“I didn’t think about it. I was pretty upset when the detectives were interviewing me.” The smell of the still-warm brownies was getting to her, bringing her appetite back with a vengeance. She lifted the aluminum foil and took a deep breath. “How early did you get up to make these?”

“Too damn early. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

“Well, thank God you came in early today of all days. One of the reasons the detectives were questioning me was that I left my briefcase at the reception hall, which means they have it and I don’t.”

Diedra looked taken aback. “You don’t ever forget your briefcase.”

“I did yesterday. I didn’t even realize I’d left it until the detectives mentioned it. The time with Carrie was upsetting.”

The question in Diedra’s eyes made Jaclyn draw a deep breath. She hated to go into the sordid details, but Carrie had slapped her in front of so many witnesses there was no way to keep it quiet. “It was a disaster from start to finish,” she said. “Gretchen quit, Estefani was about to quit, then Carrie slapped my face and fired me.”

“Oh. My. God.” Diedra’s mouth dropped open. Appalled, she stared at Jaclyn.

“I’m embarrassed that I just took it, that I didn’t hit her back,” Jaclyn confessed. “On the other hand, I’ve never been in a fight. She might have mopped the floor with me. But Bishop said she’d sue me, us, if I hit her, so I didn’t. I kept the legal and moral high ground, but, damn, I didn’t like doing it.”

“You were smart. She probably slapped you hoping she could get you to do something she could sue Premier for. I’ve met a few people like her before. They’re always pushing, always stirring up trouble and seeing how far they can go. It’s like they get off on it.”

That description summed up Carrie pretty well, Jaclyn thought. “Anyway, all I could think was to get the vendors out of there before she slapped one of them, too. Estefani was a little volcano, threatening to blow. I could just see the whole thing turning into a brawl that made the papers. Carrie demanded a refund, though, and I reminded her that the contract she’d signed stated any refunds were prorated. She didn’t like that, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Then I left. Melissa was in her office so she didn’t see me leave. A man drove up as I was getting in my car and he saw me, but I don’t know who he was so I don’t know how to find him, and he might have been the one who killed her, anyway.”

Diedra gasped. “You saw the killer?”

“I saw a man. He could have killed her. I don’t know that he did or didn’t.” Neither Eric nor Sergeant Garvey had seemed very impressed by her tale of a gray-haired man, and if Melissa hadn’t seen him, there was no way to prove he’d been there at all. After all, Jaclyn thought, she hadn’t actually seen him enter the building, either. Melissa might have already locked the front door, if she hadn’t had any other appointments coming in that day. The man might have gone around to the front, tried the door, then left.

“Did he see you?”

“He parked right beside me. I don’t know how he could have missed seeing me.”

Maybe Diedra watched too many crime shows on television, but her dark eyes got wide again. “If he’s the one who killed Carrie,” she said sharply, “then you’re the only one who can place him at the scene. He knows you saw him. You have to go into hiding!”


Chapter Fourteen

GOING INTO HIDING WASN’T AN OPTION—AT LEAST NOT this week, with their schedule so packed, not to mention she was pretty sure the Hopewell PD wouldn’t look kindly on her disappearing. Besides, how could the man she’d seen have had any idea who she was? For all he knew, she was someone there to inspect the hall with an eye toward booking it. And that was assuming the gray-haired man had killed Carrie, that he’d have any interest in her at all.

Still, the very idea was unsettling. She took solace in one of the brownies—there really was something comforting about chocolate—as she began going through her files and pulling out the details she needed for her working list for the day. Something in her balked at the idea of calling Eric for a favor; she’d rather go to the extra trouble of reassembling her file. Diedra helped her, combing through the computer for salient details, printing out photographs, digging out phone numbers.

Madelyn and Peach arrived within five minutes of each other, and each new arrival necessitated a rehashing of yesterday’s disastrous meeting, Carrie’s murder, speculation on who could have done it—the list was long and varied—as well as going over and over all the questions the police had asked. All of this was punctuated by expressions of outrage, concern, and support, and all of it took up time. So did their repeated raids on the brownies, but, damn, they were good.

