You Don't Know Jack Read online

  "Obviously something went very wrong," I said, trying to work out the unknown details for myself as well as for them. "Maybe Lars caught Patty at the nightclub stalking Bruce, and he threatened her or something."

  "She is a whack-a-doodle!" Ida said.

  "Stone and Duke need to see this manuscript," I said, rising to my feet, surprised to find I could actually stand without my knees wobbling.

  "Will it clear Apollo, dear?" Sophie looked hopeful, and as bone weary as I felt.

  "I believe it will help." But would his good name be restored posthumously? A vibration in my pocket stopped me in my tracks. My cell phone. It was my mom. Apollo!

  Death in the house.

  Death all around us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  At some point every woman wants to be wanted... just not by the police.

  News media gathered outside the Bainbridge Island police headquarters like vultures sniffing a carrion feast. Squad cars dispersed to the Peppered Page bookstores and Patricia Pepper's home. Search warrants awaited a judge's signature. Law enforcement needed to find her, Mirandize her, and bring her in for questioning.

  The Golden Oldies and I signed our statements and were free to leave. Madam Zee's Lady Smith, however, remained in custody for purposes of the investigation into Teri Steele's murder; the announcement of her death was being withheld until family could be notified.

  Family. The extended victims in every tragedy. Though I didn't know the current dynamics of Teri's family, I could only imagine the heartache Frankie and Eve were feeling over the loss of the older sister who'd raised them.

  Dinah would also be upset. This was the sister-in-law she liked. I hadn't even had time to absorb what Teri's death meant to me.

  All I could deal with was wanting Peppermint Patty caught and in custody and no longer a threat to me and mine.

  "We need to get goin' if were gonna catch that next ferry!" Ida said as the four of us hustled toward the exit, huddled a little closer than earlier in the day — before grappling murder and mayhem.

  "Jack..."

  My name vibrated into my ears like a lover's secret kiss. My companions and I stopped. Why did only his voice, of all the male voices within my hearing, cause yearnings I wanted no part of? Why did I turn to meet his gaze as though I had no will of my own? Why did the very sight of this man recharge my spent emotions? Electrify my senses?

  Stone started toward me, his gaze locked on mine. My pulse skipped. My breath caught. Though I was determined he not know how much I needed him, how much I ached to lose myself in his embrace, I almost ran toward him.

  "Jack..." Again the word, whispered this time, held unspoken longing.

  I swear I could hear his heartbeat, feel his hunger. I craved his love like Jersey girls crave big hair. My toes curled and my heart hammered. We halted short of touching, though the desire to do that shimmered off both of us. He didn't open his arms for an embrace, and I didn't initiate one. His being scared for me, and my being scared, didn't dissolve the problems between us. It was like being separated by a thin sheet of Plexiglas, all the need in the world couldn't shatter the barrier.

  The sex would always be mind-numbingly great, but sizzling hot sex could only sustain a relationship for a while. Not forever. He wanted a forever I couldn't give. Reconnecting would just prolong the heartbreak.

  "I can't leave yet," he said, as though apologizing.

  I nodded. I understood he had a case to work. It was what I loved about him. His dedication. His perseverance. His focus. His eyes, his tongue, his hands.

  "It's okay," I said, pointing to my patiently waiting entourage. "Safety in numbers."

  "I want you to stay here until I'm through, but I'm not sure how late that will be and you look exhausted." Was he feeling protective or possessive or both? Whichever, the warmth it roused confused me. Did I want this man or didn't I?

  Of course I did, but I couldn't put myself through this again.

  "I'm not going home. Apollo..." Tears sprang to my eyes on a rush of emotion and tightened my throat. "He's coming out of the coma. The doctors say he's going to make it."

  Stone smiled that crooked, devastating grin. "That's great."

  It was beyond great. "As soon as that ferry docks, I'm going straight to the hospital."

  His expression sobered. He didn't like the idea, but understood that I'd been detained from being at my BFF's bedside as long as I could tolerate. "Maybe I can wrap this up and go with you."

