Murder on the Eightfold Path Page 15

  She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, “You won’t even consider the possibility that if there was another woman involved, she might have killed Dicky?”

  “We haven’t found any evidence of another woman being involved with Massri.”

  “Well you didn’t find evidence that he’d been married to Maddie either.”

  His jaw tightened, and she knew that one had hit home.

  “Fair enough. But how about this for an explanation? How about Massri bought the products himself?”

  “I told you, The Salon caters to women.”

  “Hey, for your information, Avon makes bath oil that works great as a bug repellent. I use it camping, although I guess you’ve probably noticed I’m not generally at home to the Avon Lady.”

  Feeling deflated, A.J. sat back in the leather booth. She said stubbornly, “I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

  Seeming to feel he’d already won that round, Jake asked more tolerantly, “You don’t believe what’s a coincidence? That Maddie and Massri bought hair products from the same place? That’s not that amazing of a coincidence, believe me.” She could feel his gaze on her face. He said, “We’ve turned up another possible lead, though.”

  At her look of inquiry, he said, “Massri was fired from his position at the SCA. We haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly what happened, but from everything not being said, it sounds potentially serious.”

  A.J. said slowly, “So you think it’s a legitimate lead?”

  “It’s too soon to tell if it will pan out, but I think it casts reasonable doubt on the case we’re building against Elysia.” He threw her a look from beneath his brows. “Obviously that’s off the record.”

  “When isn’t it? Anyway, for the record, Mr. Meagher has already been looking into Massri’s connection with the SCA.”

  He gave her a funny look, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by the reappearance of the waitress with their dinners.

  They ate for a time in silence that gradually, at least in A.J.’s mind, took on the weight and substance of a funeral pall. With every bite it was clearer and clearer to her that Jake had not invited her out for the pleasure of her company or to discuss the case against her mother. She began to wish that he would just get it over.

  The waitress returned to clear away their plates and offer dessert menus.

  “Did you want dessert?” Jake asked, frowning over the menu. A.J. nearly laughed. He was clearly desperate not to have this discussion whatever it was.

  “No thanks.”

  He ordered apple pie and stuffed the menu back in the metal holder.

  A.J. waited.

  He looked at her and this time he held her gaze. “Look, I owe you an explanation.”

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  A.J. nodded.

  Almost impatiently, he said, “We never specifically said anything about not seeing other people.” He stopped. A.J. nodded. She managed to keep control of her face, but her stomach dropped. Officially she had only been dumped once in her life. That was when Andy had left her for Nick. It had been devastating; devastating enough that just the memory of it could give her dry heaves. Though thankfully not at the moment. The situation was shaping up to be humiliating enough as it was.

  Jake’s gaze rose from the wet ring on the table. He said, “But whether we said anything about it or not, I haven’t been interested in dating anyone else.”

  “Me neither,” a surprisingly calm voice said on A.J.’s behalf.

  There was another pause, and then Jake said, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. What I’m trying to say is—what I’m trying to explain is—”

  He stopped in awkward silence.

  A.J. got out, “Honestly? It would be easier on me if you’d just say it.”

  Jake nodded. “I told you that I was engaged once.”

  “Jenny. Yes, I remember.”

  “What I didn’t tell you—because I’ve never told anyone—is that Jenny disappeared two weeks before our wedding. No word, no explanation, nothing.”

  “You mean . . . something happened to her?”

  Now there was a dumb comment, but Jake just nodded. “Yes. But not what I thought. I thought . . . I don’t want to tell you the things I thought. That she’d had some kind of accident or had been kidnapped—or was dead. Maybe even worse.”

  Worse than dead? Then A.J. remembered that Jake was a cop and had probably seen things that she didn’t want to know about—things that might be worse than being dead.

  She tuned back in to hear him saying, “I spent weeks, months trying to find her. Trying to . . . find an answer.”

  “Did you find one?”

  “Yes. I did. Or, more exactly, the answer found me. She’d gone into the WPP.”

