Unlawfull Alliances Page 8

  “I doubt she knows.”

  “How could she not?”

  “You know how it is, the husband, or wife, as the case may be, is always the last to know. I doubt Rosemary has a clue that her husband has been sleeping with one of his partner’s wives for, how many years now? Six, I think.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. Not where Amy was concerned, but at least, I was getting some definite insight into the dynamics of the Morrison family and firm.

  “But what about Scott? Surely he must know. How would he feel knowing his father is betraying his mother?”

  “If he does know, it’s something he’s learned to live with apparently. The attention he gives his mother may be an effort to make up for the lack of attention his father gives her.” Meredith was astute enough to be a PI. I now knew who to go to for any further insights.

  “Scott is a devoted son, isn’t he? And a devoted husband, don’t you think?” There was the opening, now all she had to do was take it.

  “Oh, there’s no question Scott is crazy about Amy. I just hope he’s not messing around on her.”

  “But why would he, if he’s so in love with her?”

  Meredith shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe because it’s in the genes? It’s what he’s seen modeled?”

  “Somehow I don’t see it in him to be like his father.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  How to switch the subject to Amy? “I actually think he’s a lot more like his mother. I just hope he didn’t marry someone who does to him what his father does to his mother.”

  “What, cheat? Amy?” She definitely had no idea that Amy might be the other woman in her marriage.

  I shrugged to downplay it. “You never know.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed as she went into quiet thought. “I’m sure she’s had plenty of opportunities. I don’t know a man who wouldn’t want to get her into bed. Spectacular bod. Gorgeous face. And that vulnerable look that men fall for. But, even so, I can’t see her cheating on—”

  “Excuse me, might one of you ladies be Jenny Campbell?”

  We both looked up at the maitre d. “I am. Is something wrong?”

  “You have a telephone call. You may follow me if you’d like.”

  I excused myself and headed for the telephone. There was only one person who knew when and where I was meeting Meredith for lunch. Charlie.

  Our conversation was brief. I hung up the telephone and told the maitre d that we needed our check immediately. Then I headed back to the table. I did not bother to sit down.

  “Is something wrong?” Meredith asked.

  “I’m afraid I have to go. Something terrible—”

  “What?” Meredith stood up. “What is it, Jenny?”

  “There’s been an accident.”

  * * *

  I reached Charlie’s office in fifteen minutes. Record time from Queen Anne Hill.

  He stood up as soon as he heard the door open, and his arms were around me before it shut.

  “How?” I asked.

  “A hit and run.”

  I sank into the chair he pulled out for me. “I can’t believe it. You’re talking to someone one day and the next they’re dead.”

  “It’s a shock. It always is.”

  “I guess that solves the mystery of who Amy Morrison’s lover is— was.”

  “Good chance.”

  “Have they IDed the car?”

  “Big. White. That’s it.”

  “So they haven’t arrested anyone.”

  “No. But it’s only a matter of time before they trace it—to Scott.”

  I stared at Charlie. “Do you think—?”

  “No, I don’t. But it’s not impossible.”

  I took a deep breath, then another. It didn’t help.

  “A cup of tea, luv?”

  “No thanks.” Charlie’s blend was a bit strong for me. Made me feel like I was drinking spiked tea. “Well, maybe a little. Who’s handling the case?”

  “Jerry Bridges.” Charlie poured a splash of tea into a cup and handed it to me.

  “Jerry? Why the Southpoint Police Department?”

  “Took place in their territory.”

  “On the island?”

  “Close. Outside the club.”

  I closed my eyes and Jake Holbrook’s dimples flashed into my vision. He seemed like such a sweet guy, even if he was having an affair with a married woman—assuming he was. At least he had made her laugh.

  “Do you think Amy knows?”

  “That’s what I need you for.”

  I sat up straight and looked him square in the eye. “What? What do you need me for?”

  “To be there when she finds out.”

  “What am I supposed to do, go over to her house and tell her myself?”

  Charlie’s look was one I knew all too well.

  “Absolutely not! I don’t know her that well. Besides, maybe she already knows.”

  “I doubt it,” Charlie said. “It just happened an hour ago.”

  “What’s the point anyway? It’s too late now. It’s pretty clear that they were having an affair. I doubt Scott wants you to stay with this case. It’s over.”

  “On the contrary, Jenny. He’ll want me on it now more than ever.”

  It took me a minute. I was a little slow when I was in an emotional state. “To prove he wasn’t the killer.”

  “Right.”

  “If he wasn’t.”

  “Right again,” Charlie said. “If Amy was having an affair with Jake, the police will find that out. Might take them a while, but they’ll get there, and that will lead them directly to a motive.”

  “And to Scott.” I tested the tea with a small sip. “But what if he did do it?”

  “Then we’ll be the first to know.”

  “I still don’t see how I can just drop by Amy’s with the news.”

  “Drop by for another reason, and happen to mention the news.”

  “What reason?”

  “It’s a good job you’re creative, luv. I trust you’ll think of one on the way there.”

