Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder Read online

  “Catherine Thomas.”

  “Jolene Asdale.” I didn’t recognize the name or her face, but I shook her hand with my firm businesswoman grip. “I’m sorry. I can’t place you.”

  Her eyes widened. She backed away. “My mistake. I thought you were my lunch date.”

  How awkward. I made a sympathetic face as though anyone could have made the same mistake, but when her real lunch date, a woman with blond hair and Botox lips, entered minutes later and they exchanged air kisses, I knew she’d lied. Isabelle reappeared as the hostess called for us.

  I grabbed Isabelle’s arm. “See that woman with the long brown hair by the door? Do you know her?”

  Isabelle took a backward glance before following the hostess into the windowed dining room. “Nope, but did you see the rock on her finger? Gorgeous. Unusual setting. Looks like one we had in our jewelry store a few months back. The one …” Isabelle shoved me into the seat facing the rear of the room so she could face the entryway.

  “Hey!”

  “Why are you asking me about her?”

  “She acted like she knew me and seemed surprised I didn’t know her.”

  Isabelle leaned out of the booth to watch as the hostess seated Catherine Thomas diagonally across the room from us.

  Isabelle tapped my fingertips with hers. “I have a bad feeling.”

  “What do you mean?” My stomach did a little flip-flop.

  “I wasn’t in the store the day the ring sold, but one of the clerks said a large, good-looking man bought it, a man in jeans and a Meatloaf T-shirt.”

  A man fitting Ray’s off-duty description. I swiveled in my seat to look at Catherine Thomas and caught her looking right back at me. I jerked my face away. “Isabelle, does she bear any resemblance to Valerie Bertinelli? Tell me the truth.”

  Isabelle didn’t even bother to look at Catherine again. “Yes. And I remember something else the man told the clerk.”

  “What?”

  “The clerk asked him if he was planning to propose. The man said, ‘For now, it’s a reward for time served.’”

  I digested her statement in silence. Well, okay, then. I snapped open my menu, the tremor in my hands rendering it unreadable.

  Isabelle pulled the menu down onto the table. “You don’t want to talk about this?”

  “I do not. We’re here to talk about advertising, remember?” Isabelle owned an advertising agency in the city. Her husband, Jack, owned a jewelry store, which was why Isabelle attracted attention wherever she went. Only the best gems would do for Jack’s queen. Today she wore a white gold and pearl necklace to die for, with matching earrings and bracelet, of course. Isabelle’s flat face and mousy brown hair tended toward homely, but with the jewels and a swipe of makeup, she was radiant. Needless to say, both she and her husband understood about catering to the finer tastes in life, too.

  “Okay.” Isabelle proceeded to fill the air with talk of demographics and quarter-page ads, thirty-second television commercials, and website presence. I heard almost none of it, instead picturing Ray on his knees in his favorite twenty-year-old Meatloaf T-shirt, sliding that rock onto Catherine Thomas’ finger. And worse, me admitting to him I’d never returned the signed divorce papers to my attorney for filing. Technically, we’re still married. Honestly, I hadn’t returned them on purpose. Even though we had irreconcilable differences, I wasn’t quite ready to scoop up the road kill and incinerate it. And I certainly didn’t want to be rushed.

  Halfway through lunch, Isabelle stopped talking advertising and started to tell me about all the cute things her three-year-old daughter, my godchild, had been doing. I nodded and smiled, hopefully on cue, but I couldn’t get my mind off Ray and this mystery woman. When we left the restaurant, I almost paid the wrong check, because I couldn’t recall what we had ordered for lunch.

  “You didn’t hear a thing I said.” Isabelle tucked her arm through mine as we crossed the street toward the band gazebo to hear the Dickens choral concert.

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to do whatever advertising you think best. You decide and let me know.”

  “Okay, but I prefer to make joint decisions.”

  “Objection noted.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about Ray? You’ve obviously been thinking of nothing else.”

