Party Crashers (5 page)

T
he next evening Jolie was lucky enough to find parking along Peachtree Street, a mere block from the High Museum of Art. When she climbed out of the car, her stomach fluttered with nerves. Had she worn the right dress? Would she say the right things? Would she stumble across someone who knew Gary? And more immediate, how much, if any, of the story of Gary should she share with Carlotta?

She had sidestepped Michael Lane’s questions at work, thinking that even if he’d seen the news, he couldn’t possibly connect a car and a woman being pulled out of the river with her comment that her boyfriend was missing. She’d simply told him they were checking in with her. In fact, in the light of day, it was easy to convince herself that everything would work out all right. In was only after the sun set, like now, that her imagination went into overdrive, projecting all kinds of atrocities onto the slightest sound or movement.

She had taken only a few steps down the sidewalk when
from the depths of her “biggish” purse, her cell phone rang. She stopped under a streetlight to remove the phone. She didn’t recognize the local number, but she punched the
CALL
button anyway.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Goodman, this is Detective Salyers. Is this a bad time?”

“Um, no,” she said, stepping back to allow a well-dressed couple to walk by.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, I got slammed yesterday and today. I did have a chance to go through the box of items you dropped off. I assume you looked through them, too.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did anything jump out at you as being odd?”

“You mean other than the photo with my head crossed out?” she asked wryly.

“So you
did
see the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that Mr. Hagan was the person who drew that
X
over your picture?”

Jolie sighed. “I just don’t know. I can’t imagine why he would do something like that. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless he was getting ready to break off our relationship, and that mark was some kind of joke.”

“Did you recognize anyone in the other pictures?”

“No.”

“Did you send Mr. Hagan the note with the lipstick print?”

“No.”

“And you don’t have any idea who might have?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you realize that Mr. Hagan was heavily in debt?”

“We didn’t discuss our finances with each other.”

“When you were out together, did he use cash or credit cards?”

She squinted, trying to remember. “Cash, mostly.”

“His bank account is overdrawn. I ran a check on Mr. Hagan’s credit cards, and they haven’t been used since that Friday before his disappearance. Does he have access to any of your cards?”

Jolie frowned. “No, and I didn’t give Gary one of my credit cards, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“He might have stolen a card. Have you noticed unusual activity on any of your accounts?”

Jolie opened her mouth to say no, then realized she hadn’t received this month’s statement on her VISA and American Express. She’d been in such a hurry to get inside her apartment the last two nights, she hadn’t even stopped to check the mail. “I…haven’t noticed, no.”

“Have you heard from Mr. Hagan?”

“No,” Jolie said. “But…I had a hang-up on my home phone Monday night.”

“What time?”

“Between seven thirty and eight.”

“You don’t have Caller ID?”

“Not on my home phone.”

“Do you think it was Mr. Hagan?”

“I don’t know,” Jolie said. “I’m just trying to keep you informed.”

Salyers sighed into the phone. “Ms. Goodman, I want to believe that you had nothing to do with this, but I talked to the woman who lives above you. She said she had her window open one night a few weeks ago and heard you and a man arguing on your doorstep.”

Jolie frowned. “Mrs. Janklo? The woman has a hearing aid.”

“Well, she must have had the volume turned up. She said the two of you were arguing about your car.”

Jolie’s mind spun, trying to recall what the woman might have overheard. A memory surfaced, and she gave a little laugh. “Oh, one night when Gary left, he was teasing me about how boring my car was, and I got a little indignant. That must have been what Mrs. Janklo heard.”

Salyers made a little snort of disbelief. “Do you remember when that conversation took place?”

“Not really…maybe a week before he disappeared.”

A voice sounded in the background and the detective covered the phone to say something to someone, then came back on the line. “I have to take another call. But we’ll be talking again, Ms. Goodman.” Then she hung up.

Jolie frowned at the phone, irritated that she was being cooperative and the woman still seemed intent on implicating her in this mess. In fact, the more information she shared, the more the detective seemed to misinterpret. Detective Salyers’ response made her feel determined to find out more about Gary on her own. Maybe she could find him herself, encourage him to give himself up…and maybe return her car.

