Accessory to Murder (7 page)

“I look that bad, huh?” Alyce tore another long strip of napkin into smaller strips, then ripped up those strips. The napkin was turning into a paper snowdrift.

“You need some pampering,” Josie said.

“The nanny's with Justin now. I want to go home and hold him and rock him and feel his soft skin and admire his eyelashes. They're so long. They're going to break some little girl's heart.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Josie said. “Seriously, what can I do to help?”

“Tell me it's nothing,” Alyce said. She took the last napkin strips and twisted them until they disintegrated under the strain.

“It's nothing,” Josie said with complete confidence. “Jake's a corporate lawyer. How could he possibly be connected with a carjacking?”

“You're right.” Alyce looked relieved for two seconds, but then her face clouded. “I've got a bad feeling, Josie. Something's wrong. I know it. I don't know why, but I feel it.”

The waitress set the check between them.

“Did you ask Jake about the police questions?” Josie said.

“Yes. He said I was making a federal case out of nothing.”

“There you go,” Josie said.

Alyce reached for the check. “But he only says that when he's guilty.”

Josie tried to grab back the check, but Alyce had already torn it to pieces.

“Let's go,” Josie said, “before you tear the place up.”

Alyce seemed dazed by the wreckage in front of her: the shredded napkin, the minced muffin, the finely chopped check. “Did I do that?”

“Yes. You need something stronger than tea.”

Josie guessed at the check total, then added what she hoped was a generous tip. She steered her friend out the door, around the corner, and into Josie's car.

“Where are we going?” Alyce said.

“The Schlafly Bottleworks. You can't tear the head off a beer. Their oatmeal stout is almost a health food. You can also wash your hair in it and use it as a facial mask.”

Alyce didn't laugh. “I can't believe I made such a mess at the table.”

“You've got something major on your mind.”

Alyce didn't answer. They rode the few blocks to the brew pub in an unnatural silence. Normally, Alyce would have chattered about the people on the sidewalks, the new shops and restaurants, the places that went out of business. Today, she stared straight ahead.

Josie was worried. She hoped the industrial interior of the Bottleworks would give her friend a healthy dose of reality. They passed the gleaming tanks of beer, clean and hopeful in the noontime sun, then went into the bar. It was comfortably noisy. Alyce drifted along like a ghost and sat down at a table, folding her hands in her lap like a finishing-school student.

Josie took charge and ordered two oatmeal stouts. She was relieved when the waiter slapped down two beer coasters instead of bar napkins. Alyce couldn't tear them up.

The stout lived up to its name. It seemed almost solid in the thick pint glasses. The barroom was dark and warm, a place for spilling secrets under the cover of other people's conversation.

“Drink,” Josie commanded.

Alyce took a sip of the bitter brew, then another.

“I know you too well, Alyce,” Josie said. “You wouldn't fall apart over a couple of questions by the police. You can run rings around homicide cops. I've seen you do it. Something's wrong, and it has to be your family, or you wouldn't be so upset. If you had a problem with Justin, you'd tell me. So it has to be your husband. What did Jake do?”

“I don't know,” Alyce said. “I'm sure he didn't do anything.”

Two tears slid down her cheeks. Then her face dissolved into a red, water-streaked mask of misery. Alyce rummaged in her purse for tissues and dabbed at her eyes.

Suddenly, Josie had a good idea what Jake did. Earlier this year, Alyce had suspected her husband had a fling with their pretty au pair. When the au pair left abruptly, Alyce had hired a nanny of mature years and serious girth. Jake took his wounded wife on a romantic cruise, and the subject was never mentioned again.

Amy the Slut, Wood Winds' most scandalous wife, said she'd slept with Jake, but she claimed to have nailed every married man in the subdivision. Even Amy didn't know if that was true. Her multimartini lunches impaired her memory, as well as her judgment. Alyce could discount Amy.

Now something had happened that Alyce couldn't ignore. Jake must be having a serious affair. This was more than a little slip with the au pair. He was in deep, possibly with a woman in their own circle. Alyce was so afraid, she couldn't even say the words. That would make her worst fear real.

