Party Crashers (24 page)

Jolie nodded and withdrew the photo from her purse.

Hannah studied the picture, shaking her head. “Can you believe that your boyfriend and my boyfriend knew each other? Small world, isn’t it?” She frowned, then flicked her finger against Russell’s wife’s face.

Carlotta gave Jolie a sideways glance, lifting her eyebrow.

A plump woman bartender came down to the end of the bar and gave it a swipe with a hand cloth. “What can I get for you ladies?”

“Gin and tonic,” Carlotta said.

“Same for me,” Jolie said. “I was told that Hardy was working the bar tonight.”

The woman looked across the room. “Har-dee!”

A slender middle-aged man serving a tray of drinks looked up.

The bartender pointed to the women. “Fans of yours.”

The man tucked the empty tray under his arm and ambled over, sporting a communal grin. “What can I do you for, ladies?”

Jolie leaned forward. “Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

His eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”

“No. I’m looking for some information about a friend of mine, Gary Hagan.”

He nodded, his expression more congenial. “Yeah, Hagan. Likes fancy beer. I haven’t seen him around here for a while. How is he?”

“Um, not well,” Jolie said ruefully while trying to control her excitement at finding someone who actually knew Gary. She took the photo from Hannah and extended it to him. “I understand that this photo was taken here. I thought you might help me identify some of the people in it.”

He squinted at the picture. “Yeah, it was taken here all right. Let’s see—that’s Hagan, right?”

She nodded.

“This guy’s name is Coffee, I think, and that’s Russell Island.” He looked up. “He’s kind of a pansy-ass, always orders a frozen drink.”

Carlotta snickered and Hannah gave her a deadly look.

Hardy shook his head. “I’ve seen these other guys in here, usually with Hagan, but I don’t know who they are.”
He grinned. “I can remember the drinks people order better than their names.”

“Did you happen to overhear any of their conversations?” Jolie asked carefully. “How they might have known each other?”

He drew back a couple of inches, and she sensed his retreat. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Carlotta said, then nonchalantly unbuttoned the top button on her blouse and held the drink the bartender had delivered to her long, slender neck. Because of course, it was so hot in mid-October.

Hardy stared at her cleavage. “Well…I don’t remember any specific conversation.”

Another button came undone. “Do you remember seeing tattoos on their wrists?”

He dragged his gaze up, then pointed his finger. “Yeah. In fact, I think they were all in here celebrating after they got them. I remember thinking they were grown men acting like a bunch of fraternity boys.” He laughed. “In fact, I think I might have said something like that, and one of them remarked that they had their own fraternity house.”

“What did you think they meant by that?” Carlotta asked, playing with the next button.

Fascinated, Jolie held her breath, wondering what would give first—Hardy, or Carlotta’s bra.

Hardy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m not sure, but I took it to mean that they had a playhouse, you know, somewhere to take their girlfriends, some place their wives didn’t know about. That’s pretty common, actually.”

Jolie and Carlottta’s gaze swung to Hannah.

“Did Russell have a playhouse?” Jolie asked, her heart beating faster.

She nodded. “A condo on West Peachtree. We went there a few times.”

Jolie’s heart beat faster as a few more pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Gary was a services broker, and he owned a condo on West Peachtree. The four men used it as a playhouse. Hannah could provide the link between the condo and Russell Island, and the tattoos would provide the link between the four men. Hope flowered in her chest. She gave Carlotta a triumphant nod, barely able to contain her excitement.

Carlotta rewarded Hardy with a glimpse of her navel. “Thanks, Hardy.”

He grinned, then looked back to the photo, as if hoping to find more details he could expound upon—Carlotta was, after all, wearing a skirt that buttoned up the front.

He pulled the picture closer, squinting.

“What?” Jolie asked, thinking at this point any information would be pure gravy.

Hardy shook his head. “I can’t say for sure—this is an old picture, taken before we repainted—but…”

“But what?” she prompted.

“I swear this dark-haired lady staring off to the side looks like Della Underwood.”

Jolie’s heart dropped. “What?”

Carlotta grabbed the photo and jammed it close to her face. Jolie looked over her shoulder and broke into a full-body sweat.

Carlotta nodded. “I think he’s right. Della went through a brunette phase in the mid-nineties. Tragic, really.”

Jolie fairly buckled under the sense of betrayal—Beck had recognized his sister in the photo. That explained the phone call he’d made from her apartment.
“…you
should be thinking of a story. Yes, I got it from her and I have it with me…I shouldn’t be here much longer.”

He’d called Della to warn her. That was why he was trying to keep the story out of the papers and off television: for Della’s sake, not for hers. He hadn’t wanted to show the photo to Pam Vanderpool because he knew she would recognize Della.

All this time, Della might have known something about LeMon that would exonerate Jolie…or is that what Beck was afraid of? That his sister was somehow involved? He said he’d come back to Atlanta because his sister was going through some things that he wanted to be here for. Had she gotten in over her head with her old lover Roger LeMon?

Her heart shivered in disappointment. She’d imagined the connection between her and Beck, had wanted it to be so. Was she so starved for love that she couldn’t recognize the real thing from a come-on? She swallowed hard. No, not a come-on, but worse:
pity
.

She drew in a shaky breath, determined not to cry.

“Do you know Ms. Underwood?” Hardy asked them, handing back the photo.

