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

  So we’d tell Mel the oven malfunctioned or some such and load everyone up to go to a restaurant. One with a long wait for a party of twenty. With any luck at all, the local cops would find an easy answer. If not, I’d have time to break it to Mel a little softer than sirens screeching up as people dug into their fried chicken.

  Perfect.

  I raised a fist and tapped on the dark-stained oak.

  From the clatter on the other side of it, I might as well have fired a starter pistol. Thirty seconds of rustling papers and clearing throats later, Hulk cracked the door a smidgen wider, one eyeball and half his nose poking through. “Can I help you?”

  I wedged one Manolo between the door and the frame, hoping my flash decision to play it straight wasn’t the wrong one.

  “I wish I hadn’t overheard you gentlemen, but I did.” I kept my voice set to library whisper. “I’m the maid of honor for Mr. Parker’s wedding. I’m also the cops reporter at the Richmond Telegraph. Maybe I can help?”

  From the other side of the door, Jinkerson’s breath hissed in so quick it sent him into a coughing fit. “Reporter?” he wheezed. “Jesus, no. No press. No comment.”

  Hulk moved to shut the door, and I threw myself against it, partly because I had more to say, but mostly because I wanted to keep my right foot.

  The impact took him by enough surprise that he let go of the knob, and I stumbled into the room.

  Managing to catch myself before I ended up in a heap on the plush merlot and sapphire rug, I smoothed my tangerine sundress and eyed the slight man behind the large carved desk, who looked increasingly in need of a paper sack to breathe into. Mr. Jinkerson, I presumed. I plastered on my most unthreatening smile and softened my tone, nudging the door shut behind me with one foot.

  “Augusta County isn’t even in the Telegraph’s coverage area, gentlemen. But I’ve been around this track a few times, and it sounds like y’all could use some advice. Let me help.”

  Hulk relaxed his at-attention stance a half-millimeter. Jinkerson, who appeared to be Hulk’s boss, tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes.

  “How exactly can you do that?” That came from Hulk. A closer look at him revealed lingering tinges of green under his late-spring farmhand tan.

  His hand went to his midsection and I focused on Jinkerson. He was flushed, sweating, and practically hyperventilating—but he didn’t look like he might vomit any moment.

  While I had nothing for why anyone would put a body in a wine barrel, I figured chances were decent it hadn’t happened recently if said barrel was ready for opening. Which meant getting the wedding party out of the way would help me and the cops both.

  “I can get your boss’s guests out of here before the police arrive,” I said. “We’ll tell them there was something wrong in the kitchen. I’ll divert dinner while you talk with the police.”

  Odds were, the local law enforcement folks would sort this out in less time than it takes to pick out the perfect sandals—the vast majority of criminal cases were pretty open and shut. It’s just that people only ever heard about the interesting ones, so folks tended to think a deluge of squad cars always equaled intrigue.

  They exchanged a glance, and my eyes darted between them.

  Jinkerson turned back to me, failing to blink for entirely too long. “I like it,” he said finally.

  Perfect. I pulled in a deep breath, my tone flipping to brisk and authoritative as I looked at Hulk. “You go back out and stand guard until the sheriff gets here.”

  He made a face that said he’d rather spend his Friday evening playing hopscotch than guarding a wine barrel full of person, but turned for the front door when Jinkerson nodded.

  I laid my hand on the back door to the office. “Give me five minutes, and then call 911.”

  “Thank you,” Jinkerson said, looking a little less gray.

  “Try not to worry too much. I’ve seen my share of these things, and most of them are pretty easy for the cops to handle.” I stepped back into the hallway.

  Maid of honor to the rescue. Again.

  2.

  Star Power

  Twilight’s carpet of indigo settled over the fields and mountainside beyond the wide porch, the last tinge of pink vanishing from the horizon as I slipped back into the dining hall.

  “Too dark for more scenery shots,” Larry said, lowering his camera.

  Someone’s stomach let out a snarl and our editor-in-chief laughed. “Maybe we should check on dinner,” Bob said.

