I ignored Emily’s comment and said to him, “I hope that’s the good stuff.” I handed him two tens. “And a red wine for her.” I glanced at a clock on the far wall. To Emily, I said, “We’re supposed to meet Michele in five minutes.” I took a long drink of the white wine. It was too sweet. I slugged some more down anyway. By the time Emily had her glass, I’d half-drained my first one. “At the entrance to the theater.” I pointed.
“Lead the way.” Emily sipped at her red like she was scared of it.
I took a long pull off my full glass then consolidated, filling one to the rim and setting the empty back on the counter. A delicious warmth flooded through me, and I felt looser and more of everything good. I raised my remaining drink near shoulder height and tried not to limp as we made our way back to the entrance. A diminutive brunette in sensible flats and a linen pantsuit waved from the registration table.
“There she is.” I waved back.
“Which one?” Emily asked.
“June Cleaver meets Eva Longoria.”
“Ah, her.”
“Katie?” a man’s rumbly voice said, about three feet above my elbow. A hand followed, sliding along my upper arm and squeezing.
I pulled away and wheeled instinctively, only to find the familiar face of my One L study partner. We’d aced Constitutional Law together our first year. Back then, he was shy, nerdy, and the epitome of what my dad calls a twenty-pound weakling. Now, eight years after I met him, he was a head taller and had filled out considerably, although his hair was still slicked back. Gone was the post-adolescent acne, and—I realized with a jolt—he was attractive, in a young Al Pacino way.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he said. His smile revealed straight white teeth unlike the crooked incisors I remembered.
“Well, hello there.” I gave him a sideways hug so only our arms and shoulders touched. “Evan, this is my paralegal, Emily. Emily, this is Evan, my old study partner.”
Evan barely gave Emily a glance. I felt her hot glare. Whoops, “friend” next time, or I’ll be walking back to the hotel.
Evan and I exchanged career resumes. He was at a criminal defense firm in Corpus Christi. I was slaving away at an employment defense firm in Dallas. As we talked, his eyes roved. He was checking me out. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it and tried to ignore it. Just when we had reached the awkward part where he might have asked me about a husband and kids, another male voice broke in.
“Evan, good to see you.”
“Uh, hello,” Evan said.
The newcomer, when I turned to look at him, was an average guy in pretty much every way. Medium-brown-colored hair, forgettable brown eyes. A dark blue suit with a light blue shirt. I was looking down on him from my five-foot-nine-plus-heels.
The new guy said, “Katie, good to see you again, too.”
Emily had sidled away from us. She was taking baby sips of her red wine and peering over the crowd toward the registration table.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the newcomer, turning my attention to him. “I don’t remember your name.” He looked vaguely familiar, though.
He patted his chest. “My name tag must have fallen off. It’s Joe, well, Joseph back then. We were in the same section.”
Evan had been in my section, too, and we glanced at each other. His eyes looked as foggy as mine felt.
“Here’s Michele,” Emily said.
I was relieved not to have to continue the interaction with Joe nee Joseph. When my old roommate reached me, I squeezed her damp body fiercely with one arm, then introduced her to everyone. Although we’d lived together, we were in different sections our first year and didn’t have any classes together. Thus we’d made different friends. Plus, Michele was already married to her high school sweetheart, with a baby tearing her heart back to their home in Houston. She’d never really had a Waco social life, anyway.
Michele’s voice held the slightest hint of her father’s Mexican accent. “I remember you, Evan. I saw a lot of your head bent over your outlines our first year. And so good to meet you, Emily.”
My two best friends beamed at each other.
“Oh, and you, too, Joe,” Michele said.
An ugly look flashed over Joe’s face then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
A bell sounded. I tipped my glass back again, but got air. Empty.
“Last call.” I held up my glass. “Can I get anything for y’all?”
Emily looked down at her still-full glass. “I’m good.”
Michele held up a hand. “Not for me.”
Joe nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”
Evan’s face tightened, but he recovered fast. “None for me, but I hope to see you later.
