Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [2]
I waited for his comeback but he was silent for a moment, then, “He’ll be good to her.”
For a moment I couldn’t say anything. Elaine had been my pillar through every major catastrophe in my life: my first period, zits, and the devastating realization that most guys are like my brothers. That truth can still bring me to tears. But the thought of her wedding looming over me like a gawking gargoyle was almost more than I could bear. The only positive thing to come out of the impending ceremony was the fact that this would be the first time my bridesmaid gown wouldn’t look like a pink train wreck.
“You know that, don’t you?” Rivera asked. “That he’ll be good to her?”
“Sure.” My voice sounded a little strange. I glanced up. The iron knob on the antique bed Laney had given me as a bridesmaid gift gleamed dully. She’d found it at a Hollywood estate sale. Upon examination, I had discovered the initials “A.A.L.” scratched in the metal. With my luck, it probably stood for the forerunner of Alcoholics Anonymous.
“Besides, you can always kick his ass if he isn’t,” Rivera said.
I refrained from sniffling. “It wasn’t his ass I was thinking of.”
He was silent for a moment, then, “Jesus, McMullen, if you’re considering any part of Solberg’s anatomy, it might be too late for me to save you.”
I scowled at the ceiling.
“But I’m willing to make the effort.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “You’re a giver.”
“Like a saint.”
“God, I hope not,” I said, and he chuckled.
“Last chance,” he said.
“Promise?”
There was a momentary pause, then, “Not on your life,” he said, and hung up.
I did the same, shuffled the receiver into its cradle, and smiled even though there was less than a month left until my best friend’s wedding. A month during which she was staying with me since she’d given up her apartment long ago and didn’t relish the idea of hotel life. I had hoped we would have some time to spend alone together, but her schedule was pretty hairy. Not only was there the wedding from Elm Street to contend with, there was also a considerable amount of hoopla involving the upcoming spin-off of her popular television series, Amazon Queen. Jungle Heat featured several of Laney’s coactors and would premiere soon. Wesley Donovan, a relative newcomer to female fantasies, played the male lead and was creating most of the hoped-for heat.
All this meant that the Geekster would not only be nearby, he could damned well be in my house. The idea made my skin crawl, but the phone rang again, pulling me from my morbid musings.
I grinned through the darkness at it. There’s nothing like a trash-talking stalker to make a girl feel special.
I picked up the receiver on the third ring. “Okay. But bring a condom,” I whispered, then squirmed a little and wondered how I was going to sneak Rivera past Laney. “Hell,” I corrected, “bring a box of ’em. Do they still come in boxes? It’s been—”
“He’s dead,” a voice hissed.
I jerked upright in bed, heart crammed tight in my throat. “What? Who is this?” I rasped.
But the dial tone was already buzzing in my ear.
2
I been a pretty good mama. Too bad I’ll have to wait for my funeral to hear it said out loud.
—Shirley Templeton—mother
of seven, and a vocal
proponent of birth control
My muscles were frozen, my lungs petrified. I jerked my gaze toward the hall, sure someone was watching me, but the doorway was empty, so I yanked my imagination under control and jabbed Rivera’s number into the keypad.
His line was busy. I hung up and tried again. Same results. Settling the receiver into the cradle, I stepped off the bed, stiff as a pool cue, but just then the phone rang. I squawked as I swung toward it.
Atop the bed, Harlequin stared at me, sleepy-eyed, head half lifted from the mattress, one ear cocked up. Slowly I reached once again for the receiver.
“Who is this?” My voice quivered like a falsetto’s.
“I think I killed him,” the voice hissed again. It was juxtaposed eerily against a keening noise