20
HE WASN’T GOING TO SHOW for their Monday lunch.
Biting back a curse, Carolyn watched the minute hand on her watch flick to 11:45, then finished off the glass of wine she’d ordered at the bar.
Doug must have been serious about that kiss-off text he’d sent her early this morning. But her placating follow-up note, her plea for one more lunch to talk through his decision, should have smoothed out the waters. It would have worked with any other man.
Yet the mentor on whom she’d pinned all her hopes hadn’t succumbed to her charm this go-round.
So much for all the groundwork she’d laid, the months she’d spent cultivating a relationship with the man she’d been certain would eventually open doors for her in radio.
But why had he walked away? How had her acting skills failed her?
She crossed her legs and watched the new arrivals push through the door, as an eager Doug used to do. Yes, she’d been a mite too aggressive when Eve’s spot had been in jeopardy, but they could have gotten past that.
There was more to this breakup than her faux pas.
She tapped her nails on the bar.
Maybe Doug still suspected her of inside knowledge about the on-air phone call Eve had received.
Maybe he even thought she was involved in the other incidents.
If he did, was he thinking about going to the authorities with his suspicions? Could that inclination be behind his sudden case of cold feet about their relationship?
“Would you like another glass of wine?” The bartender lifted her empty stem.
What she’d like and what she was going to have were two different things.
“No.” She dug out her wallet and set a ten on the counter. No more alcohol for her today. Her task this afternoon required a clear head.
Thank goodness she had an interview scheduled for that article on South Side carjackings and wasn’t expected back at the office. A quick phone call could delay the meeting for an hour and a half while she took care of other, more pressing personal business.
She left the restaurant, heading for her car rather than the office.
Eighteen minutes later, she pulled into her condo.
The material on Eve was well hidden, but the cops would tear the place apart if Doug managed to convince them she was a suspect and they secured a search warrant. Best to dispose of it ASAP. It had served its purpose—though the outcome hadn’t been close to what she’d envisioned.
Carolyn bolted the door behind her and hurried to the kitchen. Riffled through the boxed dinners stacked in her freezer. Pulled out the chicken tetrazzini.
After working her fingernail under the re-glued flap, she eased it open and removed the notes she’d stored inside, plus the contact information for the wife of the man who’d led Eve on. A real nutcase . . . but more than happy to dish about her husband’s wayward eye with a sympathetic listener during their “chance” meeting at a charitable event.
That was one of the beauties of being a reporter. You knew how to delve into people’s backgrounds, find connections, locate sources, search for dirt. And if you dug deep enough, you usually found it—or something that could be spun to suggest dirt.
Not that it had helped her in this case.
She tossed the empty package in her recycle container and moved to her home office. One by one, she fed the sheets into her shredder.
That task completed, she dumped the minced remnants from the bin into a plastic grocery bag, tied the top, and retrieved her purse. All she had to do was dispose of this in a trash can at a fast-food place en route to her interview. The burner phone loaded with the voice-altering software had been discarded days ago. No one would ever be the wiser about the source of that call.
And after work tonight, she’d shift focus.
St. Louis had never been her first choice as a home base, but you went where the job openings were. With all the experience she’d gained here, however, she could ditch this town in a heartbeat. It wasn’t the best market for journalists anyway. Only her promising affiliation with Doug had kept her here.
But there were glitzier cities where she could thrive, bigger fish to cozy up to who could help boost her career to the next level. And her resume was going to be crossing their desks within forty-eight hours. She didn’t need Doug Whitney to pave the way, or Eve Reilly’s slot to open up, in order to get her chance.
All she needed was the right connection—and somewhere out there, he was waiting to fall under Carolyn Matthews’s spell.
The detective was here.
Meg scrambled to her feet as Brent Lange, accompanied by the colleague who’d come with him to their house, entered Steve’s hospital room. A shaft of midmorning light peeking through the canted blinds whited out her vision, and she shaded her eyes.
“Good morning.” After directing that greeting toward her, Detective Lange transferred his attention to her husband, who was propped up with several pillows while his cast-enclosed left ankle rested on another pillow, a white bandage covering the gash on his forehead.
Steve glowered at him. “What do you want now?”
“We have a few more questions.”
“I don’t feel like answering them.”
“Nevertheless, we intend to ask them. We can do that here, this morning—or we can reconvene at the station after you’re released this afternoon.”
“I’m not talking to you again until I get an attorney. This is harassment.”
