Party Crashers (6 page)

“But how do you know about the tickets?”

“Every place in town uses the same printer. This museum uses the same ticket format on either white or blue paper.”

“That’s why you had two sets of tickets.”

Carlotta answered with an exaggerated nod.

“Do the Holcombs even exist?”

“Somewhere,” Carlotta said. “I always use an old Atlanta last name. That way even if someone suspects me, they’re usually too intimidated to ask questions.” She grinned, revealing her gapped teeth. “Come on, let’s mingle.”

Jolie fell into stride beside her. “What if someone asks who I am?”

“Well, I never give out my real name, but that’s up to you. Tonight, I’m Carly Holcomb.”

“Do you always wear a wig?”

“No…sometimes I wear glasses or do other things to change my appearance if I feel like it. It’s fun to pretend to be someone else for a few hours.” She nodded to a food-laden table. “And tonight I feel like being someone who eats Beluga.”

“Have you ever gotten caught?”

Carlotta shook her head. “It’s all about the attitude. The trick to party crashing is to act as if you belong. Oh, there have been times when people suspected I’d crashed, but who’s going to bounce someone who’s entertaining the guests? I talk to people, work the room. When I go to someone’s home, I fawn over pets, and I always take a hostess gift.” She grinned again and lifted her glass to herself. “I’m so gracious, who wouldn’t want me to crash their party?”

Jolie was in awe of the woman’s chutzpah. Carlotta made her feel as if she’d been living her life in a very small way. While she was squirreled away in her apartment eating frozen waffles, Carlotta was cruising upscale soirees eating caviar.

They filled tiny saucers with bite-sized delicacies, and Jolie’s stomach rejoiced. Carlotta had impeccable manners, she noticed, eating precisely and blotting with her
napkin between bites. The woman knew how to behave in polite society.

“Do your parents still live around here?” Jolie asked.

Carlotta’s expression changed. “No, just me and my brother. Will you be okay ifI split to find Hannah and say hello?”

Jolie nodded and watched Carlotta disappear into the crowd, wondering if she’d hit a nerve. She downed one more stuffed mushroom, then handed her plate to a passing waiter, feeling like a heel that she was there under false pretenses and being waited on. She glanced around the room, suddenly antsy as she surveyed the expensive clothes and winking jewelry, watching everyone moving with regal restraint as they sipped and nipped and glad-handed people around them. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and she had the feeling that she was observing carefully trained animals. It was morbidly fascinating to watch them interact—this was the interplay that Gary had hinted at, the ongoing drama of the rich and famous.

Remembering her initial reason for coming, she opened her purse and slipped out the one group photo from Gary’s album that she’d kept. It showed the four men that seemed to dominate the photos, and three women, plus Gary. She scanned each face, memorizing features that wouldn’t have changed, then returned the photo to her purse. After fixing her expression into one of faint concern, she worked her way around the room, methodically glancing at faces while craning her neck as if she were looking for a lost friend. Face by face, she eliminated most of the crowd, then something about one man standing a few yards away made her look again. Early thirties, receding hairline, dark slashes for eyebrows…one of the men in the photos, she was almost certain. Then he lifted his
drink-holding arm to rest it on the shoulder of a man next to him and her mouth went dry—it was the same pose, except in the photo he’d been leaning on Gary’s shoulder.

“Did you find the person you’ve been looking for?” a man said near her ear.

Jolie jumped and turned to see Beck Underwood standing there, holding a one-hundred-dollar wineglass full of what looked suspiciously like beer.

“J
olie, right?” the man asked, then pointed to his shiny new loafers.

She looked down, and on the way back up noticed that he’d traded his holey jeans and sport coat for a dark gray suit and collarless cream shirt. His brown eyes danced, and a smile played on his mouth. Jolie had heard people described as breathtaking before, but she’d never actually had the mere sight of someone squeeze the air out of her lungs. She opened her mouth and dragged in a deep breath. “Yes. And you’re Beck…Underwood.”

He nodded, then tsked. “Except you’re one up on me—I don’t know your last name.”

Carlotta’s advice not to use her last name flitted through her mind, but Jolie decided there had been enough deceit for one night. “Goodman.”

“Well, Jolie Goodman, what brings you to this roaring bore of a party?”

She glanced inadvertently at the man she recognized
from Gary’s photographs, then back. “Actually, I came with a friend.”

“Ah. A male friend?”

“No.”

He gestured vaguely to the crowd with his wineglass. “Am I keeping you from finding her?”

“No, she’ll find me. In fact, she’s rather eager to meet you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Me?”

“She says you’re a celebrity.”

“And why would you be spending time with an outrageous liar?”

She laughed. “We work together.”

“In retail or in real estate?”

Suspicion suffused her chest. “Retail…but how did you know that I’m in real estate?”

“Your former boss gave me her card.”

She felt foolish. “Oh. Right.” Remembering the events of that ghastly day, she sipped her wine and glanced back to the man from Gary’s photograph.

