Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries

  Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series

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  Copyright

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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  About the Author

  The Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series

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  PUMPKINS IN PARADISE

  MURDER ON A SILVER PLATTER

  A MUDDIED MURDER

  Praise for the Headlines in High Heels Mysteries

  COVER SHOT (#5)

  “You will be talking about this one for a long time…the author gives the reader clues embedded in a spider web of twists and turns that will keep you reading until the end.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “If you like Hank Phillipi Ryan’s books, I recommend you try this series.”

  – Examiner.com

  DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)

  “Walker’s journalistic background fuels her snappy dialogue, thrill-of-the-chase plotting, and A-List fashion sense. Headlines in High Heels is a top-notch cozy mystery series readers will enjoy slipping into.”

  – Julia Spencer-Fleming,

  New York Times Bestselling Author of Through the Evil Days

  “Nichelle proves herself to be a standout. She has the cynicism of jaded police officers but also the hope of a champion and advocate for justice. Of course, a healthy sense of humor always helps. Readers who enjoy the outstanding novels of Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Edna Buchanan will find themselves similarly entertained by this stellar series.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)

  “A riveting mystery with big ideas and wonderful characters. Small Town Spin is a treat not to be missed, a fantastic addition to the Headlines in High Heels series.”

  – Duffy Brown,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of the Consignment Shop Mysteries

  “Nichelle Clarke jumps headlong into any situation with courage and tenacity, not giving up until she gets the answers she wants.”

  – Maggie Barbieri,

  Author of Once Upon a Lie and the Murder 101 Mystery Series

  BURIED LEADS (#2)

  “Mafia hotties, corrupt politicians, old flames and murder…all this in her incisive exposés and her aubergine Manolo Blahniks. A smart and sassy heroine.”

  – Patricia Smiley,

  Bestselling Author of Cool Cache

  “Intrepid reporter Nichelle Clarke is back again, tracking down a killer, sniffing out political corruption, and juggling studmuffin boyfriends—all in impossibly high heels. Very smartly written and cleverly plotted, with a nifty surprise ending!”

  – Laura Levine,

  Author of the Jaine Austen Mystery Series

  FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)

  “Nicey’s adventure kept me guessing. Goes down as smooth as hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

  – Alice Loweecey,

  Author of the Giulia Driscoll Mystery Series

  “Front Page Fatality is delightful, with engaging characters, a crackling good mystery, and of course, high, high heels. LynDee Walker writes with wit and intelligence and the confidence of a newsroom insider. What fun!”

  – Harley Jane Kozak,

  Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-Winning Author

  “LynDee Walker’s books are a delight.”

  – Fresh Fiction

  Books in the Headlines in High Heels Mystery Series

  by LynDee Walker

  Novels

  FRONT PAGE FATALITY (#1)

  BURIED LEADS (#2)

  SMALL TOWN SPIN (#3)

  DEVIL IN THE DEADLINE (#4)

  COVER SHOT (#5)

  LETHAL LIFESTYLES (#6)

  Novellas

  DATELINE MEMPHIS

  (in HEARTACHE MOTEL)

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  Copyright

  LETHAL LIFESTYLES

  A Headlines in High Heels Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | September 2016

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2016 by LynDee Walker

  Cover art by Stephanie Chontos

  Author photograph by Sarah Dabney-Reardon

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-065-4

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-066-1

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-067-8

  Hardcover Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-068-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Kennedy, who makes me thankful every day

  for wonderful surprises. I love you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was, without a doubt, the most fun to research yet, and I had more fun writing it than I have in a long time.

  There are always many people to thank, and this time I’d like to start with the book advocates I’m lucky to call my friends: Dru Ann Love, Kristopher Zgorski, Lori Caswell, Lisa Kelley, and Shelley Giusti. Thank y’all for the hours you spend helping readers discover books and authors. Your efforts are appreciated more than any of us could tell you.

  Thanks to the wonderful ladies who helped inspire settings and events in this book: Rebecca Cooper, Alison Rucker, and Jody Hynds Klann (my favorite scientist, who always looks up the answers to my gross questions).

  Massive thanks to my writer friends, who inspire me, challenge me, and prop me up when bad days come: Gretchen Archer, Larissa Reinhart, Wendy Tyson, Art Taylor, Mollie Cox Bryan, Terri L. Austin, and Ellery Adams.

  Many thanks to Mignon C. Fogarty (y’all might also know her as Grammar Girl), for helping me out personally with a sticky punctuation issue in this book, and for the thousands of other writing questions I’ve found answers to on her website over the years.