“Indirectly,” Jolie murmured, feeling Carlotta’s perceptive gaze all over her. “Excuse me—I need to make a phone call.”

“To Beck?” Carlotta asked in a low voice.

“No,” Jolie said. She was finished with being gullible. “To Detective Salyers.”

J
olie stood staring down at Gary, glad she’d gone with the blue tie instead of the red one. It seemed more tranquil, and hopefully, more indicative of the resting place he’d made for himself in eternity.

Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and a sob caught in her throat from the guilt over not having cared enough about him. Somewhere there was probably a pretty girl who had been Gary Hagan’s first love, who wondered how he had turned out, hoping she would run into him again someday, not knowing that he was dead unless she happened to subscribe to the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. Somewhere there was someone who was more qualified to bury him.

At the sound of footsteps behind her, she brushed away tears and turned.

Detective Salyers, wearing her uniform of chinos and jacket came walking toward her.

Jolie tensed. “If you’ve come to arrest me, can you wait until after the service?”

Salyers gave her a little smile. “I didn’t come here to arrest you, Ms. Goodman. I came to pay my respects to Mr. Hagan…and to you.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Salyers cleared her throat. “Ms. Goodman, I know this isn’t exactly the time or the place, but I wanted you to know that I’ve made this case my top priority—on the clock and off. I truly appreciate all the leads you’ve sent our way. The information you got from the bartender at Manuel’s last night will go a long way toward linking these two murders by way of more than an affair gone bad. We’re looking into Kyle Coffee’s death, and we’re reexamining the West Peachtree condo.” Salyers sighed and averted her gaze.

“But?”

Salyers looked back. “But you’re still the prime suspect, and my boss is going to recommend to the D.A. tomorrow that an arrest warrant be served.”

Panic pumped through her limbs. Jolie massaged her throbbing hand through the bandage. “Okay…okay…okay.”

“I thought this would be better coming from your attorney, but I contacted Pam Vanderpool; she said that you had fired her.”

Jolie nodded. Beck had left her a half dozen messages. “I’ll find another attorney in the morning.”

At the sound of more guests, Jolie turned. Carlotta and Hannah walked in, their footsteps careful and uncertain. Carlotta, always the trendsetter, wore yellow head to toe. Hannah looked surprisingly feminine in a flirty ruffled skirt. Jolie smiled, grateful for their presence. They spotted her and made their way toward the front of the chapel.

“He looks better than the last time I saw him,” Carlotta murmured. “Nice suit—everyone should be buried in Prada.”

Jolie nodded. She’d paid almost as much for the suit as she had the casket.

Hannah gave Jolie’s hand a squeeze. “How are you holding up?”

Her gaze flitted to Detective Salyers, who had taken a seat in a middle pew. “Fine.”

Hannah shifted from foot to foot. “Jolie, I stole that money from your boss’s purse the night of the party.” She puffed out her cheeks. “I was going to plant it on Russell.”

Jolie frowned. “Why?”

She shrugged. “To discredit him, to show him that I could. I was trying to get close enough to put it in his jacket pocket when Carlotta grabbed me and we went into the pool.”

Jolie bit into her lip. “Hannah…have you considered counseling?”

She nodded miserably.

“Omigod,” Carlotta whispered. “Jolie, your ex-boss just walked in.”

Jolie lifted her head and sure enough, Sammy had arrived, toning down her usual pinkness with a splash of gray.

“Excuse us,” Carlotta said. She and Hannah turned and claimed a pew equidistant between Salyers and the back of the room.

God help her, but Jolie looked at Sammy and immediately pondered the woman’s motivation. Did she feel obligated to attend because the body had been found in her house? Had she been fooling around with Gary behind
Jolie’s back and developed genuine feelings for him? Or was she here simply to give out business cards? (A trick of the trade.)

Sammy stopped in front of Jolie and after an awkward hesitation, leaned forward to give her a stiff one-armed hug. “I’m really sorry about Gary,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it.

Jolie felt unexpectedly misty. Was it possible that she and Sammy had simply fallen into a habit of disliking each other? She hadn’t exactly behaved well herself, sneaking into the woman’s house, ransacking her bathroom, filching a photo frame, then bringing the party to a screeching halt. She was touched that Sammy seemed to be extending an olive branch. “Thank you for coming, Sammy.”

Sammy’s expression was pinched with compassion. “I wouldn’t have missed it.” She linked her arm in Jolie’s and stared down at Gary. “So young, so handsome, such a tragedy.”

Jolie nodded, biting into her lip.

Sammy patted her arm. “Jolie, I have a little confession to make.”

At the sound of Sammy’s “cajoling” voice, a red flag raised in Jolie’s mind. “Confession?”

Sammy looked contrite. “Gary called me at the office a little while after you all started seeing each other and asked me to broker a deal. He wanted to buy a condo that he’d been renting for a couple of years.” She gave a little laugh. “He said it was going to be a surprise and he didn’t want you to know about it, but he wanted you to get the commission for the sale.”

Her stomach gurgled. “So you forged my name on the contract?”

She nodded and winced. “And that was wrong, but
Gary was adamant that he wanted you to have the money.” She lifted her manicured hands in the air. “I thought he was getting ready to propose and that the two of you would live there. Since I couldn’t cut you a commission check without you knowing the source, I tried to give you the money in little spurts, but you simply wouldn’t take it.”

Jolie wet her lips. “That’s why you were trying to give me money Saturday morning?”

“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—”