Dial Om for Murder Page 8

  Till death do us part, A.J. thought grimly. She said, “What if it could be proven that the partnership is detrimental to the welfare of the business?”

  “Is it indeed?”

  She was silent. As dearly as she longed to blame Lily for everything that had ever gone wrong at Sacred Balance, the truth was little had gone wrong. Business was thriving, and the numbers bore it out regardless of Lily’s feelings on the matter.

  “I think Lily feels that it is,” she said.

  Mr. Meagher made a dismissive sound. “It’s yourself that owns the studio. It would not be Ms. Martin’s feelings on the matter that would be interesting to a court. If the studio fails, it’s yourself who would lose out.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” A.J. sighed. “Okay. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Meagher. I guess I’ll wait and think things over before I do anything.”

  “It’s never a waste of time speaking to a beautiful woman,” the gallant—and clearly inexperienced—Mr. Meagher returned. “And speaking of beautiful creatures, give me best to that mad, bad vixen the next time you speak to her.”

  For one truly insane moment, A.J. thought Mr. Meagher was referring to Lily. Then she realized he must mean her mother. Which was a relief—though a mixed one.

  “ That I will,” she said, teasing him. She had no sooner replaced the phone than Suze was in her office.

  “Charlayne just phoned in.”

  For an instant A.J. couldn’t even remember who Charlayne was. Oh, right. Their one remaining receptionist—and the daughter of one of her oldest friends, Nancy Lewis.

  She said firmly, knowing it was a bluff even as the words left her mouth, “If she calls in sick one more time, she’s out. I can’t run a business like this.”

  “She quit.”

  “She quit?”

  Suze nodded.

  “Just like that? She’s not giving notice or anything?”

  Suze shook her head.

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “Sort of. She said it’s too hard working and going to school, and that’s why she caught the flu.”

  “So . . . let me get this straight,” A.J. said. “She was out sick with the flu most of last week, and now that she’s feeling better, she’s quitting.”

  “Yep.” Suze sounded unreasonably cheerful about the whole thing. She perched on the edge of A.J.’s desk and said, “Don’t worry, we’ve got it all worked out. Denise and Simon will take my classes and I’ll cover the phones till you find us a new receptionist.”

  A.J. stared at the pile of resumes on her desk and moaned. “ That’s two new receptionists I now have to find. And if you’ll notice, I’m not exactly having great results finding one.”

  Suze giggled, but she was serious as she asked, “Are you going to ban Barbie from the studio?”

  Meeting those bright blue eyes, A.J. shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mr. Meagher doesn’t seem to think it’s a good idea.”

  “You know what they’re saying, right? In town?”

  Reluctantly, A.J. admitted, “ That Barbie might have had something to do with Nicole’s death?”

  Suze nodded. “ They’re saying it’s a mob vendetta.”

  A.J. was shaking her head. “ That’s . . . preposterous. I mean, it’s just remotely possible she could have managed it time wise—if everything went like clockwork—but she had no real motive. People don’t kill other people because . . . well, why exactly is Barbie supposed to have wanted to kill Nicole?”

  “Because she was having an affair with Barbie’s teenage son.”

  After a moment A.J. closed her mouth. “Oh,” she said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Suze.

  A.J. slipped off her shoes and stepped over Monster, who was lying in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall—the better to keep an eye on their uninvited guest. The dog thumped his tail in greeting and she rubbed his fur with her stockinged foot.

  “Hey,” she greeted Andy, and he looked up from the table where he sat peeling a pan of potatoes.

  The house was redolent with the scent of garlic roast pork loin and cornbread. Andy was cooking comfort food.

  “Hi. How did it go?” he asked, and for a moment it might almost have been a time warp. Wonderful food was cooking, Lula Mae was curled on the windowsill watching birds in the garden, and music was playing—one of Gus Eriksson’s old jazz records: The Don Rendell / Ian Carr Quintet.

  “Just an ordinary day on the eightfold path. First I threatened to call the cops on the local don’s better half and then I was convinced in the nick of time not to start legal proceedings against my business partner.”