  As always, big thanks to the team at Henery Press: Erin George, Rachel Jackson, Stephanie Chontos, Kendel Ly
nn, and Art Molinares. I’m super grateful they work so hard to bring y’all Nichelle’s stories.

  There aren’t enough thanks to offer Julie Hallberg for reading and rereading drafts, offering advice, watching my little ones (including the dog) so I can work, and just generally being a fabulous friend, but I’m going to try anyway: thank you, doll. You thought there was something here before anyone else.

  Big hugs of thanks to my little ones for understanding when mommy had to write instead of play. Y’all are without a doubt the best things I’ve ever done.

  Thank you to my other half, my partner in adventure and (fictional) crime, my very best friend: Justin, thanks for being there for me, for an endless supply of hugs, and for always knowing how to make me laugh. I love you always.

  And thank you, wonderful readers, for being the best thing about this fabulous job. Any mistakes y’all find are mine, as always.

  1.

  Fairy dust and fail safes

  A statement is only as true as the source is trustworthy. It’s an old reporting adage I’d seen proven more times than I cared to count in nearly nine years covering crime.

  So when I needed to know how to pull off the perfect wedding, I went straight to the fountain of bridal wisdom—my mom. She arranged them for a living. And when she told me they’re stress-inducing, sleep-stealing monsters that, done right, seem borne of fairy dust and swathed in heart-shaped bubbles, I felt pretty good about having a Louboutin up on your average maid of honor.

  For seven months, I bugged Mom long-distance, getting the lowdown on every last nuance, then running local interference for my friends Parker and Melanie. Seamstresses. Florists. The baker Mel wanted, who got downright offended when Parker’s mother called her fondant “simply above average.” Everything handled. Everyone happy.

  Especially the bride and groom. Go me.

  By rehearsal weekend—a celebration getaway for the wedding party at the vineyard that would play host to next week’s ceremony—I’d switched on event cruise control, confident all my spinning plates would careen happily through the honeymoon sendoff.

  I strolled into the log cabin main hall for the Friday-night kickoff dinner hauling a Ralph Lauren tote stuffed with everything I’d need to remedy ruined stockings, makeup mishaps, a bad hair day, or a nervous stomach.

  But my magic bag had nothing for the corpse that turned up before the salads were served.

  We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect start to the evening: Birds serenaded us through the open French doors, a pink-orange sunset lending the photos a romance that couldn’t be manufactured in a studio. Mel’s smile could’ve lit up the entire Shenandoah Valley.

  “Hold it.” Larry furrowed a brow and set his prize Nikon next to a purple and silver rose centerpiece on the U-shaped banquet table. Perk of working in the news business: free photography. Our photo editor’s current mission in life was chronicling every minute of buildup to the happy day.

  Larry rounded the end of the table and laid both hands on my shoulders. “You scoot half a step this way.” He pulled me toward Parker, ordered our editor-in-chief to fall in next to me, and proceeded to inch everyone else into the spot he deemed just right for the perfect shot. Since Parker knew the vineyard’s owner, we had the place to ourselves for the weekend. So he and Mel had invited most of their newsroom family out for a pre-pre-wedding celebration in advance of tomorrow’s rehearsal. Melanie’s parents would fly in Saturday morning and stay the week, her mom excited to be back home in Virginia to help with last-minute prep. The other out-of-state guests would arrive next Friday and Saturday—flights, hotels, and transfers all arranged, families both happy. Check.

  Hustling back to position, Larry lifted the camera. “All eyes on Mel and Parker, and smile, y’all,” he said. “Lovebirds, look at each other like you’ll never get tired of it.”

  The grin that threatened to split my face in two came easily. I’d shared a cube wall with Mel for seven years, and Parker had become a good friend once I got over wondering if he was a murderer. With some cupid-playing on my part, our shy but striking city hall reporter had snagged the heart of Richmond’s very own Casanova—if Casanova had a Crest-commercial smile and a killer knuckleball. Parker’s days of throwing serious heat ended when a torn rotator cuff killed his dreams of being Nolan Ryan, but he was still formidable when he took the mound for charity events.

  Larry fired off ten shots in half as many seconds and lowered the camera to chest level. Opening his mouth and raising one hand to direct the next pose, he flinched when a shriek floated through the terrace doors, just louder than the birdsong.

  Every eyeball in the room that didn’t belong to a stranger rotated my direction.

  “What?” I raised my eyebrows. “I just got here. And we don’t cover Augusta County.”

  Mel’s eyes stayed a smidgen too wide, and Parker looped an arm over her shoulders, pulling her into his side. “Sounds like someone found a rat in the barn.” He flashed his trademark megawatt grin.

