Saturday Night at Jillian's: A Women Sleuths Mystery Romance

Chapter One

Jillian Grant’s party happened a month ago, more or less. Some of it was a blur and needed to be filled in later by her friends. But the way she remembered it, she was standing on the back patio of her new house among her party guests. They were chatting about the peaceful tropical-like setting she had created for her pool and patio area. Backyard pools were common in South Florida, and her house and pool were modest. Yet, she had added colorful exotic plantings, well-placed shrubbery and impressive underwater lighting, which glistened and wavered in the moonlight. The guests agreed Jillian had achieved a desirable tranquil, tropical effect.

That’s when they heard the woman scream.

A different sound coming from inside the house, distinctly above the roar of party talk and the beat of the music. Definitely a surprise—like an unexpected clap of thunder in the middle of the night. The loud music and party chatter of the guests inside the house stopped at once as though a switch had been thrown.

The guests outside on the patio froze and stared first at Jillian, who was thinking, Oh, God, what now? Her party, her house and her guests. Therefore, she was responsible for whatever happens? She answered their stares with a shrug. Then they all turned toward the suddenly silent house waiting for whatever revelation might be coming next. Gradually, the low murmur of voices inside intensified into excited talking and yelling.

Jillian had already started running to the house. The outside guests followed, rushing into the house through the kitchen patio door to see what the excitement was about.

Once inside, Jillian noticed the guests who had been partying inside were now crowded into the hallway at the bathroom door. The guests let her elbow through until she stood behind a few people crammed in the doorway. She stretched to see over them into the bathroom.

Double sinks were along one side of the narrow bathroom, bathtub and shower were along the other side. Looking across, Jillian saw people crammed into the other doorway leading in from the patio to the bathroom. Sprawled in the center of the bathroom floor was a woman’s body.

Probably just passed out.

No, someone said blood.

Hey, I saw the blood! someone hollered, that’s why I screamed!

Variations of the phrases quickly echoed through the house.

Let Cynthia through, Jillian yelled in the hallway. She’s a nurse.

Cynthia shouldered her way through the hall doorway and stopped short upon seeing the body. Someone call 911. Her hands covered her face for a second before she mumbled, Shit. She knew what death looked like. But she’d let someone else make the announcement. She yelled, Everyone who’s not a doctor, get the fuck out of here.

She knelt down and, with trained fingers, pressed behind the woman’s ear. However, she knew that verification of pulse was unnecessary. The dead woman’s eyes were wide open, seeing nothing. Blood had now spread in a dark red circle under her head, soaking her light brown hair.

Bleeding from a head wound, Cynthia muttered, as though speaking to herself. Could have slipped and hit the side of the tub.

Someone behind Cynthia shouted out the dead woman’s name in alarm, and the name raced through Jillian’s house like wildfire through a dry forest.

Chapter Two

About five weeks earlier, on a peaceful Saturday afternoon, Jillian Grant was sitting poolside at her patio umbrella-table. Deeply engrossed in putting together her idea of having a No-Reason-at-All Party. Why do you need a reason such as a birthday, holiday or something to get together with friends and neighbors? Why not just celebrate, getting together? Sounded pretty good, and that’s how she would sell the idea to her guests.

In fact, Jillian actually wanted to celebrate acquiring her new home. A party would be a quiet way to present her newly acquired house to her friends and neighbors. If she were truthful and called it a House-Warming Party, everyone would show up with gifts to furnish her new home—none of which she actually wanted. The dream of having her own home had come true, and the furnishing of it was coming along nicely the way she wanted. Thank you very much.

Whatever the reason, party-planning was necessary, and the planning checklist seemed endless. Why all that preparation just to get some friends together and sip some wine or whatever? And she was still hung up on the guest list.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from her friend, Renee Chapman. Or, to be more precise, Renee’s breathless news of meeting some new man.

Jilly, he is drop-dead gorgeous!