  “I think you need more meditation.”

  “I think I need a drink.” She moved to the freezer to get out the Bombay Sapphire, and noticed the phone machine was blinking.

  “Who called?” A.J. asked, and Andy made some noncommittal reply.

  The first message was from Nick Grant, Andy’s partner. Nick sounded self-conscious and a little grim. He didn’t say what he was calling about—maybe he thought it was self-evident; he did say he would call back later. According to the phone machine, he had phoned at three thirty. Andy should have been back from lunch by then, but if he’d heard the message, he obviously hadn’t picked it up.

  “Nick called,” A.J. informed him, which probably wasn’t necessary since Andy was sitting only a foot or so away.

  “Yes,” he said politely.

  And that seemed to be that.

  The second call was from Jake, asking A.J. to call when she got in and maybe they could go to dinner.

  She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t called on her cell phone. Was this message partly for Andy’s benefit? Who knew how men reasoned these things.

  She rang him back, and Jake—brief and businesslike, which meant he was somewhere he couldn’t talk—said he thought he could make time for dinner if she was available.

  A.J., equally brief and businesslike, said she thought that could be arranged.

  They made a plan to meet later.

  Feeling unreasonably guilty, she replaced the receiver and said, “It looks like I’m going out to eat with Jake.”

  “Oh.” Andy’s expression was disappointed.

  A.J. resisted the temptation to apologize to her ex-husband for wanting to have dinner with her boyfriend.

  Andy said, “ There’s plenty of food. You could eat here. We could discuss the case.”

  “I . . . don’t think so”

  He nodded but continued to look dashed. “Were you going to call Nick?” A.J. probed.

  “I’ll call him after a while,” Andy said. His voice and face revealed little, but A.J. wasn’t betting much on Nick’s chances of getting a buzz that night.

  They chatted for a few minutes and then, after they had exhausted such neutral topics as how unreliable teens were in the workforce, and how much A.J. would like to rid herself of Lily Martin, Andy inquired, “Have you given any more thought to calling Lydia Thorne?”

  “No, and I’m not going to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you serious about this?”

  Apparently he was. He even had the nerve to look slightly puzzled as he met her gaze.

  “We’ve been through this,” A.J. told him severely. “If you think it’s such a great idea, you call her, although I think I ought to point out that bringing yourself to the attention of a psycho might not be the best idea you’ve ever had.”

  “A strange man calling is liable to sound more threatening,” Andy said. “I think it would be better if you rang her.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re not really listening to me? Anyway, we don’t even know if the number is still good. And even if it is good, what’s the point? The police have probably called her by now.”

  “You can verify that one way or the other when you go to dinner,” Andy said.

  “I don’t want to verify it. What part of I don’t want to interfere in Jake’s homicide investigation did
you miss?” A.J. inquired.

  “Come on,” Andy said. “Of course you’re curious. It’s only natural.”

  Was it? Maybe it was. And Andy was right. She was curious. Not as curious as he was, though. A.J. studied her ex-husband’s tired, preoccupied expression. There was something going on here that she didn’t understand. Andy was too interested in this murder case. It was more than the normal interest anyone showed when violent crime touched so close to home. It was as though Andy were latching onto Nicole’s death as a distraction from his own worries.

  She excused herself and went to change from her work clothes into a pair of Prada jeans and a D&G yellow silk crepe camisole with lace trim. She gave her hair, now grown out and reshaped to a sophisticated bob, a flick of the brush and retouched her makeup. She added a pair of silk tassel earrings with Swarovski crystals as the final touch.

  Andy whistled as she reappeared in the kitchen. “ The simple life suits you.”

  “Ha.”

  He was smirking as he handed her a piece of golden cornbread warm from the oven.

  “Mm. I can taste the cheddar.”

  “Sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”

  She was saved from answering as the door bell rang. Monster trotted down the hall, uttering a friendly woof, his tail wagging.