She stashed her phone and resumed walking toward the museum, which was lit up like a big luminaria adorning midtown. The building sat back from the street on a rise, and the long, sloping, ramped entrance was part of its architectural grandeur. A spectacularly dressed woman as tall as Carlotta Wren waited near the bottom of the ramp, but as Jolie drew closer and slowed her pace, she realized the woman was blonde.

“Thank God. I thought you had left me hanging,” the woman said.

Jolie squinted and walked closer. “Carlotta?”

The woman laughed and touched her Marilyn Monroe-like hair. “Sorry—I should have told you that I might alter my appearance.”

“Is that a wig?”

“Of course—don’t you have wigs?”

“No,” Jolie said, feeling rather stodgy.

Carlotta waved her hand. “Well then, let’s get a look at you.”

Jolie stood stock still while Carlotta walked around her, perusing her modest black swing dress, clucking like a hen. “Not bad—are those real pearls?”

Jolie nodded and touched her throat. “My mother’s…mine now.”

“Nice touch.” Then Carlotta looked down and frowned. “But your first purchase with your employee discount really must be shoes—what
are
those?”

Jolie squirmed and looked down at her chunky-heeled slingbacks. “I don’t know—I’ve had them for a while.”

“Hmm. Remember, vintage is good.
Old
is not good. But your makeup is great, and your hair is fabulous—what did you do to it?”

“Washed and combed it.”

“Hmm. If you tell me it’s naturally curly, I’m going to kill you.”

“Trust me, curly hair is much more trouble than it’s worth.”

Carlotta sighed in obvious disagreement. “Let’s go in before all the booze is gone.”

Jolie took a deep breath and followed the woman up the
ramp. Carlotta had not adhered to her own advice to wear a black dress—her zebra-striped coatdress fairly glowed, and would have been almost loud, except it was overshadowed by her strappy pink and rhinestone shoes.

Jolie gaped. “Those are the shoes kept under glass by the register.”

Carlotta looked down. “Oh, right—the Manolos. Limited edition. Aren’t they amazing?”

“Yes,” Jolie murmured, stunned that star sales consultant or no, the woman could afford a two-thousand-dollar pair of shoes. Then she remembered that Carlotta had inferred that she’d grown up with money. Maybe she had a trust fund. Jolie trailed her to the entrance, where a woman in a staid suit eyed Carlotta suspiciously. “Tickets?”

“Of course,” Carlotta said, producing two long tickets and extending them with a glib smile.

The woman frowned and lowered her reading glasses from her forehead to her nose. “Those aren’t the right tickets.”

Carlotta laughed, then took the tickets back and opened her purse—which was quite “biggish,” Jolie noticed. “I’m so sorry,” Carlotta said, reaching into her bag. “I simply have too much on my calendar this week. Are the tickets blue?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

“Ah. Here they are.” Carlotta withdrew another pair of tickets, this time pale blue.

The woman glanced at them, then nodded and dropped the tickets through a slit into a wooden box. “Have a nice time, Ms. Holcomb,” she said with a magnanimous smile.

“Oh, we will,” Carlotta said, then clasped Jolie by the arm and pulled her forward.

“Are the Holcombs friends of yours?” Jolie asked.

“Hmm? Oh…I guess you could say that.”

They walked down the narrow foyer, which made an abrupt left turn and opened into an extensive atrium, open to the top story of the museum. Suited men and decked-out women mixed and mingled on a shiny white marble floor. The room whispered
money
. The hum of voices and low, sporadic laughter were background to a quartet playing cymbal-brushing jazz. Wine and perfume wafted on the air, tickling Jolie’s nose. In the presence of so much privilege, her pulse picked up. Tanned, glowing skin abounded—as well as severe, highlighted hair, waxed and gelled into individual little works of art. Everyone was trying hard—trying to jockey for a good position to be seen while casting furtive glances over their wineglasses in search of better people. Jolie noticed that
she
didn’t garner more than a glance, but almost everyone stopped to consider Carlotta in her outrageous designer outfit and platinum blonde wig, although more than one mouth twitched downward.

“All I see are stiffs,” Carlotta murmured. “Let’s get some wine and find out where the interesting people are hanging out.”

