Sympathy for the Devil by Jerrilyn Farmer

that a man who loved the feel of Ritz-Carlton towels after a dip in the pool in Laguna Niguel would find them just as plush while drying off on the outskirts of Palm Springs.
    â€œMr. Westcott? One moment, please.” I heard the line connect and ring through to a room.
    I grinned. I had done it. Tracked him down and it had only taken thirty-five minutes. Not bad.
    â€œI’m sorry, there’s no answer. Is there a message?”
    â€œCould you connect me to the health club?” I countered. Faint victory if I couldn’t get him on the line. I knew my quarry. I’d track him through his favorite little luxuries, even if I had to be transferred all over the damn hotel. I was going to nail him.
    â€œSpa,” a deep male voice answered.
    â€œDoes Wesley Westcott have a massage scheduled today? This is his…wife.”
    â€œUmm, yeah. He’s here now. He’s in room two with Theo.”
    â€œIt’s an emergency. Please tell him it’s about Mal and get him to the phone right away.”
    â€œJust a moment, Mrs. Westcott.”
    I waited, listening to Chopin—it appears I’d earned a muzak upgrade—and counted the strokes I was stirring in the polenta. I had gotten to thirty-three when Wes’s voice came across the line.
    Victory.
    â€œWesley Westcott get dressed. We have got to talk.”
    â€œMadeline! I’ve left messages. Where have you been?”
    â€œAfter my brush against the thorny backside of the law, I have been trying to figure out who the hell killed Bruno Huntley.”
    â€œI’m standing at the spa reception desk wearing a sheet. I’ll call you back…”
    â€œOh, no you don’t. I’ve been through hell trying to find you and I have fifteen more minutes of stirring polenta, so park it in a chair and tell me why you ran off.”
    â€œI was trying to keep you out of this mess.” He sighed. “You have permission to remind me to keep my mouth shut. Ordinarily, talking about what an asshole Bruno is can be a popular conversation starter. It’s just that I was dishing the man at a rather bad time.”
    â€œWesley!” He had that familiar tone. He was not taking any of this at all seriously.
    â€œWell, how was I to know he’d get popped off last night? Do you think I’d go around trashing the man if I was planning to murder him? It’s ridiculous.”
    â€œI know, Wes. But leaving town so suddenly only makes it look worse. Now they’re going to think you ran away. I’m scared.”
    â€œWell, honestly! Would I kill anyone? The police are so immature!” he groused. “Granted, I was annoyed at the bastard for ripping me off on that old land commission. But how would his death get me my money? It’s not logical.”
    His tone of voice changed. “The towels? I’m not sure I can help you.” He was speaking to someone at the spa.
    â€œWes.” I giggled. “Are you really sitting there in a sheet?”
    â€œHey, did you turn down the heat on the polenta? You want the cornmeal to taste toasty, not bitter.”
    Wes and I could argue recipes for days, but on polenta we were both a bit old-fashioned. No instant mixes, no shortcuts.
    â€œLeave me alone about the polenta. Look, I need you back here to help me figure this out. I’ve come up with some clues…”
    â€œOh, good. Clues!”
    â€œYes. But, oddly, they all seem to lead to you, my friend.”
    â€œMe? Like what?”
    â€œLike the strychnine that was used to poison Bruno? I’m getting an unsettling feeling it was put into the bottle of Armagnac that Bruno kept locked up for his special nightcaps.”
    â€œIn the Armagnac? Are you sure?” Wesley thought it over. “That would make certain sick sense. The killer had to know that sooner or later Bruno would take a drink from his precious bottle of Armagnac.”
    â€œSure. Everyone close to Bruno knew