Love Can Be Murder (boxed set of humorous mysteries)

by Stephanie Bond

  "I'm kidding. But there is one thing I wanted to show you, the sitting room off to the right. I like the fireplace."

  Apparently, he'd gotten the behind-the-scenes tour. She wondered perversely if he were the least bit interested in Sammy—beyond said fireplace. Especially now that Jolie had given him a bit of a brush-off.

  Which, in hindsight, was starting to feel like a foolish decision.

  Jolie followed him, but practically tiptoed across the snowy carpet.

  Beck opened the door leading into the room that appeared to be another office—this one more functional by the looks of the complicated phone system. Most real-estate agents had home offices, and Sammy was no different—hers was just nicer than most. A massive, gleaming white desk and two white wood file cabinets to match, a white leather executive chair on rollers, 27-inch flat-screen monitor, with an impressive CPU tower on the floor. And the fireplace was indeed incredible—floor-to-ceiling gray stone facing with white masonry grout. Beck set down his glass and the bottle to inspect the hearth. No surprise, he also admired the on-wall plasma television and speaker system.

  A five-by-seven picture frame on the desk caught Jolie's eye, and she circled behind it, curious as to whom Sammy would think enough of to display on her workstation. Her parents? Mrs. Sanders had died when Sammy was young, which was why Sammy was so close to her father. When Jolie saw the photo, though, she laughed to herself—only Sammy would have a picture of herself on her desk. The only surprise was that it wasn't a Miss America shot—instead Sammy was outdoors, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, and sturdy boots, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was sitting on a rock.

  A familiar-looking rock.

  Jolie picked up the frame and jammed her face closer. She studied the photo and tried to conjure up in her mind the photo of Gary sitting on a rock, mugging for the camera. Was it the same place, the same day? Was it possible that Sammy had been the woman who'd taken the photo of him? Her mouth went dry—did Sammy and Gary have a romantic history, or was this photo a mere coincidence? She’d met Gary when he’d come in to ask for directions… but maybe it wasn’t his first time visiting. Did he and Sammy have history? She recalled introducing them at the agency and hadn't noticed anything more than a polite exchange. Ditto on the tube-float down the river. In fact, she'd gotten the feeling that Sammy thought he was unsavory because she'd commented once that someone who drove a nice car with no apparent signs of employment was either a trust-fund kid or a criminal.

  Jolie scoured the photo, looking for any details that might help prove or disprove her wild theory, but in truth, the photo could have been taken anywhere, on any rock. She couldn't check the back for photo finishing details unless she took the whole thing apart...and that would take some privacy. She glanced at Beck, who was still mesmerized by a beautifully sculpted chrome remote control. Feeling like a bona fide crook, she slid the photo into her standard "biggish" party-crashing purse.

  "We probably should go," she said abruptly.

  He turned and nodded. "You're right—Sammy might think we're snooping."

  A shamefaced flush climbed her cheeks as she left the office and strode across the bedroom. Amidst all the white, the edge of Sammy's green Kate Spade bag was especially noticeable sticking out from under the bed's dust ruffle. She detoured from her straight path to push the purse beneath the bed, thinking that would help assuage her guilt. She nudged the green bag with her shoe, but it wouldn't budge. She lifted the bed skirt, saw the bag was caught against a leg of the bed frame and reached down to push it out of sight. Just in case there were unscrupulous people about.

  Party crashers, for instance.

  "Something wrong?" Beck asked from the door.

  "Nothing," she murmured, standing. Then she spied the bathroom. "Um, actually, I need to powder my nose. Do you think it would be okay to—"

  "I'll be your lookout," he cut in, his tone as grave as a spy's.

  The "keep out" ribbon had been affixed with tape. She unfastened one end, then entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The expansive whiteness was blinding—tiled floor, floating sink, slick cabinets, shiny garden tub, long, white sheers at the windows. Leann had once told her that white was a prestigious color with the implication that one had to have money to maintain anything white. So true.

  Jolie pulled the picture frame from her bag and studied the photo again. Hopefully she would find some innocuous description on the back like "Me and Dad at Yosemite," then she'd feel foolish and return it to Sammy's desk.

