Dying to Get Her Man Read online

  "Absolutely not. The note is an irregularity, but there were no signs of struggle."

  "Fill me with a bottle of sleeping pills and I won't struggle either."

  "Don't tempt me. It's not easy to get that kind of dose into someone, certainly not without their knowledge. An empty pill bottle was found at the scene, so the assumption is she took the pills willingly."

  "Did they check for fingerprints?"

  "That I don't know, but I would think so even though Suzanne was wearing gloves. An autopsy is being performed despite a request that one not be."

  "Let me guess, that was in the typed note, too. Who would think to include something like that in a suicide note except a murderer? No bruises, no marks on the body?"

  "None."

  "Where did her dress come from? Was it new?"

  "That I don't know."

  "And you didn't ask. That's a question only a woman would think of. We need to check the label. Was it an actual wedding dress?"

  "No, of course not. Why would it be?"

  "White dress, a bouquet of white roses, blue ribbon, and now you've added lace gloves and a note confessing her undying love. Satin shoes?"

  "Yep."

  "It equals a wedding, Sam, if not in this life then in the next. Why do you think they're calling her the Bride Who Died? As I said, we need to find out about the dress. If it was an old dress, that's one thing. But if she bought it new, we need to ask the clerk who sold it to her if she said anything. If we're lucky, Suzanne will have told her all about her plans—that is, if she bought it for her wedding to Richard. And if it was after his death, heaven knows what she said."

  "I told you it wasn't a wedding dress. It was plain, simple, sleeveless, linen, I think."

  "And the flowers," Jennifer rushed on. "They had to be fresh, so they were definitely post-Richard. As long as she didn't pick them up at Kroger's, a florist may have a record. Buying roses out of season is expensive and takes some planning as you know. Thanks again, by the way. Mine were beautiful.

  "Oh, Sam, I can help if you'll only let me," she said. "When we talk to Ruth Hovey, we'll have to ask if she knew about their affair."

  "Hard to say what she knows. We'll talk to her, but we'll have to be careful. We don't want to offend her. And I don't want any mention of murder, understood? Suzanne's autopsy report is due back Monday. I'd stake a good-sized wager that it won't show anything new. I saw the body. She took pills and she froze to death."

  Sam was right, of course. If Suzanne was murdered, this was no hit. Hit men didn't use poison. That was a woman's weapon. She'd mention that to him later, when he was more amenable to the possibility.

  "Now, I don't suppose you could possibly relax and simply enjoy what's left of the evening?" he asked.

  The waiter set Jennifer's pasta primavera in front of her and then served Sam his prime rib.

  "I saw another report on the news about beef."

  Sam raised an eyebrow at her.

  "Sorry." She attacked her food. Too bad Sam couldn't develop a taste for pasta. It was scrumptious, almost worth what he was paying for it.

  She swallowed. "Sam, about Suzanne—"

  He shook his head. She wouldn't get more out of him until the autopsy report. She'd managed to break his earlier mood, and now she was sorry she had. She'd wasted their romantic evening together with talk of death and suicide and true-crime books.

  But she'd make it up to him. It'd be good for both of them, to actually be working together on an equal basis, solving a crime. With her imagination and his objectivity, they had all the bases covered. This was exactly what had eluded her, the missing element to their relationship, a way for her to prove herself professionally.

  And she'd see to it that they would have another evening together soon.

  She reached over and grabbed his hand. They sat like that, eating in silence. It would all work out. They had plenty of time to examine their feelings for each other. It didn't have to be tonight. After all, it wasn't as if Sam were going to run off and marry someone else.

  Chapter 3

  The call woke her at 8:43 the next morning. Her eyes tightly shut, the comforter pulled snugly around her neck to ward off the unusual—at least for Georgia—winter cold, Jennifer groggily fumbled for the phone on her nightstand and pricked her finger on one of the roses Sam had brought her last night. She swore, mumbled a quick apology to God, and reared out of bed. Her eyes popped open to find a dark red droplet of blood forming on her skin. She brushed it away and grabbed the receiver, uttering an irritated hello.

