council for raises for the force."
"Salyers told me as much," Jolie said.
"Don't fret. LeMon might be able to pull in a few favors, but that doesn't mean he can get away with murder."
"You think he might have killed Gary?" Jolie asked.
"I have no idea," the woman said, her expression stern. "But something has Mr. LeMon spooked enough for him to take out a restraining order on a girl half his size and half his means."
"Less than half his means," Jolie assured her.
As they walked off the elevator, Pam Vanderpool stopped. "Ms. Goodman, do you live alone?"
"Yes."
The older woman pressed her lips together. "Do you have a way to protect yourself?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there are already two people dead, and no one seems to know why. Maybe you should stay with a friend until this blows over."
Jolie nodded solemnly, embarrassed to admit she didn't have a friend with whom she was close enough to ask to hole her up. "I will."
"And here's my card. I sleep with my cell phone, so call if you need me, no matter what time it is."
Jolie gripped the business card in her hand as if it were a lifeline. "I don't know how to thank you for your help."
"Don't thank me," Vanderpool said as she resumed walking. "Thank Beck."
Beck. At the sound of his name, her nerve endings stirred. "How do you know Beck?"
"I've known Beck for years," she said, smiling fondly. "We've worked on many charitable causes together."
Jolie balked. She was a cause? She'd had similar thoughts herself concerning Beck's motivation, but to hear someone else say it was like a punch to the spleen.
"I will thank him," Jolie murmured, her cheeks flaming. "When I see him."
"Speak of the devil," the woman said as they entered the narrow lobby, which was deserted except for a security guard and Beck Underwood. Beck tossed aside a newspaper and stood. Jolie's heart beat wildly, and she had the crazy urge to run so she wouldn't have to face him. Since she'd last seen him, he had found jeans and a sweatshirt. His dark blond hair had dried at funny angles. Jolie suspected that she looked less cute after her own dip in the pool and subsequent air-dry.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she squeaked.
"She's free to go," Vanderpool said, all business.
He reached out to clasp her hand. "Thanks, Pam."
"You betcha," she said, then marched toward the exit as if she were accustomed to being summoned in the wee hours of the morning.
Jolie listened to the sound of the woman's retreating footsteps as if they were a ticking clock...counting down the time until she was alone with Beck. When the door closed with a resounding echo, Jolie finally found the nerve to meet his gaze. Abject mortification bled through her that she had allowed herself to become involved in such a mess...and had involved her friends and Beck Underwood by association. She was speechless with humiliation and weak from exhaustion.
He scanned her outfit with serious brown eyes. "How did they treat you in there?"
"Okay," she said, then pressed her lips together. "Ms. Vanderpool arrived just in time—I don't know how to thank you."
He winked. "We'll think of something. For now, let's get you home and in bed."
Since she looked like a ghoul and reeked of chlorine and now had this little murder rap hanging over her head, she was relatively sure there was no innuendo intended. Still, that didn't keep her sleep-deprived mind from conjuring up a wonderful fantasy of crawling into bed with Beck Underwood and curling up next to his big body, reveling in the protection his presence and his name afforded.
The Buckhead Bubble, as Gary had always called it. The working-class girl in her railed against the double standard, but the nearly-indicted girl in her longed to be included. She followed him to a side door, which he held open.
"How do you know Pam Vanderpool?" she asked.
But his answer was thwarted by the flash of a camera. "Mr. Underwood, over here!"
Flash! Flash!
Jolie blinked at the huddle of reporters and cameras gathered, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy's.
"Are you Jolie Goodman?" someone yelled.
"Are you under arrest for murder?"
"Mr. Underwood, is this woman your lover?"
"Come on," Beck growled, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, putting himself between her and the cameras. Frozen with shock, she stumbled to keep up with him, blindly walking forward to the parking lot until they stopped next to a dark-colored SUV. He swung open the door and helped her up into the seat. She didn't miss the concern on his face as he closed her door and glanced over his shoulder. The security guard had stopped the reporters at the mouth of the parking lot, but they were still shooting footage, and Beck would have to drive past them to get out of the lot. Dismay hit her like a slap when she realized how juicy a story it was for the media to cover one of their own. Rival networks of Underwood Broadcasting would be rubbing their hands with glee.
