“That never hurts,” I agreed, surprised at her candor. Most authors I knew liked to pretend they had no control over their success. Which was partially true, to a point. “Can I ask you something, though?”
“Sure. Fire away.”
“There’s a rumor that you and Natasha had a fight a couple days before she died. Over a man.”
Her face went from open and bright, to dark and closed in a heartbeat. “That Yvonne Kittering has a big mouth.”
“So you knew she overheard you?”
“Of course. And I didn’t care. At least until Yvonne started spreading lies.”
“Lies?”
Avery whirled on me, an angry flush staining her high cheekbones. “Do you honestly think I’d waste my time on a kid like Kyle?”
“To be honest? Not really.”
“Exactly,” she huffed. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than moon around with children. Besides, he’s not my type.”
“Then what were you arguing about?” I asked, baffled.
“I’ve never liked the way Natasha used people. I finally decided to tell her right to her face. Kyle may be a kid, but he deserved better than a woman like Natasha toying with his affections. Now, I’ve got to go. I’m already late.” And with that, she sashayed out of the room leaving me standing there in a state of confusion.
Yvonne had painted Avery as a man-eating, power-hungry, do-anything-for-success type, but Avery hadn’t seemed that way at all to me. She’d seemed genuine, normal, and a champion for the little guy. She was back to being dead last on my suspect list, and I no idea where to go from there. I wondered if Costa was as frustrated as I was.
Chapter 16
The Last Testament
THERE WAS ONE LAST person on my list of suspects which I’d yet to question: Greta Morris, Natasha’s current personal assistant. Well, current until Natasha wound up dead on the beach, anyway. I decided to drag Lucas along. He seemed to have a way with middle-aged ladies. I cringed a little at the thought that I was now a middle-aged lady. That just didn’t seem right. When had that happened? I heaved a sigh.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Lucas asked cheerfully. Drat the man anyway. Why was it that middle-aged men didn’t get a bad rap? In fact, they generally seemed more desirable. More secure. More stable.
“Believe me, they’re not worth it.” I was this side of grumpy. Maybe I needed more coffee. Or a very large bar of chocolate.
We found Greta Morris in the coldest corner of the lobby, her blond hair, liberally streaked with gray, pulled back in a severe bun. She was bundled up in a woolly sweater which was an unfortunate shade of grayish-pink—I believe they call it crepe. It clashed with the woman’s rather florid complexion and did no favors to her figure, making her look exceptionally lumpy. Admittedly, it was absolutely frigid in this particular corner of the lobby, but Greta’s enormous sweater seemed like overkill. Still, this corner was also possibly the quietest, and Greta had her nose buried in her e-reader. It had a pink cover a shade brighter than her sweater. The woman must really love pink.
“Greta Morris?” I asked as if I didn’t already know who she was. She blinked up at me through watery eyes. I noticed her nose was a bit red, and she clutched a tissue in her hand. Was she crying over poor Natasha? Or perhaps she was getting a cold. They seemed to be running rampant through the ranks of the NWA writers. Going from heat to cold every fifteen minutes had a habit of lowering one’s immune system. So far, I’d been lucky to avoid it.
“Yes?” she blinked at me from behind thick lenses. She was pretty much the exact opposite of Piper: frumpy, not particularly attractive, and at least two decades older. Probably the exact sort of person I would have hired if my first PA ran off with my husband.
“I’m Viola Roberts.” I didn’t stick out my hand, not wanting her germs, but offered her a warm smile.
“Oh yes. I remember.”
“And this is...”
“Lucas Salvatore,” she breathed as if suddenly being confronted by a living god.
I resisted an eye roll, barely. “Erm, yes. You know his work?”
“But of course,” she said eagerly, setting down her e-reader. “Sir, I can’t tell you how many of your books I have enjoyed. I’m always up until at least four a.m. reading.” She giggled like a schoolgirl, her cheeks pinkening even more.
“You just made my day. And call me Lucas.” His voice was a low rumble. I shot him a glare. He was going a bit overboard on the sexy-writer thing.
His words made her giggle and blush some more, which was really unfortunate. The blushing, I mean. If her complexion had clashed with her outfit before, it did doubly so now. I tried not to be judgy, but pink was the last color poor Greta should be wearing. But if it made her happy...
“What are you reading now?” I asked with genuine interest.
She sighed. “Natasha’s last book. The one we were working on before...well, you know.” I nodded. “The publisher is still going to release it, so they’ve asked me to send them the files. I figured I might as well read it first. So emotional. So moving.”
I frowned. Natasha’s books were about as emotional as a donut. Scratch that, donuts elicited more emotion. Like that time when my local donut shop gave me a bacon maple donut instead of a regular maple bar. Trust me when I say bacon does not belong on a donut. Serious emotion happened there.
“Er, you mean because she died?” I asked, finding myself swimming in unfamiliar waters.
“Oh, no, the story really is moving. Unlike anything she’s ever written before.” Greta gave a surreptitious look around the lobby. “Let me tell you, I don’t know how she had the following she did. Mediocre, if you ask me, but my job
