Fillet of Murder by Linda Reilly Page B

sneaking in here, I thought it was Bea.”
    â€œBea! Are you psycho? She’s shorter and at least ten pounds heavier than me.”
    â€œI was working with limited lighting. Give me a break.”
    Of course, with the lights on a closer look confirmed the obvious—Jill had at least three inches on Bea, and wore chic designer duds that Bea would’ve said made her look like a toffee-nose. Talia jabbed a finger at Jill. “And for the record, my hair is a smidge longer and a lot more stylish than Peter Pan’s. But you—you knew the code to get in here!”
    Jill did an exaggerated eye roll. “Anyone with even a quarter of a brain could figure out Phil’s code. Besides, I’ve”—she flushed a deep crimson—“I’ve used it before.”
    â€œCan I get up?” Talia drew in a breath. “I mean,
may
I get up?”
    Jill set the gun on Phil’s desk and dropped into his chair. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want,” she said, tears blossoming on her long, thick lashes.
    Talia gathered up the goodies that had spilled from her Sage & Seaweed bag, jammed them back inside, and pushed herself upward. Sliding her left hand into her jacket pocket, she fixed Jill with a piercing look. “You obviously came in here looking for something.”
    With a loud sniffle, Jill nodded. “Three nights ago I left my diamond and sapphire bracelet here. My husband gave it to me last year, on my thirtieth birthday. I have to find it before he notices it’s gone. I wear it nearly every day.”
    Talia connected the dots. The picture that emerged was not a pretty one. “You and Phil were having an affair, weren’t you?”
    â€œIt’s hard to explain,” Jill said miserably. “But, sort of, yes.” She lowered her face to her hands.
    â€œWhy did you take the bracelet off in the first place?”
    Jill lowered her hands. “Without getting too graphic, let’s just say it was making the position I was in a bit too uncomfortable.”
    Talia felt her own cheeks reddening, and then a thought crossed her mind. She remembered the photo she’d found on the floor that morning, in the showroom—the snapshot of the little girl. She’d been holding it when she and Bea had gone searching for Turnbull, but when she saw his body she dropped it.
    Had the killer left the photo there?
    â€œWill you help me find it?” Jill begged, penetrating Talia’s thoughts.
    â€œThe bracelet?” Talia rose to her feet and looked around the room. On the floor, where Turnbull’s body had lain, was a darkened bloodstain. Fingerprint powder coated nearly every flat surface. “All right, but we can’t spend much time in here. If anyone sees us, we’re toast.”
    â€œThis room doesn’t have any windows. From outside, no one should be able to figure out we’re in here.” Jill leaped out of Phil’s chair. “We were on the”—she swallowed—“desk when I took my bracelet off.”
    Oh ick. Ick squared.
    â€œThen why don’t you search the desk?” Talia suggested. Looking around, she saw a faded blue love seat resting against the far wall. “What about that sofa over there? Did you ever, um—”
    Jill nodded sheepishly. “A few times, but I don’t think it’s there. If Phil had found it, he’d have returned it to me.
Or
 . . . he told me once he had a secret hiding place in here, but I never found out where it was.”
    Talia suppressed a shudder. “I’ll look there anyway. But let’s put a time limit on it, okay? Five minutes, tops. Then we’re out of here, whether we find the bracelet or not.”
    â€œAgreed.”
    While Jill rummaged through the desk drawers and rifled under the blotter, Talia stripped the cushions from the love seat and squeezed her fingers into its every nook and crack. A set of plastic gloves