Dial Om for Murder (12 page)

“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.

“So how long is he staying?” Jake asked abruptly, and A.J. didn’t bother to pretend she didn’t know who he meant.

“Andy? Just a few days.”

“And why is he staying with
you
?”

A.J. examined her instinctive flare of resentment. Jake had reason to ask, right? They were seeing each other, even if not exclusively, and gay or not, the fact that Andy was her ex-husband certainly put a different spin on things than if he’d simply been a longtime pal of the masculine persuasion.

She said, “I think something has gone wrong in his relationship.”

Jake snorted.

“I mean, really wrong,” A.J. said. “I’ve known Andy a long time. Since college, and I’ve never seen him like this. Like all the stuffing has been knocked out of him. I think . . . I think Nick might have hit him. When he showed up Saturday evening he was limping. And his face was bruised.”

“I noticed that on Sunday,” Jake said. “It didn’t look to me like someone punched him, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t shoved into a wall. Either way, this isn’t something you want to get involved in. Domestic disputes are poison.”

Yes. A.J. could vouch for that. Yet she heard herself say, “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, yeah. After what that guy did to you? It’s that simple. Let him work his own problems out.”

The parking lot at Bill’s Diner was empty, which was a surprise because when they walked inside, the first person A.J. spotted was J.W. Young. He was in one of the red leather booths with Bryn Tierney, and they were eating supper.

The eating supper was not the amazing thing—neither was the fact that J.W. and Bryn were dining out together. What was amazing was the absence of any reporters or news vans. A.J. had received several phone calls asking for
her
“story,” and she knew J.W. would be the focus of near-relentless media attention for some time to come—certainly until Nicole’s murder was solved.

Awkward!
A.J. thought, glancing up at Jake. He had noticed J.W. and Bryn as well, and he asked the waitress for a booth on the other side of the room. A.J. suspected he wasn’t being considerate of J.W.’s feelings so much as positioning himself the better to watch the other two without being observed himself.

Patsy Cline was singing “A Church, A Courtroom, Then Good-bye” as Jake and A.J. were seated beneath a long row of colorful vintage lunchboxes. A.J. ordered a Diet Coke, Jake ordered coffee, and the waitress departed.

Staring across the empty dining room, A.J. could see Bryn talking quickly, agitatedly, while J.W. listened gravely and nodded.

Jake was watching, too, and A.J. asked, “Was my phone call about Jane Peters helpful?”

His green eyes met hers. “Very. Thank you.” A grim smile touched his mouth. “It turns out Jane Peters is J.W. Young’s estranged wife.”

“Wife? You mean ex-wife?”

Jake shook his head. “Wife. They never divorced.”

“Nicole’s boyfriend’s
wife
was seen fleeing a few minutes before Nicole’s body was discovered?”

“Yep.”

“So . . .” A.J. worked it out. “ That’s why you were able to take time for dinner. You think you have your killer?”

Jake’s hard mouth curved into brief smile. “I made time for dinner because I miss you.”

The direct honesty of that warmed her cheeks. “Oh.” A second later, she said, “But you do think Jane Peters is your killer?”

“ Too soon to say. She’s sure got some explaining to do.” Jake added, “First we have to find her. We’ve run a couple of local spots asking for information on her whereabouts, asking her to come in. There hasn’t been any word since you spotted her in town.”

“She must not want to be found.”

He shrugged.

The waitress—humming along with Patsy Cline’s warm alto—dropped off their beverages, took their meal orders, and headed over to J.W. and Bryn’s booth. Bryn hastily wiped her eyes. She had been crying—although it appeared to be more of a drizzle than a downpour.

“I guess you didn’t call Lydia Thorne?” A.J. asked, tearing her attention away from the other table.

“We tried. The cell phone number Nicole had was out of date. There’s no indication that she ever knew the Thorne name was an alias, and without Thorne’s real name we don’t have much chance of tracking her down. From what we can tell, she and Nicole stopped being pals several months ago.”

“About the time the cyber attacks started. What exactly happened between them?”

“No one seems to know. Or at least no one is saying. From all appearances Thorne wasn’t replaced as president of Manning’s fan club until after she started writing nasty reviews. The hate mail dated from the point that Manning fired her.”

