Veil of Night (14 page)

“Damn,” he said without thinking. “It takes
that
long to plan a wedding?” Then he caught himself and looked up. “Sorry.”

She waved away the apology. “Do you want a copy of the contract?”

“If you don’t mind.” He didn’t know that he’d need it, but having a copy was one more
i
dotted.

She took the contract, opened a closet door to reveal a small printer, and copied every page. He waited in silence. When she was finished she neatly stacked the pages, stapled them together in one corner, and handed them to him before repeating the sequence with the original contract and returning it to its file folder, which she then replaced in the file drawer.

He’d bet his badge that if any of these four women ever killed anyone, the murder would be carefully researched, planned, and meticulously orchestrated. There wouldn’t be any detail left to chance, nothing done in the heat of the moment, no messy clues left behind. They’d probably get away with the crime, too, he thought, torn between amusement and irritation, because the cop in him didn’t like the idea of anyone getting away with anything on his watch.

“What time did you leave Claire’s?”

“Five-fifteen.”

“Exactly?” he asked, less than pleased that she’d come back with such a specific answer. In his experience, people might know about when they did something, but not down to the minute.

“Exactly,” Madelyn said firmly. “I’m a clock-watcher. We all are. I told you, I had a wedding to oversee last night. I had to be there well in advance.”

“Where was the wedding?”

She told him, and he knew from experience the drive would have taken her at least forty-five minutes. Not only that, it was in the opposite direction from Hopewell. “What time did you arrive?”

“Six oh two. And, yes, there were a number of vendors already at the church, as well as most of the wedding party, so there are people who can verify the time. Would you like a list of their names?”

“Please,” he said politely, and took notes as she consulted her own notes and rattled off names, as well as phone numbers. God, these women were so organized it was scary. Madelyn hadn’t been on his short list of suspects but she’d definitely been a possibility, but this pretty much ruled her out. If she’d arrived at the church when she said she had, there was no way she could have driven to Hopewell, killed Carrie, then made the drive to the church, not to mention she’d have had to go home and change clothes, too.

She’d given Jaclyn a pretty good alibi, too. The t.o.d. time frame the medical examiner had given them put Carrie’s death pretty close to the time Jaclyn had left her—but if Jaclyn had killed her and then calmly went to have a muffin with her mother at a public restaurant, she’d have been covered with blood.

Carrie’s murder had been messy. Whoever had killed her had walked—or run—away from the scene bloody and enraged, likely in a panic. He’d play this by the book and wait for word that no blood had been found on Jaclyn’s clothes, but he was pretty sure none of these women ever panicked. No matter how he played the scene in his mind, he just couldn’t see Jaclyn Wilde losing her cool and killing Carrie Edwards in a rage. He could see her a lot of ways, not least of which was beneath him, naked and flushed, but not as a killer—and he shouldn’t be thinking about her naked, either, not until she was officially off the suspect list.

The problem was, though he could make his actions objective, his mind kept going back to the night they’d spent together, and he didn’t feel objective about that at all.

On the good side, he was one step closer to clearing Jaclyn. On the bad side, he was back to square one in finding Carrie’s killer, with a victim almost no one liked, and ass-deep in potential suspects.

There wasn’t anything more he could find out from Madelyn. She was clear, and she’d provided a damn good alibi for Jaclyn, though until he got the report back on Jaclyn’s clothes he couldn’t say anything. He’d be better off spending his time chasing down the other possibilities. He studied his notes for a moment, trying to think of any angle he might have missed, but everything was pretty straightforward. Finally he flipped his notebook shut and rose to his feet. “Thank you for answering my questions, Mrs. Wilde. I’ll be in touch.”

Again, she made that disgusted little snorting sound. It was almost like a feminine grunt.

The two other women were still in the outer office, their expressions closed and hostile. Jaclyn’s door was firmly closed again. Eric said good-bye to the two women, smiling warmly at them just to tweak them; the older redhead narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

Soon enough he’d have Jaclyn cleared, but by then it might well be too late, might have been too late since last night when he’d questioned her. As he got into his car he remembered the skunk comment, and inwardly winced. Like the two women who had just glared at his back as he went out the door, he figured Jaclyn was going to carry this grudge for a long time.