They both worked at the Southeast Florida State Bank and were close friends. Without hesitation, Renee would say best friends—Jillian wouldn’t go quite that far. Although she liked Renee very much and would do almost anything for her, she had reservations. Renee was younger, had a touch of immaturity and was often unpredictable.

Good for you, Renee. How did you meet this gorgeous guy. Friendship with Renee sometimes seemed too much work to maintain. They would slip in and out of touch, yet when Renee needed someone to talk to, she would call Jillian, who was happy to be there for her.

Last night, I checked out that new waterfront bar across town—Dockside Lounge? Laid-back, cool music, not too crowded, ocean right at your toes. Seemed perfect from the moment we met.

I haven’t hit that place yet. Jillian knew that Renee, with her great looks, certainly had no trouble meeting men, although not always careful about her choices. At least losers seldom approached Renee. They knew she was out of their league—as unattainable as the women on magazine covers. So, tell me about the guy.

Renee went on, This morning, I woke up to the sound of the shower running in my bathroom. I guess the guy had no hesitation about disturbing my sleep.

What? You let the guy sleep-over? I thought you never did that—you said you don’t want to face anyone first thing in the morning. Jillian was becoming uneasy. She didn’t want to hear any of the details. As long as Renee ended up safe and happy, she could guess at all the rest. You must tell me all about it later.

Jilly, you make it sound like this happens all the time. Okay, you’re right. I seldom do that. But in the middle of the night, I told him he didn’t need to go home.

Well, at least it all worked out, and you’re okay. She was happy for Renee. So, you going to see him again?

Oh, he’s still here. Hey, gotta go… I’ll let you know what happens. Bye, Jilly.

While Renee was lying in bed that morning, listening to the shower, she wondered what would happen when this guy, Roger, came out of her bathroom. After a few hours of sleep and a shower, a man should be recharged. If it all hadn’t been good for her, that was the moment she would have quickly dressed and left the bedroom to eliminate the possibility of more sex—hopefully, the guy could find his pants by himself. In the case of Roger, No such feelings. No morning-after misgivings with this guy. All had gone smoothly. She’d love to continue a Saturday morning with him. If it wasn’t meant to be, there was always the chance he’d call for a second hookup.

She had strategically arranged the bedsheet exposing some leg to remind him of what was there for the taking. She heard the shower stop. Worst case, Roger would head straight for his scattered clothes to escape all the dreaded morning-after awkwardness. Trying to intercept him would only make it worse. In that case, she would just keep her eyes closed and wait to hear the sound of her apartment door closing before throwing a pillow against the wall—fat chance he would ever call.

She was surprised when Roger came out of the bathroom without even a glance her way. She watched through half-opened eyes as he strode out of the bedroom, barefoot in only his white jockey shorts, as though he owned the place. She tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, peeked and saw him go into the kitchen. Getting back in bed with her would have been better. Still, anything this guy wanted on this side of the apartment door was fine with her. Just so he didn’t leave.

Renee made a hurried bathroom stop, including a brief call to Jilly, because she just had to tell someone. Then some attention to her deranged hair, which appeared as though she’d been dragged through a bush. She checked herself in the mirror and shrugged—it would have to do. No way was she going to look as great as she did last night. She slipped her short, sheer robe over her bare body, tied it loosely and headed after him.

She held her head high, put her shoulders straight and brushed by him on the way to the kitchen counter. I don’t do breakfast, Roger, hoping to come off cool and casual as though she didn’t care if he stayed or not. She wondered if he even remembered her name.

I’ll settle for coffee. He was opening and closing cabinet doors, apparently trying to determine how this particular woman made coffee.

She liked the view of him from the back in the light of day. Straight legs, squared shoulders, lean lightly muscled type. She’d have guessed he worked in an office except for his nicely tanned body. Only tourists and the leisurely wealthy have time to get tans such as that. Ordinary Floridians must make a living.

Want a robe?

He turned and gave her an exaggerated pleading look with his palms outstretched.