“Of course.” I smiled on the outside. Joe. Tagging along. With me. “I’ll meet you guys at our table,” I said to Michele and Emily.
They waved and wandered off, already chatting. Emily had a way with people. I was glad, because Michele could be socially awkward. With a warm heart, I strode toward the bar, trying to stay a step ahead of Joe while not falling in my shoes, which felt less stable than they had earlier. Maybe one of my heels was loose.
I stretched up on my tiptoes above the heads in front of me in line. When the Fabio bartender met my eyes, I held up my glass. “Two white wines, please.” I avoided the stink-eyes shot my way. Sometimes being tall with long red hair has its advantages. After a few beats, I said, “They were here before me,” but the bartender had already moved off to fill my drink order. I smiled apologetically at the shorter people.
I could feel Joe’s eyes boring into my profile from two inches away. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Um, yes, sure I do.”
“I’d see you at the law library.”
His words struck a chord. Yes, I had seen him at the library. But doing what? I couldn’t remember him studying. I did remember his eyes, though, looking at me. Like now. “Right.”
Silence descended again, but his eyes never wavered from me. It was more comfortable to talk than be ogled, so I said, “So, what have you done with yourself since law school?”
“This and that,” he said. “Played in a techno-metal band. Recently I’ve taken up ghost hunting.”
I couldn’t help myself. I was interested. “You’ve what?”
“Played in a techno-metal band. We’ve got a show next weekend and—”
“No, the other part.”
“The ghost hunting?”
My head nodded of its own accord.
“I’ve joined a group of ghost hunters. We go around and take readings and film at haunted houses.”
“That is,”—I started to say, “the biggest bunch of mumbo jumbo I’ve ever heard,” but instead went with—“quite unusual. How does any of that relate to a law degree?”
The bartender handed me my drinks, and to save time I gave him another twenty. He winked at me. I winked back but turned away when his pupils dilated. Too pretty—not my type. A face flashed in my mind. My type had olive skin, a crooked nose, intense dark eyes, and wild hair. I banished the image and gulped my wine. It was cold, but heat coursed straight through me. I felt suddenly fluid and graceful. I swept the glasses off the counter as Joe stopped me, holding something up for me to see.
“The law bores me. This doesn’t.”
I was forced to look, so I did. I blanched and backed into the person behind me. What was it?
“I found this in the last house we studied. It was tucked in a 1920s German horticulture book. Looks like dried skin to me, but I can’t figure out what it’s from. What do you think, Katie?” He wafted it at me, and it trailed across my arm.
I shuddered. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
He was right, though. It was clearly dried skin with crusty brownish red along the edges. I took another drink, trying to escape by him even as my glass was still on my lips. The guy was Cracker Jacks.
He edged into my path, then held his treasure up and tilted his head, studying it. “I think
given the timing this might have been a German immigrant family. Maybe even Jews fleeing Hitler. And you know the Jews circumcise their male children.” He thrust it at me again. It was at least three inches long and half an inch wide.
I jumped back, wine sloshing in my glasses, but not before saying, “Uh, I don’t think so.” I held a finger from each hand about a centimeter apart, my approximation of the size of the circumcised body part he was hinting at. Then I pushed past him. “My friends are waiting. Nice seeing you.”
He started to follow me, but I shook my head at him.
“Gotta run.” I fled for the theater door.
Laura
Sound reverberated in the theater like the infield of Churchill Downs on Kentucky Derby day. Laura scanned the dimly lit room. Nearly twenty tables, windowless, with bare white walls. She shuddered. It was worse than being trapped with a panicked horse in a starting gate.
Laura squeezed Mickey’s bicep. “It smells like a distillery in here.”
Mickey swept a long dark ponytail over his rather large shoulder. He got his college-linebacker size from his corn-fed Nebraska father, his coloring from his Mescalero Apache mother. Laura tucked a strand of her new husband’s hair behind his ear then ran the back of her fingers down his ponytail, over the silver-plated leather thong with inset turquoise stones that was holding it back. Her own hair, although dark like his, was chin length. She was his inverse in many ways, and beside his large frame, she was no more than a thumbprint.
