Murder on the Eightfold Path (6 page)

A.J. stubbornly shook her head despite uneasy memories of the things her mother had done back when she had been drinking. Those things could be attributed to the alcohol. And while it was true that Elysia did rather live in her own world, that was still a far cry from the sort of loss of control Stella was suggesting.

A.J. was marshaling her argument when the phone rang. Stella rose to answer it, returning a few moments later. “That was the
Stillbrook Streamer
. They were hoping for an interview.”

“Yeah, well, hope springs eternal,” A.J. said shortly.

“That’s pretty much what I told them.”

“Why doesn’t Mr. Meagher call?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Stella replied seriously, “It’s a homicide charge. They might not be able to get bail. Or the judge might decide to set it high, given your ma’s financial resources and nationality.”

A.J. stared in horror. “You don’t think they’ll
keep
her?”

Stella said gruffly, “I think Jake wanted me here just in case.”

This time A.J. was less touched by Jake’s thoughtfulness.

A.J.
spent the afternoon reading through her aunt’s manuscript.

A.J. reread the paragraph slowly. It was unexpectedly comforting in her particular time of trouble to read her aunt’s words. Diantha’s memoirs were almost like hearing her speak.

The phone rang off and on, but it was always members of the press. The
Stillbrook Streamer
, the
Star-Ledger
,
Chicago Sun-Times
, the
New York Times:
the papers mounting in importance as the news of Elysia’s arrest hit the wires. Stella staunchly fended them off but it was clear that even her nerves were growing frayed as the afternoon wore on.

It was after five o’clock when Mr. Meagher finally called, and the news was not good.

“Well, you see, it’s complicated, me wee girl,” he began when A.J. picked up the phone.

“What does that mean?”

“We’re . . . eh . . . probably looking at tomorrow.”

“
Tomorrow
? She’s going to have to spend the
night
in jail. But why?”

“It’s complicated, me darlin’. There’s already a lot of media attention. Too much in the opinion of that great fascist swine of a superior court judge. There’s also the fact that your mither has considerable financial resources—as do you. They’re viewing her as a flight risk.”

“You mean they might not let her out at all?” A.J. felt a childish and utterly disconcerting urge to burst into tears. It had to be the combination of meds and back pain.

“Don’t fret,” Mr. Meagher reassured her quickly. “I’m pulling every bloody favor I ever did anyone in this miserable town.”

A.J. realized then how angry Mr. Meagher was because she’d never heard him speak with anything but love for his adopted country and home. She swallowed down her anger and fear as it was clear he had plenty of his own to deal with.

“So . . . what do we do?”

“You just rest that back of yours and leave the rest to me. I’ll have her out by tomorrow or me name isn’t Bradley Jamieson Meagher.”

A.J. thanked him sincerely and replaced the phone on the hook with an unsteady hand. Her anger at Jake was now sky-high even though a tiny voice in the back of her mind loyally pointed out that he probably hadn’t had a choice. Part of her wrath was based on the knowledge that he apparently really did suspect her mother capable of such a crime. And even though A.J. had also experienced an uneasy twinge or two maybe partly because of that, it seemed a severe betrayal.

She picked at the chicken noodle casserole Stella had fixed for their dinner, listening with half an ear as the other woman talked about a séance she had conducted for a recently widowed woman.

“I know what people say, what they think, but it brings comfort to my clients to know there’s something on the other side.”

A.J. remembered what Stella had said earlier about being lonely. Loneliness led people into doing all kinds of dangerous and foolish things. Attending séances might even be one of the less foolhardy.

She studied Stella’s weathered face. “Before I met you I thought all séances took place in auditoriums. Well, except the ones in movies.”

“That’s a stage mediumship séance. I don’t have much faith in that. I prefer the personal touch myself.”

A.J. remembered the séance they had held after Aunt Diantha’s death. It had been inconclusive—and a little scary, frankly. But she had seen all kinds of movies where people tried to solve crimes by conducting séances. She tried to picture summoning Dakarai Massri’s spirit. Did he even know who had killed him? Did people go into the afterlife as confused and misinformed as they were in the here and now?

Stella had plenty of ideas on that topic. She was still offering her theories over coffee and creamy rice pudding (Stella being apparently unfamiliar with the concept of low carbs) when Andy, A.J.’s ex, called.

“What the heck is going on down there? It’s all over the TV that Ellie’s been arrested for murder,” Andy demanded, uncharacteristically not even pausing for the usual civilities.

Andy and Elysia had always been close—closer than A.J. and Elysia in fact, even after Andy had left A.J. to be with another man.

“On TV?” gulped A.J.

“Of course. Well, she
is
a cultural icon,” he added with what A.J. couldn’t help feeling was misplaced pride.

A.J. explained about Dakarai Massri, which took some doing. Andy listened in stunned—and uncharacteristic—silence.

“Your mother is accused of murdering a blackmailing Egyptian gigolo?” Andy repeated a little faintly when she had finished.

A.J. pleaded, “Can we refer to him as a blackmailing Egyptian antiquities expert? It doesn’t sound quite so seedy.”

“It doesn’t?” Andy swallowed loudly enough for A.J. to hear it clear across the New Jersey Turnpike. “So what are you going to do? Prove she’s innocent, I assume?”