Jolie started to take a step toward the bar when Carlotta ducked into an alcove next to a bronze sculpture. At a loss, Jolie followed.

“Isn’t this a stunning piece?” Carlotta asked, stepping in front of the sculpture with her back to the corridor.

Jolie looked at the stack of cubes seemingly melting into one another. “I’m not an art connoisseur, but yes, it’s interesting.”

“Step closer,” Carlotta urged, and Jolie obliged.

“Keep talking as if we’re having a conversation,” Carlotta said out of the corner of her mouth.

“I thought we
were
having a conversation,” Jolie said, then noticed that Carlotta had opened her purse.

“Don’t stare at my purse,” Carlotta hissed. “Keep talking.”

Bewildered, Jolie jerked her gaze back to the sculpture. “Y—you don’t have a gun in there, do you?”

“What are you, crazy? Of course I don’t. Talk, for heaven’s sake.”

Jolie swallowed. “As I was saying, my knowledge of art is pretty limited. I know some of the names, but I have a difficult time—”

“Here you go,” Carlotta said, nodding and smiling while pressing something hard and cold against Jolie’s hand. “You don’t have to look down, it’s a wineglass and a napkin.”

Jolie curled her fingers around both items, now thoroughly confused. “What for?”

“It’s a wine tasting,” Carlotta said through clenched teeth.

“And we have to bring our own glasses?”

“Unless we want to pay a hundred dollars for one of theirs,” Carlotta said, still smiling. “How do you think they make money at these events? Just come with me and do what I do.”

Jolie watched as Carlotta casually peeled off, carrying her empty wineglass in her right hand, a cocktail napkin held beneath the stem with her pinky. Jolie made her feet move and she lifted her glass similarly, although it took her a few seconds to get the pinky thing down. She followed Carlotta past the table where a gloved waiter was handing wineglasses
to patrons in return for one-hundred-dollar bills, then joined one of the lines behind a semicircle of tables where stewards poured an inch of wine from any of a dozen bottles before them.

Despite the encouraging glances from Carlotta, a sweat broke out along Jolie’s hairline. What if someone had seen them? She looked around, fully expecting a security guard to bound over and oust them.

“It’s just a little wine,” Carlotta whispered. “They’ll never miss it.”

Jolie nodded and tried to smile, but her palms were slick against her glass as she watched Carlotta hand the steward the smuggled stemware. The young man seemed a little too dazzled by Carlotta’s curves to pay much attention to the glass. Carlotta gestured to a bottle of chardonnay, and he nodded happily, pouring the requisite inch, then adding an extra splash. Carlotta twisted and smiled prettily, then winked at Jolie when she turned to walk away.

“What can I get for you, ma’am?” the young man asked.

Jolie jumped. “Oh…the merlot would be fine.”

He smiled and gestured. “I need your glass.”

She flushed. “Of course.” She handed it over, her chest tight.

He held up the glass and frowned, sending her heart pounding. “You have a smudge,” he said finally, then polished the glass with a cloth.

She exhaled in relief and silently willed him to hurry as he poured the berry-colored wine into her glass. “There you are,” he said, nodding.

She thanked him, then joined Carlotta, who was walking back toward the crowd.

“See, that didn’t hurt, did it?”

Jolie sipped the ill-gotten wine. “It wasn’t exactly honest, but I suppose the tickets to get in were expensive.”

“I suppose,” Carlotta said with a secret little smile.

“Did your friends the Holcombs simply give them to you?”

Carlotta shook her head, her lips wet with wine. “Jolie, I don’t know anyone named Holcomb. My brother printed those tickets for me on a laser printer.”

Jolie blinked and almost choked on her wine. “You mean, we’re…party crashers?”

Carlotta laughed. “You should see the look on your face. It’s not a crime, you know.”

“But it’s…it’s…dishonest.”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Carlotta said, then swept her arm toward the crowd. “Do you think anyone in this herd cares?”

Indeed, no one seemed to be paying them any mind.

“Then why do it?” Jolie asked.

Carlotta shrugged her lovely shoulders and pursed her mouth. “Because it’s exciting to see what you can get away with.”

“You do this a lot?”

“Yeah, usually Hannah and I hit a couple of gigs a week. She knows every catered event in town.”