Party Crashers (12 page)

“He’s something, isn’t he?” Carlotta whispered with a sigh.

Jolie jerked her head around, then flushed. “He’s…perplexing.”

Carlotta linked her arm in Jolie’s and pulled her in the opposite direction. “He’s a man, Jolie—trust me, he’s not that complicated.”

Jolie closed her eyes briefly, trying to sort her jumbled
thoughts. With so many other matters pressing on her mind and her heart, she had no business wasting a brain cell on Beck Underwood.

They followed the waiter’s directions through a set of glass doors to a covered patio. A chilly October wind had blown in, raising goose bumps over Jolie’s bare arms. She shivered, thinking she should have worn a coat, although she didn’t own anything nearly nice enough to wear over the jumpsuit.

Pedestals holding bowls of white sand had been situated around the perimeter of the patio for the smokers. They were a forlorn bunch: social outcasts relegated to a covered concrete pad to practice their vice. The lighting was dim and depressing, and the strident whine of nearby electrical boxes filled the night air. Everyone huddled in their jackets, their backs to the wind, huffing and puffing.

“And to think,” Carlotta muttered, “smoking used to be popular.” She handed her gin and tonic to Jolie to hold, then opened her purse and pulled out a box of menthol cigarettes. “Want one?”

Jolie started to shake her head, then decided she could use something to calm her nerves and warm her up. “Okay.”

Carlotta opened the box and slid out two cigarettes, stuck them both in her mouth and pulled out a slender mother-of-pearl lighter. She lit both cigarettes, then traded one to Jolie for the drink she’d been holding.

Jolie drew on the cigarette until her adenoids stung, then coughed smoke into her hand. “I’ve never been much of a smoker.”

Carlotta exhaled figure eights into the air. “I’ve quit twenty-seven times. I hate the way it makes my clothes smell.” She gestured to Jolie’s jumpsuit. “You’ll have to
turn it inside out and run it on air-only in the clothes dryer for at least an hour. Make sure you tape cardboard around the tags so they don’t curl.”

Jolie nodded obediently and attempted a more shallow inhale on the cigarette. She glanced over her shoulder, uneasy about the pitch-blackness surrounding the patio. A person could be standing a mere foot off the edge and no one would know it. Gary could be out there, watching her as he’d said. She shivered and took a step toward the center of the patio.

Carlotta looked toward the door, then emitted a little laugh. “Well, if his liver doesn’t give out, his lungs will.”

Jolie turned to see Kyle Coffee stumbling through the door, holding an unlit cigar that was at least nine inches long. He stopped next to a bowl of sand and set down his drink, then used both hands to search various pockets. Finally he pulled out what looked like one of the postcards that Sammy was handing out, rolled it lengthwise and used it to borrow a flame from the cigarette of the guy next to him. Jolie watched, poised to run in case Coffee set something—or himself—on fire, but he lit the tip of the cigar from the paper, then jammed the card into the sand without incident. He retrieved his drink, drew on the cigar until his face turned scarlet, and exhaled with a happy sigh. He didn’t notice them, didn’t notice much of anything, Jolie suspected. He seemed to be in a fog, shuffling around the edge of the concrete pad, tapping ashes into the grass.

Jolie looked at Carlotta. “Do you suppose that Coffee is even more chatty when LeMon isn’t around?”

“Let’s go see, shall we?”

When they approached him, his glassy eyes made it clear that he didn’t remember them. They reintroduced
themselves as Betty and Linda, and Carlotta congratulated him again on his nomination. He was loud and barely coherent. The cigar smelled like singed hair.

“That’s an interesting tattoo,” Carlotta said in her perfectly clipped accent, pointing to his wrist.

He frowned and leaned in. “Huh?”

“Your tattoo, what does it mean?”

Her words registered and he clamped the odorous cigar between his small teeth, then yanked back his sleeve to reveal a black tattoo the size and shape of a postage stamp. Jolie leaned in for a good look, and saw a border of what looked like four arms, one melding into another counterclockwise, the tiny hands on the corners. The center of the image was a filigree pattern that she couldn’t make out.

“This,” he slurred around his cigar, “was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

“You don’t like having a tattoo?” Jolie asked, enunciating clearly for his benefit.

