Hex on the Ex (14 page)

“Excuse me, but you brought this up. Say it out loud, Jarret. Do you seriously believe I killed Laycee?”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I don’t think you did. But when Ira and my lawyer found out you came there that morning…” He opened his hands and shrugged.

“They decided to accuse me of
murder
?” I bit down, struggling to keep my voice low. “That’s insane. How would I possibly know Laycee was at your house? If I knew, I wouldn’t have driven up there.”

“You hated her.”

“Your words, not mine. As far as I’m concerned, I left Laycee Huber behind in Atlanta years ago. You told your lawyer and the police I hated her?”

“The cops tried to blame me for her murder. I was desperate. I had to tell them something to take the attention off me. I remembered you asking if I knew she was in town the other day.”

I rolled my eyes. “So? That means I hate her?”

“Kyle said you threatened her at the ball game.”

“I didn’t. What else?”

“You called Ira to ask if they identified her.”

Slowly shaking my head in utter disbelief, I said, “You’re twisting the truth. I saw a news report and called your house, worried about
you
.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I brought you into this but—well, everyone is a suspect until the cops find the murderer. Just watch yourself, Lizzie-Bear. Be careful of who you talk to and what you say.”

“Take your own advice.” I threw my napkin on the table and began to slide out of the booth. On a whim, I turned back to him. “Have you ever heard of Herrick Schelz?”

“Schlitz?”

“Schelz, like shelf with a ‘z’ at the end.”

“No,” Jarret said. “Why? Should I know him?”

“Never mind. Not important.”

A
chorus of cicadas pierced the air on my march through the hot parking lot toward my car. The high-pitched rasping bit on my nerves—raw, thanks to Jarret’s big mouth. Lovely. I rubbed the bridge of my nose to ease a growing headache.

If I dripped sweat in a skirt and sleeveless blouse, the hefty man in a suit and tie lumbering across the blazing hot parking lot had to be suffocating. He stopped at his car, glancing over at me. We recognized each other at the same time.

I wove through rows of cars until I reached his side, clasping his arm. “Forrest, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Forrest Huber pushed a thin hair off his liver-spotted forehead, looking at me through dull eyes draped with loose pouches of skin. Lean and distinguished the last time I saw him, now his protruding stomach jammed
at the buttons of his white shirt like a coronary waiting to happen.

“Is there anything I can do?” I said.

His jaw clenched. “Tell me how and why this happened. Laycee came out here to visit you. I don’t understand why she was at Jarret’s house or in his bed.”

“Were the police able to give you any information?”

“Not yet. They won’t even tell me how she got to Jarret’s house in the first place. What was she doing there?” He snatched my wrist with fury flashing in his eyes. “Was she sleeping with him?”

“I don’t know.” I eased his hand off with a gentle squeeze to calm him. I pitied his frustration—Forrest had doted over Laycee like a prize and watched her like a coveted possession. Laycee and Jarret’s encounter, whatever it was, wasn’t my story to tell.

“I only have Jarret’s old number, give me his new one,” Forrest said.

“I’d like to help you, but Jarret doesn’t give out his number. I have to respect his wishes.”

“Why?”

“Did you just get to town?” I said, avoiding his question.

“The police called me yesterday afternoon. I’m going to the morgue to see her now.”

“The freeways through downtown can be confusing. Do you need directions?”

“I mapped the route on GPS. I want Laycee to know I’m here for her. She’s not alone. And I need to make the arrangements to bring her home to Atlanta. To bury her.” He turned away.

I touched his shoulder. “Are you okay to do this right now?”

“I have to be. I want to talk to the police again before we leave. Someone is going to explain to me how my Laycee ended up dead in Jarret’s bed and why he’s not under arrest.”

“If you need anything—help with local arrangements or someone to talk to—you have my number. Feel free to call me.”

Forrest thanked me then said, “You were a good friend, Liz, the best girlfriend Laycee ever had. It broke her heart when you moved away. If you had stayed in Atlanta, Laycee would still be alive.”

His comment stung but I left him with an encouraging hug, and then went back to my car with my head down. Poor guy. Laycee had lied to Forrest about everything—her reasons for coming to Los Angeles, who she was with, and especially why she and I no longer spoke. So much for love or loyalty.

