I Think I Love You (8 page)

She blew dust off the box and raised the lid to survey various pieces of childhood jewelry—the little self-piercing loops that had produced the crooked holes in her ears, a Cinderella watch that had stopped with both of her arms pointing backward to nine, a bracelet made from soldered pennies. She lifted the divided tray and dumped strands of fake pearls and tarnished rings onto the floor. Loose beads rolled in all directions. On the bottom of the tray she'd fastened a little manila envelope with Scotch tape, now yellowed and brittle. She pulled away the envelope, slid her nail under the tiny flap, and withdrew a folded index card. Her parents had maintained a simple inventory system for their antiques business.

On the card in block print was the description of an item:

Silver-and-gold letter opener; green enamel leaves, Russian hallmark spread-wing eagle (RH1004 in hallmark registry), silversmith I.J., mid-nineteenth century, bought from H.S., $50

According to the newspaper reports, Lyla's murder weapon hadn't been found, but the coroner had concluded the wounds had been made with a blunt knife. The case against the Gilberts' pool man, ex-con Elmore Bracken, had been made when the police discovered that Lyla Gilbert had fired him the day before the murder and he owned numerous knives. In fact, Regina remembered the brawny, balding man coming into the antiques store to purchase collectible knives. Dressed in black motorcycle gear, Bracken had always made her nervous, so she had no trouble believing he'd stolen the letter opener from the store's display case and used it to stab her aunt. And she'd spent many sheet-soaked nights imagining what would've happened if the man had returned for the murder weapon before she'd made her escape.

Her parents had never missed the letter opener—not unusual considering the thousands of items in the store, plus the fact that she'd swiped the inventory card as soon as she'd gotten home that awful day. And hidden it in a place that Nancy Drew herself would have been hard-pressed to find.

She carried the index card back to the computer and reread the description on the screen. Was it possible that the letter opener listed on-line was the murder weapon? That someone had found it after Bracken had disposed of it? Or that Bracken had given it to someone for safekeeping? Or that someone else had happened upon the scene and taken the weapon?

Then Regina scoffed at her musings, realizing she was letting her stress level override her good sense. The most likely story was that the item listed was simply a duplicate or a reproduction. The reserve price was steep—$750. Out of her price range, but she could at least make an inquiry for more details. The seller's nickname, a43987112, meant nothing to her. She clicked on seller history, but there was none, and, strangely, a search for other items offered by the seller produced zero hits.

She clicked on the link to e-mail the seller directly and typed in: "Can you tell me the origin of the Russian sterling letter opener, when it came into your possession, and identify the silversmith markings?"

She sent the note, then bit into her lip when she realized her buyer nickname, ReginaM, would be visible to the seller. A few seconds later she laughed at herself—in the unlikely event that a43987112
had
stolen the letter opener from the murder scene and was now, twenty years later, trying to unload it on the 'Net, he wasn't apt to connect her indistinct nickname to Monroeville, North Carolina, and even less likely to connect her to Lyla's murder. Her emotional energy would be much better spent preparing to deal with her impending visit home. She shut down her computer.

The penne marinara had set up in the container like red mortar. She dropped it into the trash and grabbed a Fudgsicle from the fridge. Her briefcase called to her, so she answered with a sigh and dragged out the paperwork she didn't want to do. Her mind wandered idly to Alan Garvo, as it was prone to do during bouts of loneliness. A perfectly decent man with no visible defects. But they seemed to have run out of things to talk about after a few dates. And after they'd seen every movie released, there wasn't much left to do. In truth, most of the time they both preferred a good book to each other's company. When a book wasn't enough, they spent the night together and parted as satisfied friends until the next occasion.

She wished, however, that she missed Alan other than just the lonely times—she wanted a lover who would make her pause when she dressed in the mornings, distract her from business meetings, sidetrack her when she read on the train. But she'd come to the conclusion, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, that a woman couldn't endure that kind of attraction without losing too much of herself. If she needed proof, she had no further to look than her derailed sisters.

A news title on the television caught her attention. "Shooting at Cocoon Cosmetics in Shively, Pennsylvania." Recognizing Justine's workplace, her pulse spiked. She leaned forward and nudged up the volume.

"—the woman, identified as Lisa Crane, is accused of seriously wounding her husband, Randall Crane, with a handgun, then storming the Cocoon headquarters and wounding a female executive whose name has not been released."

A picture of an attractive, smiling woman flashed on the screen. Lisa Crane didn't look like someone who would go on a shooting rampage, but then again, everyone had their breaking point.

"Police are warning residents in the Shively area that the suspect is armed and considered dangerous. If you see Lisa Crane, do not approach her. Contact the state police or the FBI at the numbers on your screen."

How bizarre. If the employee shot was an executive of Cocoon, Justine probably knew her. The sketchy details suggested some kind of a love triangle.

Justine.
Regina lunged for the phone.

Chapter 5

When you're in deep relationship hooey, DO stop digging.

Justine frowned at the emergency room nurse. "Shouldn't you keep me overnight for observation or something?"

The nurse angled her head. "I know you had a scare, Ms. Metcalf, but you're free to go after you talk to the police. Change the Band-Aid every day, and it probably won't even scar."

Justine rubbed her forearm where a chair leg had gouged her. "Okay."

"Your friend is waiting outside."

"Friend?" She didn't have any friends. Even her Secret Santa at the office had left her a gift-wrapped broom.

"A Ms. Birch, I think she said her name was."

