Party Crashers (25 page)

He lifted an eyebrow. “Sleeping with you? Not good. You’re right, of course.”

Jolie exhaled. The day was catching up with her. “Look, Beck, I’ve had a long day, and something tells me that tomorrow is going to be even longer. So if you don’t mind—”

“Where are you staying?”

“At my neighbor’s. She’s out of town and said I could use her apartment for a few days.”

“Let me get you a hotel room.”

With him in it? “No, thank you. Good night.”

He reached out to clasp her arm. “Jolie, I can make things easier for you.”

Anger blazed through her. “Do you think I’m blind, Beck? I know what I am to you—I’m a project. I’m a ‘before.’ I’m the damsel in distress that you can swoop in to save and feel good about yourself for a while. Until you get bored and start looking for a new project, or decide to go back to Costa Rica.” She pulled away from him. “Go find another charity case.”

She sidestepped him, marched out of the funeral chapel, and unlocked her pitiful rental car door. She climbed in and started the engine, then looked heavenward. “God, I’m broke, barely employed, a suspect in two murders, I drive a ramshackle car, and the man I love might as well be living in your galaxy. Please let me know that this is a low point. Send me a sign.” She leaned forward, looking for shooting stars, a burning bush, a two-headed goat…something.

And she got nothing.

She drove to the apartment complex counting road signs to keep her mind occupied…off Gary…off Beck…off jail. It was just before 8
P.M
. when she pulled into the parking lot.

Residents had already decorated for Halloween, putting lighted jack-o’-lanterns in their windows and corn fodder shocks in the common areas. Her hand felt warm and tight beneath the bandage. Maybe Beck was right—maybe it was infected.

Beck.

She worked her mouth from side to side, conceding it would probably take some time to get out of the habit of thinking about him.

She drove past Leann’s apartment to check her own mailbox. After a couple of days, it probably would be full.
She parked and walked to the bank of mailboxes, looking right and left, ever aware of her surroundings. Fatigue pulled at her lower back—the shoe department had been much busier than usual today.

The night air was cool—in the forties, she guessed. And so cloudless, the stars took her breath away. A rustling noise behind the boxes also took her breath away, until she realized it was the dry husks of the corn fodder shocks rubbing together. Still, she didn’t dawdle checking the mail. As suspected, her box was full—one reason was because Mrs. Janklo’s bank checks had been delivered to her by mistake. She looked up at the woman’s window and noted that the lights were on. If she knew Mrs. Janklo, she’d be looking for these checks and worried that they hadn’t arrived.

Jolie heaved a sigh and opted for the elevator over the stairs. A couple of minutes later, she was ringing Mrs. Janklo’s doorbell. She stood in front of the peephole and waved. “It’s Jolie, Mrs. Janklo—I have your checks.”

The door opened and Mrs. Janklo squinted at her through the chain. “What do you want?”

“Here are your checks,” she said cheerfully. “The mail carrier put them in my box by mistake.”

The woman’s plump hand appeared in the six-inch opening and Jolie gave her the box. “Thank you,” her neighbor said begrudgingly.

“You’re welcome. Good night.”

“Wait, I have something for you.” The door closed.

Jolie tried to smile. Mrs. Janklo was famous for her frozen zucchini bread wrapped in layers and layers of aluminum foil. It was god-awful, and Jolie had lost a toenail last year when she’d dropped one on her foot.

The door opened and Mrs. Janklo’s disposition seemed much improved. “Here you go—some nice zucchini bread. It’ll need to thaw for about three hours.”

Jolie juggled her mail and took the icy brick, which actually felt good against her injured hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Janklo.”

“And here’s something for you that was put in
my
mailbox by mistake…a few days ago.” She extended a lumpy, padded manila envelope.

Jolie frowned. “When did you say it arrived?”

“One day last week,” the woman snapped. “I’m a little forgetful these days.” She slammed the door.

But Jolie barely noticed because she recognized the handwriting on the return address: Gary’s. Her heart beat wildly. This was the envelope that he’d said “they” had intercepted. He couldn’t have known that in this instance, “they” were a nearsighted mail carrier and her nosy, forgetful neighbor.

She raced down the stairs and decided it would be faster to step inside her own apartment to examine the envelope. With a bum left hand and a right hand that shook from excitement, it took her a few seconds longer to unlock the door and the deadbolt. Just as she turned the doorknob, a man’s gloved hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

Jolie’s cry died against his hand. Terror bolted through her as he shoved his body against her back, his mouth to her ear. “Welcome home.”

