Dial Om for Murder Page 2

  “It’s just a couple of hours out of your day,” A.J. pointed out, striving to sound reasonable.

  “It’s my reality!”

  Now this was almost touching. Someone who actually believed in the legitimacy of reality TV. A.J. said, “But it’s also the reality of everyone else in the class and the studio. The other students and the instructors.”

  Barbie stared at A.J. as though she were insane. “It’s TV,” she said. “Everyone wants to be on TV. Everyone wants to be on my show—except that bitch Nicole Manning.”

  Okay, now they were getting to the heart of the matter. A.J. glanced automatically at the cell phone she held as it began to ring again—another direct dial from Crazy Land, no doubt.

  “Nicole had nothing to do with my decision not to allow a film crew inside Sacred Balance.” She added hopefully, “Why don’t we take this to my office and discuss it there?”

  “Are you going to reconsider your decision?”

  “Probably not, but we can—”

  Barbie made an eloquent hand gesture—kind of a cross between Queen Victoria and a Palermo cab driver. “Don’t waste my time. This is all about Nicole Manning. She openly mocks me in that crap show of hers. That whole Bambi Marciano shtick. Who do you think that’s supposed to be? That’s me! Now she’s trying to ruin my own show because we get better ratings than hers ever did. She’s a jealous, frustrated—”

  “Wait.” A.J. stopped her. “We can’t discuss this here. Really. I know you’re upset. Let’s go down to my office and talk about it.”

  Barbie ignored her, sweeping past as she headed down the stairs. “There’s nothing to say,” she threw over her shoulder. “Nicole Manning is dead to me. Dead. That’s my reality!”

  Two

  “ Wow , ” said Suze when A.J. reached the bottom level. “We could hear that all the way down here. She is mad. She nearly ran over a couple of yummy mummies in the parking lot.”

  A.J. sighed. “And it seemed like it was going to be such a great day this morning. Birds were singing. The sun was shining.”

  “It’s still shining.”

  “ That’s merely an illusion.”

  Suze grinned. “Are you seeing Jake this evening?”

  A.J. nodded. And despite everything, she couldn’t help smiling as she met Suze’s bright blue gaze. A.J. had started dating Detective Jake Oberlin eight months ago—not long after she moved to the small northwestern New Jersey township of Stillbrook. It was very casual. A.J. was in no hurry to get involved following the disastrous end of her ten-year marriage. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. And luckily—sort of—Jake seemed to agree.

  Suze leaned on the reception desk, munching yogurt-covered almonds. “Well, if it helps, I think it would be kind of cool to be on TV.”

  “It doesn’t help,” A.J. retorted. Heading for her office, she called back, “Don’t forget, the camera adds ten pounds.”

  “Ugh.” Suze wasn’t speaking on her own behalf. She was thinking, correctly, of the effect appearing fat on national TV would have on the morale of so many of the female patrons of Sacred Balance.

  A.J. sat down at her desk and dialed Nicole as requested. The phone was busy on the other end. Didn’t Nicole have call waiting? A.J. dialed again. Another busy signal. A.J. hung up. She took a couple of slow, long breaths and focused on the calming play of the water over stones in the fountain sitting in the corner.

  Yeah. Nice try, but she was basically getting more and more irritated as the moments passed. She dialed again, and again reached the annoying buzz of the busy signal. It wouldn’t be so aggravating if Nicole hadn’t specifically ordered A.J. to call her.

  But whatever the reason, no one was answering the call, and A.J. finally gave up, grabbing her keys and purse.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” she called to Suze who—on the phone again—waggled her fingers in good-bye.

  It was a blue and blazing May afternoon. Heat shimmered off the road and sunlight seemed to gild everything in gold as A.J. drove along the country lane. She began to relax a little, the stress from the scene with Barbie fading as the miles passed. Not so long ago she would have zipped down the road aggravated with every tractor and trailer that got in her way, but today she was content to drive the speed limit, enjoying the scenery which last year would have been no more real to her than images flashing past on the Travel Channel.

