The Demise (18 page)

Chapter 19

Matt’s head was spinning by the time he left Donella’s. Julie insisted on staying until she got Donella tucked in bed, which gave him a chance to go back to the motel and organize his notes while they were still fresh. She’d refused to let him use his recording device, but allowed him to jot down some notes. He hoped he’d be able to read them after scribbling so furiously, trying to get down all the details. Like Julie, he’d been stunned at Donella’s open, running commentary; this, from the same tight-lipped woman he’d interviewed a week ago. She had supplied him with more pieces to the growing puzzle. If only he could put them all together and find out what actually happened to Peter Lanham.

When Julie walked him to the car, she’d told him there was more to the story, primarily involving Donella’s long-ago affair with Peter. He wasn’t surprised, given the way she spoke so lovingly about her deceased boss. What he couldn’t understand was her willingness to help Patricia keep the “love child” situation a secret. If she still loved Peter, wouldn’t the news of a child hurt her just as deeply? Why didn’t she refuse to get involved?

Matt sorted his notes. He added Jenny Gresham and her son Pierre to his file on Patricia. Could she have been the second person on the water tower? He couldn’t imagine the pristine Mrs. Lanham climbing up all those rungs in her designer suit and three-inch heels. Even if she owned a pair of Reeboks, the size would be wrong. Then again, maybe she hired someone to do the deed. A professional or some willing acquaintance?

He wasn’t surprised to learn that Peter despised Christopher Smithe. Matt couldn’t imagine that Donovan Street would have allowed the board to hire Smithe, no matter what the financial situation of Lanham’s might be. Most likely, Lanham’s board of directors had hired Smithe after Donovan resigned to care for his wife. But surely Peter had asked his best friend to return to the board and get rid of the vice president. And if not, why not?

His thoughts shifted direction as he recalled the look on Julie’s face when Donella mentioned Pierre’s name. It confused him momentarily until he remembered Julie had read his notes in the break room after the coffee mishap with Smithe.
She obviously recognized the password. Did she wonder like I did if Peter somehow knew about the kid? I sure hope she keeps her promise not to botch the investigation. Who am I kidding? Of course she’ll start snooping around again.

Of course . . .

He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to refocus. He needed to track down Jenny Gresham, the mother of the child, and have a talk with her. By now, she was surely aware of Peter’s death. Would she finally come forward? Go public about her son’s father? Or would she disappear? She had to know Patricia would pull the plug on the monthly payments.
He hoped he could find her before Patricia got to her, but he had a feeling he was already too late.

He stood up and stretched, his mind a jumble of mismatched facts. In addition to everything Donella had told him, he was still anxious to follow up on Underwood’s brief revelation about an alleged new will. According to Underwood, Peter had told him about a sealed packet which the chauffeur was to find at a specific location. He was instructed to retrieve the packet precisely six days after Peter’s death in the event that something happened to him, then personally hand it over to Lanham’s attorney. Underwood wasn’t willing to divulge the location of the packet, nor would he say anything more about it until he gave it to the attorney.

When Underwood first told him about the second will, Matt couldn’t help wondering if it might hold all the answers he’d been searching for. If Lanham had set up an elaborate procedure “in the event of his passing,” did he suspect someone was trying to kill him? Or was he planning his own suicide? Matt tried not to jump to conclusions, acutely aware of the skewed approach it would lend his investigation.

Later, as he drifted off to sleep, he dreamt of shoe prints, cigarettes, and Donella Willet sitting on Peter’s lap sharing a drink from a frosty blender.

After another tense morning in the office, Julie was thankful for an afternoon off. She’d requested the time off more than a month ago so she could be in Nashville for the
Romeo & Juliet
audition. Butterflies danced in her stomach as they always did before auditions. The difference this time was her preoccupation with the ongoing stress at work and her growing fondness for Matt Bryson. Both left her slightly off-balance—never a good thing with an audition looming. Especially one holding this much potential.

By the time she arrived at the theater, her blouse was sticking to her clammy skin, her stomach growled since she’d forgotten to eat lunch, and the incessant negative self-talk was driving her crazy. She stopped just outside the door and uttered a quick prayer. Without it, she would have bolted.

Julie knew almost everyone auditioning for the part of Juliet. She also knew her chances were slim to none, especially in her present state of angst. It was infuriating at this point in her acting career—if you could even call it that—to be so lacking in confidence that she was reduced to near panic.

What is wrong with me?

Her name would be called any minute. She had to get rid of the surging anxiety or blow her chances completely.

Think! Find your motivation. Find your confidence.

Nothing.

Okay, then, think of something—

And suddenly, out of nowhere, the scene from
Moonstruck
popped into her mind. Loretta, played by Cher, smacks her palm against the cheek of Ronny Cammareri, played by Nicholas Cage. “Snap out of it!” she yells in frustration at his untimely adoration.

Snap out of it!

The mental slap brought Julie back to the real world, slowing her breath and helping her refocus. She could do this. Heck, she could do this in her sleep. Enough of the wimpy attitude. Just do this!

She’d barely taken a breath when her name was called. She stood, shoulders back, chin up, and marched up on the stage like the seasoned professional she was.

Twenty minutes later, she climbed back in her car, keyed the ignition, turned the AC on high, then slumped over the steering wheel.