  I couldn’t stop wondering how Charlie had talked me into this. That, and trying to come up with an excuse to appear on Amy’s doorstep uninvited, pretty much kept me distracted for the entire drive from downtown and across the bridge to Southpoint Island. I pulled up to the curb, behind a sky blue Mercedes, the color of my next Volvo. Sorry, Winston. I don’t mean that. I wouldn’t trade you in, not even for a Rolls Royce.

  Here I sat, my sweet old Volvo practically parked in Amy’s living room, my mind as empty as a sieve. All I could do was pray that by the time I reached her doorstep, something would pop into my mind, something a bit more creative than, “I was just in the neighborhood.”

  I thumped the door knocker three times. No answer. A sense of relief washed over me. Just as I started down the steps of the restored craftsman, the front door squeaked open. There stood Amy, teary-eyed and beautiful. As tearful as she was lately, I could not assume she knew of Jake’s death. Nor could I assume otherwise.

  She was dressed in blue jeans and a heather grey cotton sweater, straight off the page of an Eddie Bauer catalog. She was staring at me with what appeared to be a combination of shock, embarrassment, bewilderment, and annoyance.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked with as polite a tone as she seemed able to muster.

  “I brought you information on my classes and my support groups.” I whipped out a violet tri-fold brochure and handed it to her.

  Suddenly I had a flash of her snatching it out of my hand, muttering “thanks,” and slamming the door in my face. Then, she headed straight for the fireplace, lit a match and burned it to ashes before I could reach my car.

  Before she could ask me why I hadn’t simply sent it, I stepped across the threshold, and the boundaries of respectable social behavior. “May I come in? We can talk about the different groups I have.”

  Short of asking me to leave, there was nothing for her to do but c
lose the door behind me. Unlike me, she seemed too well-bred to do otherwise.

  “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve been crying.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “really.”

  I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Is it about Jake?”

  Her eyes fluttered, then opened wide as she met my stare. “Wh—what about Jake?”

  “You don’t know.” It was not a question. “Let’s sit down.” Again, not a question. I chose one of the chic black leather chairs and left the overstuffed chair for her. She would need its comfort and security.

  Words ran through my mind until I realized there was no easy way to say this. “Jake Holbrook was killed about an hour ago.”

  “No!” She shrieked as if she was witnessing the killing at that moment. Grief filled her face and her posture, and she took refuge in the release of tears and the shuddering of her body. “Oh, God. No! Not Jake!”

  She cried, with me handing her Kleenex from my purse, two at a time. Then she was sobbing, crying out unintelligible words, but for one sentence, that she screamed over and over again, “It’s my fault!”

  Finally when she had calmed down just a little, she peered out from behind the pink Kleenex and said, “How?”

  “He was hit by a car—a hit and run,” I told her, “crossing the street outside the club.”

  She winced and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh, my God! What car?”

  “They don’t know. Just that it was white. Amy, why is it your fault?”

  Her look was blank and I knew she would not answer my question.

  “Who did it?” I asked more softly. “Who killed Jake?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, burying her face in a handful of Kleenex.

  “You’ll have to talk about it eventually. Was it Scott?”

  She stared at me as if I were an alien. She hated me at that moment. I was the bearer of bad news, and I was the one trying to make her face the truth.

  “Please, I need to be alone.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

  “I need to lie down.” She was holding her head in her hands and I could feel it pulsing with heat even from where I sat. “Please,” she repeated.

  Reluctantly I stood up. “Okay, I’ll leave and let you rest for a little while, but I’m coming back to check on you.”

  She nodded, and I knew she would agree to anything if it meant getting rid of me now.

  “I just want to help,” I told her.

  “I know.” She looked up at me, her eyes empty as if all the life had seeped out of her body and her soul. It frightened me.

  “I mean it, Amy. I’d like to help you.”

  “Thank you, Jenny. For caring.” She blinked and some of the vitality came back into her eyes, giving me some sense of relief. “But I can’t talk about it. I just can’t. Not now. Not ever. ”

  I walked silently to the door, but before I opened it, I turned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to talk about it at some point.”

  She shook her head. “No—”

  “Eventually the police will trace it to Scott.”

  “No—” came out in a whisper as her hands covered her mouth again. She looked like a frightened rabbit, a rabbit who was being stalked.

  “I’d really rather not leave you alone.”

  She understood what I was saying. She shook her head and waved her hand in the air as if it were nothing. “I’m fine. I’m perfectly safe. Really.” Dismissed once again.

  Then she opened the door and shut it behind me. There was nothing I could do, short of using force, to make her let me stay.

  Chapter 7

  “I tried to stay with her, Charlie, but she wouldn’t let me.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In my car, outside her house.”

  “I’m rethinking this whole thing, Jenny. It’s taken a bad turn. I don’t want you involved anymore.”

  “I’m fine, Charlie, really. It’s Amy I’m worried about. If Scott killed Jake out of jealousy, who knows what he might do to Amy.”

  “So you think it was Scott, then?”

  “My intuition says no, he couldn’t kill a spider. But, who else? Did you talk to him, Charlie?”

