Unless Zane concluded she had a motive for killing Steve, to keep him from blackmailing her.
And that she had used the key Zane had given her to Steve's house to stash a body and set the house on fire to conceal yet another murder and any information about herself that might have been in Steve's house.
And that she had set up Melissa's "accident" to coincide with the voodoo doll to divert attention from herself for Steve's murder onto the supernatural.
And didn't all of those theories make more sense than the fool notion that voodoo was behind the goings-on?
Gloria swallowed hard and looked to the right. "Hello, rock." Then she looked to the left. "Hello, hard place."
By the time she opened the door from the garage to the laundry room, her head ached and her senses were in overdrive. A rustle from the bedroom sent her heart to her throat. She reached into her purse and removed the .38. It felt cold and deadly in her trembling hand. She remained still, straining to listen for the sound of an intruder over the roar of her pulse in her ears.
She lifted the gun with two hands and pulled a bead on the doorway, chest-height. Dizziness tugged at her, stealing her peripheral vision. She widened her stance to steady herself and yelled, "I have a gun!"
A blur of motion appeared at the bedroom door. She lowered the gun, then nearly wept with relief to see the black cat trotting toward her. She put the safety on her pistol and put it back in her purse, feeling like an idiot, but her relief turned to alarm when she saw that from the cat's red collar dangled a note.
Not again, she thought.
She crouched and, with shaking fingers, removed the slip of paper attached to the collar. Oblivious to her distress, the cat rubbed against her leg while she read it.
WHERE'S MY MONEY?
Gloria inhaled sharply. The violation of having her home invaded was doubly alarming because someone was using her cat as a messenger.
The ring of her cell phone pealed into the air. She fumbled for it, the sound jarring her sharpened senses to the point that each ring sounded like a scream. She glanced at the display. Private.
Pushing the Connect button, she said, "Hello."
A metallic vibration sounded over the line. "Where's my money?"
Her throat convulsed. "I... I delivered it, but there was a fire."
"I know," the muffled voice continued, unidentifiable. "I waited until everyone left, but the mailbox was empty."
"You were there?"
"What happened to the money?"
"I have it," she lied, "but this has to end. People's lives are at stake here. You don't know what you're dealing with."
"I call the shots here!" The man sounded a little desperate. "Now I want a thousand."
"I... I need some time to get it together," she said, stalling, hoping that something about his voice would sound familiar. He didn't sound like the man who'd called Steve's house—that guy had been casual and confident. This guy seemed a little... on the edge.
"Okay, I'll give you a couple of days. Take the money to the Central Cemetery Sunday morning and leave it in the mailbox by the gate before six o'clock."
"How do I know you won't call me again after Sunday and demand more money?"
The man laughed. "You don't."
The call was disconnected. The sound of the click was so final that it brought tears of panic to her eyes. She pushed to her feet and made her way around the house, checking the locks on doors and windows. Everything was secure; how had he gotten into her house? She scrutinized her bedroom for signs of ransacking, although it was so messy from her love-making bout with Zane that it was difficult to tell if the blackmailer had taken anything.
That was the upside of not owning nice, flashy jewelry, she thought wryly, rubbing the silver heart medallion at her throat—it couldn't be stolen.
She sat on the side of the bed where Zane had slept, placing a hand on the indentation in the pillow. She closed her eyes and remembered the sweet contentment of being held in his arms, of feeling safe for the first time since her life had been ripped away from her. She wanted to feel that way again.
Suddenly the bed tilted. Gloria grabbed the edge of the mattress to steady herself, but the room began to spin. She gasped for air and closed her eyes in an effort to ward off the nausea the spinning would trigger, but she had the sensation of her eyes beating from side to side—nystagmus. Not a good sign.
A heaviness settled on her lap, and she realized the cat had found her. Gloria let go of the bed to hang on to the cat with one hand. Comforted by the warming vibration she felt on its plump underside, she began to stroke its silky fur. The more she petted, the deeper the purring became, and the more intense the vibration against her hand. In a few minutes, she realized the room had ceased spinning.