  Before Mel could step away from the table, I cleared my throat and put my forefingers in the corners of my mouth, blowing a wolf whistle followed by my most reassuring smile.

  “It seems there’s been a little issue in the kitchen,” I said.

  “What kind of issue?” Mel’s brow furrowed and I shrugged.

  “Nothing that won’t be handled by tomorrow.” I hoped. “But for this evening, I’m afraid we need to find other arrangements.”

  “A place that can seat twenty people as a walk-in on a Friday night?” Parker shook his head. “We’ll starve.”

  “We might if we didn’t have you.” I grinned. “Since our UVA Hall of Famer here is probably the closest this neck of the woods gets to celebrity, I’m betting there’s magic to be worked.”

  I walked around the table and dug my iPhone out of my bag, searching for upscale dining near me.

  The room I was standing in came up, as did two other vineyards and three spots in town.

  Second on the town list was a hotel. I touched a few links. Large bar, private dining room, great menu. Done.

  Hefting the tote onto my shoulder, I swung my arms, herding my colleagues toward the parking lot. “Y’all load up and follow me,” I said. “Local grass-fed steaks and the most extensive wine list in five counties, twenty minutes away.” Probably closer to twenty-five, as out in the sticks as we were, but I didn’t want anyone balking at the distance.

  Lucky for me, news folks are used to jumping in the car and taking off at the drop of a lead.

  I held my breath until the last car pulled out of the vineyard’s drive anyway, then nodded along to the light discussion about summer vacations coming from the other three seats in my little red SUV, which were occupied by Bob, Parker, and Mel.

  We turned off the gravel road that led to Calais Vineyards just as the first strains of sirens floated out of the distance to the only ears listening for them.

  Mom was right: This wedding business could keep a girl on her toes.

  Pulling up at the Blue View Inn, I tossed the valet my keys and towed Parker to the hostess, who had a put-on air of snootiness that dissolved when my friend flashed his megawatt grin and I introduced him. She pointed to the bar and said she’d notify the manager and the chef and have a table ready in less than an hour.

  I couldn’t have asked for better—long enough to extend the evening, but not so long that everyone wanted to go back and order takeout.

  “It’s the smile,” I said, winking at Parker as I waved our friends into the bar. “Nine out of ten women are bound to dissolve into a puddle when you break out your superstar grin.”

  He chuckled. “I’m glad it’s still good for something.”

  I shot a pointed glance at Mel, who was engrossed in one of Bob’s many war stories, and poked Parker’s ribs with one elbow. “I’d say it’s been good for a lot.”

  He slung an arm around my shoulders. “Have I thanked you today? She is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  My heart stuttered, watching him watch her. So much for Grant Parker’s famously notch-ridden bedpost. Our newsroom stud was well and truly in love.

  My eyes drifted to Mel, who had turned toward us like she could feel Parker’s gaze on her, and my insides went all squishy at the joy on my friend’s face.

  Whatever was in that barrel notwithstanding, this wedding would be the best any of us had ever seen—surely a maid of honor with my lengthy disaster resume and knowledge of police procedur
e could see to that.

  Three hours and ten bottles of wine later, the server handed Parker the check and I laughed when Bob snatched it, tossing out his AmEx card before Parker could argue.

  Dinner was a rousing success. But it was time to go, and I wasn’t a thousand percent sure the vineyard would be clear of squad cars. I knew Parker and Mel would find out about the dead guy eventually, but I wanted more information before I had to break it to them.

  The server returned with the black leather folder, and I laid two fingers on his elbow when he spun back for the kitchen. “Where’s a good place to go for music and dancing around here? Somewhere not too college-y,” I said.

  He twisted his lips to one side. “There’s a new place just up the road—they have this whole roaring twenties thing going on. Vintage cocktails, jazz music, dark booths. A real-life speakeasy. And classes are out right now.”

  I nodded and thanked him, turning to smile at Mel. “I have one more surprise up my sleeve tonight,” I half-shouted, leaning close to her ear so she could hear me over the bustling dining room as I explained my idea. Her face split into a grin as she nodded, tugging on Parker’s sleeve.