“Hell, I got a half dozen tattoos,” he said. “But this one has ruined my life.”

Jolie’s skin prickled. “What makes you say that?”

“His wife doesn’t like it,” Roger LeMon said behind them.

J
olie jerked her head around and her heart slammed in her chest at the sight of LeMon’s thin mouth pressed into a flat line as he considered their threesome. He walked up and put his arm around Kyle Coffee’s shoulder, then pulled the man’s head close to his. “Isn’t that right, Kyle?” he asked in a tone that might have been good-natured except for his precise enunciation. “Your wife doesn’t like that tattoo because it’s in a more visible place than the others.”

Kyle blinked at Roger dumbly, then nodded. “That’z right, Roger,” he lisped around the cigar in his mouth.

Roger slapped him on the back. “I called you a cab, man. It’s time for you to say good night.”

“Okay,” the man mumbled.

“I’ll walk you out,” LeMon said, and guided his big friend toward the doors. LeMon turned his head to give Jolie a suspicious glare, then herded Coffee inside.

Jolie exhaled.

“Coffee was getting ready to tell us something,” Carlotta said. “I just know it!”

“Maybe. I wanted to ask him if he knew Gary.”

“So call him. Make up a story.”

“Right,” Jolie murmured, except she doubted that Kyle Coffee would be as forthcoming when he was sober. And she was starting to feel as if this whole situation was getting out of hand. She didn’t know which details might be relevant and which details might take her on a tangent. Plus she was feeling antsy that she hadn’t heard from Gary again. She needed to talk to Detective Salyers, try to convince the woman to consider the possibility that Gary had been set up without revealing that she’d seen him. She gazed out into the inky darkness, and nearly swallowed her cigarette when she saw a figure move…and approach the patio.

“Hiya,” Hannah said, stepping up onto the concrete.

Jolie’s shoulders fell and a shiver overtook her. She needed food…and her life back.

Even Carlotta looked a little spooked, but recovered quickly. “Oh, hey. You startled me.”

Hannah wore skinny black pants and a long flowing jacket that looked a bit vampire-ish. Her hair was slicked back from her slender face and gelled into place. Her makeup was dark and dramatic, and her chandelier-style earrings looked like little swords strung together. Retro Gothica. A fetish, or a lifestyle? Jolie had the sudden sensation that she wouldn’t want to encounter Hannah Kizer on a dark street during the witching hour.

Hannah looked at Jolie’s ensemble, wig to shoes. “Wow, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Carlotta helped.”

“Yeah, I’ve told Carlotta if she ever wanted to go underground, she could pull it off.”

Carlotta drew on her cigarette. Jolie wondered if she were thinking about the money she’d have to come up with by next Friday.

Hannah looked back and forth between them. “Why are you two so jumpy?”

Jolie sent a warning glance to Carlotta. She didn’t want to tell anyone about Gary who didn’t need to know.

“This party was a tough nut to crack,” Carlotta said, passing her half-smoked cigarette to Hannah, indicating she could finish it. “I’m Betty and she’s Linda. If I break into a British accent, just go along.”

Hannah shrugged. “Okay.”

On the way back inside, Jolie stopped to grind her cigarette into the bowl of white sand and noticed the postcard that Kyle Coffee had used to light his cigar. On impulse, she pulled the stiff, cream-colored card out of the sand and unrolled it, flicking off the charred ends.

A party invitation…to Sammy Sanders’ house the following evening—the same invitation Jolie had seen her press into Beck Underwood’s hand.

You’re invited to a champagne pajama party.

Jolie lifted an eyebrow. She’d heard rumors at the agency about the parties that Sammy hosted at her posh Buckhead residence, but of course she’d never been invited. According to the postcard, the attire was sleepwear, the guest list was exclusive, and invitations had to be presented at the door. Apparently Sammy had moved through the crowd tonight, picking and choosing her guests.

Jolie smiled wryly. Even disguised, she wasn’t good enough for Sammy.

Tucking the creased invitation inside her purse, she followed Carlotta and Hannah back inside, where no one questioned Hannah’s entry. They headed for the food tables as Hannah told them which items to avoid and which items to sample. Jolie filled a small plate with non–red-sauce foods and ate enough to dispel the slight buzz she’d gotten from the wine—she needed to be clear-headed for the drive home.

