Party Crashers

by Stephanie Bond

  “Yes. I felt terrible that you’d left the agency before I could get you to take it.” She laid her ice-cold hand over Jolie’s—or maybe it only felt cold because her wounded hand felt feverish. “Jolie, I just wanted you to know the entire story from my point of view.”

  “In case anyone asks me?”

  The woman’s smile was poignant. “Yes.”

  Salyers had been asking questions about the property—was Sammy telling the truth, or covering her tracks? Jolie gave her a noncommittal smile. “I appreciate your concern. And about the money that was taken at the party—”

  “It’s forgotten,” Sammy said emphatically. “It’s just money, and it was recovered. This memorial service is a good reminder that life is short, and we can’t be consumed by material things.”

  Said the woman with a room in her home dedicated to crystal dollhouses.

  But with her own emotional receptors misfiring, Jolie couldn’t decide if the woman was a big fraud, or if kindness was just so foreign to Sammy that she hadn’t gotten the knack of it yet.

  The funeral director, a pear-shaped, slump-shouldered man with glasses on the tip of his nose, walked into the doorway and signaled that it was time for the service to begin. Sammy patted Jolie’s hand, then settled herself in a back pew.

  Jolie conjured up a smile for the handful who had gathered for the service and lowered herself to the front pew. The funeral director meandered to the front of the room and flipped a switch. Organ music wafted in from the speakers—a sickly sweet melody meant to wring the emotion out of the most stoic observer.

  A cell phone rang, piercing the mood. Jolie pivoted her head to see Detective Salyers reaching into her pocket and ducking out of the pew. She hurried out of the room, and Jolie couldn’t be irritated. The woman had come because of her and had other emergencies to attend.

  The song finished playing and another song began, this one more mournful than the last. When she looked at Gary’s chalky profile, she was overwhelmed with helplessness, assailed with thoughts that things might have ended differently if she’d simply started the car and driven off while he was in the backseat.

  Another cell phone rang, and Jolie turned her head to see Sammy jump up and run out, reaching into her purse. Another lead, another sale. Jolie couldn’t figure out Sammy, but deep down, she thought the woman was too dim to be truly dangerous. She looked back to the casket and sighed. What-ifs plagued her and she felt torn because she didn’t entirely trust Gary. Had he been sleeping with Sammy? Had he been sleeping with Janet LeMon? Selling cocaine to the men who used the condo as their getaway? All of those things were hard to reconcile to the gentle, laughing man she’d known, but what if Gary had only let her see the side of him that he wanted to reveal? Was that why he hadn’t wanted her to meet his friends, so she wouldn’t see the smarmy side?

  At the end of the second song, the funeral director made his way to the front of the chapel to a small podium and began to read the seventy-five-word obituary he’d asked her to write. “Gary Hogan—”

  “Hagan,” Jolie corrected.

  He squinted over the podium at her. “Huh?”

  She wet her lips. “It’s ‘Hagan,’ with an ‘a.’ ”

  He pointed to the paper. “This says ‘Hogan.’ ”

  Another cell phone rang. Jolie turned her head to see Hannah sidling out with her phone to her ear. Jolie turned back with a sigh. “Trust me—it’s ‘Hagan.’ ”

  “Okay.” He cleared his throat, then started again. “Gary Hagan was on this earth thirty-six short years. Born in Germany to a U.S. airman, Gary lived the life of a soldier’s son.”

  Another cell phone rang and Jolie turned to frown at Carlotta, who mouthed, “I’m sorry, I have to get this,” and ran out of the room.

  The funeral director looked around the room, then looked back to Jolie. “Do you want me to finish?”

  “Yes.” She’d spent hours on that obituary, hoping to come up with seventy-five words that would have pleased Gary, if he were within earshot. She wanted them to be heard. “And then I’d like another song, please.”

  He looked over his glasses at her. “You only paid for two songs.”

  “Bill me.”

