Party Crashers (9 page)

“You act as if you’re afraid of him,” Carlotta said. “Or is it men in general?” She wet her lips. “Um…Michael told me that your boyfriend is…missing.”

Jolie glanced up from shrugging into the top of the jumpsuit.

Carlotta winced. “Don’t be angry with Michael—he thought you could use a little moral support.”

So that was why Carlotta was being nice to her. Jolie wondered if everyone would be as supportive if they knew all the details of her “missing” boyfriend.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Carlotta murmured.

In answer, Jolie dropped her gaze and allowed Carlotta to fasten the silver-tone buttons running up the front from waist to breastbone. In light of the conversation she’d overheard, the woman had her own problems.

“There,” Carlotta said, then stood back. Her face lit up, then she turned Jolie around to look in the wall mirror. “You,” she said over Jolie’s shoulder, “look like a goddess.”

Okay, “goddess” was stretching it a bit, Jolie thought, studying her reflection with wide-eyed wonder. But “good” was not inappropriate. She slid her hands into the hidden side pockets and drank in the sight of herself in the
luxe designer outfit. The style, the color and drape of the fabric—everything about the jumpsuit was perfect for her figure type and skin tone. She didn’t look like herself. The woman staring back looked…accomplished. Situated. As if she knew who she was, and other people be damned.

With the impact of a thunderbolt, Jolie suddenly realized the attraction of haute couture: it wasn’t how high fashion made a woman look, it was how high fashion made a woman
feel
.

“Well, was I right?”

She glanced at Carlotta in the mirror and nodded miserably. “It’s incredible, but I couldn’t possibly afford something like this. How much is it?”

Carlotta fidgeted. “Well…”

Jolie picked up the dangling tag and her heart dropped. “Oh. My. God. This is more than the Blue Book value on my car.” A car that she didn’t even have. She began fumbling with the buttons. “Carlotta, I shouldn’t even be trying this on.”

“Relax, Jolie…relax. I’ll help you work out the financials. You simply must have this outfit.”

“Even with my employee discount, it’s an impossibility.”

Carlotta put her hands on Jolie’s shoulders. “I have a system.”

Jolie was instantly wary. “What do you mean?”

“Buy the outfit at your discount, wear it to a big bash tomorrow night that you simply
must
attend with me, then return it.” She lifted her arms in a happy “see?” shrug.

“I can’t do that,” Jolie said, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t be honest.” Then she squinted. “What bash?”

“It’s a big reception for journalists—some kind of award nominations are being announced. I’m going, and you have to go with me.”

Jolie gave her a wry smile. “You mean
crash
with you?”

Carlotta grinned. “All the best people will be there.”

She thought of Roger LeMon. “Some of the same people that we saw the other night?”

“Sure, that pack runs together.”

She’d like the chance to get close to Roger LeMon to find out more about his relationship to Gary, and why he cared that she had connected them. But how could she do that when he already knew who she was?

Jolie looked back at her reflection…
She didn’t look like herself.
“Carlotta, do you think I could borrow one of your wigs for tomorrow night?”

J
olie sat slumped in her car, questioning her judgment for agreeing to meet Carlotta in the parking garage of the hotel. Sitting in the dimly lit structure, she was an easy target for anyone who might have followed her. Not that she’d noticed anyone following her, but between Gary’s stealth, Roger LeMon’s secrecy, and Detective Salyers’ perseverance, she couldn’t be certain.

Except surely Gary wouldn’t have the kahonas to tail her in her own car.

She glanced at her cell phone display: 2
MISSED CALLS
. Salyers had called twice yesterday, twice today. Jolie wondered if she were breaking some kind of law by not answering and not returning the detective’s calls, but she’d promised herself that she’d call Salyers tomorrow about Roger LeMon, regardless if she learned something solid tonight. She picked up the folded sheets of paper she’d printed last night after researching her subject on the Internet.

