You Don't Know Jack Read online

  "I heard him, darlin'," Lars said.

  "Who are you going to tell Lars?" I asked.

  Frankie's voice silenced the ghost in my head. "Before I go, I'll need some flowers."

  "The usual?"

  He laughed. "Of course, the only ones she likes."

  She who?

  As Eve moved toward the cooler behind the counter, my gaze followed, snagging on a display of carnations. The ice on my cheeks began to melt. A memory stirred. At the time, it hadn't connected any dots, but was now clicking like a row of tap dancers. It was on the memorial wall in the foyer of the nightclub. A photo of a performer wearing a solid white tuxedo with a black tie and in the lapel... a black boutonniere.

  The Black Boutonniere Killer had taken his signature from that photograph of Jade Edger. Why? Did that mean Frankie was the BBK? And his sister Eve was his accomplice? Serial killing sociopaths? Or was Dinah at the root of this, perhaps killing off former lovers of her brother because they might have given him AIDS?

  Then why would she hire me to follow Frankie? The connecting dots fell apart again. Nothing made sense.

  Frankie stuffed whatever he and Eve had been perusing into a brief case, collected the tissue wrapped bouquet, and kissed his sister on the cheek. He started down the faux brick path toward me.

  "Jesus, run, darlin'!" Lars shouted.

  I was already halfway out the door. I tore into the street, trucked to my car, and locked the doors the second I was inside. I found my cell phone, dialed Stone, started jabbering when he answered, before I realized I was talking to a recording. Voice mail. Damn.

  I drove the car to a deserted side street, pulled over, out of breath and still shaking. I dialed the beauty salon. Apollo answered. My breathing calmed. He was there. Alibi intact. "How are you doing?"

  "I'm in a live episode of the Twilight Zone. A couple of new customers told me they were thrilled to have their hair done by a murder. Freaks."

  He said it flippantly, but I knew it hurt him. "Did you tell them to go to hell?"

  He laughed. "Better. I played along, and both left double my usual tip."

  I warned him again not to leave the shop and then, I filled him in on what I'd overheard and observed at the flower store.

  "I hate to bust your balloon," Apollo said, "but apparently anyone can make black carnations. So, Eve Steele selling them means zip. A lot of Goths are into them year round."

  Goths? I envisioned Vampira, along with all my theories crumbling like so many dead petals. It struck me that I hadn't seen the flowers Eve selected and wrapped up for Frankie. Maybe they weren't black carnations. Or maybe that bouquet was meant for some other woman. Damn. Maybe I shouldn't have run from Frankie but followed him.

  "Hel-lo, Jack B? Are you still there?"

  "Yes, sorry. What were you saying?"

  "I said, the Crain sisters and the Golden Oldies all knew how to make black carnations. Seriously, I looked it up on-line and voila, they were right. You just put food coloring in a glass of water, clip the stem of the carnation and insert for twenty-four hours."

  I frowned. "Who makes black food coloring?"

  "Just mix equal portions of blue, red, and yellow."

  "Really..." I glanced at the clock. I was about to be late for my appointment with the book doctor. "I don't have time to explain right now, but I'm more convinced than ever that there is no BBK. If I'm right, the first two murders were committed to make Lars' murder seem like another random murder by a serial predator."

  "You mean the black carnations are a ruse signature?"

  "I do. I'll tell you more when I see you. Don't leave the beauty shop."

  I hung up, chewing on the bits and pieces of new information this day had wrought. The simplicity of securing black carnations actually aligned with my core belief. Serial killers came with predispositions and established signatures, rituals that seldom varied. But the signature for the murders of Lars and two others was a dyed carnation? What kind of symbolism was that? It reeked of pretense, of diversion tactics, of making the police look left, while the killer moved right.

  Had Stone noticed the photo of Jade Edger in the white tuxedo on the memorial wall? I was sure that was where the idea of using a black carnation came from and that meant the killer was likely someone familiar with the nightclub. Someone like Frankie Steele?

