For Love of Money (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

Wednesday, late afternoon

Three hours later, Holly drove away from a disastrous meeting with Fred Zhang. With stiff fingers, she crammed the Bluetooth into her ear, punched the office contact, and jammed the phone into her pocket.

“Desert Accounting.”

“Is Mother in the office?”

Tracey hesitated a beat. “She didn’t make it to the meeting?”

“Would I be asking if she did?”

Tracey cleared her throat. “Good point. She called, said something came up and to let you know she’d be late. But your phone went straight to voicemail.”

“Dammit.” Holly slammed her fist against the steering wheel. “Fred Zhang was so ticked off Mother didn’t show up. He didn’t even try to hide it.”

“I’m sorry,” Tracey murmured.

Holly didn’t know who she was angrier with: her mother, Fred, or herself. “I spent a lot of time and energy getting this meeting arranged, coming up with good ideas for his company.”

Tracey maintained a tactful silence.

Her initial snit aired, worry poked at Holly. “Should I start calling the hospitals? I mean, where is she? She isn’t answering her cell.”

“I’m sure she’s okay.”

Traffic thickened into the evening homeward rush by the time Holly reached the center of Richland. She turned left beside the central park. The city had a town square, but instead of a picture-perfect historic courthouse, two butt-ugly federal buildings lined the west side of the square. Holly wasn’t sure if they were built in the 50s or 70s. Neither decade produced exceptional architecture. The hulking pre-cast concrete walls and slit windows of the courthouse looked like a bunker, or a fallout shelter. Given the Hanford nuclear site’s proximity—and Richland’s reason for existing—the resemblance was most likely deliberate.

“This town is going to drive me crazy,” Holly muttered.

“What do you mean?” was Tracey’s cautious response.

She turned onto George Washington Way and joined the throng crawling away from the park. Flat-topped, one-story buildings with metal awnings lined the street. Mom and Pop stores, insurance co-op, a restaurant/diner. “This place reeks of the 50s.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Holly heard the smile in Tracey’s voice. “Yes, it is. Fred Zhang’s Neanderthal attitude came through loud and clear. He only agreed to the meeting because Mother and his wife are friends. He had absolutely no interest in anything I had to say. ‘What could a young, unmarried woman
possibly
know about business,’ should’ve been hung on a banner over the man’s desk.”

“What do you want me to do besides listen?” Tracey’s sympathetic voice filled Holly’s ear.

Let it go.

Holly slumped in her seat, propped her elbow on the window ledge, and rested her head on her curled fingers. “Sorry. I’m venting.”

“I figured that out a few minutes ago.”

“The meeting with Fred was just the crowning glory to a crappy day. Marcy’s funeral was a major sobfest. I wanted to go to the graveyard, but no, I had to fix my makeup and show up for this stupid meeting that was a complete waste of time.”

“There are always going to be close-minded men like Fred. Brooding about the wasted time won’t change anything.”

With a twitch of her shoulders, Holly channeled the
hakuna matata
dude, and relegated the mess to the past. “You’re right. I just had to get it out of my system.”

But she was
so
going to have it out with her mother.

If she could ever find the woman.

“Are you coming back to the office?” Tracey asked.

“I’m not sure.”

Holly ended the conversation and flipped over to her messages. JC still hadn’t called her back. The guy had dogged her for days, but now that she actually had news—
Frank Phalen might be in town and he may have been dating Marcy
—JC had vanished.

Her fingers tapped a nervous dance across the wheel. Had it really been Frank? Would he really have left Seattle to follow her here? Why would he do that—and not try to contact her? Besides, the Frank she knew would never work as a security guard. He’d been a royal asshole, but had he been obsessed enough with her to do
that
?

Or had she simply tacked Frank’s features onto Creepy Security Guy because she’d been scared and upset about Marcy? Learning this stuff about Marcy was stirring up all her bad memories of Frank.

After just a few dates, he’d starting calling constantly, insisting on knowing her schedule, attempting to control who she saw and where she went. That was when she told him it was over.

