Party Crashers

by Stephanie Bond

  Now, what to do with the mess she’d made? A bloody towel, Band-Aid debris. The paper went into the step waste-can. She used the towel to wipe down the white counter and the white sink, then wrapped it inside another small towel and stuffed the whole kit-and-caboodle into her purse. Only then did she get a look at herself in the mirror and saw the big, bloody stain on the silk cream-colored gown where her robe gapped open. She shrieked, which elicited another knock on the door.

  “Do I need to call someone for you?”

  “No!” she called, then gulped a calming breath. She was no textile expert, but she had a feeling that the only way to get blood out of silk was to cut it out. She closed her eyes, chastising herself. Her amateur sleuthing had led to ruining an eight-hundred-dollar nightshirt. She whimpered, thinking how many shoes she’d have to sell. Served her right for stealing clothes, crashing this party.

  She pulled herself up, thinking at least she had her commission from Beck Underwood’s home to look forward to. If she hadn’t completely blown it with him, of course. He didn’t seem like the type of man who would take his business elsewhere because she wouldn’t sleep with him, but then again, he didn’t seem like the type of man who would do business with a nobody. So if this night was to be salvaged, she needed to leave feeling good about getting his business.

  She pulled her robe together and tightened the belt, relieved to see the bloodstain was covered as long as she didn’t flash anyone. She stuffed her aching hand into her pocket, retrieved her champagne glass, took a deep breath, and emerged with as big a smile as she could muster.

  Beck straightened, his expression opening in relief. “If you ever want to make a man go crazy, go into the bathroom and start making a lot of loud, dangerous-sounding noises.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I was looking for an aspirin, and her medicine cabinet exploded.”

  That made him smile, and thankfully, he didn’t notice her hand, or the fact that she kept glancing at her own chest every few seconds.

  “I guess we’d better go,” she said, “before Sammy sends out a search party.”

  He shuddered dramatically and she laughed as they walked into the hall.

  “Thanks for the tour. Do you have an idea of where you’d like to live?”

  “Maybe midtown,” he said. “Or downtown.” Then he grinned. “Or maybe a farm in Dalton.”

  Her heart flooded with intense like. “That really narrows it down.”

  He looked around and lifted his arms as they reached the landing that overlooked the enormous entryway on the first floor. Guests’ voices carried up, bursts of laughter and clinking glasses. “Do you like this house?” he asked.

  She took in the grandeur around her. “It’s a beautiful house.”

  “Yes, but would you live here?”

  Her cheeks warmed. “That’s something I’ll probably never have to worry about.”

  “Humor me. If you had the money, is this the kind of house you would choose to live in?”

  “I…probably not. I have to admit that large houses seem…daunting to me. All that space demanding to be used.” She blushed, thinking she’d probably offended him since the Underwood family home was near the governor’s mansion in Buckhead, but was twice the size. She rushed to explain. “But what I think is missing most in this house is personality. Yes, it’s beautiful, but it feels more like a showcase than a home. Anyone might live here. As a broker, I’m probably not supposed to say this, but owning a home is more than buying an address and filling it up with nice stuff. It should be personal, unique, symbolic even.” She flushed because she thought she’d overstepped her bounds. After all, the man was probably looking for a tax shelter.

  But instead of laughing at her, he looked at her in that dangerous fall-for-me way. “Do you have your own home?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “But someday.”

  “You’re hired.”

  She grinned, but her pleasure over a potentially huge commission was cut short by a commotion on the first floor—Carlotta, flailing her arms, asking guests, “Have you seen a woman with long red hair?”

  “Carlot—” Jolie stopped and cleared her throat. “Carly, I’m up here.”

  Carlotta looked up, then disappeared, apparently coming up after her. When she reached the landing, she was out of breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Jolie asked.

  “There’s been a little…complication.”

  Jolie frowned. “What?”

  “Russell is here.”

  “Who?”