Oh, the coffee, of course. She stepped over beside him at the kitchen counter. She could smell the lingering hint of body wash from his shower. She reached up and took down a French Press and a bag of coffee from a shelf. I’ll boil some water… only take a minute. She dumped a guess of coffee grounds into the press. Not one of my robes, of course, my boyfriend left it behind.

He waved away the robe offer, moved over to the kitchen island. Didn’t intend to put you to any bother. Mornings-after can be a bitch. He touched the slight shadow of a beard on his chin. Usually, I just take off.

She tried to lock on to his intensely blue eyes, but apparently getting coffee was of more interest to him. But, she was pleased to have him talking. You usually take off? You mean you’re not the type who thanks the woman six times for the sex and then, instead of simply leaving, wants to cuddle?

Not even close.

At least she got a little grin out of him. Apparently, he was in the game enough to know the agony of waking up with a partner who looks nothing like the dream who charmed you the previous night. She took down two mugs. Hey, Roger, did we come over here from the bar in my car or did you follow me? She would never have gotten into some stranger’s car.

I followed you over in my car, he chuckled. So waking up naked next to an unknown man doesn’t worry you as much as wondering where you left your car.

Merely trying to remember where I parked, buster. For your information, strangers don’t just happen to show up next to me in bed. Haven’t really been many, and I chose each one of them—not that it’s any of your business. She couldn’t recall ever getting wasted and waking up in bed with a stranger and wondering what the hell had happened—at least not since college. Those two times back as a freshman didn’t count. Once, she had walked up to the wrong guy in the hall the next day and asked if she was any good last night. The other time was so scary she vowed to never again drown herself in alcohol—who said you don’t learn much in college?

And I prefer they leave and not stay the night, Roger. She had learned that sleepovers carry a much higher level of intimacy, which she usually didn’t want to share.

You let me stay over.

And what does that tell you?

That I should run for my life?

She laughed, Too late, I burned all your clothes. So far, so good. They were laughing together. She poured boiling water into the press, then glanced back at him, sitting on a leather bar stool at the kitchen island. You raised one of your perfect eyebrows a minute ago when I said my boyfriend leaves his robe here. She wanted that dumb statement back. Guys don’t want to hear about romance, boyfriends and attachments, you idiot. Be more careful. But too late.

What is this, high school? I don’t care about your boyfriends. Doesn’t bother me unless one of them comes crashing through your door with a gun while I’m sitting here in my shorts getting an eyeful of his girlfriend in a see-through robe. He seemed to cool off immediately. Something you said last night when we first met—I thought you were between boyfriends. I guessed that’s why you were on the prowl there in the bar.

On the prowl sounds rather negative—doesn’t mean I was desperate. She wanted to sound sexually prosperous. She poured out two cups. I learned my lesson, never argue with your boyfriend on Saturday morning if you want to get laid on Saturday night.

He thought for a moment before speaking. Did you really go to a bar to get laid because your boyfriend happened to be unavailable for one night? You might want to think about getting a grip on your sex drive.

It was a joke, dummy. Oh, so now you’re a judgmental smart-ass. It wasn’t that way at all. If you must know, I hadn’t heard from him for a couple of weeks. Then he calls me late yesterday, and in so many words says get ready—he’s coming up. I told him to go… screw himself, and hung up. I guess I went out on my own last night just to assert my independence. She didn’t mind Roger judging her. He didn’t really know her. And she wasn’t going to let some one-night-stand guy bother her.

Ordinarily, she wouldn’t be too charged up about more sex with the guy. Still, he was already there in her apartment like low-hanging-fruit. Sitting in his shorts—bare-chested with his long, toned legs stretched out under the edge of the island counter. She wasn’t sure all this was working for her. The guy’s too cool. If she could push his button, she’d keep him out of those shorts for the rest of the day. So, I guess we’re even. I assumed you were angry at your girlfriend. Anyway, it worked out—we ended up together.

What do you mean?

