Plum Girl (Romance) (26 page)

That settled it. First she'd ask what Montgomery had learned about the women on the list. Then she'd tell him about B.J.

The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out into the pink-marbled lobby. Once she was safely hidden behind a wide, cylindrical column, she dialed. After two rings, he picked up. "Detective Montgomery."

"Hi, Detective. This is Lonnie Kelley."

"Hi there. How are you doin'? Got any information for me?" She could hear a lot of muffled voices and phones ringing in the background.

"Uh, sort of." For all she knew, Montgomery had checked out B.J. and found out about his job troubles. "What do you know about B.J. Flynn?"

"You on a secure line?"

"Um... yeah," she answered, hoping it was true.

"Okay... let's see here..." She could hear him rustling papers, and then he said, "Twenty-six, white male... middle-class background... law degree from Dinkle College. He's an associate... been with the firm almost a year." When Montgomery finished, Lonnie was speechless.
Dinkle College?

"That's it? What I mean is, you haven't... I don't know... investigated him more thoroughly than that?"

Montgomery casually replied, "Not really. He's not high on our list of suspects. Not that I should be telling you that. Or any of this, for that matter."

She ignored the last part and pressed on. "But I thought everyone was a suspect. Well, except me, of course."

"B.J.'s got no visible motive. That's not to say he couldn't have done it, but first we look at people who are more obvious suspects. The ones with something immediate—usually money—to gain from murder. Or the ones with an emotional connection to or history with the victim." She couldn't help thinking that Twit fit into both those categories.

Montgomery added, "From where I sit, I doubt B.J.'s gonna profit from Bell's death. Especially since the firm's net worth is gonna drop."

Lonnie thought about that for a minute.

"Lonnie?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm here," she said vacantly. "I don't get it—why haven't you interrogated anyone here yet? Why does everyone still think Lunther's death was just a heart attack?"

Montgomery sighed heavily. "Look, I gotta be honest with you. This case is a little lacking in the evidence department. If the potassium chloride was slipped into Lunther's glass, we'll never know, because the tables were cleared at ten-thirty and the dishwashers were loaded by eleven. At this point, our best hope is to wait for someone to trip up. That usually happens when they don't know anyone's watching." He paused and added, "What did you want to tell me about B.J.?"

"Wait. First tell me what you found out about the fax I gave you. Have you checked out the women who were listed on it?"

He sighed, which she'd learned wasn't a great sign, but by no means indicated defeat. "Kid, I can't tell you every detail of the case," he said.

"Why not? You've told me everything so far!" she said without thinking, and then her hand flew over her mouth. "I mean—"

"Yeah, you're right. Jesus, I confide less in my damn shrink."

"You don't strike me as the type to see a shrink," she remarked.

"I don't. I just said that," he replied, chuckling.

She rolled her eyes and grinned in spite of herself. "Detective,
please.
I want to know what you found out about the fax I gave you. I
need
to find out."

"Boy, have you gotten an attitude since I first met you. Now, listen—" There was a pause and some muffled talking before Montgomery said, "Shit, I gotta go—"

"Wait, please! Just tell me about the fax, and then I'll fill you in on B.J. whenever it's convenient, okay?" Her voice was calm but forceful. And he relented.

"Ah, Christ." He sighed for the millionth time and continued. "I can tell you that we ran all those women's names through the computer, and only one came up."
Ann Lee?
"Sandra Neemas. She'd pressed charges against Bell for sexual harassment. Actually, she started to press charges, but then she dropped them. To tell you the truth, it's a total fluke that her name is even still on record here. It should have been deleted a long time ago."

"How long ago?"

"Uh... I guess a year ago. Right after she dropped the charges." Lonnie felt nauseated. She always knew Lunther was a slob and a buffoon. But a sexual harasser, too? What a creep. "But we already checked her out," he went on. "She's been living in London for the past five months. The other three women had similar stories, but they've all got alibis, so I've ruled them out."

"What do you mean 'similar stories'?"

"No, that's it."

"But—"

"I gotta go."

Finally, she yielded to the nonnegotiable tone in his voice. "Okay."