She slowly opened her eyes. The cat stared up at her through slitted eyes, its body settled on her lap in pure contentment. The calming rhythm of stroking the cat, she realized suddenly, had warded off what had promised to be the most serious attack she'd had in years.
They sat that way for a while, displaced person and displaced cat, comforting each other, until her cell phone rang again. The cat leaped to the floor, and she reached for her purse warily. Was it the blackmailer again? Had he changed his mind, wanting more money, or wanting it sooner?
She connected the call. "Hello."
"Gloria, it's George. What the hell is going on there? All kinds of weird stuff is coming over the wire about voodoo dolls, and a body in the burned house of the dead man you told me was planning to blackmail you?"
She inhaled deeply for strength, then admitted she had tried to pay off the blackmailer, and what had ensued—the fire, the body in the fire, and the accident in the bookstore. "As the chief of police pointed out to me today, I've been on the scene of every crime. With all this extra attention, I'm afraid my cover will be compromised, if it hasn't been already."
"Well, your chief is doing his job—he requested a background check on you yesterday. He'll receive a copy of your fabricated history tomorrow morning or so."
She closed her eyes briefly, then frowned. "You mean today, don't you? He requested the background check today." After he'd walked out of her office.
"No, I'm looking at the form—he requested a background check yesterday afternoon."
Then brought pizza and beer to her house and spent the night.
"Guess that means he hasn't figured out who you really are."
"No... he hasn't."
"That's a compliment to you and how hard you've worked to make yourself over. Congratulations."
"Thank you," she murmured, feeling somewhat less than successful.
"But turnabout is only fair."
She frowned. "What do you mean, George?"
"I ran a background check on Zane Riley to make sure he doesn't pose a threat to you."
Her throat convulsed. "And?"
"Pretty impressive—after Riley became a cop, he moved around the country from precinct to precinct, making a name for himself solving cold cases and earning about every commendation possible before moving on. Took a slug in the chest to save a hostage in St. Louis, cracked a serial rapist case in Cincinnati that went back ten years. This guy's the real deal."
Pride swelled in her chest, misting her eyes. Of course he was.
"Not much of a personal life, though," George continued. "Never been married, no kids. Looks like he's married to his job." He gave a little laugh. "Would make a good fed. And he's just the kind of guy who would try to get between you and Riaz."
"Sounds like it," she agreed. Would risk his own life, would be distracted from his primary responsibilities. "Thanks for the info, George." And the wake-up call.
"Unfortunately, I also have bad news."
Her heart skipped a beat. "My mother?"
"No, it's not about your mother, although I am worried about her. One of the other federal witnesses in the Riaz case, the one who was missing, just surfaced today... in a river."
She g
ulped air. "Do you think they're coming for me?"
"I have no way of knowing, but this blackmailing situation really has me concerned. The guy calling you on your cell phone demanding money—is it the same guy who left the message on Steve Chasen's phone?"
"I don't know for sure."
"But the guy who called Chasen was expecting five grand for the info, and the guy who's been calling you on your cell phone asked for only five hundred, then upped it to a thousand? That doesn't make sense."
"Nothing in Mojo makes sense."
George heaved a noisy sigh, clearly frustrated. "Look, Gloria, I don't know what's going on in that crazy little town, but no matter how you look at it, it's not good. I think you need to get out of there and make a full relocation."
Her limbs turned to lead. Full relocation. New name, new address, new background, new identity, new occupation. Same old ghosts.
"Especially considering you're on the radar of the chief of police and he could figure you out any day."
And this time, she'd be leaving Zane... under suspicious circumstances. Good grief, would he think she left town because she was guilty of killing Steve? Of setting his house on fire? Of killing Melissa?
She couldn't stay... but she couldn't leave. She'd known for days a relocation was inevitable. Still, the awful finality hit her like a blow to her heart.
