Dying to Get Even Read online

  Maxie was everything Jennifer wasn’t. She was shrewd, clever, a master of disguises and voices, and she’d never, ever get stuck halfway through a fence like Jennifer had now. She sucked in her stomach and dragged her hips the rest of the way through the narrow opening, scraping her calves in the process.

  She rolled onto the grass. Someone had definitely been through here before, and more than once. The grass was flat and no weeds grew at that spot.

  Jennifer regained her balance and, momentarily, her common sense. What did she think she was doing—besides breaking and entering? And with her luck, ol’ Edgar probably had a pack of people-eating dogs roaming the grounds ready to make a midnight snack out of her.

  Jennifer loved dogs, but anything over waist high—Muffy excepted—made her nervous, and at five-six, her waist was fairly high. Fortunately, she had grabbed a bag of Muffy’s treats and stuffed them into her jeans’ pocket on her way out of the apartment. She hoped Dobermans and Rottweilers were as fond of Snausages as greyhounds were.

  The moon was high and almost full, casting a creamy glow over the grass and leaves. Jennifer cut back up toward the gate and the driveway, following the asphalt for a brisk five minutes before catching her breath in amazement. Even in the dim light, the house was glorious. All white, all columns. It stood shimmering in the dew of the evening, the outside lights only hinting at its magnificence. Wow! Had Mrs. Walker lived here, or had Mr. Very Successful Edgar Walker acquired this property after he had unacquired Mrs. Walker?

  Jennifer closed her mouth and turned her attention back to the business at hand.

  Everything out front looked normal. No evidence of foul play on the lawn or the porch. But where the heck was Emmie? Something wasn’t right. Everything was too quiet, and Jennifer’s fears were taking on a life of their own.

  Mae Belle had mentioned something about the pool—that had to be around back. She didn’t know what Mrs. Walker had done with the chickens, and she didn’t want to know.

  She followed a stone path around the house into the radiance of a softly lit patio and a huge, kidney-shaped swimming pool lined with underwater lights.

  Jennifer blinked. She could make out some kind of dark blob in the water on the far side of the pool. Another dark blob lay near it on the pool’s concrete apron. A breeze must be stirring because the on-land blob seemed to be aflutter.

  Jennifer gulped. Blobs were not her thing—not in the water and not on land. She much preferred monsters with a definite shape to them. Something with a front and a back so she knew which direction to run in.

  Courage—she had to have some inside her somewhere, if only she could find it. What would Maxie Malone do? Investigate, of course. Curses. Did she have to live up to her own creation? She drew herself up. If Maxie could do this, so could she. She shone her flashlight across the pool, the fractured light shimmering off the surface of the water, and inched forward. There were no such things as monsters, no such things. So why were her hands shaking and her knees threatening to buckle?

  Near the pool edge, her foot must have tripped some kind of infrared sensor because a loud wail blared and an array of lights flooded the pool.

  Jennifer froze in terror as the blob in the water turned into a body floating face down. It looked big and bulky, too massive to be Mrs. Walker, and it appeared to be dressed in a sports jacket, the back of which was floating eerily on top of the water.

  A moan drew Jennifer’s attention to the other blob, which seemed to be trying to sit up. As it did, Jennifer thought she detected a familiar curve to the diminutive shoulders and the silver curls escaping from a knit cap.

  "Mrs. Walker?" Jennifer offered tentatively over the siren. The dark figure turned in her direction. "Thank, God," she declared. "I was beginning to think I’d never find you, and then if I did—"

  "Jennifer?" the figure asked. "Oh, dear. Is that you? You should be at home in bed."

  At least they were in agreement on that point.

  As Mrs. Walker turned back, she seemed distracted by something in her lap. Jennifer watched in horror as Mrs. Walker grasped an object and then held it up in the light. It looked like a knife with at least a nine-inch blade, though something was keeping the blade from shining.