  "Your entire future is in danger. You must come this very minute." Elderly Emma Walker's usually sweet and kind voice came across the line with a take-no-prisoners attitude.

  "What's wrong?" Jennifer demanded.

  "I refuse to answer any questions. Not over the phone. Trust me. It's a matter of the utmost importance. You must get over here at once. Don't take time to eat. I'll give you breakfast when you arrive."

  While a bit paranoid, Emma was not one to panic.

  "I'm not even awake. I need to—"

  "Nothing you could do is more important than this," Mrs. Walker barked, the strength in her voice defying her tiny frame, her patience nonexistent. "We have no time as it is. It will take you over an hour to drive from Macon to Atlanta. Don't you see? We must devise a plan before it's too late. You must get him back."

  And then the phone went dead.

  "Get him back?" Jennifer repeated to the dial tone, her eyes only half open, her mind barely functioning. She stuck her aching finger in her mouth, mumbling around it, "Get who back?"

  She shook her head and forced her brain to snap to it. Then she punched in Mrs. Walker's number, but no one, not even the answering machine, would pick up, no matter how many times she pushed redial. Obviously, the woman had unplugged the phone.

  Maybe Tiger, that evil beast of a mutated Chihuahua that Mrs. Walker called her dog, had run away. No. That would be too good to be true. Tiger was destined to outlive them all. And in the luxury of his benefactor's more-than-comfortable home.

  She rolled out of bed to Muffy's enthusiastic good morning licks.

  "Okay, okay." Jennifer rubbed the greyhound's head and neck. "You get breakfast and a ten-minute walk, and I get a five-minute shower. That will simply have to be good enough." She yawned, stretched, and groaned.

  She picked up the offending rose. Its petals were wilted, but she drew it to her nose anyway and smiled. The scent was still sweet. If she'd put it in the vase with the others last night as she should have, it'd still be fresh. But she'd been exhausted by the time she remembered, and now it was too late.

  After Sam had brought her home, she'd felt energized. He was actually going to let her work with him on the Hovey book. How could she possibly sleep?

  She had stayed up until three in the morning trying to work a frozen corpse found in a graveyard—one couldn't have too many dead bodies in a mystery novel—into her latest book, Dancing till Dead. It was a deliciously twisted tale of murder and romance, and the story that was going to wow some New York editor and finally—please God—get her published.

  She'd planned to reward her hard work—and her successful dodging of Sam's questions—with at least another hour of sleep before his expected call. They planned to grab some lunch, perhaps even see a movie. There wouldn't be anything new on the Suzanne Gray case—not on a Sunday—so that could wait. After he dropped her back home, she'd wall herself up and begin the laborious task of going through the entire manuscript of her book for one more reading before starting on the conclusion.

  She sighed. She really would like that time with Sam, time without talk of murder, suicide, or writing of any kind, time to remind him and herself what it was that attracted them to each other, besides the obvious. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe it was time they had "the talk," time she finally examined her feelings for him.

  Only Mrs. Walker had snatched her Sunday plans from her. She had no choice but to get into her
little Volkswagen Beetle and make the trek to O'Hara's Tara, the upscale condominium in downtown Atlanta where her dear friend Emma Walker lived. Obviously, something was terribly wrong.

  "More coffee?" Mrs. Walker offered to pour from the silver pot. She'd set the dining table with china, crystal, and sterling.

  Jennifer glared at the little woman out of the corner of her eye, and pushed what was left of her scrambled eggs into the remaining cheese grits. Breakfast was delicious down to the fresh fruit and homemade honey biscuits, but Mrs. Walker was still refusing to reveal why she'd insisted that Jennifer drop everything and speed to Atlanta.

  At least the smell of food had finally enticed Tiger to abandon her. The hairless little beast loved to chew leather—even imitation leather—and didn't at all mind catching a little flesh as he tried to devour the shoe right off her foot, a point that somehow totally escaped his owner. Now he was doing a "pretty sit" in hopes of getting what was left of breakfast. Too bad he didn't know how to play dead.