  "I'm heading back to Seattle, too," Duke said, stepping up to join us and placing a proprietary hand on my arm. "Not to worry, bro. I'll chaperone Jack B and her lovely companions."

  Stone eyed his brother like an alpha buck sniffing a horny interloper amid his does. He did a complete one-eighty. "I need to discuss some aspects of the case with Jack. She can ride with me."

  "Well, then... ladies," Duke said, releasing me and bowing to the Golden Oldies. "Would you take pity on a weary attorney bereft of female companionship?"

  Three giggling seniors and the gorgeous attorney headed for the exit. I stared after them, surprised and slightly offended that Duke had relinquished all claim to me so easily. Didn't we have dinner plans? Hadn't he inherited the Maddox protective instinct gene? Could I really have been considering a relationship with a man who wouldn't fight for me?

  I almost laughed at the thought. Hell, I'd done it before.

  If history repeated itself as claimed, you could bet I'd do it again.

  I wasn't sure I liked being that predictable.

  Right now, however, I needed to catch that ferry. "Stone, you know you can't leave, and I must."

  "Fine. But I'm taking you. No, don't argue. It's a done deal."

  "Detective Maddox!" Officer Deadpan hurried toward us. "I'm glad I caught you. The search warrants are here."

  Stone looked torn. I read him like a blog. He still wanted to accompany me to the hospital, but more than that he itched to stay and follow through on this investigation which could resolve his Black Boutonniere Killer case. I took the decision out of his hands. "Stay. Find the proof that will clear Apollo of murder charges. Okay?"

  "No guarantees." His grin returned for an encore. His eyes full of thank you. It was probably why he loved me. I put his work before my needs. I understood that if he did what he felt he had to do when he felt he had to do it that he would come back to me every time. I want the same sense of personal freedom in a relationship. "Clingy" isn't me.

  He touched my face, then said, "How are you going to get back? Duke and your ride left without you."

  "Ha. You don't know how long it takes three little old ladies to get loaded into a car." I was already speed dialing Sophie's cell phone. "Wanna bet they're still in the parking lot?"

  Armed guards with photos of Patricia Pepper searched each vehicle, as well as foot traffic, loading onto the ferry. The dustup would delay our departure by at least a half an hour, extending wait times for those who relied on the ferry service to and from Seattle and Bainbridge. Crazy wins the day. The price the public paid to ensure a fugitive didn't slip off the island.

  Once we parked our cars, Duke insisted on treating us all to coffee and a snack in the ferry café. It was late afternoon, dark outside, the lights inside overly bright. The noise level increased as other travelers trickled into the upper floor. We settled at a window booth with a large table. Duke was scrunched between Ida and Sophie, Madam Zee had the window on our side.

  "If that crazy bitch gets on this boat she'll have us to answer to!" Ida said, fearless in spite of our ordeal.

  Nonagenarians can be risk-takers. They face death on a daily basis — usually sans the adrenalin rush Ida had today.

  "She's not on this ferry," Madam Zee pronounced, her hands in the TV rabbit ears pose. "I do not feel her presence."

  Neither did I, and I wasn't psychic or even sort of psychic. Peppermint Patty was insane, not stupid. She wouldn't risk being spotted and arrested. She was island-bound. Hiding somewhe
re.

  "Road blocks are set up at the Agate Pass bridge, too." Duke took a swallow of coffee. "Her best bet for escape would be a private boat."

  "I hope the police are checking all the doctors and clinics, dear," Sophie said. "She'd need that wound seen to."

  "Doctors are legally bound to report gunshot wounds to the authorities," Duke assured them.

  Yeah, I thought, provided she isn't holding some medical personnel at gunpoint. I decided not to throw that into the mix, and as they chattered on, my mind drifted. I needed to phone Dinah. I hated to intrude on someone in the throes of losing a sister-in-law, but since she was also juggling the fear that her husband was cheating on her, I felt obligated to relieve her of that bit of stress. Knowing Dinah, though, she might prefer it was a woman taking his focus off learning the nightclub business.

  I hated ratting him out. I understood why Frankie kept his writing secret. My family hounded me to get a "real" job. It was the bane of most aspiring writers' existence. Not that we had anything against working, but the suggestion that writing isn't work. It's damned hard work. Often for little financial gain.

