If You Know Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (41 page)

*   *   *

“… there.…”

He stood over her, studied her hair.

The gleaming blond strands were shorn now to chin length, perfectly straight, even as could be.

Her eyes, sightless and fixed, stared overhead.

That blank look on her face irritated him, but he wasn’t surprised. He had seen this coming, after all. Something about the way she had reacted, the way she’d screamed.

The life had gone out of his girl and once that fight was gone …

Well. That was just how it was.

Carefully gathering up the hair, he selected what he wanted and then bagged up the rest, adding it to the pack he’d carry out of here. Later. Few things still that he had to handle.

He studied her body, the long slim lines of it, her limbs pale and flaccid now, the softly rounded swell of her belly. Nice, full breasts … he did like a good pair of tits on a woman. The dull gleam of gold at her throat from the necklace she wore. Strong, sleek shoulders.

Stooping down beside her, he hefted her lifeless body in his arms.

What he needed to do now wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he wouldn’t do it here.

“So what do you think it was?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” A sigh slipped past Lena’s lips as she turned to face her best friend. Just talking to Roslyn Jennings made her feel better. And slightly silly. It had probably been nothing. Nothing … although it had bothered her dog something awful. “It sure as hell had Puck freaked out, though.”

“You sound a little freaked out, too.”

“Yeah. You could say that.”

Although, really, freaked out didn’t quite touch it.

Grimacing, Lena forced herself to focus. Should pay
more attention to what she was doing or she was going to end up slicing up her fingers as well as the potatoes. It wouldn’t do the Inn’s reputation any good if word got out that the chef was adding body parts to the dishes, she thought morbidly.

For some reason, that thought sent a shiver down her spine.

“It sure doesn’t sound like Puck. I mean, that’s not like him. He loves his walks, right?”

“Yep. He does. And you’re right … this isn’t like him.” She couldn’t recall him ever acting quite like that before. He was a good dog, protective, loving … a friend.

“Let’s talk about this noise you heard. If we can figure out what it was, maybe we can figure out what had Puck so freaked out. It probably had something to do with the noise, right? I mean, it makes sense.”

“I can’t place it. Weird grunting. Kind of muffled.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but do you think maybe you heard somebody going at it?” Roslyn’s voice was a mixture of skepticism and interest.

“Going at it?” Lena asked, blankly. “Going at what?”

For about two seconds, Roz was silent. Then she burst into laughter. “Oh, sweetie, it’s been way too long since you’ve gotten laid. Sex, girl. Do you remember what sex is?”

“Yes. Vaguely.” Scowling, she went at the potatoes with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. Oh, yes, she remembered sex. It had been close to a year since she’d gotten any, and before that? It had been college.

But, yes, she remembered sex.

“So, you think maybe a couple of people were out there screwing? Although, hell, if some guy is going to talk me into stripping nekkid in the great outdoors, it had better be good sex. Bug bites. Ticks. Poison ivy.”

“Sunburn,” Lena offered helpfully. Perpetually pale,
she had to slather down with SPF 60 just for a jaunt to the mailbox. Well, maybe not that bad. But still.

“Sunburned hoo-haa. Heh. Doesn’t sound like fun, does it? Although if the guy is good … but you were in the woods, right? So scratch the sunburned hoo-haa. So, what do you think … could you have just heard some private moments?”

“You’re a pervert, you know that?” Lena grinned at her best friend. Then she shrugged. “And … I don’t know. I really don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that Puck didn’t want to be there—that’s just not like him.”

The dog at Lena’s feet shifted. She rinsed her hands and then crouched down in front of him, stroking his head. “It’s okay, pal. I understand.”

He licked her chin and she stood up.

As she turned to wash her hands again, she heard the telltale whisper of the cookie jar. Smiling, she said, “If you eat all of those, you’re out of luck until next week. I am not whipping up another batch tomorrow. You’re stuck with whatever you bought from the store. With that wedding you’ve got planned, Jake and I are going to be busy enough as it is.”