That was another reason Andy and Elysia got on so well; they both fancied themselves master detectives, with A.J. as their unwilling Watson. An unhealthy diet of TV mystery shows had persuaded them both that anyone was equipped to investigate major crime.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” A.J. said firmly, just as though she hadn’t been contemplating that very idea most of the afternoon. “It’s Jake’s case and you know how he felt the last time—”

Andy interrupted, “It’s
Jake’s
case?
Jake
arrested your mother? Your
boyfriend
arrested your—”

“Thanks, Andy, I already know that part, and don’t tell me Nick wouldn’t do the same to your mother if his bosses at the FBI gave the order.”

“Well, yeah, but Nick doesn’t like my mother.”

A.J. had no response to that. Andy’s mother was hard to like, although A.J. was sort of fond of her in spite of it all.

“It’s ridiculous,” Andy was protesting. “Ellie wouldn’t hurt a fly. So what
are
you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I’ve hired a lawyer. Well, Mr. Meagher is hiring a top notch criminal attorney for me.”

“An attorney? You can’t let this go to trial. You can’t just sit there and let that bastard railroad Ellie!” Since Andy actually liked Jake, his choice of epithet indicated how worked up over this he was getting.

“I can’t do much about it at the moment.” A.J. explained about putting her back out, and Andy was appropriately sympathetic—and momentarily diverted. She took the opportunity to ask after his own health; Andy had been diagnosed with MS the previous summer. It had been a rocky time, but thanks in part to yoga he had found a delicate balance between fighting to stay as well as possible and learning to accept what couldn’t be cured.

“I’m holding my own,” he said a little grimly.

“How are things with Nick?”

His voice was relaxed as he answered. “The best. The best they’ve ever been. Although it turns out he does have this freaky and totally unnecessary maternal streak.”

A.J. chuckled. “I’m glad. I mean that things are good. You two deserve each other.”

“I’m sure that’s not entirely a compliment. So what about you and Jake? Has he popped the question yet? I mean, before all this happened. I assume you won’t marry him if he puts Elysia in prison.”

“No.” A.J. added quickly, “I mean no, he didn’t pop the question. Anyway it’s way too soon for that.”

“Not necessarily. Sometimes all it takes is one look.” Andy and Nick had fallen in love at first sight, but that was still a painful memory for A.J. Her silence must have reminded him of this, for Andy said awkwardly, “But I can see how suspecting your mum of murder might put a crimp in things.”

“A little. The scary thing is I’m sure they wouldn’t have arrested her so quickly if they didn’t have a mountain of evidence already.”

“Circumstantial,” Andy scoffed.

“I don’t know if it’s circumstantial or not. We haven’t heard what all the evidence is. The murder happened in her front yard. She admits she was paying this man blackmail money.”

“Yeah, but this is Elysia. That money was probably her equivalent of the normal person’s entertainment budget.”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

Even Andy didn’t have an answer for that one.

Unwillingly, A.J. admitted, “Even if I wanted to, I’m not exactly sure where to start, um, investigating.”

“Start with the victim,” Andy said with brisk confidence, just as though he’d been solving baffling mysteries for the last decade or so. “Start with Ellie’s Egyptian gigolo.”

 

The
next morning Stella drove A.J. into the borough of Rutherford to receive cortisone shots. Had A.J. been feeling better she might have tried walking the thirty miles; it could hardly have wasted more time, because Stella, a nervous and unhappy chauffeur, drove as though she had a jar of unstable nitroglycerin bouncing around in the truck bed. If A.J. hadn’t traveled short distances with Stella before, she might have thought she was driving slowly out of consideration for A.J.’s bad back, but no such luck.

The slow drive prolonged the pain of sitting, which was, as much as A.J. hated to admit it, excruciating. But they arrived at long last at the clinic; A.J. changed into a hospital shift and lay very carefully down on the X-ray table, a small pillow under her stomach to curve her back. If this didn’t work, she was considering trying acupuncture or another alternative medicine.

Her lower back was swabbed and then numbed with a local anesthetic. Then the surgeon used fluoroscopy—a live X-ray—to guide the needle toward the epidural space. A.J. closed her eyes, tuning it out. At roughly six thousand dollars a pop, she sincerely hoped this would do her good. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.

Using the breathing techniques she practiced in yoga, she relaxed and tried to think positive, healing thoughts. She had been hoping that with yoga and proper exercise she might never have to go through this again.

After the epidural, she rested for twenty minutes and was then released.

Though not groggy exactly, A.J. had not slept the night before, and she was tired and emotionally drained—never mind the fact that her back was tender. She rested her head against the cab window as the truck crept toward home, Stella’s deep voice a comfortable white noise in the background of her thoughts.

Her cell rang. A.J. fumbled it out of her purse and received word from Mr. Meagher that Elysia was being released on bail within the hour.

Stella obligingly, if slowly, changed direction, and A.J. worked to contain her impatience as the pickup truck moseyed on down the highway back to Stillbrook.

When they arrived they found the small town in something resembling a state of siege.

Normally the town of Stillbrook was a quiet and quaint little place, a harmonious blend of historic homes and village industry. Victorian architecture housed bakeries, boutiques, and art galleries—not to mention families that had lived in Warren County since Colonial times. In the center of town was a scrupulously neat village green, which was dutifully decked out in appropriate holiday garb at every turn of the calendar page. Currently, giant colorful Easter eggs, slightly drooping pastel balloons, and wide ribbons in pink and yellow and blue competed with the natural beauty of the blooming flower beds.

Not that the milling sightseers were paying much attention to scenic beauty—natural or otherwise. News vans were parked around the green oval of the park and a small mob seemed to have gathered outside the brick police station.