  I squeezed her arm to let her know I appreciated her concern. She knew I wouldn’t talk to her about him. Ray was my first best friend. I never talked about him with anybody. It would be disloyal, even now.

  “What about filling me in on Tim Lapham’s murder?”

  Now that I could do. As we sat on a park bench and waited for the concert to start, I told Isabelle everything I knew. It didn’t take long.

  She gazed out toward the expanse of the lake, which glistened in the afternoon sunlight, and a waft of cold air blew strands of hair across her face. She swiped them back into place. “I can’t figure out why anyone would go to the trouble of placing him inside your car.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Do you think it’s a warning of some kind? The old horse-head-in-your-bed? You do have some customers in that line of work.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Brennan Rowe came to mind now. He owned a construction company that built most of the new cottages on the lake, and people were forever making jokes about what he might be hiding in the foundations.

  “I can’t imagine what this body could be warning me about. Selling cars? Dating divorced men? Not changing my alarm code?”

  “Okay. Well, your showroom is right in the center of the village. Maybe it’s a warning to someone else. A see-what-I-can-get-away-with kind of thing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who did you acquire the car for?”

  “I thought Mr. Hughes would like it, but he hasn’t committed. It’s not likely he will now.”

  “Well, he’s certainly got the bucks.” Isabelle did his advertising.

  I didn’t reply because the Dickens cast converged on the white-painted and garland-draped gazebo from all sides in a blur of red, green, and gold costumes, singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and drowning out any possibility of further conversation. As we sat through all six of their numbers, I pondered Isabelle’s ideas.

  Only Cory and I knew that I’d purchased the Ferrari with Mr. Hughes in mind. I hadn’t told anyone about his ten a.m. appointment. But maybe Mr. Hughes had. He had been ruffling a lot of feathers lately with the notion he was looking for a lot in Wachobe to build one of his nationally acclaimed grocery stores on. Tim had been on the planning board, which would have to give building approval for the store. They had denied Mr. Hughes’ petition once. Could that be the reason for Tim’s murder?

  My cell phone vibrated. I pulled it out and walked away from the concert to answer.

  “Darlin’, a convenience store between Wachobe and the psych center was robbed last night by two individuals wearing ski masks. I saw the security camera footage. I’d like you to tell me if you think Erica is one of them. Can I pick you up?”

  “I’m at the gazebo concert with Isabelle.”

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  Isabelle hugged me goodbye and wiggled her fingers at Ray through the windshield of his cruiser when he pulled up to the curb. He gave her only a curt nod in reply, which should have concerned me because Ray loved Isabelle. But I wasn’t thinking of anyone but Erica when I hopped into the front seat of the car. I did draw a few suspicious stares from the choral crowd still lingering in the park. Maybe they didn’t know criminals don’t get to ride in the front seat. Or maybe some of them had heard the rumor about my fight with Tim. I pushed the thought from my mind and tried not to look guilty.

  Ray made a U-turn right in the middle of Main Street. Nobody dared to honk at him, but I could see a few other motorists shaking their heads in disgust. I slid a little lower in the seat.

  “The camera in the parking lot of the store shows a Lincoln pulling up. Two passengers got out at the store; a
third remained in the driver’s seat. I couldn’t make out any of the driver’s features and the license plate is caked with road spray. I think it’s a black Lincoln, although the video is black and white, so it might be another dark color. Know anyone who drives a Lincoln?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “All right. You can look at the video and tell me what you see.”

  We drove the rest of the miles to the convenience store in silence. I felt acutely uncomfortable for three main reasons: my sister was a suspected felon; my husband was engaged to another woman; and until Tim’s death, I hadn’t spent this much time with Ray during the last three years.

  For the first six months after I left him, if I spied his patrol car coming my way, I’d dart into the nearest store or hop behind a tree. That ended when he called me to ask about the house. My father had left the family home to me, so I’d actually left Ray and my house. Ray called to ask if I wanted him to move out. But I couldn’t live there—too many memories of him, not to mention the ones of Erica lying in the bathtub naked with her wrists dripping blood onto the ceramic tile and my mom in the garage. Anyway, I told him he could stay if he wanted to pay the utilities and keep up the yard. He did.

