Don’t be helpful. Remember what happened to me? I volunteered to help the police last year and was rewarded with two nights in jail. Do not say anything,” Robin said. “Maybe I should leave work and come over.”
“Don’t. I’m okay. I need some time to process this.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to be alone?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, grateful for her concern. “This isn’t about me. Poor Laycee. Her husband called me this morning, looking for her. What a mess.”
“Why was she with Jarret? Didn’t Laycee go to the game with another guy last night?”
“Kyle.” I had forgotten about their date. “You’re right. I don’t know how she wound up with Jarret. I want to see if I can find another news report. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Just remember what I told you. No one needs to know you were there.”
“Someone already does. One of the neighbors saw me pull out of his driveway.”
“Then let the police come to you. Don’t offer information. Call a lawyer. Protect yourself.”
“This isn’t about me,” I said.
“I know. Let the investigation unfold on its own.”
After we hung up, I scanned through all seven local TV stations for a story update but every station was in a commercial break. The floor above squeaked from the weight of Stan and Angel working.
I sat at the edge of the sofa, staring through the window while layers of complicated feelings reeled through me like ticker tape. I pictured Laycee at the game—once my friend, yesterday an irritation, and today the victim of violence. My heart ached over the shock and fear she must have felt in her last moments. Bitterness and disgust over her past betrayal. Then shame for dishonoring the dead. I didn’t like Laycee, but she didn’t deserve to die. And what about Jarret? A scandal might mar or even destroy his career. He was an idiot for leaving his house open to intrusion. Anger melded into horror—I may have missed the murderer by minutes.
Peace wouldn’t come by sitting in a daze. I needed busywork. As I rose to unpack the last box of books, my cell phone rang again. A familiar Illinois phone number flashed on the display.
“Liz? It’s Marion Cooper.” My ex-mother-in-law’s voice wavered. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. I’m trying to reach Jarret. He doesn’t answer his telephone. There’s a story on the cable news station about…” She hesitated. Usually talkative and amicable, Marion appreciated a good piece of gossip—but not if it targeted her family. Talking about a homicide at her son’s home fell outside the province of her small-town comfort zone.
“I know. I saw the story on the news. Jarret is okay,” I added quickly to ease her. “I spoke with his agent. I don’t know exactly what happened yet. All I know is that Jarret found a woman dead in his house.”
“What should we do?” Marion said. “Should I call the police station? Is Jarret in jail?”
“No. My best guess is that he’s still at the house with the police. Let me make a call. My brother is a LAPD detective. Maybe he can get us more information.”
“Yah. I told Bud you’d know what to do. Bud and I are worried. Everyone is calling here.” She hacked out a smoker’s cough. “I wish my son would get in touch with us.”
“He will, Marion. Give him time. He’ll be with the police for hours. Leave him a message. If I hear from him, I’ll make sure he calls you.”
“Thank you. It’s hot and muggy here. How is the weather out there?”
“Hot and dry. The usual,” I said, comforting her. Odd as her question was, I wasn’t surprised Marion asked. She usedweather as a neutral ground to escape unpleasant topics.
Bad news? How’s the weather?
“Try not to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I talk to my brother.”
I hung up, and then left a message on Dave’s voice mail.
Channel 7 broke into programming with a news bulletin. “This is Shazia Kapoor reporting from outside the home of Dodger pitcher
“Don’t. I’m okay. I need some time to process this.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to be alone?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, grateful for her concern. “This isn’t about me. Poor Laycee. Her husband called me this morning, looking for her. What a mess.”
“Why was she with Jarret? Didn’t Laycee go to the game with another guy last night?”
“Kyle.” I had forgotten about their date. “You’re right. I don’t know how she wound up with Jarret. I want to see if I can find another news report. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Just remember what I told you. No one needs to know you were there.”
“Someone already does. One of the neighbors saw me pull out of his driveway.”
“Then let the police come to you. Don’t offer information. Call a lawyer. Protect yourself.”
“This isn’t about me,” I said.
“I know. Let the investigation unfold on its own.”
After we hung up, I scanned through all seven local TV stations for a story update but every station was in a commercial break. The floor above squeaked from the weight of Stan and Angel working.
I sat at the edge of the sofa, staring through the window while layers of complicated feelings reeled through me like ticker tape. I pictured Laycee at the game—once my friend, yesterday an irritation, and today the victim of violence. My heart ached over the shock and fear she must have felt in her last moments. Bitterness and disgust over her past betrayal. Then shame for dishonoring the dead. I didn’t like Laycee, but she didn’t deserve to die. And what about Jarret? A scandal might mar or even destroy his career. He was an idiot for leaving his house open to intrusion. Anger melded into horror—I may have missed the murderer by minutes.
Peace wouldn’t come by sitting in a daze. I needed busywork. As I rose to unpack the last box of books, my cell phone rang again. A familiar Illinois phone number flashed on the display.
“Liz? It’s Marion Cooper.” My ex-mother-in-law’s voice wavered. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to call. I’m trying to reach Jarret. He doesn’t answer his telephone. There’s a story on the cable news station about…” She hesitated. Usually talkative and amicable, Marion appreciated a good piece of gossip—but not if it targeted her family. Talking about a homicide at her son’s home fell outside the province of her small-town comfort zone.
“I know. I saw the story on the news. Jarret is okay,” I added quickly to ease her. “I spoke with his agent. I don’t know exactly what happened yet. All I know is that Jarret found a woman dead in his house.”
“What should we do?” Marion said. “Should I call the police station? Is Jarret in jail?”
“No. My best guess is that he’s still at the house with the police. Let me make a call. My brother is a LAPD detective. Maybe he can get us more information.”
“Yah. I told Bud you’d know what to do. Bud and I are worried. Everyone is calling here.” She hacked out a smoker’s cough. “I wish my son would get in touch with us.”
“He will, Marion. Give him time. He’ll be with the police for hours. Leave him a message. If I hear from him, I’ll make sure he calls you.”
“Thank you. It’s hot and muggy here. How is the weather out there?”
“Hot and dry. The usual,” I said, comforting her. Odd as her question was, I wasn’t surprised Marion asked. She usedweather as a neutral ground to escape unpleasant topics.
Bad news? How’s the weather?
“Try not to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I talk to my brother.”
I hung up, and then left a message on Dave’s voice mail.
Channel 7 broke into programming with a news bulletin. “This is Shazia Kapoor reporting from outside the home of Dodger pitcher
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