Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6)

by LynDee Walker

  And there was the mic drop. I couldn’t argue with that, because the stakes were too high if I turned out to be wrong.

  Daydreams of swaying close to Joey in my frothy silver gown, my hands on the shoulders of his tuxedo jacket (God. Joey in a tux. My stomach flipped clean over. Twice.) faded, pragmatism taking their place.

  “I’m being difficult,” I said softly. “Again.”

  “You’re cute when you’re difficult. And I love that you want me there. I just don’t think it’s a great idea.”

  “I know.”

  “Does this mean I’m out of the doghouse? Darcy’s getting tired of me.”

  “Darcy wouldn’t know a doghouse if one fell on her.” My little toy Pomeranian was possibly the most pampered dog on the planet, and she made no apologies for it.

  “I really am sorry,” he said. “Though I’m sorrier you’re not enjoying your weekend—what the hell is going on out there?”

  I didn’t realize until I finished talking how much I’d needed to unload everything. My chest suddenly less tight, I took a deep breath. “It’s only their wedding, and possibly Parker’s whole life, on the line here. No pressure.”

  Joey was quiet for a minute before he cleared his throat. “You’re absolutely sure your friend isn’t capable…?” He didn’t actually say it, which saved me from biting his head off.

  “I’m sure. Surer than some other people he thinks he trusts, which is pissing me off.” Bob flashed through my head as I turned into the vineyard’s half-mile winding gravel drive.

  “Far be it from me to argue with your people instincts, but just keep this in mind: I’ve seen plenty of humans at their worst. Anyone can surprise you with the right motivation.”

  Parking the car, I flipped the mirror on the back of the sun visor open. Ick. Both of us could pack for a week at the beach in the hollows under my eyes. I plopped my sunglasses back into place. “Thank you,” I said. “But assuming I’m right, I need to move on to who it could actually be before this whole thing blows up in my face. The local sheriff will probably suspect Parker too, when he gets wind of their history, so we’re playing beat the clock.”

  “Coroner’s report?”

  “Not ready until next week. If we’re lucky. They use the state lab. The only thing working in my favor so far is the vineyard’s slimy-as-snails owner. He seems to want this taken care of quickly and quietly, but I get a seriously creepy vibe from him.”

  “Do I know this guy? I don’t remember you offering a name.”

  “I’m not sure I would’ve. Dale Sammons—”

  Joey’s sharp intake of breath stopped me before I could get the “he also owns the Generals” out of my mouth. My eyes fell shut behind the glasses. That sound was never a good one outside the bedroom.

  “What?” I forced the word out. Things that worried Joey tended to be at the Sharknado end of the oh-shit-stay-out-of-this scale.

  A string of curse words came out under his breath, followed by, “Listen to me, Princess. If there’s a law Dale Sammons hasn’t broken, it’s only because it hasn’t suited him to. If your victim was part of his inner circle, there’s a good chance you’re right about your friend not being responsible, and a better one that you’re about to get in way over your head.” He sighed, his voice taking on a pleading note that sounded alien coming from him. “You cannot get involved in this. Talk your friends into moving their wedding, and let the cops do their job.”

  8.

  Old friends, new suspects

  Five minutes of pressing got me nothing but a repeated loop of “You can’t think I’m that stupid. Anything I tell you will only make you get yourself in more trouble. Please, for once, can you just trust me?”

  I hung up with a promise to watch myself, climbing out of the car cursing the whole stinky mess under my breath. Trust him. What about trusting me? Surely he knew I’d learned a thing or two in the past few years about being careful and avoiding poking hornets’ nests. Or maybe he didn’t.

  Silver lining: He’d confirmed the excessively creepy vibe I’d gotten from Sammons. And honestly, Joey’s fear that I wouldn’t let this go was well-founded. How could I?

  Relocating the ceremony a week in advance? Impossible. Everything was set. Any place nearly as beautiful as the vineyard had been booked for a year or better. If we didn’t have the wedding here, it was the courthouse or postpone, neither of which I considered an option—yet, anyway.