Roger LeMon was thirty-four years old, graduated from
Vanderbilt University with a degree in finance, worked in the Buckhead office of LeMon and Pride, Ltd., the investment company his late father had founded. By all appearances, the man was a success in his professional and in his personal life. Recipient of various humanitarian awards for philanthropic contributions, winning member of an Atlanta tennis club, on the board of a local business college, on the vestry of his church. Married Janet Chisholm in 1995, lived in a gated neighborhood in Buckhead, no children that Jolie could find a record of. And no direct link to Gary that she could pinpoint, other than the photograph.

On the opposite end of the parking garage, headlights appeared, then a dark sedan…slowly climbing the ramp…turning into the aisle where she had parked. Carlotta had told her to look for a white Miata convertible, so she slumped lower and watched in her side mirror for the sedan to pass by.

Instead, it stopped…directly behind her car, trapping her. Tinted windows hid the face of the occupant. Realization of her stupidity hit Jolie full force, and she scrambled for her cell phone. The hypocrisy of calling the police now was not lost on her, but she didn’t care. And how petty was it that she was thinking if she were shot wearing the jumpsuit, she wouldn’t be able to return it?

The tinted window started to buzz down just as she punched in 9-1-1. Oh, God…“they” were going to get her. Her heart pounded in her ears so loudly, she could barely hear the phone ringing.

“Nine-one-one. Where is the emergency?”

Jolie opened her mouth to unload on the answerer, her eyes riveted on the car window as the top of Carlotta’s head appeared, then her gapped grin. Jolie sighed in relief. “Operator, I’m so sorry, I made a mistake.”

She disconnected the call, then climbed out of the car, irritated with herself. “I thought you were driving a white convertible!”

Carlotta frowned. “My battery was dead. I had to borrow my brother’s car.”

“Oh.” Jolie gave herself a mental shake. She was either going to have to go to the police or calm the heck down.

Carlotta handed a Mui Mui shoe box out of the window. “I have your shoes, but put the box in your car so you’ll have it to make your return tomorrow.”

Jolie put the empty box in the trunk, already dreading the return tomorrow. Would Michael know she’d worn them tonight?

“Get in,” Carlotta said, “and I’ll find a place to park.”

She locked her car doors, then shouldered her “biggish” purse and checked to make sure the shocking price tag of the jumpsuit was still secure, tucked down inside the bodice beneath her armpit, held in place with a tiny safety pin.

She climbed into the sedan and closed the door. The interior was luxurious and clean, but reeked of cigarette smoke. “What does your brother do?”

“He’s a hacker,” Carlottta declared. “Mostly he plays computer games, but sometimes he’ll get in the mood to work, help companies with their security, things like that.”

“He must be smart.”

“Yeah, especially for a nineteen-year-old.”

Jolie’s eyebrows went up.

Carlotta sighed as she turned into a parking place. “Yes, there’s a big age difference. Mother thought another baby would help their marriage.”

Jolie could tell by the tone of her voice that it hadn’t. “Sounds like you’re close to your brother.”

She shrugged. “He lives with me.” Then she turned off the ignition and smiled with approval. “You look great.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

Carlotta preened in her “borrowed” red bugle bead jacket over a silvery three-quarter-length dress. Her lustrous dark hair was skimmed back and twisted into a chignon. Against her black, black hair and her olive skin tone, her blue eyes were captivating.

Jolie leaned in. “I thought your eyes were brown.”

“Tonight they’re blue.”

“Contact lenses?”

“Yeah, I have green ones, too, and a pair that looks like cat eyes—those freak everyone out a little. Are you ready for your shoes and new hair?” Carlotta had already turned to retrieve a bag from the backseat. “Here are the shoes.”

When Jolie opened the bag to find the soles of the silver-colored cut-out leather pumps covered with several layers of tape, she worked her mouth from side to side. “I feel like a thief.”

“Let’s don’t go through that again. Come on, we’re going to be late. Remember to leave in the cardboard stays.”

Jolie removed the low heeled sandals she’d worn and pushed her feet into the yummy shoes.

“Put your other shoes in your bag, just in case you have to…leave in a hurry.”