Worst. Audition. Ever.

She let out a long, disparaging sigh as the miserable thing played over and over in her mind.

Marty said her audition was “gritty.” Really? Juliet’s character was never
gritty
. And the tears—good grief, all the tears. It felt like someone turned on a fire hose somewhere inside her. As if Juliet’s lament required the ugly cry? Nose dripping, face pinched, mascara running? Where did
that
come from?

She bounced her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to make sense of what just happened. She knew every word, every pause, every facial expression. She understood Juliet’s full range of emotions and the sorrow that overwhelmed her. So how did Julie turn all that into grit and slobber?

Then, finally resigned to her failure, she sat up and blew out a long raspberry.

“Well, that’s that. And nothing to be done for it.”

Ten minutes later she pulled away from the Starbucks drive-through with a venti nonfat Cinnamon Dolce Crème Frappuccino sitting in her console cup holder. As she waited for traffic to clear, she surprised herself by turning the opposite direction, then taking the entrance ramp to I65 North. It had been a while since she’d driven with no particular destination in mind. But today, she simply needed the open road to clear her mind, to accept the failure of her abysmal audition, and to search her heart about all the distractions that kept derailing her from her dream. With the help of her sweet coffee indulgence, she let her mind wander and untangle from all the bizarre stress of late.

That’s when she realized the train had started coming off the tracks the day Peter Lanham died. The same day she met the shy young TBI agent. The same day she’d visited Donella at home, setting in motion a most peculiar friendship she never saw coming. And where had it all taken her? Farther than ever from her dream of acting on a stage bigger than Braxton’s.

Julie noisily sipped the last of her frappuccino through her straw then placed the empty cup back on the console. Even with nonfat milk, her favorite-though-rare treat rocked her world with a whopping 390 calories. But today, that was okay. Comfort food in a 24-ounce cup.

She looked up just in time to see a road sign:
Bowling Green - next exit 1 mile.

“Oh my gosh.” She put on her blinker and quickly veered into the right-hand lane. “Has to be divine intervention. Has to be! What are the chances?”

In the angst since leaving the office earlier and the disappointment of her audition, Julie had forgotten about last night’s research after leaving Donella’s. She’d arrived home late, then took a quick shower and went to bed with Juliet’s lines tap dancing through her mind as she tried to go to sleep. An hour later, she gave up and reached for her laptop, curious to see what she could find out about Jenny Gresham. A Google search using her name along with “Kentucky” listed several Jenny and Jennifer Greshams, including one in Bowling Green, home of Western Kentucky University, just an hour north of Nashville. Several of her friends had gone to WKU, so she’d often visited and knew her way around the college town. Convinced it was more than a coincidence that she’d randomly taken a drive in this direction, she was eager to find out if the Jenny Gresham she’d located online was the former mistress of Peter Lanham and mother of his child. She knew the odds were against her, but figured she had nothing to lose.

Julie stopped near the campus and used the same search on her cell phone to find the address. Within seconds, she had directions and a map to show her the way. Julie felt a twinge of apprehension when she realized what she was about to do. Matt would kill her if he knew. Still, she didn’t believe in coincidences, which meant her pity-drive had led her here for a reason.

Moments later, she pulled into the driveway of modest brick home in a quaint, older neighborhood. It was a simple house with a huge oak tree shading most of the small front lawn, a white picket fence, and a cobbled brick pathway leading to the front porch steps.

Julie turned off her ignition and breathed a quick prayer before getting out.
Okay, Lord, I have to believe You led me here for a reason. Help me do the right thing. And if it’s the wrong Jenny Gresham, I’m okay with it. Just so You know.

She slowly walked the path then took the steps to a cozy porch decorated with three large ferns hanging above the porch rail. A couple of wicker chairs sporting colorful paisley seat pads graced the front of a large window. A healthy red geranium in a clay pot sat between them on a small wicker table with a trio of Hot Wheels surrounding them.

She started to ring the bell then stopped, wondering if she was about to cross some forbidden line. Shaking off her doubt, she knocked on the door frame and waited. She smiled in case someone was looking through the small peephole, then rolled her eyes.
Who poses for a peephole? I must be losing it.

The door opened slowly. An attractive young woman, not much older than she, offered a weak smile beneath tired, bloodshot eyes. Her hair was a mass of dark auburn curls framing a fair complexion with a light sprinkling of freckles over her perfect nose.

She suddenly remembered her manners. “Oh, I’m sorry. Hi, my name is Ju—”

“You’re Julie.”

Her smile froze in place. “Yes, but—how do you know my name?”

“Aren’t you Julie, the Lanham’s Girl on TV?”

“Oh!” she cackled, recovering. “Yes, that’s me, I’m afraid. Julie-the-Lanham’s-Girl. Right here. At your door.” Julie cringed at her own silly blabber. “Are you Jenny Gresham by any chance?”

The girl’s smile faded imperceptibly as she swallowed before answering. “Yes.”

“I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

Jenny turned to look back into the house before opening the door wider. “My son is napping, but he’ll be up soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t stay long.”

“Can I get you something to drink?” Jenny led her into the kitchen.

“No. Well, maybe. Water. A glass of water. With ice. If that’s not too much trouble.”

Jenny glanced at her over her shoulder as she took two glasses from the cabinet. “You’re not at all what I expected.”