  “ That will be Jake,” A.J. said, brushing hastily at her chin for crumbs. She met Andy’s knowing gaze and felt herself blush. It was annoying.

  “Have fun tonight,” he said slyly.

  “I’m not sure how much fun we can fit into an hour and a half,” she mumbled.

  “A lot—if you don’t waste time.”

  “Uh . . . right.” It wasn’t just her, right? Surely there was something a tad odd about her ex-husband ushering her off on a date with a new boyfriend? “See you later.”

  “Not if you handle things right,” he called cheerfully.

  “My God, he’s worse than my mother!” A.J. told Monster who was sitting at the front door waiting with a doggy smile while Jake, exhibiting flattering impatience, rang the buzzer again.

  A.J. slid the bolt, opened the door, and blinked at the sight of the tall, elegant figure framed there.

  “No need to look like that, pumpkin,” issued the familiar and dulcet tones. “All’s right with your world now. Mummy’s home!”

  Ten

  “Mother?” A.J. said in disbelief.

  “In the flesh,” Elysia returned cheerfully—and, given the skimpiness of her zebra-striped shift—that wasn’t entirely exaggeration.

  Elysia Alexander—the former British sex kitten and TV personality formerly known as Easy Mason—was a small and shapely pocket Venus. Her artfully tinted raven hair was coiled fashionably on her delicately molded head. Her eyes, framed by lustrous fake lashes, were limped pools of Lakeland green. Her full, pouty mouth had once been described as equally perfect for kisses or wisecracks.

  Obediently bussing a cool cheek scented of cigarettes and Opium, A.J. said, “But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be sailing down the Nile.”

  “Destiny . . . like the water of the Nile.” Elysia closed her eyes, savoring her memories. “Blue waters dancing beneath an ancient sun, the warmth of the wind scented by the green mango trees . . . those bloody loudspeakers shrieking their interminable disco music . . .” The silky lashes lifted as Elysia brushed these delights aside. “How could I enjoy myself when it meant abandoning my only child to death and danger?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Pumpkin, it’s not as though we were in some Third World country. We did have news coverage.” Elysia gazed ever so innocently into A.J.’s eyes—much like the cat who swallowed the canary must have looked when the canary’s owner showed up.

  “Egyptian news covered the death of a minor U.S. TV star?”

  “Why ever not?”

  A.J. could think of dozens of reasons why ever not. She opened her mouth to voice her suspicions but fell silent as Jake’s police SUV rolled silently into the yard. He parked between Elysia’s Land Rover and Andy’s rental car.

  At the sound of the SUV door slamming, Elysia glanced over her shoulder and made a little moue of annoyance. “I see John Wayne is still hanging around.”

  “Mother,” A.J. warned her. “Hi there!” she called cheerfully as Jake raised a hand in greeting. “I’m just grabbing my purse.” And resisting the temptation to hit her mother over the head with it.

  She moved fast, but if she’d hoped to head off a social collision, she was doomed to disappointment—delayed by a couple of crucial seconds in finding her bag.

  Skidding down the hall, she found Jake on the porch steps, nodding a greeting to Elysia. “So. The mummy returns.”

  Elysia sniffed. Actually, it was more of a snort.

  “You’re back early, aren’t you? Was it voluntary or did they expel all the diplomats?”

  “You’re so amusing, Inspector. Perhaps that’s what holds my daughter captive. I’d been thinking handcuffs.” Elysia smiled a chilly pointed smile—which disappeared in a blaze of pleasure as Andy appeared behind A.J.

  “I thought I heard voices. Why is everyone standing on the porch?” Andy inquired.

  “Andrew! Dearest boy! What a delightful surprise.” Elysia whirled to A.J. “Is there something you want to tell me, pet?”

  A.J. tore her gaze from Jake’s unrevealing expression, and blinked. “What? No!”

  Dear God. Was she . . . surely Elysia wasn’t imagining A.J. and Andy were reuniting? Elysia’s beaming expression seemed to say so. A.J. watched in mild horror as her mother and ex-husband hugged in genuine—and mutual—delight.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you!” Elysia exclaimed. Mmwah!