  I paused halfway to the door of the lodge, wanting desperately to talk to Bob, but still too annoyed with him to go find him. I dropped my head back and studied the wide impossibly blue sky. Two wispy clouds floated across it like this was still the picture-perfect day I’d imagined.

  Pulling out my phone, I checked the clock. A questionably respectable phone hour for a Saturday, but questionable was better than nothing. I tapped my favorites list.

  “’Lo?” Kyle sounded like I’d woken him. Oops.

  “Morning.” I tried to keep my voice level. Didn’t work—even I could hear the stress-induced elevation.

  “Nichelle?” Now he was awake. “What’s wrong?” The words were slightly muffled, and I pictured him scrambling to a sitting position, rubbing his electric blue eyes as he pinched the phone between his cheek and shoulder.

  Kyle and I were high-school sweethearts who’d lost touch for a decade—until my ex showed up in my city as the federal government’s new SuperCop. We’d had our share of fits and starts to the whole “just friends” thing (mainly thanks to Joey, in one way or another), but had finally settled into a solid “don’t ask don’t tell” groove that kept us from driving each other nuts.

  Days like this, it was especially nice to have him in my corner.

  “Everything.” My voice cracked, and I swiped at my eyes. Deep breath. Clear throat. No tears, just facts.

  “One thing at a time.” His voice was low and soothing, belying his years of ATF-agent practice talking to hysterical people.

  I moved to a shady spot on the far end of the building where there wasn’t a person in sight. Starting with Mitch Burke and the wine barrel, I finished with Sammons and the wedding that was about to be a catastrophe, careful to leave Joey out of it.

  “How?” he asked after a pause. I heard cabinets shutting and his coffeemaker burbling in the background. “How do you find this shit, Nichelle?”

  “I think it found me this time.”

  He sighed. “And you don’t like the guy who owns the place?”

  “I get a bad vibe from him.” Every word true. “You don’t recognize the name?”

  “Not from work. Just from the news.”

  A guy who made Joey nervous, managing to fly under the Feds’ radar? This day just kept getting worse.

  What was Sammons up to? A million possibilities flew through my head. And the owner of Richmond’s baseball franchise in any one of them was a headline worth chasing. My inner Lois Lane wanted to dig until Sammons was looking at a federal indictment, but I had a wedding to rescue. If the guy was dirty, he’d still need a shower once Parker and Mel were off on their honeymoon.

  First things first.

  “I can’t let their wedding fall apart, Kyle,” I said, the desperation in my voice surprising me.

  “Agreed. I like Parker a lot. He took me to a couple of ballgames after the Okerson thing last year, and we keep up online. I’m looking forward to next weekend. And I’m a hundred percent with you on suspects—if Grant Parker murdered anyone, I’ll hand over my badge today and go teach science somewhere. Let me see what I can find on your victim—it sounds like there’s a chance I could turn up a few more enemies that will pull heat off Grant.”

  Score. Having Kyle on my side gave me a much stronger argument for Bob, which I fully intended to exploit. And it made me feel better about trusting my instincts too.

  “Thank you, Kyle.”

  “Anytime. Call me if you need me.”

  I clicked off the call, pushing everything out of my head but the task a
t hand. Sammons. If Joey was that freaked by him, there was something on the internet I’d missed. I was halfway back to my laptop when my phone buzzed. Text from Melanie. I slid my finger across the screen, holding my breath. Surely nothing else could go wrong.

  FML. My folks had a flight delay, but I can’t turn around and come back now or I’ll be driving all day. Can you and Grant hold down the fort?

  Hot damn. Her being stuck at the airport would actually be helpful, in the grand scheme. Thank you, Delta. I smiled as I tapped a reply.

  Got you covered, doll. See if they have a chair massage thing and pamper yourself. Will you make it back for lunch?

  I stared at the bubble with the dots that meant she was typing.

  Shit. It’ll be close. Can you stall?

  Of course.

  Thanks, Nicey. You’re a lifesaver.

  I tucked the phone back into my pocket and strode to the cottage.

  From your thumbs to God’s inbox, Mel.

