Corpse Pose Page 2

  She shivered despite the curry-scented heat of the taxi. She realized she had left her raincoat at the restaurant. The launch party seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Her phone rang again. Automatically she checked the number. A number that was as familiar as her own—because it used to be her own: Andy. She swallowed hard and hit Talk.

  “Sweetheart, I just heard.” Andy’s voice was warm with sympathy and concern. “It’s unbelievable. I just can’t get my head around it. Are you all right?”

  For a weird moment she considered pretending that she didn’t know what he was talking about, letting him flail and flounder as he faced trying to break the dreadful news himself. Instead, she said huskily, “Thanks.”

  “What do you need? What can I do?”

  That was why Andy was hard to hate. He was so goddamned nice. Even when he was destroying her life he had tried to handle it in the most considerate way possible.

  “How did you hear?” she asked.

  “Some cop called here looking for you, and for a minute or two I sort of let him think we were still married.”

  A.J. laughed without humor.

  “Sweetheart—”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart,” she bit out.

  “Sorry. A.J., tell me what I can do.”

  “You can call Mother. She’ll take it better coming from you.”

  She was not serious, of course, although the truth was that Elysia would take the news better from him. A.J. was pretty sure her mother had not been totally joking when she asked to be part of Andy’s half of the divorce settlement.

  “She already knows,” Andy said. “I just got off the phone with her. Apparently your aunt’s lawyer called her this morning—kind of a breach of etiquette, but your mother does have that effect on people.”

  That was one of the effects. Suicidal urges was another. A.J. tried to focus as Andy ran on. “She’s catching the first flight out of Heathrow. She should be arriving at Liberty International tomorrow morning. I have her flight info.”

  A.J. knew that the rush of resentment she felt was unreasonable, even childish. Of course Elysia was coming home, and there was no reason why she shouldn’t communicate the details through Andy. She could have tried to call A.J. and been unable to reach her.

  It could happen.

  Yeah. Right.

  She tuned back in to hear Andy asking, “Did you want me to take Lula Mae while you’re away?”

  Lula Mae was the four-footed feline thug that A.J. roomed with. She and Andy had found Lula Mae abandoned in an alley when she was a few weeks old, on their way home from a revival screening of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  “I thought what’s-his-name was allergic to cats.”

  Andy said quietly, “His name is Nick, and he’s fine with taking her for a few days—or however long it takes. Did you want to drop her off or shall I come and get her?”

  “You can come and get her. I’m not going over there, that’s for damn sure.”

  There was a sharp silence filled for A.J. by the shushing of tires on wet pavement and the rattle of a window loose in its frame.

  “Why won’t you at least meet him?”

  “I have met him, remember? Twice. Once would have been enough. We’re not going to be friends; we’re not going to be one big happy family. It’s not like it is on the sitcoms, so get over it.”

  “Have it your way,” Andy said curtly. “Anything else I can do?”

  She opened her mouth, but then let it go. What a bitch she was turning into. Unhappiness did that to you.

  “There is something, if you’re serious. I left my coat and my client at the 212 Restaurant. We were in the middle of her book launch when I got the call.”

  “You want me to smooth the client down?”

  “I want my coat.”

  “You’ve got it,” Andy said. “I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  A.J. started to click off, but Andy was still hanging on the line, not speaking. The hair prickled at the nape of her neck.

  “What is it?”

  He said hesitantly, “We can talk when I get there, but maybe you should think about speaking to a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer? Why?”

  “I just got the impression talking to that cop that…um…he…the police, that is…consider you a suspect.”

  Two

  “What do you mean the police consider me a suspect?” A.J. asked, opening the door of her apartment at Andy’s knock.

  But Andy was staring at her, his expression stricken. “Oh my God. What have you done to your hair?”

  She was too upset and preoccupied to enjoy his reaction to her new pixie cut. She’d known he would be appalled; he loved her hair. Loved the length, loved the color, loved the highlights she paid a fortune for at the John Barrett Salon.

