Some Like It Lethal by Nancy Martin Page B

Spike would bite him for me?"
    I smiled and reflected that Claudine's remark about jealousy wasn't totally off base. It did add a dash of spice to a relationship.
    I flipped the envelope over in my hand to look for further clues. I looked closely at the postage sticker. "Michael, this was mailed a week ago!"
    "What?"
    Spike sat up in my lap.
    "I've been staying at Libby's house! This envelope has been sitting in my mailbox for a week. I was supposed to pay the money last Wednesday! I missed the deadline!"
    "Calm down."
    "Oh, God, what does this mean?"
    "A threat is meaningless unless you follow through immediately. Well," he said reasonably, "this takes the pressure off, doesn't it?"
    I got to my feet. "I was supposed to hand over ten thousand dollars by now. Why haven't I heard from him?"
    "This blackmailer has a relaxed timetable."
    "But—" The thought hit me like a lightning strike. "Good Lord, do you suppose Rush was the blackmailer?"
    Michael considered the theory. "Somebody decided to kill him instead of pay him?"
    I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. A minute ago, I needed ten thousand dollars. Now, it seemed, I might be in the clear. "Do you think it's possible?"
    "Did he need money?"
    "Rush? Desperately."
    "And he had an envelope on him when he died?"
    "Yes. I wonder if he was trying to blackmail Emma? Wait, I'm making too many leaps."
    "It's okay. Let yourself be creative. Theorize for a minute."
    "The misspelled word," I said, reading the note again. "I just learned Rush Strawcutter was dyslexic." Suddenly, I wasn't as scared as I was excited. I headed back to the kitchen with Spike trotting behind me. "That's another clue that points to Rush."
    "Maybe you don't need police assistance after all."
    Behind me, the microwave dinged.
    Michael heard it. "You're not eating plastic food again, are you?"
    "I don't have time to shop or cook."
    "When I get back, you're going to make time for a lot of things."
    I tried to smile. "That sounds nice."
    "Maybe I'll make you something with truffles."
    "Truffles?"
    "Yeah. Have you ever eaten them?"
    "On special occasions. They're fabulous."
    "Expensive as hell," he said. "But you just dig them out of the ground, you know. They're really rare."
    "Yes, I know."
    "We had such a great dinner last night that I started thinking about truffles."
    "Are there truffles in Scotland?"
    "Well—"
    "You can't bring them into this country, you know."
    "Not in your luggage," he agreed. "But they can be shipped. Restaurants pay a fortune for just a couple of ounces, did you know that?"
    "Are you up to something?"
    "I'm just thinking," he said, endeavoring to sound innocent. "Listen, I have to turn off the phone now. Don't panic about the blackmail, okay? If you haven't heard from the guy yet, you could be in the clear. Give it a few days. Now, tell me quick—how's Emma?"
    "Sleeping at the hospital. I'll go see her in the morning."
    "Give her a kiss for me."
    "Fat chance."
    He laughed and signed off.
    Spike began to play on the kitchen floor in the puddle of water which had reappeared. In fact, it seemed to be growing larger.
    I had found myself suddenly swimming in a lot of deep water. First a murder, and now blackmail. And nobody close enough to lend me a life preserver.
    Except one person.
    Chapter 7
    Libby's minivan screamed up to my back door half an hour later than planned on Sunday morning.
    She let herself in, wearing a white parka with a fur hood. The zipper was pulled low enough to challenge J. Lo's latest decolletage.
    She said, "Do you think there's anything weird about these boots?"
    From the scullery, I looked at her feet, which were encased in a pair of pointy-toed black boots with narrow heels and laces up the front. "Does your goddess enjoy sadomasochism?"
    "Very funny."
    "Why are you asking?"
    "I respect your knowledge of fashion, that's all. You always look nice, and I only— Oh, never mind. What is all this water doing on the floor?"
    Overnight, my kitchen puddle had become a