Jealousy Read online

  SEARCHING FOR A KILLER

  “What are you really doing here?” Lucy asked September.

  “I thought I’d explained: I want to know what happened.”

  “I know, I know. But really . . . why this? Why me?”

  “I don’t like people getting away with things,” September answered slowly, as if testing every word for its veracity.

  Lucy forced herself to focus. She had a point to make, and she was going to make it. “Okay . . . so why are you here? It’s not your job. You said so.” She was having a little trouble tracking. “You know, I probably shouldn’t talk to you,” she decided, then couldn’t help asking, “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes. Of course,” September said, then added, “Listen, I admit I don’t know exactly why I’m here, but it feels like there’s been some kind of a setup. . . .”

  Books by Nancy Bush

  CANDY APPLE RED

  ELECTRIC BLUE

  ULTRAVIOLET

  WICKED GAME

  WICKED LIES

  SOMETHING WICKED

  WICKED WAYS

  UNSEEN

  BLIND SPOT

  HUSH

  NOWHERE TO RUN

  NOWHERE TO HIDE

  NOWHERE SAFE

  SINISTER

  I’LL FIND YOU

  YOU CAN’T ESCAPE

  YOU DON’T KNOW ME

  THE KILLING GAME

  DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR

  OMINOUS

  NO TURNING BACK

  JEALOUSY

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Jealousy

  NANCY BUSH

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  SEARCHING FOR A KILLER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Bush

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4291-4

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4292-1

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4292-5

  Prologue

  Jean-Luc gazed around the kitchen, his heart pounding crazily, as it had ever since he’d taken this job. The place was impossible! The oven was ancient. The grill erratic. The counters so badly scarred that Jean-Luc had sprayed them down with disinfectant himself. The Crissmans might think their Denim and Diamonds affair was the height of societal fun, but Jean-Luc was the one who had to pull his staff together and create hors d’oeuvres that were spectacular.

  He’d taken the job because the Crissman family was well-known, well-respected, and well-heeled, or so he’d thought. He’d been stunned at the dismal state of the lodge, downright appalled at the kitchen, and when it was explained that the lodge’s “rustic” appearance was in keeping with its 1930s architecture, he’d pasted on a smile and tried to hide his full-body shiver. It was after he’d agreed to take the job that he learned that there were parameters. He was supposed to make something outstanding on a limited budget.

  Still, he’d done the impossible. He’d put his own twist on some regulars: dates and bacon, tuna tartare, a rustic cheese plate, platters of crudités with his own Roquefort dressing, and those lovely trays of melons, grapes, pineapple, and papaya. There were breads and desserts, a particularly lovely pear tarte, and oh, his amuse bouche! The bite-size morsel was packed with flavor; his rendition of capers and goat cheese and salmon that Donovan, his sous chef, had mostly mastered to correctly put together.

  But these people ... All dressed in their finery, the women in smooth heels, shimmering gowns, and diamonds—or maybe zircons, one never really knew—or, and this was the “fun” party, in jeans and casual shirts. One woman had even worn cowboy boots. Jean-Luc had peeked out at them as they’d arrived, wondering dourly why he even tried. It was all a joke to them.

  Well, wait till they tasted his food. They would swoon, no matter how gauche they were.

  The event was all for charity. Everybody said so. In fact, they said it over and over again, as if they couldn’t believe it themselves. He snorted. Maybe they couldn’t.

  He glanced down at the rows of champagne glasses on serving trays and sparkling in the drab green kitchen. Soong-Li was watching over them, making sure everyone just got one. They could buy drinks from the open bar, but they were allowed only one glass of free champagne . . . or rather, sparkling wine, as there was nothing remotely French about the California varietal they were serving. Jean-Luc sniffed, then glared at the kitchen worker, not one of his regulars, who was trying not to dry out the prawns.

  “Watch those!” Jean-Luc told the man, who didn’t even bother acknowledging him.

  Imbeciles! Jean-Luc flared his nostrils as he drew in air, shaking his head. He glanced at the “champagne.” Where was Soong-Li? As he watched, several guests snatched glasses from the serving station, and he could see that a full tray was missing. No, no! They weren’t serving it yet. They hadn’t made the final count. Hurriedly, he placed himself in front of the glasses and had to block a rather tense-looking woman in a beaded blue gown with grasping hands.

  “Not quite ready,” he said with a forced smile.

  “Well, I saw a tray go out,” she declared aggressively.

  “Yes, soon, madam. I will look you up personally and bring you a glass.”