"We'll try to track down the blackmailer through your cell phone records—after you're safely out of town," George said, his voice sounding distant.
The faces of the people she'd met in the space of a week went through her mind: Steve, Marie, Zane, Guy, B.J., Kyle, Cameron, Diane, Elton, Jill, Brianna, Cecily, Jules, Hazel, Melissa, Dr. Whiting, Sheena, Jodi... even Greg Goddard. She'd scarcely known that many people by their first names in all the time she'd lived in New Orleans.
"Gloria, I need an answer so we can act quickly."
She swallowed past a dry throat. "You're right. I can't stay. I'll relocate."
"Can you leave tomorrow?"
She thought of Steve Chasen's memorial service and realized that it would be the best time to slip out of town, when the people who best knew her were preoccupied.
"Yes."
"Pack a suitcase and drive to the U.S. marshal's office in New Orleans." He read off the address. "They'll be expecting you."
Desperation plucked at her. "Wh-what about my things?"
"Leave them," he said. "Plan to start over."
She disconnected the call, feeling as if her chest was in a vise. Start over? That was what the move to Mojo was supposed to have been.
Chapter 26
After another sleepless night, this time for less pleasurable reasons than the night before, Gloria stood in front of her bed with her suitcase open and her heart ajar. Her eyes were so scratchy from crying that she couldn't put in her green contacts. She'd packed a few essentials and all of her lingerie—she wasn't going to leave her collection behind.
Even if no man other than Zane ever saw it.
The blue file folders Steve Chasen had maintained on her, Ziggy Hines, Guy, and Mona went into her briefcase. She'd decide later whether to mail them to Zane.
Everything else, she was prepared to walk away from, even her box of keepsakes. Especially her box of keepsakes. This time, she really was going to start over with a clean slate, emotionally and otherwise. With trembling hands, she removed from around her neck the heart medallion her mother had given her and returned it to the box.
She picked up the ugly back scratcher souvenir and worked up a wry smile. She would have to make do with other souvenirs of Mojo—the scar on her hand, the memory of the night in Zane's arms... the black cat. She reached down to stroke the head of her adopted pet, feeling a rush of affection for the comfort he'd been to her the evening before, first helping to ward off a Meniere's attack, then shadowing and entertaining her as she'd moved through the house, cleaning and straightening. The abrupt way she and her mother had left their home in New Jersey had always haunted her—dirty dishes in the sink, clothes in the hamper, mail unopened... her father's blood staining the carpet.
They'd had no sense of closure, no sense of being in control of their destiny.
Maybe she still wasn't in control of her destiny, but she was in control of her dirty dishes.
As she dried the plates that she and Zane had eaten from, she knew she was only occupying her mind, trying to postpone the inevitable. Life marches on, her mother had told her a hundred times.
And so it did.
She wrote a letter to the Gallaghers and left it on a table, telling them a family emergency had necessitated her departure, and all of her abandoned items should be sold and, ideally, the proceeds donated to charity.
She started to write another letter, this one to Zane, and got as far as the salutation. If she told him who she was and why she had to leave, would he try to find her? If for no other reason than the fact that she was a suspect in his crime spree?
And would she truly be able to start over if in any part of her heart she held out hope that he would try to find her, not because she was a suspect but because he was still in love with her?
In the end, she crumpled the unstarted letter and tossed it in the trash.
She phoned her office to leave a message for Diane Davidson to pick up when she came in. Her mind churned with a plausible story for closing the office, but to her great surprise, Diane answered the phone.
"Gloria Dalton, attorney-at-law. How may I help you?"
"Diane? It's Gloria."
"Good morning."
Gloria squinted. "I'm sorry if I wasn't clear—I meant that we'd be closed all day in honor of Steve's memorial."
"The Open sign isn't turned. I just stopped by to get caught up on some paperwork before I go to the service. I'm reorganizing all the files."