  Larry shooed Parker and Mel into a doorway, muttering about lousy timing when the filmy white curtains ceased their billowing just as he got his shot lined up.

  “Hold that thought, Larry,” I called, hurrying to the reception area. I’d spied a fan there on my way in.

  I shoved the heavy split-log door open and stepped through—right into a solid wall of man. Who smelled like the wine hadn’t agreed with him. Ick.

  Stumbling back into the door, I opened my mouth to apologize.

  The largest, best-sculpted frame I’d ever seen sped past like my five-foot-eleven self was little more than a mosquito, not even offering a wave with his dismissive grunt as I called “sorry” at his back. Probably running for a bathroom before he puked again.

  “Hulk not notice tiny bump from silly girl,” I rumbled (my best friend’s three-year-old son loved playing Avengers with Auntie Nichelle). Striding to the outlet, I pulled the plug for the fan, hefted it, and turned back for the dining room.

  My eggplant Manolo sandal stopped mid-step when the dismissal-grunting voice carried from the office off the end of the lobby.

  No.

  Hulk did not just say “dead body.”

  Or if he did, it was in the metaphorical sense of the term.

  Three steps closer to the door, a less forceful voice filtered into earshot.

  Nope. Five-star eavesdropping can be a handy skill for a crime reporter, but I was not at work.

  Two more steps and I froze, my eyes falling shut.

  Panic is a distinctive note in the human vocal range. I’d heard it so much, it registered instantly.

  Whoever was talking to Hulk on the back side of that wall? Heading straight through panic to freaking the hell out.

  I hustled the fan into place, my brain trying desperately to produce a scenario that wasn’t a gateway to disaster. No dice. When the curtains were set to “true love cloud” and Larry barked approval, I backed out of the way—and kept on backing until I reached a white door in the corner of the dining room.

  There could not be a corpse at Mel’s rehearsal.

  Except what if there was?

  And here I’d thought I had all potential problems covered.

  “Excuse me,” a voice chirped from behind me.

  Speaking of problems—I spun to find Mel’s childhood BFF staring daggers from behind her Splenda-coated smile.

  Maisy was less than excited about a “new” friend being chosen as maid of honor. To the tune of arranging appointments and “accidentally” texting me the wrong time, telling Melanie’s (very Baptist) mother I’d been thrown out of a church last summer, and even questioning my shoe recommendations for the bride. But I’d managed to keep her antics from aggravating Mel, so whatever. As long as my friends ended up with the perfect wedding, this chick could shoot me go-to-hell looks from here to doomsday.

  “Sorry.” I stepped aside.

  She pushed the door open to reveal a princess-perfect dressing area with a powder
room off to one side.

  And another door on the opposite wall.

  When Maisy slammed the door to the toilet over a last withering glare, I blew right through the cute wooden “Everyone gets cold feet, turn around!” and “Other way to happily ever after” signs on the second door, finding myself in a narrow peach-pink hallway. Turning toward where the lobby should be, I crept along the wall.

  A bit of cajoling the next door I found jarred it enough for me to hear Hulk’s uber-bass loud and clear.

  “Absolutely sure? You heard the part about the thief, right?” Disgust curled around the words. “I opened it, Mr. Jinkerson.”

  I closed my eyes and sagged against the wall. Maybe I’d heard him wrong. A wine bandit might still be a snag, but it wasn’t a catastrophe.

  “What if you panicked and didn’t realize what you saw? You said there wasn’t a face. How can you be sure it’s a person when there’s no face? What if it was a…um…a monkey?” Mr. Jinkerson’s high pitch took on the breathy edge of grasping at threads.

  My head thumped back against the wall as Hulk let out a growl.

  “Since when do monkeys wear Tech rings? We have a dead body out there, sir. And that might not even be our biggest problem. Why that barrel?” Hulk’s voice boomed, and Jinkerson shushed him, gulping air and stammering for a good minute.

  “Bad luck,” he finally managed. “We don’t know anything about anything. Calm down.”

  Good advice. We should all take it. I pulled in a deep breath. Think, Nichelle.

  One thing at a time.

  Obviously, these people had to call the police.

  And a police presence was no way to kick off a fairy tale. Not the kind I wanted for Parker and Mel, anyway.

  Until I knew more about this situation, the best way I could help everyone here was to get the wedding party off the property for a few hours.

  How? Dinner hadn’t even started yet.

  Wait.

  Dinner hadn’t started.

  What if it couldn’t? A kitchen mishap is way less of a downer than a corpse.