“It’s a law school reunion,” Mickey said.
“Aha,” Laura said, splaying her fingers on the white tablecloth in front of her and pretending to study them. While that explained the boozy atmosphere, it tightened her stomach. At times she regretted not following her three older brothers in obtaining a degree from the University of Wyoming, instead pursuing her fortune as a jockey. Like when she was in a room full of people who thought they were smarter than everyone else. It didn’t seem to affect Mickey like it did her, but then he’d graduated from Texas A&M, plus he was ten years older than her.
They were seated at a round table with six strangers. A snotty group that hadn’t bothered to feign interest when she and Mickey introduced themselves. They had pale skin, like most of the people in the room. Expensive clothes that made her feel underdressed. Hands that looked soft and silky, men and women alike. Generally lacking in the musculature that physical labor would’ve given them. Drinks at the ready. Their laughter was raucous, sounding smug and entitled to her ears.
In a hushed tone and with a straight face, she said, “I think I could whip nearly every guy in here at arm wrestling.”
Mickey grinned, his eyes shining. “I don’t doubt it.”
Thunder boomed outside, and the lights flickered. Rain drummed the roof.
Laura swirled the wine in her glass. She’d barely touched it, which wasn’t unusual for her. Keeping weight off her five-foot frame was critical, and she had a race on Sunday at Lone Star Park. She was coming off an enormous year, having ridden the prize stallion from Wrong Turn Ranch, Jarhead, to place in the All American Futurity. It was the biggest purse in quarter-horse racing, and the success had increased the pressure on her to be leaner, stronger, harder, and faster. Meanwhile, she had fallen in love with the manager at Wrong Turn Ranch, and they’d eloped, which put equal pressure on her to be the opposite of all those things.
The lights flickered once, twice, three times, and a pasty guy with a seersucker suit and jaunty bowtie stood up beside one of the tables. Laura couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Where she was raised in northeastern Wyoming, people would have assumed his outfit was a Pee-wee Herman joke. He had a microphone in his hand. He clicked it on, and it made a horrible howling sound. There were audible “ows,” and Laura winced and covered her ears.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess this thing is on.” It howled again, and he looked bewildered. Somebody tugged on his sleeve, and he nodded. He pulled the microphone away from his mouth a little. “Is this better?” A few people clapped. He beamed. “Welcome, my fellow Baylor Law School grads, to our five-year reunion.”
The room erupted in applause and cheers.
Mickey put his lips on Laura’s ear. “We may regret coming to this.” The owner of a horse she’d won on a few weeks earlier lived near Waco and had given the tickets to them.
A lawyer skipping his class reunion, she realized. She laughed. “Never. An evening out with you, and something we can talk about later.”
He kissed her on the side of the nose.
The translucently pale man continued. “I hope everyone has their glasses full. Don’t forget to tip your waiters and waitresses. We’ve told them to keep it flowing.” The crowd laughed. “Your weekend fee covered all-you-can-eat-and-drink tonight, but not gratuity.” He shook his head. “And they think lawyers are cheap, so let’s not prove them right.” More laughs and some grumbles. “A few reminders: We are serving a continental breakfast at the Hilton tomorrow—before golf in the morning and the family picnic at lunch, weather permitting. The Bears are playing TCU in the afternoon, and then our ball is tomorrow night at the Hilton. Sunday is for sleeping off hangovers.” He was rewarded with the biggest laugh yet. “Oh, and I forgot to introduce myself, but how could any of you have forgotten me? I’m Chuck.”
Voices shouted back at him over each other, sloppy and self-satisfied. “Hey, Chuck!”
“I’m told by people who know more than me that tonight’s murder mystery is It Happened One Weekend in Waco. So, with no further ado, let the show begin.” He bent at the waist and flourished his arm toward a woman in something blousy, colorful, and artistic.