A thought occurred to him: Had Jaclyn told her mother that they’d spent the night together?

Naw.

For one thing, she wasn’t the kiss-and-tell type. For another, Madelyn hadn’t tried to gut him.

Chapter Fifteen

WHEN JACLYN HEARD MADELYN’S VOICE OUTSIDE HER
door, with Peach and Diedra’s voices running over each other as they asked simultaneous questions, she paused for a moment to listen harder. Not hearing Eric’s much deeper voice, she huffed out a quick breath of relief and jerked her door open, though she took a quick look around to make sure he was gone before she asked, “What happened?”

“He asked questions about what I was doing yesterday afternoon, and took a lot of notes,” Madelyn replied. “I think he was making certain I didn’t kill Carrie, but there was no way. After we had muffins at Claire’s, I didn’t have time to go back and do the deed, then get to the wedding.”

“You had muffins at Claire’s?” Peach asked.

“Yesterday afternoon, after Carrie fired us,” Jaclyn said.

“Well,” Diedra humphed. “Number one: you
could
have bought enough muffins for us to have today. I’m just saying. Number two: more than likely, he was verifying that you were where you said you were. Madelyn is your alibi.”

“Maybe,” Jaclyn said unhappily. She should have known he’d have to question Madelyn. If she’d thought of it beforehand she might have been better prepared for the shock. Instead, sudden rage had roared through her like a wildfire, and she was left feeling shaky in the aftermath.

“I don’t know,” Madelyn added. “He asked what I did from three o’clock yesterday afternoon until I got to the wedding, so—” She lifted her shoulder in a “who knows” gesture. “Did anyone get a newspaper this morning? The news on television didn’t give many details. Maybe the newspaper will tell us what time they think the murder happened.”

No one had. “I’ll go get one,” said Diedra. She grabbed her bag and car keys, and hurried out the door.

“I need more coffee,” Peach said. “And another brownie.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen area.

“Why?” Madelyn demanded as she followed.
“You
weren’t questioned.”

Thinking she needed to soothe her jangled nerves with chocolate more than she needed to worry about the empty calories, Jaclyn decided to join them. She was in time to hear Peach say, “I’m consoling myself
because
I wasn’t questioned.”

“What?”

“Lord have mercy, Madelyn, are you dead from the waist down?” As Jaclyn came through the door, Peach shot her a guilty look. “Sorry, honey. But you
do
know your mother has a love life—”

“Peach!”
Madelyn said in a threatening tone.

“Actually, I do.” Jaclyn poured herself some coffee and got another brownie from the tray.

“See, you don’t have to act as if you’re the Mother Superior in a convent.” Peach gave Madelyn an “I told you so” look and took a bite of her brownie. “As I was saying, that man just oozed testosterone. The chemical reaction almost made me go into heat—and I was
mad
at him, so just imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been!”

Jaclyn almost choked on a sip of coffee.

“I’m a good twenty years older than the detective, and so are you, Peach Reynolds. I didn’t notice his testosterone and you shouldn’t have, either.”

“Older women can go after younger men now. Personally, I’ve never thought there was anything wrong with it. Old codgers go after young airheads all the time, so why can’t women of our age have a little fun every now and then? It actually makes sense, because we don’t have to worry about getting pregnant. Celibacy should be for the young and stupid, not the mature and wise.”

Run or stand her ground? Spill the beans about knowing Eric—though
not
about sleeping with him—or keep quiet? Jaclyn had no idea what to do, but she did know she didn’t want to listen to her mother and a woman who was like an aunt to her talk about Eric’s testosterone level. “Uh …” she began, not knowing exactly what she was going to say, but it didn’t matter; she might as well not have made a sound, for all the attention they paid her.

Madelyn planted her hands on her hips. “I have news for you. By the time you’re mature and wise, it’s too late to be celibate. Talk about shutting the barn door after the horse is already out!”

“That’s the whole point! Wise and mature women shouldn’t be celibate; we should go for the gusto, which in this case is younger men.”

“That man is investigating my daughter for murder! Are you out of your mind? I don’t care if he’s the gusto, or the goulash, or the crème brûlée—I didn’t like him!”