Dancing my fingers under the hot door latch, I slid into the cooking interior and cranked up the air conditioner to high. As soon as I got home I called my office answering service for messages (none), and then checked in with Stan upstairs. His “just a few more days” estimate on completing the master bath tested my thin patience. I changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Enough was enough on the shower situation.

“Time to reassess and take action,” I said to Erzulie, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.

Even if the tub and shower in the spare bathroom were in rusted and nasty shape, with some effort, cleanser, and
bleach, maybe I could clean them up enough to use until Stan finished the master. I unloaded the washer and put my laundry in the dryer, packed a bucket with cleaning solutions and rubber gloves, and then went upstairs for some manual labor to clear my mind.

The bathroom at the top of the stairs shared a common wall with the master bath. To the left of the landing was my bedroom door; to the right, doors to the two bedrooms over the kitchen and dining room. I had planned to use the spare bedroom in front for a guest room and make the back bedroom a combination walk-in closet and craft room. If I ever decided to take up a craft. When I arranged the downstairs and my bedroom, I shoved the extra boxes into the spare bedrooms without paying attention to what I was putting where.

I opened the guest bathroom door and set the bucket on the small sink to the right. I could do this. First I had to move out the boxes of clothes stacked against the walls and in the tub. If the back room was going to be my closet, then the boxes of clothes should go in the guest bedroom to be unpacked. I lifted a box from the top and carried it through the hall.

Fueled by nervous energy and the desire to accomplish my goal, I moved seven boxes out of the bathroom and into the guest bedroom while the earsplitting screech of Stan’s drill rang from the master suite. Setting the last box near the window facing the street, I stopped for a break and glanced outside.

A blue Caprice pulled up in front of the house. Carla Pratt got out of the driver’s side in slacks and a white blouse.
She lumbered up my brick path with her gun holster and handcuff pouch visible for the entire neighborhood to see. Perfect.

I made it halfway down the steps before the doorbell rang. Erzulie darted past me up the stairs, and then darted back at the sound of Stan’s drill. The last I saw of her was a tail disappearing under the sofa.

When I opened the door, Carla stood on the porch smiling. “Did I come at a bad time?”

Yes. This is a bad time. Any time is a bad time. Go away.
“No, not at all,” I said. “I’m unpacking boxes upstairs. What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

Chilled air poured out of my house. Unless I wanted to cool down all of Studio City on my dime, lingering half in and half out wouldn’t work. I wasn’t about to sit on the front porch in the heat, talking to a gun-toting detective in full view of the neighbors.

“Sure. Come on in.” I led her to the living room. She sat on the sofa. I crossed my legs Indian-style on my white Camden chair and faced her. “How is the investigation going? Did you zero in on the origin of the symbol yet?”

Carla’s brows shot up.

“Everyone knows about the symbol, Carla. I wouldn’t be surprised if the tabloids posted it online by now. I heard that Ira Ryback e-mailed a photo from the murder scene. His source called the design witchcraft.”

“What would you call it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Let’s not play coy with each other,” Carla said. “You
and Mr. Garfield shared a fascination with the occult during the Darcantel investigation.”

“The occult is Nick’s passion, not mine. I don’t have any interest in the supernatural.”

“But you’re familiar with the symbol left on Mrs. Huber’s body,” Carla said.

“No. I didn’t know what the pentagram meant until Nick explained the history to me last night. Did Nick’s report to Captain Eagleton help you?”

“Ask Eagleton. I’m too busy with the investigation to read. The FBI will tell us if the dated pamphlet means anything. My theory is the killer left a symbol on the body to
mislead
the investigation. Until I have facts convincing me otherwise, I’m focusing on the leads I have.”

“Such as?”

“Yesterday you told me you ‘used to know’ Laycee, however, her husband told me Laycee came to Los Angeles to visit you.”

“She lied to him.”

“Yet the day before she died, you were seen with her at Game On and then again at the Dodger game.”

My throat went dry. “Chance meetings.”

“You didn’t mention either meeting to me last night,” Carla said.

“You didn’t ask.”

“And if I asked you now what really happened yesterday morning after you found Laycee asleep in your ex-husband’s bed?”

