Dial Emmy for Murder by Eileen Davidson Page A

licked it off. Strawberries.

    Later, with a warm feeling inside, I called George.
    “What’s up, sweetie?” he asked.
    “This time,” I said, “I am in trouble.”
    George chuckled and said, “That’s what I wanted to hear!”
    It’s nice to have friends.
    George told me to come right over for martinis and gossip. I went, even though I knew I was to be the subject of the gossip.
    “It’ll be just us,” he said, indicating that Wayne would be there, too.
    When I got there George answered the door and let me in with a hug. We went into the living room where Wayne—with impeccable timing—was putting a tray of martini glasses and a shaker on the table. “Some trendy things aren’t worth the time of day. Chocolate martinis aren’t one of them!” He shook that shaker and poured a mocha-looking liquid into a glass and handed it to me.
    I had died and gone to heaven! This was actually what I needed. Friendly faces, sympathetic ears and the most deliciously decadent martini the world could ever know. A woman with PMS must have invented these!
    “I know I’m crazy,” I told them, licking chocolate off my lip “but . . . the detective stuff, it’s exciting, you know?”
    Wayne poked me. “And so is the detective, right?”
    “Leave it to Wayne to get right to the point!” George laughed.
    “I’m not wasting these martinis on chitchat! Let’s talk about the juicy stuff! Are you going to see him again?”
    “Well . . . yeah. I’m helping with the investigation. Or I was.”
    “What happened?” George asked.
    “He thinks I’m too recognizable to go along when he talks to the families of the victims.”
    “Why? Do they watch the show?” Wayne asked.
    “All the dead men auditioned for one soap or another,” I said, “so, yeah, maybe.”
    “If I know you, Alex,” George said, “you’re not going to let a little something like that stop you.”
    He was right. I already had an idea for the next day. “Can I ask you a question, sweetie?” George asked.
    “Sure.” I was a little wary of what he wanted to know, though.
    “What do you think you would be doing if Paul wasn’t in your life?”
    “What would I be doing?” I repeated. “You mean where Jakes is concerned?” They both nodded. “I don’t know. We might be involved somewhat. Who’s to say?”
    “Who are you trying to kid? This man is gorgeous, he’s sexy and he has a major thing for you. So what’s stopping you?” Wayne was getting impatient with me.
    “Wayne,” George said, “what Alex needs from us is not pressure. She needs us to listen and to just . . . be here.”
    “With chocolate martinis,” I added, pouring another. “These are good.”
    “They are good,” Wayne said. With an enigmatic smile Wayne added, “But hunky detectives are better.”

Chapter 22
    I went to Parker Center the next morning and asked for Detective Frank Jakes.
    “Can I say what it’s about, ma’am?” the sergeant asked.
    “Murder,” I said.
    “Who’s been murdered?”
    “The detective is working on several murders,” I said. “I have some information that might help him.”
    He looked me up and down curiously. I pushed my glasses up my nose with my forefinger and stared at him.
    “Please have a seat, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll tell the detective you’re here.”
    “Thank you.”
    I sort of waddled over to a seat and sat down. When I looked up, he was still staring at me. I was hoping it wasn’t because he recognized me. He looked away quickly when I caught him.
    Several minutes later Jakes showed up. He spoke to the sergeant, who pointed at me. Jakes looked over with a puzzled expression and then joined me. I stood and pushed the glasses up again.
    “Ma’am?” he said. “Can I help you?”
    “You are Detective Jakes?” I asked with a hint of a Southern accent.
    “Yes.”
    “You’re older than I thought you’d be.”
    He seemed mildly amused. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “The sergeant says you have