  My gut said yes, but I still had no proof. An overheard conversation wasn't going to convince Stone or get Apollo off the hook. Maybe I could learn something from Frankie's sister.

  I checked the directions to Teri Steele's house, started the car and pulled into the road. Lars wasn't the victim of a serial predator. His murder wasn't random. The killer was probably one of my suspects. Probably, Frankie. I ought to be pleased. I was on the right track. Instead, I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, and an unsettling sense of urgency. I needed to find solid, physical proof. Fast.

  But what was I looking for and would I know it if I found it?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When you've chosen to pursue a writing career by doing odd jobs modern electronics, that most of your peers rely on, don't fit your budget. My car isn't new. Translation: it doesn't have GPS. My temporary phone isn't smart. Translation: it doesn't have internet or apps or even a camera.

  Note to self: Purchase some serious investigative gizmos.

  But for now, Map Quest to the rescue. I'm not familiar with Bainbridge Island beyond the town of Winslow, but even I can read street signs and the mileage indicator on a dash board.

  Too bad Map Quest couldn't fix my punctuality defect. Being late was not the impression an aspiring writer should make on someone helping edit a manuscript that could lead to a first sale. Or the impression an amateur P.I. should make on someone with potential information that could nail her brother for more than one murder, as well as stop the fiend from killing me.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled up to a gray clapboard that obviously started life as a cottage, spent its teen years growing taller and wider, and was now settling into a neglectful senility. Hedges needed trimmed, leaves needed raked, and the walkway needed swept.

  The house nestled among many on a tiered hillside with views overlooking the ferry dock. Teri Steele opened the door before I could knock. First impression? She did not have flame red hair, had not inherited the family beauty, and was older by several years than her siblings. Mouse brown hair capped her head, accentuating a forgettable face. She had a long, lean body that hinted at a hiking fetish and wore a shapeless ankle length dress with flat ugly shoes that made my feet want to commit suicide.

  Her feet probably felt the same standing toe to toe with my knock-off Manolo Blahnik booties.

  "Come in." Teri turned and I followed, through a tidy mud room, galley kitchen reeking of fresh brewed coffee, and a small sitting room with windows that overlooked an unkempt lawn, a falling down deck, towering pines and maples, and an expansive and breathtaking water view.

  She talked as we walked. I quickly deduced Teri was direct, said what she thought, got straight to business. She reminded me of other New Yorkers I'd either met or spoken to — used to fast paced city life and revved up to meet it. Island living hadn't mitigated her energy. This was a busy woman with just so much time to slot everything into each day.

  Except yard work and home maintenance — which probably meant she was single and overworked and underpaid.

  I liked her right off and I didn't want to like her. I'd just overheard her brother and sister plotting my murder.

  We arrived in a larger room offering the same panorama as the sitting area. From its generous proportions and the well-used stone fireplace, I guessed this had once been the living room.

  The furniture was functional office with the usual electronic equipment: phone, computer, printer, fax. Bookshelves took up two whole walls, and a conference table stood center stage. Stacks of manuscripts occupied every corner and nearly every surface. Yet, I had a sense of order despite the disorder.

  Te
ri glanced at the manila envelope I hugged to my chest. "I take it that's the manuscript."

  I nodded. Palms damp, throat dry. All thought of murders and murderers fled. A real live editor was about to read and dissect my story... while I watched. I couldn't be more apprehensive if I were about to participate in my own appendectomy. I lowered the envelope to the table top, telling myself that others had gone before and survived this surgery.

  Teri slid a sheet of paper toward me. "These are my fees. I'll let you consider that while I refresh my coffee. May I bring you some?"

  "Please." I read the list as I removed my coat and scarf. The fees were reasonable, and I realized in that moment I would have agreed to offer up one of my stiletto-sheathed appendages for this service.

  She returned with two steaming mugs flaunting famous NYC locales. I accepted one. "So, should I write you a check or do you only take cash, or what?"

  "Before I agree to take you on as a client, I'll need to review your writing." She opened the envelope and pulled out about ten pages. "Why don't you enjoy the view while I read these and then we'll talk."

