Hex on the Ex (13 page)

I returned home sweaty and winded with time to kill before Stan arrived. I laid out a mat on my bedroom floor for a long leisurely stretch. Packed my backpack. Read the mail. Put in a load of laundry. Paid some bills.

Bless Stan for showing up fifteen minutes early. Damn him for being vague on a finish date for my plumbing.

“I’ll return around eleven,” I said as I left. “Make sure to close the door if you go outside so Erzulie doesn’t get out.”

“No problem, princess. We’ll be inside all day,” Stan said.

My dashboard temperature gauge read seventy-nine
degrees by the time I found a space in the crowded lot outside Game On at nine.

Earl stopped me outside the ladies’ locker room. “You’re late today. You okay?” He touched my shoulder, a concerned—
I heard all about the dead body, what gossip can you tell me?
—frown on his face.

“I’m great.” I beamed, thumping my chest. “Woke up this morning and decided to go for a run outside. The fresh air was invigorating. I stopped in here to take a shower. How are you? Where is everyone?”

“I’m same-ol’, same-ol’. Getting over a toothache. It’s been slow here this morning. You just missed Tess. Kyle’s in the office.” Earl flicked his eyes from side to side. “You know.”

No, I didn’t know. Know what?
“With a new client?”

“Yeah.” Earl chuckled. “I guess you could say that.”

The office door opened down the hall. A tall, spray-tanned, fortyish jock emerged in camouflage pants and a T-shirt stretched tight over a bulging, overdeveloped frame with biceps as big as cantaloupes. He passed through the gym without looking up, and left.

Kyle came out of the office, locked the door, and pocketed the key. He saw me with Earl and came over. “Did you talk to Jarret last night, Liz?”

“I’m meeting him at the hotel for breakfast,” I said.

“He’s in a mess of trouble, huh?” Earl said to Kyle. “Think he did it?”

“If they arrest him, he can kiss his endorsement deals bye-bye. Liz knows him better than anyone—or did.” Kyle scoffed at me. “Think Jarret’s crazy enough to commit murder?”

Ignoring the question, I asked Earl to excuse us then edged Kyle behind an empty bench, out of earshot. “Do you doubt Jarret’s character? Or did you ask my opinion because you had an audience?”

“Well listen to you, protecting your boy.” He stuck out his chest, posturing. “Jarret will love to hear that. You gonna bake him a cake in prison?”

“I’m surprised you can be so flip.” I hoisted my backpack to my shoulder. “If Jarret ends up in jail, you lose your meal ticket.”

“Easy, girl. Can’t you take a joke?” he said. “Why are you so touchy? Are the cops on you about your fight with Laycee?”

“Excuse me?”

“The scene you made with Laycee at the ball game,” Kyle said.

“What scene? We had a conversation. And how would you
or
the police know what was said? You were in the concession line getting beer.”

“Laycee told me you threatened her.”

“She lied. And you repeated that story to the police?”

He looked down at me smugly. “Maybe. Maybe not. The cops have all kinds of ways of finding out.”

“Don’t play games with me, Kyle. Who did you tell?”

“Jarret.”

“Do me a favor,” I said, my face radiating heat. “Don’t repeat secondhand stories about me anymore. You weren’t there. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

L
ate and in a rush, I parked in the Sportmen’s Lodge tree-lined lot and dashed beneath the bougainvillea arbor to the side entrance of the Patio Café. I roamed over the red-and-black plaid carpeting inside, scanning the small legendary coffee shop for Jarret. The old-fashioned counter stood laden with glass-domed trays of pastries and doughnuts. A scattering of diners sipped coffee in the white leather, red-piped booths under autographed photos of John Wayne, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and posters of old Republic westerns—throwbacks to the 1930s and ’40s cowboy flicks and B-movies filmed down the road at Republic Studios, now CBS Studio Center.

No sign of Jarret in the dining room so I exited the café on the hotel side, toward the grass-green carpeted pool area. Tourists slathering suntan lotion, chatting, or reading, filled the deck chairs around the Olympic-sized swimming pool.
Laughing, screaming children performed cannonballs into the water.

