Party Crashers (4 page)

Assuming she wasn’t in jail, of course.

Jolie was halfway through the waffles when she found the story she was looking for on a local news web site:

She clicked on the link to photos and inhaled sharply at the color picture of Gary’s car being pulled from the water by a winch, yellow water gushing from the fender wells. The next photo showed a black body bag being loaded into a van. A lump clogged her throat at the graphic nature of the photo—from the way the body handlers held the bag, the body seemed especially unwieldy. But when Jolie hit the button for the next photo, the air fled her lungs. Gary’s license photo. He was a handsome man, dark-headed with smooth brown skin, pale eyes, and a charming
smile. But the DMV photo made him looked heavy-lidded and surly. Any person who saw that photo would think him capable of murder.

The waffles forgotten, Jolie stared at the photo for the longest time, her eyes watering and her doubts rearing.

Was he?

She returned to her bedroom and opened the closet door to stare down at the box of Gary’s belongings that the apartment manager had given to her. She debated whether she should sort through everything or not before delivering the box to Detective Salyers—after all, if she didn’t look, she could always plead ignorance.

On the other hand, Detective Salyers already believed she
had
looked.

She heaved the box to the bed and gingerly lifted the lid, releasing a smoky odor into the room. Her heart squeezed with the thought that, fugitive or no, Gary’s life had been reduced to this cardboard box. She sorted through bills and junk mail and set them aside, unopened. A wire tray held more mail, but the envelopes appeared to have been opened, she assumed by Gary. A check of the postmarks confirmed that they were received the week he disappeared. She uncovered his cell-phone bill, and a half dozen credit-card invoices, all with overdue amounts that were breathtaking. Gary was either slothful about bill paying or was deeply in debt.

There was a cube of yellow note paper, on the top of which he’d scribbled, “extra door key for Gordon.” She didn’t remember him mentioning anyone named Gordon, but if Gary was giving him a key to his apartment, they must be close. A neighbor? A cleaning service?

There were various flyers and postcards advertising all
kinds of happenings in Buckhead, midtown, and downtown Atlanta. Concerts, art shows, restaurant openings, club events, open houses. It was how he kept up with everything, she presumed. He was on the mailing lists of the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Woodruff Arts Center, the High Museum of Art, the Fernbank Museum, the Falcons, the Braves, the Thrashers, the Hawks, and every college in the vicinity. She turned over each flyer, looking for highlighting or more hand-scribbled notes. On the back of the postcard for the High Museum, he had written—illegibly—what looked like “hardy manuals.” The nonsensical words meant nothing to her.

There were sales papers, random coupons, and other irrelevant pieces of mail. She almost missed a small envelope the size of a gift card. The envelope was blank, but contained a tiny pink card. Outside it read, “Missing you,” and inside it read “Missing me?” The card was signed, not with a signature, but with a lip imprint in pink lipstick. The imprint was smeared, badly…purposefully, but by the sender or by the receiver? Was it a message from his “troubled” ex? Since the envelope had no address or stamp, the sender had obviously delivered it in person, or left it where Gary would find it.

She returned the card to its envelope, then delved through the rest of the box’s contents—a couple of baseball caps, although not the burnt-orange-colored one he wore most often. A couple of sports-themed paperweights, a Swiss Army knife, a handful of matchbooks from local restaurants, some bottles of over-the-counter painkillers, a few music CDs he’d burned and labeled himself—80
S ROCK
, 90
S ROCK, DELTA BLUES
. She winced when she thought of his extensive music and movie collection being melted down by the fire.

At the bottom of the box was a dusty framed photograph of his parents, a Midwestern-looking couple dressed in sensible clothes, smiling as if they were having an appropriate amount of fun. She thought of her own parents and how frantic they would be if they had lived to witness this. A wry smile curved her mouth as she wondered which would consume her mother the most—her proximity to a hideous crime, or utilizing her hard-won college degree to sell shoes.

There was a small photo album, which surprised her because Gary didn’t seem like the sentimental type. The photos in the beginning were dated and yellowed—various shots of him growing up, labeled on the back in a neat, feminine script, and she guessed that Gary’s mother had started the album and perhaps he had added to it after her death. The more recent pictures were mostly snapshots of him with various well-dressed people she didn’t recognize. The women were numerous, but none of them seemed to have been singled out by the camera. As she turned pages, however, the faces of four
men
seemed to occur more often than others—and the men appeared to know each other. Could one of them be the Gordon who was to receive an extra key? She slipped out each photo, but none of the recent pictures was labeled on the back.

