Killer Deal (26 page)

Read Killer Deal Online

Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson

As I put down the phone, I saw that Kyle was awake and looking at me intensely. “Hey, did the phone wake you?”
“Maybe. That Eileen?”
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly self-conscious of my talk of breaking cases and saving lives. “Just the usual flinging of hyperbole. How do you feel?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “I’ll be fine.”
He was quiet while we made breakfast, while we ate, and when the first bouquet of flowers arrived. It was a huge spray of orchids and other exotics and the card read:
Thank you, Gwen Lincoln.
The second bouquet, ridiculously large and rich with roses, was from The Publisher. The card read:
Looking forward to the article.
The third bouquet was from Peter:
Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have scoop me.
Kyle looked at the bouquets for a long time—couldn’t avoid it, actually, since they consumed half the living room—and then said, “Congratulations. You were right.”
“I wasn’t. I didn’t figure out it was Daniel until the last second.”
“You knew it wasn’t Gwen and you stuck to your guns. Even when I told you to stop.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You shouldn’t be. And I shouldn’t put you in a position where you feel you should be.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I’m gonna take a shower.” He walked out of the room before I could stop him.
I paced outside the bathroom for two full minutes, then took the plunge, stripping off my nightshirt and getting in the shower with him. It was a small shower and the physics of our
both being in there would have amused Aaron, but I couldn’t wait another moment to wrap my arms around Kyle, to kiss him, to meld myself with him, and wash away his agitation.
The rest of the day went well. We stopped answering the phone, watched old movies, listened to music, and lost ourselves in each other. It was wonderful to let everything else fall away. Until he said, late that night, “This works so well. Too bad there’s a world out there.”
I felt like someone was choking the air out of me. “But it’s you and me against that world, right?” I managed.
“I love you, Molly,” he answered.
“I love you, too.”
“Then we better figure out how to fix this.”
I could taste the tears in my throat before I felt them in my eyes. “Fix what?”
“You know what,” he said, gently and sincerely. “We both love what we do and we’re both good at it. But if it’s gonna have us crashing into each other all the time …”
“We’ll figure something out.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know we will. Sooner or later.”
I didn’t sleep much more that night, worried that I’d wake up and he’d be gone. But he was there in the morning. He didn’t start pulling his stuff together until after breakfast.
“You don’t have to leave,” I told him.
“A little perspective would be good for both of us.”
“No, I need you,” I protested.
He slid his hand up under my hair and pulled me to him. “It’s gonna be all right,” he whispered. “I’ll call you.” He kissed me with such tenderness that it hurt, picked up his duffel bag, and left.
I stared at the closed front door for a long time. And thought about Lindsay and Daniel. They’d destroyed their relationship, their lives in their desperation to build what they saw as the perfect future. Willing to do anything, they’d lost everything instead. How much sacrifice should love demand? Wasn’t there a way to have passion and balance? Does there have to be a choice between who we love and what we love to do?
I’d gone through two boxes of Kleenex by the time Tricia and Cassady arrived. Cassady quickly pointed out that Kyle had not returned my key and Tricia reasoned that a lesser man would have told me I needed to find a different job if we were going to stay together. Some solace, but not enough to get rid of the debilitating ache in my chest.
Cassady insisted that brunch, with many mimosas, was the only sane course of action and they dragged me to the bedroom to persuade me into appropriate attire. “Where’s Aaron?” I asked as Cassady presented me with my favorite JCrew white blouse.
“He had atoms to split or some such thing, so I told him I’d talk to him later.”
“And you never got to spend any time with Detective Donovan,” I said to Tricia as she handed me my black slacks.
“I think that was adrenaline, not attraction. Moving on,” she said brightly.
“I’m not, am I? Moving on, I mean?”
“Not if the man’s as smart as we’ve always given him credit for being,” Cassady said.
Tricia swept my black Belle sandals out of the closet. “It’s the bumps in the road that make the trip interesting.”
Cassady laughed. “Which maiden aunt taught you that?”
Tricia frowned. “Aunt Jessica. And I’ve always thought it was quite astute.”
“It belongs on an embroidered pillow, underneath a Persian cat that eats shrimp twice a day.” Cassady threw her arm around Tricia’s shoulders and glanced over at me. “I don’t know about taking any advice from this one, but not to worry, I’ll get you through this.”
“We both will,” Tricia said, her arm around Cassady’s waist.
“Whether I like it or not, right?” I said. They laughed appreciatively and I smiled a bit, reassured by knowing that, with faith in the people you love, you can get through anything. At least, that’s the hope.
Killer Cocktail
Killer Heels
Killer Deal
“Elements of chick lit—the New York setting, the many brand names, lots of shopping, the emphasis on relationship problems—give the novel appeal beyond mystery fans … A quick, fun read.”
—Booklist
 