  "Don’t move another inch." The words were measured and threatening. Jennifer stopped and turned to see an amply endowed woman in a lacy negligee, standing on the steps leading down from the house. Her bleached blonde hair lay loose about her shoulders, and she held a double-barrel shotgun straight out in front of her. "Take one more step, and you’ll be picking buckshot out of places you didn’t even know you had."

  Chapter 4

  Watching dawn break through a police station window was not Jennifer’s favorite way to spend the morning. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she saw the sun come up, preferring that it be firmly and securely in its place in the sky before she started her day.

  Unfortunately, her day had started some time ago, and her immediate concern was the growth of her rap sheet. Unless some miracle happened, it was about to receive another entry.

  Detective Frank Sweeney had raised his eyebrows at her when the police brought her and Mrs. Walker into the station house. He made some rude remark under his breath about hoping never to have seen her again after her last arrest and then left after the briefest of interviews. Then he must have forgotten all about her because she’d been sitting on a bench outside his office, hugging her knees, and waiting for the last forty-five minutes.

  She was tired, it was close to six-thirty in the morning, and she hadn’t had a bite to eat since yesterday at noon. Except for that doughnut between chapters around four P.M. and, close to midnight, that bowl of ice cream—strawberry cheesecake. Not her favorite, but definitely Muffy’s. All of which was beside the point. She was hungry, and the police had better feed her. She had a constitutional right to food while in their care, and they had to honor it or—

  "You can go," a gruff voice said.

  Jennifer twisted to see Sweeney’s burly body standing behind her. He had on another one of those cheap, gray suits. Must get a quantity discount.

  "What?" she asked.

  "You heard me. Your story checked out. Now get yourself out of here."

  "What about Mrs. Walker?"

  "She’s being booked."

  "For?"

  "And don’t go anywhere. The D.A. will want to talk to you. They’ll be calling you as a witness."

  "I am not!" she declared.

  "You saw the knife; you saw Emma Walker holding it."

  "But she didn’t do it," Jennifer insisted.

  Sweeney gave her one of those smiles from the nose down. His eyes remained cold steel. "Go home." He started out the door.

  "But I’ve got to help her," she called after him.

  He stopped and turned, his eyes softer this time. "Are you religious?" he asked.

  She nodded, a cold chill spreading through her bones.

  "Then pray. That’s about all anybody can do for Emma Walker."

  Prayer was good, and Jennifer definitely intended to indulge in a healthy dose, but she knew that God never worked alone. He helped those who helped themselves. If Sweeney’s estimate of the situation was correct, Emma Walker was going to need lots of help. God’s and Jennifer’s.

  The nightmare just kept getting worse. Mrs. Walker was in jail, Jennifer was the main witness against her, and some idiot had parked in her space at her apartment building. She’d driven all the way back to Macon only to be irritated like this? And the lot wasn’t even half full.

  Jennifer pulled into a visitor’s slot, jerked the notepad from between the seats, and scribbled down the license number of the little green Hyundai that, for some reason, looked vaguely familiar. She’d march right to the apartment manager’s office and insist that the owner be found immediately. She slammed the car door, turned, and stopped short.

  Teague McAfee was sitting on the top step leading up to her building, looking at
her, an impish grin on his face. He was cute in a thin, overly energetic, early twenties kind of way, his brown hair cut short on the sides, long and loose over his forehead. He wore a buttoned-down shirt and jeans and looked a whole lot better than she did at the moment.

  "Hey, Marsh. ‘Bout time you got home," he called.

  Something inside of Jennifer squirmed. The guy must have connections at the police department—paid ones, most likely. Edgar Walker was hardly cold in the morgue, and the hungriest cub at the Atlanta Eye had already heard about the murder, gotten himself down to Macon from Atlanta, and staked out her place. Quite a feat for a cold-blooded animal so early in the morning.

