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“I can’t do anything except work,” she said aloud, drawing her mother’s and Peach’s attention from their argument.
Both of them looked at her. “What?”
“This whole situation. It’s out of my control. I don’t like it, but I have to step back and concentrate on what is in my control, which is work. But … oh, damn, when he was here I could have asked him about getting my briefcase, and instead I blew up at him and then hid in my office like a scared little kid!” She smacked herself on the forehead.
“I thought you and Diedra had already re-created the file,” Peach said.
“For the Bulldog rehearsal and wedding, yes, because that was the most immediate, but now we’ll have to do the others, too.”
Madelyn pinched off a corner of her brownie, chewed it. “That’s an annoyance, but we can handle it. We have all the information on everything; it’s just a matter of pulling it all together in one neat list.”
“I know, but it’s time we could spend doing other things.”
“Like eating brownies,” said Peach, smiling at her. “Honey, I know this is stressful, but it’ll be over soon and everything will work out. You didn’t kill her, therefore they can’t prove that you did.”
“Circumstantial evidence—”
“Will apply to a lot of people, all of whom had a grudge against Carrie. I’m assuming they took your clothes because they were looking for blood. You didn’t kill her, so there won’t be any blood. As soon as they run all their tests and get the reports back, you’ll be in the clear.”
“Is that the way it happens on CSI?”
“Well, all the guys I date love CSI, so I end up watching a lot of it. On the show, the most obvious suspect is never the one who did the deed, so that’s a comfort. But CSI aside, common sense says they’re looking for blood; that’s the only reason they’d have taken your clothes. Hey, sweetie, did they maybe swab your hands or something last night, looking for gunshot residue?”
“No, why?”
“Then that means she wasn’t shot. If she had been, they’d have done that.”
Evidently her assumption that Carrie had been shot was wrong, Jaclyn thought. She was conditioned by the news to assume every murder was committed with a gun. Probably when gangs were involved they mostly were, but how about other types of murders?
“There are a lot of other ways to kill someone,” said Madelyn, giving the idea some thought. “Strangling, conking her on the head, stabbing, pushing her and she falls and hits her head on something, though I’d say that’s an accident. Um, there’s poison, but then they’d be looking at either Irena or Audrey, because they brought food samples, right? Forget poison, then.”
They could probably go on for quite a while listing possible ways Carrie had been done in, and Jaclyn thought she could probably come up with some entertaining possibilities herself, but she had things to do. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much longer Diedra would be gone. “I need to pick up some dry-cleaning before my appointment in Dunwoody. If the newspaper says anything interesting, call me.”
She fetched her purse and appointment book from her office, as well as the file folder with the new list she and Diedra had assembled—drat, she needed her briefcase—and let herself out the back door.
Eric was leaning against her car, ankles and arms crossed, waiting.
Jaclyn skidded to a halt, her kitten heels sliding a little on the concrete pad. An almost uncontrollable surge of panic, combined with anger, made the bottom drop out of her stomach and her hair feel as if it were lifting away from her scalp. She almost bolted back inside—her hand was already on the doorknob—but that would be cowardly, and she was still annoyed with herself for not punching Carrie when she had the chance, so she forced herself to stand her ground.
He straightened away from the Jag and closed the short distance between them.
There wasn’t a thing wrong with cowardice, she thought, and started to shove the door open. If he had anything to say to her, she wanted witnesses.
“I thought I should probably tell you not to leave town,” he said in that flat, cold cop tone, his hazel eyes narrowed.
Not leave town? She was already out of town, because she was in Atlanta instead of Hopewell. “What constitutes ‘town’? Hopewell, or the greater Atlanta area? I was just on my way to Dunwoody for an appointment. Is that out of town?”
A faintly impatient expression crossed his face. “Dunwoody is fine. Don’t leave the area. Don’t go to the Bahamas for a vacation.”
Now that she’d had a second to think, she wondered what the heck he was doing there. She looked at his car, parked next to hers. If he had something to say to her, why hadn’t he come back inside? For that matter, why hadn’t he called her? He had the number of Premier, and he knew she was there. He also had her cell number. He’d been leaning against her car as if prepared to wait for however long it took her to come out, but for all he knew she would be in the office all day.
One thing was for certain: he hadn’t been there when Diedra left, because she’d have called in an alert. So he’d left, then returned.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked suspiciously, though she didn’t want to talk to him more than she had to. Something fishy was going on, and she wanted to know what it was. “Were you about to search my car?”
“Can’t do that without a search warrant,” he said calmly.
“Maybe you were about to do it without a search warrant.” She could feel her jaw set as she glared up at him.