  After that, we’d run into each other on occasion and exchange awkward pleasantries or he’d call me to ask if I thought it was time to repaint the trim or the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. I’d go over to look, but I could never quite meet his eyes, although he had no trouble fixing his on mine. And I had to call him a year ago when Erica released herself from the psych center the first time. I found her sitting in my living room three days later with a bloody lip and a black eye. She’d tried to turn a trick and gotten beaten up in the process. I called Ray to file a report and also to take her back to the psych center. She was always more cooperative for Ray.

  But Ray’s company hadn’t been too hard to take the last two days. It almost felt like we were still married, except for the image of Catherine Thomas with her legs wrapped around him that kept pushing its way into my mind.

  Ray pulled into the parking lot of the 7-Eleven and parked at the edge of the building. “Let’s go.”

  I slid out of the front seat and followed him inside, the smells of burnt coffee, roasting hot dogs, and B.O. assailing my nose. I slipped and almost took a nosedive on the slush-covered tile floor, wrenching my back as I struggled to recover my balance. A swarthy man behind the counter looked up as we approached.

  “Abigail, can you come watch the counter, please?”

  A young woman with a silver nose ring, brush cut, and spiky eyelashes appeared, her frayed pant hems mopping the slush puddles as she approached and passed me. She had a vibrant tattoo of an eagle on the back of her neck, and her belly had a telltale mound to it, her ring finger noticeably bare. I wondered exactly how old she was. She took up the position next to the cash register, and the man, whose name tag said Bobby, led us into the storeroom.

  “Bobby, can you show Jolene the video, please?”

  Bobby patted a ripped black vinyl chair in front of a thirteen-inch television. I sat, realizing the B.O. scent emanated from him. Ray’s cell phone rang and he flipped it open, moving away from us. Bobby pressed a couple of buttons and the grainy video filled the screen.

  Two individuals wearing camouflage hunting outfits and lighter-colored solid ski masks entered the store. They toured the aisles separately before making their way to the counter where Bobby stood waiting. The front of the taller one’s jacket bulged forward as though maybe hiding a pointed gun. Bobby rapidly emptied the cash drawer into a shopping bag and held the handles out to the taller one. Both of them turned tail and ran. Bobby then picked up the phone and started dialing.

  Ray snapped his phone shut and returned to my side. “What do you think?”

  “It could be anybody. I couldn’t see enough to recognize her walk or anything. And the insulated suits mask their weight.”

  “All right. Bobby, I’ll take the tape with me this time.”

  I followed Ray out of the store and climbed into his car, feeling both relieved and disappointed. Relieved we couldn’t pin this one on Erica, not yet anyway, but disappointed not to have a lead as to her whereabouts. “Is that your only lead on Erica?”

  “So far.” Ray pulled out of the lot and gunned the engine. “Do you know a guy named Fitzgerald Simpson, a.k.a. the Beak?”

  “The Beak?” I laughed nervously. “Was he the driver of the getaway car?”

  “No. He’s the guy who left his fingerprints in your Ferrari. At least one fingerprint.”

  “Where?”

  “On the inside of the driver’s door. It’s the only clear print we found in the car.”

  “I never heard of him.” I knew Cory had detailed the car after it arrived at our shop, so any fingerprint on it should be new. But if Cory had done the job while watching his favorite soap, The Young and the Restless, he might have overlooked a spot or two. Cory had a thing for older, distinguished-looking men with power, and the guy who played Victor Newman on the show for a quarter century held his undivided attention for one hour every weekday.

  “Simpson’s wanted in Arizona for assault with a deadly weapon. He’s also got a rap sheet that includes attempted robbery, bribery, and a ten-year prison stint.”

  I preferred to think Cory missed the print. “Cory detailed the car, but maybe he didn’t wipe that area.”

  “Maybe. Who’d you buy the car from?”

  “A collector in Arizona. No one special.”

