Justice for All. Joanna Wayne

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      Taking a minute, Callie rummaged through the day’s mail, which she’d picked up on her way in. A few advertising circulars, a couple of catalogs, and an engraved invitation to a wedding reception. Which reminded her of another engagement. The Cravens’ annual garden party was Saturday afternoon. She’d have to remember to call her regrets tomorrow.

      Though the party would be nice—social affairs in Marjorie Craven’s beautiful English garden always were—Callie wanted to drive up to the center on Saturday and have a talk with Gail. Keeping the mother of twins healthy took precedence over tea and scones.

      Callie’s thoughts drifted back to Max as she chose an assortment of wine and arranged the food on serving plates. The last time he’d been to this house had been a rainy night eight years ago, just three weeks after she and Tony had moved in. Looking back, she’d never been sure why Max had stopped by that night. He’d never done it before or since.

      The room grew warm as the memories rushed in. Okay, if she kept this up, she was likely to hurl herself into Max’s arms again and he’d run off for another eight years.

      It was only six-forty. If she hurried, she’d have time for a quick swim before he arrived. That should cool her off.

      She slipped into a black bathing suit and was about to dive into the pool when her cell phone rang. The caller ID said Mary Hancock. The swim could wait a few more minutes.

      “Hi, Mary.”

      “I was visiting a friend in San Diego today, and I just heard about Bernie,” Mary said, her voice hoarse and broken. “The newscaster said he’d been murdered.”

      “I’m sorry, Mary. I had no idea you didn’t know or I would have called you earlier.”

      “They’re saying the Avenger killed him.”

      “That’s speculation.”

      “Not according to the news. The Avenger made a mistake. Bernie wasn’t involved in drugs. That was just a story concocted by his enemies. He explained it all to me.”

      “I know it’s hard to believe something bad about friends, especially…”

      “We were more than friends.”

      Callie’s spirits sank. “How much more?”

      “He’d asked me to marry him. I was thinking about saying yes.”

      Marriage. That did come as a surprise, and not only because of the age difference. “How long have you known him?”

      “Only about three months, but he was so thoughtful. And we had fun together.”

      “You certainly seemed to.”

      “Bernie’s collapse at my party may not have been an accident, Callie. Whoever shot him yesterday may have tried to kill him at my party.”

      “I suppose that’s possible.” No reason to lie about that.

      “I may have invited this Avenger person into my home.”

      “You didn’t do it knowingly.”

      “No, but it makes me sick to think he could be one of us. I plan to find out for sure.”

      “I don’t think you should try to handle this yourself, Mary. Just cooperate with the police.”

      “I’ll cooperate, all right. I don’t want Bernie’s killer going free.”

      By the time she got off the phone with Mary, Callie really needed a swim. She dove in and tried to drive the images of murder from her mind with vigorous breast strokes. Instead, the troublesome thoughts merged and mingled with the old memories. Murder, mayhem and Max—a sure recipe for disaster.

      The doorbell rang as she pulled herself from the pool. Her guest had arrived.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      MAX RANG CALLIE’S DOORBELL at exactly seven-ten. At seven-eleven, his heart was in his throat. Callie had said come as you are, but he hadn’t expected her to be quite this informal.

      Water dripped from her hair onto her shoulders, and the black bathing suit hugged her tiny waist and accentuated her perky breasts. Max inhaled sharply and averted his gaze. “Am I early?”

      “No. I took a quick swim, but it will only take me a few minutes to slip into something else,” she explained, drying the ends of her hair with a fluffy red beach towel. She led him into the kitchen, where a large golden retriever was lapping water from a green doggy bowl.

      “This is Pickering,” she said, stooping to give the dog a few reassuring pats. “He rules the house.”

      “Nice pad you got here, Pickering,” Max said, putting out his hand for the retriever to sniff.

      “I put out a few choices for wine,” Callie said. “Why don’t you pick out one and open it while I change?”

      “I can handle that.”

      Once it was only him and Pickering in the kitchen, Max breathed a little easier. It was crazy to let Callie get to him like this, but she always had, and there was no reason to think tonight would be any different. He was tough. He’d handle it, as long as what she changed into covered more than the skimpy bathing suit had.

      Concentrating on the wine, Max considered his choices. He was a beer man himself, but he selected a California Merlot, uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into the crystal decanter Callie had left on the counter. That done, he walked through the open back door and onto the deck with Pickering at his heels. The view was magnificent, an expanse of beach bordered by frothy waves lapping onto the sand.

      The house was in an exclusive part of Courage Bay, expensive as all waterfront property was, but not as isolated or protected as Bernie Brusco’s home in Jacaranda Heights. There was no steep, rocky hillside leading up from the water’s edge, no natural barriers to keep someone on the beach from walking right up to the black privacy fence that separated Callie’s pool and house from the rest of the beach.

      Thinking like a cop, he reminded himself. The truth was, this area was privately patrolled and had one of the lowest crime rates in the county.

      He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. One look at Callie and thoughts of crime and safety flew out of his mind. He was back to square one, turned on to the point that all he could do was stare.

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