  “Okay.” He looked back to the sheet of paper. “Where did I leave off? Let’s see, Gary Hagan, blah, blah, blah, soldier’s son. Ah, here we are: More than anything, Gary liked to make people laugh. He was known as a person who could make things happen. He loved sports, especially the Braves. He was preceded in death by his beloved parents, Alvin and Polly Hagan. He is succeeded by an army of friends.” The man glanced over his glasses at the empty chapel, then looked back down. “Then it says here ‘Magic of thinking big.’ ” He squinted at Jolie. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “It was his favorite book,” she said wistfully. “And I only had four words left.”

  The man looked at her as if she were a kook. “Here’s your extra song.” He flipped the switch, then lumbered back down the aisle.

  Jolie sat perfectly still while the song played—it was the first song again, but she didn’t care. She sat unmoving until the vibrations of the last note had died, then pushed to her feet and walked to Gary’s casket. She broke off one of the white roses from the casket spray and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.

  “Gary,” she murmured, “I’ll bet when you got to the Pearly Gates, you had Braves tickets for St. Peter.” She smiled, then bit into her lip. “I want you to know that I’m going to try to figure all this out. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know I was never this brave before, so thank you.” She inhaled deeply, bringing the scent of live flowers into her lungs, then exhaled and turned to leave.

  A movement in the empty chapel caught her attention. Beck. He was sitting on a rear pew, wearing a suit and tie and a solemn expression.

  She stopped, shot through with anger, remorse, shame. Her only solace was in the fact that he didn’t know how much he’d trampled her heart—and why would he even guess that he had in such a few short days? It wouldn’t make sense, so she was safe from that ultimate humiliation at least.

  He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and Jolie realized that eventually, she was going to have to move forward. She walked toward him and he stepped out into the aisle.

  “I got here a little late,” he said, his tone apologetic.

  “Thank you for coming anyway,” she said. “Detective Salyers was here, and Carlotta and Hannah. Oh, and Sammy.”

  “She left a stack of business cards by the guest book.”

  “Sounds like Sammy.”

  “She’s persistent—she called me twice this week trying to get my business.”

  An awkward pause followed. Beck scratched his temple. “I, uh, was hoping we could talk.”

  She angled her head. “About the fact that your sister is in the photo I showed to you? And that you deliberately concealed information that might have helped me in some way?”

  He nodded, pressing his lips together. “You’re right, I did conceal that information from you, and I hope you can forgive me for wanting to protect my sister. But I didn’t keep the information from the police.”

  She blinked. “You didn’t?”

  He shook his head. “When I left your place Sunday morning, I picked up Della and we went to talk to Detective Salyers. I convinced Della it would be better if the police knew everything.”

  “What’s everything?”

  He sighed. “My sister has been in love with Roger LeMon most of her adult life. I don’t understand it, but she’s blind to the fact that he’s not a good guy. They were off and on, off and on. Even after he married, LeMon called Della. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him, but I knew she was still crazy about him.”

  “I feel for your sister,” Jolie said, “but wouldn’t that make her a suspect in Janet LeMon’s murder?”

  “It might,” he admitted. “Except Della was in a psychiatric clinic in Vermont all summer, up until I got back in town
a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “As you can imagine, that’s not the kind of thing Della wants everyone to know, especially since she seems to finally be getting back on her feet. So…” He gave her a little smile. “I just wanted to apologize and let you know that Pam is willing to take your case again.”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but…no thanks.”

  “So…you won’t accept my help.”

  Her heart thrashed in her chest like a wounded bird. “No. There are just too many…complications—your name, your sister. You’re my alibi at the party. How’s that going to look to a jury if you’re also paying for my attorney and—”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Sleeping with you? Not good. You’re right, of course.”

  Jolie exhaled. The day was catching up with her. “Look, Beck, I’ve had a long day, and something tells me that tomorrow is going to be even longer. So if you don’t mind—”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At my neighbor’s. She’s out of town and said I could use her apartment for a few days.”

  “Let me get you a hotel room.”

  With him in it? “No, thank you. Good night.”

