Free Mostly Murder by Linda Ladd

and angels. Except for one difference: no body. Instead, Madonna had about a hundred pictures of the same guy. “Who’s that, Zee? You know him?”
    â€œThat’s Jack Holliday. He’s the guy Nancy and I were talkin’ about at the office. The quarterback at Tulane, remember?”
    â€œWell, whoever he is, she was definitely into him. This looks like hero worship to me. Maybe she was concocting voodoo charms and love potions to win him over.”
    Dozens of photographs of Jack Holliday were on the walls, some cut out of magazines, others eight-by-ten publicity glossies, all pinned up together. Some looked like photos she’d taken in secret, of him getting into his car in front of some big fancy house, of him walking down a narrow street with another guy, even one of him lying on a couch that appeared to have been taken from outside his window.
    â€œIs that a prayer bench sitting in front of the candles? Good grief, Zee, if this isn’t a fixation, I don’t know what is.”
    â€œThis here’s a freakin’ voodoo shrine dedicated to Jack Holliday, all right. She had to be a nut case, too, to put this kinda thing together. Apparently, the killer isn’t the only one into voodoo.”
    â€œYou think Holliday might be into this kind of stuff, Zee? Maybe a black magic cult, something like that?”
    Zee only laughed. “From what I hear, he’s into huntin’ and fishin’ and datin’ hot women, lots of hot women.”
    â€œMadonna was hot.”
    â€œYeah, but he’s into Hollywood stars and swimsuit models and famous women athletes. I’ve read about it all over the place. He can have any girl he wants, believe me.”
    Zee found a poster of the guy hanging on the back of the door. “Well, Holliday’s been up close and personal with Madonna Christien. This proves it.”
    There was writing scrawled over his impressively tanned abs. For Madonna. Jack Holliday.
    Claire stared at the slick poster. Nancy had the same one inside her office and mooned over it regularly but Claire had never paid much attention to it. Upon closer inspection, Claire understood why women went for him. He was a fine-looking specimen, all right. The photographer had caught him wading out of the ocean waves, some kind of tropical paradise behind him. The water hit him at mid thigh, and a swath of dark hair arrowed down his chest into dark blue swim trunks. He was holding a snorkel in one hand and a pair of goggles in his other one. He was staring straight into the lens and looked none too happy about being photographed. His expression made him look tough and sexy. Or maybe just highly ticked off. He was hot, all right—thick dark brown hair, five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, eyes dark, intense. No wonder Madonna had given him his own room.
    â€œOkay, Zee, what do you think? Would this guy take more interest in our victim than just signing an autograph for her?”
    â€œI can answer that for you,” came Rene Bourdain’s voice from behind them. “Look what we found when we ran Madonna’s name.” He handed Claire his smartphone, and Claire read the screen.
    â€œThis is a restraining order taken out by Madonna on Jack Holliday. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
    Rene said, “Look at the date. Ten days ago.”
    Zee came alive. “Hey, man, does that mean I get to meet Jack Holliday in person?”
    Claire frowned. “Hold on a minute, Zee. Jack Holliday just turned into our number-one person of interest. This says he’s been harassing her, making phone calls, and pestering her out in public. That sounds like a stalking charge to me, at the very least.”
    Zee shrugged. “By the looks of this shrine right here, I’d say she’s the stalker. Or maybe they’re stalking each other. Anyway, I can tell you right now he didn’t kill her.”
    â€œAnd you know this