  Now she not only noticed, but she even appreciated the graceful stone spire of a distant church, the gold and green crazy quilt of fallow and fertile farm land, the distant blue glitter of lakes and rivers behind trees. Despite its unfortunate reputation, New Jersey had its scenic spots, and the Skylands were some of the nicest. Rough and rural, a contrast of quaint villages, farms, and wild parkland, the “Great Northwest” of the Garden State was a far cry from A.J.’s former life in Manhattan.

  In her final letter, Aunt Diantha had written: Darling Girl, the blessings that I would bestow upon you are a joyful spirit and a heart at peace. A.J. didn’t know if she had actually achieved a joyful spirit and a heart at peace, but she realized that she now looked forward to each day, and that she was coming to terms with the past—and that was a lot right there. Far too many people never even had that much.

  Though she had to admit, it was easier to hold onto this mildly nostalgic sense of peace and harmony with her mother safely out of the country on an Egyptian cruise, and Andy, A.J.’s ex, in New York, where she never had to see him or deal with his troubling desire to remain friends.

  A few minutes outside of Blairstown she pulled off the main road and drove past white-fenced pastures until she came at last to the mansion Nicole Manning had purchased during the five-year run of the popular TV series Family Business.

  A catering van was parked next to a florist’s minivan in the drive. Blue-jeaned minions carried elaborate arrangements of roses, eucalyptus, and delphiniums in large crystal vases up the steps of the three-storied white colonial. A.J. parked and got out of her Volvo, following the florists though the double doors of the mansion.

  A young woman with short red hair and freckles pushed through the line of people, planting a six-inch, crimson wedge-shaped heel into A.J.’s foot in her haste to exit.

  “Ouch!” said A.J., staggering and bumping into the person next to her.

  “Well, excuuuse you,” said one of the florists who had narrowly missed dropping her plumy arrangement.

  The red-haired young woman’s eyes met A.J.’s briefly, and A.J. was startled to read something like terror in the wide blue gaze. The next moment the woman was out the door and down the steps, sprinting across the gravel toward the back of the house.

  “Well!” said the florist, meeting A.J.’s eyes and then glaring after the fleeing woman. “How rude!”

  A.J. shrugged. A few minutes of Nicole’s company tended to have the same effect on her.

  “Right this way!” chirped Bryn Tierney, Nicole’s PA. “Only forty-five minutes to show time!” She was a slim, efficient young woman with very long blonde hair, which she habitually tied back in a French braid. Bryn beckoned the florists toward the dining room. Catching sight of A.J., who held up the gold Nokia phone like a cop flashing a badge, she said, “Oh, thank goodness! Nikki is going crazy. Just go on through to her office.”

  A.J. was still trying to equate the idea of Nicole with “office” as Bryn pointed to the left. A.J. nodded, peeling off from the floral contingent and following what appeared to be a genuine antique Axminster carpet down the long hallway to the door that stood partially open.

  She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. From inside the room, pop music played loudly, showcasing the talents and tonsils of some female artist. A.J. tried to think who. Lately, she felt a little removed from what was happening in the rest of the world, and she wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. Who was that singing? Britney Spears? Beyoncé? No. Shakira.

  Relieved that her pop culture skills were still relatively sharp, A.J. knocked lou
der.

  Shakira continued to belt out “Hips Don’t Lie” at the top of her lungs.

  Pushing wide the door, A.J. called, “Nicole? I have your phone.”

  At first glance she thought the room was empty. No one sat at the fragile, decorative-looking desk, although A.J. noted that the receiver of the white and gold princess phone was lying off its hook as though someone had stepped away in the middle of a call.

  That must explain the busy signal.

  But even as the thought registered, chill recognition prickled down her spine. There was something . . . not right . . .

  “Hello?” she called, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

  Gigantic photographic images of Nicole in various film roles beamed and twinkled from the walls of what was otherwise an elegant room. A.J. had a quick impression of traditional yellow and white striped wallpaper, a bookshelf which seemed to be filled with books matched for size and color, and perfectly coordinated furnishings that were either genuine Empire antiques or very expensive reproductions.