Beneath the wig, her scalp itched like crazy. The contact lenses felt gritty in her dry eyes. Her feet…Well, her feet might never be the same. She longed for a hot soak and a soft pillow and a positive balance in her savings account. She glanced around, expecting to see Roger LeMon lurking in the shadows, watching her. And God help her, she had hoped to catch another glimpse of Beck Underwood. She was sure the man would never work with her now, but she did want to thank him for being discreet, and try to offer some rationalization for her bizarre behavior…except she couldn’t think of an explanation other than the truth. And she wasn’t going to drag Beck into her drama, especially since he had an indirect connection to Roger LeMon through his sister Della.

Jolie pulled herself out of her dismal thought loop and turned toward Hannah and Carlotta.

“The bastard isn’t here, is he?” Hannah turned her head for a quick sweep of the room.

“I didn’t see him,” Carlotta assured her.

“Who?” Jolie asked.

“Her boyfriend Russell,” Carlotta said.

“Today I’d had it,” Hannah said. “I found out where he
was having lunch and confronted him while he was eating with his boss.”

Carlotta gasped. “You didn’t.”

Hannah nodded emphatically, her knife-earrings jingling. “Sure did. If he thinks he can simply ignore me after all I’ve put up with, he’s insane.”

Hearing the bitterness in the woman’s voice, Jolie wondered briefly who, exactly, was the sane one. Hannah the Huntress was a tad intense.

“What happened?” Carlotta asked.

Hannah sighed. “He promised he was going to ask his wife for a divorce this weekend.”

Jolie choked on a scallop.

Carlotta turned her head and muttered, “He’s been promising to leave his wife for a year.”

“I heard that,” Hannah declared. “Carlotta thinks I’m throwing my life away.” She scoffed. “As if her life is going somewhere.”

Carlotta cocked her hip. “I’m not the one who spent my lunch hour accosting my married boyfriend.”

Hannah leaned in. “When was the last time you
had
a boyfriend?”

“Stalker.”

“Prune.”

Jolie set down her drink. “
Look
at the time. I guess I’d better be going. I have to go in early tomorrow to help Michael with the Manolo Blahnik appearance.”

Carlotta looked disappointed. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jolie hesitated, then said, “I was wondering…would the two of you like to go to a pajama party tomorrow night? My ex-boss is giving it, so it should be nice, but…
we’d have to crash.” She had no legitimate reason to go other than it was something fun she could offer up to the girls. Plus she could get one over on Sammy, and the woman wouldn’t even know it.

Was that how Carlotta felt when she crashed upscale soirees? That it was enough for
her
to know?

Jolie withdrew the mangled invitation from her purse and handed it to Carlotta, who read it and looked up. “Realtor Barbie is giving a bash?”

Jolie nodded.

“And we’re not invited?”

Jolie shook her head.

Carlotta grinned. “Sounds like fun.”

“Can you reproduce the invitation?”

“Are you kidding?” Carlotta tapped her finger on the card. “Without raised lettering this won’t even be a challenge.”

Jolie felt a tiny stab of guilt over planning to crash a private party, but she remembered just a handful of the times that Sammy had dismissed her and the feeling passed rather quickly. “Do you have plans, Hannah?”

Hannah pursed her vampy mouth, then sighed. “No, I’ll come.”

“Unless her boyfriend calls,” Carlotta muttered.

“I heard that.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jolie said before she could get caught in another round of crossfire.

“Jolie,” Carlotta said, “will you be okay walking to your car?”

Hannah gave her a strange look. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

“She’s worried about my feet in these shoes,” Jolie said with a laugh. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Good night. Oh, and…thanks.”

Carlotta gave her a secretive nod, then Jolie threaded her way back through the crowd. She kept an eye out for LeMon and other persons of interest, but saw neither. When she walked back through the reception entrance, the ticket taker was still manning his gate and gave her a friendly nod. She waved, once again having misgivings about manipulating their way into the party.

But she did have more information to give Salyers when they talked—Jolie looked at her watch—tomorrow. She’d call the detective tomorrow. After the hoopla at the store, she’d have a few hours before the party. Enough time to put together that mailing to her former customers she’d been putting off. And to discuss a murder investigation concerning her boyfriend.