There were also a couple of photos of Gary by himself outdoors. In one he was sitting on a rock, dressed in hiking gear and mugging for the camera. The next was of the same location, but a closer shot. Fingers obscured the lower edge of the picture—a woman’s fingers, with nice nails. The picture was dated a year ago by the film developer, but again not labeled. Was the photographer the mysterious pink-lipped ex?

She turned pages and scanned photos of holiday parties, then she smiled, surprised to see photos taken during
their inner tube float down the river. She had felt awkward giving them to him, had been afraid he would think she was trying to force the issue of them being a couple, but had reasoned that the shots were group shots, not just of her and Gary. They were all smiling, everyone wet—even Sammy—having a good time. Jolie turned the page and stared at the last photo, then her smile evaporated.

This was another group photo from that summer day, except Gary’s tube was bumped up next to hers. She remembered the moment, had reached out to playfully push him away. But the way her hand rested on his arm looked proprietary.

And it obviously had disturbed someone who had viewed the picture, because her face had been obliterated by a slashing red
X
.

“I
s Detective Salyers available?” Jolie asked, setting the box on the counter lip in front of a thick window that she assumed was bulletproof.

The cop behind the counter pulled on his chin. “She’s out on a case. Can I help you?”

“My name is Jolie Goodman. She asked me to drop this off. It’s related to a case she’s working on.”

“Hold on.” The man rummaged for a pen and paper, then slid both underneath the half-inch gap at the bottom of the window. “Write her a note, will you?”

Jolie took the pen and scrawled, “From Jolie Goodman re: G. Hagan,” and added her cell phone number. She stuffed the note down in the top of the box, and the man came through a side door to take it from her. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

Jolie thanked him, then exited the bustling station and jogged toward her car. If traffic wasn’t too bad, she
might
make the sales meeting on time. She slid into her seat and
closed the car door, fighting the urge to skip the meeting, to skip her shift—hell, to skip the entire day.

But that would only make things worse. In fact, she really should be around people today, around crowds, to take her mind off the events of yesterday that were threatening to consume her. She started the car and turned it in the direction of Lenox Square, stifling a yawn, a result of the sleep she didn’t get last night.

She’d placed a giant cactus beneath her bedroom window and slept with a fire extinguisher—the only thing she had that could remotely be considered a weapon. She might have to use her employee discount to buy something more threatening today, although at the moment the most dangerous thing she could think of that Neiman Marcus had to offer was the employee discount itself.

She maneuvered back roads to get to the mall and found a good parking place at this early hour. Ten minutes later she slipped into the room where, to her great relief, the sales meeting had just gotten under way. From the front, Michael Lane gave her an approving nod, then pointed to his name badge and back to her. All employees, she recalled, were supposed to wear their name badges while on duty and during company functions.

She retrieved her badge from her bag, and fastened it while the store manager, Lindy, a neurotic redhead with a high-frequency voice, recited numbers from the previous weekend’s sale. She recognized individual departments that were performing well, including shoes (Michael beamed), housewares, and women’s fine apparel, specifically Prada.

“Speaking of which,” Lindy said, her gaze landing somewhere behind Jolie, “here’s our star sales consultant
for the week, Carlotta Wren. Carlotta just topped the former weekly sales record, which she also set, by the way. Congratulations, Carlotta.”

Jolie joined in the smattering of applause and turned to see what a star sales consultant looked like. Carlotta Wren stood behind Jolie’s chair, tall, with long, straight dark hair clasped in a low ponytail. Her slender, hour-glass figure was wrapped in a sport-stretch red dress complemented with red platform shoes and a dark denim leather-trimmed Prada tote. She had large, exotic features, including a wide smile with a gap between her front teeth, reminiscent of Lauren Bacall. She took a little bow, then said, “Thank you, thank you,” and dropped into the seat next to Jolie, smelling of something musky and mysterious.

“What did I miss?” she whispered.

“Not much,” Jolie whispered back, instantly edgy from the nervous energy rolling off the woman.

“You’re new. I’m Carlotta.” She stuck out her manicured hand.

“I’m Jolie,” she murmured, giving the outstretched hand a shake, conscious of her own gnawed-down nails.

“Jolie? Do you work with Michael in shoes?”

Jolie nodded.

“Oh,
you’re
the one.”

“The one what?”

Carlotta waved her hand. “Oh, honey, we definitely have to talk after this waste-of-time meeting.”

