Wrong alibi, p.21
Wrong Alibi, page 21
Stacey digested that. “Are you going to turn him in to the police?”
“How? He has no criminal record, I don’t exist and I don’t trust law enforcement.” For someone who didn’t exist, she was breathing heavily. “But I’m going to save my mother.”
“Would he hurt her? Your mother? He seems enamored.”
“He’s given her things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things worth a lot of money.”
As if less concerned, Stacey leaned away. “Valuable gifts are not a bad thing in a relationship.”
“Remember? At my trial, I said he’d stolen things from the house? That’s what he does. Acquires valuable antiques from one home and sells them for a lot of money.”
“How much money?”
“Tens and hundreds of thousands.”
Stacey sucked in air.
Petie continued, “He’s using my mother to keep the current valuables safe until he can make contact with a buyer.”
A text came into Stacey’s phone. She looked at it, grimaced, turned on the bar stool to face the room. “I’ve got to go. Marc wants to talk again about what the fundraiser brought in. Thanks for the heads-up about Derrick White.”
“Derrick Green. This time he’s Derrick Green.”
“Right.” Stacey slid off the stool. “Although if you’re not going to the police, I still don’t understand what you’re going to do about it.”
“I have connections who will be interested in what he’s selling. Now that I know for sure it’s him and what’s he’s got, I’m going to contact them.” As soon as she got to her room.
“Don’t bring the mob to my town,” Stacey warned.
“You’re safe from that.” Petie smiled as she remembered the people at the MFAA, all so devoted to saving the world’s heritage from looters. “All my connections are legitimate.”
“Good to know.” Stacey gestured toward the entrance. “Someone’s coming for you.”
The waiter hurried across the bar to Petie. “Miss Jeenli, I thought you might like to take your slice of baked Alaska to your room.”
Petie stared at the to-go box in his hands. “Yes. Thank you.”
“If you speak to Mrs. Jones, let her know we have her piece and the rest of the baked Alaska in the freezer.”
“Thank you again.” She accepted the dessert. “I will definitely be speaking to Mrs. Jones, and soon.”
27
IOANA WALKED IN THE back door of her house, threw her keys on the kitchen counter, locked the door with a decisive click, set the alarm...and stood with her fingers pressed hard to her lips.
Damn it. Every single time she saw her baby girl, she said the wrong thing, acted the wrong way, doubted when she should have trusted, believed the worst when she should have known that at Evelyn’s core was the pure heart of a dragon girl.
They were too much alike. Too much alike!
But she was the mother. She was supposed to be wise and mature. How could she be exactly the mother that Marya needed, but such a failure with Evelyn?
Yet for all the prickly hostility and hot words between them, Ioana loved her daughter from the depths of her heart. Evelyn was a woman who fought and worked and did what she had to survive—and always, always put her family first.
In her, Ioana saw the strength of her long-dead sisters.
In her, Ioana saw a chance for them to live again.
Ioana moved through the dark kitchen, skirting the table, heading for the living room. She flipped on the light for the stairway and began to climb...and glanced at the antique oak sideboard in her dining room and that damned Egyptian terra-cotta figure Derrick had given her.
Ioana backed down the stairs and picked it up.
She had blithely assumed it was a copy. A really good copy: all the sharp points had been worn away, leaving a figure that might have been human, might have been a creature and definitely was a god. Ioana only knew she liked the orange color and the statue felt warm in her hand.
Evelyn said it was real.
Ioana put it back down next to the reliquary which, Derrick had informed her, held the remains of the hand of the martyr St. Beliquist. He’d said so in a tone that gave her reason to understand he didn’t believe it. But he thought it was pretty and she would enjoy it.
Ioana didn’t care for it. But Derrick had presented it to her, so she had thanked him and displayed it, and now, in the shadowy light, the gilding on the hand looked real, as did the stones in the decorations of the sleeve.
She displayed the third gift he gave her, too, a copy of a Russian icon depicting the sorrowful Virgin Mary holding her blessed baby son, one hand extended as if offering to grant all prayers.
Ioana didn’t believe in a higher power, hadn’t believed in any divine intervention since her father had been taken, her mother had disappeared, her sisters had died. Still, she loved the burnished gold sheen of the Virgin’s halo, the silver tear on her cheek, her son’s loving arm around her neck. If Evie was to be believed, this was not a copy but a priceless icon, one that in its time had worked miracles.
On the off chance that was true...Ioana placed one gentle finger on the gilded frame. “Please.” She wasn’t sure what she was asking. For grace, for patience, for love, for family healing. For Evelyn to have whatever she wished: justice, freedom, the life she should have.
Opening the silver drawer, Ioana moved the spoons aside and placed the three gifts on the felt lining. She stared at them there, remembering how she had briskly dusted them, vaguely annoyed that Donald didn’t realize she was a busy woman who didn’t have time to care for such pretty, useless objects.
She shut the drawer, walked to the front door, checked that it was locked and the security set, walked to the back door and checked there, too. She went up to her bedroom, removed her heels and the jewelry. She carried the necklace and bracelet into the bathroom, flipped on the light and examined the gold and the stones in her magnifying makeup mirror.
