There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3) by Wendy Delaney

Austin said, blasting me with his stinky breath. “I get in less trouble that way.”
    “I take it then that you two didn’t spend a lot of time at her father’s house?”
    “No more than absolutely necessary.” Austin’s feet inched toward the kid and the bike he wanted to sell her. “Now, if there isn’t anything else—”
    “One last thing. When your father-in-law became violently ill last night, why did it take so long for someone to call nine-one-one?”
    “Hey, I suggested it,” Austin said defensively. “I know something about puke.” He met my gaze with a derisive smirk on his lips. “This wasn’t normal puke, so I told Nicole we should call for an ambulance. But Victoria thought it would be better to drive Marty to the hospital.”
    “But that never happened.”
    “Stubborn bastard refused to leave the house. Said he’d be fine once he got everything out of his system.”
    Which was pretty much what Victoria had told me. Jeremy and Cameron, too.
    “That didn’t happen either,” I said, thinking aloud.
    Austin shook his head.
    “What do you think caused Marty to become so sick?”
    “My guess—food poisoning. But I never heard of that killing anybody before.”
    That made two of us.

Chapter Six
    “Well, shoot,” I said, finding another typo in the report I’d been working on for the last three hours. If I was going to inform Frankie that three of my interviewees thought Marty McCutcheon had suffered from some sort of food poisoning, I needed to at least spell poison correctly!
    As for the notion that it was done by the hand of a black widow, Frankie would have to make that determination herself, because I’d found nothing in the former Victoria Pierce’s history to indicate foul play.
    Husband number one, an insurance executive—so some money there—had died from a brain aneurysm after taking a bad fall. Her second husband, a restauranteur, died from an apparent heart attack while jogging, which didn’t compel me to pull on my running shoes anytime soon, but it also didn’t strike me as suspicious.
    “Have a nice weekend, Char,” Karla called to me as she headed down the hall.
    “You, too,” I responded automatically, listening to sirens wailing in the distance. It sounded like someone’s weekend was off to a bad start.
    I glanced down at the time on my computer screen. Five-thirty-seven!   The start of my weekend would suffer the same fate if I didn’t hightail it home to my grandmother’s house, where Steve would be picking me up in less than an hour.
    After I emailed Frankie my report I shut down my computer and raced downstairs, making a mental list of everything I needed to do to get ready for my date.
    As soon as I opened the door of the Jag I saw the two plastic bags on the passenger seat—the reminder I’d left myself to deliver Estelle Makepeace’s yarn order on my way home.
    “Too late now,” I told myself as I started the engine and glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d be on her way to mahjong, and I now had forty-nine minutes to get home and get my sexy on.
    “Sorry, Estelle. I’ll stop by tomorrow.” When I wasn’t in need of a presto change-o kind of minor miracle.
    Forty-seven minutes later, I was in my grandmother’s upstairs bathroom, applying another layer of Bronze Goddess, a lipstick from the line of cosmetics my mother repped. The stuff didn’t look nearly as good on me as it did on her, but….
    I gave my flat-ironed hair another shot of hairspray and then took a step back for a longer view of my reflection. Not bad considering the amount of time I had to transform myself from desk jockey to sexy. Well, as sexy as I could get in a cheap black dress two sizes larger than I used to wear.
    I loosened the cinch at my waist to deepen the V neckline and expose a bit more of the girls to focus Steve’s attention away from everything that jiggled in my southern hemisphere.
    “Okay, I’m as ready as I’m going to get,” I said, dashing down the