Authors: Kathy Ivan
Definitely ass-chewing time
. Remy shrugged. Whatever happened, he'd gotten new information. But judging from the look in Captain Hilliard's eyes, he was also about to get a boot up his ass for breaking protocol.
I am so fired
.
Chapter Twelve
Friday
E
sther pulled the chain between her fingers, weaving it between and around her knuckles, repeating the motion over and over. The gold glinted, its faceted brilliance sparkling in the overhead lights in the coffee shop. A solitary tear-drop diamond pendant dangled from its bezel, prisms of color shifting onto the tabletop. Staring at it made her heart clench with momentary guilt before she slammed that door inside herself shut tight. Guilt was an emotion she couldn't afford at this point. What was done was done. Over. No going back.
Catching sight of her roommate's duck-like waddling gait as she neared Esther's table, she stuffed the necklace back into the zippered compartment of the oversized black-and-white purse resting beside her on the cheap red vinyl bench seat. It overflowed with all the crap she'd carried along on this godforsaken trip, but at least nobody was going to be looking for anything in her bag of tricks. She was just a “little old lady” after all. Hah!
Trudy flounced onto the seat across from her, huffing and puffing as she wedged her bulk into the bench, squeezing and shoving at the table as she slid into place. She was obviously out of breath from the exertion of walking across the hotel lobby.
Woman needs to exercise more, if you ask me
.
The loud orange and pink jacket over an equally loud green sweater shouted for attention. Esther winced at the color combination, managing to hide her grimace of distaste behind a mask of emotionless rigid control. Everyone in the jam-packed place saw her entrance long before Trudy actually arrived.
Smoothing a napkin across her lap, Esther noted the crisp pleats in her own slacks and the clean sharp edges of her cuffs visible beneath her cardigan.
The two of us couldn't look more different if we tried. She's a disgrace, a disheveled, unkempt mess
.
“Did you hear?” Trudy's voice echoed through the coffee shop.
“Lower you voice, dear. Did I hear what exactly?”
Trudy leaned forward and whispered, “The police want to question everybody who talked to Abby last night. What are we going to do, Esther?”
“We aren't going to do or say anything. If the nice detective wants to talk to us, we tell him the truth. We saw Abby last night
before dinner
.” Esther kept her voice lowered and calm. She knew she had to make Trudy focus; she could get so scattered at times.
“We went to dinner with the group and
we didn't see her after that
.”
“But that's not true! We went to her room and—”
“Quiet.” Esther barked out the order, her hands again smoothing out the napkin across her lap. “We did not, I repeat, did not see Abigail after you and I went to dinner. Do you understand?”
Trudy's eyes widened and Esther could practically see the light bulb go off above her head as comprehension set in. Esther smiled slightly, her lips barely moved when Trudy nodded in understanding.
“Are the police questioning everyone or just some of the passengers?”
“Alyssa mentioned they wanted to talk to everybody.”
Esther's mind whirled, facts coalescing in precise analytical detail. She loved things to be exact and precise, everything with a place and purpose. She needed to gently lead Trudy in the right direction with a little nudge. As much as she liked the old gal, she wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, so to speak.
“That's fine. You know we didn't do anything wrong. The last time we saw Abigail she was alive and kicking. We didn't have anything to do with her dying.”
“But, Esther . . .”
“Don't but Esther me, Trudy. You tell the cops we saw Abigail last night after dinner, you know what's gonna happen? We'll be stuck here in this little Podunk town while everybody else finishes the trip to New Orleans. Is that what you want?”
“Course not, Esther, but the truth is the truth. We did see her.”
“And was she not still alive when we left her room?” Esther stared at Trudy, watched her fiddle with the water glass sitting in front of her, tracing her short pudgy fingers along the moisture as it beaded up on the outside. A single drop slid down the side, reminding her of the teardrop diamond pendant secreted away in her purse.
“Yes.” Trudy whispered her response.
“Then we haven't done anything wrong. We won't lie to the police, my dear, just don't volunteer any information. If they don't ask—keep your mouth shut.”