  I excused myself and carried my coffee outside, happy to find myself alone. Everyone else had the good sense to stay indoors, but I relished the privacy and the cold bracing air. I strode out of sight of the windows and placed the call to Dinah. It wasn't a message I would usually leave on voice mail, but seemed appropriate this one time. I offered my condolences about Teri, told her Frankie wasn't cheating on her, and that we could discuss that further whenever she wanted.

  A call clicked in as I was about to disconnect. Stone. I said, "Have you caught her?"

  "Not yet. I'm at her office in the bookstore. I can't give you details, but what we found turns this case upside down."

  "You can't tell me that and then not give me any hint what you're talking about."

  "Okay," he said after a moment. "Some correspondence was sent from her work computer signed as Ruth Lester."

  I rocked back on my heels. "So, she is Ruth Lester, then?"

  "I'd put my money there."

  "Then I'm right about her killing Lars for revenge and Teri for knowing who she was?"

  "Seems like it."

  The news brought a certain sense of closure, if not pure satisfaction. "Thank you for telling me."

  "I'm sorry I can't share more, Jack."

  "Can I at least tell Apollo it's good news?"

  "Sure."

  I hung up and shouted, "Yes!"

  If wishes were horses, I'd be a Kentucky Derby winner so many of my prayers were coming true. Apollo was improving, and would soon be cleared of all charges. Once Peppermint Patty was in custody the threats to my life would stop. For the first time in weeks, I could breathe without a hitch. The world was tipping back onto its axis, everything falling right.

  I even felt as though Lars was gone, his unresolved issues satisfied, freeing him to leave this world for the spiritual one. Despite the animosity that threaded our relationship since our divorce, I would miss him, and I hoped he was finally at peace.

  "Be careful what you hope for, darlin'," Lars said, startling me.

  "What are you still doing here?" I gasped. "Your murder has been solved."

  "Unfinished business..."

  "What unfinished bus—?" I broke off, detecting movement behind me. Anxiety crawled through my belly. I pivoted. A woman was walking toward me. Too tall to be Peppermint Patty. I exhaled, relaxed.

  Light from inside spilled over her, not enough to clearly detect features, but enough to pick up a strong nose and long, false lashes. She held a thick manila envelope in one hand and something that resembled a blunted curling iron in the other. Bushy dark hair poked from beneath a scarf on her head. An ankle-length coat covered a stocky frame, slacks reached to the tops of pumps even uglier than my sneakers.

  Talk about someone needing a style consultant.

  "Ms. Smart..."

  Alarm riveted me to the deck. How did she know my name?

  She shook the envelope at me. "Where is it?"

  Every instinct — and Lars — yelled, "Run! Scream!"

  I couldn't move. Couldn't raise my voice above a raspy croak. My hand was fumbling in my purse for my pepper spray. "Where is what?"

  "My manuscript." She tossed the envelope at me. Reflexively, I caught it. Hugged it one-armed to my thundering heart.

  "Who-who are you?" But even as I asked, I felt an insidious evil permeating the air between us, an evil I had felt before, the night Lars died. I'd felt it again in Bellevue at the bookstore before being followed home. My blood chilled.

  Peppermint Patty hadn't killed Lars or attacked Apollo. This woman had. This had to be Ruth Lester.

  Ruth Lester was the Black Boutonniere Killer.

  I heard a hard click above the vibration of the ferry. The thing I'd mistaken for a blunted curling iron was a switchblade.

  Terror robbed my breath. My heart galloped.

  I wasn't going to see Apollo again.

  Or Stone.

  Or my mother and aunts.

  I couldn't swallow. Or pull in air.

  I was a dead woman walking.

  And talking.

  "You're not talkin', darlin'!" Lars' shouted as anger and hatred reverberated through my entire body. His anger and hatred. "Start talkin'. Buy enough time for someone to miss you. To come lookin' for you."

  My lips moved, but nothing came out.

