Murder on the Eightfold Path (7 page)

“Maybe they’re planning to lynch her,” Stella muttered, not sounding particularly distressed at the idea. But as they drew nearer, they saw that the crowd appeared to be mostly made up of reporters and photographers.

“This is crazy,” A.J. muttered.

“Maybe so. It ought to make your ma’s day.” Stella searched for any space alongside the curb wide enough to wedge the truck into.

“But she hasn’t made a film in over twenty years,” A.J. protested, taking note of the national television logos on the long line of vans.

“Doesn’t matter. Easy Mason was big news once upon a time. Every naughty film and risqué photograph she ever posed for will be turning up.”

A.J. gulped. Not that Elysia had been a porn star, but she had certainly played more than her share of scantily clad ingénues and sirens, and the words
sex kitten
had been used more than occasionally in reference to her work. A.J. had outgrown her adolescent agony over her mother’s colorful career; in fact she was even proud of her in a conflicted way that she’d probably never admit, but the idea of all those photos of Elysia wearing hot pants, shoulder pads, teased hair—and little else—resurfacing gave her a definite qualm. No one enjoys thinking of her mother as a sex object.

Stella parked, reached under her seat, and dug out a battered-looking straw hat. “You better wear this, just in case someone recognizes you.”

Anything that ugly was more likely to draw attention than deflect it, but A.J. reached automatically for the hat. “Why would anyone care? It’s not like I’ve been in hiding for all these years.”

“Murder changes everything,” Stella said darkly.

A.J. squashed the hat down on her head and they climbed out of the truck, making their way up the sidewalk and then across the street. She could hear the murmured inquiry as to who she and Stella might be before they reached the front steps. They worked their way through the crowd, cameras whirring, and a uniformed officer let them inside where Mr. Meagher met them, appearing tired and triumphant.

“They’re bringing her in now.”

Mr. Meagher looked as though he had literally done battle to get Elysia free. His tie was crooked and his usually immaculately coiffed silver hair was standing up in tufts.

“Is she all right?” A.J. asked tentatively.

“Spitting mad,” Mr. Meagher admitted.

Stella inquired curiously. “How much was her bail?”

Mr. Meagher named a sum and Stella whistled. A.J. barely listened to this exchange, having heard the familiar brisk footsteps on the checkerboard linoleum floor.

A stolid-faced, plump female officer appeared, escorting Elysia. She was pale and her eyes looked smudged and dark-circled. Her hair was more than a little tousled, but otherwise she looked like herself.

“Ah, Stella. You didn’t have to dress up on my account.” Her gaze fell on A.J., taking a moment to recognize her in the oversized straw hat. “And you brought Pollyanna. How sweet.”

“Mother.” A.J. hugged her. Elysia squeezed her tightly back, and A.J. managed not to yelp as her injured back protested.

“You shouldn’t have come down here yourself, lovie. Or were you actually hoping to see Der Fuh—”

Mr. Meagher hissed as loudly as a cobra-spying mongoose and Elysia broke off as Jake appeared in the lobby, carrying a sheaf of papers.

He stopped, nodded gravely, his gaze lingering on A.J.’s, before he apparently changed his mind and walked out again.

Elysia sniffed disapprovingly. “I need the loo.” She turned on her heel.

A.J. exchanged looks with their companions and followed Elysia into the ladies’ room, where she found her mother reapplying her makeup with fierce efficiency.

“Are you . . . ?” A.J. cut off what was obviously a silly question. She couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be jailed, but she could imagine that once she’d been released, feeling clean and in control of her life again would be high priority.

“Bradley tells me there are reporters out there,” Elysia said, combing through her dark hair in sharp, short strokes. She twisted it up into a loose chignon and studied her wan reflection narrowly.

“We can probably sneak out the back of the station,” A.J. said. “I can ask the desk sergeant—”

“
Sneak out the back?
” Elysia stared at her. “I have no intention of sneaking out the back.”

“I thought . . .” A.J.’s voice trailed off.

“You thought what?” Elysia raised her elegant eyebrows. “You thought I would sneak away in the night like a whipped cur?”

“Er, no. I thought you would prefer to slip out the back and avoid all the dumb questions and bad publicity.”

“You. Thought. Wrong.”

All riiiiiight.
Clearly ready for her close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Elysia held her head high. A.J. could just make out the ghostly obscenities scrawled on the multi-bleached wall behind her. “I have no intention of going gently into that good night,” she said clearly and coldly. “Far from it. In fact I’m going out there to give a press conference on the front steps of this dungeon.”

A.J. sucked in a sharp breath. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mother.”

“I didn’t ask. You can sneak out the back if you like.” Elysia moved to the door.

“Wait! I really think we need to—”

Elysia cut her off, throwing open the bathroom door, nearly taking out what looked like a teenaged hooker and her baby.

“My public,” Elysia announced crisply, “awaits!”

“Dear,
dear. After all, it could have gone worse,” Mr. Meagher said absently, for the fifth or sixth time. They were tooling along the tree-lined highway, lush farmland, and green woodland flashing by as they headed for Starlight Farm. Monster, his head stuck out the window, sneezed loudly and wetly.

Other than Mr. Meagher and Monster, no one had had anything to say since they had left Deer Hollow. Actually, no one had had anything to say before Deer Hollow. In fact no one had had anything much to say since Elysia had delivered her scathing denunciation of her treatment at the incompetent hands of the Stillbrook Police Department—which she had concluded by challenging “the plods” to solve the murder of Dakarai Massri before she did.

It had made excellent copy—and had probably earned her the undying enmity of every single member of the Stillbrook Police Department from Chief of Police Harlan Welles to Fred the janitor. Safe to say Elysia wasn’t topping the charts with anybody pulling a salary in the legal and judicial branches either.