  She shot him a baleful glare and left. As soon as she was gone, Jean-Luc hissed, “Soong-Li! Soong-Li!”

  She rushed back in from the serving room. “Mr. Crissman took the tray. I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Crissman. “The raspberries?” Jean-Luc snapped.

  “All of the glasses
had raspberries in the bottom. They’re okay. It’s okay.”

  “Ah.”

  “Should I take out another tray of champagne?”

  His ears almost hurt at her words. “No. Serve the cheese tray. It’s been forgotten and looks forlorn. I’ll watch the wine.”

  She hurried off, and Jean-Luc fumed at being required to attend to such a menial task. There was so much to do. Why was he relegated to this?

  He suddenly smelled the scent of burning seafood. “The prawns!” he shrieked, but his words were drowned out by a shout from the main room, a rising chorus of wailing, screaming voices.

  Jean-Luc put a hand to his heart. What?

  Soong-Li returned, wild-eyed. “A guest has collapsed. Stomach pains. He’s . . . vomiting!”

  Food poisoning. Jean-Luc’s face went slack. He saw his own ruin in a series of newspaper headlines . . . Famed chef poisons guest . . . Health Department called to famed chef’s restaurant to check for violations . . . Famed chef blamed for employee’s negligence . . .

  “I . . . I . . . think he might be dead,” Soong-Li declared, tears of horror standing in her eyes.

  With a soft cry of submission, the “famed chef” fell to the ground, hand still on his heart.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  One month earlier ...

  Lucy Linfield pressed herself into the back of the padded, oxblood-red booth and sipped her vodka martini, her gaze on the good-looking bartender with the strong jaw and the five o’clock shadow as he moved from one end of the bar to the other, pouring drinks and offering up little ecru napkins. His shirt’s white sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and she liked the look of his skin on his arms and the underlying muscles. She also liked the look of his face and his neck above the unbuttoned vee of smooth, hard flesh. She imagined his eyes were blue. She was a sucker for blue eyes.

  Narrowing her eyes for a better look—she really should get those long-distance glasses she’d been putting off—she watched him pour a cosmopolitan into a triangular glass and push it toward the server whose breasts were trying to escape the white, ruffled bodice of her wench outfit. This was part of the Pembroke Inn’s theme decor, which, if asked, Lucy would label medieval men’s club. It was one of the few Portland restaurants that had been open over a hundred years and had been a favorite of her grandfather, Lyle Abbott Crissman Jr., called simply Junior, and her father, Lyle Abbott Crissman III, called simply Abbott. She’d never asked if her great-grandfather, the original Lyle Abbott Crissman, called simply Criss—the construct of Criss, Junior, and Abbott made to keep their names straight over the years, apparently—had been a patron.

  In any case, she was glad to be here today, idly imagining what it would be like to kiss the bartender’s firm lips. Mark. His name was Mark, she thought. She’d never seen him before—unlike the male counterparts in her family, she wasn’t a Pembroke Inn regular—but she thought she’d heard someone call him by name.

  I’ll have to ask Kate when she gets here.

  Her sister-in-law, married to her brother, Lyle Abbott Crissman IV, simply called Lyle, which was the sanest answer to the family name thing, Lucy firmly believed, had been the one to set up this afternoon meeting. Kate had said she had something she wanted to discuss with Lucy and her sister, Layla, and she’d invited them both to a four o’clock soirée on Tuesday afternoon; well, more like a command performance, knowing Kate, which was why Lucy was here drinking martinis in the first place.

  And, well, Mark.

  “Mark,” she uttered softly, trying it out.

  She was in dangerous territory even thinking about him. She’d had crushes before, if you could call them that. Little naught-mentioned obsessions about one man or another: the buff, dark-haired son of the head gardener at Stonehenge, the family’s pet name for their estate above the Columbia River; the actor on the drama about that wealthy Southern family whose name she could never remember—she’d watched his episodes over and over again until John had teased her about him and she’d abruptly stopped, embarrassed; the UPS worker with the really muscular arms, the one before the older guy who delivered to them now; and then, of course, lastly, the true lover whom she would not name, sort of like Voldemort, who’d given her Evie and who sometimes, even now, occasionally entered her darkest dreams, and she would remember that night and the pain and the choking shame that came after.

  She tossed back the rest of her martini in one swallow, coughing a little. Nope. Not going there again. She knew better. She’d made up way too many scenarios and excuses and reasons, and all of them were lies to explain the unexplainable.