  “You look like you’ve been having chemo. You look like Joan of Arc before they burned her at the stake—and who could blame them with that do.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” A.J. said, taking her raincoat from him. “It’s just a haircut, Sampson. It’ll grow back.”

  “That isn’t a haircut. That’s assault with a deadly weapon. That’s insult added to injury. That’s—”

  “Alright already!” yelled A.J. “Jeez. Give it a rest, Andy. I’ve got more important things on my mind than my hairdo. Why do you think I’m a suspect?”

  “Hairdo?” Ignoring the question again, Andy said, “That is a hair don’t.” Satisfied with having the last word, he bent to scoop up Lula Mae, who had wound herself ingratiatingly around his long legs. “I smoothed down Devorah’s feathers,” he added.

  “Thank you,” she got out grudgingly. No one was better at stroking ruffled egos than Andy. “I appreciate it.”

  Lula Mae, who had the manners one would expect from someone named Lula Mae, meowed widely in his face. Andy kissed her pink nose.

  “Someone wuvs her daddy, don’t she?”

  Watching them, A.J. felt a rush of emotion. It was so damn hard. They had been married for ten years, and while it had not exactly been the stuff of a Harlequin Romance, she had been happy, content, secure. All that was gone with the realization that the love she had believed in was a lie.

  What were not gone, even though she wished they were, were the memories. The good memories.

  Now she gazed at Andy, and it was like staring into a mirror—and only partly because she knew him so well. The new rule was never marry a guy who could pass for your brother—let alone your sister. Same tall, lanky build, same chestnut brown hair (though there was no argument Andy had the better cut). Andy’s eyes were blue while hers were brown, but otherwise they could pass for blood relations.

  “So what makes you think I’m a suspect?” she repeated.

  “I don’t think you’re a suspect; I think the police might think you are.”

  “Why?”

  His so-blue eyes met hers, but she couldn’t read their expression. “There’s a hell of a lot of money involved, right?”

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “Diantha’s estate. It sounds to me like you’re her sole heir. Or rather, heiress.”

  “What?”

  “Close your mouth, sweetheart—you’ll catch flies.” Andy let the already restless Lula Mae down, so A.J. couldn’t see his face when he added, “Don’t tell me you weren’t aware that she was worth millions.”

  She. Andy had never cared much for Diantha, and the lack of feeling had been mutual. That was one reason A.J. had seen so little of her aunt over the past couple of years. That, and the fact that she had been too busy carving out a career she was no longer sure she even wanted.

  “What are you talking about? You’re suggesting the yoga studio is worth millions?”

  “The yoga studio, the books, the product endorsements for everything from workout wear to organic peaches. And let’s not forget the bundle she inherited from Gus Eriksson—including that farmhouse in Stillbrook, which sits on several hundred acres of prime real esta
te.” He raised one eyebrow. “Have you quit reading the Wall Street Journal?”

  He sounded like a minister asking when she had last cracked open the Bible. A.J. wasn’t about to admit she hadn’t even bothered to renew her WSJ subscription when it expired three months ago.

  “I had no idea,” she said at last.

  Andy’s mouth curved wryly. “I don’t know if the police will swallow that. Your mother knows, so I doubt if it was supposed to be a secret. Where’s Lou’s carrier?”

  Automatically she turned and headed for the hall closet. She pulled out the vacuum cleaner; tossed a pair of purple galoshes, the crutches Andy had used after his accident, and her skis out of the way; and finally hauled the carrier out of the back.

  Lula Mae had long since skedaddled.

  “What specifically did the police say to make you think I might be a suspect?” She handed him the carrier.

  Andy shrugged. “It’s more what they weren’t saying. Besides, it’s common sense. You’re the main beneficiary, maybe the only beneficiary. Do you…er…” He paused delicately.

  “Do I, er, what?”

  “Have an alibi?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don’t even know when she died. All I know is that she was…strangled—” Her voice cracked. Unexpectedly tears were pouring down her cheeks.