“How'd things get so out of hand, Esther? This should never have happened.”
“Yes, I know. Abigail should have minded her own business, instead of horning in on things that weren't any of her concern.”
Trudy hefted herself out of the booth, puffing out an exhausted breath as she stood. “I'm not hungry any more. Think I'll go back to our room.”
Turning away, she trundled out the coffee shop's door and headed back toward the hotel lobby. Esther watched her go before unzipping the side pouch in her purse and pulling out the necklace again. The winking diamond seemed to mock her as she stared at it. She clenched it in her fist, smiling as she beckoned the waitress over.
“Too bad, Trudy. Suddenly, I'm starving.”
Chapter Thirteen
Friday
B
ethany slumped further down into the plastic-covered booth, her perfectly coifed hair a sharp contrast to the faded yellow wall behind her. She thrummed her black fingernails with their red tips on the Formica tabletop. A shredded stack of paper napkins was piled into a tiny mountain next to her coffee cup. She lifted one stray piece which had escaped from the stack, eyeing it for a moment before adding it to the growing mound.
Her eyes narrowed, taking in the group of decrepit old hags seated across the nearly empty dining room. The old busybody, Molly Scott, held court front and center, with a trio of ancient biddies from that damnable tour group.
What a farce. A bunch of old farts traveling together. Yeah that's newsworthy. Not!
“I wish like hell I'd never come up with this godforsaken story idea.” Continuing to scan the room, Bethany's mood perked up when she spotted Connor Scott, his back propped against the wall as he nursed his cup of coffee. His head tilted back, the neck muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste.
Total agreement there, buddy. This coffee sucks rocks.
Mind whirling a mile a minute, her nails kept up their staccato rhythm. What to do, what to do? Meet with a bunch of gossiping old farts or chat up the only decent-looking male in a twenty-mile radius? Bethany gave an inelegant snort before picking up the bright lavender-colored journal she'd struggled and failed to write one word in and stuffed it into her oversized Gucci knockoff bag.
With practiced ease she stood and smoothed her hand down the front of her dark gray dress slacks, checking the perfectly tailored crease still held. A crisp white shirt showed in stark contrast beneath a vibrant royal blue cashmere sweater. A scrollwork gold chain completed her always camera-ready persona. She prided herself that at a moment's notice she could handle any crisis, be Judy-on-the-spot, ready when her big break magically appeared. And it would—it was only a matter of time. One way or another, it would happen, she'd make sure of it. If there was one thing you could take to the bank it was this. Bethany Banks never took no for an answer.
Sauntering across the half-empty dining room, her choice of companion was easy.
She motioned toward the empty chair across from Connor. “Mind if I join you?” she asked, using her best reporter voice, pitched low and with a bit of a sultry, seductive drawl coating on the words. Men especially seemed to love the sound of her voice. She added a little throaty purr, a raspy sound men immediately associated with sex. Throw in a little exposed cleavage and the gullible fools were putty in her hands. Sometimes it was just too easy.
Connor nodded, straightening in his chair. “Sure.”
“Thought I'd take a quick break before getting back to interviewing the senior group.” Bethany gave a throaty laugh. “They sure are interesting, aren't they? Especially Molly. It appears she's the unofficial leader of this annual trek?”
“Yeah, I guess she is.” Connor answered with a glance toward his grandmother. “They've been doing this for a few years now. They alternate between going to Atlantic City and New Orleans—this year happens to be New Orleans.”
Bethany leaned in closer. “She's originally from there, right?” She drew small circles on the tabletop with her fingertip, watched as his eyes followed the movement.
Excellent
.
“That's right. Most of the family still lives there.”
“Connor, would you consider . . .”
“No.” The finality in his tone, the lack of warmth or emotion surprised Bethany. He'd been nothing but courteous from the moment they'd been introduced.
“I really, really could use an interview. Please.” She put a little extra oomph behind her words. She wasn't above flirting to get a story, and Connor Scott talking about what happened with Mickey Trejo could be her career-making interview. Damned if she'd give up easily.
