Free Killer Riff by Sheryl J. Anderson Page A

the precision of a U.S. Marine on a search-and-destroy mission, Tricia sitting on my bed clutching a pillow to her chest and proclaiming her affection for a rock star, and me standing in front of the dresser and wondering if I wouldn’t just be better off shaving my head since I’m never happy with my hair. For a moment, we were suitemates in college again, and it was rather gratifying that those days didn’t seem out of reach. At least completely.
    “You need to bring along someone who’s really into him and can give you a genuine reaction to meeting him in the flesh for the first time,” Tricia continued. She twirled a lock of hair around one finger and smiled at me beseechingly.
    “You meet celebrities all the time,” I said. The events she planned were often star-studded and brushed her up against many hot personalities of the moment.
    “The ones I meet aren’t necessarily the ones I crave,” she replied, letting her smile slide into wicked territory.
    “I’m not really going because of Jordan. I’m going to try and understand Olivia better.” They both looked at me with large, intent eyes until I added, “And figure out if she really thinks Claire killed Russell or if she wants to cause trouble for Claire for some other reason.”
    “Perhaps because Claire harbors a suspicion or two about Olivia?” Cassady frowned deeply at one of my favorite pairs of black slacks, then shoved them dismissively back into the closet.
    “What’s wrong with those?”
    “Nothing. If you’re staying home,” she answered, continuing her search.
    “If Olivia accuses Claire, and Claire accuses Olivia, don’t they cancel each other out?” Tricia asked.
    “You trying to cancel out my article?” I asked.
    “No, but you’re at such a delicate place with Kyle, I’d hate to see it founder for no good reason.”
    “‘It’ being the article or the relationship?”
    “Either.”
    “You notice she’s not taking Kyle with her tonight,” Cassady said, draping an ice-blue silk tee across the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.
    “That would be mixing pleasure with business,” I protested lamely.
    “Which is which at this stage?” Tricia asked sweetly.
    “More to the point,” Cassady said, perching on the bed beside her, “it would be mixing someone who believes this was murder”—pointing to me—”with someone who doesn’t.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the front door to indicate Kyle.
    I’d already told Kyle that I was going to the concert as part of my research for the article, and we’d left it at that. I had tried to maintain the same lilting, intimate tone with him that I’d employed in our morning phone call before I’d met with Olivia, even though my concern about where this article was going to lead had sharpened considerably. He hadn’t expressed any interest in the concert or any concern about my going alone; I suspected he was giving me time to sort through whatever facts Olivia would be able to offer and then come around to his way of thinking, that Russell’s death had been accidental. I was going to need a lot more than Olivia and Claire pointing fingers at each other to persuade him differently. And I was going to have to find out more about the tapes.
    “It’s much simpler than you’re making it. Claire Crowley asked me to come, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask to bring a guest. I’d love to have you both there, believe me.”
    “Thanks for the thought,” Cassady said, “but I’m seeing Aaron tonight for the first time in three days, and that will be hotter than any Crowley in concert, save perhaps Micah returned from the grave.”
    I shivered. “That’s such a disturbing mix of images, I can’t possibly respond.”
    “Wow. Not having seen him for three days and you’re so excited,” Tricia said with a theatrical sigh. “Imagine if you hadn’t seen him for three weeks. Or maybe even six!”
    Cassady looked at her askance. “We said we weren’t