  He reached out to clasp her arm. “Jolie, I can make things easier for you.”

  Anger blazed through her. “Do you think I’m blind, Beck? I know what I am to you—I’m a project. I’m a ‘before.’ I’m the damsel in distress that you can swoop in to save and feel good about yourself for a while. Until you get bored and start looking for a new project, or decide to go back to Costa Rica.” She pulled away from him. “Go find another charity case.”

  She sidestepped him, marched out of the funeral chapel, and unlocked her pitiful rental car door. She climbed in and started the engine, then looked heavenward. “God, I’m broke, barely employed, a suspect in two murders, I drive a ramshackle car, and the man I love might as well be living in your galaxy. Please let me know that this is a low point. Send me a sign.” She leaned forward, looking for shooting stars, a burning bush, a two-headed goat…something.

  And she got nothing.

  She drove to the apartment complex counting road signs to keep her mind occupied…off Gary…off Beck…off jail. It was just before 8 P.M. when she pulled into the parking lot.

  Residents had already decorated for Halloween, putting lighted jack-o’-lanterns in their windows and corn fodder shocks in the common areas. Her hand felt warm and tight beneath the bandage. Maybe Beck was right—maybe it was infected.

  Beck.

  She worked her mouth from side to side, conceding it would probably take some time to get out of the habit of thinking about him.

  She drove past Leann’s apartment to check her own mailbox. After a couple of days, it probably would be full. She parked and walked to the bank of mailboxes, looking right and left, ever aware of her surroundings. Fatigue pulled at her lower back—the shoe department had been much busier than usual today.

  The night air was cool—in the forties, she guessed. And so cloudless, the stars took her breath away. A rustling noise behind the boxes also took her breath away, until she realized it was the dry husks of the corn fodder shocks rubbing together. Still, she didn’t dawdle checking the mail. As suspected, her box was full—one reason was because Mrs. Janklo’s bank checks had been delivered to her by mistake. She looked up at the woman’s window and noted that the lights were on. If she knew Mrs. Janklo, she’d be looking for these checks and worried that they hadn’t arrived.

  Jolie heaved a sigh and opted for the elevator over the stairs. A couple of minutes later, she was ringing Mrs. Janklo’s doorbell. She stood in front of the peephole and waved. “It’s Jolie, Mrs. Janklo—I have your checks.”

  The door opened and Mrs. Janklo squinted at her through the chain. “What do you want?”

  “Here are your checks,” she said cheerfully. “The mail carrier put them in my box by mistake.”

  The woman’s plump hand appeared in the six-inch opening and Jolie gave her the box. “Thank you,” her neighbor said begrudgingly.

  “You’re welcome. Good night.”

  “Wait, I have something for you.” The door closed.

  Jolie tried to smile. Mrs. Janklo was famous for her frozen zucchini bread wrapped in layers and layers of aluminum foil. It was god-awful, and Jolie had lost a toenail last year when she’d dropped one on her foot.

  The door opened and Mrs. Janklo’s disposition seemed much improved. “Here you go—some nice zucchini bread. It’ll need to thaw for about three hours.”

  Jolie juggled her mail and took the icy brick, which actually felt good against her injured hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Janklo.”

  “And here’s something for you that was put in my mailbox by mistake…a few days ago.” She extended a lumpy, padded manila envelope.

  Jolie frowned. “When did you say it arrived?”

  “One day last week,” the woman snapped. “I’m a little forgetful these days.” She slammed the door.

  But Jolie barely noticed because she recognized the handwriting on the return address: Gary’s. Her heart beat wildly. This was the envelope that he’d said “they” had intercepted. He couldn’t have known that in this instance, “they” were a nearsighted mail carrier and her nosy, forgetful neighbor.

  She raced down the stairs and decided it would be faster to step inside her own apartment to examine the envelope. With a bum left hand and a right hand that shook from excitement, it took her a few seconds longer to unlock the door and the deadbolt. Just as she turned the doorknob, a man’s gloved hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

  Jolie’s cry died against his hand. Terror bolted through her as he shoved his body against her back, his mouth to her ear. “Welcome home.”