"Hey, do me a favor?" Montgomery added before getting off the phone. "Forget everything I just told you. And stop snooping before I arrest you."

"Bye, Detective," she said, ignoring his silly threat. In some ways, Montgomery was as absurd as every other person in her daily life. Well, except Dominick. And Peach. And Margot. Okay, not Margot.

Lonnie switched off her cell phone and emerged from the far-off corner of the lobby to go back to work. On the elevator, she thought about what Montgomery had told her. He'd said the women had
similar stories.
So that meant they all worked for Lunther? He'd sexually harassed
all
of them? How could she find out for sure?

Macey!
She was the only person Lonnie could ask about this. Did she know what'd happened to these women? Maybe this was why she hated Lunther so much. She'd have to ask her. Not only did Lonnie want to find out who killed Lunther for justice's sake; she also wanted to clear Macey... who didn't even know she was a suspect.

Then she remembered that Macey was out of the office that day, making a court appearance. That meant Lonnie would have to wait all the way till Monday to talk to her.

Damn it all!

Lonnie pushed hard on the glass doors to Twit & Bell and charged over to her desk. She plopped into her chair and tried to calm her nerves with some semideep breaths. It didn't work. Her heart was beating fast and her stomach was working on burning a hole through itself. She felt wired. She needed to
do
something. And she didn't even know what.

"Luanne, it's about time!" Twit barged stormily toward her. "I could've been to the moon and back by now." There couldn't have been a worse time for Twit's antics. He pointed his finger at her. "I need punctuality and reliability from my assistant, Lorna. Is that perfectly clear?"

Lonnie inhaled a deep breath, gritted her teeth so hard they hurt, and shot icy eyes at him. "Oh,
stuff it!"

She vaulted off her chair, pushed past him, and stalked to the bathroom. And she'd be damned if she'd tell him later that she was just moody with "female problems." Enough was enough! She had more important things to think about than hand-holding Twit through another day of megalomania. Like protecting her friend and mentor. Like finding Lunther's killer. Like justice for all women, which somehow fit in.

First thing Monday, she'd talk to Macey.

Chapter 19

"I still don't get it," Peach said, penciling an image on her large sketch pad. "How come Mom didn't invite me to dinner?"

"What are you talking about?" Lonnie called from the closet. "She asked us both; you said you had other plans. Have you seen my blue Nikes?"

"I think you got the order wrong there. First I mentioned I had plans on Saturday night.
Then
she asked us to dinner. Don't you get it?"

Lonnie emerged from the closet disheveled—her ponytail was lopsided from crawling around looking for her sneakers, and the knees of her nylon running pants were torn open from a roller-blading "incident" at the Public Gardens last spring. "Get what?" she asked absently, and brushed a stray clump of hair away from her forehead. "I can only find one."

"Why are you gonna wear your blue ones? They're ugly. No offense."

"I like them."

"Now, back to Mom..." Peach paused just long enough to grab a different pencil and change the angle of her pad. "It seems painfully obvious that Mom wants to get you alone tonight so she can talk about me."

"What?"
Lonnie scoffed because the suggestion was ludicrous, and her sister was hardly the paranoid type. "What are you talking about? Why would Mom do that?" She bent on her knees, lifted the comforter up, and looked under her bed for the other sneaker. "Yes!" She strained to reach for it, and shoved it on forcefully.

"I'm serious," Peach said calmly while sketching. "She's obsessed with the idea of me getting a 'real job.' She thinks that taking an entry-level position with 'growth potential' at some company I don't care about is what my life needs. She figures I just need to be convinced, and that's where you come in." She looked up. "Don't you see? This dinner tonight—it's a sneak attack to bring you over to
her
side."

"That's crazy. I'm the last person she'd try that with. She knows I'll defend your side no matter what." Lonnie stood and looked down at her just-laced feet. Maybe the sneakers were a little ugly... but in a fun way. What was the difference anyway? She was just having dinner at her parents' town house—it wasn't like she had to dress up for the occasion. Her mother had mentioned something about "looking presentable," but it was just one in a long string of nagging commands, so Lonnie hadn't given it too much consideration.

Just then there was a knock at the door.

"Oh, that's Cheryl." Peach set aside her pad and went to open the door. "Hey," she said.