“There is that,” Peach agreed after a moment. “I didn’t like him, either, on a personal basis. But on an impersonal basis, tall, dark, and rugged does it for me every time.”

Jaclyn put the brownie down on a paper towel, thinking that she’d choke if she tried to eat it just now. She didn’t know who would be more embarrassed, herself or Madelyn and Peach, if she told them now that she’d had a … a
thing
with Eric. That was all it was—just a thing—because one night did not a relationship make. But even a thing was too much to talk about in light of everything they’d just said. Not that it mattered, because the “thing” was over and nothing else was going to happen between them, assuming he didn’t end up arresting her for Carrie’s murder on circumstantial evidence alone.

She couldn’t say anything now, because that would be making too big a deal over it, when it wasn’t. Being investigated for murder, on the other hand, was definitely a big deal. She should forget the thing with Eric and deal with the most important issue, though she had no idea how she could be proactive in this situation.

“I can’t do anything except work,” she said aloud, drawing her mother’s and Peach’s attention from their argument.

Both of them looked at her. “What?”

“This whole situation. It’s out of my control. I don’t like it, but I have to step back and concentrate on what
is
in my control, which is work. But … oh,
damn
, when he was here I could have asked him about getting my briefcase, and instead I blew up at him and then hid in my office like a scared little kid!” She smacked herself on the forehead.

“I thought you and Diedra had already re-created the file,” Peach said.

“For the Bulldog rehearsal and wedding, yes, because that was the most immediate, but now we’ll have to do the others, too.”

Madelyn pinched off a corner of her brownie, chewed it. “That’s an annoyance, but we can handle it. We have all the information on everything; it’s just a matter of pulling it all together in one neat list.”

“I know, but it’s time we could spend doing other things.”

“Like eating brownies,” said Peach, smiling at her. “Honey, I know this is stressful, but it’ll be over soon and everything will work out. You didn’t kill her, therefore they can’t prove that you did.”

“Circumstantial evidence—”

“Will apply to a lot of people, all of whom had a grudge against Carrie. I’m assuming they took your clothes because they were looking for blood. You didn’t kill her, so there won’t be any blood. As soon as they run all their tests and get the reports back, you’ll be in the clear.”

“Is that the way it happens on
CSI?”

“Well, all the guys I date love
CSI
, so I end up watching a lot of it. On the show, the most obvious suspect is never the one who did the deed, so that’s a comfort. But
CSI
aside, common sense says they’re looking for blood; that’s the only reason they’d have taken your clothes. Hey, sweetie, did they maybe swab your hands or something last night, looking for gunshot residue?”

“No, why?”

“Then that means she wasn’t shot. If she had been, they’d have done that.”

Evidently her assumption that Carrie had been shot was wrong, Jaclyn thought. She was conditioned by the news to assume every murder was committed with a gun. Probably when gangs were involved they mostly were, but how about other types of murders?

“There are a lot of other ways to kill someone,” said Madelyn, giving the idea some thought. “Strangling, conking her on the head, stabbing, pushing her and she falls and hits her head on something, though I’d say that’s an accident. Um, there’s poison, but then they’d be looking at either Irena or Audrey, because they brought food samples, right? Forget poison, then.”

They could probably go on for quite a while listing possible ways Carrie had been done in, and Jaclyn thought she could probably come up with some entertaining possibilities herself, but she had things to do. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much longer Diedra would be gone. “I need to pick up some dry-cleaning before my appointment in Dunwoody. If the newspaper says anything interesting, call me.”

She fetched her purse and appointment book from her office, as well as the file folder with the new list she and Diedra had assembled—drat, she needed her briefcase—and let herself out the back door.

Eric was leaning against her car, ankles and arms crossed, waiting.

Jaclyn skidded to a halt, her kitten heels sliding a little on the concrete pad. An almost uncontrollable surge of panic, combined with anger, made the bottom drop out of her stomach and her hair feel as if it were lifting away from her scalp. She almost bolted back inside—her hand was already on the doorknob—but that would be cowardly, and she was still annoyed with herself for not punching Carrie when she had the chance, so she forced herself to stand her ground.