Jake was the other chef here at Running Brook. They split the week, Jake working Monday through Wednesday and Lena working Thursday through Saturday—they traded off on Sundays, but with the wedding they had going on tomorrow, they both needed to be here.

“That wedding,” Roz muttered around a mouthful of cookie. “Hell, that wedding is why I need the cookie—and store-bought isn’t going to hold me right now, sweetie. I need the real stuff. Good stuff. Shit. If I thought I could get away with it, I would have a White Russian or three to go along with the cookie.”

“No drinking on the job. Not even for the owner.” Lena smirked. “Hell, you’re the one who had to go and
decide to start doing these boutique weddings. You all but have a welcome mat out … ‘Bridezillas accepted and welcomed.’ ” Shoving off the counter, she joined Roz at the island. “Gimme one of those before you eat them all.”

Roz pushed a cookie into her hand and Lena bit down. Mouth full of macadamias, white chocolate, and cranberries, she made her way to the coffeepot. “Since you can’t have a White Russian, you want some coffee?”

“No.” Roslyn sighed. “The last thing I need right now is coffee. I’m supposed to be meeting the bride and her mom in a half hour to discuss the floral arrangements.”

In the middle of getting a clean mug from the cabinet, Lena frowned. “Discuss the floral arrangements … the wedding is tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Which is why I need cookies.” She huffed out a breath. “Damn. I really do need that White Russian, you know. But I’ll have to settle for the cookies.”

Lena smiled as her friend went for another one. That emergency stash wasn’t going to last the day, much less the weekend. She thought through her schedule and decided she might try to make up another batch. She could probably find the time. It sounded like Roz would probably need it. They were all going to need it, probably.

“Does she want to change the floral arrangements or what?”

Roz groaned. There was a weird thunk, followed by her friend’s muffled voice. “I don’t know. She just wanted to discuss the flowers. She had some concerns.” There were two more thunks.

“Well, banging your head on the counter isn’t going to do much good … unless you hit it hard enough to knock yourself out. Otherwise, all it’s going to do is give you a headache.”

“I’ve already got a headache,” Roz muttered.

“Look, if she does have the idea of changing the arrangements
around, explain to her that the florist here closes at noon on Fridays. Somebody will have already made sure the orders are covered, but changing the orders would just be too difficult, and it could be too chancy to try someplace outside of town. If you lay it on thick enough, she’s not going to want to risk it.”

“Hmmm. Good point.” The stool scraped against the tile floor as Roz stood up. “I knew there was a reason I hired you.”

“You hired me for my cookies,” Lena said, her voice dry.

“Another reason, then.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, no more cookies. I’m going to check on a few things before I go talk to my … client.”

“Good luck. But do me a favor … if she decides she needs a last-minute menu change? Stonewall her. I don’t care how, and I don’t care what you say. Stonewall her.”

“This woman can’t be stonewalled.” Roz sighed. “I think she might just
be
Stonewall. His reincarnation or something. You can’t stonewall a Stonewall, right?”

“Figure a way out.” There was no way she was doing a last-minute menu change.

“S
HE
’
S A DISTURBED WOMAN
, I’
M AFRAID TO SAY.
”

Remington Jennings pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to think about the sad green eyes and silken brown hair of one Hope Carson. “Disturbed, how? Can you help me out any here, Detective Carson?”

On the other end of the line, the man sighed. “Well, I’m reluctant to do that. You see, I wouldn’t have a DA on the phone, asking about my wife, if there wasn’t trouble. And I don’t want to cause her trouble.”

“She’s your ex-wife and she’s already got trouble. Do you want her to get the help she needs or not?” Remy asked, his voice taking on a sharp edge. Hell, anybody with half a brain could see that woman wouldn’t hurt a fly unless she was just pushed …

“You want to help her, is that it, Jennings?” The detective laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was sad and bitter.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have called. I’m not trying to lock her up and throw away the key here. Help me out, Detective.”
Damn it, Carson, gimme a break
.

“Help you out. You mean help you help Hope.” Once more, Joseph Carson sighed. He was Hope’s ex and a
cop from out west. He was also proving to be one hell of a pain in the ass.

