Chapter Twenty-Five
It was well after the dinner hour by the time Juliette was finally allowed to go home.
They’d taken her clothes—which was just as well, considering they’d been smeared with Brad Ellingham’s blood—and a tissue and saliva sample.
Brad had a substance under his fingernails that they thought might be skin from his attacker.
It didn’t go any better in her favor when she explained that if her skin did happen to end up under his fingernails, it was only because he’d used her as a human shield earlier that day.
Apparently, they considered “revenge” a compelling motive.
Juliette had been accused of a lot of things in her thirty-two years of living—stealing boyfriends and the occasional girlfriend, dosing a rival runner with Benadryl before a big meet, and even peeing in an office mate’s coffee mug to establish her mug territory (only one of those accusations was actually true, but not the one anyone would think).
But murder was a first, and she was surprised to find it didn’t sit well with her.
Was it because she saw Brad’s slack, rubbery face every time she closed her eyes?
Or because she’d been stripped, searched, poked, and prodded by the police until she felt like a lab rat?
Or maybe—and this one felt the most painful, which of course meant it was the most truthful—she was pissed someone had killed Brad and pinned it on her.
Detective Marks had insisted on having a black-and-white drive her home, allegedly for her protection, but she suspected it was actually because he wanted to subject her to the humiliation of a perp walk out of the country club.
She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Charlie, or determine if he’d made it back from the kitchen with Sporty Ex still pestering him about his workout routine.
Had she scared him off, suggesting they become casual acquaintances with benefits?
Would he take her up on her offer of stopping by that evening to find out?
She found herself anticipating the idea of it with more enthusiasm than she’d felt about anything personal in a long time, and the force of it unsettled her.
Charlie had been a surprisingly good investigative partner, and far more interesting than their previous encounters had ever suggested.
The man knew his way around a karate move, he had an unusually kind and thoughtful bedside manner, and he could carry her like a proper lead in a rom-com movie.
Doctor Dud was turning out to be a very interesting man after all, and Juliette wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
He was the kind of catch a girl might be tempted to keep, and Juliette didn’t do long-term.
Maybe it was for the best that she’d scared him off, even if she couldn’t quite lie to herself and pretend that was what she wanted.
Juliette’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t actually partaken of the lavish luncheon.
She couldn’t contemplate figuring out what food she had, much less scrolling the menus of every restaurant within her delivery area.
She might have some raw pasta left from her brief stint with culinary foreplay.
Was it even safe to eat raw pasta? She was about to find out.
She had just hauled herself off the love seat when someone knocked on her door.
She froze, her nervous system still geared for discovering a dead body, calf muscles tensed and heart drumming away.
She might be half-starved, wearing borrowed Pacific Pines sweats, and fighting a raging headache, but whoever was on the other side of the door would still regret messing with Juliette Winters.
Even if it was Detective Marks here to arrest her.
Actually, especially if it was Detective Marks.
She swung the door open, prepared to give him a piece of her mind for thinking she was dumb enough to get caught holding the murder weapon, when instead she was assaulted with a far worse attack. Kate launched herself through the door, dragging Juliette into a bear hug.
“What is happening?” Juliette asked in alarm.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay, it’s okay,” Kate said, making soothing circles on her back. “Your first dead body is always the biggest shock. You’ll get used to it.”
“How did you know—”
“Charlie called,” Kate said. “He told me everything and said you shouldn’t be alone tonight. And we agreed.”
“Charlie called you?” Juliette said in surprise. Charlie had been worried about her? But then she processed the second half of Kate’s statement. “Wait, who is we?”
Kennedy appeared at the top of the stairs, holding several shopping bags that emanated the most heavenly smell imaginable. “Fresh from Thai Me Up! We got all your favorites. Well, Kate was in charge of ordering, so I think we just got one of everything.”
“I call it the Valentine Sampler,” Kate said, refusing to release Juliette as she did some kind of rocking motion.
“Kate, I’m not a baby,” Juliette said flatly. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be brave for us,” Kate said, finally standing back. “If anybody knows the shock of being accused of murder, it’s me.”
“It’s true,” Kennedy said, nodding along. “Kate’s told me all about how horrible it was when she tripped over a dead body at my wedding.”
“Kennedy, you were the dead body,” Juliette said.
“True, but I was dead at the time, so it was way less traumatic for me.”
Juliette had to doubt that was true, but she could hardly argue, because Veeta appeared at the top of the stairs, lugging what appeared to be a rolling speaker system. “What is that for?”
“Karaoke,” Veeta said with a huff, as if it were obvious.
Juliette found her cozy, one-person apartment once again playing host to three people who didn’t even have the potential to turn into an orgy situation.
At least Kate had been in charge of the food ordering, which meant they had more than enough to go around.
Juliette gorged herself on spicy curry, perfectly crispy chicken wings dusted in chili powder, and pad thai noodles with just the right hint of sweetness.
“That’s better than anything Troy Pham could put up,” Juliette said, leaning back and patting her belly with a contented sigh.
“Who is Troy Pham?” Kate asked.
Juliette sighed, eyeing the whiteboard still filled with their notes on Warren’s murder.
Her conversation with Detective Marks had left her rattled and on uneven ground.
He couldn’t really suspect her, could he?
Sure, the evidence looked awfully grim on the face of it.
Juliette knew the truth, but she’d worked in marketing long enough to know that truth didn’t matter nearly as much as perception.
Was it enough to convict her and send her to prison?
Probably not. But was it enough to upend her life, ruin her reputation, and destroy her finances before it was all said and done? Absolutely.
“What really happened, Juliette?” Veeta asked in their soft voice. “We want to help.”
“Let us help,” Kate added.
They didn’t understand. Nobody could help her.
She’d made this mistake, letting the manuscript slip through her hands, which meant she had to fix this on her own.
It was her fault, and she couldn’t burden anyone else with solving it.
She would do it all: find Warren’s killer, figure out who killed Brad and exonerate herself, get the missing memoir, and get everything that had gone so terribly off course back on track.
She could still salvage this crap show and go to that stupid reunion with her head held high; she just had to keep her eye on the prize.
No more distractingly delicious surgeons or spicy wings. She didn’t deserve them yet.
So instead of telling them about Troy Pham and Chipper Floyd and the haunting memory of actually feeling sorry for Bradley Ellingham for a hot second, Juliette pointed a foot at the karaoke machine.
“Does this thing come preloaded with Simon and Garfunkel? Because I could absolutely murder a rendition of ‘Cecilia’ right now.”
She’d disappointed them; she could tell in the way their faces fell, the way their bodies sagged back into the couch.
Or maybe that was too much pad thai. Either way, it was a feeling they should get used to.
She’d learned her lesson about female friendships the hard way, thanks to Juniper.
Now, Juliette Winters was a one-woman show, even when performing a song meant for a two-part harmony.