To Die For Read online

  Last night, I’d felt sorry for Nicole. Today I was thinking more clearly, and I figured it was just like her that, even dead, she was causing trouble for me.

  I put on the coffee, grabbed a cup of yogurt from the refrigerator because that was fast, and ate it while I popped two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster and peeled a banana. One peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich—and two cups of coffee—later, I was much happier. Sometimes, when I’m really busy at Great Bods, I’ll make do with an apple or something like that for lunch, but when I have the time to sit down, I like to eat.

  Once I felt as if I wouldn’t collapse from hunger, I got the morning newspaper from the front steps and, over another cup of coffee, absorbed just how big the paper was playing Nicole’s murder. The article was on the bottom half of the front page, and included a picture of Wyatt and me when he was hauling me out of Great Bods to stuff me in his car. He looked big and grim, and I looked in really great shape, with the pink halter top revealing my toned abs. I didn’t have a six-pack, but I didn’t go for the really muscular look, so that was fine. I was thinking that my abs were a good advertisement for Great Bods when I read the caption under the photo: “Lieutenant J.W. Bloodsworth leads witness Blair Mallory from the crime scene.”

  “Leads,” my ass! Hauled was more like it. And why did they have to identify me in the big color photo on the first page, huh? Why couldn’t the reporter have stuck my name somewhere toward the end of the article?

  I read the entire article, and nowhere did I find Wyatt’s official statement about witnesses, plural. The only mention of a witness was singular—little old me. Probably by the time he’d made the statement, the paper had already gone to press. There would probably be another article in tomorrow’s paper, but I was afraid the damage was done.

  Right on cue, my phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID and saw the name of the newspaper. No way was I talking to a reporter, so I let the answering machine pick up the call.

  Yes, indeed, this looked like a great day to leave town.

  I dashed upstairs and dried my hair, then put on pink capri pants, a white tank, and the cutest flip-flops with little pink and yellow shells on the straps. Is that the best beach outfit, or what? I brushed my teeth, put on moisturizer and mascara, then added a little bit of blush and lip gloss just in case. In case what? In case Wyatt delivered the car, of course. Just because I didn’t want him back didn’t mean I wouldn’t take joy in showing him just exactly what he’d turned down before.

  The phone kept ringing. I talked to Mom, who was just checking to see how I was doing. I talked to Siana, who was wildly curious about both the murder and the photograph of me with Wyatt, since she had listened to me rant about him two years ago. Other than that, I didn’t answer any of the calls. I didn’t want to talk to any reporters, nosy acquaintances, or possible murderers.

  Traffic on the street outside my condo seemed to be unusually heavy. Maybe it was a good thing my car wasn’t parked under the portico; from the street, it must have looked as if no one was home. Still, I had things to do and places to go; I needed wheels.

  By ten, my car still hadn’t been delivered. I was doing a slow burn as I looked up the number for the police department.

  Whoever answered the phone, sergeant somebody, was polite but ultimately unhelpful. I asked for Lieutenant Bloodsworth. He wasn’t available. Neither was Detective MacInnes. The sergeant transferred me to someone else, who transferred me to someone else. I had to explain the entire situation each time. Finally—finally—I got Detective Forester and went through my spiel again.

  “Let me check. I don’t think the lieutenant is in the building, but I’ll see what I can find out about your car,” he said, and put the phone down.

  I could hear noise, the kind of noise made by a lot of different voices. I could hear telephones ringing, papers rustling. Days were evidently as busy at the police department as nights were. I waited. I examined my manicure, which was holding up nicely. I began to think about lunch, which could be a problem unless someone—anyone!—delivered my car. I seldom eat lunch at home; I have mostly breakfast food, and I was getting low on that because I hadn’t bought groceries in a couple of weeks. I guessed I could have a pizza delivered, but I wasn’t in the mood for pizza. I was in the mood to strangle one police lieutenant.

  Finally Detective Forester came back to the phone. “Ma’am, Lieutenant Bloodsworth is taking care of your car.”

  “When?” I asked with clenched teeth. “I’m stranded here without it. He was supposed to have it brought to me early this morning.”

  “I’m sorry for that, ma’am. He’s been very busy today.”

  “Then why can’t a patrolman bring the car to me? Or—I know!—I’ll take a taxi to Great Bods and someone can meet me there, and move the car from the back parking lot. That would save time and trouble for everyone.”

  “Hold on,” he said, and I held. And held. And held. About ten minutes later he picked up the phone and said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t get anything arranged right now.”

  Okay, this wasn’t his fault. I managed to make my tone calm. “I understand. Thank you for checking. Oh—do you have Lieutenant Bloodsworth’s cell phone number? I misplaced it, or I’d have called him directly instead of bothering you.”

  “It’s no bother,” Detective Forester said gallantly, and rattled off the number.

  Heh heh heh. Thanks to Wyatt’s high-handed actions the night before, all the cops thought we were involved. Why wouldn’t the detective give Wyatt’s cell number to me? That was a tactical error on Wyatt’s part.

  Wyatt might be in the middle of something important, and calling him would be a big distraction. Damn, I hoped so. I started punching in the numbers, then stopped. He probably had Caller ID on his cell, and he might not answer a call he knew was from me.

  Smirking, I put down the cordless and retrieved my own cell phone from my bag. Yes, Detective MacInnes had been kind enough to return it to me last night, once he had determined I hadn’t shot Nicole. I turned it on and called Wyatt.

  He answered on the third ring. “Bloodsworth.”

  “Where’s my car?” I demanded in as menacing a tone as I could muster.

  He sighed. “Blair. I’ll get to it. I’ve been a little busy today.”

  “I’m stranded. If you had listened to reason last night, you could have retrieved my car then and we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but, no, you had to throw your weight around—”

  He hung up on me.

  I shrieked in fury, but I didn’t call him back, which he probably expected. Okay, he was going to be a jerk. Fuck him. Well, not literally. Though once upon a time I—never mind. I wasn’t going there.

  I drummed my fingers and considered my options. I could call Mom and Dad and they would gladly give me a ride to a grocery store, or even lend me one of their cars, which would be an inconvenience for them. Siana would also ferry me around. Jenni might, if she didn’t have anything else going on, but her social calendar made me exhausted just to think about it.

  On the other hand, I could simply rent a car. Several of the name-brand rental agencies would pick you up and take you back to their office to sign the papers and get the car.

  I don’t dillydally around when I come up with a plan of action. I looked up the number of a rental agency, called them, and arranged to be picked up in an hour. Then I raced around watering plants and packing what clothes I thought I’d need for a few days at the beach, which wasn’t many. Makeup and toiletries took up way more room than my clothes in the duffel bag. I added a couple of books in case I felt like reading, then stood at the front door impatiently waiting for the rental car guy to show up.

  The traffic had lessened; maybe all the gawkers and/or reporters had decided I was in hiding somewhere, or had maybe gone shopping. Still, when my ride appeared I didn’t want to dally around on the front steps, an easy target for either an eager reporter or a desperate killer. I got my keys out