“Is Roger a friend of yours?” Beck nodded toward the man who had caught her attention.

“Um, no…but he looks familiar. Do you know him?”

“Roger LeMon. He and my sister Della dated years ago.”

Jolie wet her lips, feeling like a gumshoe. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Old family, made their money in banking—I think Roger is a venture capitalist, but I’ve been away for a while.” He grinned. “I’ve also lost my touch, ifI’m standing here answering questions about another guy.”

Her cheeks blazed. “I’m…just trying to place how I might know him.”

He looked philosophical. “He’s not available anyway—
the poor guy is married.” Then he frowned. “At least he used to be. I’ve been gone too long to know for sure.”

“Someone said Costa Rica, is that right?”

“Yeah. Wonderful place.”

“What did you do there?”

“I went there to facilitate an agreement to broadcast in San Juan, but that didn’t pan out, and I…stayed.”

She took in his tanned skin, his sun-bleached hair, and felt a tickle of resentment—or was it envy?—that he had the means and the guts to simply pick up and live in a foreign country for a few years. She wondered idly if Costa Rica was by chance experiencing a shortage of real-estate brokers. Or shoe salespersons. “Why did you come back?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I missed my family. My sister was going through some things I wanted to be here for.” He lifted his glass, topped with a two-inch head of foam. “And I missed the cold beer.”

Jolie laughed. “I thought this was a wine tasting.”

“I found a sympathetic bartender.” His smile dimmed a little, then he leaned forward. “Liste n…I’ve been worried about you.”

He was close enough for the earthy undertones of his cologne to reach her nostrils. Her skin tingled with awareness and she resisted the urge to take a step backward…or forward.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asked.

She was struck by his protective stance and the sincerity of his gaze. The man emanated power and money and…security. She pressed her toes against the soles of her shoes to counter the inclination to lean into him. The urge to trust him was overwhelming. She wet her lips. “What ifI am?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “depending on what kind of trouble it is, I might be able to help.”

Her breathing sped up, her chest moving up and down as she mulled the ramifications of taking Beck Underwood into her confidence. His accessibility to the people Gary knew would be helpful, but would he close ranks when he found out why she was asking questions?

“There you are,” Carlotta said, gliding up to stand next to Jolie. Her wineglass was newly filled and she only had eyes for Beck. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Jolie?”

Jolie couldn’t decide if she was happy or irritated to see her friend, but she splayed her hand. “Beck Underwood, this is Carlot—”

“Carly,” Carlotta cut in, extending her hand. “I’m Carly.”

If Beck was taken aback by Carlotta’s flamboyant appearance, he didn’t let on. “Nice to meet you, Carly.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Are you glad to be back in Atlanta?”

His eyebrows went up, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“The city has changed so much in the last few years. Have you decided what part of town you’ll be living in?”

He glanced at Jolie and said, “Actually, I’m in the market for a place. Do you think you could help me out?”

Jolie froze. Yes, she needed the business, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend that much time alone with Beck Underwood. “I, um…”

“Of course she can help you,” Carlotta oozed, then gave Jolie the evil eye before turning back. “Jolie is a real-estate whiz. She’s only selling shoes at Neiman’s for the holiday discount. Isn’t that right, Jolie?”

Jolie stared. It was scary how the woman ad-libbed. “I,
um…” She looked up at Beck, drawn in by his eyes…and the dollar signs in her own eyes. “Sure, I can help you…find a place.”

“Great.” He smiled, then pointed over his shoulder. “I have to leave, but do you have a card?”

“No, but—”

“But I do,” Carlotta cut in, flashing a toothy smile. “Jolie can write her contact information on the back.” She dug in her purse and came up with a card and a pen. The card was pale yellow and read simply “Carly” with an e-mail address and cell phone number. Jolie turned the card over and wrote her own name and cell phone number, then handed it to Beck, feeling flushed and a little unwell. “Mornings and evenings are better for me. And I’m available on Sundays.”

“I’ll call you,” he said, then lifted his hand in a wave.

Jolie nodded and watched him walk away until she realized that Carlotta was watching her watch him. She glanced over and Carlotta grinned triumphantly. “Well done. You managed to snag the attention of the most eligible pair of pants here.”

Jolie shook her head. “I’m only interested in selling him a house. People like that make me nervous.”

“You mean people with money?”

Had she just put her foot in her mouth? “Well, I—”

“Don’t ever let people with money make you nervous,” Carlotta said, her voice suddenly level. “But always be suspicious.” She scanned the crowd. “Did you know the governor is here? And Arthur Blank? All the carats and the cash in this room would be easy pickings for a thief.”

Her eyes were serious and her voice was tinged with a mixture of resentment and excitement that made Jolie
wonder how much of a thrill seeker Carlotta was. She had a feeling the woman was more complicated than she pretended to be.

Jolie spotted Roger LeMon. “Carlotta, do you know that man in the yellow shirt?”