Killer Cocktail
“Fashion commentary, urbane asides, and witty characters keep the pages turning.”
—Library Journal
 
Killer Heels
“Sure to please
Sex and the City
fans.”
—Booklist
 
“Mix a splash of Carrie Bradshaw, a dash of Stephanie Plum, and a wee bit of Kinsey Millhone and you have Molly Forrester, advice columnist (‘You Can Tell Me’) for
Zeitgeist
magazine by day and amateur sleuth by night … Ample laughs help propel a well-crafted plot.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
 
“Delicious.”
—Kirkus Reviews
 
“
Killer Heels
, Sheryl J. Anderson’s hip debut mystery, sparkles like fine champagne, an intoxicating mix of wit, perception, and insouciance, and a wickedly clever but genuine depiction of single life in the city.
Killer Heels
will tap right to the top of the Best First lists.”
—
Carolyn Hart, author of
Death of the Party
 
“A fun, ‘girls’ night out’ type of book that blends humor, craziness, and mystery.”
—Mystery News
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KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM SHERYL J. ANDERSON’S NEXT MYSTERY
COMING SOON IN HARDCOVER FROM
ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR
1
“I CAN’T BALANCE MY DIET, so how am I supposed to balance my life?”
Tricia nodded sympathetically. “Everything you’ve been hoping for. For it to all happen at the same time—it’s just criminal!”
Coming from anyone else—in fact, coming from my other best friend, who was also at the table—it would have sounded at the very least snarky. More probably, it would have sounded like a righteous putdown. But coming from Tricia Vincent, it was a sincere and heartfelt expression of how Fate can take something that should be glorious and turn it into a major kick in the teeth.
Cassady Lynch pushed a glass of champagne across the table to me. “I thought we were here to celebrate.”
“That was before I had two things to be happy about.” Two things that clashed with each other with all the vigor of freight trains colliding at top speed. On the one hand, I had the professional promotion I’d been dreaming of. On the other, the romantic redemption I’d been yearning for. But since professional issues were responsible for derailing the romance to begin with, I felt smacked by an Olympian dose of irony, with no clear vision of how—or if—I could make this work.
Things had been much more promising earlier in the afternoon
as I’d stood nervously in my editor’s office, listening to her proclaim, “Molly, I’m going to make you happy and it just kills me.”
Gotta give the boss lady this: You always know where you stand with her. Usually, that place is akin to the crumbling lip of a rumbling volcano, but there’s never any question it’s exactly where Eileen wants you to be. So she gets points for honesty, if nothing else. The problem is, from that point, it can be pretty tricky to see where she’s headed and, even though I should know better by now, I always try to figure that out. For the most part, it’s an exercise in futility, but it’s the only regular exercise I get.
On this particular occasion, looking ahead was especially tempting because Henry Kwon was somehow part of the equation. He was slouched on the couch in Eileen’s office. I couldn’t tell if that was an expression of how relaxed he was about what was happening or about how impossible it is to sit properly on that ridiculously unyielding piece of furniture. Even so, he looked great—he always looks great—and he was smiling. What could that mean? I looked him in the eye and his smile grew.
Having a handsome man smile at you is rarely a bad thing. But this particular handsome man was also the associate publisher of our magazine, so the potential reasons for his smile were all the more intriguing. And the fact that he was flat-out gorgeous didn’t hurt. Especially since I had been painfully single for seven and a half weeks and deeply missed having someone gorgeous smile at me.
Pushing that distraction from my mind, I did my best to concentrate on decoding what Eileen and Henry were up to. Even though I’ve been out of school more years than I care to admit, I still feel like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office when I have to go into Eileen’s lair. So, even though Eileen was suspiciously proclaiming that she was going to make me happy, my perpetually fluctuating self-worth and guilty conscience were conspiring to make me nervous. That annoyed me because I don’t like letting Eileen get to
me. I particularly didn’t want Henry to think of me as anything but cool and controlled.
I tried to dismiss that feeling that I’d done something wrong and focus on the positive sheen to Henry’s smile. Eileen was too savvy to have pulled him into something political between the two of us, so this had to be substantial. It had to be about something pretty darn good, too, if even Eileen was forced to admit it would make me happy. Were they moving my advice column to a different position in the magazine? Expanding it? Or was I being traded to another magazine for a copy editor and an assistant to be named later?