  Andy moved to hug her, but she waved him off.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine!” She turned away to the bedroom, yelling, “Lula Mae, get in here!”

  Like that would ever work.

  But chasing the cat gave her time to compose herself, and by the time she hauled the wailing Lula Mae out from under the bed she had once shared with the stranger waiting patiently in the hall, A.J. was dry-eyed and in control again.

  “I’ve got to meet—go,” Andy said as she stuffed Lula Mae in the carrier and handed the prisoner over. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do?”

  She said sweetly, “Oh, but you’ve done too much already.”

  The year 1975 was notable for many things. The Vietnam War officially ended, the fifth assembly of the World Council of Churches called for “a radical transformation of civilization,” and Jaws had theatergoers everywhere choking on their buttered popcorn. Even more frightening than a twenty-five-foot-long man-eating shark: curly perms, capes, and clogs were in. And no one looked better in them than British model and sometime actress Elysia Mason (“Easy” to her pals in the press), who chose the summer of ’75 to retire from “art” films to marry wealthy American businessman, and comparative nobody, Paul Alexander.

  It was not really much of a film career. Easy Mason was more celebrity than thespian. She had made a splash with such cult classics as Die, Darling, Die and The Girl in the Gold Jag, but most people knew her from her glamorous photos in British celebrity mags like Titbit and TV Times and her regular appearances on the weekly detective show 221B Baker Street. Her romantic affairs had included eight British actors, three American film stars, two French counts, one Greek shipping magnate, one Scottish laird (Easy had referred to him as “that sheep farmer in the plaid skirt”), and one Saudi playboy. She was said to have briefly dated Prince Charles—though when asked about the royal alliance, Easy always smiled that enigmatic smile that photographed so beautifully, and said nothing.

  In short, she was not June Cleaver. In fact, Elysia Mason-Alexander was not like anyone’s mother—she had not even played a mom on TV. A.J. had no doubt whatsoever that she owed her existence to her dad. Which was not to say that she didn’t love her mother—everyone loves their mother—but A.J. preferred to love her mother long distance. Separate continents worked best.

  Rubbing the back of her neck and staring through the window of Erwin Pearl Jewelers in Terminal A at Liberty International, A.J. was reminding herself for the twelfth time that she loved her mother despite the traffic (bad), the hour (early), the lack of sleep (total), and her mood (unprintable) when there was a commotion behind her.

  “Blimey, pumpkin!” exclaimed the dulcet tones of Mummy Dearest. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Elysia’s reflection appeared in the storefront window like an apparition—still terrifically slim in leopard-print jeans, her hair an expertly teased, impossibly dark coil on her head. She could have been Maleficent’s chic baby sister.

  A.J. whirled and narrowly avoided falling over the trolley of luggage parked directly behind her. “Mother!” she exclaimed with more surprise than pleasure. “Your plane’s not due for another forty-five minutes.”

  “I took an earlier flight.” Elysia bussed A.J.’s cheek with her cool bony own. She smelled of cigarettes and Opium. She didn’t smell of alcohol; that was the good news. Beneath the skillfully applied false eyelashes, her wide green eyes were clear—and questioning. “But what happened to you, pumpkin?”

  A.J. squashed the instant rise of irritation, determined not to fall into the old pattern. “Nothing happened. I had my hair cut.”

  Elysia bit her lip—an appealing and much photographed expression. “By whom? The gardener? You appear to have been struck by a speeding lawnmower. Repeatedly.”

  “Ha,” A.J. said. “You’re looking well, anyway.” She nodded at Elysia’s leopard-print jeans. “Oh, are those coming back?”

  Elysia smiled, her teeth small and white and ever so slightly pointed, catlike. “Where’s Andrew, pumpkin?”

  That struck a nerve, although in fairness, it was probably not intended to. “At home. His home. We’re divorced, remember?”

  Elysia shook her head as though this was too, too ridiculous, but she let it go. “Right. I suppose we’d better get this show on the road. Where are you parked?” She beckoned to a lurking skycap.

