Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Deal
Table of Contents
To Sara and Sean,
for their love and patience
and all their great ideas
for their love and patience
and all their great ideas
First, I want to thank the usual suspects—our fantastic families—for their love and encouragement. I’d also like to thank our marvelous friends at Westchester Lutheran Church and School for their enthusiasm and support, especially our pastor and his wife, Fred and Sandra Masted; my beautiful Rebekah Circle sisters; my PSO buddies; and the “well-read” faculty (who gets this one first?). Thanks, too, to Judith Meyer and Molly’s other fans back home at Prince of Peace Lutheran. My gratitude and affection to Doug Clegg, for believing since kindergarten that we’d get here and for all his advice along the way. Big thanks and hugs to Joel and Mary Barkow for their friendship, their legal and artistic advice, and all the great pizza. A special tip of the cocktail shaker to Ann and John Abraham, Heidi Amundson and Rick Pearson, Sherry and Bill Fortier, Diane and Chris Maeder, Allison and Bart Montgomery, and Cyndi and Tony Widmer.
I also want to thank our favorite booksellers, the grand group at The Mystery Bookstore in Westwood, California, and the fine folks at Pulp Fiction in Brisbane, Australia. And as always, our thanks to our marvelous editor, Kelley Ragland, her assistant, Ryan Quinn, and all the other great people at St. Martin’s Press, and to our wonderful agent, Andy Zack.
“YOU NEED A DEAD BODY. A really cool dead body,” Cassady suggested.
“Is that something I order on-line or do they have a department upstairs?” I asked. Believe me, if there were a way to order up a stylish cadaver in Manhattan, Cassady Lynch would know. Networking is second nature to her and with her long legs, amazing figure, and cascading auburn curls, her life is overflowing with people eager to do her all sorts of favors.
“I’m fairly sure you have to special order those,” Tricia said. “Especially one that’s already been refrigerated.”
My two best friends and I were spending our lunch hour shopping—that’s why granola bars fit in desk drawers—at the marvel that is the flagship ABC Home Store on Broadway. High heaven for shopping addicts, it is eight levels of treasures ranging from dainty little soaps to massive French country antiques. When I was growing up, one of my favorite books was about two kids who deliberately get locked in the Metropolitan Museum of Art overnight; I used to dream about doing the same. Now I dream about being locked in ABC Home. With a platinum card. That someone else pays off.
We were on the first floor, helping Cassady search for a new pair of earrings. A fellow intellectual properties lawyer
at the public interest group where she works had persuaded her to attend some sort of scientific seminar that night. She was having second thoughts, but didn’t want to leave her colleague hanging, so she’d decided new baubles would amp up her excitement about going.
at the public interest group where she works had persuaded her to attend some sort of scientific seminar that night. She was having second thoughts, but didn’t want to leave her colleague hanging, so she’d decided new baubles would amp up her excitement about going.
Cassady frowned, gently enough to show displeasure but not deeply enough to start a crease. “At the risk of disparaging the mayor or the commissioner, there have been plenty of homicides in Manhattan this summer. I’m sure several of them are unsolved and worthy of your talents.”
Love and murder are my favorite topics as a journalist and as a person. What with the extreme behavior, the denial of risk, the blinding focus, and the will to succeed, being in love and being homicidal aren’t as far apart as one might think. Or hope. And the place where those two mind-sets intersect fascinates me most of all. But it’s a dangerous intersection, and this time around, it would prove to be an incredibly costly one.
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” I said. “Not to sound like a ghoul, but whenever I hear about an interesting case, I pitch it to my darling editor, but she keeps shooting me down.”
“Maybe Eileen—and/or Fate—are suggesting you try a social crusade or a government scandal,” Tricia suggested, examining a lovely pair of freshwater pearl dangles. “A less macabre route to greater journalistic glory.”
As opposed to the murder route I had been pursuing. While I’m best known as the advice columnist for
Zeitgeist
magazine, I’ve recently—through sets of unique circumstances—had the opportunity to solve two murders. I wrote articles about both investigations that were well received, but didn’t quite launch the career transformation I’d hoped for. My editor continues to scoff at my desire to formally move beyond “You Can Tell Me” and build up an investigative resume. And while I love my column and the front-row seat it gives me at the demolition derby of love, a girl needs a challenge.
