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“The officer who went over to Joy’s Juice Bar and Café said one of the employees noticed some ‘weird guy’ hanging out in a car a couple of times when they took out the garbage,” Arnett said through a mouthful of pizza. “It was hard to see much through the windows, and they didn’t notice the make or the model, but said it was a dark midsize car.”
Jo swallowed her own mouthful. “That fits what Chelsea said. And it fits the stalking serial-killer theory rather than an issue with fraudulent disbursements.”
Arnett wagged his head. “Could be either. Whoever it was could have been stalking the group because of the disbursement situation, trying to figure out how to fix the problem.”
Jo stabbed the air with a slice of pizza. “Two thousand dollars. If someone stalked these two women and killed them over two thousand dollars…”
Arnett shot her a skeptical glare. “We’ve seen people murdered over a dirty look. And you and Lopez razzedmefor not knowing about pregnant strippers.”
“No, I don’t mean that, it’s never that simple. It’s about whatever fueled the desperation that lead them to steal in the first place. Or, like Chris said, about staying out of jail. I just meant it’s heartbreaking.”
“Fair enough,” Arnett said, taking another piece of pizza. “But I’ve got a gut feeling about our buddy Travis.”
As Jo took a large draw from her Diet Coke, her phone rang. “It’s Lopez,” she said, and answered the phone. “Christine. What’s going on?”
“Hey.” Lopez’s voice had a quiet edge to it. “I stumbled on something possibly weird. When you summarized the embezzling situation for me, you said last night nobody admitted to knowing anything about it. Did that include Julia?”
“It did. She said Naomie told her something about someone going through her filing cabinet, but said she hadn’t told her anything about fraudulent grant applications.”
“Yeah, I’m calling BS on that,” Lopez said. “Because right after Naomie left you the message about the grant applications? She immediately called Julia.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
“Naomie called Julia immediately after she spoke with us? How immediately?” Jo asked.
“Like, the exact same minute. Her call to you ended at four-ten, and her call to Julia started at four-ten,” Lopez said.
“How long did the call with Julia last?” Jo asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“So they actually spoke.” Jo’s mind raced, working through the possible explanations. “Devil’s advocate. It could be she’d planned to call Julia for something else, and was just working her way through her phone calls.”
Arnett threw her a come-on-now look. “Julia was her close friendandauntandbusiness partner, and she didn’t mention the fraud to Julia?”
Jo raked her teeth over her lip. “I’m not sure that’s much better for Julia, actually. Because the only reason Naomie would havenotmentioned it was if she was worried Julia was involved. So, Julia’s either lying to us, or Naomie suspected her.”
“But isn’t Julia married to the other Gagnon brother? Don’t they have gazillions of dollars?” Lopez asked.
“She’s in the process of a divorce. Money’s always complicated in divorces,” Arnett said.
“Facts,” Lopez said. “I’ll look into it.”
“Well,” Jo said, “this memorial service is getting more and more complicated.”
Jo and Arnett finished their dinner and slipped into the memorial service half an hour after the official start time, hoping to blend in as much as possible. Decorations were minimal, comprised mostly of photographs dotting the whiteboard, with Madison’s on one end and Naomie’s on the other. Just below, a long table with a linen cloth contained two journals with matching pens next to an elegant card asking guests to write a final message to Madison and Naomie.
“I think we need to see what ends up in those,” Arnett said.
“Agreed. I’ll talk to Chelsea about it,” Jo answered.
They helped themselves to cups of coffee from the refreshments table, then retreated to the far corner of the room. A strange blend of emotions mixed throughout the room; several children, too young to understand the nature of the occasion, dove noisily into a box of toys, while several smaller ones in the arms of their mothers elicited coos and smiles from red, puffy faces. Jo caught enough snippets of conversation to deduce these were babies born under the guidance of Beautiful Bouncing Babies, whether assisted by classes, grants, or other programs.
Jo surreptitiously studied the dynamics across the room. About fifty adults were in attendance, most of them women. Madison’s mother and Chris Alexander stood at one end of the journal table with an older couple who, based on the woman’s striking resemblance to Naomie, must be her parents. Madison’s mother looked like she was caught in a nightmare, unsure what to do with the strangers touching her shoulder, grabbing her hand, pulling her into hugs. Chris held himself with a stiff stoicism, trying his best to shield Cecile from the most egregious of these well-meant assaults as diplomatically as possible. Ferdinand Gagnon’s arm circled his wife’s shoulder, pulling her periodically into his chest when she could no longer fight back her tears.
Chelsea stood in the center of the room, holding court to a group of women peppering her with questions. Julia, hanging back from everyone on the far end of the room, clutched a cup of coffee and solemnly greeted the mothers who came up to her, glimpses of somber pride peeping out as she engaged with the babies. How many of them had she delivered?
Jo studied each individual in turn, looking for anything, or anyone, out of place. Nothing set off any bells: no telltale emotions, no furtive glances, no odd interactions.
