Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) (17 page)

Janet gestured toward the youngest and thinnest of the group. “This is Heather.”

Angel greeted her, thinking the woman looked anorexic. Heather couldn’t have been much older than twenty; she had streaked blonde hair and was rail thin and holding an unlit cigarette. She had a black eye and bruised cheek, not quite obscured by her makeup.

“And Debra.” Angel guessed Debra to be in her midforties. She had long burgundy hair secured loosely at the back of her head with a scrunchie and was dressed in an expensive-looking top and slacks.

“You’ve met my assistant, Claire.” Janet nodded toward one of two remaining beanbags. “Have a seat.”

Angel settled onto the one nearest the counselor.

“What can we do for you?” Lorraine asked.

“Um . . . are you sure you don’t mind? I hate to interrupt your group.”

“Nonsense,” Debra said. “We’re all yours this morning. Janet told us you’d want to question us about Candace and Phillip.”

“Okay.” Angel set her purse on the floor and pulled out a small pad and pen. “Is there anything you can tell me that will help Candace? Did any of you see her the day Phillip was killed?”

No one had.

Heather shook her head. “It’s just so sad. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. I just wish she’d called us.”

Beans within the sealed bag shushed as Angel shifted. “Does that mean you think she did it?”

Heather shrugged her shoulders and offered a lopsided smile. “Maybe when she gets out I can have her get rid of my old man.”

Angel sat in stunned silence as the words sank in. She glanced around at the others. Claire had a pad and was taking notes, her glasses on, the beaded rope swaying slightly. Lorraine looked like she wanted to say something as her gaze swung from Janet to Angel.

Heather laughed at Angel’s reaction. “I’m kidding. We do that sometimes, you know. Make jokes about it. Wasn’t more than a week ago we were all sitting here and Debra pipes up, ‘I have a solution to all our troubles. Why don’t we hire a hit man to get rid of all of them?
’
”

Angel frowned and turned to Debra. “You actually said that?”

“Yeah.” Debra rolled her eyes. “Like Heather said, it was a joke. We all had a good laugh, but we wouldn’t actually do anything.”

Janet shook her head. “We have an open forum, Angel. The
women can say anything they want. Expressing their anger is a way of letting off steam.”

Heather waved her Virginia Slim cigarette in the air. “You won’t tell anyone I said anything, will you?”

“I don’t intend to.” Angel hoped they wouldn’t be scared away.

“Good, ’cause we weren’t serious,” Heather said.

Angel nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I hope you all have alibis for Tuesday afternoon.”

“Whatever.” Heather waved her skinny arms again and stood up. “I gotta have a smoke. Be back in three minutes.”

The other women seemed to take Heather’s personal break in stride, using the time to refill their coffee cups. Turning to Janet, Angel said, “I was surprised to hear you were counseling here. The last I heard, the counselor was a woman from Lincoln City.”

“Yes. Marcia is dealing with some personal problems right now. She’s taking the next four months off, so I volunteered to step in.”

“Is what Heather said true? Do they actually talk about killing their husbands or having someone kill them?”

“Not usually, although the subject has come up a time or two. We talk about options and agree that murder isn’t one of them.”

Angel nodded, not entirely convinced. “Has Candace been in any of your groups?”

“She’s been coming on Monday nights,” Debra volunteered. She crossed her legs. “Candace is not a killer. In fact, when we were talking about it, she got really upset. Told us we shouldn’t be talking that way. She actually thought we meant it. She was pretty upset, but by the end of the session she was okay.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Mid-April,” Claire said. She flushed then as everyone’s gazes slid to her. “It’s my job to keep track of who comes and when and what we talk about.”

“Has she been in group since?”

“Yes,” Claire answered. “She’s one of our regulars.”

“How did Candace seem to you last time she was with you?”

“The same as always.” Debra tucked strands of chestnut hair behind her ear. “She told us she was glad she’d decided to stick it out with Phillip. Listening to her talk, I think she really believed he was improving. He was going to counseling.”