  We stood, Parker’s arm closing around Mel’s shoulders as he bent his head to whisper something that made her smile and swat at him. That was happily-ever-after material right there.

  Letting my eyes roam the walnut and leather dining room, I counted six couples who were each staring at their respective smartphones and four women watching their husbands watch baseball on one of the four flat-screens in the bar. The woman at the table in the far corner was staring Chinese-star-variety daggers at the room in general, her eyes seeming to follow Parker as he led Mel away from the table—probably to avoid looking at her companion, his perfect salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the low light as he nodded to whoever was on the other end of his phone call.

  My gaze stayed on her for a moment. Closer to Bob’s age than mine, she was downright stunning: perfectly coiffed blonde bob, diamond earrings the size of ice cubes, and a Chanel pantsuit that wouldn’t have hung any better on a runway model. Poor thing. Cell phones were awesome, but they could kind of suck sometimes too.

  Shaking my head, I directed everyone back to the front, pausing to ask the hostess for directions to the speakeasy.

  Four doors up and around the corner. Perfect.

  Bob fell into step beside me, putting a hand under my elbow as I picked my way over the cobblestone sidewalk. I adored the look of the streets leftover from colonial Virginia, but they did not adore my shoes.

  “You okay, kid?” my editor asked, tightening his grip on my elbow as my heel slid into a crack between two stones.

  “Just tired, chief.”

  He nodded. “Not surprising. When do you ever have time to sleep?”

  “Here and there. Often behind my sunglasses when some of the more windbag-ish attorneys get on a roll in front of a jury.”

  He chuckled. “Excellent time management. But I’m serious. You work eighty hours a week, and for the past few months you’ve been on a mission to throw these two the perfect wedding. I’m wondering where that leaves you on your priority list. There’s more to life than work, Nicey.”

  I snorted. “Look who’s talking.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’m old. Since I lost Grace, the Telegraph is all I have. At your age, it shouldn’t be.”

  Smiling as Bob swung the door to the Jazzy Flapper open, I stepped onto the scarred wood floor, breathing in musky pine-laced air that took me back to seventh grade and Friday nights at the roller rink. “I have all I can handle these days keeping Andrews at bay and getting Mel to the altar.”

  “I just want you to be happy.” Bob followed me to a round table near the dance floor and patted my shoulder. “I never thought I’d know what it was like to have a daughter, you know?”

  I closed my eyes for a long blink. Yep. I knew. “The feeling is totally mutual, chief. But if you make me cry, I’ll take a two-week vacation while Parker and Mel are in Aruba.”

  He raised both hands. “Truce.”

  “What are you surrendering, boss?” Parker asked, pulling the third chair at the table out for Mel before taking the fourth one for himself.

  “My right to meddle in Nichelle’s lack of a social life.”

  Parker’s brow furrowed. “But what about—”

  I shot one Manolo into his shin as the corners of Bob’s mouth turned up.

  “All—all that volunteer work? And her workout classes?” Parker stammered, reaching under the table and tossing me a what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look.

  “Volunteer work?” Bob asked.

  “Reading to a class at my friend Jenna’s daughter’s school.” I waved a hand. “I go on Thursdays when I don’t have court.” I turned to Parker. “Everyone have their tuxes set for next weekend?”

  He nodded. “My mother assures me that my cousins have taken care of that. They’re supposed to be here in time for the ceremony run-through tomorrow.” Something resembling worry flitted across his face, vanishing before I could question it.

  Having all the paternal cousins as groomsmen was a longstanding Parker family tradition. Which meant the altar would be lopsided in the groom’s favor—to the tune of seven. Mel worried over it for weeks before she finally let it go with an “I don’t have seven friends I could ask, anyhow” and a dreamy smile about her children having a big family to play with.

  Another box checked. Each one got us closer to a perfect day.

