“In a few days you’ll be married to Tate.” Mel laughed and hugged her friend close. “I am so happy for you both.”
“Thanks,” Angie said. “Man, I can’t believe I spent all those years thinking he was in love with you.”
“Idiot.” Mel’s voice was teasing when she said it, and Angie laughed and said, “Yep.”
They sighed and then glanced around the studio. There was no sign of Blaise. They glanced at each other and Mel shrugged.
“Blaise, hello,” Angie cried out. “It’s Angie, your favorite bride.”
Silence greeted them. Mel felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to prickle. No, no, no! She wasn’t doing that again. She pictured a unicorn prancing through the studio. It didn’t really help.
“Probably, he’s in the bathroom,” she said.
“Yeah,” Angie agreed. “I’ll just poke my head in the back.”
“Okay,” Mel said. Under her breath, she began to chant, “Unicorns and glitter, unicorns and glitter, come on, unicorns and glitter.”
Angie got halfway to the back and turned around. “Come with me.”
Mel nodded. She followed Angie to Blaise’s office in the back corner. It had no windows that looked into the studio, just a door painted with black chalkboard paint where people could scrawl messages for him. Several messages in different colored chalk were there now, including one in bright blue that listed Angie’s name and the time. So he had been expecting them.
Angie knocked on the door. There was no answer. She rapped again. Still nothing. She reached down and grasped the handle, turning it and pushing in the door.
The office was a cluttered mess with papers and proof sheets and pop-art tchotchkes littering every surface. A life-sized self-portrait of Blaise was on the wall opposite and Mel almost greeted the picture instead of the man.
“Blaise, hey, are you napping on the job or what?” Angie asked.
Blaise was in his office chair, with his back to them as he faced his very large computer screen. The screen saver was on and the pattern was undulating all over the display. Mel followed it for a second, but then realized that Blaise sitting in front of the computer while the screen saver was on was wrong. So wrong!
“Blaise!” she cried.
She stepped around Angie into the room to get a look at the photographer. He was sitting upright, staring at the computer with vacant eyes, his lips tinged with a faint shade of blue. Mel reached out to touch his hand. It was icy cold. There was no pulse. No rise and fall to his chest.
Blaise Ione was dead.
Two
“You were supposed to be thinking of unicorns and glitter bombs,” Angie said. She pressed against Mel’s side as they both studied the body of the man before them.
“I was! Like a mantra in my head, I swear.”
“Oh, poor Blaise,” Angie said. A sob bubbled up and she went to touch his hand but Mel intercepted her. They needed to keep him exactly as they’d found him for the police.
She hugged her close, trying to calm her own shaking as much as Angie’s. She could feel her heart pounding hard in her chest and it was hard to breathe.
“We need to do something,” Angie said.
“Yes, we need to call the police,” Mel agreed. A glance at Blaise and it was clear what had killed him. A camera strap had been twisted around his neck and was still lying there, resting on his collarbones like a choker. Never had the term been more literal.
“Let’s go call Uncle Stan,” Mel said.
She put her arm around Angie’s shoulders and ushered her out of Blaise’s office and into the studio. She pushed her onto the hard concrete seat and Angie put her face in her hands and began to cry. Mel kept one hand on Angie’s shoulder, trying to comfort her while she thumbed through the contacts on her phone looking for her uncle’s number.
Her fingers were shaking and she fumbled her phone. Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to steady herself as she found Uncle Stan’s number and pressed call. Not for the first time it occurred to her that it was handy having an uncle who was also a local homicide detective.
“Mel, this had better be an invitation to your mother’s for pot roast,” Uncle Stan answered on the third ring.
“Sorry, no,” Mel said. She blew out a breath. Her voice was shaky and she tried to pull herself together enough to continue. “I’m at Blaise Ione’s photography studio over in Old Town, and he’s, well—”
“Dead,” Uncle Stan said.
“Yes,” Mel said, thankful that her uncle could voice the word she was struggling with.
“Are you safe?” His breathing changed and Mel got the feeling he had started to run.
“There’s no one here except me and Angie, if that’s what you mean,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
Mel scanned the tiny studio. Other than Blaise’s office there was no other room except the bathroom in the back. She gave Angie’s shoulder a squeeze and walked across the room to check the bathroom. She might have been nervous, but she had the feeling the place was empty. She doubted that whoever had strangled Blaise had lingered to use the facilities.
She pushed the door open and jumped back just in case. No psychopaths leaped out at her, so she flipped on the light switch using the back of her hand. The room was empty.
“No, no one is here,” she said.
“I’ve got a patrol car on its way,” he said. “Stay on the phone with me until they get there.”
“Okay.”
She walked back to stand beside Angie. Angie glanced up at her, looking crushed and a little lost. Neither Angie nor Mel had known Blaise as well as Tate had, but they had both been fond of him. Mel couldn’t help but think of his poor mother. She was going to be devastated.
Mel could hear the sound of a siren coming from