“The Publisher was very impressed with the article you wrote about Garth Henderson’s murder,” Henry said smoothly.
I nodded, remembering the huge bouquet of flowers The Publisher had sent me after I’d helped nab Garth’s killer. Although I had wondered if part of the grandness of the arrangement was because I’d sent Eileen flying across a densely populated hotel ballroom in the process. The Publisher, after all, is known for his sense of humor. “I appreciated the flowers very much,” I said.
Eileen grimaced as though bracing herself to taste something foul. “So he wants you to do it again.”
It took me a moment. “A follow-up? An article on the trial?”
“No,” Henry said, “not that specific. But we do want you to focus on feature articles from now on.”
I actually considered fainting. Millions of microscopic helium balloons launched themselves in my head, trying to push off the top of my skull, and my hands tingled and sweated simultaneously.
“Features?” I repeated, knowing it didn’t sound bright, but that it beat standing there gaping in silence.
“We’ve been discussing new ways to increase the profile of the magazine and including more substantial editorial content is absolutely key. The investigative articles you’ve
done are exactly the kind of thing we’re looking for. So we want that to be your new focus and we’ll use it as a springboard for further growth of the entire publication.” Henry’s smile grew. “No pressure.”
And no pressure just because this was what I’d always wanted, because this was a dream coming true, because I knew I could really make something of this break.
“Thank you,” I said, wishing I could be eloquent and charming, but so completely caught by surprise that two words were all I felt able to string together. I’d been working toward this for such a long time, trying to move into feature writing, grabbing chances when they came my way and proving myself, but never getting the bump. In the last few weeks, I’d actually been quietly checking out opportunities at other magazines because I figured I was never going to be released from my existence as an advice columnist while I was working for Eileen. She’s not the sort to recognize and nurture potential; she’s more the crush-or-curry school of management, specializing in picking favorites, usually attractive young men, and whipping everyone else with delight and regularity.
Small wonder it was killing her to give me this break. Or, more correctly, to sit there and watch Henry give it to me and not be able to do anything about it but scowl. I knew part of her unhappiness was because of her aforementioned aversion to making me happy, but there was more at stake here, too. She’d been brought in to “put teeth” in the magazine. If The Publisher and Henry felt that wasn’t happening fast enough and that they had to get involved in the process, perhaps Eileen was spending some time standing on that volcano lip herself.
“There is a catch,” she said with a crinkle of her little nose that was sharp enough to burst my bubble. I kept smiling. How bad could the catch be if it was part of becoming a feature writer?
Henry frowned, one of those polite frowns bosses use to soften a blow. My stomach lurched, like the feeling you get on the first dip on the roller coaster, the one that’s the tease
for that huge first drop. “This isn’t my usual style,” Henry explained, “but we have your first subject, already approved by The Publisher and Eileen.”
My breath came back with a happy puff. “That’s fine,” I said, immediately feeling better because I couldn’t imagine an article they’d come up with that I wouldn’t be willing to write.
“And he’s dead, just the way you like them. Sadly for you, though, he got there all on his own. No conspiracy, no mystery. Nothing to solve, just an article to write,” Eileen said with enough precision that I knew I was being warned as much as I was being informed.
I understood why she was concerned, given my track record of digging into a story where everyone thought there were no unanswered questions and winding up in the middle of a homicide investigation. She didn’t approve, even though I always met my other deadlines; had I fallen on my face with one story, I have no doubt she would have taken great delight in sending me packing. But I’d worked hard and been fortunate, other than losing my boyfriend. Now, here at last, was the step up I had been striving for the whole time. Whoever this person had been, I would dive in and do a great article to prove The Publisher’s faith in me—and Eileen’s inability to erode it—were all for the best.
“It’s not all about him,” Henry said, cutting a look at Eileen. They’d already discussed this and not altogether happily. I wondered which was upsetting her more, the choice of subject or my promotion. Henry continued, “It’s about his daughter keeping his legacy, that sort of angle. Right?”