  “Hannah’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  “With his wife.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right,” Carlotta said, her voice grim. “I tried to get Hannah to leave, but she wouldn’t. She said she was going to make a scene. She was headed to the pool where they were, and I’m afraid someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “What can I do?” Jolie asked.

  “Find our coats, and meet me down there.” Carlotta looked at Beck. “Would it be too much to ask you to run interference?”

  “Who are we talking about?” he asked, scratching his head.

  “Our friend Hannah, who came with us,” Jolie explained. “She’s been dating a married man, and apparently he’s here—with his wife.”

  Beck winced. “Who’s the stupid guy?”

  “Russell Island,” Carlotta supplied.

  “I know him,” Beck said. “And his wife. This won’t be pretty.” They started down the stairway and Jolie jogged toward the coat check room, thinking Hannah was likely to blow their cover and Sammy would toss them all out on their party-crashing behinds. Maybe even have them arrested for trespassing.

  The attendant was gone, so Jolie undid the familiar and ineffective ribbon across the doorway and started her own search. The nicer coats—the furs, the leathers, the brocades—were hanging on portable racks. The jackets, hats, shawls, and assorted cheap coats had been draped over the bed—ten dollars said that’s where her all-weather standby had been relegated. It was difficult to maneuver with her injured hand, but after searching three racks, she spotted Carlotta’s black cashmere coat and pulled it off the rack. Hannah’s leather duster was more elusive, but she finally found it. Then she turned to the bed to dig for her Montgomery Ward special.

  She displaced a dozen hats and wraps and pulled three navy coats out of the tangle that weren’t hers. She was starting to become frustrated when she touched something unexpectedly solid. Jolie frowned and pushed aside a pile of coats, then was struck mute with shock…terror…disbelief.

  It was Gary. And from the hole in his chest, he appeared to be…checked out.

  Eighteen

  There are times in every person’s life when they find out what they’re made of. Looking down on Gary Hagan’s body—lifeless eyes, gray pallor, unnatural position—Jolie discovered that she was made of soft, gooey, blubbery stuff. The only thing that kept her from collapsing entirely was the knowledge that if she did, she’d fall on a dead person.

  She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She stumbled backward on her high-heeled house shoes, twisting her ankle and ricocheting off the doorframe and out into the hall. Her mind reeled, rejecting what her eyes had just seen, and she was distantly aware that she was keening like a small animal.

  She half staggered, half fell down the vacated stairs, grateful to the red carpet for sparing her knees from the marble beneath, and at one point thinking it would be faster if she just rolled down. Her hand felt wet and sticky and she registered the fact that she might be smearing blood down the handrail. By the time she’d reached the first floor, she was minus a shoe, and she still hadn’t encountered a live person.

  Judging from the empty great room, everyone had migrated to the pool. She lumbered forward, heedless of anything except getting to Beck or Carlotta…or even Sammy. The good news was that Beck and Carlotta were standing together by the edge of the pool with their backs to her. The bad news was they
were restraining Hannah, who was kicking at a cowering man as if they were in a Ninja movie. The guests were crowded around, fascinated.

  At last the scream that had been caught in Jolie’s throat erupted like a volcano, echoing off the surface of the aqua-colored water dotted with floating candles, reverberating around the glass-enclosed room. Every head pivoted her way. Beck took a half step in her direction.

  “Help!” she bellowed, running toward them as fast as she could considering she was wearing one shoe.

  The one shoe betrayed her. She hit a slick spot and skidded, flailing. A bewildered-looking Carlotta, who was closest, reached for her, and Hannah reached for Carlotta, and the next thing Jolie knew, she had entered the pool by way of a belly-flop chain.

  The good news was the bracing water cleared the fog from her head. The bad news was she’d fallen into the deep end and the heavy robe instantly soaked up ten times its weight in water. She struggled with the tie belt, but only managed to pull it tighter around her ribs. Meanwhile, Carlotta floated by, her eyes wide, her mouth open—not exactly the safest expression for being underwater. She was in trouble. Jolie grabbed Carlotta’s leg and shoved her toward the side of the pool while trying to kick her own way to the surface.

