Free Killer Cocktail by Sheryl J. Anderson Page B

twenty-one, but Cassady insisted on trying to pile my hair on top of my head. First of all, my hair isn’t long enough and second of all, it wouldn’t so much as curl if I were electrocuted. “What is it with you and putting hair up all of a sudden?” I asked as I tried to wriggle into my skirt without knocking her off balance and causing her to rip out handfuls of my hair on the way down.

    “It’s what you do when you’re on vacation,” Cassady insisted. “And wear Lillys with no underwear.”
    “This isn’t Palm Beach. It’s the Hamptons.”
    “How much closer are you gonna get this year?”
    “Depends how much severance I get when Eileen fires me.” I executed a little plant-and-pivot I’d learned from playing basketball with my brothers and freed myself from Cassady and her comb. My hair collapsed back into the layered bob it’s been in most of my life. “See you downstairs.”
    Once downstairs, in the deep green drawing room we’d all huddled in the night before, I was greeted by the sight of a weary homicide detective consulting his watch. His square jaw was set, his amazing blue eyes serious. His perpetually tousled hair was worse than usual, but I couldn’t tell if that was from running his hands through it or from driving out here with the windows down. He looked fantastic in jeans and a casual jacket, but there was something tense in his stance. I didn’t know whether to kiss him or ask for his warrant. “Sorry to make you wait.”
    Kyle nodded, looking me over like he was struggling with a similar dilemma. Neither of us made the definitive move, so both of us hung back. Sexual tension is a powerful force. “So what’s up?”
    I resisted the impulse to make a joke about what it took to get him out of town. I didn’t need to mix two volatile subjects. I slid the ball back into his court. “Shouldn’t that be my question?”
    The fabulous blue eyes crinkled, but I couldn’t tell if he was going to laugh or swear. He ran his hand through his hair and it had absolutely no effect. “You asked me to come out.”
    “No, you said you were coming out and I told you, you didn’t need to.”

    “You were being polite.”
    “And serious.”
    “So the question about chlorine and fingerprints was what—cramming for a chemistry test?”
    “Research.”
    “Why am I here?”
    “Now we’re back at the beginning.”
    “You knew I’d come.”
    I hated that he was right and I hated that he looked so good and I hated Detective Cook. All excellent reasons for me to go right back upstairs, pack my bag, and leave. Go back to the city, optimally with him. But the longer I was awake, the more I was convinced that Lisbet’s death was not some tragic lover’s quarrel gone bad. She’d made a sufficient enough scene that David could have walked away, never spoken to her again, and most people would have applauded the choice. Why on earth would he have killed her?
    “Stop,” Kyle said, in a low, controlled voice.
    “What?” I asked, amazed that my attention could have drifted from him for even a moment. He didn’t seem all that pleased about it either.
    “You’re trying to solve this murder.”
    “So you agree it’s a murder.”
    “I agree you think it’s one. I don’t know what it is. I haven’t heard all the evidence.”
    “Neither have I.”
    “Which isn’t slowing you down a bit.”
    “They suspect Tricia’s brother and he didn’t do it.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Yes.”
    “Based on your vast experience.”
    “I’m batting a thousand, aren’t I?”

    “You’re one for one. Retire now and preserve your perfect record.”
    “Have you missed me at all?”
    “Of course.”
    He even let himself smile. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. But while that was wonderful to hear and see, it wasn’t enough to drive the million questions I had about Lisbet and David out of my head. Kyle was right. I was trying to solve this murder.
    Which is what Tricia had asked me to do.
    The