But time was ticking, so when he parted her knees and kissed the heart of her, the frugal girl in her arched in appreciation of his attention to detail and economy of motion. Determined to be more participatory than a hat, Jolie returned the favor with equal consideration, then after a few mental calculations regarding expansion, contraction, and overage, she straddled him in what proved to be a gradual yet successful maneuver. They found a natural glide, urging each other to higher heights. She came first, and second, and he arrived a gentlemanly third, breathing her name with an urgency that resounded in her defeated, gullible heart. She lowered her head to his chest, but his heart gave no indication of a similar distress.
He stroked her hair and made satisfied noises. She closed her eyes tightly, knowing that remorse was looking for her and would find her soon enough.
A knock sounded on the door, and her eyes flew open.
Beck lifted his head. “That will be Pam.”
Remorse, remorse, remorse. Jolie disengaged herself from him as elegantly as possible, scooped up her clothes, and sprinted toward the bathroom.
“Jolie.”
She turned back and raked her hair out of her eyes.
His head popped through the neck of his sweatshirt. “That was great.”
That was inappropriate sprang to her lips, but it wouldn’t be fair to drag Beck into her guilt event: Goodman, party of one.
Instead she nodded, then dove into the bathroom. After running a damp washcloth over key areas, she jumped into her clothes and gave herself a good mental shake. What was she thinking, entertaining the idea of having feelings for Beck Underwood? As if she didn’t have enough to worry about right now—her reputation, her career, money, freedom. And how much more clear could he make it that he was a temporary…benefactor?
She opened the bathroom door just as the attorney he’d bought for her walked in wearing slacks and a black corduroy blazer, her phone to her ear, speaking in staccato phrases to the person on the other end. If-you’re-in-a-jam-call-Pam Vanderpool was rattled.
“Okay…okay…okay. Keep me posted.” She snapped her phone closed and sighed. “Not good news, I’m afraid.”
Jolie hugged herself. What now?
Beck’s hand brushed her waist. “Why don’t we sit down?”
She saw Pam’s gaze dart to the intimate gesture and a little wrinkle form between her dark eyebrows that contrasted so drastically with her white hair. “Good idea.”
Jolie crossed the room, ignoring the blaring white bed, and purposefully sat in a chair, resisting the temptation to sit next to Beck on the loveseat. She looked down and saw, to her horror, one of her knee-highs rolled up in a little taupe-colored ball on the floor a few inches in front of her foot. How had she missed it when she re-dressed…and where was the other one? She extended her leg and flattened the ball beneath her loafer before Pam could notice.
“Okay,” Pam said, sitting in a chair opposite Jolie. “I’ve been talking to the assistant D.A. Janet LeMon’s death has a lot of influential voters upset. They’ve been lighting up the phone lines, clamoring for an arrest.”
Jolie’s mouth went dry. “They’re going to arrest me?”
Pam sat back in her chair. “Not yet…but maybe soon. For the murder of Gary Hagan and possibly as an accessory to the murder of Janet LeMon.”
The room tilted. Jolie grabbed the arms of the chair until the room righted itself, then expelled a shaky breath. “They can arrest me on circumstantial evidence?”
Pam nodded. “But remember—an arrest is one thing, a conviction is something else entirely.”
Beck leaned forward, his handsome face wreathed in concern. “But they might make an arrest even if they know they can’t get a conviction, just to quiet the public.”
“And the media,” Pam added pointedly.
Beck pulled his hand down his face. Jolie was distracted for the split second it took to register the fact that the great sex aside, she could fall in love with him based on this conversation alone. The one thing that kept this predicament from being even worse was the fact that Beck Underwood was in her corner.
“The one bit of luck,” Pam continued, “is that the D.A. is on vacation and won’t be back in her office until Wednesday. No one is willing to make a move without her go-ahead.”
Jolie closed her eyes briefly and decided to throw up a quick prayer while she was in the proper position, then said, “There’s nothing we can do?”
“Keep cooperating with the police, keep trying to remember details you might have forgotten.”
“Do you happen to know what Janet LeMon looks—looked—like?”
Pam nodded. “I met her a couple of times. Seemed like a nice enough person to me.”
“Beck,” Jolie said, “do you have that picture? I’d like to see if Pam can identify one of the women as LeMon’s wife.”
He hesitated, then looked toward the desk. “I…put it in the glove box of my SUV. Sorry.”
She nodded and looked back to Pam. “Okay…I’ll try to remember details to tell the police. But short of a witness coming forward or someone making a full confession, the police will come to get me Wednesday?”
“There’s a chance the D.A. will disagree with the charges,” Pam said. “But if she doesn’t, then I’ll try to arrange for you to surrender yourself into police custody.”
Bile backed up in Jolie’s throat.
“I’ll offer a reward for information,” Beck said, standing. He reached for his cell phone. “Maybe that will shake something loose.”
Pam Vanderpool studied him warily, then stood. “I have to go. Ms. Goodman, would you mind walking me out?”