Carlotta squinted. “Yeah—Roger something or another. I see him out all the time. He’s a big Buckhead muckety-muck. He’s hit on me a couple of times. Why?”

“I think he and I have a mutual friend.”

“Well, let’s go see.”

Carlotta barreled toward the knot of people where the man stood talking, and Jolie followed, her heart thudding in her ears. The man was in a mixed group, but was seemingly alone and disengaged, standing a half step back and constantly surveying the room.

“Excuse me,” Carlotta said, touching his arm.

He pivoted his head and when he saw Carlotta, turned away from the group all together. “Hel-
lo
.”

“Hi,” Carlotta said with a flirty smile. “My name is Carly, and this is my friend, Jolie.”

He glanced at Jolie and nodded. “Hi there.” But his attention snapped back to Carlotta. “I’m Roger LeMon.” He put the twirl of a French pronunciation on the last name, and he might as well have said,
“I’m
zee big cheeze.” He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, she noticed.

“So, Roger
LeMon
,” Carlotta said, mimicking the pronunciation and improving upon it, “my friend Jolie thinks you two have a mutual acquaintance.”

He looked back at Jolie, his thick eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Who would that be?”

Jolie tried to affect a casual tone. “Gary Hagan?”

He drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing, then he recovered and shook his head. “Hagan, did you say?”

“Yes, Gary Hagan.”

He made a noise in his throat. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Why would you think I would know this Hagan fellow?”

Unprepared for his flat denial, Jolie chose her words carefully. “It was a photo I saw—you look like one of the men in it with Gary.”

He gave a little laugh. “Well, they say everyone has a twin somewhere. Who
is
this Hagan guy?”

“Just a friend,” she said, her breathing shallow.

He squinted. “What did you say your name was again?”

Fine hairs rose on the nape of her neck. “Jolie Goodman.”

He nodded, then drained his wineglass. “Ladies, it was nice meeting you,” he said, edging away. “But this is, after all, a wine tasting, and I need another taste.” He lifted his glass, turned and strode away.

Carlotta gave her a wry smile. “I guess you were mistaken.” Then she frowned. “It’s weird, but the name Gary Hagan sounds familiar to
me
.”

Jolie’s heart rate picked up, but she tried to maintain a steady voice. “You know Gary?”

A furrow formed on Carlotta’s forehead, then she shook her head. “No, I’m thinking of another guy I used to know, Gary Haggardy.” She shrugged and looked around, already bored.

Jolie watched Roger LeMon moving through the crowd. His pace seemed more hurried than someone who was chasing a drink refill. Indeed, instead of stopping at the bar, he strode past and veered off down a hallway. Curious.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she murmured to Carlotta.

“I’ll meet you at the food table,” Carlotta said. “Hannah said they were getting ready to put out lobster cakes.”

Jolie barely heard her as she walked away. Keeping an eye out for Roger LeMon, she traced his steps through the crowd and down the side hallway. A twin bank of pay phones sat at the end of the hall, just before the entrance to the restrooms. Roger LeMon stood with his back to her, a black phone receiver pressed to his ear. From the angry, chopping gestures he made with his other hand, she gathered he wasn’t talking to his mother.

Thankful for the carpet, she walked quietly toward him. As she drew closer, she could hear his agitated, lowered voice.

“—recognized me from a photograph…Hell, I don’t know…She said she was a friend…Goodman, Jolie Goodman…”

At the sound of her own name, Jolie’s feet faltered and her knees threatened to give way. She spun around to make a silent retreat, but as she rounded the corner, the wineglass slipped out of her hand. She clawed the air, but the glass tumbled and bounced on the carpet, spilling wine in a red arc. Jolie stared at the glass, knowing if she retrieved it, she’d be in LeMon’s line of vision—and if he’d heard the noise, he would most likely be looking. Instead she turned and racewalked back through the crowd until she reached the food table.

Carlotta, in her look-at-me ensemble, was hard to miss. She grinned. “Jolie, try the quiche—”

“I have to go.”

Carlotta frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m…not feeling well,” Jolie said. Which was true. “I’ll s–see you tomorrow—thanks for the ticket.”

She turned and practically trotted toward the exit, sending panicked glances over her shoulder for Roger LeMon. She flew by the ticket taker and stumbled down the entrance
ramp, walking as fast as her shoes would allow along the dimly lit sidewalk to her car. She gulped air as she fumbled to get her key in the lock, then realized she’d forgotten to lock the door. She grabbed at the handle and opened the door, then practically flung herself inside and slammed it shut.

She gripped the wheel, inhaling and exhaling slowly to calm her vital signs, trying to figure out what to do next. Call Detective Salyers? The woman’s suspicion resounded in her head. Would she accuse Jolie of grasping at straws, or maybe lying altogether? Jolie hesitated, then reached for her purse.

“Jolie,” a man said.
From the back seat
.

She froze, and terror bolted through her body at the realization that someone had been lying in wait for her. The muscles in her legs bunched and her arm flew to the door handle.

“Jolie, it’s me—
Gary
.”