Jolie had hoped to spend the time between the meeting and the beginning of her shift at the copy store printing flyers, so she didn’t encourage the woman’s attention. But when the meeting ended thirty minutes later, Carlotta turned and said, “I’m starving—have breakfast with me.”

“Well, I—”

“What time do you clock in?”

“Noon, but—”

“Good,” Carlotta said with a gap-toothed grin. “We have plenty of time to get to know each other. I’m meeting my friend Hannah and you’ll love, love,
love
her.”

Joining them seemed like a foregone conclusion, and the decision was cinched by Jolie’s howling stomach—the waffles had been forever ago. “Okay.” Besides, she missed having Leann around to talk to. She could use a friend or two.

Carlotta walked liked royalty, her shoulders hyper-extended and her chest thrust forward. She was a head taller than Jolie, and she had the longest neck Jolie had ever seen.

“How do you like it in shoes?” Carlotta’s voice was nasal and clipped.

“My first day was a little rough,” Jolie said.

“You’ll be great—you have the perfect look for selling shoes.”

Jolie glanced down at her non-designer uniform of khaki-colored skirt, pale blue blouse, black blazer, and low-heeled sandals. “Okay.”

“Relax, I meant that in a good way. You look…approachable. That’s important for shoes. Now where
I
am, in designer wear, it’s best to look
un
approachable. That scares off the riffraff who want to waste your time trying on things they can’t afford. Only the people with serious money have the balls to come up to me.”

Jolie was beginning to see why this woman was a star sales consultant. “How long have you worked retail?”

“For most of my adult life, and trust me, it doesn’t get better than Neiman’s. Are you working part-time?”

“Yes, through the holidays.”

“Did your company downsize? We’ve gotten a lot of part-timers from the telecom layoffs.”

“Um, no, actually, I’m in real estate.”

“Ah. Say no more. Plenty of my good customers are realtors, and they’re hurting, skipping trunk shows and buying clearance instead.” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s so sad.”

Jolie could only nod.

“On the other hand, there are just as many women who can no longer afford their shrinks or their Zoloft, so they’re practicing shopping therapy.” Carlotta grinned. “It all evens out.”

The mall wasn’t as busy today and the food court was nearly empty. Jolie eyed the spot where she had met Detective Salyers and felt a stirring of anxiety.

“We’re meeting Hannah at the Crepe Cafe,” Carlotta said, nodding toward the end of the corridor.

Jolie groaned inwardly, wondering how big a dent breakfast would put in her wallet. She’d lain awake most of the night wondering what she could sell if she needed an attorney, but all she could come up with was a kidney. She was a frugal person—she could get by on one.

“Hannah knows the chef here,” Carlotta said, “so we’ll eat for free as long as we leave a nice tip.”

The woman was either a mind reader or she thought Jolie looked poor. Regardless, Jolie was grateful.

Carlotta’s friend hadn’t yet arrived, but they were shown to a cloth-covered table in a sunny alcove. Carlotta flirted outrageously with the waiter and asked for Pellegrino bottled water. Jolie asked for hot water and lemon, and scanned the menu, which sported some rather alarming prices.

“So, Jolie,” Carlotta said over the top of her menu, “I must hear all about your encounter with Beck Underwood.”

Jolie lifted her eyebrows, and the man’s face came into her mind. “My encounter? I sold him a pair of shoes.”

“No, back up,” Carlotta said, waving her hand. “I haven’t seen a picture of him in ages. What does he look like these days?”

She recalled that Michael had said Carlotta was a bona fide celebrity groupie. “Um, he was sunburned, mostly.”

“Come on, is he still gorgeous?”

Jolie shrugged and her cheeks warmed. “I wouldn’t say ‘gorgeous,’ maybe…striking.”

Carlotta grinned and her shoulders shook with a dramatic shudder. “You know he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in Atlanta.”

“Um, no, I didn’t.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Jolie swallowed hard and shook her head.

“Really? You’re so pretty. With the right makeup, you could pass for Charlize Theron. I met her once at a club—her skin is, like, perfect.”

A little overwhelmed, Jolie simply nodded. “Where are you from?”

“Here. I grew up in Virginia-Highland.”

“That’s nice,” Jolie said, referring to the area of Atlanta and to Carlotta’s circumstances. The woman was obviously from money. Old money.

“You?” Carlotta asked.

“I grew up in Dalton,” Jolie said.