“No interview, Ms. Banks.”
“Please, it's Bethany.”
“The Trejo case hasn't gone to trial. I've been advised by the District Attorney's office not to discuss the case with anyone. Especially the press.”
“Connor, can I be honest with you?” He stared at her, watched every move she made, and Bethany wanted to wriggle in her chair, maybe thrust out her breasts but knew he'd walk away with such blatant advances. No, he needed a much subtler approach.
“Go ahead.” The deep timbre of his voice sent a chill through Bethany, anticipation flickering through her.
“I volunteered for this assignment, interviewing your grandmother's little club, group, whatever you want to call it, because I knew who she was. I'd studied up on you after what happened in New Orleans, and when I heard her name, I recognized it immediately as being related to you.” Bethany blushed at his scrutiny, heat flashing through her cheeks at his steadfast gaze, at the anger burning in his eyes.
“I mean, the gambling trip, it's a good story, but it's basically human interest. A fluff piece. Good for three minutes of air time and then it's over. But getting an interview with you before Trejo goes to trial—I'd do about anything to get your side of the story.” She reached across the table, running her fingers across the back of his hand before grasping his wrist.
He wrenched his arm away, the movement jerky and rough. “The answer is no. It was no before, and now it's hell no. N. O. Don't ask again.”
Connor stood, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping sound as it slid across the tiled floor. Without a backward glance, he strode out of the restaurant, leaving Bethany alone at the abandoned table.
Her fingertips thrummed again, tap, tap, tap. A smug smile curled her coral-coated lips and a mirthless chuckle escaped.
“We're not done yet, Connor Scott. In fact, we've only just begun.”
Grabbing her knockoff designer bag, she walked out of the dining room, a spring in her step. This was a new game and she always captured the prize.
Always.
Bethany never noticed the stare following her every move or she might have rethought her plans.
# # # # #
Molly half-listened to the ladies seated at her table, her attention on her grandson and the reporter seated a few tables away. Connor looked relaxed but she saw that for the lie it was. There was a coiled energy underneath the surface she understood all too well. His grandfather used to sit with the same deceptively calm and composed posture whenever things escalated outside of his control. That man wanted everything exactly where it should be, had a need for control that at times bordered on the obsessive. She missed him with every breath she took. But occasionally when things got too much, all that bottled up energy needed an outlet, a release and she was afraid Connor teetered on the edge. He definitely didn't need a nosy reporter pushing him to the boiling point. Maybe she needed to have a little chat with Ms. Banks.
With quick movements, she picked up the oversized tote bag she called a purse, stuffed her notebook, pen, wallet, and deck of playing cards inside before excusing herself from the group.
She trotted along behind Ms. Banks, noting her purposeful walk as she strode across the hotel lobby, never pausing to glance right or left, totally focused on Connor's retreating form storming away. Molly stayed a few feet back, but kept the reporter clearly in her sights, an unexplained eagerness to discover the woman's plans for her grandson.
The boy had been through too much, hiding his pain behind a sarcastic façade. He didn't fool anybody, including himself. She wasn't about to let some fast-talking story hound cause her grandson even more pain.
Connor moved out of sight, going through the front door of the hotel and disappearing outside. Crisp cold air rushed inward through the automated doors. Molly stopped in her tracks when Ms. Banks did, noting the frown marring her attractive face. Something dark flashed in her eyes before she spotted Molly. A grimace of a smile stretched across her way-too-much-lipstick-coated lips.
A sudden premonition of dread, that flash of intuition she'd relied on all her life flickered alive deep in her gut. Molly never ignored instinct. More times than not it preceded trouble.
Damn, she hoped she was wrong, but deep down Molly knew Bethany Banks was going to be a problem.
“I think this fancy reporter lady's up to something. Guess I need to keep an eye on her. She's bound to stir up a hornet's nest, and I'm gonna find out exactly what she's planning.”