As she retraced her steps back through the lobby, her thoughts turned to the dead woman in Gary’s car. Had she been identified? Did her family know she was missing? Did she even have family? Jolie chewed the tip of a polished nail, wondering if she were to disappear how long it would be before someone missed her. When her rent came due? When the IRS missed her tax return?

She asked for directions to the parking garage and was sent down a hallway and a short flight of stairs to the glass door that she remembered before Carlotta had taken them the roundabout way. She pushed open the door, then walked through another, more industrial door into the parking garage. The cool night air sent shivers through her body. She rubbed her hands over her arms as she waited for the elevator. Halfway up the ramp, a family of four approached their car, their boisterous noisiness a comforting sound in the gloomy concrete structure.

Car doors slammed, then the car with the family backed up and exited the garage. Jolie tapped her foot in the echoing
silence, partly to pass time, and partly to send feeling to her toes. The elevator was on its way down, but moving slowly. Fifth floor, fourth. The glass door opened behind her, and a suited man stepped up next to her to wait for the elevator. He looked all around, including at the security camera above them, then stared straight ahead. Tiny red flags raised in her mind. Something wasn’t right. His suit was ill fitting, his fingernails were grubby, and—she glanced down—his shoes were scuffed and soiled. Her heart lurched in her chest, stealing her breath. The elevator dinged and the door slid open. He boarded first, then held the door for her.

She stood rooted to the ground.

“Are you comin’?” he asked.

“No,” she murmured, then took a step toward the door leading back into the hotel. “I…forgot something.”

He pursed his mouth, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She shot a glance toward the security camera and stayed within its range until the elevator doors closed. According to the lights above the elevator, he rode to the third floor…where she had parked. She stood and waited for the man to drive down and exit the garage, but minutes ticked by and no man, no car. Jolie swallowed hard. Was he waiting for her by her car?
In
her car? If he and Gary were both there, the backseat could be crowded.

A foursome came through the glass door and waited for the elevator. She waved them on, and a few minutes later when they drove their car down the ramp and out the exit, the hair stood up on the back of her neck. When she realized the elevator was headed back down, she turned on her heel and jogged back toward the lobby of the hotel, trying to decide between calling the police or hotel security. She stumbled through the door and up the stairs into the lobby,
frantically searching for someone who looked official. A guest walked off, freeing one of the women behind the long concierge desk. Jolie headed in that direction, and the panic must have been written on her face, because when the woman looked up, she said, “May I help you?” with a look of concern.

“There’s a m–man,” she stammered, “in the garage.”

“Do you mean the man who’s having car trouble?”

“Excuse me?”

“We called an auto service, it should be here shortly.”

Jolie touched her temple. “No…I mean…” She turned and the man from the elevator was striding up behind her.

“I called from the garage,” he said. “About the auto service?”

“It’s on the way, sir,” the woman said. “Third floor, right?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

Jolie watched him walk away and felt like a fool.

“Ma’am, did you need anything else?”

She turned back to the desk. “Um, no. Thanks.”

“That’s a lovely outfit,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “Neiman’s.”

The woman smiled at someone behind Jolie. “Hello, Mr. Underwood.”

Jolie winced.

“Hello,” he said good-naturedly, then added, “Hi, again…
Linda
.”

Jolie turned slowly, and looked up into Beck’s amused expression. Her cheeks flamed. “Hi. I, um, suppose you’re wondering why I’m, um, dressed like this.”

“And going by a fake name?”

“And going by a f–fake name,” she parroted.

He crossed his arms, still smiling. “I admit I’m slightly curious.”

She swallowed and touched her throat. “Well, my girlfriend and I were just having a little fun.”

“You crashed,” he said with a grin.

She nodded, thinking how childish it sounded, but willing to let him think she was childish rather than…childish and paranoid.

He covered his mouth with his hand. “The other night at the High Museum too?”

She nodded and flushed to her knees. “You must think that’s terrible.”

He uncovered his mouth and was laughing. “No, just…interesting I hate these events—I can’t imagine crashing one for the fun of it.”

Said the prince to the peasant girl. Cheeks burning, she straightened and walked past him. “I was just leaving.”