  She turned over the frame to find the back held together with small screws. Cursing under her breath, she rummaged in her purse to find anything that would suffice as a tool. The screw heads were too small to be turned with a coin, and a paperclip wouldn't work. She needed a metal nail file or tweezers or something similar. She pulled out cabinet drawers, aware of the time ticking away. Lots of beauty products, combs, curlers, hair appliances, but nothing she could use as a screwdriver.

  Jolie glanced toward the wide mirrored cabinet over the floating sink, remembering Beck's suggestion that they snoop in Sammy's medicine cabinet. She sighed and gingerly pulled open the mirrored door.

  A second later, a shelf in the cabinet collapsed, sending its contents toppling and setting off a horrific, crashing chain reaction as bottles and jars and other personal toiletries landed in the sink. She cringed and counted to ten.

  A quiet knock sounded. "Everything okay in there?" Beck asked, his voice muffled.

  "Fine," she returned shakily. "Just a little...accident. I'll be right out."

  She slipped the shelf back into place with shaking hands, then scooped up the items and situated them back onto the shelves wherever they would fit. Men's toiletries were mixed in with the feminine items (a diaphragm, ew) and Jolie told herself that more men than Gary used Zirh brand premium shave gel. And old-fashioned razor blades. She fingered the packet and realized suddenly that a blade was thin enough and strong enough to loosen the screws on the picture frame.

  Carefully, she removed a blade from the package and was successful in loosening one screw before the blade slipped and slashed the fatty pad of her left palm. She dropped the blade, instinctively pressed her hand to her chest, and puffed out her cheeks, knowing before she looked that the cut was deep...and bloody.

  When she pulled it away, not only did the bleeding resume exuberantly, but the pain lit up her entire arm. She sucked air through her teeth, and looked for something to wrap around her hand. A stack of white fingertip towels sat on a cabinet. She grabbed one and held it against her hand until the bleeding slowed. Upon closer observation, the cut was only an inch long, but it throbbed unmercifully. Remembering the package of adhesive bandages she'd seen in a drawer, she appropriated three to cover the wound. Luckily, the damage was to her left hand, so she was able to restore order to the medicine cabinet, although Sammy would have to be in a stupor not to realize that things had been rearranged.

  She returned the picture frame to her purse, deciding it would go home with her. If it turned out to be unrelated to Gary's photo, she would return the picture to Sammy anonymously.

  Now, what to do with the mess she'd made? A bloody towel, Band-Aid debris. The paper went into the step waste-can. She used the towel to wipe down the white counter and the white sink, then wrapped it inside another small towel and stuffed the whole kit-and-caboodle into her purse. Only then did she get a look at herself in the mirror and saw the big, bloody stain on the silk cream-colored gown where her robe gapped open. She shrieked, which elicited another knock on the door.

  "Do I need to call someone for you?"

  "No!" she called, then gulped a calming breath. She was no textile expert, but she had a feeling that the only way to get blood out of silk was to cut it out. She closed her eyes, chastising herself. Her amateur sleuthing had led to ruining an eight-hundred-dollar nightshirt. She whimpered, thinking how many shoes she'd have to sell. Served her right for stealing clothes, crashing this part
y.

  She pulled herself up, thinking at least she had her commission from Beck Underwood's home to look forward to. If she hadn't completely blown it with him, of course. He didn't seem like the type of man who would take his business elsewhere because she wouldn't sleep with him, but then again, he didn't seem like the type of man who would do business with a nobody. So if this night was to be salvaged, she needed to leave feeling good about getting his business.

  She pulled her robe together and tightened the belt, relieved to see the bloodstain was covered as long as she didn't flash anyone. She stuffed her aching hand into her pocket, retrieved her champagne glass, took a deep breath, and emerged with as big a smile as she could muster.

  Beck straightened, his expression opening in relief. "If you ever want to make a man go crazy, go into the bathroom and start making a lot of loud, dangerous-sounding noises."

  "Sorry," she murmured. "I was looking for an aspirin, and her medicine cabinet exploded."