Not that she cared. She sat in the front seat gazing broodingly out the windshield at the vast and cloudless blue skies overhead. She had remained so since they’d said good-bye to Stella at the police station and driven to Deer Hollow to pick up Monster. A.J.’s back was beginning to give her, in Elysia’s vernacular, “gyp.” But it seemed easier to spend the night at her mother’s than try and manage on her own. Mostly because it would be difficult to keep an eye on her mother long distance, and A.J. definitely felt it behooved her to keep an eye on Elysia. Especially now that Elysia seemed determined to take an active role in solving Massri’s murder.

“Did you know they found an engagement ring in the remains of that Easter basket?” Elysia said suddenly, seeming to shake off her preoccupation.

“No,” A.J. replied. “But that’s good, right? That proves that there was no ill will between yourself and Dicky.” She tried to read Mr. Meagher’s expression in the rearview mirror.

“Those bloody fools gave me a glimpse of it. Three stones. Baguettes with a two-and-a-half carat center stone. A total of five carats. Do you have any idea what that would have cost the poor dear boy?”

“Do you remember how the poor dear boy would have raised the money?” A.J. inquired. “Because that’s what got us into this jam.” She really didn’t think she could handle her mother getting sentimental over that lying, cheating, sneaking little blackmailer. No one deserved to be murdered, but A.J. was willing to bet Massri had reaped what he sowed.

Mr. Meagher cleared his throat. “The police theorize that Massri might have tried to blackmail your mother into marriage and that’s why she shot him.”

“That’s ridiculous. That’s not logical, it’s just hokey melodrama.”

“That’s what we’re dealing with,” Elysia said. “The filth likes me for it, and that’s that.”

“The . . . filth?”

“Coppers,” Mr. Meagher reminded her out of the side of his mouth. “Pejorative term.”

“I remember now. I must have blocked it out of my mind. Mother, it’s not going to help things if you keep antagonizing the police or the DA or the superior court judge.”

“It’s not going to help kissing their arses either.”

A.J. caught Mr. Meagher’s gaze in the mirror. He shook his head very slightly and, unwillingly, she subsided.

When they reached Starlight Farm, however, and she saw the crime scene tape in the front yard and took in the mess that the police had made searching her mother’s home, A.J.’s anger at Jake surged again. If he didn’t believe her mother was guilty, why was he going along with this garbage? Why wasn’t he doing anything to help? Was he so ambitious that he was willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to his career?

“I’m going to sue the police department,” Elysia said, moving down the hallway and straightening the series of eighteenth-century London watercolors as she went. “Starting with that great, bloody bully boy you call a boyfriend. And I shall enjoy wringing every last penny from their coffers.”

A.J. ignored that. “Haven’t they found the weapon yet?” she asked Mr. Meagher.

“Not yet.”

“Well, surely
that’s
a positive.”

Elysia drawled, “They think I dumped it in the Delaware when I was driving around the countryside with my evaporated milk.”

A.J. sighed and lowered herself to the long sofa, stretching out. “I have to lie down. My back is killing me.”

Some of the hardness left Elysia’s face. “I thought you said you’d had an injection, pumpkin. Didn’t it help?”

“I’m sure it will. But it takes a little while to kick in.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again Elysia was setting a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of lemon madeleines on the low table.

A.J. realized she must have dozed off for a few minutes because Mr. Meagher was in the middle of saying something about the police checking into Elysia’s bank records and finding proof that she had been making payments to Massri.

Elysia opened the silver cigarette box on one of the side tables, seemed to recall that she had company, and flipped it shut again. “Is this supposed to be a big break in their case? I’ve
already
admitted it.”

“The point is, Elysia, it looks very damaging.” It was one of the only times A.J. could remember Mr. Meagher actually sounding sharp with her mother. Her mother seemed to hear the difference in his tone, too. Her brows drew together.

“I can’t help how it looks,” she snapped. “Nor can I help people’s narrow minds.”

Mr. Meagher reddened. He replaced his teacup and saucer on the table and rose. His accent was pronounced as he said, “I must be on me way. I’ll see meself out.”

“Oh, Bradley—”

“Good night, ladies,” Mr. Meagher said with injured dignity.

The quiet, careful closing of the front door was worse than any slamming.

Elysia groaned and dropped her face in her hands.

 

Jake
phoned later that evening after A.J. had retired to Elysia’s comfortable guest bedroom. “I’m at your house.”

“I’m at my mother’s.”

“I figured that out. How’s your back?”

“It’s a little better, I think.”

Abruptly they were out of things to say.

Into the yawning, black silence, A.J. said, “This is . . . awkward.”

“I know. The DA plans on pushing all the way. He’s convinced there’s a real case here. And your mother didn’t make things better with her grand performance this afternoon.”

“She’s scared, and she’s angry.”

“I understand that, but—”

“But?”

“Look, you don’t have to take that attitude with me, A.J. I don’t think your mother killed anybody. But that’s beside the point.”

As great a relief as it was to hear Jake admit even that much, she couldn’t help responding, “It shouldn’t be.”

“This is my job.”

“This is my mother.”

“And I can’t allow personal feelings to interfere with how I do my job. That wouldn’t help Elysia.”

A.J. communed within herself. “Intellectually, yes. I get it. But emotionally? This is an impossible situation. She’s having a rough time and my fraternizing with the . . . the enemy isn’t helping.”

“So what are you saying?”

A.J. was silent. “One day at a time? I think we just need to take things slowly for a while. I mean, if this really goes to trial—”

His voice was flat. “Okay.”