Faintly, Remy heard a heavy creak. “Mr. Jennings, pardon my French, but you can’t help Hope, because she doesn’t fucking
want
help. She’s a very troubled young woman. She … shit, this is hard, but we hadn’t been married very long when she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. She’s manipulative, a chameleon—she can make a person believe whatever they need to believe. You might
think
you’re seeing a woman you can help—if she’ll just
let
you. But that’s not the case. You’re seeing what she
wants
you to see.”

Remy clenched his jaw, closed his hand around the pen so tightly it snapped.

Shit—that … no. Not right. Everything inside screeched just how
wrong
that was. It couldn’t be right—it just couldn’t.

But his voice was cool, collected, as he said, “Borderline personality disorder, you said? Does she have a history of violence?”

Long, tense moments of silence passed and finally, Carson said, “Yeah. There’s a history of violence. Only against herself … and me. I kept it very well hidden. I didn’t want people thinking bad things about her, and on my part … well, I was ashamed. For her, for myself, for both of us. It wasn’t until things got really bad that I couldn’t hide it anymore.”

“You’re telling me she was violent with you?” Remy knew he needed to be making notes, processing this.

But he couldn’t—couldn’t process, couldn’t even wrap his mind around it. That woman lifting her hand against somebody?

No. The picture just wasn’t coming together for him.

“Yes.” Carson sighed once more.

“So you’re telling me she
does
have a history of violence?”

“Shit, didn’t I just go through that?” he snarled.

Remy clutched the phone so tight, it was amazing the plastic didn’t crack. This was wrong—so fucking wrong, and he knew it, knew it in his bones.

She’s manipulative, a chameleon—she can make a person believe whatever they need to believe. You might
think
you’re seeing a woman you can help—if she’ll just
let
you. But that’s not the case. You’re seeing what she
wants
you to see
.

Damn it, was he just letting her lead him around, he wondered?

Right then, he wasn’t sure.

He took a deep, slow breath, focused on the phone. “Can you give me some examples? Tell me what happened?”

“Examples. Shit.” Carson swore and then demanded, “Why should I tell you this? Just answer me that.”

“Because if she’s got a mental disorder, then she
does
need help and if she needs help, I’d rather her get help then get locked up. You should know her better than anybody. So if you do care about her, help me help her. Come on, Detective. You’re a cop. You’re sworn to uphold the law, to protect people. If your wife could prove dangerous …”

“You fucking lawyers, you always know what to say,” Carson muttered. But there was no anger, no malice in his voice. Just exhaustion. “Yeah, you could say she has violent tendencies. You could say she has a history of violence. She’s very manipulative and all those violent tendencies get worse when she doesn’t get her way. She becomes unstable, unpredictable. There is no telling what she might do to somebody she perceived as being in her way.”

Abruptly, his voice lost that calm, detached tone and he snarled, “There. I gave you all the dirt you needed and don’t tell me you can’t use that. God help me, I hate
myself even though I know she needs help. Now tell me what the fuck is going on!”

Remy blew out a slow breath and said, “She’s in the hospital at the moment—attempted suicide. Plus, there was an attack on a friend of hers. It looks like she might be responsible.”

“Fuck.” The word was harsh, heavy with fury and grief. “She’s tried to commit suicide before, so as much as I hate to hear it, that’s not a big surprise. But the friend … you said there was an attack on a friend?”

“Yes.” Remy scowled absently at nothing. “Maybe you’ve heard of him—it seems like the two of them go back quite a while. The name’s Law Reilly?”

“Reilly.” Carson grunted. “Yeah. I know Law. I wish I could say I was surprised to hear that she’d turned on him, but Hope’s always had a way of turning on those who’ve tried to help her. Those who care about her.”

Remy closed his eyes.

Damn it, was there anything this guy could say that would make it a little bit easier for him to figure out how to handle Hope?

Of course if he
wanted
her put away, this guy would be making his whole damn night.

But right now, he could almost hear the cell door swinging shut on her and it was just turning Remy’s stomach. “So you think she could have hurt Mr. Reilly?”