Eileen gave him the kind of smile you give the dentist after he’s shoved the x-ray film as far back in your mouth as it will go. “Right.”
Henry’s marvelously dark eyes swung back to me. “My sister went to college with Olivia Elliott. Russell Elliott’s daughter.”
I nodded in recognition. Russell Elliott, a renowned rock-and-roll producer who had started out as the manager of one
of my favorite bands, had died three weeks before, alone in his Riverside Drive apartment with music on the stereo and a highball glass in his hand. While the print media politely conveyed the medical examiner’s finding that it was an accidental overdose of prescription medication mixed with alcohol, the Internet and tabloids feasted on the similarities between Russell’s death and that of the lead singer of the aforementioned band. Message boards blazed with theories about suicide, old affairs, demons from the past, and other uncomfortable things it has to be tough to hear when you’re mourning the loss of your father.
Olivia had attempted to drown out the rumors by throwing a monumental post-funeral bash that had been attended by a blinding array of rock royalty. It hadn’t quelled the loose talk, but it had put a pretty gloss on it; people were whispering now instead of proclaiming.
“As you can imagine, she’s pretty shattered. She’s also unhappy with what’s been written about her dad since he died. And I get her point. I don’t know how familiar you are with Russell’s work—”
“I had a poster of Subject to Change on my bedroom wall in high school,” I admitted.
Henry laughed in understanding. “I spent my entire junior year trying to get my hair to look like Micah’s.”
Micah Crowley had been the dark, brooding, and intensely sexy lead singer of Subject to Change Without Notice, a blues-based rock band that ripped through the chatter of the hair bands in the late ’80s, helping pave the way for grunge and roots rock. Russell Elliott had been Micah’s best friend in college and became the band’s manager. Depending on which stories you believe, Russell was largely to thank for guiding the band’s artistic development, or Russell was mainly responsible for the infamous fights with producers, session musicians, and record executives, which were part of the band’s history. Toward the end, Russell had begun producing the albums; again, either because he was shaping and protecting their vision or because no one else wanted to put up with the drama. But no matter how it was
told, the story ended the same way: Micah Crowley overdosed in 1997 and the band fell apart.
After Micah’s death, Russell had become guardian of both the band’s music and Micah’s family. He’d also developed a solid reputation as an innovative producer who didn’t throw temper tantrums any more—either because he’d cleaned up his act or because it had actually been Micah throwing them—who’d launched several successful acts in the last couple of years on his own label. His most recent star was Jordan Crowley, one of Micah’s sons.
“Are you sure the poster wasn’t on your ceiling?” Eileen said with a sniff in my direction.
“Did you like them or were you too old for such foolishness by then?” Henry asked her. My admiration for him doubled on the spot as she blinked slowly, searching for a response.
“I’m more classically oriented,” she replied. I wanted to ask if she meant Beethoven or disco, but decided not to push my luck in the middle of such a crucial conversation.
“I’m glad you bring a familiarity with the band to the piece,” Henry continued to me. “Thing is, Olivia feels all the press surrounding her dad’s death has been about how he took care of Claire and Adam, and now Jordan, after Micah’s death. That he’s viewed as part of Micah’s legend, so his own larger contributions to the music industry have gotten short shrift. My sister mentioned it to me in passing, but I see an intriguing story there. And coming from the daughter’s point of view, it’s perfect for
Zeitgeist
. And for your first assignment as a full-time feature writer.”
Squealing with glee on the inside, I strove to be polished and professional on the outside. “Thank you, Henry. Eileen. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this opportunity,” I said.
“Personally, I think it’s overdue,” Henry said, standing. Eileen glared at him so hard it made her roots show, but he ignored her. “Morgan in legal will talk to you about the new contract, pay structure, all that.” I’d been so thrilled about getting my dream job that I hadn’t even thought about it
meaning a raise, too.
Suh-weet
. He held out a business card. “Here are Olivia’s numbers. She’s expecting your call, keep me apprised.”
We had a brief diploma-exchange tangle as I tried to both take the card and shake his hand, but he smiled at the right moment and made me feel much calmer. “Thank you,” I said, looking him right in the eye and trying to convey my gratitude and excitement. “Sadly, words escape me.”

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