Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

Officer Strivecky stepped inside and immediately walked over to the scorched corner of the living room. “So, you said the fire started here? Looks like it didn’t do much damage.”

“They poured some kind of lighter fluid or something on a new canvas drop cloth,” Grace said. “Fortunately, the neighbor saw the flames through the porch windows, and he was able to put it out before the fire spread.”

“Did you happen to save the drop cloth?”

“What was left. I put it out in the garage,” Grace said. “Along with the empty paint cans they used in the kitchen and living room.”

“Good idea.” Strivecky nodded his approval. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not a detective, and I’m sure not an arson investigator. But I don’t think it would hurt to take a look around.”

Strivecky walked through all the rooms in the house while Grace gave her running narrative on all that she’d accomplished in rehabbing the house—and what the vandal did to ruin her handiwork.

When they were done, they sat on the front porch steps, and Grace handed him a bottle of water.

“You really think it’s your ex-husband’s girlfriend? Why would she do something like that?” he asked.

“Revenge,” Grace said succinctly. “She and Ben were blatantly ripping off material from my new blog for Gracenotes. So I e-mailed most of my old advertisers to let them know what was happening. I thought they should know they were spending money with people who have no ethics. At least a couple of them dropped their ads. J’Aimee came over here last week, and she threatened that she’d make me sorry. So yes, I think she’s behind this.”

“She sounds like a head case,” Strivecky said. He took a swig of water. “I can talk to one of our detectives about your suspicions, but I can tell you right now he’ll probably say that unless somebody catches her in the act, there’s nothing he can do.”

“What about if she left fingerprints? On the paint cans, or even in the bathroom, where she did the cute fingerpainting?”

“The bathroom was wiped clean,” Strivecky reminded her. “And what if she did leave fingerprints? You said she came over here last week. She could claim she left fingerprints then. But it’s not going to get that far, Grace. We already know there’s bad blood between you and your ex and this woman. Our detective is going to say this is just another domestic dispute. Nasty, yes. Criminal? Probably not.”

Grace kicked at the porch railing with the toe of her sneaker. “This day just keeps getting better and better. Because of her, the owner of the house has decided to just sell it, instead of renting it to me. And I can’t afford to buy the place myself, because I don’t have any money. And now you tell me, even if I could prove it was her, there’s nothing the police will do.”

She glared defiantly at Strivecky. “Now I know why people take the law into their own hands. I feel so powerless—it’s infuriating!”

“But you won’t do anything to get back at her—right?” Strivecky said. “We didn’t have this conversation. Right?”

“Right,” she said glumly. “No violence. I’ll just have to figure out how to get back at Ben—and her—legally.”

Dear Lily: Thanks for your recent e-mail and your kind words about TrueGrace and the cottage on Mandevilla. It was a dream project—while it lasted. Unfortunately, the owner notified me today that he intends to sell the cottage, as is, meaning that my work there will go unfinished. I’d be happy to send you photos of my other current project, although it is not on the same scope as Mandevilla. And I’d love the chance to land an assignment for Veranda. Regretfully, Grace Davenport, TrueGrace.com

When she’d sent the e-mail, Grace flopped facedown on her bed and screamed into her pillow. Then she stood up, combed her hair, and called her lawyer.

*   *   *

Nelson Keeler was kitted out in his Jungle Jerry’s uniform, khaki safari shirt, khaki slacks (his old khaki shorts no longer fit around his thickened waist), and his battered old safari hat—the leather-lined one that had been handed down to him by his father. He was happily chatting with a half-dozen members of the Hibiscus Garden Club who’d gathered around him in the gift shop after buying their senior-citizen-discounted tickets.

“Now, ladies, we’re going to start your tour with a little history of the park,” he was saying.

Joyce Barrett, their only other full-time employee, was staring out the glass door leading into the gift shop and ticket area when she saw Callie Keeler briskly approaching.

She was in her eighties and had silver hair she wore in a long braid down her back, and her own Jungle Jerry’s costume was immaculately pressed, as always.

“Uh-oh,” she whispered under her breath. She glanced back at Nelson, who’d already briefed her on Callie’s latest attempt to torpedo Wyatt’s happiness. She reached for the walkie-talkie they kept under the ticket counter.

“Wyatt? Office to Wyatt. Storm on the horizon. Repeat. Storm on the horizon.”

There was a burst of crackling static. “Shit. Copy that, Joyce. On my way. Be there in five.”

Joyce tugged at Nelson’s arm. “Er, Nelson?” He looked up, and she jerked her head in the direction of the door just as Callie pushed through it.

Nelson stopped speaking, midsentence. His expression darkened. “What’s she doing here?”

“Don’t know,” Joyce murmured. “But Wyatt’s heading back here right now.”

“Ladies,” Nelson said loudly, turning so that his back was to the door. “Let’s head out to the garden now, and I’ll fill you in on what’s in bloom as we walk.” He strode out the double doors to the park without a backward glance.

“Joyce,” Callie cooed, when the older woman returned to the ticket counter. “How nice to see you. How are the grandkids?”

“Fine,” Joyce said, stone-faced.

“Quite a few cars in the parking lot,” Callie said, leaning against the counter. “Business must be picking up, huh?”

“It’s all right,” Joyce said, her voice a monotone.