  "I've had two cups of coffee and more breakfast than I eat in a week. It's time you told me..." Jennifer began, rubbing her sore ankle. Those scratches had better not scar.

  "Uh, uh, uh. Not a word until you've finished every bite. You'll need your strength for what lies ahead, and, knowing you, it's hard to say when you'll have your next decent meal. Just look how thin you are! You must be in the middle of one of your books and forgetting to eat. I wish I could get you to try this country ham."

  Okay, enough. Mrs. Walker knew full well that Jennifer was a vegetarian. The woman was stalling, which made no sense whatsoever. Jennifer drew herself up, put down her fork, and looked her dead in the eye. "I'm done."

  Mrs. Walker tossed Tiger a slice of ham almost as big as he was. He caught it in midair and crashed to the floor, growling and snarling in devilish delight.

  Then Mrs. Walker faced Jennifer, her white hair framing her face angelically, her eyes large and near tears. "I don't suppose I can put it off a moment longer."

  "Not and still have me around to hear about it," Jennifer assured her.

  "All right then."

  Jennifer wiped her hands on her cloth napkin and took the section of newspaper that Mrs. Walker handed her. It was a copy of that morning's edition of the Atlanta Constitution, and it was folded open to an engagement announcement.

  A familiar grin stared out at her from the grainy photo. It looked like Sam—her Sam—but that was ridiculous. She leaned in closer. The hair was a little too long, and the man looked way too young, almost boyish, but that cocky attitude was right there, beaming happily out at her, his arm tight around some good-looking woman wearing a slinky evening gown, the announcement directly beneath. Some other lucky girl must have found a duplicate.

  Or had she?

  Her breath caught in her throat and something akin to terror grabbed her heart. RENARD-CULPEPPER shouted at her from the page. Obviously one of Sam's relatives... She scanned the article.

  ...announce the engagement of Isabelle Jean Renard of Atlanta... to Samuel A. Culpepper... graduate of the School of Journalism, the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, formerly of Winston-Salem, currently of Macon.

  What the hell was going on?

  "Oh, dear," Mrs. Walker gasped. "You've turned quite pale. I knew you'd be upset, but I didn't know any other way to break the news. You need to be with a friend when you receive information like this, a friend who has a few ideas as to how to rectify the situation."

  "There must be some mistake," Jennifer insisted.

  "I hardly think so. One doesn't accidently hand in the wrong names or photo for an announcement to a newspaper."

  "I'm telling you, Sam is not engaged."

  "You poor thing. Denial is often the first reaction. I remember when my husband Edgar first took up with—"

  Jennifer pushed back from the table and stood up. "Sam is not engaged. He...last night...we..."

  "I know, dear. Men do dissemble so." Mrs. Walker stood and wrapped her arms around Jennifer's waist. "It's all right to cry. Cry your eyes out. And when you're finished, we'll put together our plot to get him back."

  Jennifer drew away, blinking back tears and swallowing the lump in her throat. Pride was as much a part of her being as her name. If Sam were engaged to some other woman, if that's what he'd been trying so hard to tell her last night, then she wanted nothing more to do with him. But she'd learned long ago that someone can't have feelings for you one moment and then suddenly not.

  This was her Sam, who, just last night, had whispered in her ear how much he adored her, and who had almost said the L word before she placed her fingers over his lips and sent him away from her door.

  How could he? Why would he?

  Jennifer willed her breathing to slow, demanding that all doubt, both within herself and that directed at Sam, be put on hold. She knew this man, not thought she knew him. He had seen her through troubles that would have shaken a lesser man. He might be irritatingly candid, almost too perceptive, and have a habit of saying one more word than he should, but his integrity was beyond question. He didn't lie. He didn't deceive even when she wanted him to. She couldn't have been that wrong about him. She owed it to him to believe in him.

  And until he told her otherwise, she had to assume that something about that engagement announcement was terribly wrong.

  "I've got to go," Jennifer said.

  "But, dear, we need to work on the plan."