  “The what?”

  “The Witness Protection Program. Jenny worked for a real estate agent who turned out to have mob ties. Anyway, one night when she was working late, she saw her boss killed by none other than Jackie Palermo.”

  The name was vaguely familiar to A.J. Was Palermo a mob boss? Somebody connected to organized crime, she was pretty sure.

  “Palermo’s goons spotted her, but Jenny managed to get away, and she went straight to the cops who put her in contact with the feds. She agreed to testify, but Palermo put a contract out on her. To keep her alive, she was moved into the WPP.”

  “She didn’t leave word for you?”

  “No. It was deemed too risky. Palermo had a lot of clout, a lot of contacts—there was fear that it might reach all the way into the police department.”

  A.J. began to understand why Jake was such a fanatic for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. As the last puzzle piece fell into place, she said, “Chess is Jenny.”

  Jake nodded.

  “I don’t understand why she didn’t get word to you. You were her fiancé. Spouses are moved into the program—well, I mean, from what I’ve seen on TV.”

  He said shortly, “She wasn’t thinking clearly. She wasn’t prepared for that. Who is?”

  Clearly a sore spot. She said mildly, “Okay. Just wondered.”

  Jake was instantly apologetic. “No. It’s a valid question. I asked it myself plenty of times. Why did she let me go through all that time believing the worst?”

  “Would you have gone into the program with her if she’d told you?”

  He stared at her. “I . . . don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s so long after the fact it’s hard to say what I’d have done then.” He sighed. “Anyway, I thought I’d never see her again.”

  “So . . .” For the life of her, A.J. couldn’t think of what to say. Her first instinct was to ask if Jake had proof that Jenny was telling the truth, but she knew Jake well enough to know he didn’t accept anything at face value. Jenny must indeed be telling the truth. It was an amazing story, and A.J. knew that she should probably be ashamed that her primary reaction was the essentially selfish one of wondering whether she was losing Jake to his exfiancée.

  At last she managed—almost steadily, “Are you still in love with her?”

  “No. I don’t know.” He stopped, wincing. “I don’t know what I feel. I thought I’d never see her again. I never had the chance to say good-bye to her. Everything ended and I had all these unresolved feelings. Can you understand that?”

  And the problem was, A.J. could. She could totally identify with those feelings. In fact the only hard part was picturing Jake having them. He always seemed so tough, so in control.

  He said suddenly, urgently, “The thing is, I have feelings for you, too, A.J. I care for you. A lot. More than I thought I was ever going to care for anyone again.”

  If he told her they would always be friends, she was probably going to bean him with the saltshaker. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything else. He just stared at her in that grim, pained way, waiting.

  Waiting for what? Waiting for A.J. to say something? Waiting for her to break it off?<
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  “Where does this leave us?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that I had to tell you. That I couldn’t leave you wondering what the hell was going on with me.”

  She nodded absently. “Are you . . . seeing her?”

  “Yes. I’m seeing her. I’m not dating her. I don’t know what I’m doing, frankly. We’re just talking.”

  Reliving old times? Trying to figure out if there was enough there for a future? Aware of Jake’s gaze, A.J. said slowly, “I’m not sure what to say.”

  They stared at each other across the gulf that had unexpectedly appeared between them.

  How simple it would be if A.J. could just give Jake an ultimatum. You’d better make your mind up quick, buster! Or if she could hate him for being confused and torn now. But neither of those was a realistic option. She cared too much for him to risk throwing down an ultimatum. For both their sakes—for all their sakes—he needed to make the right decision now. And, yes, while way down deep inside she was hurt and a little angry that Jake couldn’t see that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, apparently she had learned enough during the last year or so to recognize how unfair and unrealistic that attitude was.

  In fact it was impossible not to be sympathetic to the pain he must have felt when Jenny—Chess—had disappeared. It was also impossible not to feel anger at the other woman. No matter what the circumstances, to have left Jake without a word was beyond cruel. And if Chess hadn’t known him well enough to trust him with her life, she hadn’t any business getting engaged to him in the first place.

