The Perfect Lie Read online

  “Jealousy. Read any tabloid over the last several years, chances are Alex and Porter’s rocky relationship was mentioned from time to time.”

  Porter Wells.

  The other name on Barbara’s list.

  “Porter Wells is Alexandra’s husband?”

  She nodded. “Weston was Alex’s maiden name. Wells was her married name.”

  “Doyle obviously knew Alexandra was married though.”

  “When Doyle saw Alex, he’d say things like, ‘Next time I see you, maybe you’ll be single, and I’ll finally get the chance to ask you out.’ She’d laugh it off just like it was nothing more than a compliment, but I could see it in his eyes—part of him meant it. Part of him believed he’d have a chance with her someday.”

  “Did you tell her about your feelings?” I asked.

  “I warned her to stop being so nice.”

  “And did she?”

  “The last time they saw each other, several months ago, she was friendly like always, but Doyle was different.”

  “Why? What changed?”

  “There was a nasty rumor going around alleging Alex was involved with another author.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Yes and no. The two of them have been friends for years.”

  “When you say involved, do you mean—”

  “Romantically, yes.”

  “Who is the other author?” I asked.

  She blinked, didn’t respond.

  “Barbara, I need to know. Besides, if a rumor was going around, it’s not going to make a difference if you tell me now, is it?”

  “It’s just ... this particular individual, he has a wife. A lot of effort has gone into shooting down the rumors and making them go away. If you were to question him now—”

  “If Alexandra was murdered in a jealous rage, the other man in her life could also be in danger. What happens if this other author shows up dead next, and you were the one person who could have stopped it?”

  Barbara crossed one leg over the other, leaned forward, whispered, “All right, fine. It’s Roland Sinclair. You didn’t hear it from me. Understand?”

  Roland Sinclair. One of the greatest thriller authors of our day. Married to actress Debbie Donnelly, America’s sweetheart. No wonder the rumors had been squashed.

  “You listed Porter Wells as a suspect in his wife’s murder. Why? Was he jealous too?”

  “Jealous? Heavens, no. In recent years, their relationship had become more of a convenient arrangement between two people than real love. And when I say convenient, I mean convenient for him, not for her. He sees other women on the side. Has for years.”

  “If jealousy isn’t a motive, why do you consider him a suspect?”

  “The divorce rumors were true. They’d been heading that way for years. For reasons unknown to me, she always hesitated to pull the plug though. Then a couple weeks ago, she told me she’d decided to do it. She even visited with her lawyer and started the paperwork, which was bad news for Porter.”

  “Why?”

  “Alex had an ironclad prenup.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Alexandra Weston’s historic Greek-revival-style home was located in the heart of New Orleans’s garden district. The porch, which spanned the width of the two-story house, was accented by three symmetrically spaced white columns. The front lawn was small, but meticulously kept. I parked on the street, walked to the tall, iron gate out front, and attempted to push it forward. The gate didn’t budge. I looked around, noticed a small metal box to my left with a red call button. I pressed it.

  A long, sniffling sound emanated through the speaker. “Hello?”

  It sounded like a female, but through all the wheezing, I couldn’t be sure. “Hello. Is Mr. Wells home?”

  “We’re not accepting visitors.”

  “I was just hoping to—”

  “Please. We just want to be left alone.”

  “Chelsea?” I asked.

  “Yeah? Who are you?”

  “My name is Joss Jax, and I—”

  The gate parted, fanning out on both sides. The front door opened, and a young woman dressed in a simple black T-shirt, jacket, and black jeans came toward me. Her loose, long, caramel-colored hair was disheveled and looked like it hadn’t been on the receiving end of a brush for a couple days.

  I met her at the first porch step, noticed her eyes were puffy, swollen. She looked at me, then at Finch sitting in the passenger seat of the car, and said, “Who’s he?”

  “He works for me,” I said.

  “Huh. That’s cool. I was going to drive over and meet you, but you’d already left.”

  “Are you doing okay?”

  Her eyes darted to her bare feet. “I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t hold any food down. My insides are all twisted and knotted up. I’m supposed to be getting married in five weeks. How can I do that now? How can I do anything without her here?”

  “I’m sure your mom would have still wanted you to get married.”

  Her body wavered like she was too weak to stand up straight.

  I wrapped a hand around her frail arm to steady her. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  She nodded. We sat on the porch.

  A tear trailed down her pale cheek. “I’m supposed to be tasting wedding cakes today. Right now, actually. Isn’t it crazy? One day I’m planning my wedding, the next my mother’s funeral. Can you imagine?”

  I could, actually.

  Not the loss of a mother, but loss itself.

  “You should concentrate on taking care of yourself right now. Your father can help with all the arrangements, can’t he?”

  “He’s at the funeral home now. Why do you need to talk to him?”

  “It’s not a big deal. I can come back later.”