“You mean in case we get caught crashing and are chased out?”

“It’s rare, but it happens,” Carlotta said with a sniff. “It’s just best to be prepared. Here’s your wig.” She hoisted a medium-brown pageboy wig, then angled her head. “But your hair looks great—are you sure you want to do this?”

Jolie nodded, then, using the visor mirror, tucked her
curls into a hairnet that Carlotta handed her and stretched the wig over her scalp. She tugged at the ends until all was even. The transformation was startling. She touched her face to prove to her brain that she truly was looking at herself.

“Let me see,” Carlotta said, then gasped when Jolie turned her head. “You look…completely different. Your boyfriend wouldn’t even recognize—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, Jolie, I didn’t mean to upset you…Wait a minute.” She gestured vaguely toward Jolie’s getup. “Does
this
have something to do with
that
?”

Jolie’s throat constricted. “Maybe.”

Carlotta squinted. “At the museum the other night when you were talking to Roger what’s-his-name, was the mutual friend you mentioned your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“But Roger denied knowing him.”

“He lied.” Jolie hesitated, then pulled from her purse the photo she’d saved from Gary’s album. “Gary is the one standing next to Roger. They look chummy to me.”

Carlotta hummed her agreement. “But why would the man lie?”

Jolie was silent, knowing she could use an ally, but not sure if she could trust a woman who “borrowed” merchandise from the store and was having money problems. Then she glanced at herself—bewigged and wearing her own “borrowed” outfit—and realized that she was in no position to cast stones.

Carlotta looked up. “What’s your boyfriend’s name again?”

“Gary…Hagan.”

“He’s cute. I don’t recognize him, but wow, that name still sounds so familiar.”

Jolie took a deep breath. “You’ve probably heard it on the news. His car was pulled out of the Chattahoochee River earlier this week.”

Carlotta’s big blue eyes got even bigger. “He’s dead?”

“His body wasn’t found,” Jolie said carefully. “But there was…a woman’s body…in the car.”

Carlotta gasped. “Who?”

“The police don’t know yet.”

“
Christ.
Oh, you poor thing.” Carlotta reached out to touch her arm. “You must be going crazy.”

Jolie sighed. “I’m muddling through.”

“Do you think he’s alive?”

“The police do. My car was stolen the same night Gary disappeared.”

“
Christ.
He killed somebody, then he stole your car?”

Jolie wet her lips. “Actually…I don’t believe he killed anyone.”

“You think it was an accident?”

“I don’t know,” she said, weighing her words. “Gary had friends in high places. I’m thinking maybe he got in the middle of something, maybe he was…set up.”

Carlotta’s jaw dropped. “Christ, this is like something on TV. Are you on a mission to clear the name of the man you love?”

Jolie squirmed. “Well—”

“Christ, the police don’t think
you’re
involved, do they?”

“Well—”

“They do?”

“Not directly. But…the detective who questioned me practically accused me of giving Gary my car to get away.”

“Christ, Christ, Christ.” Carlotta bounced in her seat. “Your life is so much more exciting than mine!”

The woman’s exuberance alarmed her. Jolie looked all around and lifted a quieting hand. “Carlotta, please…I need the job at Neiman’s. If Michael or anyone else there thought I was somehow linked to a murder—”

“Say no more,” Carlotta said, suddenly sober. “I hear what you’re saying about the people you work with knowing your personal business.”

Jolie remembered the quiver of fear in Carlotta’s voice yesterday in the conversation she’d overheard from the dressing room, and wondered if she should tell Carlotta that she’d inadvertently overheard. But since she wasn’t in a position to help the woman monetarily, she felt sure that Carlotta would rather not know that she knew.

“Thank you for understanding,” was all Jolie said.

“So are you hoping to run into Roger LeMon again tonight, ergo the disguise?”

“Right. I shouldn’t have given him my name. If I do see him, I’m hoping he won’t realize I’m the same person he talked to the other night.”

