Diana Killian - Murder On The Eightfold Path

“Those bloody fools gave me a glimpse of it. Three stones. Baguettes with a two-and-a-half carat center stone. A total of five carats. Do you have any idea what that would have cost the poor dear boy?”

“Do you remember how the poor dear boy would have raised the money?” A.J. inquired. “Because that’s what got us into this jam.” She really didn’t think she could handle her mother getting sentimental over that lying, cheating, sneaking little blackmailer. No one deserved to be murdered, but A.J. was willing to bet Massri had reaped what he sowed.

Mr. Meagher cleared his throat. “The police theorize that Massri might have tried to blackmail your mother into marriage and that’s why she shot him.”

“That’s ridiculous. That’s not logical, it’s just hokey melodrama.”

“That’s what we’re dealing with,” Elysia said. “The filth likes me for it, and that’s that.”

“The… filth?”

“Coppers,” Mr. Meagher reminded her out of the side of his mouth. “Pejorative term.”

“I remember now. I must have blocked it out of my mind. Mother, it’s not going to help things if you keep antagonizing the police or the DA or the superior court judge.”

“It’s not going to help kissing their arses either.”

A.J. caught Mr. Meagher’s gaze in the mirror. He shook his head very slightly and, unwillingly, she subsided.

When they reached Starlight Farm, however, and she saw the crime scene tape in the front yard and took in the mess that the police had made searching her mother’s home, A.J.’s anger at Jake surged again. If he didn’t believe her mother was guilty, why was he going along with this garbage? Why wasn’t he doing anything to help? Was he so ambitious that he was willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to his career?

“I’m going to sue the police department,” Elysia said, moving down the hallway and straightening the series of eighteenth-century London watercolors as she went. “Starting with that great, bloody bully boy you call a boyfriend. And I shall enjoy wringing every last penny from their coffers.”

A.J. ignored that. “Haven’t they found the weapon yet?” she asked Mr. Meagher.

“Not yet.”

“Well, surely that’s a positive.”

Elysia drawled, “They think I dumped it in the Delaware when I was driving around the countryside with my evaporated milk.”

A.J. sighed and lowered herself to the long sofa, stretching out. “I have to lie down. My back is killing me.”

Some of the hardness left Elysia’s face. “I thought you said you’d had an injection, pumpkin. Didn’t it help?”

“I’m sure it will. But it takes a little while to kick in.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again Elysia was setting a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of lemon madeleines on the low table.

A.J. realized she must have dozed off for a few minutes because Mr. Meagher was in the middle of saying something about the police checking into Elysia’s bank records and finding proof that she had been making payments to Massri.

Elysia opened the silver cigarette box on one of the side tables, seemed to recall that she had company, and flipped it shut again. “Is this supposed to be a big break in their case? I’ve already admitted it.”

“The point is, Elysia, it looks very damaging.” It was one of the only times A.J. could remember Mr. Meagher actually sounding sharp with her mother. Her mother seemed to hear the difference in his tone, too. Her brows drew together.

“I can’t help how it looks,” she snapped. “Nor can I help people’s narrow minds.”

Mr. Meagher reddened. He replaced his teacup and saucer on the table and rose. His accent was pronounced as he said, “I must be on me way. I’ll see meself out.”

“Oh, Bradley-”

“Good night, ladies,” Mr. Meagher said with injured dignity.

The quiet, careful closing of the front door was worse than any slamming.

Elysia groaned and dropped her face in her hands.

Jake phoned later that evening after A.J. had retired to Elysia’s comfortable guest bedroom. “I’m at your house.”

“I’m at my mother’s.”

“I figured that out. How’s your back?”

“It’s a little better, I think.”

Abruptly they were out of things to say.

Into the yawning, black silence, A.J. said, “This is… awkward.”

“I know. The DA plans on pushing all the way. He’s convinced there’s a real case here. And your mother didn’t make things better with her grand performance this afternoon.”

“She’s scared, and she’s angry.”

“I understand that, but-”

“But?”

“Look, you don’t have to take that attitude with me, A.J. I don’t think your mother killed anybody. But that’s beside the point.”

As great a relief as it was to hear Jake admit even that much, she couldn’t help responding, “It shouldn’t be.”

“This is my job.”

“This is my mother.”

“And I can’t allow personal feelings to interfere with how I do my job. That wouldn’t help Elysia.”

A.J. communed within herself. “Intellectually, yes. I get it. But emotionally? This is an impossible situation. She’s having a rough time and my fraternizing with the… the enemy isn’t helping.”

“So what are you saying?”

A.J. was silent. “One day at a time? I think we just need to take things slowly for a while. I mean, if this really goes to trial-”

His voice was flat. “Okay.”

Was she glad or sorry that he accepted it so easily?

“One thing, though,” Jake said quietly. “Elysia said a lot of inflammatory things outside the station today. She challenged the police department to find the ‘real’ killer, and I don’t think I’m totally off base thinking she inferred she’d be poking her nose in if we didn’t come up with a result she liked pretty quick.”

“She was angry and emotional.”

She heard what could have been a brusque laugh. “Sure she was. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t mean every word. Do not let her drag you into some dingbat amateur detective scheme. Or you’re going to be wearing matching mother-daughter prison garb.”

“Duly noted, Detective.”

He sighed. “Okay. Well, keep me posted.”

“Likewise.”

She flipped shut the cell phone and gazed up unseeing at the shadowy corners of the moonlit ceiling.

One of A.J.’s unexpected newfound pleasures since moving to New Jersey was her morning yoga routine. Not only did she feel physically better for those few but intense minutes of stretching and limbering, but that period of quiet reflection centered her for the active day ahead. Although it had only been a couple of days since A.J. had injured her back, she was already missing her morning yoga session.

Accordingly, on the morning after her steroid shot, she went through a very cautious, abbreviated workout. She was uneasily conscious that the wrong moves could worsen her situation, but she was sure that if she proceeded carefully, all would be well. She had worked hard over the past months and didn’t want to lose the ground that she had gained.

She started by spreading a quilt on the bedroom carpet and then lying flat on her back. She stretched her arms out from her side in a straight line with her shoulders. Exhaling, she started to raise both legs perpendicular to the floor, but she immediately felt the burn in her lower back, and had to abandon the pose.

Dismayed, but still determined, she rested for a few seconds and then rolled carefully onto her left side, raising her right leg-

The pain halted her.

No way was this going to happen. She was liable to do more damage even trying. For a few seconds A.J. struggled with her frustration and fear. Had one misstep undone all the diligent work of the last months?