Free Death Takes a Honeymoon by DEBORAH DONNELLY Page B

would be disastrous.
    “So what do you want me to do?”
    “Just ask around, but casually, and find out if Brian’s stuff is still at the base. Then we can figure out the next step.”
    “All right, I’ll ask around.” I didn’t plan on taking any next step, but I didn’t say that. I just accepted her grateful embrace and sank back onto the sheets. “Now, let me close my eyes for a minute—”
    But no, I was doomed to consciousness; an insistent rapping sounded at the front door. As B.J. went to answer it, I slowly got myself vertical and pulled on shorts and a tank top. The day was heating up already, in more ways than one.
    “Sleeping?” pealed a well-known voice from beneath the loft. “I’ve done six miles along the river already. Carnegie, get yourself down here! You said to drop by this morning, and it’s morning.”
    As I transported my aching head carefully down the stairs, I could see that Tracy had indeed been out along the river. She lounged against the kitchen counter, water bottle in hand, breathing hard and happily. Her satin running shorts, neon yellow and ever so brief, rippled against the cutest butt in the business, and her yellow halter top revealed a deep cleavage that gleamed with healthy, photogenic perspiration.
    Even her navel was cute, and who has a cute navel? Her eye makeup was light but skillful, and her hair, her gorgeous red hair, hung in a thick braid between smoothly muscled shoulders. Even in youth, Sam Kane’s scarecrow physique could have been nothing like this. Tracy got her fair coloring from her mother, but where she got her long, languid beauty was a mystery.
    I, on the other hand, felt like a train wreck. “I said to drop by?”
    “Of course you did! Oh, it’s
marvelous
to see you,” said the sitcom star. She had acquired a trick of widening her pale blue eyes in feigned innocence as she emphasized certain words. The effect, both comic and sexy, was quite charming— or at least it would be to someone not screamingly hung over. “You don’t look very well, though. I won’t hug you; I can’t afford to catch anything.”
    “I’m fine. Just feeling the effects of last night.”
    “You don’t still drink
alcohol,
do you? Can’t you see what it’s doing to your complexion?” Tracy tilted her lovely chin to chug from the bottle. “I told John I’ll hold a glass of champagne at the wedding, just for the video, but I’m certainly not going to
drink
it.”
    “John?”
    “She means Jack,” B.J. explained helpfully. She was stuffing various items into a canvas tote bag. “I guess the notorious Knack is reinventing himself, huh, Muffy?”
    “He prefers John,” she insisted. For an actress, she didn’t lie all that well. “And I prefer Tracy. Your bathroom is down this way?”
    “First door on the left.” B.J. hefted the bag, which read “Gardeners Do It Dirty” in faded letters. “Well, I’m off to work. You two have fun talking weddings.”
    “I thought you didn’t have to work today,” I said, following her to the front door. “You’re deserting me.”
    “You bet I am. I went to the bridal shower last week, now it’s your turn to play audience.” Her nose wrinkled. “I’m still fond of her, for old times’ sake, but she can be a pain in the ass. Here’s a key for you. Call me later, OK?”
    “OK.” I closed the door and tried to gather my wits.
What
exactly did I agree to last night? And did I say anything dopey to
Jack?
    I hadn’t gathered all that many wits when Tracy sailed back into the room. She paused fleetingly, as if for the camera to find her, then drew me onto an overstuffed couch. I flicked a glance at her left hand, where a cushion-cut diamond, three carats at least, sparkled from a platinum band.
    “Alone at last!” The bride laughed an adorable laugh. “I still love B.J. to death, for old times’ sake, but she can be—”
    “A pain in the ass?” I offered.
    She blinked. “Well, yes. But I won’t tell her you said