  I couldn't breathe. Whatever mechanism in my brain handled that function failed. I verged on hyperventilating. I wanted this too much. Encouraged by not-awful rejection letters, I had assumed I'd skipped the step where I didn't decide if I got to hire someone to edit my work. I was a card carrying idiot.

  I shoved out of my chair, the coffee mug the only anchor keeping me from running straight out to the falling-down deck and leaping off. I couldn't bear to watch Teri read my words, afraid she'd look up at me in what-were-you-thinking? horror. Every doubt I'd ever had about actually being able to write assailed me. I forced myself to walk to the bookshelf at her back and pretended to read the titles in her collection, lips locked so I wouldn't blurt out distracting, nonsensical chatter.

  I hoped she couldn't hear me sweat.

  A paper rustled. Pages being turned. At least she hadn't stopped cold on the opening paragraphs. That was good, right? Unless she had to read on to see just how terrible it was, the way I sometimes can't stop watching Maury to learn the results of a paternity test.

  I sipped coffee. The hot rich flavor did nothing to ease my nerves. Think about something else. Anything else. I started reading book titles. With few exceptions, the books were mostly hardcovers. So, I suppose it was only natural my eyes were drawn to the small pile of paperbacks at the end of a row on the top shelf. The lurid blue cover seemed familiar. I moved in for a closer look, and my already anxious heart clenched.

  They all bore the same title: Lipstick and Larceny.

  They all had the same author: Ruth Lester.

  The bad feeling I'd had earlier returned.

  Why did Teri Steele have so many copies of Ruth Lester's book?

  "Okay," Teri said, causing me to nearly vacate my skin. "You can sit down."

  I walked woodenly to the table, my attention immediately back on my own book. I wanted to ask how much it sucked, but I'd been struck dumb.

  She looked me in the eye, about to deliver my fate with her honest, blunt assessment. I gripped the arms of the chair. She said, "I don't take on everyone who contacts me."

  My stomach dipped. This was it. Everything Lars had ever said to me was true. Talent tells. I would never be a published writer. I wasn't a storyteller. I would end up back in beauty school and doomed to one day take over the Clip and Flip. I reached a trembling hand for my pages, intending to stuff the dreck back into the envelope where it belonged.

  But she grabbed the envelope from me and did the deed herself. Then she tapped the cost sheet. "What do you want from me? A line edit? An overall assessment? Or both?"

  My eyes rounded. My tongue froze. I could barely grasp what I was hearing. She was going to work with me. I wasn't doomed to beauty school.

  "You're a decent writer," Teri said. "From what little I've read and I can see the story has potential. I will need to read the whole thing, however, to see if I maintain that opinion. As it is, the opening shows me this is a good story, but not good enough in its present incarnation that I would recommend it to the editors at the publishing house I work with. The goals, motivations, and conflict need more immediacy where the heroine is concerned. Right now, everything unpleasant is happening to the heroine's friend and not to her directly."

  OMG. Insight. My story imitated my life. How had that happened?

  "This can be fixed," Teri said. "But I will only agree to take you on as a client, if you're willing to do the work."

  In other words, don't waste her time.

  I assured her that I would do whatever was required. We discussed the difference between a complete line edit and an overview and all points in-between. In the end, we decided I would leave the manuscript for her to read through. She would line edit the first two chapters and then meet with me again to discuss. Then I would edit the next two chapters and we'd meet again for her to check my progress and keep me on track. We would continue this process through to the end of the book.

  She didn't offer any guarantee that the end result would sell, but if she thought it was good enough, she'd recommend it.

  I'd never felt so close to actually getting published. I wrote her a check, slipped into my jacket and tied my scarf around my neck. My eyes went to Ruth Lester's books. I couldn't walk out without asking about it. I kept my voice light. "I just bought that book yesterday. You have several copies. Do you know her or something?"

  Teri stood and gathered our coffee cups. "I helped her edit that book."

  "Really. You know her then?"