  Pushing those thoughts firmly aside, she turned her attention to the massive oak and stone fireplace at the far end of the room, the firebox huge enough that you could practically stand in it, the andirons impossible to move without a forklift. A number of white-haired gentlemen Lucy recognized as friends of her grandfather were congregated by the mullioned windows that opened onto a grassy forecourt. During the day, the restaurant looked like an English country home, but this afternoon, with rain puddling on the walkways and the box hedges glimmering wetly in the fading light, it seemed more like a lodge in the far backwoods of Sherwood Forest, not a bustling restaurant on the east side of the Willamette River, a stone’s throw from Portland’s city center.

  The Pembroke’s one bar waitress was leaning across the bar, giving Mark a good, long look at those bursting breasts. He was saying something to her and she nodded, and in that moment one of the male patrons reached over and slapped her lightly on the butt, just above her short little ruffled hem.

  Lucy sucked in a breath in surprise as the waitress reared back and gave Mr. Grab-ass a glare that could cut through steel. Lucy glanced at Mark, who seemed to be assessing the situation, wondering, maybe, whether to jump into the fray. But the waitress was clearly holding her own. Lucy read her lips: Touch me again and die. The guy was much younger than the group by the fireplace; thirties, she guessed. Drunk, he grinned up sloppily at the waitress, lifted his hands in surrender, and tried to maintain his seat on the barstool with limited success. His friend collared him and sat him back down, then leaned past him to apologize. In the process, he copped a very long, lascivious look at the waitress’s burgeoning boobs himself.

  Drama. Well, huh. Lucy had new respect for the waitress, whose name was Kitty, she believed. She was pretty sure that was what Mark had called her, though from across the room she wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard correctly, and her lip-reading skills weren’t that refined. Kitty had a great body, but her face was as stern and humorless as a prison matron’s, and the continued stare she gave Mr. Grab-ass was enough to give a sober person fair warning.

  When Kitty finally broke focus to glance around the room at the other patrons, Lucy signaled her, pointing to her own drink, then lifting a finger to indicate she needed another. Kitty raised her chin in an I-got-you motion, and said something to Mark, who looked Lucy’s way.

  Lucy felt a frisson of awareness shoot through her and did a moment of serious soul-searching. Would she go there? Would she? If he was interested? Would she?

  Yes. Maybe...

  Her heart pounded at the thought.

  It was utterly depressing to realize how little spark there was left in her own marriage.

  A few minutes later, Kitty plopped an icy-cold martini with two olives skewered on a red toothpick in front of Lucy. “On the tab?” she asked, already gazing back at another group of men at the far end of the bar from Mr. Grab-ass and his friend, who seemed to be collecting themselves and getting ready to leave.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  One of the men in the new group was signaling her, and Kitty drew a breath and dutifully walked toward him, standing back on one hip to take his order. He seemed to be having a hell of a time deciding as he smiled up at Kitty in that too-friendly way, like he’d gotten by on charm for way too much of his life. He, too, was all hands, touching Kitty’s arm, sliding fingers around her elbow, lea
ning in just as she turned in the hopes of brushing her magnificent rack.

  They were all assholes.

  Except Mark.

  Well, maybe him, too, but fine. She’d do him anyway. It wasn’t like she planned on marrying him. She’d made that mistake already, and though she’d been faithful to John and tried her best over the last four years—well, at least mostly her best—she was suffering beneath the law of diminishing returns. Even when she tried harder, John almost never responded or noticed.

  Were they really edging toward divorce?

  Yes.

  Lucy closed her eyes, sighed, then opened them again. She picked up her drink, took a sip. She had a nice little buzz going and she didn’t want it to stop. Besides, if she had to put up with Kate, better to be somewhat trashed. Whatever her sister-in-law wanted, alcohol would make it more bearable.

  It occurred to her that she hadn’t told John she was meeting Layla and Kate, so he would run right into the babysitter: her neighbor’s daughter, who was sliding from fresh-faced cheerleader into gothic pseudo-intellectual, much to John’s horror and Lucy’s private amusement.

  Plucking her cell phone from a side pocket of her purse, she texted her husband: With Layla and Kate. Bella is babysitting Evie.

  There. She dropped the phone back in the pocket and turned to her drink once more. She knew this wouldn’t go over, but she’d deal with the fallout later. She’d left the office early with no explanation. Lately, she hadn’t been a model employee at Crissman & Wolfe, her family’s department store, but she didn’t much care. Though she hadn’t wanted to meet Kate, she was happy to walk out and let the other employees figure out their jobs, for once. She wasn’t going to earn any points with her brother, her father, or her husband, all connected to the business in one way or another, but sometimes being the mother and decision maker to everyone else just plain sucked.