North of Atlanta on Interstate 75, Dalton, Georgia was the carpet capital of the Southeast. Both of her parents had retired from flooring factories, and she wasn’t the least bit ashamed, although she was prepared for the woman to wash her hands of her.

Instead, Carlotta’s eyes lit up. “Do you know Deborah Norville?”

Jolie smiled. Newswoman Deborah Norville was Dalton’s other claim to fame. “I met her once at a charity walk, she seemed really nice.”

“Darn, I’d love to have her in my book.”

“Your book?”

Carlotta reached into her bag and pulled out a small, pink, leather-bound book. “I started when I was a teenager—I met Jane Fonda at a Braves game, and it changed my life.” She flipped through the book, showing Jolie the tabbed pages. “I record who I meet and where, and every category has its own alphabetized section: actors, athletes, singers and musicians, politicians, newspeople, businesspeople, and personalities.”

“Personalities?”

“You know—people you recognize, but you’re not really sure what they do…like Fergie, Duchess of York. Who, by the way, I would
kill
to meet.”

This woman would have loved Gary, Jolie thought. He could have introduced her to all kinds of celebrities. Jolie nodded toward the well-worn book. “So who’s the biggest celebrity you’ve met?”

“Hmm, it’s a toss-up between Antonio Banderas and Elton John, but since Elton has a home here, I guess I’d have to say Antonio. And maybe Bill Gates.”

“Wow. How did you meet Bill Gates?”

“At a party. Elton I saw at a restaurant. And I’ve met lots of celebrities at the Sunglass Hut right here in the mall.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah, everybody famous needs sunglasses. Atlanta is a fabulous place to spot celebrities because there aren’t that
many places for them to go, and they usually don’t have a paparazzi guard with them because it’s the South and most people don’t really care who they are as long as they wipe their feet.”

Jolie laughed, grateful for the woman’s entertaining banter. The waiter brought Carlotta’s Pellegrino and Jolie’s hot water, and while Jolie squeezed the lemon wedge into the steaming cup, Carlotta looked up and waved at someone behind Jolie. “Oh, here’s Hannah.”

Jolie turned in her seat to see a woman with short black-and-white-striped hair coming their way. She wore a white culinary smock, jeans, and black combat boots. A plain canvas bag slung over her shoulder hung almost to her knees. She smiled and swung into the seat adjacent to Jolie. “Hiya.”

Carlotta made introductions. Hannah Kizer was more reserved than Carlotta, but adventuresome, judging by her hair and the silver barbell through her tongue. Jolie was so fascinated, she could barely focus on what the woman was saying. When the waiter took her drink order, they placed their food orders, and Hannah excused herself to say hello to the chef.

“Is she a chef too?” Jolie asked, watching her walk through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

“She’s still a culinary student,” Carlotta said. “But she works for one of the best caterers in town, and she flat-out knows food.”

A minute later, Hannah came back and settled into her chair. “Sorry I was late—MARTA is running slow this morning.” She tapped short, neat nails on the table and Jolie caught a slight whiff of cigarette smoke.

“We were just getting to know each other,” Carlotta said. “Jolie works in shoes, so when you’re ready for a new pair of ugly boots, she can help you out.”

Hannah smirked, and Jolie, a loner all of her life, admired their teasing relationship.

“Have you heard about the bash at the High Museum tomorrow night?” Hannah asked, her tone slightly mocking.

Carlotta leaned forward, her eyes shining. “No—what is it?”

“A wine tasting for the big contributors, eight o’clock. The guest list is hush-hush, so I’m guessing there are some important people attending.”

“We have to go!” Carlotta said.

“I have to work it,” Hannah said, sounding disappointed.

“Jolie will go with me,” Carlotta said, then turned to Jolie. “Doesn’t it sound like fun?”

Jolie felt sheepish. “I’m kind of on a tight budget.”

Carlotta pshawed. “I got you covered. Do you know where the entrance ramp to the museum is?”

Jolie nodded.

“Meet me there, eight thirty sharp.”

Her mind raced and it occurred to her that the kind of people that Gary had worked for could be found at such get-togethers. Who knew? She might be able to find out something about his “work,” and maybe a clue to the identity of his scary ex.

When her practiced excuses not to socialize rose in her mind, Jolie reminded herself it meant she wouldn’t be sitting at home alone, imagining herself with a big red
X
on her head. “Okay…but what should I wear?”

“A black dress and great jewelry. Oh, and bring a biggish purse.”