Dial Om for Murder (27 page)

Minutes passed. A.J. checked the timer on the oven. Yep. Minutes.

“He’s better looking than I remembered,” Elysia whispered.

A.J. snorted.

The door to the patio opened and Nick and Andy came in. Andy looked like he had been crying. He also looked happier than A.J. had ever seen. Nick looked . . . well, less formidable. His hand rested possessively on the small of Andy’s back, and there was a certain softness in his eyes when he glanced at Andy that reassured A.J.

Andy was going to be okay.

He said a little self-consciously, “It looks like I’ll be leaving with Nick after all.”

“Oh yes?”

“That is bloody brilliant!” Elysia said, and she moved to kiss them both. A.J. followed suit.

There were congratulations all around and then Andy said quietly to A.J., “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t been here for me.”

A.J. said, “I’m glad I was here. I’m glad I could help.”

And she realized that this was the truth. Being forced to spend this time with Andy had taken her safely beyond her old hurt and resentment, and being able to forgive him had freed her once and all from the past. It was . . . a blessing. There was no other word for it.

While Nick went to help Andy pack, she rounded Lula Mae up.

“I’m going to miss you,” she told the cat. “But I’ll come and visit.”

Lula Mae yawned widely in her face.

She put the cat in the carrier, and when Nick and Andy came out of the guest bedroom, Nick holding Andy’s suitcase, she held the carrier up.

“Are you sure?” Andy said.

“Yes,” Nick said. “Please be very sure, because if you have
any
desire—”

Andy nudged him in the ribs.

“I’m sure,” A.J. said. “And Monster is counting the minutes. I think I heard him volunteer to pay her share of the gas.”

“If you have any doubt that I love you,” Nick told Andy, taking the carrier from A.J., “This ought to settle it once and for all.”

Andy met A.J.’s eyes. He was smiling contentedly.

“I’ll contact the rental company about Andy’s car,” Nick told A.J. “Somebody will be out in a day or two to pick it up.”

“No problem.”

“It’s the end of The Three Investigators,” Andy told her regretfully. “You’ll have to carry on without me, Pete Crenshaw.”

“Bob, I keep telling you I’ve hung up my magnifying glass.”

Nick watched them, dark brows drawn together.

“I’ll explain in the car,” Andy said.

“This should be good.”

Elysia and A.J. followed them out to the porch, watching silently as Nick put Andy’s bag in the trunk and the cat carrier in the back seat. He held the passenger door for Andy, waiting till Andy carefully lowered himself inside.

“Let me know when you crack the case,” Andy called to A.J. and Elysia.

Nick stared at them. “Please tell me you aren’t involved in another homicide investigation.”

Not answering, Elysia wiggled her fingers in fond dismissal.

Shaking his head, Nick closed the door and went around to his side.

Andy grinned through the car window, then turned to Nick as the other man got behind the wheel.

A.J. felt the oddest sense of regret as she watched Nick’s white Porsche drive sedately down the road. She was going to miss Andy.

Elysia watched the car out of sight. She sighed sentimentally. “If only you could find a man like that, pumpkin!”

Twenty-three

“These
were her things,” Bryn said quietly.

It was Monday afternoon and A.J. and Elysia stood before an enormous walk-in closet in the huge bedroom that had once been Nicole Manning’s. The bedroom was nice, but the closet, in A.J.’s opinion, was to die for. She had dreams about closets with this much space and shelving.

Nicole’s wardrobe—and that was the right word, this many garments could never simply be called “clothes”—was organized by type and color. On the left were silk T-shirts of the palest cream graduating to long-sleeved blouses in every shade of the rainbow, which then gave way to cashmere blazers and ended in black leather jackets. Sweaters were neatly stacked in plastic see-through containers. On the bottom rungs of the closet were pants—everything from summery capri’s to leather jeans. And shoes . . . the shoes alone would make this year’s charity auction.

The wardrobe carried the faint but distinct fragrance of Alfred Sung—ginger and bergamot—bringing Nicole vividly to life for a strange instant. A.J.’s throat tightened with unexpected emotion. She hadn’t cared much for Nicole, but there was something moving about these tidy rows of clothes waiting for a woman who would never return.

“This is most generous of J.W.,” Elysia said, fingertips brushing the beaded sleeve of a sage green Valentino gown. “These are worth a fortune.”

Bryn said, “J.W. never wanted Nicole’s money. Money isn’t important to him.”

That seemed a safe bet. J.W. made his living making conscientious and well-researched documentaries that mostly ran on public television.

“How is he doing?” A.J. asked.

Bryn’s face was in profile, so A.J. couldn’t read her expression. Bryn fingered the ruffle of a tangerine Versace pleated dress. “He’s trying to get on with his life. What else can he do?”

“He’s been a great friend to Jane Peters.”

“He’s a great friend to everyone,” Bryn said. “He’s a great guy.”

“Did you ever meet Jane?”

Bryn shook her head.

“Do you remember seeing her here that day?”

Another shake of Bryn’s head. It seemed for a moment that she would say something else, but then she moved away to Nicole’s dressing table and studied the astronomically expensive array of bottles and jars.

“He’s going to miss you, my dear,” Elysia said.

Bryn blinked rapidly against the sudden moisture in her eyes.

“You must be leaving soon?”

“Yes.” Her voice was husky. “Wednesday is my last day. It’s going to be . . . strange.”

“I imagine so. Will you work after you’re married?”

Bryn smiled wryly. “Ross doesn’t go in for working women.”

“Ah, they still make that model, do they?” Elysia murmured. “I thought it was discontinued.”

Bryn didn’t seem to hear that. She was still examining Nicole’s belongings, touching them gently; a kind of taking farewell, it seemed to A.J.

