Free Party Crashers by Stephanie Bond Page B

pivoted his head and when he saw Carlotta, turned away from the group all together. “Hel- lo .”
    “Hi,” Carlotta said with a flirty smile. “My name is Carly, and this is my friend, Jolie.”
    He glanced at Jolie and nodded. “Hi there.” But his attention snapped back to Carlotta. “I’m Roger LeMon.” He put the twirl of a French pronunciation on the last name, and he might as well have said, “I’m zee big cheeze.” He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, she noticed.
    “So, Roger LeMon ,” Carlotta said, mimicking the pronunciation and improving upon it, “my friend Jolie thinks you two have a mutual acquaintance.”
    He looked back at Jolie, his thick eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Who would that be?”
    Jolie tried to affect a casual tone. “Gary Hagan?”
    He drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing, then he recovered and shook his head. “Hagan, did you say?”
    “Yes, Gary Hagan.”
    He made a noise in his throat. “No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Why would you think I would know this Hagan fellow?”
    Unprepared for his flat denial, Jolie chose her words carefully. “It was a photo I saw—you look like one of the men in it with Gary.”
    He gave a little laugh. “Well, they say everyone has a twin somewhere. Who is this Hagan guy?”
    “Just a friend,” she said, her breathing shallow.
    He squinted. “What did you say your name was again?”
    Fine hairs rose on the nape of her neck. “Jolie Goodman.”
    He nodded, then drained his wineglass. “Ladies, it was nice meeting you,” he said, edging away. “But this is, after all, a wine tasting, and I need another taste.” He lifted his glass, turned and strode away.
    Carlotta gave her a wry smile. “I guess you were mistaken.” Then she frowned. “It’s weird, but the name Gary Hagan sounds familiar to me .”
    Jolie’s heart rate picked up, but she tried to maintain a steady voice. “You know Gary?”
    A furrow formed on Carlotta’s forehead, then she shook her head. “No, I’m thinking of another guy I used to know, Gary Haggardy.” She shrugged and looked around, already bored.
    Jolie watched Roger LeMon moving through the crowd. His pace seemed more hurried than someone who was chasing a drink refill. Indeed, instead of stopping at the bar, he strode past and veered off down a hallway. Curious.
    “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she murmured to Carlotta.
    “I’ll meet you at the food table,” Carlotta said. “Hannah said they were getting ready to put out lobster cakes.”
    Jolie barely heard her as she walked away. Keeping an eye out for Roger LeMon, she traced his steps through the crowd and down the side hallway. A twin bank of pay phones sat at the end of the hall, just before the entrance to the restrooms. Roger LeMon stood with his back to her, a black phone receiver pressed to his ear. From the angry, chopping gestures he made with his other hand, she gathered he wasn’t talking to his mother.
    Thankful for the carpet, she walked quietly toward him. As she drew closer, she could hear his agitated, lowered voice.
    “—recognized me from a photograph…Hell, I don’t know…She said she was a friend…Goodman, Jolie Goodman…”
    At the sound of her own name, Jolie’s feet faltered and her knees threatened to give way. She spun around to make a silent retreat, but as she rounded the corner, the wineglass slipped out of her hand. She clawed the air, but the glass tumbled and bounced on the carpet, spilling wine in a red arc. Jolie stared at the glass, knowing if she retrieved it, she’d be in LeMon’s line of vision—and if he’d heard the noise, he would most likely be looking. Instead she turned and racewalked back through the crowd until she reached the food table.
    Carlotta, in her look-at-me ensemble, was hard to miss. She grinned. “Jolie, try the quiche—”
    “I have to go.”
    Carlotta frowned. “Is something wrong?”
    “I’m…not feeling well,” Jolie said. Which was true.