“Questioning a suspect isn’t harassment.”
“So now I’m a suspect?”
“You’ve been one all along. The difference today is that we have a witness who saw you leave the package at Eve Reilly’s house—and a warrant for your arrest is in process.”
Meg’s stomach dropped to her toes. So much for all her prayers last night that the allegations about Steve were wrong.
Her husband’s complexion grew more pasty. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have a witness.”
“Yes, we do. He came forward yesterday, and his testimony is credible.”
Meg’s legs began to shake, and she sank back into the chair she’d occupied most of the night.
“I also spoke with a few of your coworkers this morning.” The other detective joined the conversation. Colin something. “Including the guy who picked up lunch for you at a Subway near his house the day of the bomb incident. Which leaves you unaccounted for during that hour.”
“And I touched base with Candy.” Detective Lange sent her a brief glance. There was no missing the sympathy that flared in his eyes for a nanosecond before he turned back to her husband. “She confirmed you’d spent an hour with her the night of the tire slashing—but there’s a significant gap between the time you gassed up and your arrival at her place.”
Meg stared at Steve.
He’d lied about the waitress too.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he looked over at her. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee?”
It wasn’t a request.
But thanks to his injury, he was in no position to make her do anything.
Nor would he be ever again.
“I’m staying.”
He glared at her, but she straightened in her seat—even though she felt like curling into a ball and sobbing. Because all at once, her course was clear.
When the detectives left, she would too—and she wasn’t coming back.
“Let me tell you how this is going to play out.” Detective Lange moved to the foot of the bed and folded his arms. “As soon as you’re released, we’ll be booking you on multiple counts.”
“That’s crazy! Everything you have is circumstantial—and witnesses aren’t always reliable.”
“This one is credible.”
Steve’s lips thinned. “I’m not talking anymore without a lawyer.”
“Your choice. But if you cooperate, you improve your chance of a plea bargain. Keep that in mind.”
After glancing her direction, the two men disappeared out the door.
Meg stood, drawing Steve’s attention again. Beneath his veneer of bravado, he looked scared—and she almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But he’d brought this on himself. On them.
She picked up her purse and clenched the strap to steady her shaking fingers. “We’re done.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“What about those vows we took?”
“I don’t think the ‘for worse’ part includes deception, cheating, manipulation, and law-breaking.”
“The evidence they have won’t hold up in court.”
“So you’re admitting you threatened Eve? Left the fake bomb, slashed her tires?”
“I’m not admitting anything.”
“What about Candy?”
He studied her for a moment. Shrugged. “I made a mistake, okay? But she doesn’t mean anything to me. And they can’t put me in jail for having a fling. That’s not a crime.”
Despite the rays of sun warming her back as she faced him, a cold chill rippled through her. “No—but it’s a sin.”
He snorted. “Don’t get all religious on me. You’re not perfect either, you know.”
“I know—and you’ve reminded me of that on a regular basis for the past eighteen months. But I would never, ever cheat on you. Or do anything illegal—or immoral.” She crossed to the door, hoping her shaky legs would support her.
“So that’s it? You’re going to walk out on an injured husband in his hour of crisis?”
“You wouldn’t be injured if you hadn’t been driving recklessly. I heard the officers talking in the ER after they brought you in. This”—she swept a hand over the bed—“and everything else is your fault. Not mine. My lawyer will be in touch.”
As soon as she hired one.
Turning her back, Meg walked out the door.
But once she reached the hall, she leaned against the wall and tried to shift her numb brain into gear.
Besides finding an attorney, she had to pack up her belongings and get out of the house before Steve was released from the hospital. Thank heaven she had a job, and money to pay for an apartment until whatever lawyer she found could sort through the mess and divvy up the assets.
What a sad end to the fairy tale life she’d envisioned.
Her vision misted, and she sniffed. She should have known this wouldn’t end well.
Nothing in her life had ever been a fairy tale.
“Are you okay?”
At the question, she blinked and straightened up. One of the nurses had stopped beside her, faint furrows denting her brow.
Okay?
Not even close.
But she couldn’t admit that to a stranger.
“Yes. Just . . . um . . . thinking about everything that has to get done.”
The woman offered her a sympathetic nod. “I hear you. Illness and accidents can overwhelm families. If you need any assistance, our social services department can recommend several resources.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll be fine.”
Meg waited until the woman walked away. Then, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she continued down the hall toward the elevator.