  “His name, darlin’. I need his name.”

  “I don’t remember. I didn’t meet him. I conducted business with his chauffeur. I’ve got the owner’s name on the paperwork at home, though.”

  “Let’s go pick it up.”

  When Ray pulled into my driveway, it occurred to me I had never invited him here before today, but he knew I lived in this particular 1870 white Victorian on Wells Street. Just one more of the many things he knew.

  I unlocked my apartment’s front door and smelled food. Food I hadn’t cooked. Food I hadn’t eaten. I kept those thoughts to myself as I darted across the oak floor and the gold and maroon Oriental carpet to my rolltop desk, shuffled through my file drawer, and pulled out the name of the Ferrari’s previous owner. I copied it onto a piece of paper to hand to Ray, while surreptitiously surveying my living room. The white couches and floral-patterned accent chairs looked the same as when I left this morning, but I thought I smelled coffee and a whiff of cigarettes. Erica had been known to take a drag now and then when I wasn’t looking.

  “Thanks. Do I smell coffee?” He headed toward the kitchen, slipping his jacket off his shoulders as though he intended to stay awhile.

  I chased after him and froze in the doorway.

  My kitchen cabinets were still white. My countertops were still blue. But my Pfaltzgraff dishes were no longer stacked neatly behind the glass cabinet doors, and my CorningWare was not hidden away in the cupboard. It sat crusted with yellow gunk on my stovetop, my kitchen table covered with bowls of half-eaten macaroni and cheese, plates with torn bread crusts, and cups of coffee, including one with a big lipstick imprint in Erica’s signature color—cotton candy pink. I counted. Four bowls, four plates, and four cups.

  I stepped into the kitchen and spotted my spare key on the corner of the counter nearest the back door. Erica, Sam, the driver, and someone else? The wild card factor. I looked at Ray, whose eyes were still glued to the table.

  “Did you have guests for lunch, Jolene?”

  “No. It must have been Erica and her friends.”

  “You didn’t have lunch with her?”

  “No. I had lunch with Isabelle. You know that.”

  His expression softened a little. I had him there.

  Ray set his jacket on the back of a chair. “Have you seen her since she left the psych center, Jolene?”

  “No.”

  “Aiding and abetting a felon is a serious crime, whether they’re
mental patients or not.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “I know that, Ray. But you don’t even know for sure Erica was involved in the robbery at the 7-Eleven. You’re just assuming it was her.”

  “I’m considering her history and looking at all the possibilities.” Ray stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms folded across his chest, his most intimidating deputy sheriff pose. “I need to ask you a few more questions about Tim Lapham.”

  “Okay.” I was thrilled with the change of topic since I didn’t like his accusatory tone with regard to the last one.

  “Becky says you and Tim went to Vegas together over Columbus Day weekend.”

  I gasped. “We did not.”

  “I checked with the airline. You were both booked on the same flight for Chicago.”

  “I went on to Arizona … to look at the Ferrari.”

  “Did you see Tim on the flight?”

  “No, but it was full. I was one of the last people to board and someone had already grabbed my seat. I had to get the flight attendant to oust the guy.”

  Ray’s eyes were locked on my face. I couldn’t read his expression. He was too good at his job. Good cop, bad cop, whatever-you-need-me-to-be cop. After a minute-long staring contest, I started to fidget. “Are you doubting me, Ray?”

  He relaxed his arms and picked up his jacket. “I’m doing my job, Jolene. My job is to ask all the questions. Becky’s statement brings a lot of questions to mind, especially coupled with the scene between Tim and you over the zoning board issue.”

  I felt a lump form in my throat. “You are doubting me.”

  He slid his jacket over his shoulders, the shoulders I had rubbed for him almost every day for ten years. “I’m asking the questions; that’s all, Jolene.”

  “I am … I was your wife, Ray. You shouldn’t have to ask those questions.”

  His eyes met mine again. “I wouldn’t be the first guy who found out the woman he married wasn’t the person he thought she was.”