  She yanked at the tie around her waist again and miraculously it loosened. She pushed her way out of the robe but it wrapped around her legs, immobilizing her, dragging her down. Red ribbons of blood colored the water around her—the wound on her hand had reopened. Panic clawed at her chest as she sank, and Jolie understood how Gary must have felt when he knew he was going to die. Petrified, helpless…remorseful. What had she done with her life, really? Would anyone care that she wasn’t around? Drowning at a party that she’d crashed wasn’t the way she’d hoped to make headlines. Her body jerked in preparation for taking a death breath.

  Suddenly two big arms came around her from behind and jerked her upward. She inhaled water to satisfy her lungs, but her body rebelled, bucking. The robe fell away, brushing her feet. Air bubbles rushed past her face, then her head broke the surface of the water. She coughed and sputtered, thrashing her arms like a windmill.

  “Relax,” Beck said into her ear. “Don’t fight me.”

  He eased her over to the side of the pool. Wheezing, she blinked the ceiling of glass into view, acknowledged the hard muscle of his torso and legs pressing against hers. Her brain must have been deprived of oxygen for a tad longer than was healthy, because the thought struck her that if she hadn’t just seen the dead body of her boyfriend and hadn’t almost drowned, this might have been a nice moment.

  He boosted her up over the pool edge as if she weighed nothing and set her down next to Carlotta and Hannah, who were huddled miserably on the side of the pool like wet cats dressed in upmarket lingerie.

  “Are you okay?” Beck asked, looking up at her from the water, his hand on her knee. His breathing was labored, his wet hair falling over his dark eyes.

  She nodded, hugging herself in her transparent chemise. “Th–thank you.”

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, pulling her hand toward him for a look.

  “It’s not bad,” she said between coughs. “Considering I could be dead right now.”

  A full-body shiver seized her.

  “I’ll get some blankets,” he said, then hoisted himself up out of the pool. Once again she was struck by the inappropriateness of noticing the man’s physique, but he was mesmerizing in blue cotton boxers molded by the water. She had wondered what he was wearing underneath the robe, but she hadn’t planned on going to these lengths to find out.

  They had managed to turn the pool into an ocean—their splashing had extinguished most of the floating candles. Their robes and purses littered the bottom. Their wigs bobbed on the surface like dead animals. Speaking of dead, she needed to tell someone—everyone—about Gary. She suddenly felt light-headed, and she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “My book,” Carlotta whispered, gazing into the water.

  “Your celebrity book was in your purse?” Jolie asked.

  Carlotta nodded miserably.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jolie murmured. “Can you forgive me?”

  “Jolie Goodman.”

  Jolie looked up to see Sammy staring down at her. Unhappily.

  The woman walked closer, hands on hips. “I thought that was you earlier, but I told myself that you wouldn’t dare put on a disguise and crash my party! That was you last night at the media reception, too, wasn’t it?”

  Jolie could only wince.

  “And you had the nerve to bring these two troublemakers with you!”

  “I brought you a hostess gift,” Carlotta muttered.

  “Candles?” Sammy shrieked. “I ought to call the police.”

  “They’re from Neiman’s,” Carlotta retorted.

  “I mean to have you arrested for trespassing!” Sammy screeched, her volume off the chart in decibels. She jabbed her finger at Hannah. “And you, for assaulting one of my guests!”

  Hannah glowered at a man across the pool touching his swollen eye. The woman next to him, presumably his wife, appeared ready to black his other eye. Russell Island seemed dazed…and vaguely familiar.

  But enough stalling.

  “Sammy,” Jolie said, pushing herself to her wobbly feet. Water ran off her, splashing onto Sammy’s shoes. “You do need to call the police.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Sammy said, looking disgusted, as if something might get stained.