  At the sound of Roger LeMon’s voice, she almost lost control of her bladder. His fingers covered her nose too, so she was bucking to breathe. The door opened in front of her and he pushed her inside, sending her sprawling in the darkness against the gray carpet, which was much harder than she’d ever imagined. Everything in her arms scattered and rolled. The front door slammed closed and she heard him fumbling with the deadbolt. Precious time, and she knew her way around in the dark. She pushed herself up and ran for the bedroom. LeMon abandoned the door and lunged after her. He caught her by the arm, pulled her to him, and covered her mouth again.

  “Time to die,” he growled in her ear, dragging her backward. “After your boyfriend’s memorial service, you couldn’t live with yourself anymore. You left a note on your computer about the little love triangle between you and Gary and my wife, about how Gary killed my wife, then how you killed him.”

  She fought him furiously, struggling left, then right.

  “It’s not going to hurt, you’ll be out from the sleeping pills when I slash your wrists.”

  He released her mouth for a second and when she gasped for air, he shoved capsules into her mouth. She clamped down, refusing to swallow, her screams sounding like mere grunts. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Would anyone question her death? Leann…Carlotta…Salyers…Beck? He had offered her a safe, secure place to sleep and she’d thrown it in his face. She gagged as the bitter powder from the broken capsules began to dissolve in her mouth.

  She heard a loud boom, the distant sound of wood splintering. “Jolie! Jolie!” a voice shouted.

  Beck?

  Suddenly LeMon released her. She fell to her knees, gagging, spitting out the capsules, pulling them out with her fingers. Gasping, she dragged herself up a wall and slapped at the light switch. The two men were crashing against walls, floors. Beck had the bulk, but LeMon, to her horror, had a blade. Beck’s shirt was cut and he was bleeding. Jolie was terrified at the thought of losing him…of him losing his life because of her. She looked around for a weapon. She remembered the fire extinguisher in the bedroom, and then she spied the great frozen zucchini brick at her feet. She hefted it, rushed forward, and brought it down on the back of LeMon’s head. The
sound of frozen bread connecting with flesh was…satisfying, actually.

  LeMon dropped like a stone, his knife clattering to the floor.

  Beck was at her side in two strides. He cupped his hands around her face. “Are you all right?” he demanded, his voice rasping.

  She nodded, then burst into tears. Third time and counting.

  Twenty-five

  Carlotta’s eyes widened. “They were going to do what?” “Murder their wives,” Jolie repeated. “Among other things.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Carlotta said, setting her bottle of Pellegrino on the table.

  Yesterday Jolie had spent most of the day with the police, this morning, she and the girls were at the Crepe House playing catch-up.

  “I don’t believe that Russell would do it,” Hannah said.

  “Supposedly, his wife was next,” Jolie said. “That’s why Gary was at Sammy’s party—to warn Mrs. Island.”

  “So that’s why he was with Roger LeMon’s wife at the river?”

  Jolie nodded. “Gary said on the audiotape that after he stumbled onto the fact that the four men were going to get rid of their wives, he told LeMon he would do it, then he picked up Janet LeMon under the pretense of taking her to the airport to go on her retreat. He took her to the river to tell her what her husband was planning to do and taped the conversation so she could have a copy for protection. But LeMon had followed them to make sure Gary did it, and when he saw he’d been double-crossed, LeMon shot his wife himself. Took a shot at Gary, too, but it only grazed him. He dove into the water and floated downstream until he thought it was safe to get out, then hiked to my place and took off in my car.”

  A mistake, he’d said on the tape, because by doing so, he’d gotten her involved. He’d wept, apologizing. That had been the hardest part to listen to. He’d been surprised when Jolie had filed a missing persons report, surprised that she’d cared enough. He hadn’t wanted to expose her to his shady friends, hadn’t wanted to put her in danger. But when she’d filed that report, she had implicated herself irrevocably. That had tortured him, he’d said.