She covered her mouth with her hand, choking back a sob. The man had gone above and beyond the call of duty to help her for no legitimate reason and at great professional risk to himself.
He opened the driver's side door, climbed in, then slammed it shut.
"I'm so sorry I got you involved," she said.
"I got me involved," he said, his voice brusque. And regretful? "Put on your seat belt," he said, doing the same. "And look away from the cameras when we drive by."
Sensing that talking would only make matters worse, she nodded and stared at her shaking hands. By the time they drove to the exit, reporters were on both sides, so Jolie looked down and shielded her face with her hands. Beck slowed enough to take the curve, then they were speeding away. At the street, he slowed and gave her a wry little smile. "Where do you live?"
"Roswell," she said, pointing left, then gave him the street address and name of her apartment complex. She idly wondered how Carlotta and Hannah had gotten home, feeling yet another gush of remorse for involving them...and for trusting them. Their actions—and police records—made her look more guilty.
Beck pulled into the sparse pre-predawn traffic, slowing to allow an indigent pedestrian to cross illegally. "Hope he makes it until morning," Beck said ruefully.
With a start, Jolie wondered if that was how he saw her—as a poor person who needed a break? A handout? She gulped air. Pity? Waves of shame washed over her as they drove down the street. She didn't want the man's charity, but she was in no position to turn it down.
"I assume this will make the news," she said quietly. "You with me, I mean."
He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll make a couple of phone calls, pull in some favors. With any luck, it won't hit the air."
She leaned her head back on the headrest. "Is that how things are done?"
"What do you mean?"
"Favors are owed, favors are exchanged."
He shrugged. "I suppose that's life, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't want you to waste a favor on me."
She felt his gaze on her, but she couldn't look him in the eye. "Oh," he said finally. "Well...there's my family name to think of, too."
Jolie wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. "I owe you an explanation. I didn't kill Gary Hagan."
"I suspected as much," he said. "And we can discuss everything later, after you've had a chance to recover."
Although she was grateful for the reprieve, Jolie had never been so thoroughly miserable in her life. Gary was dead, and the people who should believe in her innocence didn't, and the one person who shouldn't did. She felt like a glove that a hand had been ripped from—turned inside out. Her body ached with the intensity of a profoun
d wound laid open, but she didn't have the energy to cry.
She concentrated on the rhythm of the engine and tires, the sound of her own breath entering and leaving her body. She closed her eyes, yielding to the hazy sense of nonbeing that sleep promised. Tension drained from her spine, sending the dead weight of her body into the seat.
Her next conscious thought was that the vehicle had stopped. A distant, dark feeling of dread came zooming back, jolting her upright. Moonlit hedges hemmed the nose of the SUV. Slowly Jolie became aware of streetlamps, sidewalks, connected two-story buildings. Her apartment complex.
"We're here," Beck said. "I think."
She nodded.
"You didn't say what your apartment number was."
She looked around to get her bearings, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain, then pointed. "I'm in that building over there. I can walk."
"I'm coming with you."
Rather than argue, she undid her seat belt and ran her tongue over her dry lips, moving gingerly to allow her sleep-laden limbs a chance to catch up. Before she realized what was happening, Beck was at the passenger door, helping her down in the dewy darkness. His hand against her waist, her back, sent a perilous feeling spiraling through her chest—she wasn't afraid of him, but she was afraid of how good his touch felt. She couldn't remember the last time a man had touched her just to comfort her instead of as a prelude to a sexual encounter. She leaned on Beck liberally while walking to her apartment door. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, overwhelmed with a sense of relief at being home.
Flipping on lights, she stumbled inside, not caring what Beck thought of her crocheted coasters and shabby furniture. He looked around, hands on hips, his expression unreadable, then he finally nodded toward her ancient sofa draped with a camouflaging throw. "Looks like a comfortable couch," he said, and from the tone of his voice she realized with a start that he was looking for a spot to crash.
"You want to stay?" she asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
He turned over his wrist to consult his watch. "Well, it is four in the morning." Beck cleared his throat. "And considering everything that's happened, I thought it best if someone stayed with you."
Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries) Page 20