  That made him smile, and thankfully, he didn't notice her hand, or the fact that she kept glancing at her own chest every few seconds.

  "I guess we'd better go," she said, "before Sammy sends out a search party."

  He shuddered dramatically and she laughed as they walked into the hall

  "Thanks for the tour. Do you have an idea of where you'd like to live?"

  "Maybe midtown," he said. "Or downtown." Then he grinned. "Or maybe on a farm in Dalton."

  Her heart flooded with intense like. "That really narrows it down."

  He looked around and lifted his arms as they reached the landing that overlooked the enormous entryway on the first floor. Guests' voices carried up, bursts of laughter and clinking glasses. "Do you like this house?" he asked.

  She took in the grandeur around her. "It's a beautiful house."

  "Yes, but would you live here?"

  Her cheeks warmed. "That's something I'll probably never have to worry about."

  "Humor me. If you had the money, is this the kind of house you would choose to live in?"

  "I...probably not. I have to admit that large houses seem daunting to me. All that space demanding to be used." She blushed, thinking she'd probably offended him since the Underwood family home was near the governor's mansion in Buckhead, but was twice the size. She rushed to explain. "But what I think is missing most in this house is personality. Yes, it's beautiful, but it feels more like a showcase than a home. Anyone might live here. As a broker, I'm probably not supposed to say this, but owning a home is more than buying an address and filling it up with nice stuff. It should be personal, unique, symbolic even." She flushed because she thought she'd overstepped her bounds. After all, the man was probably looking for a tax shelter.

  But instead of laughing at her, he looked at her in that dangerous fall-for-me way. "Do you have your own home?"

  "Not yet," she said. "But someday."

  "You're hired."

  She grinned, but her pleasure over a potentially huge commission was cut short by a commotion on the first floor—Carlotta, flailing her arms, asking guests, "Have you seen a woman with long red hair?"

  "Carlot—" Jolie stopped and cleared her throat. "Carly, I'm up here."

  Carlotta looked up, then disappeared, apparently coming up after her. When she reached the landing, she was out of breath.

  "What's wrong?" Jolie asked.

  "There's been a little...complication."

  Jolie frowned. "What?"

  "Russell is here."

  "Who?"

  "Hannah's boyfriend."

  "Oh."

  "With his wife."

  "Oh."

  "Right," Carlotta said, her voice grim. "I tried to get Hannah to leave, but she wouldn't. She said she was going to make a scene. She was headed to the pool where they were, and I'm afraid someone's going to get hurt."

  "What can I do?" Jolie asked.

  "Find our coats, and meet me down there." Carlotta looked at Beck. "Would it be too much to ask you to run interference?"

  "Who are we talking about?" he asked, scratching his head.

  "Our friend Hannah, who came with us," Jolie explained. "She's been dating a married man, and apparently he's here—with his wife."

  Beck winced. "Who's the stupid guy?"

  "Russell Island," Carlotta supplied.

  "I know him," Beck said. "And his wife. This won't be pretty." They started down the stairway and Jolie jogged toward the coat check room, thinking Hannah was likely to blow their cover and Sammy would toss them all out on their party-crashing behinds. Maybe even have them arrested for trespassing.

  The coat check attendant was gone, so Jolie undid the familiar and ineffective ribbon across the doorway and started her own search. The nicer coats—the furs, the leathers, the brocades—were hanging on portable racks. The jackets, hats, shawls, and assorted cheap coats had been draped over the bed—ten dollars said that's where her all-weather standby had been relegated. It was difficult to maneuver with her injured hand, but after searching three racks, she spotted Carlotta's black cashmere coat and pulled it off the rack. Hannah's leather duster was more elusive, but she finally found it. Then she turned to the bed to dig for her Sears special.

  She displaced a dozen hats and wraps and pulled three navy coats out of the tangle that weren't hers. Frustration hurried her hands and she touched something unexpectedly solid. Jolie frowned and pushed aside a pile of coats, then was struck mute with shock...terror...disbelief.