I spotted Jarret in a row of chairs at the far end of the pool. Long and lean with flat abs and muscular shoulders, he was stretched out on a blue-and-white lounge chair in swim trunks and black sunglasses. His face lifted toward the sun, he held a quarter-folded newspaper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

He took off his glasses, dashed bottled water over his sandy brown hair and face with posed flair, and waved me over. “Hey, gorgeous, where’s your bathing suit?”

“At home, at the bottom of a box. I thought we were having breakfast.”

“Sit down,” he said, patting the chair next to him. “We can eat at one of the umbrella tables. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Eggs. And an air-conditioned booth where we can talk in private.” I danced away from the edge of the pool seconds before an army of kids splashed up the steps.

Jarret toweled his head, face, and body, and pulled on a T-shirt. As we strolled into the restaurant, the waitress behind the counter waved and the host greeted him like an old friend.

“Pleasant staff,” I said as we waited for a table.

“Ira got me a room here because they’re used to dealing with celebrities,” he said. “I told him I wanted to stay in the Valley.”

“Interesting choice, considering Laycee stayed here, too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did she? I didn’t know.”

A goateed waiter in a black shirt seated us in a private booth in the corner and then took our order. Steak (rare) and
eggs (up), biscuits with gravy, orange juice, and coffee for Jarret, and two eggs easy with a side of rye toast for me. After the waiter brought the juice and poured our coffee, he left us alone.

I stirred cream into my coffee. Nothing like another steaming cup of java to cool off on a hot day. “Did your parents reach you?”

“I talked to them late yesterday afternoon after I left my lawyer’s office. Mom told me she called you. I’m sorry they bothered you.”

“Marion and Bud aren’t ever a bother. They were anxious when they were unable to reach you. The news reports worried all of us. My mom called me more than a few times.”

“Viv phoned me at the hotel last night. You’re lucky you have such great parents. Your mom didn’t grill me about what happened. She asked me if I was taking care of myself.”

“And are you? You were pretty drunk last night.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “The last two days have been a living nightmare, beginning with the freaking bird going kamikaze and hexing my game. Everything went south from there. I just wanted to disconnect last night.”

His response didn’t surprise me. I understood his urge to withdraw—a need to escape was a common reaction to trauma. But what trauma was Jarret erasing? A bad game, finding Laycee’s body, or a guilty conscience? I sipped my coffee and waited for him to continue.

“Every rumormonger in the Midwest contacted my parents yesterday—the neighbors, my cousins, the church ladies, hell—even Coach Olson from the high school. Anyone who ever asked my folks for tickets to see me pitch now wants to know if I’m a murderer.”

“I’m sorry. I know how hard you work to protect your folks from gossip.”
And his vices.
Unlike my family—where trouble sat open to discussion—the Cooper family harbored secrets. A problem concealed meant a problem erased.

Jarret clenched his fist. “I don’t know what was worse: finding Laycee like that, the police grilling me all day, or hearing my mother cry.”

“Last night on the phone you apologized to me. What for?”

He stared at his coffee cup with his elbow on the table, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. “You know I didn’t kill her.”

“I believe you,” I said, curious why he avoided my gaze. “Then what are you sorry about?”

“Kyle and Laycee met me for drinks after the game at Fifth Base. Kyle bailed at midnight. Laycee wanted to stay out and party. I didn’t feel like drinking alone so I brought her up to my house with me. We got smashed on a few bottles of champagne. She blabbed on about auditioning for some cable show, then started telling me about Forrest’s problems in the sack.” Jarret stopped and looked up. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t sleep with her.”

“I’m not here to judge, Jarret.”

“I passed out on the couch. A garbage truck outside woke me at seven. Hell, I forgot about her until I saw her asleep on the bed. I dressed for my run and left her there. When I got home, I—” His face twisted. “I found her covered with blood. She was dead, Liz. I went in the bathroom and vomited. That’s when Ira called me.”

“He called you?” Odd. “Ira told me you called him.”

Jarret shook his head. “You heard wrong. I was too
freaked to move. Ira told me to wait for him before I called anyone.”

“Weren’t you worried the intruder might still be in the house?”

“The police asked the same question. The house was quiet when I walked in. I called Laycee’s name and when she didn’t answer, I assumed she was asleep. I stopped in the kitchen for a bottle of water, and then went in the bedroom to wake her up. That’s when I saw her facedown on the bed, covered with blood. I went numb. The room began to spin. As soon as Ira got there, we called 911. All hell broke loose. I spent the rest of the day with my lawyer, Ira, and the cops.”