He hadn’t taken it well, to say the least. He’d threatened enough to scare the crap out of her, but he’d never beaten her the way Lee hit Marcy. Frank’s threats were psychological rather than physical.

Why hadn’t Marcy turned to her family? Her friends?

Frustration followed her down G’Way and perched on her shoulders at the red light. Small, wooden houses lined the street, resisting the encroaching business district. She stared at the newest mixed-use building as she inched toward the highway. What had the developer been thinking when he painted it that awful color? Thank goodness Stevens Ventures hadn’t built it—she didn’t have to pretend to like it.

She pressed the Bluetooth again and said, “Mother.”

To her surprise, her mother answered.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry I missed the meeting.”

Was that okay or not? “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” her mother said hurriedly.

And disconnected.

Like that explained anything.

Well, at least she knew she was alive.

Traffic stalled completely at the next intersection. Holly sat at the red light at Bradley, staring at the overhead road signs. Pasco. Kennewick. Interstate 82.

Those signs were the story of her life. Three directions. Three choices.

She could turn left to Pasco and confront Alex. He’d left a dozen messages in her voicemail. They ranged from his initial tirade after Marcy’s wake to a three-o’clock-in-the-morning, plaintive, “Call me.”

She could go straight and take Highway 240 back to work. Joy of joys.

Or she could turn right onto the interstate and go home. To her house in Hills West. To Seattle.

She sighed. Either way, she’d be alone.

Again.

The light changed.

She turned left.

…

The parking lot at Alex’s restaurant held only a few cars. Mostly small econo-boxes, they clustered beside the employee entrance. Holly parked near the front door and started laughing. The pig crate sat at the restaurant’s front entrance.

Alex would go ape-shit when he saw it. What was JC thinking, sending it to the restaurant? The health department would go crazy. But oh, if anybody deserved to get a pig, it was Alex.

Did he even know it was here? Surely the FFA guys wouldn’t just dump it and run. She’d missed the delivery at her own office, but there had to be a process for transferring the crate.

She approached the entrance. At least outdoors the pig didn’t smell as bad. A huge tag sat on top of the crate, taped to the green instruction sheet she’d already seen. She turned the tag to the light and read:

Holly Price had the crate.

Paid the fee.

Chose another’s fate.

A new address for the pig.

Tag, you’re it.

Her name was written on the sender’s line in JC’s bold slanting script.

Oh my God
. She stared at the tag, horrified. She was screwed. He’d gotten her back—and made things even worse with Alex, all with one line on a form. She ripped the tag off the crate and crushed it.

She was
so
sending that llama to JC’s department.

She pulled her cell from her pocket, expecting to call since the front entrance was usually locked. To her surprise, the door swung open when she tugged the handle.

She paused near the hostess stand and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light.

The pig was just another huge complication. Maybe she could get it out of here, send it to Tim, without Alex ever knowing it was there. She could call Rick, ask him to arrange for its relocation.

She rubbed her temples. Or Alex could learn to laugh and deal with it himself.

Jeez, why was she here?

She wasn’t in love with Alex, wasn’t even sure she liked him right now. But he’d been fun at one point.

Ugh
. Please say she wasn’t about to do something incredibly stupid, like patch things up with Alex, simply because on too many levels JC scared her. She could walk away from Alex at any time.

JC? She couldn’t go through that again.

Not that she’d actually consider getting involved with JC.

But if she and Alex were going to try again, the rules were changing, starting right now.

She moved further into the restaurant. A clatter of industrial silverware and Spanish chatter came from the main dining room, where several men and women were preparing tables for dinner. Salsa music pulsed from the speakers and the women swayed between the tables with an easy grace.

One of the men noticed Holly and stepped in her direction. “We’re not open yet.”

“I’m looking for Alex. Is he in the office?” She headed toward the hall without waiting for an answer.

“Hey! You can’t go in there.”

Her gaze swiveled from the office door—
closed
—to the server’s face—
worried
. So, Alex wasn’t alone.

Alrighty.