  "Actually, I never met her." Teri started toward the kitchen.

  I followed. "I don't understand."

  "The publisher I work for put me in touch with her, but all of our dealings were over the internet."

  "Then you don't know what became of her?"

  "No."

  "Then you didn't work with her on her second book?"

  Teri set our cups in the sink and frowned at me. "Why are you so curious about her?"

  This was one of those times when honesty was the best choice. "I was once married to Lars Larsen."

  She nodded. "I see. The lawsuit..."

  "Lars and I didn't exactly part on good terms. I don't know that much about what went on with the plagiarism suit, just his side of it. And having been screwed over by that man, well, frankly, I'm not sure I believe him. I wouldn't be surprised if he rip off her second manuscript. You didn't happened to see it did you?"

  "No." Teri made the kind of face that indicated I'd offered too much information about my personal life. I found the reaction puzzling if she didn't actually know Ruth Lester. Like she was protecting the writer. On the other hand, maybe Teri was just unwilling to talk to anybody about the plagiarism for the sake of her publisher.

  Bottom line: I wasn't going to get any more out of her today.

  She ushered me through the mudroom and out the door. "I'll phone when I've finished reading the manuscript and am ready to meet with you again."

  I thanked her, then trudged to Old Yeller. I had to find Ruth Lester, but so far I hadn't been able to find so much as a photo of her. Or anyone who seemed to actually know her. It was like she could be anyone. It was like she was a ghost.

  The bad feeling returned, creeping over me stronger than ever.

  My phone rang. I jumped. But it was Apollo.

  The second he heard my voice he started talking fast. "Something horrible... Bruce... murdered." Sob. "... his house."

  I froze as the bad feeling flushed dread to my toes. "Tell me you haven't left the salon."

  "I found..." Sob. "... body."

  Brain freeze!

  Not the kind where you eat something too cold and the roof of your mouth makes your brain ache. The kind where your prime suspect gets himself murdered and shockwaves short circuit your cerebral cortex. The kind where your BFF does something that could land him back in jail and is so stupid it robs you of speech.

  Why had Apollo
gone to Bruce's after I specifically told him not to? Why had Bruce been murdered? How was I going to reach Bruce's house before Apollo was re-arrested?

  I'd never felt more like murdering someone. I wanted to scream at Apollo until his hair turned blue. But I had yet to get that gun I was considering, and I couldn't speak let alone scream.

  Brain freeze!

  The kind that has you picturing one thing in your head, but confronted with the actuality, is the total opposite of your imagining.

  Nothing was as it should be as I neared the 1950s modern architectural house Lars had shared with Bruce. The cul-de-sac should be blocked by police cars and other response vehicles, but it wasn't. I drove through the high hedges that hid the flat-roofed rambler from the street and pulled up behind Apollo's orange VW, the only other car on the curved apron.

  I stepped uneasily from Old Yeller, leery, gaze locked on the front door. Had the officials all come and gone during the two hours it took to get back to the ferry dock on Bainbridge Island, cross Puget Sound and drive through afternoon traffic to Mercer Island? Was Apollo in jail, his car awaiting pickup?

  No. No crime scene tape on the door. Maybe I should call Stone. Wait out here until he showed up. I speed dialed his number, got voice mail. Again. Damn. Now what? Frustration and indecision gave my mystery writer's imagination time to conjure a few awful scenarios for why Apollo hadn't called 911. The killer was still inside the house when Apollo called me. I would find Apollo dead beside Bruce.

  My stomach turned. I wanted to run. But what if Apollo was inside, alive and wounded, in need of an ambulance?

  I approached the front door on wobbly legs, nerves shivering. I raised my hand to knock, then thought better of it and dialed Apollo's cell phone. I listened hard to hear it ringing from inside the house.

  Nothing.

  "Jack B," he answered.

  I grabbed the wall to stay upright. A breath shuddered out. "Where are you?"

  "I told you."

  I glanced at his VW. "You're still at Bruce's?"

  "Yes."

  "Why haven't you phoned the cops?" Or left?