Veil of Night (13 page)

Diedra gasped.
“You saw the killer?”

“I saw a man. He
could
have killed her. I don’t know that he did or didn’t.” Neither Eric nor Sergeant Garvey had seemed very impressed by her tale of a gray-haired man, and if Melissa hadn’t seen him, there was no way to prove he’d been there at all. After all, Jaclyn thought, she hadn’t actually seen him enter the building, either. Melissa might have already locked the front door, if she hadn’t had any other appointments coming in that day. The man might have gone around to the front, tried the door, then left.

“Did he see you?”

“He parked right beside me. I don’t know how he could have missed seeing me.”

Maybe Diedra watched too many crime shows on television, but her dark eyes got wide again. “If he’s the one who killed Carrie,” she said sharply, “then you’re the only one who can place him at the scene. He knows you saw him. You have to go into hiding!”

Chapter Fourteen

GOING INTO HIDING WASN’T AN OPTION—AT LEAST NOT
this week, with their schedule so packed, not to mention she was pretty sure the Hopewell PD wouldn’t look kindly on her disappearing. Besides, how could the man she’d seen have had any idea who she was? For all he knew, she was someone there to inspect the hall with an eye toward booking it. And that was assuming the gray-haired man had killed Carrie, that he’d have any interest in her at all.

Still, the very idea was unsettling. She took solace in one of the brownies—there really was something comforting about chocolate—as she began going through her files and pulling out the details she needed for her working list for the day. Something in her balked at the idea of calling Eric for a favor; she’d rather go to the extra trouble of reassembling her file. Diedra helped her, combing through the computer for salient details, printing out photographs, digging out phone numbers.

Madelyn and Peach arrived within five minutes of each other, and each new arrival necessitated a rehashing of yesterday’s disastrous meeting, Carrie’s murder, speculation on who could have done it—the list was long and varied—as well as going over and over all the questions the police had asked. All of this was punctuated by expressions of outrage, concern, and support, and all of it took up time. So did their repeated raids on the brownies, but, damn, they were good.

Jaclyn was in her office on the phone to the restaurant where the post-rehearsal dinner was being held that night, confirming the reservation, when she heard the discreet chime of the security system that signaled the opening of the front door. A second later Diedra said, “Good morning, may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Wilder. Is Madelyn Wilde in?” a man asked, and Jaclyn went rigid. What was he doing here? Oh, right: asking more questions. Just hearing him speak made the bottom drop out of her stomach. She knew that voice, in ways she wished she didn’t. She’d first heard it fewer than forty-eight hours ago, but the fabric of it was ingrained on her consciousness. She’d heard him casually making small talk; she’d heard the deeper, rougher tones as they had sex; she’d heard him flat and dispassionate as he grilled her on whether or not she’d committed murder.

Instantly she was on her feet, then hesitated. Her instincts recognized him as a threat, but, realistically, what could she do? Deny him access to her mother? No way; he was a cop. If Madelyn refused to talk to him because she wanted to defend Jaclyn, that would only result in her mother being taken to police headquarters to answer questions there, and Jaclyn definitely didn’t want that.

Her only recourse, then, was to ignore him. That was the best-case scenario, if he and Madelyn would allow it. If Madelyn kicked up, Jaclyn would have to convince her mother to cooperate and answer all his questions. Anything else was up to Eric. She hoped he didn’t have any more questions for her, but if he did, she’d have to answer them as calmly as possible.

She was damned, though, if she’d go to the door, or even acknowledge his presence unless she was forced to; she sat back down, recovered herself enough to say “thank you” to the restaurant manager, and hang up while she checked that little item off her list. Then she very determinedly didn’t raise her head or even glance in the direction of the doorway.

Except she felt exposed, as if she’d been tossed naked into the middle of I-285. Before she could stop herself, she got up, leaped for the door, and slammed it shut.

The loud crack of the slamming door resounded through the office. Thoughtfully Eric stared at the glossy wooden panels. All he’d seen was a slim arm reaching for the edge of the door, but he didn’t have a second’s doubt whose office that was: Jaclyn’s. She was definitely pissed, and she definitely didn’t want to see him.

He looked back at the pretty young mixed-race woman who was now glaring at him, all welcome wiped from her expression.

No doubt about it, he was in an enemy camp.