  "Flatter her," Lars continued and oddly I could "feel" his ire grow stronger as though it were my own. And yet, it wasn't. "Killers have big egos."

  "I read it you know," I finally muttered, still not finding the damned pepper spray. "Your manuscript."

  "Where is it?"

  "Don't tell her the police have it," Lars said.

  Like I hadn't already thought of that.

  Ruth Lester took a step closer. I stumbled back a step.

  "I know you plotted the story to exact vengeance on Lars."

  "It's fiction."

  Sure. Like I'm flat-chested. I stepped to the side. She blocked my retreat. The nearest door was behind her. My only escape was into the dark deadly waters.

  "Keep her talkin'!"

  "It was a brilliant plan — hiding one murder among several." The false praise tasted acidic, nasty. Killing two innocent men as though their lives were nothing, as though they didn't matter to anyone made me ill. But if I went there, I'd be the next innocent victim of this vengeance driven maniac. I struggled to keep from spitting at this monster. "It was the perfect payback for Lars stealing your previous book idea."

  She stilled.

  My hand curled around something that felt like the pepper spray tube. I pulled it free of my purse, biting down the panic. "That's right. I know he did it. Lars admitted it to me."

  "Liar. That bastard wouldn't admit to plagiarism." The knife arced upward.

  I blinked, winced, pressed the envelope tighter to me.

  "Don't stop now, darlin'."

  "You plotted to kill Bruce and frame Lars." Fear was stealing the stamina from my limbs. "Then sell the story based on the crime, knowing it would become a best seller."

  "I deserved it. He made a bundle from the book he stole from me."

  The tube in my hand was lipstick. Oh, God. I panicked, tried to dart around her, tripped, grabbed at air for balance.

  I caught her scarf. Her hair came off in my hand.

  A wig.

  Ruth Lester was a man.

  A shaft of light revealed his face.

  My shocked squeal stopped him cold.

  Or maybe he heard Lars exclaim, "You?!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  If shock was a fatal heart attack I'd be dead ten times over this day.

  Somehow, though, I was still on my feet, still breathing, still inches from losing my life to a switchblade wielding psycho. The shock was who held that knife. Though I'd considered him a prime suspect, I never suspected Carter Hawks was Ruth Lester.

  "Ne
ither did I, darlin'," Lars sounded stunned... and perplexed... and mad as hell.

  All things I was feeling, but if I was going to die, someone was going to tell me why.

  "Why?" Carter barked. "Why did I kill Lars?"

  That would do for starters. "Yes."

  "You of all people can probably come up with several reasons why that egomaniacal prick didn't deserve to live."

  Okay, I confess there were times Lars' self-centered ego pushed me to a dark edge, but never so much so that I'd been moved to violence or bloodshed.

  "I must have had some redeemin' qualities, darlin', otherwise Apollo and you wouldn't have cared about me," Lars said, making a point. "I'll bet you could even list a few... if you tried."

  "I'm busy trying to stay alive right now," I screamed silently.

  "You'd better get him talkin', then darlin', 'cause he seems ready to slice and dice."

  "L-Lars was your main source of income," I said, grasping at straws, eyes glued to the knife a breath away from my nose. "Worth more to you alive than dead."

  "You're wrong. He was washed up. He couldn't plot any more. He was missing deadlines, stealing other writer's stories. Blaming his shortcomings on me. The writing was on the wall. It was only a matter of time before his career tanked altogether and me with it."

  "Not true," Lars protested. "I had a little writer's block. You don't kill someone for that."

  "Did Lars know you were an aspiring writer? That you were Ruth Lester?"

  "I told you, darlin', not until tonight," Lars sneered.

  Carter growled, showing teeth like a vicious dog. "That prick threatened to drop me if I ever published a novel — as though I had no right to a life beyond his career."

  "He was handsomely compensated for any inconvenience being at my beck and call might've caused his sorry ass," Lars said. "He had nothin' to complain about."

  To paraphrase Dr. Phil: If you marry for money you'll pay for every cent. The relationship between a writer and a literary agent was a sort of marriage, I realized, full of hopes and dreams and ambitions, all subject to the shifting whims of the publishing industry.