  A.J. walked into the room. “Nicole?”

  She stopped. A tall window looked out over the flowering garden. Sunshine poured into the room and sparkled off what A.J. at first took to be shards of smashed glass on the parquet floor. Then she made out what appeared to be the crystal head of an animal of some kind. A bear or a monkey—no, a koala. The crystal koala head sat in a puddle of water—was, in fact, melting into a puddle. Ice. An ice sculpture.

  A.J. was still trying to make sense of this when her gaze sharpened, picking out two motionless feet in blue high heels extending from behind the long primrose-colored sofa. Something about the graceless slant of those limbs alerted A.J.

  She rushed forward even as, belatedly, her brain began to connect the dots: the deafening music, the phone off the hook, the broken ice sculpture . . .

  Eyes half-open, Nicole lay sprawled behind the sofa, a mess of blue silk and water and blood. Her upswept blonde hair was matted with dark stickiness. She was utterly still. A.J. had never seen anything as still and silent as Nicole Manning crumpled on the floor, and she stopped herself from kneeling beside the fallen woman. Nicole’s gray waxy pallor and the dreadful, ominous lack of movement told her it was already too late. Had been too late for some little while.

  She took a step back, sucking in a breath as she narrowly avoided the carved ice body of the broken koala bear—tinged pink. For a moment reality shuddered, and A.J. wondered if she was going to do something totally uncharacteristic like . . . faint.

  Someone spoke behind her—voice raised to be heard over the pounding music.

  “Nicole, the caterers want to know . . .” Bryn Tierney’s voice died. “What’s going on?” she asked, approaching A.J. at the edge of the blue oriental carpet. “What’s wrong?”

  A.J.’s lips parted but there was no need to try and find a gentle way of breaking the news. Reaching her side, Bryn stared down at Nicole’s body. She turned to A.J., eyes cartoon-sized. Her mouth worked, and she began to scream. . . .

  Three

  “Okay, let’s just run over your statement.”

  Emergency vehicles and police cars crowded the drive—along with a couple of news vans. Crime scene specialists moved across the grass talking and nodding. For these people it was . . . business as usual. A.J. tore her gaze away from the window that looked onto Nicole Manning’s front lawn and met Detective Jake Oberlin’s eyes.

  “I’m not sure what more I can add,” she said. What she wanted to say was Not again! How about a little sensitivity here? Do you have any idea how horrible it is to stumble on a murder scene? But of course she didn’t say that—and, besides, he did know.

  Tall, dark, and official, Detective Oberlin had broad shoulders, piercing green eyes, and zero sense of humor when it came to his job. Today his job was Nicole Manning’s murder. Still, as his eyes met A.J.’s, there was something almost sympathetic in his gaze, as though he understood exactly the sick mix of shock and horror she felt. Nonetheless, his voice was brisk, and it was clear to A.J. that her sort-of boyfriend, Detective Jake Oberlin, was not pleased to see her involved even peripherally in his homicide case. And she sympathized, because she wasn’t exactly thrilled herself.

  “I want to make sure we haven’t missed anything,” he said, and A.J. sighed.

  She had never felt more tired. The initial surge of adrenaline that had kept her moving after the ghastly discovery of Nicole’s body had gradually drained away, leaving her feeling more than a little shaky. She had been at Nicole’s house for nearly three hours. First they had waited for emergency services and the police who had taken initial statements. Then they had waited for a homicide detective to show up—which had turned out to be Jake. Jake had taken a more complete statement, and now he was verifying every little detail with her. Which made sense, of course, but A.J. desperately wanted to go home, to leave this scene of violence and tragedy.

  Jake stared down at the paper he held. His long, dark eyelashes threw shadow crescents on his tanned cheeks. The eyelashes were disarming because A.J. had never met a man more aggressively male than Jake.

  He raised those strikingly green eyes to hers. “So you got a call from Nicole at exactly what time?”

  “About one-thirty.”

  Jake opened his mouth, and A.J. said, “I didn’t look at the clock, but I’m pretty sure it was close to one-thirty because I was thinking I’d have time to get through another two or three resumes before going home to change for the party.”