I can't bring up this subject, Josie thought. Even the best friendship could not trespass into a marriage. Josie would have to wait for Alyce to talk.

Josie did, with all the patience she could muster. She sipped her stout and watched Alyce weep bitter tears. It tore her heart to see her friend so unhappy, but Josie knew it would ruin their friendship if she jumped uninvited into this marital mess.

It took half a tall glass of stout before Alyce had the courage to talk. “It sounds so trite I'm ashamed to say it. I tried to call Jake at the office a couple of nights when he said he was working late….”

Josie didn't miss the careful wording—“when he said.”

“I couldn't reach him,” Alyce said. The despair in her voice said it was more than a missed phone call that made her feel so disconnected.

“Jake didn't answer his phone all evening. He came home at midnight. When I asked him about it, Jake said he must have been in the law library or talking to another partner. But he didn't check his messages.”

“Anyone can forget to check messages,” Josie said.

“Jake checks his office voice mail every sixteen seconds. He was somewhere else.” Alyce took a deep breath and said the fatal words: “I think he's having an affair.”

There. The words were out. The subject was safe to discuss. “Are you sure?” Josie said.

“No,” Alyce said. “I'm not.”

“Any lipstick on his collar? Phone numbers on cocktail napkins? Matchbooks from places you don't go? Strange earrings in the car? Traces of perfume on his clothes?”

“No. None of that.”

“Hang-ups when you pick up the phone?” Josie asked.

“Yes, several. But Joanie complained of those calls, too. She thought it was the Markland kids making trouble with their new cell phones. She talked to their mother and the calls stopped.”

“So the hang-ups were explained, too,” Josie said.

“Yes, but—,” Alyce said.

“But what?” Josie said.

“I'd better go,” Alyce said. She was afraid to say more. The subject was too frightening and too big. It would have to be brought out and examined in little pieces.

Josie decided not to push. “Me, too,” she said. “I still have one more supermarket to shop before Harry sticks me with another bad assignment. Want to come along? I'm buying pork chops. Thick, juicy ones. You can have half of my haul.”

“No, thanks. I have a committee meeting. I'm working on the holiday party for Jake's firm. Sometimes I think I do more for his career than he does.”

She stopped, and suddenly looked guilty. “I shouldn't complain. It's no hardship to sit with a few women over coffee. It's not like I'm working nine to five. I'm lucky.” She said that as if trying to convince herself.

“You need to fix your blouse if you're going to a meeting,” Josie said.

Alyce looked down in surprise at the mismatched buttons. “Right. I guess it wouldn't hurt to comb my hair, either. I look like a bag lady.”

By the time Josie had paid for the stout, Alyce was back from the restroom. She'd washed her tear-streaked face, adjusted her blouse and her coat belt, even put on fresh lipstick.

“Much better,” Josie said. “Let me drive you back to your car.”

“It's only three blocks,” Alyce said. “I need the fresh air. I'm fine.”

Josie watched her friend walk away, her shoulders sagging and her head bowed. Alyce was carrying a heavy burden. If Jake really was having an affair, she would have to make some serious decisions. Would she turn a blind eye and become “poor Alyce,” the long-suffering wife of a chronically unfaithful man? Or would she keep her self-respect and throw the bum out?

If she took the second road, Alyce would lose not only her husband and the father of her child, but the life she loved. Divorced wives could not afford mansions in Wood Winds—not when they'd been married to lawyers. Jake would call in one of his shark buddies and Alyce would be lucky to end up with custody of Justin and a two-bedroom condo, far away from Wood Winds. She might get a small stipend while she brushed up on her computer skills, but she'd have to become self-supporting. There would be no more Williams-Sonoma gadgets, no pot fillers and linenfold-paneled kitchens.

Keeping her eyes shut had its hazards, too. Alyce might not see when one of Jake's affairs turned serious, and he'd throw her out for a younger, trimmer trophy wife. Then she'd be banished, without even the comfort of her self-respect.