Oh, shit.
"Thanks." She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the hospital bed. She still had no underwear. She retrieved her soiled suit jacket from a sterile-looking credenza and found her shoes. She needed a cigarette but bad.

After slipping into her jacket, she exited the emergency area through a series of ominous-looking doors. To prevent the sweet medicinal odor from turning her empty stomach, she brought her sleeve to her nose. Terri and Jim Birch sat on a bench in the hall just inside the registration desk. Terri looked as if she'd been pulled through a hedge. She saw Justine and stood, clutching Justine's Hartman briefcase and Prada bag. Jim Birch stood, too, but hung back and kept his gaze lowered as Terri stepped forward.

"Are you okay, Justine?"

She nodded. "Just a scratch. How is Bobbie?" Apparently the Barbie Doll had saved the day by tackling Lisa Crane and had been shot in the shoulder for her heroics.

"She's out of surgery. The doctors say she'll have a full recovery."

"That's good news." She'd send huge flowers, of course. "I don't suppose you know anything about Randall Crane?"

"We heard on the television that he's still alive, but that's all I know."

That was something anyway. "And the Crane woman?"

Terri fingered her hair where the barrel of the gun had pressed into her head. "According to the news reports, she's still a fugitive."

How hard could it be to find a middle-aged woman waving a gun in Shively, Pennsylvania?

"I thought you'd need these," Terri said, extending the briefcase and purse. "And Jim drove your car over. It's in visitor parking."

Justine squelched a flicker of annoyance that someone had driven her car, even if she had slept with the man. "Thanks. Really." She glanced at her watch. Only three-thirty—unbelievable. "Under the circumstances, Terri, I think I'll take the rest of the day off."

Terri glanced at her husband. "Wait for me outside."

Jim flashed Justine a panicky look, then left. The man wasn't nearly as good-looking in the daylight when she was stone sober. Terri Birch was a loyal, low-maintenance coworker who didn't deserve to be humiliated behind her back. For the first time in a long time, Justine experienced a stab of remorse for her behavior.
A person can't just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it.

"Terri, thank you for—"

"Justine, you're suspended."

She blinked. "What?"

"You're suspended without pay for three weeks. During that time a panel of managers will convene to determine if you will remain at Cocoon in the same capacity, or perhaps in another position."

She smiled in disbelief. "You can't be serious. You're blaming me for that lunatic storming in with a gun?"

Terri sighed. "Justine, you've run roughshod over your coworkers for years—"

"I get results."

"—and your indiscretions are legendary."

"My private life is no one's business."

"It is when you sleep with the husbands of your peers."

Justine balked at the hurt in Terri's eyes. Jimbo had a big guilty conscience, and a mouth to match. "Look, Terri, Jim and I were both drunk—"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She surveyed the woman's lifted chin, the careful stare, and she understood. Terri couldn't very well contribute to her demotion for personal reasons, so she would deny knowledge of any incident between Justine and her husband.

"But I do know, Justine, that your immoral behavior led to today's episode. It's a miracle someone wasn't killed, or all of us. At the very least, it's bad publicity for Cocoon."

Justine took a deep breath. "I'd like to talk to Deidre about this." She and the CEO had never been friends, but the woman respected Justine's role in improving the company's bottom line.

Terri pressed her lips together. "Deidre wanted you fired. Legal insisted on a review period."

Okay, that hurt.

"It's a gift, Justine. Accept the suspension gracefully and reflect on... what you've done."

Like a child being put in time-out. Justine blinked rapidly, tightening her grip on her briefcase until her fingers ached. She refused to cry.

The door opened and two police officers walked in. The taller one she vaguely recognized, although it took a few seconds to remember that she'd had an affair with his partner last year—or maybe it was the year before. She'd met them both in a bar, and this one hadn't approved of his friend's extracurricular activities. At the moment, however, the names of both men escaped her.

The man's stiff demeanor indicated that he remembered her, too. "Ms. Justine Metcalf?"

She nodded.

"We're Officers Lando and Walker."

Ah—Lando. Broad guy, receding hairline. His friend had been a lean, dark-headed looker.

"We need to ask you some questions."

Terri nodded to the men as she left—apparently she'd already chatted with them.

Justine sat on the bench and opened her purse. "Care if I smoke, Officers?"

Lando lifted an eyebrow. "This is a hospital."

"Oh. Right." She closed her purse. "What can I do for you?"

The other guy, Walker, flipped open a notebook. "How well do you know Lisa Crane?"

"I'd never seen her until today."

"But you knew her?"

She watched Lando watch her cross her legs. "I know her husband, Randall, and he'd mentioned her name. By the way, how is Randall? She said she shot him."

Walker made a rueful noise. "Got him in the business area, if you know what I mean."

She winced.

"He's at the university hospital, in stable condition," Walker added. Then he pulled a plastic Baggie from inside his jacket pocket. "Ms. Metcalf, are these yours?"

Lando looked up at the ceiling. Justine smirked. Her panties—were they to be exhibited all over town? "Yes. May I have them back?"

"I'm afraid not," Walker said, and stuffed the evidence back into his pocket. "You were having an affair with Randall Crane?"

"I was."

"He's a partner in the firm Crane and Poplin?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how his wife found out about the affair?"

"No, I don't."

"When and where did you meet Mr. Crane to... you know."

"During our lunch hour at the Rosewood Hotel."

"Every time?"

"Yes. Same room. Four-ten."

"How many times did the two of you, um, rendezvous?"

"I didn't count."

"More than ten?"

"Yes."

"More than twenty?"

She sighed. "Two or three times a week, for about three months now. Do the math."