Jolie pushed herself up and moved somewhat unsteadily toward the door. As they stepped into the hallway, Pam Vanderpool looked past Jolie’s shoulder into the room, then leaned closer. “Ms. Goodman, do you know that Beck has been calling in favors all over town to keep your name and picture off the television and out of the papers?”
Her heart swelled. “No…I didn’t know.” And if that was the case, then who had he been talking to about a story yesterday morning at her apartment?
“His father isn’t happy about the fact that one of his first acts in reestablishing himself in the broadcasting community is pulling in favors for a woman suspected of murdering her boyfriend and the wife of a successful Buckhead businessman.”
Jolie bit down on the inside of her cheek. “I didn’t ask Beck to get involved.”
“I know you didn’t—that’s how Beck is. He sees a wrong and he tries to make it right, even if he hurts himself in the process.” Pam wet her lips, and her eyes softened. “Ms. Goodman, I’m not suggesting that you try to stop him—when Beck sets his mind to something, there is no stopping him. But woman to woman, you’re in a hell of a pickle here. Don’t make things worse by giving the media more gossip for Beck to have to squash.”
Jolie pressed her lips together and gave a curt nod. “I understand.”
The older woman glanced down, then plucked off a staticky balled-up taupe-colored knee-high that had attached itself to her jacket and handed it to Jolie. “I hope so, for both of your sakes.”
Pam turned and strode away, already punching in a number on her cell phone. Face flaming, Jolie walked back into the room, where Beck was ending one cell phone call, punching in another one.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
Jolie folded the knee-high into her hand. “Pam was just giving me some advice.”
He nodded absently. “I’m calling the auto service to see if they have a record of servicing that guy’s car.”
“Beck, how exactly do you know Pam?”
He looked up. “She’s my father’s mistress.” Then he turned his back and leaned against a sofa table. “Hello, may I speak to the manager, please?”
Jolie studied him, then the rolled up knee-high. Not only had Pam given her advice from one woman to another, she’d given her advice from one woman who loved an Underwood man…to another?
She mulled over the revelation, then leaned one hip on the oversized desk that Beck had claimed as a work space. She looked down, frowning when she saw the edge of the group picture she’d asked about sticking out from beneath a newspaper. She looked up to see that Beck still had his back turned. From the sound of his voice, he was not having much luck with the manager of the auto service. Jolie removed the photo and replayed their recent conversation. Why would he have lied about its whereabouts?
This man who had captured her heart in a matter of days had a few secrets. Jolie glanced up to make sure he was still preoccupied, then tucked the picture into her purse. For now, she would keep a few secrets too.
Twenty-three
“Thank you for shopping at Neiman Marcus,” Jolie said, handing a shopping bag over the counter with a smile. The woman glanced at the white bandage on Jolie’s hand, then returned the smile warily.
“It’s nothing contagious,” Jolie assured her, instantly assailed by another bout of itchiness, which forced her to scratch her hand through the bandage before the woman looked away. “Really,” Jolie said with a smile, still scratching.
The woman hurried away, and Jolie stared down at her hand, irritated. Which wasn’t exactly fair since her hand also looked irritated. She made a fist and winced—Beck had made the bandage a little tight this morning when he’d dressed it for her. But after Pam Vanderpool’s parting words last night, Jolie had concluded there could be no more hanky-panky between her and Beck. Since getting bandaged would be the extent of him touching her, she could tolerate tight. Tight was good.
To take her mind off her aching hand and off Beck, she glanced around the nearly deserted shoe department, even willing to tackle an orthopedic-insert customer if necessary, to take her mind off her problems. She was just glad to be back to some kind of normalcy. The afternoon had passed, and she’d only thought of Gary lying in the morgue, oh, a few hundred times. But she knew that number would be much higher if she weren’t working.
And then there was the one time that she hadn’t been thinking about Gary that kept rising in her mind—when she’d climbed on top of Beck Underwood.
She cringed and tried to push aside that persistent memory.
She’d come in early to buy a suit for Gary to wear in his casket on her employee discount. Sending him off in style was the least she could do, and although she was a little dismayed when the funeral director had told her bluntly that they wouldn’t be needing shoes, she conceded that her credit card couldn’t have withstood much more.
The stark efficiency of finalizing the details for his memorial service over the phone had disturbed her. Generic burial plot with footstone? Check. Bargain-basement-priced casket? Check. Floral spray for the casket? Check. Preprogrammed organ music? Check.
To exorcise some of her own grief, she’d stopped at the card shop and written a short note to Leann’s sister, and bought a sympathy card to mail to Kyle Coffee’s wife later. Loss should never be overlooked, she decided, and although she doubted if anyone would attend, she’d sent a notice of Gary’s memorial service to the newspaper.
In truth, though, she was half afraid his creditors might show up.
In the absence of customers, she began to tidy the counter.
“Jolie,” Michael said, striding up. “I need to see you in the meeting room, please.”
She glanced at her watch. “I still have twenty minutes on my shift.”
His face grew stern. “Right away.”
“Okay,” she murmured, thinking this couldn’t be good. Especially since Michael stalked ahead of her the entire way, forcing her to trot. But when they reached the meeting room and Carlotta was there along with Lindy, the store’s general manager, she knew they either were getting big raises or were in big trouble…She suspected the latter.