“Do you know who he was seeing?”

“Janet.” Debra glanced at the counselor. “Isn’t that right?”

“I can’t really say.” Janet seemed hesitant to reveal that information, but Angel could tell it was true.

“Well,” Debra went on, “she told us Phillip was seeing a counselor and that he wanted to make some changes.”

“Humph.” Lorraine apparently disagreed. “Which means nothing to an abuser. They can be all apologetic and sincere and sweet one minute and then the cycle starts again. They’re like Jekyll and Hyde.”

Lorraine sounded as though she spoke from experience, yet she had said she wasn’t one of the group. Was Barry Fitzgibbon an abuser as well? She’d have to talk to Lorraine about that later. “Are you saying there’s no hope for these guys?” Angel asked.

“There’s always hope.” Janet spoke in a tone so soft Angel barely heard her.

Angel sensed a deep sadness in her answer. As though she didn’t really believe what she was saying. Something was definitely wrong here.

“Phillip wanted to keep his family together,” Janet said. “I can’t give you any details, of course, but he was making progress.”

“So, he was pretty up front with you?” Angel asked. “Did he talk about problems he was having?” When Janet didn’t answer, Angel said, “He’s dead. I don’t think confidentiality extends beyond the grave. Besides, maybe he told you something that could help Candace.”

She folded her hands across her chest. “I suppose. Phillip Jenkins was like a lot of men who abuse. He came out of an abusive background with a poor father figure, if there was one at all. His father abused his mother. Phillip didn’t want to be like that.” She bit her lower lip. “Too bad he didn’t have a chance to prove himself.”

Heather came back in and sat down in the beanbag she’d occupied earlier, noisily scooting herself into a comfortable position. “Did I miss anything?”

“Tons,” Debra answered. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“I wonder,” Angel said, thinking again of Jim Kelsey, “do any of you know Michelle Kelsey?”

“Yes,” Lorraine said. The others nodded in affirmation. “Michelle came to meetings here before Jim died. Odd, isn’t it, that both women would be suspect in their husbands’ deaths?”

“Weird,” Debra said. “But wives are usually suspects. Isn’t that right, Angel?”

“Not suspects, necessarily, but they are always investigated.”

Lorraine pursed her lips. “Do you think it’s possible that someone really did hire a hit man?”

“Don’t look at me,” Heather said.

“Me either.” Debra rubbed her neck and tipped her head back. “None of us would have done it, especially not after we talked about it.”

Claire looked up, concern clouding her features. “Or maybe it isn’t a hit man at all. Maybe there’s a serial killer out there somewhere.”

Debra’s hand flew to her chest, her lips curling in an evil smirk. “A psycho killing off abusive men? Now that’s a novel idea. Maybe mine is next on the list.”

“Or mine.” Heather cast her friend a conspiratorial wink.

A shiver made its way up Angel’s spine, causing the hair on the nape of her neck to rise. Didn’t jokes often reflect truth? Were these women angry enough to kill?

EIGHTEEN

L
adies, this is serious,” Janet said. “What do you think, Angel?”

“I suppose either case is possible. The police have yet to find Kelsey’s killer or Phillip’s. Remember, they’ve arrested Candace, and they don’t do that without having compelling evidence.”

“She didn’t kill Phillip.” Debra bit her lower lip. “And Michelle certainly didn’t kill Jim.”

“How can you be sure?” Angel asked. “Maybe Candace killed both of them. Maybe that’s why your comments upset her. Or maybe Michelle . . .”

“Honey.” Lorraine slid a nicely manicured hand along her jeans as if to smooth a wrinkle. “I know these women. They’re weak and ineffective, which is why they kept going back to their men. They held on to some kind of pipe dream that if they did all the right things, their husbands would change their ways. God forbid they’d have the backbone to just walk away. I know the type all too well.” She fixed her gaze on the floor, as if she’d run out of steam. “I keep going back to my husband too, hoping he’ll change.”

So Barry Fitzgibbon was abusive. Interesting.