  She stared at me. “Or you could just tell me. The cops were here earlier. They questioned him for a while. Did he ... I mean, are you here because you think he—”

  “You’re going through a lot. I’d rather not bother you with it.”

  “Why not? I hate him right now.”

  Under any other circumstances, I would have chalked it up to angst over her mother’s death, but her teeth were clenched, jaw tight, eyes narrow.

  “Why?”

  “I hate him because he hated her.”

  “Your mother?”

  She nodded. “He’s not ...”

  She let the words hang there, tucked her knees below her chin, wrapped her arms around them.

  “He’s not what?” I asked.

  “Not the amazing person he wants everyone to believe he is. My mother was unhappy. She wanted a divorce.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “She said he didn’t love her anymore. He was seeing other women.”

  “And was he?”

  “I don’t know. That’s just what she said.”

  “When did she tell you this?”

  “A few weeks ago, right before she left for her book tour.”

  If Alexandra’s life with Porter was so bad, why had she stayed for so long? For the money? The lifestyle she provided?

  “If your mother knew about your father’s other women, why didn’t she divorce him sooner?”

  “I dunno. I think she stayed for me. He was a crap husband, but he was a good dad.”

  “Did your mother say when she planned to divorce your father?”

  She nodded. “As soon as my wedding was over.”

  I wondered if Chelsea had heard the rumors about her mother and Roland Sinclair. “Have you tried talking to your father about what your mother told you, just to hear his side of things?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t even look at him right now. It’s too hard.”

  “I understand.” I switched gears. “Did your mother say anything to you about a new book she was writing?”

  “We don’t really talk about her work stuff.”

  “I was told she was working on something new. She was just about to meet with her agent to discus
s it.”

  “She wanted to retire, sell this place, move somewhere else and live a simple life. She was tired of writing.”

  I jotted my contact info down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “I’ll be in town for a few more days, maybe even more. I’ve written down the information for my hotel as well as my phone number if you need to call me for anything.”

  She slid the paper inside her pocket. “You’re trying to find out what really happened to my mom, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Why? Are you going to write a book about her?”

  I shook my head. “I want to know what happened, just like everyone else. I’ve written a lot of books, interviewed my fair share of killers. You could say I have a knack for getting to the truth.”

  She leaned back. “Are you looking for my dad? If you think my dad would ever hurt my mom, he wouldn’t. He’s an asshole. Not a murderer.”

  Maybe she was right.

  Maybe he wasn’t a killer.

  But it was possible he had the means to hire someone who was.

  CHAPTER 16

  I’d opened the car door and was about to duck inside when a flashy red number whipped into the driveway in front of Alexandra Weston’s house. The coupe jerked to a stop. A giant of a man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped out. He was six foot five and every bit of solid. Dressed in a black leather jacket with the collar up, jeans, and square-toe, polished black shoes, it was obvious he liked to make a lasting impression.

  He turned in my direction, lifted a pair of black shades off his face, and flashed me a sly grin that made me sick to my stomach, like he imagined me without any clothes on. Even with his chiseled Anderson Cooper looks, he radiated an uncomfortable vibe, and I found myself clearing my throat multiple times. Finch, on the other hand, was stepping out of the car and in front of me, like a hockey goalie protecting the net from a puck.

  I stepped around Finch, attempted to walk over to Porter. He grasped me by the wrist.

  I flashed him a look that said, What are you doing?

  He leaned in close. “I don’t like this guy.”

  “You don’t even know him,” I whispered.

  “Neither do you.”

  “He’s fine. I can handle this.”

  “I never said you couldn’t.”

  He didn’t have to say it. It was obvious.

  Before I could say anything more, the man said, “Hello?”

  I turned toward him. “Porter Wells?”

  He held out a hand. I shook it. He did a quarter turn and offered the same hand to Finch. Finch nodded, didn’t take it.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Nancy Drew of the Forensics Channel,” Porter joked. “I imagine you’re here to see Alex. Haven’t you heard what happened?”

  “I have. I was at the bookstore the night she died.”

  A second car turned into the driveway behind Porter’s. Chelsea walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.

  Porter looked at Chelsea. “Sweetie, can I talk to you for a minute before you leave?”

  She ignored him, slid inside the car, and slammed the door.

  Porter smiled like nothing had happened and said, “Excuse me a moment.”

  He walked to the driver’s side of the car, knocked on the window. The window came partway down. Porter whispered something too quiet for me to hear. A male about the same age as Chelsea with short, black hair and olive skin smiled and said, “Sorry, Mr. Wells. Chelsea doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

  “Bradley, put the window up,” Chelsea growled. “Let’s go.”

  Porter grimaced. “Bradley, please tell my daughter to work on her manners and show some respect.”

  “Respect?” Chelsea spat. “You need to give it to receive it.”

  “Chelsea, if you would give me a few minutes. I need to talk to you about—”

  “Stop it! Just don’t. I want you out of mom’s house by the end of the week.”

  “The house isn’t just your mother’s,” Porter said.

