Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa - Jersey Girl 01 - New Math Is Murder by Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa
Authors: Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa
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spoke to the doorman. They looked like models from the Neiman Marcus insert in the Sunday paper.
“Mr. Rhodes says to go on up,” the doorman told me after phoning him. “Use the center elevator, Miss. It’s faster.”
Apartment 8C was a corner unit at the very end of a carpeted hallway. I rang the buzzer and nearly collapsed when Rhodes, shirtless, opened the door.
“Um … ah, um …” I sputtered.
“That’s what I like about you, Colleen. You’re never at a loss for words.”
“You shouldn’t have dressed up on my account,” I said, stepping inside.
“You shouldn’t have either.”
I looked down at my clothes and regretted not stopping at home to change. “I was working a deep fryer all night. What’s your excuse?”
“I was on the treadmill. I can throw on a shirt if you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not fazed by bare-chested men,” I told him.
My father had gone shirtless every summer. Growing up, Dick had roamed the house in nothing but his drawers. Even Neil, who could be caught in his boxers going to and from the bathroom, the kitchen, and wherever else he tended to wander in the morning, had never made me blush. Their chests were just chests. Ken’s upper torso was like a work of art. I kept hoping he would chuck the towel draped around his neck so I could get a better view, but it wasn’t to be. The towel stayed put. I went to the living room and sat down on the edge of the long leather sofa.
Rhodes eased himself into a matching recliner. “Let’s get down to business. What did Jennifer Whitley have to say?”
“Jason Whitley had been carrying on with other women for years,” I began. “Jennifer knew about the affairs from the start. Whitley’s last, or next to last, was Betty Vernon, the guidance counselor up at the high school.There was someone after the guidance counselor, but Jennifer isn’t sure who it was. I think Jennifer stopped loving her husband a long time ago, but she didn’t sound like she hated him.”
“Did Whitley have any life insurance?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think to ask. There’s no way I could have introduced a question like that into polite conversation anyway. She did seem impressed that Lucinda Maynard is my lawyer.”
“I’m impressed, too. I heard all about the Maynard woman when I first came to Tranquil Harbor. Nice move, Colleen.”
“A friend referred me,” I told him.
“Do you think you can pull another kitchen duty with Jennifer Whitley? Maybe find out if she ever consulted with a lawyer?”
“There isn’t much time to chat when we’re working.”
“Then we’ll leave Jennifer Whitley up in the air for now and move on. Maybe you should arrange an interview with that algebra teacher—the one running the basketball camp.”
“Sure,” I said. “I can ask questions like ‘what age groups can sign up for the camp,’ and ‘by the way, did you happen to kill Jason Whitley?’ ”
“You might want to be a little more subtle.”
Ken Rhodes appeared to think something over, and conversation ceased. I pulled my eyes from his pectoral region long enough to take in the décor. Beyond the terrace door was heavy, black wrought iron patio furniture. The living room furniture consisted of leather and wood pieces—all non-cluttered male stuff. The focal point of the room was a monstrous wall-mounted TV that looked almost as big as the screen at the Cineplex.
“There’s no way to build a story around the high school guidance office, so I guess talking to the Vernon woman is out,” he finally said.
“No, it’s not. My daughter’s marks are slipping. As it happens, Betty Vernon is Sara’s guidance counselor.”
“That’ll work.”
“I’m not sure what I should be asking her. Let’s face it, I always wrote the kind of light stories that people used to line the bottom of cat litter boxes.”
“Think of this as on-the-job training.”
“It’s beginning to feel more like baptism by fire,” I
“Mr. Rhodes says to go on up,” the doorman told me after phoning him. “Use the center elevator, Miss. It’s faster.”
Apartment 8C was a corner unit at the very end of a carpeted hallway. I rang the buzzer and nearly collapsed when Rhodes, shirtless, opened the door.
“Um … ah, um …” I sputtered.
“That’s what I like about you, Colleen. You’re never at a loss for words.”
“You shouldn’t have dressed up on my account,” I said, stepping inside.
“You shouldn’t have either.”
I looked down at my clothes and regretted not stopping at home to change. “I was working a deep fryer all night. What’s your excuse?”
“I was on the treadmill. I can throw on a shirt if you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not fazed by bare-chested men,” I told him.
My father had gone shirtless every summer. Growing up, Dick had roamed the house in nothing but his drawers. Even Neil, who could be caught in his boxers going to and from the bathroom, the kitchen, and wherever else he tended to wander in the morning, had never made me blush. Their chests were just chests. Ken’s upper torso was like a work of art. I kept hoping he would chuck the towel draped around his neck so I could get a better view, but it wasn’t to be. The towel stayed put. I went to the living room and sat down on the edge of the long leather sofa.
Rhodes eased himself into a matching recliner. “Let’s get down to business. What did Jennifer Whitley have to say?”
“Jason Whitley had been carrying on with other women for years,” I began. “Jennifer knew about the affairs from the start. Whitley’s last, or next to last, was Betty Vernon, the guidance counselor up at the high school.There was someone after the guidance counselor, but Jennifer isn’t sure who it was. I think Jennifer stopped loving her husband a long time ago, but she didn’t sound like she hated him.”
“Did Whitley have any life insurance?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think to ask. There’s no way I could have introduced a question like that into polite conversation anyway. She did seem impressed that Lucinda Maynard is my lawyer.”
“I’m impressed, too. I heard all about the Maynard woman when I first came to Tranquil Harbor. Nice move, Colleen.”
“A friend referred me,” I told him.
“Do you think you can pull another kitchen duty with Jennifer Whitley? Maybe find out if she ever consulted with a lawyer?”
“There isn’t much time to chat when we’re working.”
“Then we’ll leave Jennifer Whitley up in the air for now and move on. Maybe you should arrange an interview with that algebra teacher—the one running the basketball camp.”
“Sure,” I said. “I can ask questions like ‘what age groups can sign up for the camp,’ and ‘by the way, did you happen to kill Jason Whitley?’ ”
“You might want to be a little more subtle.”
Ken Rhodes appeared to think something over, and conversation ceased. I pulled my eyes from his pectoral region long enough to take in the décor. Beyond the terrace door was heavy, black wrought iron patio furniture. The living room furniture consisted of leather and wood pieces—all non-cluttered male stuff. The focal point of the room was a monstrous wall-mounted TV that looked almost as big as the screen at the Cineplex.
“There’s no way to build a story around the high school guidance office, so I guess talking to the Vernon woman is out,” he finally said.
“No, it’s not. My daughter’s marks are slipping. As it happens, Betty Vernon is Sara’s guidance counselor.”
“That’ll work.”
“I’m not sure what I should be asking her. Let’s face it, I always wrote the kind of light stories that people used to line the bottom of cat litter boxes.”
“Think of this as on-the-job training.”
“It’s beginning to feel more like baptism by fire,” I
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