Gloria winced, dreading the announcement she had to make. "Well... that isn't necessary. In fact, Diane, I'm afraid I have some bad news. I've decided to close the office."
"Oh." The woman's profound disappointment resonated over the line.
"Don't worry," Gloria said quickly, "you'll be paid for this week, and I'd appreciate it if you'd come in Monday to tie up a few loose ends, give Sheena Linder and Cameron Phelps the envelopes I left with their names on them."
"Yes, of course," the woman said. "May I ask where you're going?"
"I'm not sure." The God-honest truth. "But I've enjoyed working with you, Diane."
"Same here. I'll see you at the memorial service?"
"Um, yes," Gloria said. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Gloria disconnected the call, experiencing a little pang for another lie told and another relationship that would never be realized.
Her next call was to Mona Black, and for some reason, she was nervous dialing the phone—the woman emitted a bad vibe. Mona's secretary took Gloria's name, then connected her.
"Mayor Black," the woman answered, her voice distant and hurried, as if to let the caller know she had thousands of more pressing matters than this phone call.
"Mayor Black, this is Gloria Dalton. I'll get right to the point—I'm closing the law office and won't be fulfilling my lease."
The woman made a rueful noise. "I had a feeling you wouldn't last long."
Gloria resisted asking why and instead repeated the story she'd written in her letter to the people renting her the house—that a family emergency necessitated she leave.
"Whatever," Mona said. "If your family emergency disappears, your lease is paid for six months."
"Thank you... but that won't happen."
"That's too bad," Mona said, "because Mojo isn't for the faint-hearted, but there are a lot of good things in this town if you look hard enough. Good-bye, Gloria."
Gloria hung up slowly, mulling the woman's words, conceding regret for what might have been.
She would simply have to keep looking for her own personal mojo... elsewhere.
At 10:30 a.m., she carried the single suitcase
to her car and stowed it in the backseat. Then she whistled for the cat and situated him in the passenger seat. His tail curled and uncurled in silent encouragement—at least that was how she read it.
She puffed out her cheeks in an exhale as she slid behind the wheel. Now she was reading cat body language.
She winced at the spear of sudden pain through her temples, a tension headache, for sure. And she was exhausted. The drive to New Orleans would be brief, but once she arrived at the U.S. marshal's office, she would be interviewed, and assigned a new history, birth certificate, the works.
She tested a few new names on her tongue—Betsy, Deidre, Hannah, Olivia. She could be anyone she wanted to be, except the person she wanted most to be.
Lorey Lawson.
She reached for her purse and downed another dose of Meclazine. She'd be in New Orleans before the sedating effect kicked in, although deep down, she wondered if she was simply trying to numb herself to what had to be done.
She kept her tears in check until she backed out onto the driveway. The sight of the garage door closing with her unpacked moving boxes sitting all around made her feel as if the door on her life was closing. The door on her chance to have a life with Zane.
As she drove down Charm Street, she could feel the pull of him on her heart... or maybe it was the pull of this strange little town, whose quirky residents had managed to get under her skin in mere days. If not for all the bizarre happenings and Zane's uncanny appearance, she had a feeling she could have been happy here.
If only...
She wiped at the wetness on her cheeks, then winced when a pain barbed through her temples again, sharp enough to steal her breath.
As she drove past Goddard's Funeral Chapel, a couple of cars were pulling in. The marquee, she noticed, had been changed to read Chasen, today 11:00.
Like a matinee.
Sending silent apologies to Steve, she drove past the funeral home and slowed to get into the left-turn lane to merge onto the interstate. She breathed deeply but was unable to stave off another rush of tears as she made the turn onto the ramp. As she accelerated, sparkles of light appeared behind her eyelids. Feeling light-headed, she tapped the brake and buzzed down the windows to flood the car with fresh air. A blip of a siren sounded. She started, then glanced in the rearview mirror to realize that the bursts of light were a reflection of the blue lights flashing behind her.
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