“So . . . the nasty reviews weren’t supposed to be personal?”

“I have no idea how this stuff works. Those reviews seemed pretty personal to me.”

A.J. said, “I worked with a lot of people when I was doing marketing and PR—a lot of different egos—and I can tell you that very often people miscalculate how vulnerable we all are.”

Jake stirred his coffee. “How so?”

“Everyone talks about the male ego and the professional ego and the adolescent ego and the artistic ego, but the truth is,
everyone
has an ego, and no one enjoys having it bashed.”

“Sure,” Jake said with the easy confidence of the possessor of a stainless steel ego. “But a person in Nicole Manning’s profession must be used to criticism.”

He didn’t say—didn’t have to—
especially with Nicole’s lack of talent
.

“Yes and no. I’m sure Nicole had toughened up considerably when it came to anonymous reviews or professional reviews, but a venomous review from someone she considered a friend and a fan? That would hurt.”

A lot. A.J. could guarantee that having watched Elysia’s reactions to the critics through the years. Happily, her mother’s methods of coping had improved from the days when she had drowned her sorrows in Gilbey’s and Noilly Pratt.

A.J. added, “I’m betting from the tone of those reviews that Lydia Thorne has as much ego as anyone—and that somehow Nicole managed to wound it.”

“ That makes sense, I guess,” Jake said. “Hell hath no fury and all that. Jane Peters’s ego must have taken a hit when her husband took up with Nicole Manning.”

They both glanced over at the other booth. Bryn was chuckling—a watery sort of chuckle—but whatever the crisis had been, it seemed to be over. J.W. was listening and nodding while he studied the bill. Observing them, A.J. decided that they probably
were
innocent of any involvement in Nicole’s death because surely guilty people wouldn’t be so dumb as to be seen together following the death of a spouse.

They made a nice couple, though. Not stunningly good looking, but attractive in a non-Hollywood way. And they were obviously comfortable with each other, obviously liked each other.

She said quietly to Jake, “I guess Jane was still in love with J.W.?” How terribly painful that would be. It was impossible not to remember the shock of those first days after Andy had told her he was leaving her, that he had fallen in love with someone else. At least in Andy’s case it had been more than a simple falling in love with another woman—maybe it should have made it worse, but somehow it was easier for A.J. to accept knowing that Andy had been fighting his own nature, his own sexuality.

Jake cautioned, “We don’t know for sure that the Peters woman killed Manning. It’s a pretty big coincidence that she was running away from the house after Nicole was dead, but . . .”

A.J. followed his train of thought and said, “How long had Nicole been dead when I found her?”

“About an hour.”

Why would Jane Peters have hung around for an hour after killing Nicole? That was what Jake was wondering, A.J. knew.

Jake said slowly, “You know, I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”

“Believe it or not, I can be discreet. And it’s not like I’m involved this time. I mean, unless you suspect me of knocking Nicole off.”

“No.” And he didn’t even crack a smile! “It’s just . . . this isn’t the kind of job you can talk about to your girlfriends.”

Girlfriends
. In the plural. Well, good to know where she stood.

Malicious humor flickered within A.J. “Even when your girlfriend is the local incarnation of Miss Marple?”

“Ha.” Jake looked anything but amused. “Yes, I saw the paper this morning.”

“Now don’t worry,” A.J. assured him. “I’m not going to take over your case. This time.”

Jake met her eyes. After a long moment, his mouth quirked into a reluctant grin. “I hope not. It’s going to put a real crimp in our relationship if I have to throw you in the hoosegow for interfering in police business.”

“So you threatened once before.”

“Yeah. Well . . . I blame the last time on your mother.”

“Me too.” A.J. was smiling, her good humor inexplicably restored as Jake laughed, too.

They looked up as J.W. and Bryn paused beside their table on the way out of the diner. Up close and personal, they both looked tired. Bryn’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying. There were little lines of tension around J.W.’s eyes and mouth.

“Is there any news?” he asked Jake.

“I’m sorry. Nothing since we spoke this afternoon.” A.J. liked Jake’s combination of sincerity and professionalism. There was a distance there, but there was also compassion.

J.W. slanted a look at A.J.

She offered her hand. “A.J. Alexander. We met at the April reopening of Sacred Balance. I’m so sorry about Nicole.”