Zeitgeist
magazine, I’ve recently—through sets of unique circumstances—had the opportunity to solve two murders. I wrote articles about both investigations that were well received, but didn’t quite launch the career transformation I’d hoped for. My editor continues to scoff at my desire to formally move beyond “You Can Tell Me” and build up an investigative resume. And while I love my column and the front-row seat it gives me at the demolition derby of love, a girl needs a challenge.
“Molly’s got a gift, Tricia,” Cassady said firmly. “We should encourage it.”
“I want to see her byline in the
New York Times
as much
as you do,” Tricia agreed. “I was just hoping there was a less dangerous way to get her there.”
New York Times
as much
as you do,” Tricia agreed. “I was just hoping there was a less dangerous way to get her there.”
“I don’t want to work for the
Times,
” I told them.
Times,
” I told them.
“Of course you do. Everyone wants to be on the
Times.
I don’t write and I want to be on the
Times.
You’re pretending otherwise because Crew Boy is there.” Cassady shook her head in disbelief. “Wimp.”
Times.
I don’t write and I want to be on the
Times.
You’re pretending otherwise because Crew Boy is there.” Cassady shook her head in disbelief. “Wimp.”
“Not wanting to work with Peter doesn’t make me a wimp, it makes me smart.”
“Oh, bumper harvest of sour grapes. It’s a mammoth paper with plenty of room to avoid him. Or better yet, get him fired in as messy and public a way as possible.”
Peter Mulcahey is a present rival and a former boyfriend. I was dating him—actually, in the process of breaking up with him—when I got involved with the first murder. And the detective investigating it. That dear detective is the one who christened Peter “Crew Boy.” Behind his back, of course. But it does suit him. At that point, Peter and I were both working at magazines we saw as jumping-off points for our writing careers. I’m still at mine; he’s jumped off to the
Times,
more through tenacious brownnosing than proven journalistic merit.
Times,
more through tenacious brownnosing than proven journalistic merit.
Okay, Cassady’s right; sour grapes abound but still: “I don’t wish Peter ill,” I said, trying to make amends.
“Really?” Cassady asked. “I wish him huge ill and I never even dated the man.”
“He didn’t treat you well, Molly. It’s our right to wish for anvils to fall on his head,” Tricia said.
“I just want to figure out the next step in my career,” I said, not so much to be noble as to stop talking about Peter.
“Wonderful. We’ll switch to anvils falling on Eileen,” Cassady suggested.
Eileen Fitzsimmons is my editor at
Zeitgeist
. We’re one of those glossy Manhattan lifestyle magazines that will instruct you to “Be Proud of Who You Are,” teach you “Ten Bulletproof Ways to Seduce Him,” and share the need to “Get Off Your Butt to Get Your Butt Off,” all in the same issue and with no sense of irony. Eileen was brought in to “put
some teeth into the thing,” according to The Publisher. At this point, the only place she’s sunk her sharp incisors is into the tender hearts of the staff. Those who don’t loathe her fear her. Best I can tell, she enjoys both reactions equally.
Zeitgeist
. We’re one of those glossy Manhattan lifestyle magazines that will instruct you to “Be Proud of Who You Are,” teach you “Ten Bulletproof Ways to Seduce Him,” and share the need to “Get Off Your Butt to Get Your Butt Off,” all in the same issue and with no sense of irony. Eileen was brought in to “put
some teeth into the thing,” according to The Publisher. At this point, the only place she’s sunk her sharp incisors is into the tender hearts of the staff. Those who don’t loathe her fear her. Best I can tell, she enjoys both reactions equally.
Eileen has been good to me. Once. Which makes me nervous, since it brings to mind Don Corleone: “Someday … I’ll call upon you to do a service for me …” Eileen’s goodness was publishing my second investigative article, the one about Tricia’s brother’s fiancée being murdered at their engagement party. Perhaps you heard about it, maybe even read it.