It struck her that this could very well be the first time Bryn had entered this room since Nicole’s death. The bed was made, but garments were still laid out as though Nicole had yet to decide between them.

She said softly, “How did J.W. handle the news about the bracelet Oz Siragusa gave Nicole?”

A.J. had dropped the bracelet and note off at the police station the evening she and Bryn had discovered it in Nicole’s locker. She remembered now that she never had heard from Jake about it. Perhaps he viewed it as another example of her failure to mind her own business?

Bryn stared at her for a long moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell him.”

Somehow A.J. had not expected that. Granted, it would be an awkward conversation to have with the bereaved spouse of a murder victim. “The police must have asked him about it.”

“I wouldn’t know. J.W. isn’t under suspicion.”

“Will there be any final films?” Elysia inquired smoothly, changing the direction of the conversation as Bryn grew more and more stiff.

It did the trick. Bryn stared at Elysia, puzzled.

“Was she working on anything at the time of her death?”

“Oh. No.
Family Business
was the last thing Nikki worked on. She did a couple of public service announcements, but those have already aired. She was looking at different projects. She always got sent the same kinds of scripts. She was hoping for something a little more . . . meaty.”

A.J. said, “She and J.W. were working on something weren’t they? Or talking about doing something together?”

“They were, but then . . .” Bryn stopped. “I don’t think anything was ever decided.”

Elysia said brightly, “That’s right. They were starting their own production company weren’t they?” Then she frowned. “Or no. Come to think of it, I’d heard that had fallen through. J.W. changed his mind . . . was that it?”

Bryn opened her mouth but caught herself.

She must have been a good PA, A.J. thought. She hoped Nicole had rewarded her accordingly.

It was her turn to charge the drawbridge, A.J. said lightly, “That would have been an odd couple project, wouldn’t it? Nicole and J.W.? I can see why he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his credibility as a filmmaker.”

“J.W. didn’t pull the plug. That was Nicole.” Bryn stopped, her mouth tightening.

“Nicole?” A.J. feigned surprise. “You’re kidding. I’d have thought she’d have jumped at the chance to do something serious, to really test her acting chops.”

Bryn said coolly, “Nicole was looking at a number of properties. J.W. supported her in all her creative efforts.”

“He’s heading back to Mexico quite soon, I expect,” Elysia said.

Bryn turned to her. Elysia smiled. “He’ll be wrapping up shooting on that documentary about the teacher’s strike?”

“That’s in the can,” Bryn said shortly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some last-minute packing. If you need any more boxes just ring housekeeping.” She pointed to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed.

She left the room. A.J. listened for the sound of her foot-steps retreating down the corridor.

“Not hard to tell where her loyalties lie,” she whispered. “But you know . . . I think Bryn was fond of Nicole. Something about the way she was touching her things. It wasn’t covetous, it was . . . like she was remembering her alive. And even though she’s obviously fond of J.W., she avoided trashing Nicole. She avoided saying anything critical of her at all.” She stopped at Elysia’s expression.

Elysia was smiling—it reminded A.J. of a well-groomed lady crocodile.

“What?”

“Do you see one single article in this room that belongs to a man?”

A.J. stared around herself at the cream silk and ecru satin furnishings. It was certainly a feminine room. But more than that . . . there wasn’t so much as a man’s comb or handful of spare change anywhere.

“Maybe he moved his things out after . . .”

Elysia shook her head. “There are lots of photos but not a single one of him. There aren’t any empty shelves or empty drawers. This was her room and hers alone.”

It took several trips to empty the closet and drawers of Nicole’s garments. In between one of their final treks to the Land Rover, J.W. looked in on them.

“How is it going, ladies?”

“Just about finished,” Elysia said cheerfully. “We can’t thank you enough for your generous donation.”

J.W. smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad these things will go to good use.” He turned to A.J. “Are you still planning to do the documentary on the studio?”

For an instant she blanked. “Er . . . yes!” she said, recovering. “You mean you’re interested?”

“Hey,” J.W. said wryly. “I have to keep busy. And beggars can’t be choosers.”

“That’s terrific. Why don’t you come by Sacred Balance one night this week and I’ll show you around.”

“Any night in particular?”

“What is today? Monday? Really any weeknight.”

“I’ll check my calendar and give you a call.”

“Great.”

J.W. nodded pleasantly and departed.

“Brilliant,” Elysia whispered jubilantly. “Well done, pumpkin!”

So much for A.J.’s decision to give up sleuthing. She’d let herself be roped into accompanying Elysia here today, and now she was going ahead with commissioning a documentary just so she could pump J.W. for information.

Granted, he did nice work, and a well-made documentary on Sacred Balance and Diantha might turn out to be a wonderful promotional tool.

Anyway, now that Jake was out of her life, she had to keep herself occupied somehow.

 

 

The
next two days passed without incident. With no further breaks or developments, the Nicole Manning murder investigation slipped from the front pages, and slowly . . . slowly life returned to normal.

In fact, A.J. began to wonder if Nicole’s death might go unsolved—assuming that the police did have the wrong woman in custody. That was debatable, although, a little irritatingly, Elysia’s faith in Jane Peters never wavered.

The problem was . . . who else could have done it? One by one, all the possible suspects seemed to have fallen out of the race. Nicole’s live-in lover had an alibi. And so did her part-time lover, Oz Siragusa. Elysia herself had knocked Barbie Siragusa out of the running with her own crack-of-dawn test drives to Nicole’s mansion. And to put the seal on it, A.J. heard through the grapevine that Barbie was planning to divorce the Big Bopper and marry her personal trainer Corey Lovesy—now revealed to be the father of her unborn child.