Too many women had had to make those choices. They tried to stay with men they didn't love until their children made it through college. But was that the right choice? Josie wondered. Kids had a sixth sense when things were wrong at home. Was it better to give them every luxury in a loveless marriage, or try to cut yourself free and survive?

If Josie was in Alyce's fix, she'd start slipping money out of the household accounts for a rainy-day fund. Lots of money. She was sure the dark clouds were about to open up on Alyce.

Once again, Josie thought about how close she'd come to living in Wood Winds and sharing Alyce's anxieties. Josie had had the ring on her finger when she threw it away for a wild romance. She left college and a steady fiancé for a man who flew her to Paris one week and Aruba the next. Her Canadian helicopter pilot never promised her security, and she never wanted it. Nate gave her something better: He made Josie feel that her life would never be dull again. She loved him the way she never loved another man. Josie still remembered the night Amelia was conceived. They'd made love by the light of a hundred burning candles.

Then Nate went down in flames with the law, and wound up in a Canadian prison for drug dealing. Josie had found out she was pregnant about the same time she learned where Nate got the money for his high living. She wasn't going to marry a drug dealer. She never saw Nate again. She'd crawled away from the wreckage of her romance with one enduring love—Amelia.

Now Josie lived in her mother's flat in Maplewood. Jane lived upstairs and made herself available for emergency babysitting and free lectures on where Josie went wrong. Josie shrugged off the lectures. She knew her mother meant well. She also knew how disappointed Jane was by what she saw as Josie's lost prospects. By her mother's standards, Josie had failed.

Josie didn't think so. She liked her life. Sure, it would be nice to have money. Sometimes she sat up nights worrying how she'd pay the bills. But at least she wasn't dependent on a man she couldn't trust. Josie had her freedom. She liked her job, and most people she knew hated their work. Harry the Horrible was an awful boss. But Josie felt she did something useful, protecting Mrs. Minivan. Mystery-shopping had another advantage. She got to spend time with her daughter.

Josie's cell phone rang. It was the downside calling: her boss, Harry.

“I got your next assignment.” Harry sounded too happy for a man who'd been recently trounced.

“Good,” Josie said, hoping she sounded confident. “I've finished the supermarkets. I'll turn that report in tonight.”

“Excellent.” He drew out the word, making her wait for her punishment. “You can start mystery-shopping Greta Burgers this afternoon.”

Josie's stomach lurched. Greta Burgers were named after the owner's daughter. The unfortunate child's name was stuck on the worst burger in the Midwest. Lord knows what Greta endured during her formative years, when the slogans “Greta Is Betta” and “Greta's Cheap and Easy” haunted the radio. Josie hoped she was a rich woman now that her father was dead of hardened arteries.

Greta Burgers were god-awful gristly little gobs of grease. The only people who could eat them were cheapskates, drunks, and teenagers, or, more often, drunk teenagers. It took courage to down a Greta Burger, particularly if someone squeezed it and you saw the grease run out on the plate. Josie's stomach had flip-flopped like a beached fish after that demonstration.

Greta Burgers were so bad, mystery shoppers never had to visit more than four outlets at once. Eating more could be fatal. Some mystery shoppers quit at the prospect of eating even one Greta Burger. Others cheated, and made up their evaluations. But Josie had her code. She took at least one bite of a Greta Burger at every restaurant on her list. Harry knew that.

She asked the crucial question as her stomach churned. “How many?”

“All twenty-four restaurants in the metro area.” Harry couldn't keep the glee out of his voice.

Josie couldn't keep the horror out of hers. “Twenty-four! You can't do that.”

“I just did,” Harry said.

“Nobody can eat twenty-four Greta Burgers,” Josie said. “You're supposed to split up the restaurants.”

“Can't,” Harry said. “It's a rush job. All my other shoppers are busy.”

“Harry, please, I'm begging you. Split up the assignment with the other shoppers.”

“Are you asking for special favors?” Harry said. “I hope not. That would be wrong.”

He hung up the phone, cackling like the monster he was.