Free Death by Devil's Breath by Kylie Logan

be. “If there’s one thing he loves even more than chili—”
    “It’s a beautiful woman. Yes.” Admiring her reflection in the mirror, Bernadette smoothed her hands over her hokey gown. “Some things never change. Some men never change.”
    “I thought we were talking about chili. And about how Dickie died.”
    “I had no reason to kill him.”
    “I’m sure that’s what you told the cops.”
    She touched a comb to the blond wig. “You were there, too.”
    “Yeah, but I never even knew Dickie existed until we got to Vegas.”
    Her smile was sleek. “I heard that during his show last night, Dickie made fun of your precious Tumbleweed. A girl with your temper and your psychotic tendencies . . . well, I imagine that just sent you right over the edge.”
    “Except Dickie wasn’t eating my chili when he kicked the bucket.”
    “You’re accusing me of killing him!”
    “If the shoe fits . . .”
    She barked out a laugh. “Not a chance! Except for the fact that he used to come in here once in a while, I never knew Dickie. And when he did come in . . .” As if she was remembering the scene and not liking it at all, she narrowed her eyes. “Cheap bastard never tipped more than a dollar or two. Even for a lap dance.”
    “That must have made you mad.”
    “It made me poorer than I should have been.”
    “And that made you mad.”
    “That made me send one of the other girls over when he asked for a private dance. Sorry.” She tossed her comb down on the dressing table. “I’m sure you’d love to see me led away in handcuffs, but it’s just not going to happen. If the cops thought I did anything wrong, they would have brought me in for more questioning by now.”
    “So who do you think could have done it?”
    Her gaze shot to mine. “You’re asking me for an opinion?”
    “I’m saying you were right there onstage, not twenty feet from where Dickie ate the laced chili. You might have seen something.”
    “And if I did, I’d be sure to tell you all about it.”
    Believe me, I did not fail to catch the not-so-subtle cynicism in her voice. “I don’t really care,” I told her with a casual shrug of my shoulders. “Like I said, I never met Dickie so it’s not like it matters to me who offed the guy. But Jack and I were talking and—”
    “Jack?” Her eyes lit. Yeah, like a hyena’s do before it chomps into some poor crippled wildebeest. “He wants to know what I saw? What I heard? That’s why he sent you here?” Her dark brows dipped over her eyes. “But why doesn’t he come around himself and ask?”
    Why, indeed.
    I shrugged like it went without saying. “He didn’t want to muddy the waters. You know, with a bunch of emotion. He thought if I talked to you first—”
    “Then he could get the basic information before he came and saw me himself!”
    By now, Bernadette’s eyes weren’t just gleaming, they were as bright as the searchlights that raked the night sky over Vegas. She pulled her chair out from the dressing table, turned it, and plunked down, her elbows on her knees. “Tell me, what did he say? Tell me everything he said.”
    “About Dickie.”
    “About Dickie, about the murder.” Bernadette giggled like a schoolgirl. “About me.”
    Since I didn’t know what to say, it was a good thing she didn’t give me a chance to say anything. Her cheeks flaming, Bernadette reached for a pair of stockings studded with silver sparkles and pulled up her skirt.
    This close, I saw that the tattoo on her thigh was a frilly heart with the name Jack written in the center of it.
    My stomach swooped. My brain froze. Or at least it would have if it wasn’t so busy gyrating over the fact that the woman seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with my father.
    She slipped on her stockings, then snapped them onto the garters. “When will he be coming by?”
    He.
    Jack.
    The father who’d fallen off the face of the earth when I was still back in Chicago and he was in Abilene with the