  She could have spun on her heel and gotten the heck out of there, but McAfee was standing between her and her coffeepot. And she knew if she fled, he’d be there when she came back, whatever time that was. He was like that. Tenacious. Like a pit bull. What’s more, it was only eight in the morning. Where would she go? The mall didn’t open till ten.

  She crossed the lot and started up the stairs.

  He stretched his long leg across her path. "How’s tricks?"

  The twerp. She’d taken him out for lunch once to do some research on a book, and now he wanted to treat her like they were old friends. After forty-five minutes of listening to the stunts he pulled to get information better left unknown to anybody anywhere, let alone printed in a newspaper, she had politely excused herself, paid the check, and offered him the name of an exorcist.

  Still, he had called her. Said they were "fellow writers." Was she the only one who noticed they had nothing in common? She was five years older than he was, and his writing, if she could call it that, had nothing whatsoever to do with hers.

  "Crawled out from under your rock to feed off the dead?" she asked, stepping over his leg and continuing up the stairs.

  Immediately he was on his feet, keeping pace as she jogged, with the last ounce of energy in her body, up the inside stairs to the second floor. No way she was getting caught in an elevator with him. She stopped in front of her door, and he slipped between her and the lock.

  "Look, all I want is five minutes of your time. That’s all. I promise. You won’t even have to sleep with me." Then he laughed as if he thought that was funny. It was.

  She’d give him five minutes all right. She slipped her door key between her second and third fingers. One good, strategically placed jab...

  "Hey, look, I was joking, Jen. Lighten up, will ya? I’ve got a whole file on this Walker character. He’s big business in the Atlanta area. Why’d the old broad knock him off?"

  "Someone pays you to do this?"

  He nodded. "Good money. I hear you know this Emma Walker personally. If you want to do her a favor, tell her to talk to me, give me her sob story. The paper will play it up big, and we’ll get the public on her side. ‘Spurned Wife Exacts Justice on Slimy Ex.’ I get a story; she gets two to five."

  "And me?"

  He pursed his lips and pretended to think for a moment. "You get the satisfaction of knowing you did the right thing."

  She was surprised he knew the words "the right thing." She wouldn’t have thought they were in his vocabulary, at least not in that particular sequence.

  "Move," she growled.

  "What say I buy you some breakfast?"

  "What say you don’t." She knocked loudly on the door, and Muffy went into a barking frenzy that made her sound truly ferocious.

  McAfee backed up, and Jennifer slipped the key in the lock. "Like to come in and meet my dog? She hasn’t been fed this morning."

  He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Maybe this isn’t the best time. But you’ll call me before all of this is over."

  Jennifer watched as he walked back down the hall. She hoped she’d never be so desperate that she’d have to call on the likes of Teague McAfee.

  Chapter 5

  Jennifer turned the key in the lock of her apartment as she saw Teague McAfee slither into the elevator. She pitied the poor wretch he’d track down next. But that was none of her concern. She was home where she could lock her doors, draw her shades, turn off her phone, and collapse without any interference.

  Cautiously, she swung open the door and braced for Muffy’s welcoming onslaught.

  Muffy was the only one in the world who loved her truly and completely. Unconditionally. Actually, the dog did have a few requirements for her affection, like on-time feedings, at least two walks a day, and some generous rubbing about the ears and neck. Whatever. With Muffy, she had achieved a near perfect relationship. The dog was faithful, loyal, forgiving—and strangely absent. She’d been there not two minutes ago, barking as if she would rip through the door and tear McAfee into little pieces. It wasn’t like her to abandon a good fight.

  "Muff?" she called tentatively.

  The blinds were drawn tight, leaving the modest living room/dining area in a shading of gray.

  "You here, babe?"

  She heard a whimper in the direction of her worn-out sofa. She flipped the light switch, and her heart jumped. Sam was slouched in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his fingers steepled and resting on his lips. He was staring gravely back at her.

  Muffy, planted at his feet, gave out a puff of air, shook her head, and dropped it onto her paws.

