Lie Down With Dogs: The Loi Cramer Journals, #2

Lie Down With Dogs

Gail McFarland

Copyright 2012 by Gail McFarland

Smashwords Edition

Other Titles by Gail McFarland:

CreateSpace Books

Doing BIG Things

Genesis Press/Indigo:

Dream Runner

Dream Keeper

Wayward Dreams

Lady Leo Press:

If Ever

Can A Sistah Get Some Love? (Anthology)

BET/Arabesque:

Summer Wind

The Best For Last

When Love Calls

Bouquet (Mother’s Day Anthology)

LULU Books:

All For Love

Lady Killer

Smashwords Ebooks:

Doing BIG Things

A Matter of Marriage

What One Won’t Do

All For Love

Lady Killer

Once (or Twice) In A Lifetime

The Twentieth Century Fox

This Side of Forever

Heart of Justice

If Ever

Eye of The Beholder

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information, address: P.O. Box 56782, Atlanta, Georgia 30343.

Author websites:

www.http://fitwryter.tripod.com

www.http://fitwryter.com/books

Lie Down With Dogs

Gail McFarland

* * *

"A sister is both your mirror – and your opposite."

~Elizabeth Fishel

"A man is as good as he has to be,

and a woman is as bad as she dares."

~Elbert Hubbard

* * *

Acknowledgements

There are those who believe that family is not who you are born to, but those you are born to find. I have been blessed to find those who love me, cherish me, pray for me, and call me back to my destiny. I thank God for each of them and their special place and circumstance in my life. I especially thank God for readers like Sandi, Yamina, Tandra, Priscilla, Susan, Ruth, Nancy, Veronica, and Melvin. Thanks for keeping me sane.

Angel and Jacee, I love you both more than words can say.

* * *

Lie Down With Dogs

* * *

Chapter One

The hardest thing about starting a new journal is always that blank first page. I suppose that part of the difficulty is that it is simply daunting to know that whatever you write on that page is going to set the tone for all that will be written after, and you already know, just because you’ve opened that first page, that you’re going to write about it.

A woman can get a lot of writing done on vacation, which is why I brought my journal with me. After all I’ve been through, I need to do a little decompressing, and I don't do mine the way Ava does hers. And even as I write these words, just happening to look up, I can’t help but see her. There she goes, strutting her stuff across the pool deck with some mother's hot little twenty-something son sniffing along behind her. Poor little fella, he thinks that he’s the one stalking game, but she’s got years of experience on her side.

This place, the Sandpiper Inn, is parked on a gorgeous beach in Barbados. Intimate and exclusive, it’s a perfect hunting ground for her. My friend Ava is what people like to call a Cougar, nowadays, but frankly, if I was a cougar, I would be offended by the comparison. Cougars hunt for food and survival. Ava hunts because she can. Just as aggression and passion are two different things, her predatory nature is aggressive in ways that have nothing to do with survival, and everything to do with hedonistic vanity. Ava likes sex and Ava likes men. Oh, she likes her husband, too, but he doesn't always have what it takes to scratch where she itches.

See, the thing is, people assume that women like Ava, lusty and lively in their sixties, are just looking to rub up on some young flesh and relive their glory days. The thing is, like me, Ava's had plenty of glory during her days and she's not really looking for any more. What she's wanting, and I know because she told me so, is that she just wants to flex her muscles and give as good as she gets.

And rest assured, if you let Ava tell it, she gets plenty. Which is why I believe that she knows exactly what she's talking about when she says things like, lie down with dogs and you’ll get up with fleas.

Now, Ava and I have our differences, and I’m not like Ava in a whole lot of ways, but I should have listened to her when she used those very words about my sister, but I didn't, and that set me up for another one of her old sayings, Hard head, soft behind... It was the whole situation with my sister that left me shaking my head and glad to take Ava up on this Girl's Getaway.

My sister and I had our differences, too. I really should have listened when Ava warned me that if you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas...

Old saying and everybody’s heard it, right? Well, it might be an aphorism, one of those well-worn clichés better known as an Old Wives tale, but take it from me, some of those Old Wives really did know what they were talking about. And if I’d known before I got to this point, what I know now, I probably would have paid a lot more attention.

But if IF was a fifth, we’d all be drunk…

As it was, I might have been ready for a drink, but I wasn’t drunk. Six weeks ago, when all of this started, I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, beside a detective’s desk in the middle of the Atlanta Police Department’s Zone Four office, trying not to touch anything I didn’t have to. Just thinking about it now, I can’t help but give those Old Wives credit for knowing what they were talking about.

And to think, I wouldn’t have been there if not for Hetty’s mother’s grandmother’s cake recipe.

I crossed my legs and noticed Detective Grant’s eyes follow my movement when I smoothed a hand over my knee, and I had to correct myself. I wasn’t here solely because of the recipe or the cake, and it wasn’t entirely Hetty’s fault, either. I definitely played my role in this mess, after all, I was the one who invited Serena Fields to my home on Cascade, and I was the one who planned to murder her.

