Six Killer Bodies by Stephanie Bond Page A

ploy. Underneath the floppy
    white shirt, she was probably wearing a latex corset. Or an
    edible bra.
    “Hi, Wes. Come on in.”
    Her smile was friendly instead of flirtatious, throwing him
    off a little. Stepping inside, he scanned the room while he
    closed the door. The kitchen was straight out of Southern
    Living, with white painted cabinetry, black granite
    countertops, and wood floors. Two lidded pans emitting
    nice smells sat on top of the commercial-grade stainless
    steel stove. Through a doorway leading deeper into the
    house, he saw pale, overstuffed furniture and thick rugs.
    Elvis Costello’s “Al ison” sounded from the next room.
    Wesley frowned. The setting seemed…cozy.
    “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
    Conscious of Chance’s stern warning not to drink alcohol
    with the Oxy, he swallowed past a dry throat. “Water
    would be great.”
    “Pel egrino okay?” she asked, withdrawing a green bottle
    from the refrigerator. She topped off her own glass, then
    looked up.
    “Uh, sure,” he said, surprised that Liz wasn’t having
    something stronger.
    She fil ed another glass and handed it to him. The heavy
    musk of her perfume irritated his overstimulated olfactory
    nerve.
    “I’d planned for us to eat in the dining room,” she said,
    “but that seemed so formal. So I set the kitchen table.”
    Wesley swung his head in the direction she nodded and
    did a double-take at the two place settings, complete with
    standing, pleated napkins. “Uh…what’s going on?”
    She smiled. “I made us dinner.”
    He felt his eyes grow wide. “Dinner? I thought we were
    going to—” He swal owed the last word.
    “Later,” Liz promised. “First, I thought we’d talk.”
    His bal s sagged. “Talk?”
    “Yes. Do you like filet?”
    “Uh…sure. But I hadn’t planned to eat…steak.” He glanced
    at his watch. “I have to be somewhere in less than an
    hour.”
    “You have time to eat. Besides, I wanted to chat with you
    about my newest client.”
    “Coop?”
    “Have a seat and I’l plate the food.”
    He did as he was told, lowering himself awkwardly onto an
    elegant chair that was covered in a fancy striped fabric.
    “Did you ever work in a restaurant?”
    She looked back. “I waitressed my way through law school.
    Why do you ask?”
    “You said ‘plate the food.’ That’s a foodie term.”
    Liz smiled. “And you’re a foodie?”
    “I watch the Food Network occasionally,” he admitted
    sheepishly.
    “You cook?”
    “Some. Carlotta is a disaster in the kitchen, so I took over
    the meals a few years ago.”
    Liz carried their plates to the table. “I hope my meager
    skil s suffice.”
    The filet was undercooked, and the mixed vegetables were
    overcooked, but he appreciated the effort and
    complimented her. She smiled her thanks, but picked at
    the food on her plate. Liz seemed nervous, which was so
    uncharacteristic, it made him nervous.
    “Is Coop okay?” he asked.
    “It’s hard to tell,” she said. “He’s so…self-deprecating. It’s
    clear to me that he feels like he deserves to be punished
    for something.”
    Wes wet his lips. “Do you think Coop is The Charmed
    Kil er?”
    She lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. “I don’t know. He
    doesn’t behave like a man who’s been wrongly accused.
    He’s not angry, he’s not defensive. I have to pul
    information out of him.”
    “He’s probably going through withdrawal. He’s a
    recovering alcoholic, but Carlotta and I both noticed he’d
    started drinking again lately.”
    “I could tel he was coming down from something. I
    requested that he be kept under observation in the
    infirmary. Maybe when his health improves, his head wil
    clear.”
    But she didn’t sound optimistic. With a rueful noise, she
    pushed away her barely touched plate. “So what do you
    think, Wes? Is this guy a serial kil er?”
    Wes swallowed a chunk of bloody meat. “No.”
    Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s not exactly a