  "Not yet we don't." She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  "I've already put out some feelers to find out exactly who this Isabelle person is. Actually I've hired—"

  "I don't care who she is."

  "Where are you going?" Mrs. Walker asked.

  "To find Sam."

  "But that's so... so direct. Do you really think it's wise?"

  Wise or not, she didn't intend to take anyone else's word for it. Sam would have to tell her to her face. Was he engaged to Isabelle Jean Renard? Or not?

  Chapter 4

  But where the heck was Sam? He didn't answer his door or his home or cell phones no matter how many times Jennifer knocked or called. And his pager was either turned off or somewhere out of the service area. Her sympathy and understanding were under strain.

  He—and his car—had disappeared off the face of the earth, or at least out of Bibb County, as best she could tell after spending hours driving past every place she thought he could possibly be. And he hadn't even called her, not even to break their afternoon date.

  Mrs. Walker was right: something was terribly wrong.

  Emotionally and physically exhausted, she reluctantly turned her little Beetle toward home, the light of late afternoon definitely on the wane. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into a parking space.

  She climbed out of her car and headed toward the steps to her apartment building. Planted squarely in the middle of the third concrete step, shivering in a coat too thin for the weather, sat a young woman with thick, dark hair and cheeks rosy from the cold. She didn't appear to be more than seventeen, if that. Jennifer wondered how long she'd been sitting there. She squinted at the girl, who hadn't taken her eyes off Jennifer since she got out of her car. The young woman looked somehow familiar, but why? Must be a new tenant, Jennifer thought, although she couldn't remember anyone moving in or out recently.

  When she came within five feet of the steps, the girl stood. "Are you Jennifer Marsh?" she asked.

  Jennifer nodded. She had no time or patience to be hit up for some magazine subscription.

  "I'm Suzie Turner." The girl offered her gloved hand. "I'm Suzanne Gray's niece."

  Suzanne's niece? What the heck was Suzie Turner, of all people, doing on her doorstep?

  That explained why she looked familiar. The family resemblance from the photos of Suzanne on TV and in the newspaper was remarkable.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Marsh, but I can't find Sam Culpepper."

  Surprise, surprise.

  "How'd you wind up
here?" Jennifer asked.

  "I tried to get his address, but it's not listed anywhere, and Mom wouldn't give me his phone number. Finally I remembered that he'd written several articles about you solving crimes, and I knew you'd know how to get in touch with him. And maybe, you could help me, too. Like you have other people. I found your address in the phone book, but it didn't list which apartment you live in, only the street number. I figured you had to come in or out eventually."

  "You must be Marjorie Turner's daughter."

  "That's right. I can't believe you know who I am."

  "Sam mentioned your mother to me. Why do you need to see him?"

  "Then you do work with him sometimes," the girl said.

  In truth it was more like Jennifer involving herself in situations she shouldn't, with Sam helping out in self-defense. But working together did have a better ring to it.

  "Sure. What do you need?"

  The girl drew a deep breath. "No one will listen. Mama says Aunt Suzanne had a dark side that I don't know anything about, and we should leave it at that. Our minister at church said Aunt Suzanne is with God now and I should be at peace with her death. And everybody else I try to talk to ignores me. The police told me they were sorry about my loss and sent me home.

  "My mother says Mr. Culpepper is a good man. I know if he prints it in the newspaper, they'll have to listen to him."

  "What is it you want him to print?"

  "The truth. That my Aunt Suzanne didn't kill herself."

  Two hot chocolates later, Jennifer had Suzie Turner warmed up enough that her teeth had stopped chattering, as much from nervous energy as from the cold, and she'd finally pulled off her coat. They sat across from each other at Jennifer's dining table, Muffy lying between their feet. Jennifer had offered to make her a sandwich, but Suzie wouldn't hear of it. She wasn't there to impose.

  "How old are you?" Jennifer asked.

  "Twenty-one."

  Jennifer's eyebrow arched. "I thought you were younger."

  "I get that all the time. I get carded every time I buy alcohol, not that I do that very often. Or go to an R-rated movie. I think it's because I have a soft voice."