She took the mic from him and walked into the large open area at the center of the tables. “My name is Lizbeth Miller, and I’m the director of the show.” Her gypsy attire and only-slightly-better-than-tabletop height combined to make her look square. Unfortunate. “I encourage you to take videos and pictures this evening, and remember, this performance relies on audience participation.” A beefy guy with a red nose and curly hair stood, raising his hand. Arms reached up and pulled him back to his seat. She ignored him and continued. “Dinner will be served at intermission between Acts One and Two.” She dipped her head. “I give you It Happened One Weekend in Waco!”
More thunder. It shook the room.
The house lights dimmed. For the next fifteen minutes, the cast cavorted through bawdy skits with little, if anything, resembling a plot. The actors played it over the top, all of them wearing sequined-and-feathered masks like it was Mardi Gras. Their performances were punctuated with musical numbers. The lead actress played the role of a Baylor sorority girl.
Laura leaned to whisper in her husband’s ear. “She’s stealing the show.”
He nodded. “It adds humor,” he said.
Laura knew what he meant. A sexy black woman in her mid-twenties playing a Baylor Chi Omega freshman, complete with a platinum-blonde wig? It was deliciously ironic.
A new player emerged. As attractive in her own way as the actress playing the sorority girl, as much as could be seen with the masks, she opened her mouth to sing, and Laura’s breath caught in her throat. The woman’s voice mesmerized her, even as the actor stumbled and caught herself on the back of a lawyer’s chair. His table erupted in jeering, and male hands tried to push him up and toward her. She winked at him and swayed away.
“She’s wasted,” Mickey said.
A few disapproving eyes landed on him.
Laura recognized the voice, and she gripped Mickey’s knee. “I think that’s Maggie Killian.” She was a huge fan of her music and had forced Mickey to listen to her latest album over and over.
He shook his head and lowered his voice. “Can’t be.”
Laura crossed her arms over her chest and waggled her eyebrows. She mouthed, “Put your money where your mouth is?”
He nodded vigorously. “What’s the bet?”
Laura licked her lips suggestively. “Winner’s choice.” A wager th
at made winners out of both of them, since inevitably the payoff occurred between the sheets.
A woman with a stiff brown bob glared at them. “Shhh.”
“Sorry,” Mickey said, then turned to Laura and made a face.
Laura ducked her head to hide a smile. Her program was in her lap, and she turned to the list of cast members, running her finger down the names. Maggie Killian. She’d been right, but it made her heart ache a little. She’d read a cover story in Texas Monthly about Maggie’s tremendous success the year before. Recently, she’d seen something in the tabloids about a drug-fueled meltdown. Not that Laura bought any tabloids, but she scanned their covers whenever she was in line at Albertsons.
Maggie vamped Mae West with a red feather boa as she finished the number. Applause erupted. People leapt to their feet, some whistling, others whooping. Laura and Mickey rose with the crowd, and Laura clapped furiously. Maggie broke character and bowed deeply, falling into the lap of the man whose chair she’d caught herself on earlier. Camera flashes exploded around the room.
Movement at the back of the stage area caught Laura’s eye, and she peered into the darkness. A new female cast member had emerged and draped herself dramatically across a divan. Laura looked around. Everyone else was watching Maggie mug for the cameras. Laura turned her attention back to the woman on the low sofa. Another person was tiptoeing up to her, cloaked and holding what appeared to be a rubber knife in a hand from which a bracelet or chain was dangling and catching the light. Laura leaned toward them. The figure reached high with the knife hand and plunged it down. The actor on the divan let out a piercing shriek as the figure whirled and fled, the off-white cloak creating the impression of a poltergeist. Laura thought she saw fake blood on the prone woman.
“That was convincing,” she said from the side of her mouth. Thunder crashed, and she shuddered.
Heads turned toward the shriek. Maggie wobbled upright. She took two steps on her platform sandals toward the divan. Then she dropped to her knees and threw herself across the woman. A few seconds later, she lifted her upper body. It was covered in fake blood, and she screamed louder than the victim had.
Act One (What Doesn't Kill You Prequel): An Ensemble Mystery Novella Page 2