He straightened away from the Jag and closed the short distance between them.

There wasn’t a thing wrong with cowardice, she thought, and started to shove the door open. If he had anything to say to her, she wanted witnesses.

“I thought I should probably tell you not to leave town,” he said in that flat, cold cop tone, his hazel eyes narrowed.

Not leave town? She was already out of town, because she was in Atlanta instead of Hopewell. “What constitutes ‘town’? Hopewell, or the greater Atlanta area? I was just on my way to Dunwoody for an appointment. Is that out of town?”

A faintly impatient expression crossed his face. “Dunwoody is fine. Don’t leave the
area
. Don’t go to the Bahamas for a vacation.”

Now that she’d had a second to think, she wondered what the heck he was doing there. She looked at his car, parked next to hers. If he had something to say to her, why hadn’t he come back inside? For that matter, why hadn’t he called her? He had the number of Premier, and he knew she was there. He also had her cell number. He’d been leaning against her car as if prepared to wait for however long it took her to come out, but for all he knew she would be in the office all day.

One thing was for certain: he hadn’t been there when Diedra left, because she’d have called in an alert. So he’d left, then returned.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked suspiciously, though she didn’t want to talk to him more than she had to. Something fishy was going on, and she wanted to know what it was. “Were you about to search my car?”

“Can’t do that without a search warrant,” he said calmly.

“Maybe you were about to do it
without
a search warrant.” She could feel her jaw set as she glared up at him.

“No, ma’am. I’m doing this by the book.”

“You were leaning against
my
car, so if you weren’t about to do an illegal search, what the hell
were
you doing?” she asked sharply. She could hear the hostility in her voice—she, who made it a practice to stay cool and calm, but she didn’t care.

“Waiting for you.”

“For what reason? Why didn’t you come inside and say whatever you want to say? For that matter, why come back at all? You could have called.”

“I thought I might get some runaround about you not being available if I called.”

She jerked her head up, anger glittering in her eyes. “I’ve cooperated completely. So has my mother. I haven’t given you any reason to think you might get the runaround.”

“Yes, ma’am, you have cooperated,” he said in a bland voice. “I appreciate it, too.”

The way he kept calling her “ma’am” was setting her teeth on edge, and he knew it. “Then your excuse doesn’t hold water, Detective.”

“I wanted to make certain you got my message.”

“I got it, loud and clear,” she said tersely. She looked at his car, parked beside hers, and a couple of questions came to mind. “How did you know which car is mine?” After all, she and Madelyn drove identical Jags.

“I ran the license plate.”

Great. She didn’t like the idea of her name being sent all over law enforcement land, but there was nothing she could do about it. The fact that she was a suspect in a murder case probably wasn’t a state secret, either. Without commenting, she moved on to the second question: “How did you know I’d be coming out?” Surely he hadn’t been intending to lean against her car, waiting for her, until she went out for lunch. She thought she knew the answer, but she wanted to make certain.

“I have your briefcase, remember? I’ve read everything in it. I know what your schedule is, so I figured you’d be leaving for your appointment in Dunwoody pretty soon.”

Just as she’d thought. She clenched her teeth. She hated to ask him for
anything
, but this was the perfect opportunity. “May I have my briefcase back?” Before he could refuse, she tacked on, “Or keep the briefcase and let me have the contents. I need my files. Failing that, could you have someone just
copy
the files for me?”

“The briefcase is evidence recovered at a crime scene,” he said, which she took for a big fat No. Then he continued, “I don’t see any reason why copies of the contents can’t be made for you. I’ll check with the lieutenant. If he gives the okay, I’ll make sure you get them.”

Crap, now she had to thank him. The words were like sawdust in her mouth, but she got them out. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

God, talking to him was like ripping a bandage off a wound that had just that moment stopped bleeding. She would not let him get to her like this. She would get angry, but she refused to let him hurt her, refused to let him mean that much to her.

Too late
, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. She should have listened to that little voice the night before last when she’d invited Eric over, but instead she’d shoved it aside. She should have listened then, but she still didn’t want to listen now. She wanted both the little voice and Eric to just go away. She could deal; she
would
deal. It might take some time, but she’d do it.