She would be fine. This setback wasn’t going to destroy her. She wouldn’t let it.
Maybe she wasn’t as smart or pretty or dynamic as Eve Reilly, but watching her high school acquaintance in action these past few months—and especially during the recent trauma—had been inspiring.
If you approached life with a can-do attitude, stuck with your principles, and stood up for yourself and what you believed in, life could be good.
Beginning today, she was going to follow in Eve’s footsteps.
And thanks to the radio station job, she had the financial wherewithal to walk away from Steve—and find her own happy ending.
Eve stood on tiptoe and felt around on the top shelf of her kitchen cabinet. Huffed out a breath.
Where had she put that box of little-used spices? Her dolmathes wouldn’t be the same without the distinctive hint of dill that gave her mother’s recipe its extra zing.
Between a blog post that was fighting her every step of the way, an air conditioner that was making odd noises, and now a key spice gone missing, this Tuesday had been a bust.
She stretched further—only to jerk back as the pulsing beat of “I Won’t Back Down” erupted from her cell on the counter.
Sweet mercy!
Grabbing the edge of the cabinet to steady herself, she coaxed her lungs to kick back in. If Brent and his cohorts didn’t wrap up this case soon, her nerves would be shot.
She picked up the phone, skimmed the screen, and greeted Grace.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Her sister seemed a tad distracted.
“No. I’m on a spice search.”
“Spice search. I’m trying to find my dill for Mom’s dolmathes recipe. I haven’t made that one in a while, and I thought I’d whip up a batch for us when you and Cate come to dinner tomorrow.”
Two seconds ticked by. “I didn’t know we were invited for dinner tomorrow.”
“You weren’t. But I talked to Cate earlier, and she mentioned she might drop by. She also said you were going to be in town for a forensic seminar. Rather than have you two show up with food in hand again, I decided to feed you this visit.”
“Is your detective going to be there too?” Her sister was fully engaged in the conversation now.
“No. Why would he be?”
“Well, he’s doing chauffeur duty for you. It would be a hospitable gesture to invite him to join us.”
And subject him to the third degree from her sisters?
Not a chance.
“Considerate of you to think of that—but plan on a threesome. So what’s up?”
As if she had to ask.
Her two sisters had been tag-teaming phone calls since she’d told them on Sunday about the twist her case had taken. While neither had seemed concerned about the threat to themselves, they had not been thrilled to hear that there could be a second person targeting her.
But two calls a day from each of them?
Overkill.
Now another in-person visit.
Much as she loved them, they had their own lives—and impinging on their free time wasn’t fair.
“I had kind of a gruesome case today—but I doubt you want to hear about it.” Humor lurked in Grace’s inflection.
Eve put her hand on her stomach. “Gruesome is more than sufficient detail. Anything else going on?”
“Nope. How is it on your end?” Her sister’s casual tone didn’t fool her one bit.
“If you’re asking whether I’ve received any more communication from my harasser, the answer is no.”
“Any updates from your detective since we last talked?”
“He isn’t my detective.” Yet. “And I promised during our last chat to let you know if there were any developments. That was a mere seven hours ago, by the way.”
“I know—but I like to hear your voice. You have an issue with that?”
Eve leaned back against the counter. “No. But you and Cate have full plates. You don’t have to keep checking in with me. I’m in excellent hands.” She cringed. Poor choice of words.
“In a literal or rhetorical sense?”
Of course her sister would home in on her faux pas.
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. Cate texted me a photo of Brent Lange. Whoa! Hot guys like him never enter my orbit—not that I’d want to replicate your meeting strategy, you understand. There have to be easier . . . oops. Call coming in. I have to take this.”
“Go. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come hungry.”
“Never a problem. Watch your back.”
The line went dead.
Eve set her cell back on the counter and went in search of the stepladder to chase down the elusive dill. It had probably gotten pushed to the back of the cabinet.
But her mind wasn’t on cooking. It was on her sister’s suggestion that she invite Brent to join them.
Too bad Cate and Grace were so nosey. If she did ask him to dinner, they wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace the whole evening.
As soon as this nightmare was over, though, he was going to be first on her guest list. She’d make her killer moussaka—and she would not invite her sisters.
Brent could very well drag his feet about accepting her invitation, given his conviction that he wasn’t romance material. But nothing could be further from the truth.
And proving that to him was going to be her number one goal the instant the person or persons intent on wreaking havoc in her world were safely behind bars.