Free Murder Has Nine Lives by Laura Levine Page A

Linda, the woman he so obviously adored.
    The one person I never thought the cops would suspect was me.
    Which is why I was so stunned when, a few days after the murder, there was a knock on my door and I opened it to find two homicide detectives standing on my doorstep.
    Both wore ill-fitting suits and not a trace of a smile.
    Flashing me their badges, they asked if they might have a few words with me about Dean’s murder. Reluctantly, I ushered them in, wishing I were wearing something a bit more confidence inspiring than my grungy sweats with the grape jelly stain on the sleeve.
    Settled side by side on my sofa, they asked me how well I’d known the deceased (not very) and whether or not I’d liked him (not much).
    â€œDean was sort of difficult,” I explained. “A bit of a temper.”
    â€œSo we’ve heard,” said one of the cops, a bulldog of a guy with a barrel chest and a most disconcerting scar on his cheek. “In fact,” he said, checking his notes, “it “appears that shortly before his murder, Mr. Oliver threatened you with a lawsuit.”
    â€œHe said he was going to sue you for every cent you were worth,” added his partner.
    I saw where this was going.
    â€œYou’re not accusing me of killing him to stop his lawsuit, are you?”
    â€œWe’re not accusing you of anything,” Scarface assured me. “Not yet, anyway.”
    â€œDo you have any witnesses who can confirm you were on the soundstage while the poisoned cat food was left unattended?” his partner asked. “That would be from approximately eleven thirty a.m. to noon.”
    I thought back to the day of the murder, when Nikki, having prepped the cat food for the final shot, had shown up at the soundstage to grab a snack. Linda had been with me up until then, but she and Zeke soon left me to go to the buffet table, leaving me all by my lonesome, up a creek without an alibi.
    â€œNo,” I admitted. “I was alone with my cat.”
    Prozac looked up from where she had been moping on my keyboard.
    I was almost a star, you know.
    I saw the cops exchange a look. For all they knew, I could have easily trotted across the hall and blasted the Skinny Kitty with Raid.
    â€œJust don’t leave town,” they warned me as they got up to go.
    â€œOh, hell,” I moaned once I’d shut the door behind them. I was a murder suspect.
    Again.
    Yes, this wasn’t the first time. Just last year I’d been a suspect in a murder at a teenage beauty pageant (a harrowing saga you can read all about in Death by Tiara , now available in paperback and on all the usual e-gizmos).
    â€œDarn it, Pro,” I sighed, slumping down onto the sofa, still warm from the cops’ fannies. “What am I going to do?”
    A world-weary glance from her perch on the keyboard.
    Personally, I’m thinking of joining a convent.
    I’d just gone to the kitchen for a restorative dose of Oreos when my frazzled nerves were shaken by another knock at my door. Had the cops changed their mind and returned to arrest me on the spot?
    But thank heavens it was only Lance, who, unlike me, was in the sunniest of moods.
    â€œWho were those two guys I saw walking down the path?” he asked, sailing into the living room.
    â€œThe police. They think I might have killed Dean Oliver.”
    â€œI don’t believe it!” he cried, horrified.
    â€œI know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
    â€œIs that what you wore to talk to the police? Those grungy sweats with the grape jelly stain on the sleeve? It’s no wonder they suspect you of murder.”
    â€œHey, a little less fashion critique and a little more sympathy, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œOf course, hon,” he said, taking my hand in his. “You know I worry about you. If you get suspected of one more murder, we’re gonna have to buy you a getaway car.” Then, seeing the stricken look in my