"Hi!" Cheryl enthused sweetly, and followed Peach inside. "Hi, Lonnie," she said, and sat down on the rug.

"Okay, did you bring the dress we agreed on?" Peach asked, sounding a little like a teacher on the cusp of admonishing a student.

Cheryl nodded sheepishly, and pointed to the shopping bag she'd rested against the sofa. "Are you sure...?"

"Yes," Peach commanded, leaving no room for negotiation.

"So, are you guys excited for tonight?" Lonnie asked, as she put on her puffy white parka. The coat, she could admit, was definitely ugly. But it had been raining the last time she checked and, if nothing else, the suffocating white monstrosity was waterproof.

"Sort of," Cheryl answered shyly, with flushed cheeks and a tremulous smile, and pushed a short dark blond lock behind her ear. That night she and Peach were double-dating with Matt and his uncle, Jean-Paul. Peach had set up the whole thing—although, Matt had warned her that his uncle was not the stuff of dream dates. Apparently, Uncle Jean-Paul was a forty-nine-year-old widower who'd moved from France to America more than fifteen years ago but still insisted on speaking French in mixed company—and the less people understood, the better he seemed to like it. Granted, not what Lonnie would consider a
ten,
but Peach said they had to start somewhere.

"Do you guys know where you're going yet?"

"Matt's uncle picked a place," Peach replied. "A new restaurant in Newton. Chez Noir, I think it's called." Lonnie nodded and reserved comment. "Actually, I'm spending the night at Iris's house afterward, okay? It's just easier. Oh! I forgot," Peach exclaimed, turning her attention back to Cheryl. "I have to teach you to French kiss before we go."

What? Okay, her sister was a force that needed to be stopped. "Peach!" Lonnie cried scoldingly.

"What?" Peach asked innocently. "She asked me to."

Cheryl's cheeks went from pink to scarlet in .5 seconds, but she nodded. Lonnie gave up. All they needed was for Cheryl to start calling Peach "sir," and the Peppermint Patty-Marcy metamorphosis would be complete.... But, hey, it wasn't any of her business. Anyway, she had to admit that Cheryl appeared a lot happier than the first time she'd come to the apartment, so maybe Peach's intrusive brand of therapy was actually helping, after all.

"Which reminds me," Peach proceeded, "do we have any really soft plums?"

Lonnie squinted her eyes, bewildered by her sister's thought process. "Uh... no, I don't think so." Not only didn't they have any "really soft plums," but spicy V8 and lime JELL-O were usually the closest things they had to fruit. "Why?"

"To practice kissing. How else do you think I'm gonna teach her?" Then Peach's tone changed to teasing. "Look, Cheryl, I
like
you and all, but—"

"Okay, okay," Lonnie said, shaking her head. "Have a great time tonight, you guys."

She zipped up her bulky parka, grabbed her keys off the table by the door, and left before Peach could ask her if they had any really hard bananas.

* * *

On the T, Lonnie used her cell phone to call Dominick.

"So, what's the deal? How long do you think dinner's going to run?"

"Hmm... I should probably be home before nine."

"Let's do something after then."
Yes!
Although she figured it would take a good hour to clean up her act since she looked particularly rumpled and slovenly at the moment.

"Okay. I'll call you when I get home. What are you doing now?"

His voice was breezy and husky and blood-rushing all at the same time when he said, "Oh, I'm just here hanging out with my other girlfriend."

"Well, don't let me keep you."

"No, it's okay. I like you better, anyway. So, you're gonna call me when you get home?"

"Mmm-hmm. I want to"—
attack you
—"see you."

He lowered his voice and said, "Me, too."

After they said good-bye, Lonnie switched off her phone absently, and let warm anticipation swirl through her. Dominick had jokingly said his "other girlfriend." Well, that settled it, then; he considered her his girlfriend. It just seemed too good to be true. He was too wonderful, and she liked being with him too much for all this to work out.

She stopped herself, though, because she was feeling too giddy to indulge in her default relationship-pessimism. Plus, she had another Dominick-centered matter that was commanding more of her interest at the moment. Namely, her barely containable desire to ravage his body.