No marks, none whatsoever. But they looked so old, the jeweler wouldn’t have used a maker’s mark. More important, the gold felt heavy and slick, and the velvety blue stones shimmered as if they had captured pieces of the sky.
She got ready for bed, carried the jewelry into her bedroom and spread them out on her nightstand. She hadn’t cared for Donald’s other gifts, but these she truly loved.
And...she’d thought of him as Donald.
She went to her bedroom door and locked it, then propped a chair under the doorknob. She opened the drawer of the nightstand, removed her pistol and placed it beside the jewels. A woman of her background knew how to keep herself safe.
Tomorrow she would decide what to do.
28
IN HER ROOM, PETIE told the bear, “It’s not going well, Tuddy. Can’t you help? Do I have to do all the heavy lifting?”
The bear didn’t answer, which Petie figured meant, Yes, you do. Hurry up and get it done!
Housekeeping had turned down the sheets and put a chocolate on her pillow.
She took off her shoes, stacked the pillows against the headboard and, phone in hand, flopped on the bed. She dialed the head of the MFAA, Nils Brooks, and when she got his voice mail, she said, “Nils, it’s Petie in Rockin, Alaska. Donald White is here. He’s working under the alias Derrick Green. He has with him several pieces. One is a jewelry set that’s worth... I can’t imagine. Seven figures. He’s involved with a woman.” Petie hesitated to say it was her mother. “He’s using her home to store them. Tonight I’m sure he made a deal to deliver. I can’t go to law enforcement. Would you get the FBI here ASAP before someone is hurt?” She waited to see if Nils picked up. When he didn’t, she ended with “This is real. Call me,” and cut the connection.
One thing about Nils Brooks: unless he was on a mission, he was never far from the phone, and if he was on a mission, he had someone checking his messages. He would get back to her soon.
Petie ate the chocolate and wished for more. Chocolate eased the anxiety as she tried to decide how she was going to explain this to her sister. Her baby sister, the lawyer, who had grown up to be a forthright, powerful woman who in court made grown men cry and strong women cower.
Not chocolate but—the baked Alaska!
She fetched the to-go box from the desk where she’d left it, popped it open and took a bite of the softened raspberry ice cream.
That helped.
She called her sister’s number.
It was after eleven in California, but when Marya answered, she sounded wide awake and chipper. “Hi, Evie, I was just thinking about you!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re my sister?”
“Has Mother told you she is dating?” Petie blurted.
Better have another bite of ice cream. And cake. And meringue.
“No... Really?” Marya sounded pleased, then uneasy. “Why do you say it like that? Isn’t it good news that she’s finally dating?”
“It’s who she’s dating.” Petie put down the container. She’d lost her appetite.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s Donald White.”
A long pause. Harsh breathing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“You have to tell her!”
“I did. She won’t listen. We had a fight in the restaurant, and she stormed out.”
“In...the restaurant? Where are you?”
“Oh.” This conversation was about to get uncomfortable. “When I saw a photo of Mama and Donald in the Rockin newspaper, I flew to Rockin. I’m in the hotel, registered under the name of Petie Jeenli.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Marya’s voice rose.
“There’s been no time.” Not strictly true, but true enough. “I saw the photo early yesterday morning.”
“Let me see if I got this right.” The words sounded patient. The tone did not. “You saw the photo. You flew to Rockin.”
“Anchorage, actually, and drove to Rockin.”
“You got there. You found Mama. You told her she is dating the murderer who killed Michele and Timmy Jameson. And she argued with you?”
“You missed the part about me having dessert with her and Donald.” Which was funny in a film noir sort of way. “And her suggesting I was delusional because I’d been alone so much.”
“You two. You always had the most difficult relationship!” Marya’s tone changed from exasperated to frightened. “But I don’t care. How can she not take this seriously?”
Petie found herself defending her mother. “It’s him. He’s charming. He’s mesmerizing. That voice would lull a baby to sleep...right before he smothered it with its own pillow.”
Tuddy sighed Yes.
Petie flinched.
“Why would he pick her to date? Your mother, of all people?”
“You mean, the mother of the baby killer Evelyn Jones?”
“That’s exactly what I mean!”
“Maybe he doesn’t know.” Which might be true. “It is Alaska. There aren’t that many women in Rockin, especially not women who look like Mama.”
Marya briskly dismissed that. “Everybody knows. And they don’t forget. She still gets death threats.”
Petie came to her feet. “What? Why haven’t you told me this before?”
“What are you going to do about it? Come back from the dead, tell the truth again, be arrested and convicted again—”
“Yes!”
“No. You know Mama. She can handle herself. If anyone actually says something to her face, they only do it once. She stands on her toes, shakes her finger under their nose, tells them Gretchen George was a child abuser and a lousy cop and that someday your reputation will be cleared.”
Petie could picture it: her mother taking down a big, nasty bully with the sharp edge of her tongue. But she also knew what bullies were like. “Not everyone gets in her face, do they? Most of the threats are anonymous, aren’t they?”