The others offered looks of compassion.

“Oh, Lorraine,” Janet said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not something I talk about. When a husband is as wealthy as mine, you tend to overlook things.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s time I did something about it.” Looking at Angel she said, “Please don’t say anything about this. Your mother . . .”

“I won’t,” Angel reassured her. Going back to the discussion, Angel picked up the thread. “I understand what you’re saying about Candace and Michelle hoping that things will change, but anyone can reach a breaking point. It happens way too often where the woman ends up feeling trapped and feels like the only way out is to kill her husband.”

“Or herself. I know.” Janet tugged at her skirt. “But talking about the issues and finding alternatives to deal with the problems—even meeting together once a week—keeps the women sane. They’d call me or the shelter before they did something so drastic.”

“Are you sure?” Angel asked.

“There are no absolutes, of course, but—”

“Hey, Angel,” Heather interrupted. “I thought you were on Candace’s side. You said you wanted to help her.”

“I do,” Angel assured them. “But the police are going to be looking at all the angles. I’m trying to do that too.”

Debra stood up. “I need some coffee. Can I get some for anyone else?”

“I’ll come with you,” Lorraine said. “We need to get the cookies out. This might be a good time for a break.”

“Good idea.” Janet stood as well.

Heather grabbed another cigarette and lighter out of her purse and headed back outside.

Claire removed her glasses, letting the beaded chain catch them as she stretched, then walked over to the fireplace. Angel figured Claire to be about her own age. An attractive woman.

“Do you have an abusive husband too?” Angel asked.

“Me?” Claire shook her head. “I’m not married. After being around these women, I’m not sure I want to be.”

Angel glanced toward the kitchen, where the other women had gone. “I know what you mean. Makes you wonder if there are any nonabusive men out there. I mean, I know there are. But it is kind of scary.”

“Hmm. My father was—abusive, that is. I didn’t have much to do with him while I was growing up. He died when I was around twelve.”

Angel didn’t know how to respond. “How sad,” she said lamely.

“That he died? I guess it was sad, but mostly I felt relieved.” She sighed. “He wasn’t mean all the time, and in some ways I miss him.” She folded her arms. “I suffered a lot of guilt over the way I felt about his death. My counselor helped me through a lot of rough spots.”

“Are you still in counseling?”

“No, haven’t been for a while. I’ve gotten past the guilt, and now I’m just doing what I can to help the women here at the shelter.”

“So you volunteer here too?”

She nodded. “I answer phones and stay over a couple nights a week. Take notes for Janet. Gives me something to do on my time off.”

“That’s nice.” Angel appreciated Claire’s candor and thoughtfulness but wondered if her helping other women went beyond the norm. Angel dismissed the thought—she’d begun to suspect everyone, even Janet.

“We could use another volunteer around here.” Claire came back to her chair.

“You’re recruiting me?” Angel grinned.

“Sure.”

“I’ll think about it.” From time to time Angel had considered volunteer work, outside the programs involving the police department.

“Think about what?” Janet came back in and sat down. Rather than coffee she had a glass of ice water.

“Coming to work at the shelter.” Claire stretched before sitting back down.

“That’s wonderful, Angel. When can you start?”

“Whoa.” Angel held her hands up. “I said I’d think about it.”

“Claire is very good at recruiting people.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Seriously, Angel,” Claire said. “You should try it. Feels good
to help these families. We give them a safe place until they can figure out what to do. We babysit sometimes while the women look for work. I like that part.”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.” And she would. She could certainly afford to give up one weekend a month or an evening a week.

Claire reached into her bag for a diet Coke and popped the cap. One by one the women filtered back in and settled down, looking to Angel to continue.

Angel felt uncomfortable for some reason. Maybe because of their openness. Checking her watch, she said. “I should be going soon, but I do have some questions. These are a little more personal. Feel free to tell me if you think I’m out of line, but I wanted to get a little better idea of who all of you are and, well, I’d like to know what you were doing on Tuesday between noon and 3:00.”