The Premier office didn’t look like an armed camp; it was feminine without being froufrou, more Old World traditional than anything else, with heavy curtains at the windows, rich-looking furniture, and a sense of permanency, as if it had been there since the
Mayflower
landed. Having been inside Jaclyn’s town house he could see some of her taste here in the office, in some of the pieces of furniture, in the artwork and flower arrangements. Even the desk of the young woman wasn’t a real desk, at least not a desk like the battered metal thing he had, but looked like an ornate table that just happened to have a sleek computer monitor on it.

The slamming door brought two more women into view, both of them middle-aged and attractive, though in different ways. One was shorter, rounder, with bright green eyes and pouffy red hair, and a sparkle in her eyes that said “good times had here.” She was obviously not Jaclyn’s mother, while the other woman just as obviously was, not in coloring—her hair was blond, though probably a shade found in a bottle, and while her eyes were blue they weren’t the vivid Black Irish blue of Jaclyn’s eyes—but in facial structure, with the same chiseled cheekbones, slightly squared-off chin, and the softly full shape of her mouth. Looking at Madelyn Wilde gave him a preview of what Jaclyn would look like in twenty-five or thirty years, and it was good.

Mentally he shook himself. What Madelyn Wilde looked like now, and how Jaclyn looked years from now, had nothing to do with him. “Madelyn Wilde?” he asked politely, even though he knew exactly who she was. He flashed his badge again. “Detective Eric Wilder. May I speak with you, please?”

She coldly eyed him, her pretty face taking on a belligerent expression. “What police department are you with?” she asked, though he thought she already knew damn good and well where he worked.

“Hopewell,” he replied.

“Out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

He was willing to cut her a lot of slack, because neither he nor Garvey thought Jaclyn was their perp and this interview was just more
i
dotting and
t
crossing, but he wasn’t willing to let her challenge him on his authority. “Yes, ma’am, I am. I’m not here to arrest anyone, though, just ask a few questions. If you aren’t willing, I suppose I could make a call and get a couple of Atlanta squad cars here, if that would make you feel better—or invite you to visit me at Hopewell’s police department, whichever you’d prefer.”

Before she could answer the closed door was jerked open and Jaclyn stood there, her eyes blazing like blue fire in her white, angry face. “You leave my mother alone,” she said in a fierce, stifled tone, as if she was so angry she could barely speak.

Now, wasn’t that interesting? he thought, eyeing her while carefully keeping his expression blank so she couldn’t see his sharp appreciation. Jaclyn Wilde in a temper was pretty damn impressive, not only because of the vividness of her eyes but because she was normally so cool and controlled. Seeing her lose control wasn’t as good as having sex with her, but it sure reminded him of it, and made him think he might want to make her lose her temper more often. Not today, though; he had to keep his focus on the case, because the sooner he could rule her out as a suspect, the better.

“What happens is entirely up to Mrs. Wilde,” he said in a flat, neutral tone. “I don’t care where the interview takes place.”

But there
would
be an interview, and his voice made that plain.

Madelyn hurried to her daughter and placed a hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” she said, upset in turn because Jaclyn was so upset. “Don’t do anything to get yourself in trouble. It’s just a few questions.”

The four women couldn’t have been more different in style and attitude, but he got the feeling they would walk through fire for one another. They would circle the wagons in any time of trouble, and he imagined if he wasn’t a cop the four of them would even now be pushing him out the door. Of course, if he wasn’t a cop he wouldn’t be here to question one of them in the first place. This was a kind of good thing/bad thing from his point of view: it was good that he got to push Jaclyn’s buttons and watch her flare up, but bad that he had to keep her at a distance right now.

Tension crackled in the air, and if the proverbial looks could kill, he would already be assuming room temperature. He represented a threat and they were mad as hell about it. Maybe Jaclyn had cried on their collective shoulders about what a dickhead he was for questioning her, taking her clothes—in other words, treating her like a suspect, which technically she was. Women tended to close ranks around one of their own anyway, and these ranks had definitely closed.

It made him wonder how they, both collectively and individually, had responded when they learned Carrie had slapped Jaclyn. Carrie’s murder had all the signs of something that happened in the heat of the moment, in an argument that escalated way out of hand. If that were so, then maybe he should take a long hard look at Madelyn Wilde herself, because he could see a mother defending her daughter.

