Turning from the depressing portrait, I tugged off the dress gloves I’d used to jimmy the door, stashed them in my purse and pulled on the latex gloves I’d dug from the same bag. Dexterity, baby. That’s what I needed now. Well, that and to keep my fingerprints — which Dickhead had from the other night when he’d found me at the murder scene — from getting all over Jennifer’s study again. Contrary to what PI novels might lead you to believe, private detectives do not make a habit of breaking and entering. No way in hell would they risk their license by engaging in clear-cut criminal conduct. But under the circumstances, losing my license was a little further down on my list of worries these days. And hell, what was a little B&E when I was already unlawfully at large? Not to mention that little ol’ murder charge hanging over my head.
My first thought, of course, was to search the desk, but I quickly scooted it away.
Reason one: Dickhead would have certainly gone through that desk and every scrap of paper in it. If there’d been anything of significance in that mahogany monstrosity, he’d have confiscated it. (And yes, it did just about kill me to give him this credit, if only in my thoughts.)
Reason two: If Jennifer had been hiding something, the last place she would try to conceal it would be in her desk. See, I’ve had lots of practice studying cheating spouses. And if the jealous husband or jealous wife is going to be snooping, someone’s private desk would be the first place to look for evidence of an affair. No, Jennifer would be more cautious than that.
And the third reason I didn’t start with the desk, it just didn’t feel right. My intuition was tingling, but not in the direction of the desk.
I looked around the room again, letting my mind lead me to where I should begin.
The books. Definitely, the books.
There was something about them that was calling me over. The shelves seemed neatly arranged. No books upside down, pulled out a little too far or pushed in a little much. But still …. I walked closer and scanned the titles. They were arranged alphabetically, by author. No surprise there. Alcott’s Little Women came before Austin’s Pride and Prejudice. Even the Stars Look Lonesome, by Maya Angelou was neatly shelved before Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin and The Handmaid’s Tale. Life of the Bombay Dung Beetle by Elizabeth Bee came before Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.
Whoa, wait a minute — Elizabeth Bee? Life of the Bombay Dung Beetle?
With shaking hands, I pulled the book down and began flipping through the pages. Eureka! Jennifer’s journal, wrapped in a very professional looking dust jacket — complete with graphics and a back-cover write up — which she’d no doubt printed from her computer. I took a moment to marvel at her ingenuity. Hidden virtually in plain sight, it had escaped a forensic search. Obviously, Jennifer had put a lot of work into hiding her journal. Obviously she felt that she had to. So much for sanctuary.
I again glanced at the wedding picture of Jennifer and Ned hanging over the desk.
I didn’t dare turn on a light to get a closer look at Jennifer’s journal entries. I’d pressed my luck about as far as I wanted to with the neighbors. Fortunately, there was sufficient sunlight coming through the slight part in the drapes, spilling across an edge Jennifer’s desk. I crossed to the desk and settled my ass in what proved to be the most comfortable chair I’d ever sat in, ignoring the rude sounds of leather skirt on leather chair that would have sent any twelve-year-old boy into a fit of laughter. I felt now the kid-at-Christmas kind of heart racing as I held Jennifer’s journal in my hands. Her hidden journal. Surely it would hold the key to fingering her killer and to proving my innocence.
I moved the journal into the strip of sunlight on the desk. I was just beginning to relax, to feel the situation was coming under my control, when the desk phone rang, scaring the bejeezus out of me.
“Shut up,” I hissed. Which was more of a frustrated venting rather than a plea that I thought would work. (I’d long ago finished with talking to appliances, but that’s another story.)
Closing my eyes, I gathered my severely frayed cool, reminding myself I was alone in the house. Dylan had made sure of that. No one was going to hustle in here to answer the phone and find me sitting in Jennifer’s chair. But there’s just something about a phone ringing into an empty house when you’re doing something you’d rather not be caught doing. Looking through what you’re not supposed to have. Sitting where you’re not supposed to be sitting. You immediately want to put your hands up in an I-didn’t-do-it gesture.
After three rings, the answering machine clicked on.
It was a female voice, and I knew it had to be Jennifer’s. “Thank you for calling the Weatherby residence. We cannot take your call right now, please leave a message.” I wondered how long Ned would leave that message on the machine. It struck me as strange. Usually a grieving spouse would change a message like that as soon as possible to avoid the repeated heartache of hearing the voice of the deceased loved one over and over again. Or to avoid creeping out callers.
“Er, yeah, is this Pepper’s Pizza? Huh? Is it? ’Cuz I really need to get me a pizza with some spicy pepperoni. Hot pepperoni. Very hot pepperoni! Right this minute!”
Click.
Dylan? Pizza? What the hell? It had sounded like him. But he would have called me on my cell. Right? Right. He was probably just horsing around. Flirting maybe? I had to grin at that. “I got it, Dylan. Hot and spicy. Cute.”
Okay, in retrospect, I probably should have given that call more thought. But as it was, I was little distracted by my find. I have to admit, I felt a little smug as I held the journal in my hand. The journal that Detective Dickhead had missed when he’d searched the room.
Okay, I felt a lot smug. He wasn’t as smart as me … er, I mean as smart as I. Right … I. (Yes, mentally, I corrected my grammar to prove the point.) And he wasn’t as motivated by any means. And mostly, he wasn’t a woman. He wouldn’t know what to look for. I most definitely would.
I glanced at my watch before I opened the journal. It was about a quarter to seven, I had some time yet. Still, I knew better than to dally.
As I flipped through the pages, a few things spilled out into my lap. There was a birthday card for Jennifer from an aunt in Toledo. Jennifer’s aunt had tucked a cheque for five dollars in it, which struck me as both a little sweet and a little sad. There was a receipt for two very expensive men’s watches from Hardy Jewelers on Main Street. For Billy Star? For her husband Ned? Next was a flyer from Pastor Ravenspire’s church, clearly promoting the pastor himself more than anything else. Someone — presumably Jennifer — had drawn a circle around the pastor’s head, and drew a small line and a large question mark out from this.
But what caught my attention under these odds and ends and bits of life was what Jennifer Weatherby had written in the pages of her journal. And how she’d written it.
Every entry was written in peacock blue in flowing, feminine script. Jennifer had her codes — her shorthand — but after glancing at a few pages, I could easily figure these out. She put J when she was writing a note to herself. (J — return dress to Ryder’s. J — watch should be ready at Jewelers) Anything pertaining to Ned was prefaced with an N. N — evening meeting with Pastor Ravenspire. Again. The ‘again’ was underlined twice. Underlined so hard the pen had torn the page. Clearly, Jennifer wasn’t very happy with Ned’s newfound faith. I pondered over other shorthand notations.