  I flipped my computer open and typed Sammons’s name into the search bar, scrolling past all the dozens of PR links I’d already read. Judging by Joey’s reaction, Sammons had plenty to hide. But I had to sift through the crap to get to what I needed.

  I skipped to the thirteenth page of results, hoping my superstitiously random selection would be lousy luck for Sammons.

  Not unless you counted pictures of the millionaire owner of the Richmond Generals swinging a hammer for Habitat for Humanity as bad publicity. Damn.

  I forged ahead, staring at the screen until my eyes hurt. Twenty-seven pages of results, and nothing but squeaky clean.

  I clicked the image tab, but I was way more in the dark there. Parker would know who these people were, probably, but other than picking Sammons, Burke, and Parker out of the crowds, I had nothing.

  I kept scrolling anyway, clicking random thumbnails up for a closer look. I was an hour in, flirting with a massive headache and watching the clock tick closer to lunch, when I spotted something.

  Holy Manolos.

  No.

  I pulled the image up to full size, then zoomed in.

  I blew out a slow breath. If I lived to be a hundred and twenty, I wouldn’t forget that face. The steely eyes. The olive skin.

  Two years ago, ESPN Magazine had run a photo of Sammons and Burke, posing with a young pitcher at Richmond American University who was likely to be a hot ticket in this year’s draft. I recognized the pitcher, because I’d watched Parker bail the kid out of a spot of trouble a couple of years back. But my eyes were locked on the guy standing behind Sammons, a highball glass in his thick-fingered hand.

  Joey wasn’t exaggerating.

  I scanned the faces again: a kid with a gambling problem, the owner of the local baseball franchise, our murder victim—and a bonafide, real-life mafia don: Mario Caccione, now-deceased favorite son of the Caccione crime family.

  If Sammons was in with Don Mario, he really was a dangerous dude.

  I couldn’t think of a word bad enough, so I muttered a few different ones before I saved the photo and slammed my laptop shut so hard I wondered for a second if it would still work. “Dammit!” I bellowed at the soft grey walls.

  Parker was supposed to be happy—this was supposed to be the happiest week of his life.

  How was I going to tell him his old friend Mr. Sammons was crooked as the grapevines in those fields outside?

  9.

  Casanovas and Cowboys

  I needed Bob. Parker didn’t any more murder Mitch Burke than I would wear sneakers to the ceremony next weekend, and now I had proof. Or close enough.

  I dug my phone out to text him. No. Face to face would be better. I’d just go over there.

  I set the computer on the sofa, shot my best friend in Richmond a quick text to check on Darcy, and stashed my phone in my pocket as I crossed to the door. Settling my sunglasses across my nose, I jerked it open to find Maisy, whose surprise at the door opening was quickly replaced by an I’ve-stepped-in-more-appealing-things look as she gave me a onceover.

  “I see you had time to shower and change after your late night.” The edge in her words could’ve sliced bone.

  I stared. On one hand, she had the whole damned thing a hundred and eighty degrees wrong, and I wanted to set her straight. On the other, I couldn’t do that without telling her stuff I didn’t want anyone knowing.

  “You’re not even going to bother to try to deny it?” She sneered. “I can’t tell if that’s admirable or disgusting.”

  Deep breath. Lid on the temper. Wouldn’t I be pissed in her plain little black ballet flats? Yes. Yes, I would. “Listen, Maisy, I’m glad you came back—”

  She snorted.

  “I am,” I said. “I know what you saw, I know what it must have looked like, but you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “I’m pretty sure I see it just right.” She shook her head, setting her ponytail to swinging. “I came back to tell you what I couldn’t manage to get out this morning. You’re supposed to be her friend, for Christ’s sake. How could you?”

  She didn’t pause long enough for me to get the “I didn’t” out before it was lost in the back half of her rant.

  “I’m sure Mel’s Casanova visits other women half-naked in the middle of the night all the time. I even figure Mel probably knows that about him. What else would you expect from a man like Grant Parker? But I’d bet she has no idea you’re one of them.”

