To Die For

I reassured her again that I was okay, that I was going to bed because I was exhausted, and hung up feeling much better. She hadn’t made any there-there noises, which is so not my mom, but I had headed off any well-meaning gossips who would have upset her.

I thought about calling Siana, but I was too tired to remember my list of grievances off the top of my head. After I’d had some sleep, I’d write them all down again. Siana would get a kick out of my run-in with Lieutenant Bloodsworth, because she knew about our past connection.

There was nothing I wanted more than sleep, so I turned off all the lights except for the dim sconces that lit the stairs; then I climbed up to my bedroom, where I pulled off my clothes and collapsed naked in my cloud of a bed. I groaned aloud with relief as I stretched out-then I ruined the moment of bliss by imagining Wyatt naked and stretching out on top of me.

The damn man was a menace. Before my wayward imagination went any further, I made myself recall and go over every detail of our last date, when he had acted like such a horse’s ass.

There. That worked.

Feeling peaceful, I rolled over and went to sleep. Lights Out, Blair.

Chapter Six

He’d remembered that I drank Diet Coke. That was the first thought on my mind when I woke at eight-thirty. Lying there in bed blinking sleepily at the slowly whirling ceiling fan, I tried to decide whether the Diet Coke was significant. The romantic in me wanted to believe he remembered every little detail about me, but levelheaded me said he probably just had a very good memory, period. A cop had to have a good memory, right? It was part of the job description, reciting Miranda and all of that.

So the Diet Coke thing wasn’t important. For all I knew, he just assumed a woman would drink a diet soft drink, which was a really sexist thing to assume, never mind that he’d be right most of the time.

I’d fallen into bed instead of packing, so there went my planned early start for the beach. Not that it mattered, because I didn’t have a car. But someone-namely Wyatt-could show up with my car at any time, so I jumped out of bed and into the shower. The shower was a fast one, because I was so hungry I thought I’d be sick. Somehow I hadn’t gotten around to eating anything the night before.

Yeah, yeah, I know I shouldn’t complain about being hungry when poor Nicole will never eat again. Tough. Nicole was dead and I wasn’t, and I didn’t like her any more now that she was dead than I did while she was alive.

Even worse, she was the cause of Great Bods being closed for an indefinite length of time. If she hadn’t been such a bitch, waiting for me in the parking lot to do whatever damage she’d planned, she wouldn’t have been killed on my property. To take this conclusion to the very end, it was also Nicole’s fault that I’d been forced to see Wyatt Bloodsworth again.

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.”