sandies, praying one of them would offer me a bite.
“So did you?” Brad was asking me.
Oh, dear. I’d been so intent on a piece of swiss cheese dangling from his Kaiser roll, I hadn’t heard his question.
“Did I what?”
“Hear anything at all during your massage that might give us a clue to the killer’s identity?”
“Afraid not.”
Unless George Clooney was the killer, I hadn’t heard a peep.
“Do you have any idea,” Angelina asked between bites of her ham and turkey, “who might have wanted to kill Mallory?”
I hesitated to rat on my fellow guests, but there was a murderer among us. I couldn’t just sit by and pretend that Mallory was adored by one and all.
I ran down my list of suspects—just about everyone—and was about to offer them my services as a part-time semi-professional P.I. (You’d never know it to look at me, but I have solved a few murders in my day, which you can read all about in the titles listed at the front of this book.)
But just then they threw me a most unwelcome curve ball.
“What was your relationship with the deceased like?” Angelina asked.
“What relationship?? I barely knew the woman.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
“Huh?”
“According to our notes,” Brad said, taking time out from his sandwich to flip through a small pad, “the other night at dinner, you offered Mallory your services as a writer.”
I thought back to that first dinner when blabbermouth Cathy, upon hearing that Mallory needed a writer, piped up and suggested moi .
“I didn’t offer my services. Cathy did.”
“Whatever. We have an eyewitness who confirmed that Mallory Francis was quite insulting in her reply to you. Suggesting you weren’t a real writer.”
Oh, for crying out loud. Who the heck felt the need to share that little anecdote?
“So?” I shrugged. “Mallory dissed me. She dissed everybody.”
“Writers can be very sensitive,” Brad said.
“High strung,” Angelina chimed in.
“You think I’d strangle Mallory with a piece of kelp because she said I wasn’t a real writer?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, I can assure you, I didn’t do it.”
“Nevertheless, we’d like you to stick around for a few days. Understood?”
“Understood,” I nodded, steamed to the max. The nerve of these people, practically accusing me of murder!
“Any questions?” Brad asked, licking some mustard from his finger.
“Just one,” I said.
Brangelina looked up at me inquiringly.
“You guys gonna eat your pickles?”
Chapter 14
I allowed myself the faint hope that Olga might cancel our classes out of respect for the not-so-dearly departed. But alas, that night over celery fizzes, Olga announced that, murder or no murder, it was business as usual at The Haven. Same nine hundred miserable calories a day. Same god-awful exercises.
Whatever uneasiness had descended upon the gang in the aftermath of Mallory’s death was gone by dinner. Olga was positively buoyant as she dished out the evening’s slop (gray chicken, soggy zucchini, and—alert the media!—cantaloupe instead of mangoes for dessert).
Kendra had taken Mallory’s place at the “A” table, and for once, I saw a smile on her face. After a whole thirteen seconds of pretending to mourn her sister’s death, she and Harvy and Clint were laughing and telling jokes, in the highest of high spirits. Every once in a while, Olga would join in with a bon mot of her own.
Even Armani, the Peke, seemed to be in a jolly mood, digging into his steak tidbits with gusto.
Here with me at the peasant table, though, Cathy was a nervous wreck, still convinced one of her fellow guests was a killer.
“Not you, of course, “she whispered to me. “I know you didn’t do it. But I wouldn’t trust those others as far as I could throw a celery stick.
“How I wish I were back in Duluth scanning Pringles at the Piggly Wiggly,” she moaned. “I should have listened to Mr. Muffin. He told me not to
“So did you?” Brad was asking me.
Oh, dear. I’d been so intent on a piece of swiss cheese dangling from his Kaiser roll, I hadn’t heard his question.
“Did I what?”
“Hear anything at all during your massage that might give us a clue to the killer’s identity?”
“Afraid not.”
Unless George Clooney was the killer, I hadn’t heard a peep.
“Do you have any idea,” Angelina asked between bites of her ham and turkey, “who might have wanted to kill Mallory?”
I hesitated to rat on my fellow guests, but there was a murderer among us. I couldn’t just sit by and pretend that Mallory was adored by one and all.
I ran down my list of suspects—just about everyone—and was about to offer them my services as a part-time semi-professional P.I. (You’d never know it to look at me, but I have solved a few murders in my day, which you can read all about in the titles listed at the front of this book.)
But just then they threw me a most unwelcome curve ball.
“What was your relationship with the deceased like?” Angelina asked.
“What relationship?? I barely knew the woman.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
“Huh?”
“According to our notes,” Brad said, taking time out from his sandwich to flip through a small pad, “the other night at dinner, you offered Mallory your services as a writer.”
I thought back to that first dinner when blabbermouth Cathy, upon hearing that Mallory needed a writer, piped up and suggested moi .
“I didn’t offer my services. Cathy did.”
“Whatever. We have an eyewitness who confirmed that Mallory Francis was quite insulting in her reply to you. Suggesting you weren’t a real writer.”
Oh, for crying out loud. Who the heck felt the need to share that little anecdote?
“So?” I shrugged. “Mallory dissed me. She dissed everybody.”
“Writers can be very sensitive,” Brad said.
“High strung,” Angelina chimed in.
“You think I’d strangle Mallory with a piece of kelp because she said I wasn’t a real writer?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Well, I can assure you, I didn’t do it.”
“Nevertheless, we’d like you to stick around for a few days. Understood?”
“Understood,” I nodded, steamed to the max. The nerve of these people, practically accusing me of murder!
“Any questions?” Brad asked, licking some mustard from his finger.
“Just one,” I said.
Brangelina looked up at me inquiringly.
“You guys gonna eat your pickles?”
Chapter 14
I allowed myself the faint hope that Olga might cancel our classes out of respect for the not-so-dearly departed. But alas, that night over celery fizzes, Olga announced that, murder or no murder, it was business as usual at The Haven. Same nine hundred miserable calories a day. Same god-awful exercises.
Whatever uneasiness had descended upon the gang in the aftermath of Mallory’s death was gone by dinner. Olga was positively buoyant as she dished out the evening’s slop (gray chicken, soggy zucchini, and—alert the media!—cantaloupe instead of mangoes for dessert).
Kendra had taken Mallory’s place at the “A” table, and for once, I saw a smile on her face. After a whole thirteen seconds of pretending to mourn her sister’s death, she and Harvy and Clint were laughing and telling jokes, in the highest of high spirits. Every once in a while, Olga would join in with a bon mot of her own.
Even Armani, the Peke, seemed to be in a jolly mood, digging into his steak tidbits with gusto.
Here with me at the peasant table, though, Cathy was a nervous wreck, still convinced one of her fellow guests was a killer.
“Not you, of course, “she whispered to me. “I know you didn’t do it. But I wouldn’t trust those others as far as I could throw a celery stick.
“How I wish I were back in Duluth scanning Pringles at the Piggly Wiggly,” she moaned. “I should have listened to Mr. Muffin. He told me not to
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