As part of Eileen’s periodic efforts to toughen up the magazine, she asked me to write about the murder and the part I played in unraveling it. I wrote a strong piece (if I may say so), we got lots of great letters and e-mails about it, and I’ve been asking Eileen to let me tackle another investigative feature ever since. But she just scrunches up her nose like I’m a particularly mangy kitten, pats me on the shoulder, and sends me back to my column.
“Which brings us back to needing a body. One that will seem attractive to Eileen,” I explained to Tricia and Cassady.
“Hmmm. Eileen as necrophiliac. Hadn’t considered that before,” Cassady said.
“Please. Like I don’t have enough trouble looking the woman in the eye as it is.”
“Play your connections. Get the inside scoop from your scrumptious Sherlock,” Cassady suggested.
Tricia answered before I could. “Cassady, no. You know how Kyle feels about our investigations.”
Hearing Tricia refer to them as “our” investigations was delightful, because I certainly couldn’t have solved either murder without their assistance, insight, and support. And she was absolutely right about Kyle; he’d be appalled at the notion of my actively scouting for another murder investigation. He’s very protective—of me and of his turf. He’d prefer that the two not meet. And I can understand that, even if I don’t always agree with it.
Kyle Edwards and I met at a crime scene. Kyle was there
because he’s a homicide detective, literally one of Manhattan’s finest. I was there because I’d discovered the body. We got to know each other very well very quickly, in part because he suspected me of being the killer. I felt it might clarify the situation if I solved the murder to prove him wrong. Not exactly Cinderella, Prince Charming, and the glass slipper, but we’ve made it work—most of the time—and are navigating the misunderstandings, drive-by shootings, and the other events that can complicate a romance between two people in our positions.
because he’s a homicide detective, literally one of Manhattan’s finest. I was there because I’d discovered the body. We got to know each other very well very quickly, in part because he suspected me of being the killer. I felt it might clarify the situation if I solved the murder to prove him wrong. Not exactly Cinderella, Prince Charming, and the glass slipper, but we’ve made it work—most of the time—and are navigating the misunderstandings, drive-by shootings, and the other events that can complicate a romance between two people in our positions.
“A man doesn’t always know what’s good for him. Just ask Samson,” Cassady replied.
“Kyle wouldn’t stand in my way if I got a great story,” I assured us all. “He’s just not going to encourage me in that direction.”
“He’s happy with you as an unfulfilled advice columnist?”
“Happy with people not shooting at me.”
“So when’s he moving in?”
I looked at my watch so I wouldn’t have to look at either of them. “That soon?” Tricia asked.
“I need to get back.” I leaned in to hug them both good-bye and was practically stiff-armed by Tricia, who glared at me mightily.
Cassady arched one eyebrow, something she does effortlessly and eloquently. “Remind me to give you lessons in how to blow people off.”
“Gotta go back to the office,” I insisted.
“Like you’d ever let Eileen put you on that short a leash,” Cassady snarked.
“Molly Forrester, you’re holding out on us,” Tricia declared.
“Not at all. I’m just trying not to be premature in making any announcements.”
“Announcements?” The wedding bells were ringing so loudly in Tricia’s head I could almost hear them in mine. Tricia is an events planner and derives immense satisfaction, as well as a nice living, from bringing order to other people’s lives. The fact that she has known me for so many years
and has yet to impose any order on mine both inspires and frustrates her. Because she’s a petite, porcelain-skinned brunette, people make the mistake of assuming that Tricia is delicate and, therefore, meek. She’s delicate all right—the same way a spider’s web is. It’s also beautiful and surprisingly tenacious.
and has yet to impose any order on mine both inspires and frustrates her. Because she’s a petite, porcelain-skinned brunette, people make the mistake of assuming that Tricia is delicate and, therefore, meek. She’s delicate all right—the same way a spider’s web is. It’s also beautiful and surprisingly tenacious.
“Slow down, cowgirl. He’s moving some stuff in this weekend, that’s all. No significant exchange of jewelry, no contracts of any sort, just … stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Cassady pressed. “You’re well past the toothbrush and one change of clothes point, right?”
“Not up to me.”
Cassady and Tricia turned to each other, delighted by this tidbit. “You know what that means,” Cassady said to Tricia for my benefit.