Jaclyn was in her office on the phone to the restaurant where the post-rehearsal dinner was being held that night, confirming the reservation, when she heard the discreet chime of the security system that signaled the opening of the front door. A second later Diedra said, “Good morning, may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Wilder. Is Madelyn Wilde in?” a man asked, and Jaclyn went rigid. What was he doing here? Oh, right: asking more questions. Just hearing him speak made the bottom drop out of her stomach. She knew that voice, in ways she wished she didn’t. She’d first heard it fewer than forty-eight hours ago, but the fabric of it was ingrained on her consciousness. She’d heard him casually making small talk; she’d heard the deeper, rougher tones as they had sex; she’d heard him flat and dispassionate as he grilled her on whether or not she’d committed murder.

Instantly she was on her feet, then hesitated. Her instincts recognized him as a threat, but, realistically, what could she do? Deny him access to her mother? No way; he was a cop. If Madelyn refused to talk to him because she wanted to defend Jaclyn, that would only result in her mother being taken to police headquarters to answer questions there, and Jaclyn definitely didn’t want that.

Her only recourse, then, was to ignore him. That was the best-case scenario, if he and Madelyn would allow it. If Madelyn kicked up, Jaclyn would have to convince her mother to cooperate and answer all his questions. Anything else was up to Eric. She hoped he didn’t have any more questions for her, but if he did, she’d have to answer them as calmly as possible.

She was damned, though, if she’d go to the door, or even acknowledge his presence unless she was forced to; she sat back down, recovered herself enough to say “thank you” to the restaurant manager, and hang up while she checked that little item off her list. Then she very determinedly didn’t raise her head or even glance in the direction of the doorway.

Except she felt exposed, as if she’d been tossed naked into the middle of I-285. Before she could stop herself, she got up, leaped for the door, and slammed it shut.

The loud crack of the slamming door resounded through the office. Thoughtfully Eric stared at the glossy wooden panels. All he’d seen was a slim arm reaching for the edge of the door, but he didn’t have a second’s doubt whose office that was: Jaclyn’s. She was definitely pissed, and she definitely didn’t want to see him.

He looked back at the pretty young mixed-race woman who was now glaring at him, all welcome wiped from her expression.

No doubt about it, he was in an enemy camp.

The Premier office didn’t look like an armed camp; it was feminine without being froufrou, more Old World traditional than anything else, with heavy curtains at the windows, rich-looking furniture, and a sense of permanency, as if it had been there since the Mayflower landed. Having been inside Jaclyn’s town house he could see some of her taste here in the office, in some of the pieces of furniture, in the artwork and flower arrangements. Even the desk of the young woman wasn’t a real desk, at least not a desk like the battered metal thing he had, but looked like an ornate table that just happened to have a sleek computer monitor on it.

The slamming door brought two more women into view, both of them middle-aged and attractive, though in different ways. One was shorter, rounder, with bright green eyes and pouffy red hair, and a sparkle in her eyes that said “good times had here.” She was obviously not Jaclyn’s mother, while the other woman just as obviously was, not in coloring—her hair was blond, though probably a shade found in a bottle, and while her eyes were blue they weren’t the vivid Black Irish blue of Jaclyn’s eyes—but in facial structure, with the same chiseled cheekbones, slightly squared-off chin, and the softly full shape of her mouth. Looking at Madelyn Wilde gave him a preview of what Jaclyn would look like in twenty-five or thirty years, and it was good.

Mentally he shook himself. What Madelyn Wilde looked like now, and how Jaclyn looked years from now, had nothing to do with him. “Madelyn Wilde?” he asked politely, even though he knew exactly who she was. He flashed his badge again. “Detective Eric Wilder. May I speak with you, please?”

She coldly eyed him, her pretty face taking on a belligerent expression. “What police department are you with?” she asked, though he thought she already knew damn good and well where he worked.

“Hopewell,” he replied.

“Out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

He was willing to cut her a lot of slack, because neither he nor Garvey thought Jaclyn was their perp and this interview was just more i dotting and t crossing, but he wasn’t willing to let her challenge him on his authority. “Yes, ma’am, I am. I’m not here to arrest anyone, though, just ask a few questions. If you aren’t willing, I suppose I could make a call and get a couple of Atlanta squad cars here, if that would make you feel better—or invite you to visit me at Hopewell’s police department, whichever you’d prefer.”