  “Correction,” Chelsea fired back. “Mom’s attorney just sent me a text. He wants to talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “He said the house isn’t in your name. It’s in hers, and she left it to me.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  Chelsea leaned across Bradley’s chest and put his window up. The car backed out of the driveway.

  “Please, Chelsea,” Porter pleaded. “Can’t we talk about this?”

  Chelsea pressed her middle finger to the glass, and the car sped up the road. Porter bowed his head, massaging his temples with his hand. “What a brat.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “You saw what just happened,” Porter said. “Can you blame me?”

  “She just lost her mother.”

  “So, what, she gets a free pass to treat me like dirt? She’s not the only one who’s hurting.”

  He didn’t appear to be hurting to me.

  “Don’t you think there’s a reason she’s acting this way?” I said.

  “She’s upset. Probably thinks if she hurts me, it will make her feel better.” He raised a brow. “If you know Alex is dead, why are you here?”

  “To ask you about your wife’s life insurance policy.”

  Hands on hips, he tapped a foot on the ground like an unruly child. “Her life insurance? What right do you have showing up here and asking me personal questions that aren’t your business?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “From whom?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “You’ve had multiple affairs over the years. Your marriage was nothing more than a piece of paper you no longer honored. As soon as Chelsea married, Alexandra was filing for divorce. You signed a prenup when you married her. With the marriage over, you’d be broke, left with nothing. No money to pay for the lifestyle you’d become accustomed to living. Should I keep going?”

  I expected him to blow up. Yell. Curse. He didn’t. He shook his head. Disgusted. “You think I offed Alex to collect on her life insurance policy? Really?”

  He snorted a laugh.

  “I don’t see why it’s so funny to you.”

  “Oh, it’s funny,” he said. “Alexa isn’t my wife anymore. She hasn’t been for the last three months.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Porter’s revelation about the dissolution of his marriage was a bombshell I hadn’t expected. “If you’re not still married to Alexandra, why were the two of you keeping everyone in the dark?”

  “I have my reasons,” Porter replied. “So did she.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “For a long time our marriage had been a winding, nonstop, roller coaster ride, and I wanted off.”

  “From what I understand, the feeling was mutual,” I said.

  “I see how you look at me, like I’m nothing more than a money-hungry animal who cheats on his wife.”

  “Oh, so I have it all wrong then? You’re a saint? Are you denying you were unfaithful in the marriage, trying to say you didn’t sleep with other women? She’s dead now. You can stop lying.”

  He shook his head. “Women like you are so full of prejudgments. You don’t see anything except what you want to see, and you never will.”

  Finch cut in. “That’s enough.”

  Porter laughed. “You think I’m the one keeping secrets? I confessed to mine. Alex took hers to the grave. And I have to say, she played the victim card for all it was worth. Even my daughter hates me.”

  “When Chelsea left just now, you tried to tell her something.”

  He nodded. “I wanted to be the one to break the news that her mother and I were no longer married. Now she gets to hear it from the attorney. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose. Maybe he should be the one to tell her. She wouldn’t believe it if it came from my lips.”

  It made
no sense. A divorce no one knew about?

  “Why would you agree to do what Alexandra wanted just because she asked? If you weren’t getting anything out of the divorce, what was your motivation to keep quiet?”

  He smiled, and my assumptions got the better of me again. There was only one possible motivation for guys like Porter. Money.

  “She offered you cash to keep quiet, didn’t she?”

  He winked. “You’re a bright girl.”

  “There’s still something missing from this story though, something you’re not saying.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And now she’s dead. What possible motivation would you have to continue to keep her secrets?”

  “Look, Miss Jax. I’m not sure why you’re here, or why you care about what happened to Alex, but you need to understand something. Despite how innocent she seemed, Alex made her share of enemies over the years.”

  “Enemies like who? Was someone threatening her?”

  “Can’t say for sure. My guess? She finally went too far, stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have.”

  He knew more than he was letting on. I could almost taste it. Our conversation was a series of half-truths I’d have to sift through if I wanted to find the answers.

  “Anything I say from now on will be to the police,” he said, “and in the presence of my attorney. Goodbye, Miss Jax.”

  He turned and walked away toward the house. I felt defeated and frustrated, like I’d stumbled upon something big, but I didn’t know what yet.

  Porter reached the front door and looked back. “Allow me to leave you one last piece of advice before you go. You owe nothing to Alex. She made no apologies to the people she hurt and betrayed over the years. Leave her murder up to the police to investigate, or you could wind up dead too.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Elias Pratt

  September 13, 1985

  During the time he’d been incarcerated, Elias didn’t have many visitors. So when a young, thirty-something-year-old woman strolled through the door, ample hips swaying side to side, taut breasts on high alert like they were trying to bust out of her slim, fitted shirt, he was sure someone was messing with him, playing a sick joke to make his life even more torturous than it already was. The woman he’d imagined in his mind was a lot older, plain, and dull.