“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 and she felt nauseated.
“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. I apologize 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 that 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 showed signs of someone having been there recently. 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 keeping something from me.”
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.
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 is twelve hundr
ed.”
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, 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 might realize 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.
“Where did this cold weather come from?” Carlotta demanded, belting her own long coat—except hers was black cashmere, and stunning against her blonde wig.
“It’s called winter,” Hannah snapped. With her blunt page-boy wig, severe makeup and long black leather duster, she looked every inch the dominatrix.
Carlotta frowned. “If you’re going to be in a bad mood all evening, don’t come.”
“Sorry,” Hannah mumbled. “I expected Russell to call before now.”
Carlotta sniffed and looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. Jolie remembered that Hannah’s married boyfriend was supposed to tell his wife that he wanted a divorce sometime this weekend. It appeared he was leaning toward the “end” of the weekend.
She locked the apartment door behind them and, out of habit now, looked left and right as they made their way down the sidewalk to the parking lot by lamplight. “Do you want to ride with me?” she asked. “Or are we driving separately?”
“I’m driving,” Carlotta said, stopping next to a mirror-shiny dark Monte Carlo SuperSport parked in the handicap spot. “Like my new car?”
Remembering the woman’s imminent rendezvous with the man who’d demanded two thousand dollars, Jolie’s eyebrows went up. “What happened to the Miata?”
“I thought it was time to get a new ride.”
Jolie opened the back door of the spanking-new sedan and inhaled the new-car smell. “Nice.”
They were settled inside and fastening seat belts when Hannah, who sat in the front passenger seat, looked over at Carlotta. “Aren’t you going to tell Jolie the truth?”
Carlotta started the engine. “She won’t approve.”
Jolie frowned and leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would allow. “What do you mean, I won’t approve?”
Carlotta twisted in her seat and backed out of the parking place, then pulled toward the entrance of the apartment complex. “Well…some dealers are allowing customers to keep a vehicle for twenty-four hours before they actually buy the car, so…I’m trying it out.” She grinned.
Jolie gave her a wry look. “You have no intention of buying this car, do you?”
“None whatsoever.”
She couldn’t be too self-righteous, Jolie reminded herself, not while she wore over two thousand dollars’ worth of jammies that she planned to return. She sat back in her seat, marveling over the way Carlotta connived to get what she wanted. On the surface, it didn’t seem righ t…yet she wasn’t doing anything illegal. Besides, was it really so different from bending the rules on tax returns?
A small part of her admired Carlotta’s cheekiness. The woman’s obituary was bound to be more interesting than her own.
From the backseat, Jolie gave directions to a north Buckhead neighborhood where the streets were narrow and the homes were enormous. Old money had built the McMansions, and new money had upgraded them. Sammy Sanders’ house was an expansive two-story white home with yellow light blazing from the multitude of windows. The structure sported a dozen different roof angles, various verandas and offshoots of smaller buildings (the servants’ quarters?) connected by breezeways, testimony to at least a half dozen additions.
“It’s a freaking compound,” Hannah murmured.
Jolie nodded her agreement. She remembered it being impressive in the daylight, but at night it was downright imposing. With its circular drive lit by dozens of lights, it resembled a country club more than a residence. “Looks like things are in full swing.”
“One of the party-crashing rules,” Carlotta said. “Never be the first person to arrive…”
“Or the last person to leave,” Hannah said.
“She has a valet,” Carlotta said, her voice ringing with approval. She pulled up behind two other cars from which coated people were alighting. Jolie felt a tiny surge of relief that she wasn’t the only person who felt compelled to cover her sleepwear in public, but she was starting to get nervous about crashing a private party…especially Sammy’s party. She shifted, hoping the dress shields were protecting the expensive silk chemise from her nervousness.
A coated and gloved man was leaning down to address the drivers, then taking their invitations. The people two cars ahead appeared to have everything in order and were assisted from their car. The occupants of the Jaguar in front of them, however, after much head-shaking and shrugged apologies from the ticket-taker, were sent away. Jolie swallowed. “How did the invitations turn out?”
“My brother had to tinker with it some,” Carlotta admitted. “The first pass looked better than Sammy’s original, so he had to downgrade the print resolution.”
Jolie bit back a smile as they pulled up and Carlotta zoomed down her window. “Hello,” she said in a perfect imitation of the Buckhead bourgeois.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the man said. “Invitations, please—one for each guest.”
“Of course,” she cooed, handing over the cards.
The man glanced at them, then nodded and smiled. “Leave your key in the ignition and the valet will park your car.” He opened Carlotta’s door, then tore off a ticket and handed it to her when she stepped out.
The man stepped back and opened Jolie’s door. She gave him her hand and stepped out into the night air, which fell around her like a cold sheet, raising chill bumps…and concern. Suddenly spooked, she turned to look at the car behind them, half expecting to see Gary following her. But the driver was female…and wearing a fur coat, she noted wryly.
Because the winters in Atlanta were so short-lived, women who could afford fur broke them out at the first frost, without fear of the paint-throwing PETA people who targeted soirees in New York and Los Angeles. Jolie suspected the animal rights activists subscribed to the belief that everyone south of the Mason-Dixon Line was armed and that their r
ed paint parties might get them shot down here.
Which probably wasn’t too far off the mark, she thought, remembering the handgun tucked into Sammy’s designer purse. She smoothed her hand over her trusty all-weather coat—so old, it bordered on retro. Unless there was a group of polyester activists that she wasn’t aware of, she was safe from paint slinging—a bonus of belonging to the lower middle class. Then she frowned—since leaving Sammy’s employ, she might have dropped into the upper lower class.
When they started up the steps to the glowing manor house, Jolie’s nerve faltered. On the other side of the tall windows, people mingled, holding glasses and moving in that “let me slip through here” way that people use to sidle through parties.
“Come on,” Carlotta hissed, waving her forward.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Jolie murmured, stepping up. Assailed again by the feeling that she was being watched, she turned to look back to the driveway, but no other guests had arrived. Then headlights from the street caught her eye. A car sat at the end of the sloping driveway, its nose jutting out past the brick pillars that flanked the entrance. In the darkness, she couldn’t tell the model or the color. Gary? A lost driver, perhaps? A guest fumbling for their invitation? Or simply someone who had pulled to the side of the street to make a phone call? A dozen harmless possibilities, and one that unsettled her, yet seemed highly unlikely…especially in light of her paranoid scene at the drive-through today.
“What’s wrong?” Carlotta asked. She turned her head in the same direction, then frowned and reached for Jolie’s arm. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
The woman’s fingers bit into the back of her upper arm through the multiple layers of fabric. Carlotta herded her toward the door, on the heels of Hannah, and Jolie picked up on her unease. Had she recognized the car? Was it the man to whom Carlotta owed money, or perhaps someone else?
Carlotta released her hold on Jolie’s arm, the gargantuan door opened, and Jolie watched as she morphed into a gracious guest, her smile wide and ready. A finger of disquiet nudged Jolie: If the woman could transform herself so quickly, who was the real Carlotta Wren?
Party Crashers Page 16