“It was his idea,” Tricia nodded.
“Why don’t I go back to work and let you two carry on at your own pace?”
Tricia beamed. “We need to have a party.”
“Great,” I said. “Your place? Kyle and I will try to stop by.”
“I meant your place,” Tricia said.
“Oh, no, no party. This isn’t an official declaration of any kind. Just a little step in the right direction.”
“So, is he going to be there every night?” Cassady asked, pulling me back to where I’d been standing at the counter. I made a half-hearted attempt at resisting, in part because I really did need to get back to the office and in part because I was concerned they were going to ask me questions I didn’t have answers for.
Interestingly enough, my friends weren’t looking to me for answers. They were supplying them themselves. “I doubt it. He works a lot of nights,” Tricia said to Cassady.
“Because we can’t exactly crash there whenever we want to if he’s going to be living there,” Cassady continued.
“Good point.”
“Not necessarily a point at all,” I interjected. “He’s not living there. He’s moving some things in, in preparation for
possibly living there at some point, but is not currently taking up primary residence.”
possibly living there at some point, but is not currently taking up primary residence.”
“I thought I was the lawyer.”
“You’ve taught me well, Obi-Wan.”
“Not well enough. If I were in your Blahniks, that boy would have been installed full-time months ago and possibly wearing an electronic ankle bracelet.”
“You’ve never been that possessive in your life.”
“Never had a man that worthy of possessing.”
I let the compliment hang in the air while Cassady purchased a stunning pair of Sarah Macfadden earrings, delicate interlocking hoops of hammered silver. I didn’t mean to downplay the importance or the excitement of Kyle and me inching toward a more permanent relationship, but the fact of the matter was, I was nervous. I’d never lived with a man before; most of my relationships had imploded well before keys were even swapped. And I’d never been so crazy about a guy that he could make me come unglued just by walking in the door the way Kyle did. It was terrifying.
Giving my arm a squeeze, Tricia murmured, “I’m so happy for you.”
“How long do you suppose it’ll take me to mess it up?”
“Stop it,” she said briskly, miming tossing salt over her left shoulder to ward off the Devil.
Cassady tucked her new purchase into her bag and steered us toward the door. “Much as I’d like to stay and teach Miss Molly to have a little faith in herself, now I am the one who has to get back. If I’m actually attending this Concerned Geeks Saving the World thing, I’ve got motions to file before I go, and motions to file before I go.”
“Somehow, Frost made it sound more attractive,” Tricia said wistfully as we all made our way back onto the street.
Robert Frost could have made anything sound more attractive. Save, perhaps, Eileen. She’s one of those women who can stop you in your tracks when you first see her—but once you get to know her, you’ll never slow down in her vicinity again. Early in her tenure, I wondered if it was possible
to structure my work hours so I’d only be at the magazine when Eileen wasn’t—say, in the middle of the night. But then the rumors about her never going home, just sleeping in her coffin in her office, started, and I figured I had to get used to placing myself in her path on a regular basis. Especially because I’d already seen her dismantle several careers with nicely crafted lies whispered in The Publisher’s ear and I didn’t want to make it any easier on her to get me fired than I had to.
to structure my work hours so I’d only be at the magazine when Eileen wasn’t—say, in the middle of the night. But then the rumors about her never going home, just sleeping in her coffin in her office, started, and I figured I had to get used to placing myself in her path on a regular basis. Especially because I’d already seen her dismantle several careers with nicely crafted lies whispered in The Publisher’s ear and I didn’t want to make it any easier on her to get me fired than I had to.
Other books
The Flying Saucer Mystery by Carolyn Keene
Dark World: Into the Shadows with the Lead Investigator of the Ghost Adventures Crew by Crigger, Kelly, Bagans, Zak
Old Friends, New Lovers (Regular Sex Issue 7) by Kitty French
Sins of the Angels by Linda Poitevin
Starstruck - Book Two by Gemma Brooks
The World of Cherry by Kay Brandt
Surrender to a Donovan (Kimani Romance) by Arthur, A.C.
Wrack and Rune by Charlotte MacLeod
Othello by William Shakespeare
All Through the Night (Liar's Web) by Calhoune, Sandra