Party Crashers

inelegance of her bath accoutrements, but at least he would have found everything clean—it was only dusting that she abhorred.
    She scanned the couch where he'd slept and wondered if the big, lumpy sofa had afforded him any rest at all. Her extra feather pillow was still indented from his head. She returned it to her bedroom, thinking Gary had been the last person to share her bed or her pillow, although he had spent the entire night on only one or two occasions.
    Tears filled her eyes when the breathtaking sadness of him not being alive hit her anew. Maybe Gary Hagan wouldn't have saved the world, and maybe he'd been in his share of trouble, but he didn't deserve to be shot in the chest and abandoned under a pile of outerwear.
    The cordless phone rang, jangling her nerves. She couldn't think of anyone she wanted to talk to at the moment—unless it was Detective Salyers saying the murder had been solved and she was off the hook. But without caller ID, she had to take her chances and hit the button to receive the call. "Hello?"
    "Jolie?" a man asked.
    "Yes."
    "This is Michael Lane. I just opened my paper—I called to see if you were okay."
    "I'm fine," she said breezily, wondering if she should ask what the paper said. "A little shaken up, but fine."
    "Yes, well, under the circumstances, I was thinking it might be better for you to take some time off from Neiman's."
    She gripped the phone. "Michael, please—I need this job."
    He sighed. "After the incident at the Manolo event yesterday—"
    "Give me another chance," she pleaded. "Michael, to be blunt, I need the money." Else, how would she pay off the nightclothes?
    He sighed again. "Okay, but only because I'm a wonderful person."
    "Yes, you are," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow." She disconnected the call before he could change his mind, but the phone rang again almost instantly. She punched the TALK button. "Hello?"
    "Jolie? This is Trini Janklo, upstairs."
    Jolie rolled her eyes upward. "Hello, Mrs. Janklo. How are you?"
    "Shocked, frankly. I opened the Atlanta Journal-Constitution this morning to find your name connected with the murder of a young man. Is that the same man I heard you arguing with?"
    Her heart fluttered and she closed her eyes briefly. "We weren't arguing, Mrs. Janklo This is all a big misunderstanding. You can't believe everything you hear...or read."
    "It says you were so distraught that you tried to drown yourself."
    Her eyes widened—no wonder Michael had been concerned. "That's simply not true—"
    "I want you to know that I've already contacted management about having you evicted."
    Her jaw dropped. "What? Why?"
    "How am I supposed to sleep at night knowing there's a murderer living right underneath me?"
    She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mrs. Janklo, I'm not a murderer."
    But the woman had already hung up, leaving an angry dial tone in her wake.
    Jolie stabbed the DISCONNECT button and exhaled, dragging her hand down her face. She went to the door and unlocked it in search of her own Sunday paper. She opened the door and retrieved the paper, but when she straightened, a reporter was sprinting down the sidewalk toward her, his cameraman running behind him "Ms. Goodman! Will you answer a few questions? Is there a love triangle between you, Gary Hagan, and Beckham Underwood?"
    She was stupefied. "No!"
    "Didn't Mr. Underwood spend the night here?"
    She spun and scrambled back inside the door, slamming it hard. The door to the bathroom opened and Beck came out dressed in his jeans, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. He was frowning. "What was that?"
    "A TV reporter," she said, distracted and comforted by his appearance...and self-conscious about her own.
    He picked up his cell phone from a side table and began punching in a number. "What station are they from?"
    "I didn't notice."
    "Man or woman?"
    "Man."
    "What did he say?"
    She wet her lips. "I don't think you want to know, but they're aware that you spent the night."
    He put down the phone before he finished dialing, then jammed his feet into his sneakers and strode toward the door. "I'll take care of this."
    She wanted to watch, but decided she'd better take a peek at the paper. There she was, bottom half of page two:

    PARTY CRASHERS TERRORIZE BUCKHEAD HOME—BODY DISCOVERED.

    Her heart dropped. Peppered with appropriate amounts of "allegeds" and "unnamed sources," the article mentioned her name ("questioned for the murder of the boyfriend for whom she filed a missing persons