  “Aye, I did, lass. I stopped by his office, told him about Jake.”

  “What did he say? Did he act surprised?”

  “He didn’t seem to know who Jake was. I had to tell him that he was the bartender from the club who tends the bar at his parents’ parties.”

  “Do you think he was playing dumb?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So, how did he react?”

  “Once he placed the fellow, he seemed genuinely upset.”

  “Where was he at the time of the hit and run?”

  “On his way to the club to have a work out.”

  “Alone?”

  “Unfortunately. It took him a while to figure out why I was even telling him about Jake.”

  “And his reaction, once he realized?”

  “Bewildered, I’d say. He didn’t seem to think Amy even knew the lad.”

  “Oh, she knew him, all right. I can’t say intimately, but she certainly seemed to like him more than anyone else I’ve seen her with.” I exhaled and realized that I had been stopping the natural flow of breath. “I think I’d better check on Amy again.”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t, Jenny.”

  “I’ll be fine, Charlie. But I’ll give her a little longer to rest. Do you know if there are any public bathrooms on this island?”

  Charlie laughed. “I dinna ken, lass. Why don’t you pop into the espresso bar on 7th and Ocean.”

  I ordered an Americana and nipped into the rest room. Not wanting to awaken Amy if she had managed to fall asleep, I drank it at the cafe. It went well with the chocolate croissant that had jumped from behind the display case onto my tray.

  Then I headed back across town, driving slowly, giving myself time to tune into this situation. Nothing. Empty. What was going on with me? Never had my intuition been so inconsistent and so dull—not since I had allowed myself to believe in it.

  “It’s just your imagination, Jenny,” Mother said.

  “No, it isn’t. Really.”

  “Please, dear. Quiet down, people will hear you.”

  “But, Mother, I know it’s real. My stomach’s felt like this before. And something bad happened.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember the time Cameron got hit in the head with the baseball bat?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, right before it happened, my stomach started aching.”

  “That was the hot chocolate and popcorn.”

  “It’s the same feeling I had when Jude ran away.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s nonsense.”

  I was fourteen years old. I felt helpless. Nothing I said mattered to my mother, especially since I was only a visitor in her home. I had betrayed her. I had moved in with my father by then.

  But maybe if I had tried just a little harder, I could have convinced my mother not to let Bryn spend the night at Sheralyn Walker’s house.

  I shivered and pulled over to the curb outside the old craftsman. It looked terribly lonely at that moment, and dark, as though a heavy cloud had formed above it and, rather than drift on past, it was lingering. Was it just my imagination? I knew what my mother would say. I also knew what Charlie would say, Charlie who had taught me to trust myself again.

  I hurried up the old porch steps to the front door. I tapped the iron knocker three times, then twice more. Counting to ten, I stood quietly, then headed back to my car. Amy could be sleeping or she could be standing well hidden behind the curtain of her bedroom window, staring down at my car, determined to ignore me.

  But as my feet stepped from curb to street, something told me not to leave. My sixth chakra was back on the job, strong and confident. I turned around and walked up the pathway to the front
porch again. Craftsman porches make a snoop’s job easy. I followed the porch around to the living room window and peered inside. The chic furniture seemed as lonely and cold as the house felt. What was it doing here? Did it know it did not fit in with the quaintness and charm of a craftsman? Only the overstuffed chair in the corner seemed well-matched with the house. But what did I know? I, of no taste for clothes or furnishings as my daughter so often reminded me, and my mother before her.

  I hurried back down the porch steps and followed the cobblestone path around to the side of the house. Amy’s white Jaguar was sitting in the driveway. If she had left the house, it was either by foot or friend. Chills ran down my back and I quickened my footsteps over the stone path to the backyard.

  My stomach felt queasy, and I knew I should turn and run. Call the police. But the likelihood of their responding to a call based on instinct was nil. Call Charlie at least. But my feet kept on moving, finding their way to the back deck where the hot tub sat with its steam rising into the air. I took a deep breath as I slowly mounted the stairs of the deck, knowing exactly what I would find. This was one time I would have liked my intuition to be wrong.

  It wasn’t. There floating face down in the hot tub was Amy Morrison.

  * * *

  “Jenny McNair? What are you doing here?” Jerry Bridges took my hand like he might a long lost friend’s. I didn’t bother reminding him of my married name.

  “Jenny found her,” Charlie answered the police detective for me as he rounded the corner to the back garden.

  Jerry’s green eyes looked from me to Charlie and back again. “Is there something I should know here?”

  I could feel Charlie’s thoughts as much as I could hear them. He wanted to give his client the benefit of the doubt. He did not want to give the police any evidence that might incriminate Scott. But withholding evidence, Charlie?

  However, as I thought about it, the truth was, there was no real evidence yet. I was not even certain that Amy had been seeing another man. I had not seen him myself, or even heard his voice. I had only heard her voice that day in the Morrison library. So, Charlie was right, there was no actual evidence that this was a case of a husband’s revenge.

  “I dropped by to give Amy something,” I explained to Jerry. “She’s the wife of one of the lawyers in Joe’s building.”