Yes, I had a plan to put Serena out of my misery, and nobody should be surprised that I use the word murder – it’s so much more civilized than kill. But face it; the blackmailing bitch had to go. That was all I knew and all I intended, and for right now I was grateful that the broad-faced detective with the sweet smile was too preoccupied with my legs to ask me about those intentions.

Suddenly realizing that I was acutely aware of where his eyes lingered, Detective Grant cleared his throat and shifted his errant gaze. His thick brown fingers shuffled the computer printouts on his desk and pushing one to the top of the pile, he focused diligently. I only have a few more questions, he finally said.

Fine. My reply was smooth and my voice was even.

Wh-what? Hetty’s voice wavered, mostly because she couldn’t stop sniffing and swiping at the tears rolling down her face. There was nothing I was willing to say out loud at that moment, but damn, Hetty. What was done was done and it was time to move on with the business of the living.

Clearly uncomfortable with Hetty’s weepy grief, Detective Grant turned to me. He was one of those men who didn’t like the combination of women and tears – I could see it etched in the lines of his tired face. Your home, he said, carefully offering me his sweet smile and obviously hoping that I wouldn’t join Hetty in her tear-fest. Your home was the last place Ms. Fields was seen alive.

Yes, I nodded, pulling myself tall in the hard wooden chair. She left just as my friend Ava Duncan arrived with her Pilates instructor. I smiled in that dainty, near-condescending manner that everyone expects from a woman of a certain age, especially when she has my kind of money. She’s trying to convert me.

Pilates, huh? The sweet smile tilted and grew toothy as it widened. Detective Grant was having dirty thoughts about me and Pilates. Then he caught himself and cleared his throat again. And when Ms. Fields left, she took the cake with her?

Yes. Beside me, Hetty’s sob rose to a chest-heaving wail and I was saved from saying anything more.

I didn’t know, Hetty wept. I’ve been baking that cake most of my life and nobody ever died from it. How could I know she was gon’ die?

You couldn’t, dear. I covered Hetty’s hand with mine and nodded sympathetically when she wailed again. She never spoke of her allergy.

Severe as it was, she never spoke of it, and she didn’t even wear a medic-alert identifier. The detective’s brow furrowed in Hetty’s direction, then smoothed when he angled his face and body back to me. According to the coroner’s report, that supports everything we know. He tapped the printouts together and slid them into a folder that he dropped to the center of his desk. Ms. Whitlow?

Squeezing her lips together, Hetty lifted her face and sniffed hard. Sir?

Ms. Whitlow, that means that you’re in the clear. You did not commit murder.

But, but… she died, and I…

Death by misadventure is not the same as intentional murder, you understand?

Okay… Hetty sniffed hard and blotted her eyes.

The detective looked quickly to me. Ms. Cramer, it looks like there is no reason to question either of you any further.

Good Lord, I breathed, only half-believing my good fortune. How lucky could one woman get? Not that I was heartless, but when the woman who helped me recover hundreds of millions of dollars, then threatened me with blackmail, turned out to have a sweet tooth and an allergy to nuts… Well, I wasn’t above thanking the Universe for the Hail Mary shot that saved my ass. After all, what’s a little anaphylactic shock between conspirators?

But I did have a question. Ms. Fields, uh, she had no family that I know of, I said softly. I’m wondering about, uhm… The delicacy of the question made it difficult to pose.

The disposal of the body? Question. Just a little mini-flash of expression began in Detective Grant’s brown eyes before crossing his face.

She was an associate… I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I selected the appropriate word.

Uh-huh, well, it made sense that any right-thinking person probably would have thought I was going to say friend, and apparently the detective thought I would use the term, too. When I didn’t, he leaned toward me, just a little, and his eyes searched my face. To quiet his suspicions, I made my face calm, forced a smile.

Serena Fields was an acquaintance of mine, I told him.

And you always invite your associates to your home for cake…

Really, detective? Something in my heart told me that I had to address the little question lingering behind his eyes, or maybe it was simply that life had taught me not to leave little things undone, so I backpedaled and said, Actually, Serena was more than an acquaintance. Had I known her longer I might have even called her a friend, and no one should be abandoned in death, especially not someone who might have been a friend.

Instinct backed down; I saw it in his eyes, and I knew that he was buying my story.

In reality, though, every word I said was true. What else would I call a woman who helped me plant a will worth all of my deceased husband’s assets? And even though I had more than my fair share of faulty fair-weather friends, I really was tempted to call Serena a friend, right up until she slithered through my life with blackmail dripping from her tongue.

Oh, the second she tried to play me, I wanted to kill her, I really did. But who knew that she would fall victim to Greed, one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and worse for her, that her greed would beat me to it?

Serena came to my house, driven by greed and her determination to walk away with as much of my money as she possibly could. But fate had more in store for her. Cake. She wanted that cake the second she stepped through my door and inhaled the aroma wafting through the house. Allergic to nuts, hungry for caramel cake, and too stupid to ask the ingredients – a bad combination, especially because the cake was made with pure almond extract and had almond butter in the frosting.