  “Parking Lot A. Look, Mother…I think I should get up to Stillbrook as soon as possible, but you’ve had an exhausting trip. If you want to rest at my place for a day or two—”

  “Don’t be silly, pumpkin. Of course we’ll drive up together. I wouldn’t leave you at a time like this.”

  Nah, because that would be the humane thing to do.

  “The thing is, you could visit with Andy. He’d love to take you to the shows and…um…try to cheer you up.”

  Every summer, until this last catastrophic one, Elysia spent one month with A.J. and Andy. Andy would escort them to the hottest Broadway shows, take them shopping, share Sunday evenings eating ice cream and watching sexy late night soaps. According to Elysia, this month was the highlight of her year.

  A.J. added, “You could…talk with Andy. It might help—”

  She was going to say “…you come to terms with our split,” but Elysia cut in with a crisp, “Pumpkin, you don’t seem to realize that my sister is dead. True, we weren’t as close as we could have been. We weren’t as close as the two of you—and Lord knows you probably wish it had been me instead of Di—”

  “Mother!”

  “—but that doesn’t change the fact that she was my sister, and I’m going with you.”

  A road trip with crazy Mom. Who wouldn’t love that?

  A.J. opened her mouth, but where did she begin? It was like trying to argue with Lula Mae.

  As the skycap struggled to budge the laden trolley, she fumbled in her Prada bag—a gift the Christmas before last from Andy—for her keys. “Suit yourself,” she muttered, sounding like the sulky adolescent she had once been.

  “Besides,” Elysia added casually, “as the Bard says, ‘Delays have dangerous ends.’ It might look suspicious if I didn’t turn up right away. I am a suspect, after all.”

  “You?”

  “Naturally. I’m Di’s next of kin. We’d quarreled bitterly. I wasn’t a regular on 221B Baker Street for nothing, you know.”

  “Uh, right.”

  Elysia reached over and patted A.J.’s cheek with her thin hand. “And don’t fret, pet. Of course I’ll talk to Andrew for you about this silly divorce business.”

  Three

  The pain in her neck—that would be the other pain, although
coincidentally both had started at Liberty International Airport—was getting worse. A.J. hoped she wasn’t in for another bout of back trouble. This getting old thing was really a drag. Granted she was only thirty-five, but these days she felt ancient, mentally and physically. She was glad the drive to Stillbrook was relatively short, and tried to focus on the scenic wonders of Route 15 North as it narrowed from a metropolitan four lanes to a Podunk-bound two. Unfortunately the scenic wonders currently consisted of fog and rain and other cars.

  Beside her, Elysia broke off the unending commentary about her plane flight—including weather, cuisine, flight staff, and apparently each and every passenger—and hitched around in her seat to stare hard out the back window of the rental car. She announced, “I think you’ve lost them.”

  “Huh?” Momentarily distracted from the shell bursts of pain flashing up and down the ridge of her spine, A.J. cautiously turned her head. “What are you talking about?”

  Elysia settled back in her seat. “I assumed, from the way you’re racing, that we’re being followed?”

  Glancing at the speedometer, A.J. eased her foot off the accelerator. “Sorry.”

  Elysia waved this off breezily, and A.J. was reminded of that Twilight Zone episode where the woman driving cross-country keeps seeing the same hitchhiker beckoning her toward a fatal accident—except in A.J.’s case the thing she was trying to outrun was seated next to her. Well, one of the things she would have liked to outrun.

  “Mother,” she said suddenly, “what did you mean by that crack about being a suspect in Aunt Di’s murder? You weren’t even in the country when it happened.”

  Elysia gave A.J. a disbelieving look. “You’re serious? I could have hired someone, couldn’t I?”

  Before A.J. could respond—assuming she had an answer to that—Elysia was off and running amuck down memory lane. “You know, I remember once on 221B Baker Street, The Shrimp, and I had to solve the murder of an Indian rajah. It turned out that the old man’s nephew, who was being educated at Oxford—”