“It’s okay.” Head held high, she strode forward. Was he carrying on with one of his staff? And he had the nerve to be angry with
her
for talking to JC?

“But—” The waiter shrugged and returned to the dining room.

Alex’s raised voice came through the closed office door. She slowed her footsteps. Maybe he wasn’t sweet-talking another woman. Maybe he was chewing out an employee.

The door flew open and JC strode from the office.

Oh. Crap.

Alex appeared behind the detective. Anger rippled from every pore of Alex’s body, but JC was doing his impassive cop thing. Stalking toward her, his face remained expressionless, but his heels hammered sharp blows on the Mexican tile floor. His eyes swiveled in her direction, registering her presence, but his pace didn’t change.

She looked from JC to Alex. The tension between the two men had passed “uncomfortable” and was headed straight for “danger zone.” Her attention swung back to JC. “What’s going on?”

“It’s business.”

Like that clarified anything. She was getting tired of everyone’s non-answers.

“Why—” she began.

“Ask Montoya about his alibi,” JC cut her off, brushing past and heading for the lobby.

Alex vanished inside his office. She followed. “What was that all about?”

He turned on her the second she cleared the door. “What in the
hell
did you tell that man?”

She rocked back on her heels. “Excuse me?”

“And what the fuck were you thinking sending that pig out here? Are you trying to ruin me?”

“No.
What
is going on?”

A string of Spanish curse words answered her. Alex leaned against his cluttered desk and slammed his arms across his chest. “What happened to your car?”

“I told him you didn’t have anything to do with that.” She took another step into the office, but Alex’s furious expression stopped her from moving any closer. For a moment, she considered turning around and walking out, but curiosity won.

“What happened to your car?” The words squeezed past Alex’s clenched teeth.

She held onto her temper. Once again, she had to be the designated grown-up. She was getting pretty sick of that, too. “Somebody keyed it while I was at Marcy’s wake.”

“And you called that detective instead of me.”

Like she’d have asked Alex for anything after the way he ignored her? “He was already there.”

“I noticed.” Alex’s lips remained stiff with anger.

Keeping her tone level took effort. “I needed a police report for my insurance company. It’ll cost a fortune to repaint.”

He nodded once, a short jerk of his chin, conceding her point. “That detective thought I damaged your car.”

She kept her mouth firmly closed. JC clearly thought Alex
had
done it, but she wasn’t going to say it.

“I told you already, Dimitrak thinks I’m guilty. That I’m involved in Marcy’s murder. And that you are, too.” His finger stabbed at her.

“Me?” Holly’s hand flew to her chest. “I didn’t have anything to do with Marcy’s death.” Was that what JC meant last night? When he brought up Marcy and Alex?

“First words out of his mouth were, am I trying to intimidate you?”

“Why would you—” She shook her head. That made no sense. JC should know Alex wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—intimidate her, even if he was somehow mixed up in Marcy’s murder.

Which he wasn’t, was he?

Alex pushed away from the desk and started to pace. “Then it was, did I mess with your car because I was afraid you weren’t backing Tim and me? Were we worried you were on his side now?”

“There aren’t any sides here. We all want the truth.” She leaned against the bookcase, her attention on Alex as he paced.

“I told Dimitrak he was crazy. That none of us—me, you, Tim—had anything to do with Marcy’s murder. Nobody’s trying to keep you from saying anything.”

She spread her hands in a gesture that was simultaneously frustrated and placating. “I told him that, too. I don’t know what he’s after. Just now, he said to ask you about your alibi.”

“Jesus,” Alex barked. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Why in the hell didn’t you tell him we went to the movie Tuesday night?”

She paused, thinking. “That was Monday.”

“It was Tuesday.” He shot a hand through his hair. “What are you trying to do to me?”

She stepped away from the bookcase. “What are you talking about?”

“Every time you talk to that asshole”—Alex’s finger jerked in the direction JC had gone—“he lands on my doorstep.” His finger stabbed at the floor.

Anger tightened her chest and warmed her neck. “It wasn’t anything I said.”