At the sound of Roger LeMon’s voice, she almost lost control of her bladder. His fingers covered her nose too, so she was bucking to breathe. The door opened in front of her and he pushed her inside, sending her sprawling in the darkness against the gray carpet, which was much harder
than she’d ever imagined. Everything in her arms scattered and rolled. The front door slammed closed and she heard him fumbling with the deadbolt. Precious time, and she knew her way around in the dark. She pushed herself up and ran for the bedroom. LeMon abandoned the door and lunged after her. He caught her by the arm, pulled her to him, and covered her mouth again.

“Time to die,” he growled in her ear, dragging her backward. “After your boyfriend’s memorial service, you couldn’t live with yourself anymore. You left a note on your computer about the little love triangle between you and Gary and my wife, about how Gary killed my wife, then how you killed him.”

She fought him furiously, struggling left, then right.

“It’s not going to hurt, you’ll be out from the sleeping pills when I slash your wrists.”

He released her mouth for a second and when she gasped for air, he shoved capsules into her mouth. She clamped down, refusing to swallow, her screams sounding like mere grunts. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Would anyone question her death? Leann…Carlotta…Salyers…Beck? He had offered her a safe, secure place to sleep and she’d thrown it in his face. She gagged as the bitter powder from the broken capsules began to dissolve in her mouth.

She heard a loud boom, the distant sound of wood splintering. “Jolie!
Jolie
!” a voice shouted.

Beck?

Suddenly LeMon released her. She fell to her knees, gagging, spitting out the capsules, pulling them out with her fingers. Gasping, she dragged herself up a wall and slapped at the light switch. The two men were crashing against walls, floors. Beck had the bulk, but LeMon, to her
horror, had a blade. Beck’s shirt was cut and he was bleeding. Jolie was terrified at the thought of losing him…of him losing his life because of her. She looked around for a weapon. She remembered the fire extinguisher in the bedroom, and then she spied the great frozen zucchini brick at her feet. She hefted it, rushed forward, and brought it down on the back of LeMon’s head. The sound of frozen bread connecting with flesh was…satisfying, actually.

LeMon dropped like a stone, his knife clattering to the floor.

Beck was at her side in two strides. He cupped his hands around her face. “Are you all right?” he demanded, his voice rasping.

She nodded, then burst into tears. Third time and counting.

C
arlotta’s eyes widened. “They were going to do
what
?” “Murder their wives,” Jolie repeated. “Among other things.”

“I don’t believe it,” Carlotta said, setting her bottle of Pellegrino on the table.

Yesterday Jolie had spent most of the day with the police, this morning, she and the girls were at the Crepe House playing catch-up.

“I don’t believe that
Russell
would do it,” Hannah said.

“Supposedly, his wife was next,” Jolie said. “That’s why Gary was at Sammy’s party—to warn Mrs. Island.”

“So that’s why he was with Roger LeMon’s wife at the river?”

Jolie nodded. “Gary said on the audiotape that after he stumbled onto the fact that the four men were going to get rid of their wives, he told LeMon
he
would do it, then he picked up Janet LeMon under the pretense of taking her to the airport to go on her retreat. He took her to the river to tell her what her husband was planning to do and taped the
conversation so she could have a copy for protection. But LeMon had followed them to make sure Gary did it, and when he saw he’d been double-crossed, LeMon shot his wife himself. Took a shot at Gary, too, but it only grazed him. He dove into the water and floated downstream until he thought it was safe to get out, then hiked to my place and took off in my car.”

A mistake, he’d said on the tape, because by doing so, he’d gotten her involved. He’d wept, apologizing. That had been the hardest part to listen to. He’d been surprised when Jolie had filed a missing persons report, surprised that she’d cared enough. He hadn’t wanted to expose her to his shady friends, hadn’t wanted to put her in danger. But when she’d filed that report, she had implicated herself irrevocably. That had tortured him, he’d said.

“He stayed hidden because he wanted LeMon to think he was dead?” Carlotta asked.

“Right.”

“So how did Gary get involved with them in the first place?”

“On the tape, he said he met LeMon and started doing little things for him—getting game tickets, that kind of thing. LeMon gave him a lot of referrals, introduced him to Kyle Coffee, Russell Island, and their other pal, Gordon Beaure. After a while, he was working for them almost exclusively. He rented the condo on West Peachtree for their leisure, then handled the sale when they decided to buy the property. He arranged for hookers, bought drugs for them—he even bought a gun for LeMon and taught him how to shoot it.”

She swallowed, remembering the desperation in Gary’s
voice on the tape.
“I’ve done some bad things in my life and I’ve done business with some bad people, but Roger LeMon is a cold-blooded killer, as cold as they come.”

“Who is Gordon Beaure?”

“He owns a liquor distribution company. He wasn’t around as much, but Salyers said he had just taken out a multimillion-dollar life insurance policy on his wife.”

Carlotta shuddered. “Creepy.”

“Yeah,” Hannah said. “I wanted Russell to leave his wife; I had no idea he was planning to kill her.”