Lindy, the redhead with a reedy voice, invited them to sit, which they did. But she and Michael remained standing.
“We received a phone call today,” Lindy said. “A tip that the two of you are buying clothes on your employee discount, wearing them, then returning them.”
Carlotta looked outraged. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Carlotta, I must say the high volume of returns that you process for yourself is very suspicious.”
Carlotta gave a dismissive wave. “I never try anything on here in the store because I know I can bring it back if it doesn’t fit.”
Lindy and Michael swung their gazes to Jolie. “Jolie?” Michael prompted.
They weren’t going to have to torture her. “There was a jumpsuit—”
“That was my fault,” Carlotta cut in. “I talked Jolie into buying the jumpsuit and a great pair of shoes, but she simply couldn’t afford them, so she returned them the next day.” Carlotta pointed to Michael. “You can attest to that, Michael. The shoes that Jolie returned didn’t look worn, did they?”
Michael turned to the manager. “She’s right—they were in perfect shape.”
Lindy pursed her mouth and looked suspiciously back and forth between the women. “Carlotta, from now on, you’ll be limited to one returned item a week, so make sure you try on clothes before you buy them.”
“I will,” Carlotta said, with just the right amount of contriteness, innocence, and obedience.
“I also read the Sunday paper,” the woman said, “so I know that the two of you were questioned in connection with a murder investigation and a robbery during a party over the weekend.”
Jolie swallowed hard. Next to her, she could feel Carlotta’s nervousness rolling off in waves.
“Both of you are certainly presumed innocent until proven guilty, but I must inform you that if you are arrested, you will be placed on unpaid leave until the matter is resolved.”
Carlotta nodded and Jolie joined in.
“That’s all,” Lindy said. “Ms. Goodman, please accept my condolences on your friend’s…passing. If you need to arrange time off for a service, we will accommodate you, of course.”
“Thank you,” Jolie said. “The memorial service is tomorrow evening, so I don’t need any time off, but I appreciate the offer.”
The woman nodded curtly, dismissing them.
They filed out silently. When they were out of earshot, Carlotta turned on Jolie and glared. “You told!”
“Told what?”
“About the system!”
Jolie held up her hands and gave the bandage a scratch. “I didn’t tell. It must have been an employee…or what about Hannah?”
“Hannah would never do that to me,” Carlotta said.
“Neither would I,” Jolie said. “Besides, why on earth would I incriminate myself? So I can add a shoplifting charge to my rap sheet?” She frowned. “And don’t act so innocent—I know you took that money from Sammy’s purse.”
Carlotta’s eyes rounded. “I did not!”
Jolie sighed. “Carlotta, I’ve heard you make comments about what easy pickings a party would be for a thief, and I know you saw the money in Sammy’s purse when she paid for her shoes Saturday morning. And,” she said more quietly, putting her hand on Carlotta’s arm, “I know about the money you owe.”
Carlotta frowned. “What?”
“The day I was taking a nap in the dressing room upstairs, I heard voices through the vent—I heard that man threaten you.”
Carlotta blanched, looked around, and pulled her aside. “You haven’t told anyone about the man, have you?”
“No.”
“The police?”
“No.”
Her shoulders sagged in obvious relief.
“Who is he? And why do you owe him money?”
“I don’t.” Carlotta massaged her temples. “My brother owes him.”
“Your brother?”
“He had a gambling problem. He’s reformed, but he still has a lot of debt. We were able to consolidate some of it and set up payments, but this one guy that he owes ten grand to is breathing down my neck.”
“Why your neck and not your bro
ther’s?”
“Because this guy knows that my brother doesn’t care if they rough him up…but I do.”
“Do you have the money?”
She shook her head. “I scraped together a few hundred dollars and bought another week, but by next Friday I have to have another two grand.”
“What are you going to do?”
“As soon as I get my Miata out of the shop, I’m going to sell it. I’d hoped to put the money back into a new car, but right now I need the cash flow.”
Her eyes glistened and Jolie’s heart went out to her. “Your parents can’t help?”
Carlotta gave a little laugh. “My parents are bankrupt upper-class drunks who move around the country staying with any friend who hasn’t yet figured them out. I mean, it’s no wonder my brother and I are misfits, right?”
“You’re not a misfit.”
She gave another laugh. “What do you call someone who borrows clothes to crash parties and assume alternate personalities?”
“Creative. It’s a shame you can’t find a way to make a living at it.”
Carlotta looked away. “Look at all the trouble it landed you in.”
“I don’t believe it—is that a guilty conscience?”
Carlotta looked at Jolie and rolled her shoulders sheepishly. “I have a conscience—just don’t tell anyone.”
“Carlotta, unless you shot Gary, what happened Saturday night isn’t your fault. And crashing the first two parties helped me to get a lot of information I otherwise wouldn’t have.” Plus I got to know Beck, her mind whispered.
“That lady detective told me that Hannah and I made things worse for you because…we both have records.”
Party Crashers Page 25