Marya set out to comfort Petie. “Yes, but Mama has a pistol, and she’s a sharpshooter. She keeps in shape. She takes self-defense classes. The house has a great security system. She has it reviewed every year and keeps it up-to-date. Plus most people know not to mess with Mama. She’s charming, but she can be scary.”
“None of which does any good if someone sneaks up on her.” Even dead, Evelyn Jones was a threat to her family.
Marya started to speak. Stopped. Started again. “Listen, Evie, I haven’t said anything because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But for months, I’ve been reviewing the case.”
“My case?”
“Of course your case! When I visited Rockin, I requested to see your case evidence from the Rockin PD. Chief Dumas granted permission. I scanned in the paperwork, took photos of the hard materials, and to no one’s surprise, there are discrepancies.”
“And...?”
“I’ve found a partial fingerprint. Not yours!”
29
PETIE FELT SOMETHING STIR in the pit of her stomach and rise toward her brain. Whatever it was, it better not be hope. Hope was a bitch who betrayed her every time. She had strangled hope, and by God, it better stay dead.
“That POS chief of police buried it in the evidence, but tonight I found it. Evie, I’m going to get you off!” No wonder Marya had sounded chipper.
Petie felt the warm glow of knowing her sister had believed in her so thoroughly and invested so much time in her exoneration. “I would like that.” But she wouldn’t hope.
“In the meantime, we’ve got to deal with Donald White. Maybe him dating Mama is a horrible coincidence.”
A thought occurred to Petie. “Wait. No. You said she has a good security system.”
“Yes... Why?”
“He gave her the artifacts because he knew they’d be safe until he came to fetch them. She was wearing the jewels, but she said the other stuff is at home.”
“Where is she?”
“At home.”
“Why would you let her go alone?” In Marya’s voice, Petie heard the echo of her mother’s domineering personality amped up as far as it would go. “I know. Because you two had a fight. Not good enough, Evie! Where’s Donald White staying?”
“Here, I think. At the Rockin Hotel.”
“What name is he using?”
“Derrick Green.”
“Hang on.” Marya put her on hold for three minutes, came back and proudly said, “I woke him up.”
“Woke...? Donald? You called him?”
“I called the hotel, asked for his room, it rang and he picked up. His voice isn’t so wonderful when it sounds like he’s got spider webs in his throat. He yelled, ‘I told you I’ll handle it in the morning.’ Then he hung up.”
The two of them contemplated that.
“That sounds right,” Petie said. “When he set me up, when he finished making the deals, he ate and he slept. That’s the pattern. He works nonstop until he’s finished, then he collapses.”
“In that case...Mama always locks the doors and windows, and she always sets the security system. She’s got her pistol, and she’s religious about safety. I say we leave her alone tonight, let her get over her bad temper. She’ll be better in the morning.” Marya sounded relieved at not having to send Petie into the lion’s den.
Petie felt the same relief. “She always is.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll make arrangements to fly to Alaska. I’ll catch the earliest flight. It’ll get me there tomorrow afternoon. You hold the fort until then. No one has recognized you, have they?”
Petie didn’t answer. She didn’t want to tell Marya about Stacey Collins and didn’t want to send her into a bigger tizzy.
“No one will.” Marya was talking to herself now. “You don’t look at all like Evelyn Jones.” Sounding more like Evie’s younger sister, Marya asked, “Evie, are we doing the right thing? Are we going to be okay? Is Mama going to be safe?”
Petie got her leather jacket out of the closet. “Right now, I’m going out to drive past the house, make sure she’s there and is safe. How does that sound?”
“Like a good idea. When I get up to catch my flight, I’ll call Donald White again and make sure he’s still in place.” Marya’s voice got a note of excitement. “Oh, Evie, after so many years, I’ll see you tomorrow! Tonight, get some sleep. Try not to worry. We’re going to make this thing turn around!”
“You’re tempting fate.” But Marya had hung up.
Petie went out. She drove to her mother’s house, parked and watched long enough to see the shadow of her mother move back and forth across the bedroom shades.
She noted, also, a gray Subaru Outback that seemed to follow her from the neighborhood back to the hotel. But when she turned into the parking garage, the Outback continued on toward Walmart.
She shrugged and forgot about it.
By the time she reached her hotel room and swiped her key card, hope had established itself in her heart and mind and sang a cheerful song in her head.
Maybe that’s why she failed to realize that she was not alone.
A man’s voice spoke from behind her. “Evelyn Jones, I presume?”
She stiffened.
She turned.
She saw him.
She knew him.
Tall guy. Burly guy. Dark hair, strong chin, dark angry eyes.
“Zone Jameson.” She held the door and gestured. “Won’t you come in?”
30
WHEN FAYE MILLER COVERED an event like today’s fundraiser, she kept her Reporter’s Notebook and pen in her hand and her phone recorder on. She considered the notebook and pen her best tools. A scribbled word triggered memories and whole stories.
