Free Dead Man Waltzing by Ella Barrick

find it?”
    I shook my head. “No. Mrs. Laughlin—the housekeeper—thinks she hadn’t written it yet, that all she had was an outline.”
    “Can one get a contract on a book that is not even written?”
    “How would I know?” I remembered that I had the names of Corinne Blakely’s agent and editor. “But I know how we can find out.” I ran downstairs to retrieve the phone numbers from my dresser. I didn’t realize Tav had followed me until I turned and saw him standing in the doorway, surveying the rumpled pink sheets—I wasn’t much of one for making my bed—the litter of jewelry and cosmetics on the dresser, and a periwinkle bra draped over the chair. Something in his eyes made me sure the thought uppermost in his mind didn’t have to do with my untidiness.
    Blushing slightly, I brushed past him, too aware of his warm male scent, saying a bit breathlessly, “Here’s the number.”
    I thought for a moment he was going to reach for me, but then he stepped aside with a quiet, “Pardon,” and followed me to the kitchen—much safer territory—where I picked up the phone and dialed a New York City number, holding the phone out a little so Tav could hear. I had to wade through two layers of assistants before the agent picked up the phone. “Angela Rush,” she said with a brisk New York accent.
    When I asked my question, she laughed. “We sell nonfiction books all the time off no more than a chapter outline and a marketing plan. It’s all about the platform .”
    “Platform?”
    “The author’s credentials. Her fame, or notoriety as the case may be. How hot is her topic? How likely is media attention? And, darling, Corinne Blakely was hot. What with the popularity of Ballroom with the B-Listers and the International Olympic Committee about to vote on ballroom dancing—excuse me, DanceSport—as an Olympic event, and her charisma, well, let’s just say we had a major deal in place. Her death is a tragedy for the arts community in America.”
    And a tragedy for Angela Rush’s pocketbook, I suspected. “So you don’t even have an outline?”
    “Oh, I have one of those.” Ms. Rush’s voice turned cagey.
    “You do? Can you fax it to me?”
    “I’m afraid not.” She didn’t sound remotely sorry. “We’re still going forward with the project, and I don’t want any details leaking before publication. This book is going to be an NYT bestseller. I have an instinct for these things.”
    Excuse me? How could she go forward with a memoir when the memoirist was dead? “How—”
    “We’ve been in contact with someone we’re sure can do justice to the book,” Ms. Rush said coyly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting at FSG.”
    Tav and I stared at each other for a moment after Ms. Rush rang off. “Well, that raised more questions than it answered,” I finally said.
    “Indeed.”
    Conscious that Tav was still standing close enough to listen in, close enough to make my skin flush with a desire I had no intention of giving in to, I moved toward the sink and poured myself a glass of water, adding a couple ice cubes for good measure.
    “Perhaps if you shared this information with the authorities . . .” Tav suggested.
    “Detective Lissy could chisel the outline out of Ms. Rush. My thought exactly. Great minds think alike.” I smiled.
    Tav’s answering smile suggested that our two great minds were thinking alike on an entirely different topic. “Stacy—”
    The doorbell rang. I started, jolting cold water onto my shirt. “Coming!” I headed toward the front door and opened it to see Maurice.
    “Maurice!” I hugged him hard. After a startled moment, he returned the hug. “You’re free.”
    “For the time being,” he said. He looked as immaculate as ever in a crisply ironed button-down shirt and tan slacks, and smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower. I remembered spending a half hour in the shower after being hauled down to the police station for an