  So A.J. swallowed her pride and ego and fear. She said with calmness she was a million miles from feeling, “Thank you. For being honest, I mean. I care too much about you—and about us—to try and push you. For a decision. I know you’ll tell me once you know, once you’ve worked out, what you’re feeling.”

  He reached across the table, offering his hand. A.J. rested her hand in his palm, and to her astonishment, he raised their joined hands and kissed her fingers. It was the last gesture A.J. expected, but she found it incredibly moving—maybe because it was so obviously sincere.

  She laughed shakily. Jake released her and they both reached hastily for their coffee cups.

  Sixteen

  The next morning, Tuesday, A.J. and Elysia drove back to Stillbrook to see Bradley Meagher at his home office. Mr. Meagher greeted them cordially enough although he seemed just a little stiff with Elysia.

  He led the way down a short hallway to his office in the basement of the gracious old Victorian house. It was a comfortably cluttered room with a collection of mismatched and battered furniture. Framed law degrees and honorary diplomas adorned the walls. The remnants of a TV dinner sat on the table next to a long leather couch. A white cockatoo in an enormous old-fashioned birdcage scooted along his perch and harshly called out, “You da bomb!”

  Mr. Meagher threw the bird a beleaguered glance and stepped behind his large, cluttered desk. Something about that move and the funny, half-awkward look Mr. Meagher threw Elysia as he sat down put A.J. in mind of someone retreating behind the safety of a barrier.

  “Well now,” Mr. Meagher said briskly, staring down at the file on his desk. He began to bring them up to date on the progress in the DA’s attempt to build the case against Elysia.

  Yes, A.J. was now convinced that Mr. Meagher was uncomfortable with Elysia and wishing to keep both physical and emotional distance between them. A glance at her mother’s face confirmed her suspicion. Elysia was watching Mr. Meagher with a perplexed expression. Perplexed and perhaps a little hurt.

  “The forensics report confirms that the gun used in Maddie Sutherland’s murder was almost certainly the same as that used in young Massri’s.”

  A.J. remembered that Mr. Meagher must have, given the recollections of her mother and Maddie during their dinner together, known Maddie as well. He seemed businesslike and unmoved by her death. But perhaps they had not cared much for each other? Or perhaps he hid his feelings well?

  “Have they found the gun?” A.J. asked.

  “No, that they haven’t.”

  Elysia drawled, “I’m surprised Herr Bormann—”

  “That’ll be enough of that, me girl,” Mr. Meagher broke in sharply, his face flushing. “One reason you’re out on bail now is Jake Oberlin spoke up for you. The DA and nearly everyone else involved in the prosecution of this case thought you too great a flight risk.”

  There was a hint of color in Elysia’s ivory face, too. She lifted a slim, dismissing shoulder, but said grudgingly, “If that’s true, I suppose I owe him thanks.”

  “If it’s true?” Mr. Meagher repeated. “Tis not meself who plays games with the truth!”

  Elysia’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mr. Meagher appeared to struggle with himself.

  “Hey, dude!” cried the cockatoo. “Let’s party!”

  Mr. Meagher muttered a curse and rose to throw a faded blanket over the cage.

  For the first time, A.J. forced herself to objectively consider whether Mr. Meagher might have had a motive to kill Dakarai. She dismissed the idea quickly, remembering Mr. Meagher’s obvious shock at discovering that Elysia had been having an affair. Of course, he could have been acting; A.J. had seen plenty of TV movies where just such scenarios played out, in which case Mr. Meagher might have framed Elysia in the hope of driving her to turn to him for help.

  Still. Mr. Meagher? That was pretty hard to believe—and not just because A.J. was very fond of the old rascal.

  She observed him surreptitiously as he returned to his desk, and decided the idea was simply too far-fetched. Mr. Meagher probably did nurse unrequited feelings for Elysia, but that was still a long way removed from knocking off her gigolo lover. For one thing, Mr. Meagher was far too practical. He’d be bound to see that getting rid of Massri wouldn’t help his own situation, nor was Elysia likely to change her feelings for him this late in the game simply out of gratitude.