“I didn’t find Laycee or anyone else in Jarret’s house. I didn’t go past the kitchen.”

“The truth is you hated her. What were your words at the ballpark after you accused her of breaking up your marriage?” Carla flipped through pages of a small notebook. “Witnesses heard you tell Mrs. Huber she was dead to you.”

My stomach knotted. So beer-toting Kyle heard at least one part of the conversation. Great. I had finally expressed my feelings to Laycee—in front of an audience.

Carla continued, “The next morning, you walked into your old house and found Laycee in the bed. You must have been so angry, incensed even, realizing she had sex with your ex-husband while she was in town to visit you. A repeat of their fling in Atlanta. All the old feelings of betrayal returned. You went to the kitchen. Got a knife. I can understand why you couldn’t stop yourself from stabbing her while she slept. Then you realized someone might have seen you drive up to the house, so you drew a symbol on her in her blood—a witchcraft sign Mr. Garfield showed you—to make the crime appear to be a random cult killing. Where is the knife?”

The knot in my stomach tightened to a chokehold. “Your imagination is astounding. You can turn off your recorder. This conversation is over.” I stood, knees shaking, and crossed to the foyer. I opened the front door. “Get out of my house.”

“We’re not finished, Liz. You can tell me the truth now or we can talk at the station.”

I
knew Carla couldn’t force me to respond to her accusations, answer her questions, or take me to the station without cause. Thank God I always paid my parking tickets. There weren’t any random traffic warrants on me floating around to use as an excuse to take me in.

We stared each other down. I waited, refusing to budge from my stance at the front door. She rose from the sofa and hiked the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Taking her time walking out, her eyes scanned my living room.

“Next time you want to talk to me, contact my lawyer for an appointment.” I swept my hand toward the porch, gesturing for her to leave.

“Have him or her call me. Today.”

I shut the door behind her and leaned against the panel, my heart banging inside my rib cage. Erzulie scuttled from beneath the sofa to my side, arching her back against my
leg. I looked down at her and said, “We need a criminal lawyer. Fast.”

Erzulie trailed me into the den. I sat down and dialed Kitty Kirkland, our family attorney and the only lawyer I knew well enough to ask for help.

“Liz, it’s good to hear your voice, dear. Is Lucia feeling all right?” Kitty said, referring to the woman she helped Nick and I rescue from fraud and elder abuse last spring.

“Lucia is very well. I’ll tell her you asked,” I said. “Nick and I had dinner with her last week. But that’s not why I’m calling. I need a criminal defense lawyer.”

“For Jarret? I saw the news about the homicide at his home. I had a bad feeling—”

“For me.”

“Hold on.” Her phone clattered. I heard a door click shut.

Kitty listened in silence while I detailed the whole story from Laycee and Jarret’s fling in Atlanta all the way to Carla’s accusation.

“Why didn’t you call me before Pratt questioned you the first time?” she said in her drill sergeant manner.

“I didn’t think I had anything to hide.”

“The first half of your statement is true. Does your father know about this?”

“Not yet. You’re my first call.”

“Sit tight. I’ll call you right back.”

I entertained a short nervous breakdown until the phone rang.

“Oliver Paul will meet you at his office at four o’clock,” Kitty said. “For God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone about this between now and then. If the police show up at your house
with a warrant, you call Ollie and wait for him to get there. Here’s his phone number and address.”

I scribbled the info on a scrap of paper. “Thank you. Who is Oliver Paul?”

“A genius. The sharpest criminal defense attorney in the Valley. He was my star student when I taught criminal motion practice at Loyola. Don’t let his attitude throw you. Trust me, you’ll love him.”

“I trust you.” I had to—I didn’t have time to be picky. “Will you do me a favor? Don’t say anything if you talk to my mom. I want to tell my parents in person tonight.”

“I won’t say a word. I do want you to keep me updated, though. And Liz? Good luck.”

I pulled up a Google map on the address she gave me. I had an hour to change clothes and drive to Oliver Paul’s office in Van Nuys. I ran upstairs and at the top of the landing I spotted Stan in the now empty spare bathroom, on his knees in the tub. He raised a drill toward the wall.