Yes, poor Hetty’s family recipe did Serena in – saving me the trouble of killing her, and the truth is, I’m glad Serena took that big hunk of cake home with her. I mean, think about it: It wasn’t my recipe and I didn’t bake the cake. In the end, I may have sliced the murder weapon, but I never fed it to her.

Looking over at my cook, the still volubly weeping Hetty, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She would never have known how lethal her cake was, if not for her morning habit of reading the obituary section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution while sitting at my kitchen table.

Without trying very hard, I could still picture Hetty sitting there, reading. When she turned the newspaper page and saw Serena’s name and picture, she looked up at me and pointed to the page. This is you friend, isn’t it? The one who was here the other day, and she asked for a slice of cake. Right?

I finished pouring my own cup of coffee and took a step or two closer to Hetty, close enough to look over her shoulder, and there she was, Serena Fields, smiling up at us from the page. The photo was a pretty one, but now she was dead. So what was I supposed to say? Without thinking that this picture was listed as part of an obituary, I said, Yes, that’s her.

Oh, my sweet Lord, Hetty sympathized, shaking her head. You just ever know when your time is coming, do you?

No, I supposed. How did she die?

It says here that she was found dead in her home, Hetty read, tracing the line of print with the tip of her finger. It says she died of an allergic reaction. She was allergic to… nuts… Oh, Lord, the cake had nuts in it – almonds! I killed her!

Hetty had screamed like she was being chased by a demon. She jumped up, overturning her chair and her coffee cup, and ran straight to the phone to confess her home-baked sin. Which was how she wound up sitting next to me on a chair as hard as mine, wearing her tight blue suit. She was so overwhelmed by her grief that everything about her, from her round brown face and full bosom, to her thick ankles and wide feet, looked swollen with remorse.

Poor Hetty, I was going to have to do something nice for her, but as bad as I felt for her, I felt pretty good for me. And sitting between her and the detective, I only had one nagging thought...

What did Serena mean?

Knowing that I would have throttled my blackmailing one-time friend with my bare hands before I gave her a dime, I had shoved the container of cake at Serena and ordered her out of my home – good hostess, be damned. She tried to stand her ground, but we both knew that would never work, not up in my house.

You think you’re smart, don’t you? You think you have the upper hand, but I’ve got news for you, she’d hissed.

Her eyes narrowed, changing her face and making me think of another woman, the one she so greatly resembled. Even angry and wearing jeans with a casual shirt, she was still the almost identical twin to my deceased husband’s not so long dead mistress, but I tried not to notice. You’ve got to go, I told her. You’re not welcome here.

This isn’t over. Shoving the cake into her shoulder bag, she’d pointed a shaking finger at me like she was casting some kind of curse. Your past isn’t pretty and it’s not dead, either – I made sure of that. I am going to make you regret crossing me, if it’s the last thing I do.

She slammed out of my house, and that was the last time I saw her alive, but her final words still echoed in my head and I couldn’t help wondering...

What did she mean?

Two days later, our little trip to the police station was all but forgotten, even though I was still haunted by Hetty’s puffy still red eyes and the echo of Serena’s vague threat. But I had a major event to plan, so I kept it moving. Or at least I might have been able to keep it moving if my phones stopped their incessant ringing. There were endless calls from event planners, museum officials, lighting stagers, my assistant, my personal shopper, and my publicist.

Yes, honey, my publicist.

If I had been anyone else born under the lucky star that changed me from plain old Eloise Jenkins from the dark side of Chicago, to the glittering and fabulous Loi Cramer of Atlanta, I might have been able to take the idea of my publicist in stride. But as it was, every time I thought of my life path and how important my publicist was to my progress, damn, I just had to smile.

But at this time, on this day, I was not smiling. My publicist, Andrea Preston was riding on my last good nerve – and she was wearing it thin.

Loi, she whined into the phone, "this exhibit opening is going to be a red carpet event, so the photo op will be an imperative. I mean, the world is going to see the full Lucere collection for the first time. I’ve already arranged for the press release and a January opening means …"

I could hear the end of her pen tapping against her desk on the other end of the line. I heard the emphasis she placed on the word world, and I knew it was a big deal. Without much effort, I could imagine her thin lips trying to frame the words she would need to get me to do what she wanted, and it was suddenly too much for me. Then a beep came across the line. Another call. It was endless.

Do whatever needs to be done, Andrea. Thanks. I hung up on her and relished the second or two of peace, then the phone rang again and I grabbed it.

"Hello?’ Darn my reflexes!

Eloise? Is this you?

Eloise? Nobody had called me Eloise for more than forty years, not since the day I walked into Alex Cramer’s life. Alex, the man I would later marry, said I looked nothing like an Eloise and then in a voice that sounded like midnight sex and music told me that he would call me Loi – and I had been Loi, ever since. Or at least I was Loi to everybody except whoever this was on the other end of my phone.

Excuse me?

"This is you, right? The woman’s persistent voice had an odd ring of familiarity to it, but I didn’t know who she reminded me of. I’m calling Eloise Jenkins ... uhm, Cramer. The woman heaved a put-upon sigh. This you, or not, Wesie?"

Oh, Hell, no! Who would call me ‘Wesie?’ Nobody