  “Yes,” Jolie said, feeling bout of nausea coming on. “But it actually gets worse.”

  Re-dressed in his black robe, Beck walked up and settled a chenille throw that Jolie had seen on a couch around her shoulders. The warmth was heavenly, but having Beck behind her made her even more nervous—his desire to help her was about to change.

  Sammy flinched at the sight of the expensive throw soaking up pool water. “Jolie, what are you talking about?”

  “G–Gary Hagan is upstairs in the coat check room.”

  “Gary Hagan?” Sammy’s expression turned lethal. “What on earth is that criminal boyfriend of yours doing in my coat check room?”

  “He’s dead,” Jolie murmured, seeing starbursts. She was going to faint. And God help her, she aimed herself at Beck for one last favor.

  Jolie sat at a table in a holding room wearing an oversized gray “Property of Fulton County, Georgia” sweat suit and flip-flops since the police had confiscated her “borrowed” clothing. How she was going to pay for those nightclothes, she didn’t know.

  Of course, at the moment, paying for outrageously expensive clothes wasn’t the biggest worry on her plate, but concentrating on the more mundane details helped her not to dwell on the fact that Gary was dead.

  And that the police seemed to think that she and Carlotta and Hannah had something to do with it. The girls were elsewhere, in similar rooms, she assumed. Just like on television, the police had split them up so they couldn’t devise a story. As if they would even try to come up with a better one.

  Fatigue weighted her limbs, and her lungs felt raw. Her hair was a crusty nest. She had chewed her fingernails to the quick. She touched a goose egg on her forehead—Beck had caught her when she’d fainted, but she’d cracked her head when she’d gotten into the police car for the ride to the clink. The threesome was instructed by Salyers and her partner not to talk to each other, so Carlotta had cried the entire trip, and Hannah had conjugated her boyfriend’s name with every expletive ever conceived. Jolie had concentrated on counting the squares in the metal grate between the front seat and the back, trying to forget the look on Beck’s face as she was being stuffed into the cruiser. Condescension? Disappointment? He had turned away to put a comforting arm around Della’s shoulder, and Jolie imagined they were saying how glad they were that Beck hadn’t become involved with the poor-white-trash shoe salesperson-slash-real-estate-agent-slash-murderer.

  The clincher was that she wasn’t particularly good at any of those things.

&nbs
p; The door to the holding room opened and Detective Salyers walked in, looking none-too-pleased to be awake at three in the morning. By the time she and other officers had been summoned to the scene and guests had been questioned, Carlotta’s car impounded, and the three of them transported to jail, a few hours had slipped by.

  “Hi, again,” Jolie ventured.

  “Alone at last,” Salyers said, tossing a pad of paper on the table. “Ms. Goodman, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

  “Trust me, this wasn’t intentional.”

  Salyers blinked. “Was that a confession?”

  Alarm blipped in Jolie’s chest. “No. I meant that I was just going to a party. I had no idea Gary—alive or dead—would be there.”

  Salyers emitted a long sigh. “Why don’t we start from the beginning. Want some coffee?”

  Jolie nodded.

  Salyers exited and Jolie glanced at the notepad—the first several pages were waffled with handwritten notes. Even upside down, she could make out “Goodmans” all over the page. She covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to knock back the panic. This could be bad.

  Salyers walked back in carrying two large cups of coffee. Jolie sipped with gratitude. It wasn’t Starbucks, but it was hot.

  The detective dropped in the seat opposite her. “Okay, Ms. Goodman, tell me everything that happened since you called me today—er, yesterday.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  Jolie swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you. If you want to call a lawyer, I can get you a phone.”

  “I don’t know any criminal lawyers.”

  “Then I can get you the phone book.”

  Jolie shook her head. “I just want to get this over with and go home.”

  Salyers gave a curt nod, then removed a pen from her jacket pocket and clicked the end. “Ms. Goodman, what did you do after you left the drive-through yesterday?”

  “I went back to my apartment.”