  “Cutting it a little fine, weren’t you?” he remarked. “According to Manning’s PA, the party was supposed to start at three.”

  Was he going to lecture her on social etiquette? He didn’t even like parties.

  She retorted, “I think it was more of an open house. They were planning on a buffet rather than a sit down meal. And anyway, I planned on being there by three-twenty, which is well within the fashionably late no harm, no foul margin.”

  “Right. So Manning calls and tells you she’s left a three-thousand-dollar cell phone in the bathroom, and can you bring it to her immediately because she’s expecting an important call from her producer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the producer’s name is?”

  “She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”

  He made a check mark on his notes. “You run upstairs, you find the cell phone right where Manning described, you run downstairs and try phoning Manning—”

  Jake broke off as A.J. moved uncomfortably. “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “See, this is why we go over the statements. What is probably nothing?”

  A.J. really did not want to bring up her conversation—that was one word for it—with Barbie. It wasn’t as though Barbie had actually threatened Nicole. Saying someone was dead to you wasn’t the same as saying you were going to kill them. But Barbie and Nicole had had a contentious relationship, and, worse luck, that discussion had taken place on a crowded staircase in front of easily a dozen wit nesses. Important client or not, A.J. was going to have to mention Barbie’s name to the police.

  She replied, “On my way downstairs I bumped into Barbie Siragusa.” The glint in Jake’s eyes gave her pause. “Barbie mentioned how unhappy she was that I had decided not to allow any filming of her reality show, Barbie’s Dream Life inside Sacred Balance Studio.”

  “Barbie’s Dream Life?” Jake repeated slowly. His mouth twitched with a hint of grim amusement. “Do they have an episode where Barbie visits the Big Bopper in the dreamy new federal “supermax” facility in Florence, Colorado?”

  “I’m not a regular viewer,” she admitted primly. It was only too easy to picture just such an episode. “Anyway, Barbie seemed to believe that my decision was influenced by Nicole.”

  “Was it?”

  “No. Not at all. I mean, it’s not a secret that Nicole was scornful of Barbie’s . . . um . . . work. But I didn’t want a film crew inside the studio because it woul
d be disruptive. I can just imagine what Aunt Di would have thought of that idea. Anyway, I tried to explain to Barbie, but I don’t think she really believed me. . . .” A.J. trailed off as a sudden thought hit her.

  Barbie had seemed to be part of the group leaving the neonatal Pilates session. Not one of her usual choices. Was that because Barbie had missed her regular Pilates class or could Mrs. Siragusa possibly be pregnant? Maybe A.J. needed to tune into Barbie’s Dream Life more often.

  “And?” Jake inquired.

  A.J. snapped back to the present. “And I invited her to come down to my office, but she declined and left the studio.” At about eighty miles per hour.

  “What are you not telling me?” Jake said in a resigned tone that indicated he knew that no one ever told him everything.

  A.J. made a face. “Well, before Barbie left she said that Nicole was dead to her.” Hurriedly, she added, “She didn’t say she was going to kill her.”

  Jake considered this without comment. Then he returned to his notes. “Okay. Let’s talk about this woman you saw leaving the house when you arrived. The woman who bumped into you.”

  “Shorter than me.” A.J., who was tall and lanky, gestured to her nose. “Petite. Spiky red hair, freckles. She was wearing a Kay Unger embroidered blouse, Billy Wildcat jeans, and red platform shoes with six and a half inch heels.”

  Silence.

  Jake said, “You can recall what she was wearing down to her six and a half inch heels but you didn’t notice her eye color?”

  “Blue, I think.”

  He nodded skeptically. “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “Maybe.” A.J. added apologetically, “She did seem vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure I’ve actually met her. I couldn’t place her. Granted, I only saw her for an instant.”

  Another nod. Another note.

  Into A.J.’s mind popped the image of wide blue eyes in a pert, freckled face. Yes, she’d seen that look before . . . like on the face of someone destined to be an alien hors d’oeuvre—or serial killer victim number two.