  "How did you...." Jennifer began and then was suddenly aware of her tattered sweatshirt and stained jeans. Her hand went to her hair. The early morning dew had left little ringlets along her hair line and anywhere a strand had escaped the knot at the back of her neck. And she hadn’t bothered with make-up at three in the morning. She must look just like she felt. That was one scary thought.

  Sam dropped his hands into his lap. "Mrs. Ramon, across the hall, let me in. I took a chance that you’d leave a key with a neighbor. Found her on the second try."

  "She’s not supposed to—"

  "Hey, the dog had to be fed and walked." He sat up, and Muffy found his hand with her head. His hand. Whose dog did she think she was anyway?

  "You did that?" she asked.

  "Somebody has to look after you two girls."

  She found that statement both endearing and infuriating at the same time, like so many things about Sam. "We can take care of ourselves very nicely, thank you."

  "Taught Muffy to let herself out, have you?"

  Sam never seemed to know when to leave anything alone. She tossed her keys on a table by the door and went toward the small nook of a kitchen. She needed coffee. Now.

  As she reached for the carafe, she realized that it was full and the little red light of the machine was on. Who did he think he was waltzing into her house, fawning over her neglected dog, and making the coffee she so desperately needed?

  She poured a cup and took it—black—back into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa and savoring one long, soothing slug of the bitter, hot liquid.

  "Okay, you’ve saved me with coffee and rescued Muffy. We’re fine. You can go now."

  She didn’t mean to seem so ungrateful, but she didn’t trust Sam’s motives. When she first met him, he’d practically swept her off her feet, but that was before she’d found out he’d been wooing her to get her help with a story. And now the question was what price tag came with the coffee. It might be more than she was willing to pay.

  "How’s Emma?" he asked.

  Hah! She knew it. She slapped her mug down on the coffee table almost spilling its contents. Dang if she’d drink the stuff now.

  "I’m not uttering a word." She jutted out her chin.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head at her. And then he was next to her, pulling her against him, and she was too tired to pretend she didn’t need him. The tears started, and she was making a terrible mess of his shirt.

  "They think she did it,” she blubbered into his chest. “They think Emma killed her ex-husband."

  He stroked the tears from her cheek. "Did you see her at the police
station?"

  She shook her head against his shoulder and sobbed. "They took us down in separate cars." Then she drew back, suddenly dry-eyed. "You’re not taking notes, are you?"

  "Of course not."

  "But you are writing the article for the newspaper."

  "I understand you’re a witness."

  She sat up straight, swiping at her eyes, grabbed up her mug and blew hard on her coffee. "Nope. Didn’t see a thing."

  Gently, he guided her chin towards him so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. "I know Emma didn’t kill anybody. I’m on your side—yours and Emma’s. You know that."

  She did know it, but she also knew he had a job to do, and he would do it with honesty and integrity. And to any honest person—herself included—darned if it didn’t look like Emma did it.

  "Did you see anybody else at the estate?"

  "This is all off record?" She tugged away from his hand.

  "Of course."

  "Besides Emma, I didn’t see anybody except for some blonde who pointed a shotgun at me."

  He let out a puff of breath, obviously irritated with her lack of faith in him—that and probably the fact she had nothing to tell him. "That would be Lisa Walker, Edgar’s current wife."

  "So I gathered. What do you know about her?"

  "Not much. She’s younger than he was by a good forty years, give or take a birthday or four.

  "A gold digger," Jennifer declared.

  "Maybe, but the couple of times I saw them together, she was pretty touchy-feely."

  "You saw them together?"

  "Sure. For the paper. The Down Home Grills are a growing business."

  "The way she was swinging that shot gun around, she didn’t look much fond of anyone."

  "How’d she react to Edgar’s body?"

  "Now that did look genuine. Once she got close enough to the pool to realize what had happened, she covered her mouth with one hand and fell sobbing to her knees. But she never once let go of that gun."