“Did the police clear you?”

He glanced away. “They didn’t hold me. They made me repeat the story over and over and asked if anything was taken from the house. I won’t be able to get back into my house until the field investigation units finish with the property. My lawyer took me to the station to be fingerprinted. Ira got me the room here at the hotel. I’m sorry, Liz.”

“Why? There’s nothing to apologize to me for.” I reached across the table to take his hand.

“There is.” He pulled away. “If I had kept away from Laycee in the first place, you wouldn’t have…”

Me?
I drew back, blinking. “I wouldn’t have what, Jarret?”

The waiter appeared with our food. He set the plates down on the table and asked if we wanted ketchup, honey, or more gravy.

“No, thanks, pal,” Jarret said, waving him off.

Before we could return to our conversation, a young boy
stopped at the side of our booth with a baseball glove tucked under his arm. “Are you Jarret Cooper?”

“I am.” Jarret shifted into his public persona of the composed ballplayer. I waited with an affable smile, giving the boy his moment while an apprehensive knife sliced through my shoulder blades.

“What can I do for you, son?” Jarret said.

The boy shuffled his feet. “I was at the game Tuesday night when you hit that home run against the Cubs. I never saw a pitcher hit a home run before. That was pretty cool.”

“Thanks. Are you a Dodger fan?”

The kid shook his head. “Cubs. I’m from Illinois. My dad said you are, too. I pitch for the Aurora Scrappers.”

“So you’re a Little League man.” Jarret put up his hand and they exchanged high fives. “My respect. I played for the McHenry Stallions. Did you have a good season?”

“Not good enough, sir. We didn’t make the series.”

“Hang in there, kid. Baseball is about getting home safe. Remember that, keep up with your practice, and listen to your coach,” Jarret said. “Would you like me to sign your glove for you?”

After an excited scramble for a pen, the boy took his autographed glove, thanked Jarret, and hollered as he darted across the restaurant. “Dad, look what I got!”

I reached across the table and grabbed Jarret’s hand. “What were you about to say to me? If you stayed away from Laycee, I wouldn’t have what? Say it.”

He glanced through the restaurant then lowered his voice. “I saw your box of books missing from the kitchen when I went through the house with the police. Finding Laycee
rattled me so much that I forgot you were coming to pick it up. I ended up telling the police the intruder must have taken it. Detective Pratt wanted to know if you were at the house the night before or that morning. I said no, and she asked if I was lying to protect you.”

“And you answered?”

“I told her I hadn’t seen you since the morning of the game. Did you come to the house yesterday morning?”

“Yes. For three minutes.” I repeated the story I gave Pratt. “Your neighbor saw me after I pulled out of the driveway. I had no idea Laycee was in the house, dead or alive.”

“What time were you there?” he said.

“A few minutes after eight-thirty. What time did you leave?”

“Same time I always leave for my run—eight.”

“That gave the intruder a thirty-minute window. Did the police consider a burglary gone wrong? Someone who knew that you left at the same time every morning?”

“How could it be a burglary? The only things missing were a knife from the kitchen block and your box of books. There’s an envelope of cash still in my dresser drawer.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Was
he
with you?”

“He? I was…” I hesitated, confused.
Was he asking about the intruder? Or…
“Do you mean Nick? I went alone. The neighbor
saw
me alone in my car. What made you think Nick would be with me?”

“I don’t know what I think, I’m just worried about you.” Jarret picked up his fork and played with his food. “The killer smeared a witchcraft symbol in blood on Laycee’s back. That devil crap is your boy’s thing, isn’t it?”

“If you’re asking if the occult is Nick’s field of interest, yes. Was he at your house? No. And since when do you recognize mysterious symbols?”

“Ira e-mailed a photo of Laycee’s body to his office. They messaged back confirming the mark was witchcraft.”

I pushed my plate to the side, glaring. “There are so many disgusting things wrong with Ira taking a photo that I can’t even comment. Who decided Nick and I were suspects? You, or Ira?”

“Maybe we should change the subject.” Jarret beckoned the waiter for the check. “My lawyer warned me against talking too much.”