“This way,” Madelyn said in a clipped tone, and without looking at him led the way down the hall to her office, her heels clipping on the runner that protected the glossy hardwood floors. Eric followed her, not allowing himself even a glance at Jaclyn as he walked by. Anger he could handle; hell, seeing her like that had kind of turned him on, but then everything about her had turned him on from the beginning. What he didn’t want to see in her eyes was hate, and he thought she probably hated him right about now.

Madelyn entered a room on the right at the end of the hall. Eric followed her, closed the door behind him, and took a moment to look around. It was a very feminine room, with fringed lamps and ornately framed artwork, and chairs sized for women. “Please,” she said, indicating one of those chairs as she took her own seat behind her desk. “Sit down.”

Eric eyed the chairs, then chose one and cautiously lowered his weight onto it. He breathed a sigh of relief; it was sturdier than it looked, though lower than he liked. He felt as if his knees were about chest high, so he compensated by stretching his legs out some. He looked up to find Madelyn eyeing him with grim satisfaction, as if she knew how awkward he found the low-sitting chair.

He took out his pen and notebook, flipping through it until he found the pages where he’d jotted down the details of his interview with Jaclyn the night before. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” he said politely, hoping to calm some of the troubled waters.

She snorted. It was a ladylike snort, but still a snort. “I don’t believe I had much choice, Detective.”

“Only in the location, ma’am.”

“All right, we’re talking. Ask your questions.”

He leaned back and crossed his ankle on his knee, taking a relaxed position, his body language saying that he was the one in authority even though she was the one who was sitting behind the desk. “Why don’t you take me through what you were doing yesterday afternoon?”

“From when to when?” she asked.

“Say three o’clock on.” The M.E. had put Carrie’s death later than that, but he didn’t say so.

She reached to the side of her desk and flipped open an appointment book. Then she got her BlackBerry from her purse, thumbed through the calls, and began her recital, leading him through every appointment, every meeting, every phone call. She got to the phone call she’d received from Jaclyn, and the time she read off matched exactly the time that had been on Jaclyn’s phone. She handed him the BlackBerry for verification; he duly noted the time and gave the phone back.

“You’re very organized,” he said.

She sniffed. “I’m an events planner. Organization is what I do. Every detail has to be controlled and overseen.”

“So I see. What did you do after talking with your daughter?”

“Then I drove to Claire’s, ordered our muffins, and was waiting at one of the tables when Jaclyn got there.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“No. Do you have the receipt from your lunch yesterday? But I put it on my credit card, so there’s a record, if it becomes an issue.”

“What did you do then?”

“We sat and talked. I had a wedding to do last night, and I didn’t have time to go home and relax.”

“What did Jaclyn tell you?”

“She told me that Carrie slapped her, if that’s what you’re asking,” Madelyn said sharply. “Carrie was a bitch. I regret the day I took her booking. She was hands down the worst client Premier has ever had, and it wasn’t even because of her unreasonable demands. A lot of brides are demanding, and a lot of them are unreasonable, but they’re under stress, so when they freak out it’s understandable. What made Carrie stand out was how
mean
she was. She enjoyed causing everyone a lot of extra trouble. She enjoyed insulting people and keeping them upset.”

“What did you do when Jaclyn told you Carrie had struck her?”

“I didn’t actually
do
anything, because Jaclyn wouldn’t let me. She’s very levelheaded. What I
wanted
to do was hunt down the bullying little low-life heifer and beat the sh—
snot
out of her.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No, Jaclyn pointed out that Premier had the legal high ground, and best of all, Carrie had fired us. We were free of her.”

“What about the fee she’d paid?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. The trick was to keep asking the same questions over and over, to see if you got the same answers. If you didn’t, that was a clue to where to look, where to keep picking.

“She wouldn’t have gotten much money back. Our contracts state that, in case of termination, our fees are prorated according to the amount of work the agency has done. With Carrie’s wedding, the vast majority of planning and arrangements had already been made.”

That jibed exactly with what Jaclyn had told him, but she and her mother had obviously talked, so it was possible they’d gone over that detail and rehearsed what to say. “May I see a copy of the contract?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

Madelyn opened a drawer, flicked through the files, and withdrew a moss green folder. “Here it is.” She placed the file on the desk and slid it across to him. Eric leaned forward and took the file, opened it. He leafed through the thick stack of paperwork until he found the contract. Finding the pertinent clause took only a few seconds, and it was exactly as they’d said. Carrie Edwards had signed it, and it was dated more than a year before.