That redheaded beauty you argued with last night at the Dockside Lounge, Renee remembered she had just picked up her wine at the bar and was headed for a table. At the bar, she would appear too easy and attract every loser in the place. And she didn’t want a booth—can’t be seen in a booth. Hadn’t been in the bar ten minutes and was still standing when she saw Roger and the redhead near the rear hallway. Looked like a serious argument to me.

His eyebrows came together for a moment, and then he seemed to remember. Oh, that woman—easy to explain. I wasn’t with her—I wanted to be. To tell the truth, I was trying to pick her up, but she wasn’t having any of me. She was upset because her man had stood her up.

Cute story, but Renee wasn’t buying it—she knew what a couple in the midst of breaking up looked like. Roger was maybe four or five years older than Renee, and the classy redhead was more his age, as she recalled. And the woman was overdressed for a bar. I thought at first you were leaving with her. You went out the backdoor together.

No, she had parked in the back. It was dark, and she asked me to walk her to her car. That’s all.

She noticed he glanced up at the kitchen clock. That was bad. He didn’t care for the questioning. Okay, with her, she didn’t want him thinking about other women. She’d change the subject. She remembered he came back in, scanned the bar, spotted her standing there alone with her wine. She remembered he immediately came over as though anxious to talk with someone. She chuckled to herself. If indeed he had just broken up with the redhead, he wasn’t wasting any time looking for a back-up. She wasn’t interested in a womanizer who had scored dozens of women—been there, done that. Yet, despite him being so perfectly cool, somehow, she doubted he was that type. Might be fun to keep him around for a while and find out. Well, I was happy to see you reappear alone.

And I was pleased to see you standing there coming on to me. He blew on his coffee. You were dressed to kill with that red top and your sexy bare legs.

You’ve got the red silk top correct, but I was wearing white slacks. I don’t do sexy in bars. Attracts the wrong type of guy. Standing around as though I’m ready to do it in the back seat of a car.

He put on an overdone smirk, So, you don’t want to do it in a car?

She gave him a lopsided grin and put on a street accent, Wha’ kinda car ya got, dude? She added a hair flip, and they both laughed.

But truthfully, Renee, weren’t you wearing a sexy short skirt?

He did remember her name—how about that! If you saw my bare legs, then you’re pretty damn good at seeing through women’s clothing—which you no doubt have down to a science. I’m surprised you remembered the red top.

He folded his arms across his chest and appeared annoyed and possibly didn’t care to talk about himself. Been a long time between relationships. That’s why I might have appeared somewhat keyed up. Can we forget about the bar?

You mean you were horny—I like that in a man. And just what is a long time for a guy with your looks—forty-eight hours?

You’re making me blush.

You’ve never blushed in your life. You don’t even blink, and I’ve been flashing you for the last ten minutes.

You’re half-naked to start with, which sort of takes the edge off flashing. Proper flashing requires subtlety.

You didn’t want subtlety in bed last night.

For the first time, she noticed his eyes playing around on her body, checking her out in the light of day. I’m glad we hooked up, Renee. Your boyfriend is a lucky guy.

How nice was that! The first compliment out of his mouth since they met. Maybe there’s hope for some kind of ongoing relationship with this guy. Not necessarily a romance, but something more than never seeing the guy again. A relationship where he takes her places and to affairs. Perhaps they would occasionally meet for drinks. Or might phone one another now and then to get it on. She wouldn’t have to be his one-and-only. But they would be available to each other when the perfect partner was needed for something special. Such as escorting her to that party Jillian had been planning. Wouldn’t she love to have such a guy? Relationships like that had never happened for Renee.

She came back to reality and went on, Howard’s not really a boyfriend, merely a convenient hunk. Let this guy realize she has something going for her, whether he sticks around or not. The man is in fantastic shape—that part is good—owns a fitness center, you know one of those gyms. Got ripples in all the right places. She shrugged slightly to put a fun-loving touch on it. In truth, she couldn’t stand Howard out of bed—just too coarse. I simply want him in the bedroom so I can look at him. Like one of my high school pin-ups come to life.