“Or to have her killed, more likely,” Jolie said. “Gary said they were all planning accidents. In fact, the police are looking into the possibility that Kyle Coffee might have been killed in the ‘accident’ that had been previously arranged for his wife. Apparently, he was having second thoughts.”

“LeMon will probably get the needle for killing his wife and Gary,” Carlotta said.

Jolie pursed her mouth. “And possibly Coffee. Plus he hired the guy who tried to run me off the road. And Gary’s tape probably seals LeMon’s fate for shooting his wife, but there’s still no physical evidence linking him directly to Gary’s murder.”

“But the creep is going to be charged with attempted murder too, right, for what he did to you at your apartment?”

She nodded solemnly. She could still feel his fingers pressed against her mouth, could still hear his voice in her mind. “
Time to die.
” The man’s ruthlessness was stunning, even more so considering the fact that he moved comfortably in such polite circles.

“Beck saved your life,” Carlotta said pointedly.

Jolie nodded and stared at her hands. Beck.

“So what’s going on with you two?”

Twice they’d met to talk, and twice they’d wound up making love instead. Jolie adopted an innocent expression. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She flushed. “I
am
supposed to meet him in a few minutes to show him a house before my afternoon shift, but that’s the extent of our relationship—strictly professional.”

The fact that he’d had his secretary call that morning to arrange the appointment seemed like a clear indication that he was trying to create distance between them. She knew she should just be grateful for the commission she would earn, but now that she had her life back, her imagination appeared to be running full-throttle with possibilities: a successful business, lively friendships, a love for all time…

The girls were staring at her, and for a moment she was afraid she’d said that out loud. “I need to run,” she chirped, springing up from her chair. She left cash for her meal and waved, thinking she shouldn’t have eaten anything on her nervous stomach. One thing that lifted her spirits was the sight of her Mercury sitting at the curb—Detective Salyers had pulled a few strings. It was nice to have a piece of her old life back, although admittedly, she didn’t want
all
of her old life back. She felt as if she’d been given a second chance, and she was going to live life more largely than before.

Minus the party crashing, of course.

At red lights, she reviewed the listing that Beck wanted to see. The house was in the most exclusive neighborhood in Buckhead—Sammy’s favorite, in fact. She’d be cross-eyed with jealousy if Jolie managed to sell one of the elite
properties. The home was enormous and chock full of amenities, with a price tag to match. Secretly, she was disappointed that Beck had gone the “bigger is better” route, although her inner agent told her to keep her idealistic mouth shut. It wasn’t as if he were buying a home for them to share. Besides, a tiny voice inside of her promised,
If he buys a big house, he might stay in Atlanta.
Not that she’d be running into him at the country club.

She pulled up to the house a few minutes early, which would give her time to scout out the uber-structure. From the looks of it, she was going to need a map. She removed the door key from the lockbox device and let herself in the front door.

Huge. Colossal. Gargantuan. She toured the first floor quickly to get a feel for the layout and the yards (plural), then she climbed the stairs and checked the rooms for the best views. She heard the front door open and close, and her heartrate kicked up in anticipation of seeing Beck again. She walked to the landing and looked over, then felt her smile dissolve.

Sammy was frowning up at her.

“What are you doing here?” they asked in unison.

“I’m showing the house to a client,” Jolie said.

“Who?” Sammy asked suspiciously.

“Beck Underwood.”

Sammy frowned harder and Jolie had the distinct feeling that Sammy wanted to stamp her foot.

Jolie crossed her arms. “What are
you
doing here?” she asked again.

“I just finished showing a house two doors down, and I saw what I
thought
was your car in the driveway.”

In other words, it drew attention because it wasn’t a
nice-enough car to be in this neighborhood. Jolie checked her watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, but my client should be here any minute.”

But Sammy walked across the foyer and up the stairs. “While I’m here, I’ll just look around.”

Jolie glared as the woman sashayed by her on the landing. Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out of her purse, thinking it might be Beck saying he was running late. But when she saw the 904 area code, she smiled—Leann. She had so much to tell her.

“Hello?”

“Is this Jolie Goodman?”

Jolie frowned. “Yes, who’s this?”

“This is Rebecca Renaldi, Leann’s sister. I’m calling about the card I just received.”

Jolie smiled. “You didn’t have to call—I hope you’re recovering well. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Jolie, one of us is confused. I didn’t lose a baby—Leann did.”

Jolie blinked. “What?”

“Leann lost her baby early Sunday morning. Personally, I think it was the long drive.”

Gripping the phone tighter, Jolie said, “I thought Leann went to Jacksonville to take care of you.”

“No, she came here so I could take care of
her
. Gary was going to join her later.”

Starbursts flashed behind Jolie’s eyelids. “Did you say ‘Gary’?”

“Yeah, Gary—the father of her baby.”