  The band stepped up onto the little stage across the room and took up instruments, an upbeat jazz riff drowning out the need to converse. Parker arched one eyebrow at Mel and pushed his chair back. She giggled and extended a hand.

  He tugged her to the center of the floor, an unconscious grace in his movements that spoke of the almost-professional athlete he once was. Pulling Mel close, he said something into her ear and she nodded. Shuffle-stepping backward twice, Mel twisted her hips side to side before Parker pulled her back to him, lifting her off her feet and tucking her lower body under his right arm, then swinging her high before he set her down.

  “Thundering tap shoes.” I whistled.

  “Are they auditioning for a spot at the Savoy?” Bob asked, leaning close.

  “Or Swing Kids is the next Hollywood remake.” My wide eyes never left Parker and Mel, my brain racing through the fantastic photos this would make next weekend. A crowd closed around them, clapping in time to the music as our bride and groom shuffled and shook a perfect Lindy Hop across the middle of the dance floor.

  Even the band applauded when the last notes faded.

  Parker tugged Mel’s hand until she bowed with him before they strolled back to the table, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling.

  “Hey there, Fred, Ginger,” I said. “Been spending your evenings with Arthur Murray?”

  “The instructor took to calling Grant Mr. Charleston at the second lesson.” Mel grinned and Parker shook his head.

  “I think we’ve established that his praise is inflated by his opinion of my biceps.”

  “Someone have a crush?” I asked as a waitress stopped to take drink orders, giving Parker a nearly involuntary onceover.

  I stuck with a mojito, but everyone else ordered one of the more exotic-sounding vintage cocktails.

  Mel leaned close to my ear as the waitress moved to the next table. “The list of people who don’t have a crush is way shorter,” she said. “I worry sometimes.”

  I squeezed the fingers she was resting on my shoulder. “You shouldn’t. He doesn’t even notice it.”

  Standing, I pulled Bob out of his chair. “I’m going to be boring after the show they put on, but you want to spin me around the floor anyway?”

  “I used to cut a pretty mean rug.” He put one hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the floor.

  We made it through five bars of the slower song before he caught my eye and arranged his face into his most severe dad-like look. �
��What’s bugging you?”

  “Bugging me?” I echoed, pasting on a smile.

  He raised one eyebrow and shook his head. “Save the ‘I’m tired’ line, because I know better. I stumbled into the kitchen looking for a bathroom just before you herded everyone off that vineyard like something was on fire. The ovens were working just fine, and the food smelled heavenly. Plus, you’ve been distracted since before we left. What gives?”

  Damn.

  I pulled in a deep breath. “They found a body in one of the wine barrels.”

  He stumbled and landed one loafer on my toes. “You can’t be serious.”

  I caught him and led us into the next step. “Because this is the kind of thing I find it fun to joke about, chief. I ran everyone off so the cops could do their job and our happy couple didn’t have to have their bubble burst. Yet, anyhow.”

  Bob’s feet fumbled around trying to find the right steps, his drawn brow telling me his mind was on more important things than the cha-cha. “You don’t really think you can keep a body a secret?”

  The music stopped and I pinched my lips together and locked eyes with Bob. “I think I can for tonight. I’ll worry about tomorrow later.”

  He nodded, muttering through a smile as we turned back to the table, “Whatever you say, kiddo.”

  Three more rounds of drinks, and I was pretty sure Parker and Mel wouldn’t remember any lingering squad cars in the morning regardless. I sipped a second mint iced tea, my thoughts trailing back to the vineyard. The obvious question: Who would dump a corpse in a wine barrel?

  Followed by the ickier question: What would be left of said corpse after a while?

  Shelby saved me from pondering that by dropping into Parker’s chair and raising her glass in the general direction of the happy couple. “I never thought I’d see the day someone dragged Grant Parker to the altar,” she said.

  “Looks to me like he’s racing her, not being dragged.” I kept my tone light, because though Shelby and I’d had our share of barbed exchanges back when she was trying every trick in anyone’s book to steal my job, she’d become something resembling a friend in the past year, and her face said this stung more than a little.