You know, you should put a lid on some of your honesty, Renee. Try for a little more guile. All women should maintain a dash of mystery. It makes them more interesting. You’re too blunt.

She gave him a wide-eyed glare. That’s a bit harsh. Don’t judge me. You don’t know my situation.

Oh, but I do! Not counting the last eight hours bodily entangled on your bed, I’ve talked to you for only fifteen minutes. And you’ve already told me more than I ever wanted to know, considering this was merely a one-night stand. He stopped as though thinking he might have gone too far.

Wow. That’s being honest. She noticed he had drained his coffee. Would he take a refill or leave? He had already told her he seldom stuck around on the morning-after, yet here he was.

This hunk of yours—what’s the name of his fitness place?

More small talk—good wasn’t too eager to leave. Full Fitness Center, over on Old Dixie Highway.

No kidding, that’s where I go. Roger shifted on the counter stool and sneaked a glance at the clock. I guess I met the guy—what’s his name?

Howard Hurrell. So you’ve been there. She noticed his bored look. Hey, can I get you more coffee? She made a move toward the coffee, hoping he wouldn’t stop her.

He covered his empty cup with his hand and scooted his stool back.

She was losing him. She needed some hook. I hear one of the girls working there is somewhat special, she said quickly. Have you met her? Calls herself a personal trainer. Don’t know if she’s actually accredited, but the men don’t complain. She raised her eyes slightly to see if he reacted.

Because she’s good at what she does or because she’s pretty?

Rumor has it she gives ten-minute massages in a back-room. That should get his attention.

He studied her and gave his head a small shake. I never know when you’re kidding or simply making conversation.

No, I’m serious. How about that—in one of the back-rooms of a gym? How kinky is that?

I’ve never noticed any such thing going on. Of course, I’m not there that often. He shook his head slowly. Nice guy you’ve hooked up with.

I’m not certain Howard knows what’s going on. Maybe the woman has a little money maker going for herself on the side. She could be taking advantage of him.

Get with it, Renee. She isn't walking around the gym, soliciting happy-ending massages. It couldn’t happen without his support—maybe even his instigation.

Maybe he just tolerates it or looks the other way. Why assume she’s so innocent?

What does he have to say about all this?

No way I’m saying anything to him. You don’t know Howard.

Roger straightened in his chair. Which trainer do you mean? We’re not talking about the blonde, are we? What’s her name—Yvonne?

Renee’s turn to raise her eyebrows. Oh, so you’re familiar with her?

Nothing like that, although I’ve seen her there, spoken to her. She caught my attention when I first saw her as she’s a dead ringer for my blonde cousin, Shirley—same age, same ponytail. He hesitated, thinking. I’ll admit I’m surprised. There are women, of course, who’ll do almost anything for money. Nevertheless, it’d take a lot of moxie to do that sort of quick back-room stuff. Yvonne didn’t seem that hard—more like the classic girl-next-door type. I really can’t see her doing it… easier ways to make money.

So, since your sweet cousin wouldn’t do such a thing, that means her lookalike Yvonne must be innocent. Get off it, Roger, she snickered. Your eyes are giving you away. How well do you know her?

He knew she was having fun with him. We haven’t spoken much. I’m not so obsessed with physical fitness that I’d hire a personal trainer, although I could use more exercise. She gave me some instructions once when I was misusing some weights. I believe she did mention her ambition is to qualify as a certified something or other. I liked her. However, we didn’t connect at all.

And now she’s suddenly much more interesting to you. She gave him a little grin. If you’re thinking of paying her a visit, I can save you the trip.

I’m not that needy, and I don’t trust you enough to believe what you say is true anyway.

Talking about Yvonne was becoming tiresome. She didn’t need any of it. Sure, Roger was something special. Still, she didn’t intend to beg for it. Renee