Jolie grasped the rail in front of her. Gary and Leann? Bits and pieces of conversations came flooding back to her: Leann telling her to stay away from Gary, exhibiting irritation if Jolie shared personal tidbits.

“I would’ve thought Leann had told you about the baby and about Gary, but she was probably waiting to see if it would work out this time.”

“Th–this time?”

“They dated for about a year, then he broke it off, but she never really got over him. Actually, I was worried about her.”

Gary’s fatal attraction girlfriend. Leann had moved to the apartment complex within a couple of weeks of when she and Gary had started dating. In the laundry room, Leann had initiated a conversation and fostered a friendship.

“When you see her, you might not mention that I told you all of this.”

“When I see her?” Jolie asked, her voice shaky.

“She left this morning to drive back to Atlanta, for good this time.”

Jolie’s pulse raced. “Earlier, you said something about losing the baby after a long d–drive.”

“She drove back to Atlanta last Saturday, against my wishes. But she said she and Gary had some things to talk about.”

“I wish you could drive up and crash the party with us. If you left now, you could make it.”

Apparently, Leann had made it.

“Jolie, was I right to tell you about the baby?” Rebecca asked.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I, um, need to go, though.”

“Okay. Nice talking to you.”

Jolie disconnected the call, completely numb. She needed to call Salyers. She flipped up the phone.

“Drop the phone, Jolie.”

She looked over the rail and her heart stalled at the sight of Leann holding a handgun pointed up at her.

“I said drop it.”

Jolie obeyed and the phone bounced down several steps. Leann hadn’t told her to, but for some reason, it just felt right to hold her arms up while having a gun trained on her heart.

“That was my sister, wasn’t it? I heard the tail end of your conversation. Did you call her?”

Jolie searched for her voice and found it cowering behind her liver. “No. Sh–she called me. I s–sent her a sympathy card. She was confused.”

“Ah.” Leann laughed. “I’d forgotten how damn polite you are.” Her smile was squinty and mean. “It must have been one of the things that Gary loved about you.”

“I d–don’t think that Gary was in love with me.”

“Sure he was,” Leann said. “I could tell. Remember the day we all floated down the river? I could tell by the way he was around you.”

Oh, God—she had invited them both. Although, in hindsight, Leann had finagled an invitation, no doubt gleeful at being able to torment him all day, reminding him that she could cozy up to any future girlfriend, keep tabs on him.

“The fire at his apartment?” Jolie asked.

“Me,” Leann said, proudly.

“The
X
on my face in the photograph?”

“Me.”

“The lipstick note to Gary?”

“Me, me, me.”

And she’d thought that
Hannah
was scary. “Leann, I don’t know how you found me, but my client will be here any minute. Why don’t you put down the gun before someone gets hurt.”

“You mean Beck Underwood? The man you took up with before Gary was even in the ground? He’s not coming.”

“The call from his secretary?”

“Me.”

Okay, now she was truly terrified. Alone in the house with a crazed gunwoman, and no one around except Realtor Barbie, who was probably lost somewhere in the right wing. And her arms were getting really, really tired. She seriously needed to work on her upper body strength.

“Leann, what do you want?”

“You dead.” Quick and to the point.

“What will that accomplish, except to mess up your life?”

Leann smiled. “It will mess up
your
life. Gary and I could have been together if you hadn’t come along.”

Out of corner of her eye, Jolie saw Sammy walking in front of the house, hands on hips, scowling at the dusty domestic car that Leann had arrived in. She must have found a back staircase and was walking the grounds.

“Leann, can we talk about this? If I had known that you were in love with Gary, I would never—”

“Shut up. I tried to like you, I truly did. Sometimes, I
did
like you. Do you know how many times I could have hurt you? Gary threatened me not to, but he’s gone now. Come down here.”

“I don’t think—”

Leann fired a round into the wall behind Jolie.

“Okay,” Jolie said. “I’m coming.” She started down the stairs, half relieved, half terrified when she realized that the shot had caught Sammy’s attention. The woman scowled at the house and was no doubt thinking about how they could keep out the riffraff agents and lookey-loos.
And she must have thought of something, because she was charging toward the house, a thundercloud on her brow.

Jolie was halfway down the stairs when Sammy pushed open the door like a bad wind, catching Leann between the shoulder blades. The gun went off as Leann went down—Jolie heard the
zwing
of the bullet going past her head.

“Sammy, she has a gun!” Jolie yelled.

But Sammy barely missed a beat as she stepped on Leann’s back, reached into her Prada bag, and came out with her own gun, long and blue and a caliber that Clint Eastwood might carry. “Mine’s new and it’s bigger.” She dug the heel of her Manolo Blahnik ankle-tie suede pump into Leann’s spine. “I don’t know who you are, but move and I’ll blow your effing head off.”