  “I…” I opened my mouth to defend my friend (and myself) but the words stuck in my throat. What could I even say to that? While I could relate to the suspicion and caution, the resigned disdain in her tone was more than a little sad. Sister here had more man issues than Cosmo.

  I didn’t have time to head shrink the bratty bridesmaid. What I needed was a way to keep her mouth shut in front of Melanie until the sheriff had his murderer and I had this wedding back on track.

  Maisy folded her arms over her extra-helping-size breasts and fixed me with a glare. “Men are going to be men. But I have to tell you, I expected better from you.”

  She had to be kidding. Except her flashing eyes said she wasn’t.

  “Expected better than what? I have done nothing for months but bust my ass to make sure next Saturday is the fairy tale Mel has always dreamed of.”

  I managed to keep from shouting—barely. “And you want to stand there with almost no information and jump to the conclusion that I’m screwing around with Parker,” I swooped one arm toward the window, “as I’m killing myself to give him the perfect wedding to another woman? Sister, I’m not sure what your idea of a good time is, but that’s nowhere close to mine. Parker is my friend. Not only am I not interested in getting tangled up in the sheets with my friend, I would never do that to Mel—or to myself. If you’ve ever really been Melanie’s friend, you’ll believe me when I tell you Parker went for an early run, and I bumped into him and asked him in for coffee to discuss his wedding. To my other friend, Melanie. And you’ll go enjoy your day, and maybe give a little thought to why you assumed the worst about your friend’s fiancé, yet you plan to stand up next to her and smile while she marries him next week.”

  I ran out of air before I ran out of words. Her eyes stayed locked on my face until I paused for breath, then her head dropped back and she fixed them on the plant basket hook over her head.

  “Then why were you still wearing your clothes from last night while he was half-dressed?” she asked, still looking at the gladiolas.

  “I was in a hurry when I got up and it was the first thing I pulled back on. I was in my room, for crying out loud. If I were trying to impress a guy, or cover up an affair, wouldn’t I have put on some makeup and a clean outfit?”

  She met my gaze for a long minute. “Maybe you were up all night. Those circles under your eyes don’t exactly testify on behalf of well-rested.”

  I rolled my fingers into fists, the bite of my nails on my palms helping me rein in my temper. Why I hadn’t slept was none of her business. But I didn’t
want her to think there was even a remote chance a sex-a-thon with Parker had anything to do with it. “Has Mel ever told you how she and Parker met?”

  “She said she was set up,” Maisy said. “I was supposed to have a blind date I didn’t really want to mess with, and she told me I’d never know if I didn’t go.”

  “She was set up.” I planted my hands on my hips and leaned forward. “By me. Why on Earth would I fix Parker up with Mel if I wanted him in my own bed? I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. And Grant Parker is so crazy in love with Melanie he doesn’t even know other women exist. All he wants is to get through next weekend and on the plane to Aruba.”

  She shook her head slowly. “If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck…”

  I watched the indecision flash across her face, laying a hand on her arm and softening my voice with a fair helping of effort. “Sometimes it turns out to be a swan. If Mel is your friend, you won’t spoil her wedding by casting doubt on something she has absolutely no reason to have anything but utter faith in. Parker loves her. We all do.”

  She stared, her forehead wrinkling, then hauled in a deep breath that came out as a sigh.

  Home run.

  “I’m watching,” she said. “A lot closer than I was before. And if I see anything else I don’t like, you’ll be out of this whole thing so fast you’ll be lucky to escape with those adorable shoes.”

  “Watch away. I have nothing to hide.” Nothing that had anything to do with sleeping with Parker, anyway.

  I watched her go, taking a few deep breaths to calm my racing pulse before I stepped off the porch and turned toward the bigger cabin Bob and Larry were sharing.

  I rapped on the door three times. No answer. Of course.

  Half-jogging to the lodge, I ran through the top of my to-do list: Lunch preparations should be starting, and I needed to chat with the chef about pushing the time and look over the setup before I could hunt for my boss, especially with Mel tied up at the airport.

  I pushed the door open just as a scream rattled through the open windows from the direction of the gravel parking lot out front.