  “Same here!” Andy said. Mmwah!

  Jake met A.J.’s gaze. He raised his eyebrows. And suddenly it was just funny.

  “I think we should leave them to it,” he said, and A.J. nodded, scooting past her mother and ex.

  Elysia tore her adoring gaze from Andy’s equally adoring countenance. “Where are you going, pet?”

  “ To dinner,” A.J. said. “We’ve already got plans.”

  “But . . . but I’ve only just got in.” There it was, the wounded look that Elysia wielded with the expert and deadly precision of a fencing master.

  “If I’d known you were coming . . .” A.J. tried to be firm, but it wasn’t easy in the face of that pretty—if well-practiced—distress.

  “I’ve traveled half the world and you abandon me my first night home?” It was a little broad for the small screen, but Elysia was playing it for all she was worth.

  Andy came unexpectedly to their rescue. “ This will give us a chance to catch up, Ellie. Come and tell me all about your adventures. A.J. needs a little time with her beau.”

  “Beau? Beau Geste,” sniffed Elysia, but she let herself be drawn away. In afterthought, she threw, “We’ll talk tomorrow, pumpkin—or perhaps I’ll still be here when you return.”

  “I’m thinking all-night diner,” A.J. told Jake as they strolled across the grass to his car.

  He laughed—a little crisply. “She’s really crazy about me. I can tell.”

  “Don’t take it personally. When Andy and I divorced, she tried to adopt him—and make him her sole heir.”

  Jake snorted.

  Inside the SUV they studied each other quizzically. “Hello again,” A.J. said.

  Jake smiled, a genuine smile, and he moved, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her. His mouth was warm and surprisingly sweet on hers, and A.J. was conscious of what a long week it had been without him—although, in fact, she had seen him the night before when he’d come to question her and Andy.

  Somehow the official Jake was like a totally different person.

  He let her go, smoothed a self-conscious hand over his hair, and turned the key in the ignition. After a brief debate, they decided on Bill’s Diner, which was relatively close and one of their favorite places when Jake was on duty.

 
“How’s the case going?” A.J. inquired as they drove down the road while the twilight shadows lengthened. Butterflies fluttered in suicidal swoops ahead of the SUV grill.

  “It’s going,” Jake said noncommittally.

  “Have you zeroed in on anyone?”

  “All avenues of investigation remain open.”

  “Is that from the How to Talk Like a Cop manual?”

  He met her eyes. “Page one.”

  She smiled but knew it was time to drop the subject. After that they chatted mostly about A.J.’s day, and she filled him in on her run-in with Barbie at the studio. Jake was suitably and satisfyingly astounded.

  “Do you want me to have a word with her?”

  “You mean, have your people talk to her people?” A.J. grinned. “I don’t think so. I’m hoping the threat of taking legal action will be enough.”

  “You do understand who you’re dealing with? It’s a family not known for taking the threat of legal action real seriously.”

  “I got that. You know, half the people in Stillbrook believe Barbie whacked Nicole.”

  Jake’s mouth curled derisively. “I heard a rumor to that effect.”

  “Is it true Nicole was having an affair with Barbie’s teenaged son?”

  “ The kid’s twenty. Young for Nicole, but she wasn’t robbing the cradle.” Jake glanced her way. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “So it is true?”

  He said cautiously, “It appears to be true. We downloaded a hundred and thirty-seven text messages from someone named Ball Boy.”

  “Ball Boy?” Then it clicked. “Oh, right. Oz Siragusa is supposed to be some kind of tennis pro.”

  For a time neither of them said anything. A.J. was thinking what an awful thing it would be to have strangers, police or not, pawing through your most private and intimate correspondence—reading through your e-mail and letters, listening to phone messages, reading your journal—not that Nicole seemed like the Dear Diary type.

  She thought about how awful it would be for people to learn your nickname was Ball Boy.