  Actually, now that she thought of it, A.J. wasn’t exactly sure what her mother’s feelings for Bradley Meagher were. She was clearly fond of him, considered him a friend . . . but observing the uncertain way Elysia was studying her old friend, A.J. wondered if Elysia herself had ever worked out exactly what she felt for Mr. Meagher.

  “Mr. Meagher, what’s our next move?” A.J. asked. “Surely the fact that the police haven’t found the murder weapon works in our favor?”

  “That it does. The problem remains that there is no other viable suspect.”

  “But all that means is the police haven’t found him—or her—yet. Have you been able to get any further with the SCA?”

  “Not so far,” Mr. Meagher said grimly. “I’m planning to make a regular nuisance of meself until someone in that bloody country and organization will talk to me.”

  “I think it is a valid lead. Even Jake told me that the police have finally begun to explore the angle that Massri might have been involved in illegal activities regarding antiquities. There must be something there or they wouldn’t be bothering to dig any further when they’ve already charged Mother.”

  “Now, now. The police prefer that the right villain go to prison for the crime,” Mr. Meagher remonstrated automatically. But he was clearly considering her words. “If new information has come to light—”

  “Well, it must have, although I have no idea what it would be. Jake didn’t confide more than that to me.”

  Mr. Meagher’s brows rose. He reached for a legal pad and began making notes. Unfortunately there wasn’t a great deal more that A.J. could tell him.

  “I’ll talk to Jake Oberlin,” he assured A.J. “Put a wee bit of pressure on him.”

  “Just make sure he understands that this was a line of investigation you were already pursuing,” A.J. said, remembering some uncomfortable moments in the past between her and Jake.

  Elysia sniffed dismissively but withheld comment.

  “What about gambling debts?�
�� A.J. suggested suddenly. “Mother, did you tell Mr. Meagher about Dicky betting on horse racing?”

  Mr. Meagher looked up. “He played the ponies? Did he indeed?”

  “Yes,” Elysia said reluctantly. “But it really wasn’t the sort of thing you’re hoping for. Perfectly decent people do gamble for fun now and then. It doesn’t always lead to losing one’s home or having men named Guido turn up with baseball bats.”

  “True,” A.J. conceded. “But Dicky wasn’t a perfectly decent person. He was a blackmailer and probably a thief and he took advantage of vulnerable old ladies.” Seeing her mother’s indignant expression, A.J. added, “As well as you.”

  Elysia subsided, mollified.

  A.J. stayed in town to have lunch with her mother—Mr. Meagher excusing himself on the grounds of a prior commitment—and then drove out to the studio. The lobby was relatively quiet as classes were in session. A.J. greeted Emma and went straight to her office.

  She had switched on her laptop and was glancing through the morning mail when she realized Lily had followed her into her office.

  Lily said, “So nice of you to join us.”

  “I’m sorry?” This was a little bizarre when she had been trying all day yesterday to get Lily to schedule time with her.

  Lily smiled a tight little smile. “You seem to be keeping banker’s hours these days. We had a problem with the upstairs restrooms this morning.”

  What the—? Did A.J. look like Josephine the Plumber?

  But no, that wasn’t fair. As co-manager, A.J. did have a responsibility to be at the studio at least as often as Lily.

  “What was the problem with the upstairs restroom?”

  “One of the toilets shattered.”

  “One of the . . .” A.J.’s voice faded out. “The seat shattered?”

  “The entire toilet. Base and all. There was water everywhere.”

  A.J. nodded and kept nodding. She was very much afraid she might laugh. She said gravely, “And so you called a plumber, I assume?”

  “That’s right. But it’s more serious than that. The toilet is a symptom not the disease. I believe we need to have a meeting with every overweight student and reevaluate the progress each has made since joining Sacred Balance.”