Carlotta tilted her head, and the tip of her tongue appeared. “Hmm…I know!” She pulled out a small case. “Wear my green contact lenses. They don’t have a prescription, and they’ve just been cleaned.”

Jolie hesitated. “I don’t know…having something in my eye.”

“It’s like a tampon, you won’t even know it’s there.”

Although the imagery did not soothe her qualms, Jolie agreed to try them. Carlotta coached and after much poking and blinking and tearing, they were in. She stared in the mirror, marveling how much the color did change her
appearance. “My mascara is a wreck, though,” she said, pulling her makeup kit from her purse.

“Do you have an eyebrow pencil?”

Jolie checked. “I have mascara, powder and lip gloss.”

“Lip gloss? What are you, in the sixth grade? Here.” Carlotta removed a makeup case the size of a loaf of bread from her purse and unzipped it. She rummaged, then withdrew a gold-tone case and twisted up a lipstick the color of cinnamon. “Try this.”

Jolie eyed her bag. “That’s some arsenal.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the right shade of lipstick.”

After smoothing on the color, Jolie had to admit Carlotta was right.

“Now, about your eyebrows…”

Jolie frowned. “What about my eyebrows?” They were pale, practically nonexistent.

“Eyebrows are the most distinctive feature you have—did you know that your eyebrows keep their basic shape from the time you’re born unless you pluck them?”

“No.”

She held up a brown pencil. “Give me a couple of minutes, and I promise, no one will recognize you.”

Jolie acquiesced and a few pencil strokes later, sported darker, fuller eyebrows with an artful arch. That did it—she did indeed look like a different person.

Carlotta clapped her hands. “What else can I do to help?”

“Do you recognize anyone else in the picture?”

Carlotta turned on the overhead light and studied the photograph again. “No…wait, this woman looks familiar,” she said, tapping the face of a smiling brunette standing on the end. Pretty, with a mod haircut.

“You don’t know her name?”

“No, but she might be a customer. That’s a seven-hundred-dollar Ralph Lauren Black Label sweater.”

Jolie peered at the woman’s yellow sweater—beautiful, but brand-unrecognizable to her untrained eye.

Carlotta drew the picture closer to her blue, blue eyes. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“That picture on the wall behind them—I’ve seen it before.”

Jolie studied the picture, which appeared to be an illustration of a pig wearing a suit—a page from a children’s book? “Do you remember where? Was it a bar, or someone’s house?”

Carlotta frowned, then shook her head and handed back the photo. “I can’t remember.”

“Okay,” Jolie said on an exhale. “Well, I’ve held us up long enough. I have no idea what I’ll say to Roger LeMon if I see him, but I guess I’ll just play it by ear.”

“Wait—a name, you need a name!”

“Right. How about…Linda?”

“Okay, and I’ll be Betty.” Carlotta grinned. “I’ve always loved that name.” She opened her purse and removed a small white container. “I have a little disguise of my own.”

Jolie watched her withdraw what looked like a retainer, then insert it into her mouth. When Carlotta turned and grinned, the gap between her front teeth was gone, replaced by perfect, sparkling white incisors. A slight adjustment, a remarkable change.

“Wow,” Jolie murmured.

Carlotta shrugged. “My dentist is always after me to get caps, but I kind of like my smile. My father always said it gave me character.” Her voice dropped an octave when she mentioned her father.

“Are your parents still living?” Jolie asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Carlotta said with a stark laugh, opening her door. “If you can call it that. Ready?”

Jolie sensed more to Carlotta’s story, but nodded and opened her own door, reminding herself that she had a reason for attending tonight’s party besides bonding with Carlotta—although that idea suddenly held more appeal than dogging Roger LeMon. She stood, adjusted her clothes, and took a few tentative steps in the stiff shoes. “I hope I don’t fall.”

“You’ll get used to them,” Carlotta said.

But by the time they made it to the elevator and rode down to the ground floor, her feet were already chafed from the cardboard stays. The guilt of wearing the pricey outfit and the unfamiliar snugness of the wig seemed to weigh her down, making each footstep more difficult.