Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) by Stephanie Blackmoore Page B

wasn’t sure which was worse. Running into the woman Keith had been cheating with, or the look of panic in her eyes. I didn’t really hate Becca Cunningham. She hadn’t gotten down on one knee and offered her fidelity to me. Keith had.
    Olivia grabbed us sandwiches from the firm cafeteria and forced me to choke down a few bites while we hunkered in my office. My newfound courage was gone. Pleasant thoughts of Garrett Davies evaporated, replaced with visions of me skulking about in shadows, never venturing out for fear of seeing my ex or his paramour.
    “I wonder what she was going to tell you.” Olivia sat primly in one of the blond wooden chairs that faced my desk. “Surely not apologizing. It’s a little late for that.”
    “I need a new job.” My sister’s advice had been spot-on. “And that was just her. If I ran into Keith, I’m not sure what I’d do.”
    “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t cheat.”
    There was a knock at the door, which opened before I could invite the person in. My secretary hung back, as if she’d been running interference, on her way to warn me. She gave me an apologetic shrug before she continued down the hall.
    “Mallory.” Alan Brinkman, the partner who gave me the majority of my work, was about fifty, with rheumy eyes, a graying comb-over, and a snappish manner. He was always dressed in perfectly pressed suits, well taken care of by his wife. The long hours and the stress of working for Russell Carey for more than twenty-five years had taken their toll on him. He was cold and dismissive with associates and petty and obstructive with opposing counsel. I’d sacrificed many evenings pulling all-nighters for Alan, and though he was a bear to work for, he gave me plenty of assignments, real experience, and good reviews. And that was what counted around here.
    Olivia jumped up, taking her tuna sandwich with her. “See you later.” She gave me a sympathetic look as she closed the door behind her.
    “What can I do for you, Alan?” The chirpy tone in my voice was fake, and the corners of my mouth quivered with the effort of maintaining a plastic grin. I was already on thin ice for taking off three days this week, legitimate reasons be damned. Alan might like my work product, but he didn’t tolerate personal crises interfering with the practice of law. And it was odd he’d decided to swing by my office. He usually summoned me to his with a curt bark on the phone.
    “I want to know what’s going on with the investigation into Shane Hartley’s death.” It was the same tactic he used when cross-examining witnesses. No exchanging pleasantries with Alan. He went straight for the jugular. It was a technique I was trying to hone, but I didn’t appreciate being on the receiving end.
    “Pardon me?” I tried to stall and gather my thoughts for this interrogation.
    “Lonestar Energy is one of this firm’s biggest clients. I was very upset to hear my star associate was involved with a client’s death.” Alan’s left eye began to twitch in unison with the pulsating vein now standing out above his right temple.
    Uh-oh.
    Alan was about to go nuclear. I’d only seen him this agitated once, and it was right before he threw his Penn Law class of 1989 paperweight at his secretary. She’d taken it in stride, but the firm had decided it would be better to give her a nice payoff so we could all pretend he hadn’t almost decapitated her.
    I gulped some air and tried to still my nervous hands. I would have been ecstatic to hear Alan call me his star associate just a week ago, but now I was sweating. “Involved? I wasn’t involved in Hartley’s death. I just inherited my, um . . .” Here, I stalled, not sure what to call Sylvia. “My future grandmother-in-law’s house. The first night I spent there, he was murdered. I barely knew him, and I had no reason to want him dead.”
    Alan loomed over my desk, all six feet of him. His stale coffee breath mingled with his aftershave. I