  It was Gary. And from the bloody hole in his chest, he appeared to be...checked out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THERE ARE TIMES in every person's life when they find out what they're made of. Looking down on Gary Hagan's body—lifeless eyes, gray pallor, unnatural position—Jolie discovered that she was made of soft, gooey, blubbery stuff. The only thing that kept her from collapsing entirely was the knowledge that if she did, she'd fall on a dead person.

  She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her constricted throat. She stumbled backward on her high-heeled house shoes, twisting her ankle and ricocheting off the doorframe and out into the hall. Her mind reeled, rejecting what her eyes had just seen, and she was distantly aware that she was keening like a small animal.

  She half staggered, half fell down the vacated stairs, grateful to the red carpet for sparing her knees from the marble beneath, and at one point thinking it would be faster if she just rolled down. Her hand felt wet and sticky and she registered the fact that she might be smearing blood down the handrail. By the time she'd reached the first floor, she was minus a shoe, and she still hadn't encountered a live person.

  Judging from the empty great room, everyone had migrated to the pool. She lumbered forward, heedless of anything except getting to Beck or Carlotta...or even Sammy. The good news was that Beck and Carlotta were standing together by the edge of the pool with their backs to her. The bad news was they were restraining Hannah, who was kicking at a cowering man as if they were in a Ninja movie. The guests were crowded around, fascinated.

  At last the scream that had been caught in Jolie's throat erupted like a volcano, echoing off the surface of the aqua-colored water dotted with floating candles, reverberating around the glass-enclosed room. Every head pivoted her way. Beck took a half step in her direction.

  "Help!" she bellowed, running toward them as fast as she could considering she was wearing one shoe.

  The one shoe betrayed her. She hit a slick spot and skidded, flailing. A bewildered-looking Carlotta, who was closest, reached for her, and Hannah reached for Carlotta, and the next thing Jolie knew, she had entered the pool by way of a belly-flop chain.

  The good news was the bracing water cleared the fog from her head. The bad news was she'd fallen into the deep end and the heavy robe instantly soaked up ten times its weight in water. She struggled with the tie belt, but only managed to pull it tighter around her ribs. Meanwhile, Carlotta floated by, her eyes wide, her mouth open—not exactly the safest expression for being underwater.
She was in trouble. Jolie grabbed Carlotta's leg and shoved her toward the side of the pool while trying to kick her own way to the surface.

  She yanked at the tie around her waist again and miraculously it loosened. She pushed her way out of the robe but it wrapped around her legs, immobilizing her, dragging her down. Red ribbons of blood colored the water around her—the wound on her hand had reopened. Panic clawed at her chest as she sank, and Jolie understood how Gary must have felt when he knew he was going to die. Petrified, helpless...remorseful.

  What had she done with her life, really? Would anyone care that she wasn't around? Drowning at a party that she'd crashed wasn't the way she'd hoped to make headlines. Her body jerked in preparation for taking a death breath.

  Suddenly two big arms came around her from behind and jerked her upward. She inhaled water to satisfy her lungs, but her body rebelled, bucking. The robe fell away, brushing her feet. Air bubbles rushed past her face, then her head broke the surface of the water. She coughed and sputtered, thrashing her arms like a windmill.

  "Relax," Beck said into her ear. "Don't fight me."

  He eased her over to the side of the pool. Wheezing, she blinked the ceiling of glass into view, acknowledged the hard muscle of his torso and legs pressing against hers. Her brain must have been deprived of oxygen for a tad longer than was healthy, because the thought struck her that if she hadn't just seen the dead body of her boyfriend and hadn't almost drowned, this might have been a nice moment.

  He boosted her up over the pool edge as if she weighed nothing and set her down next to Carlotta and Hannah, who were huddled miserably on the side of the pool like wet cats dressed in upmarket lingerie.

  "Are you okay?" Beck asked, looking up at her from the water, his hand on her knee. His breathing was labored, his wet hair falling over his dark eyes.

  She nodded, hugging herself in her transparent chemise. "Th–thank you."

  "You're bleeding," he said, pulling her hand toward him for a look.

  "It's not bad," she said between coughs. "Considering I could be dead right now."