that it's not work? That you've switched teams or gone bi-sexual?"
"No." He scowled hard, his green eyes as cold as jade, his rouged cheeks hot pink. He was either furious or embarrassed. Maybe both. "You know better than that."
I did . "Well, then, what other reason would you have for dressing up like—" I was perplexed. He carried too much bulk to be impersonating Amy Winehouse, the late British rocker. A giant Snooki? "Who are you supposed to be exactly?"
"Never mind that. Should I arrest you for murder?"
"Me? No!" Brought back to the raw reality of a dead body inches from us, I began shaking again. "I–I–I..."
"Then tell me what happened in here?"
I shrugged. What did he think? That I'd watched the Black Boutonniere Killer murder the woman, er man, er person on the floor? It struck me that I didn't know the BBK was the killer, nor did I know who was under those costumes, and I said, more in response to that than to his question, "I don't know anything."
"Then why do you have blood on your hands?"
I recalled the blood splatters on the fabric I'd touched earlier. I looked at my hands and recoiled. These weren't my hands. Not with a murder victim's blood on them. I gagged.
"Oh shit." He shoved a plastic waste basket under my mouth just in time.
There's something endearing about a guy who offers aid when you're hurling. But I knew Stone. When he was nice he was irresistible. Irresistible led to hot sex and hot sex invariably led to the whole heart disagreement. I hid my tattoo. "I didn't kill anyone."
Maybe though, I should tell him about the ruckus I'd heard in this room earlier. If I told him that, though, I'd have to reveal my eavesdropping on Bruce and him — which would need further explanations and might end up with Bruce discovering Lars hired me to investigate what was going on between him and Stone. That would render my contract with Lars null and void. That would mean no recommendation to Lars' agent. That would mean no line edit of my manuscript. That would mean returning Lars' check. I zipped the impulse to spill my guts, and reiterated, "I didn't kill anyone."
"I believe you, Jack, but you will probably have to come downtown for questioning."
Stone was the only one who called me Jack, and always in a tone that seemed too intimate. "I won't tell you anything I haven't told you already, even if you grill me under hot lights."
He rolled his eyes. "You've been watching too much TV."
Yeah, well, a girl has to do something to counteract writer's block. My nose twitched at something foul in the air. "Is it starting to smell kind of 'ripe' in here or am I just now noticing the... tang?"
"Puke." Stone made a face. "And DB odor."
DB is police lingo for dead body. I grimaced, felt my stomach lurch again, and stood. I reached for the door. "May I leave?"
Translation: run as far as possible from this nightmare.
"No."
"I won't run away," I lied. Then told the truth. "I want to wash my hands—"
Someone rattled the door knob. Then knocked. "It's me."
I went rigid. Dinah! Oh, God, she couldn't find me here. She'd fire me. As Stone reached for the lock, I whispered, "No. Don't let her in."
"I have to. We need to control this situation before backup arrives." Stone pointed to the chair. "Sit, and remember this is a crime scene. Don't touch anything."
I stared at my hands thinking his warning was a bit late. I sat and bowed my head, letting the wig hide as much of my face as possible.
Dinah said, "What's the deal, Maddox?"
And the Oscar for Potty Mouth of the Year goes to Dinah Edger — who, upon being told one of her performers had been slain on the premises, that the police would arrive imminently to detain her customers, and then shut down her establishment for a week or two while they investigated the murder, turned the air in the dressing room a shade of blue no rainbow would claim.
"Who is it?" Dinah demanded.
"Later." Stone caught my elbow, hauling me out of my seat. "We need to use your
"No." He scowled hard, his green eyes as cold as jade, his rouged cheeks hot pink. He was either furious or embarrassed. Maybe both. "You know better than that."
I did . "Well, then, what other reason would you have for dressing up like—" I was perplexed. He carried too much bulk to be impersonating Amy Winehouse, the late British rocker. A giant Snooki? "Who are you supposed to be exactly?"
"Never mind that. Should I arrest you for murder?"
"Me? No!" Brought back to the raw reality of a dead body inches from us, I began shaking again. "I–I–I..."
"Then tell me what happened in here?"
I shrugged. What did he think? That I'd watched the Black Boutonniere Killer murder the woman, er man, er person on the floor? It struck me that I didn't know the BBK was the killer, nor did I know who was under those costumes, and I said, more in response to that than to his question, "I don't know anything."
"Then why do you have blood on your hands?"
I recalled the blood splatters on the fabric I'd touched earlier. I looked at my hands and recoiled. These weren't my hands. Not with a murder victim's blood on them. I gagged.
"Oh shit." He shoved a plastic waste basket under my mouth just in time.
There's something endearing about a guy who offers aid when you're hurling. But I knew Stone. When he was nice he was irresistible. Irresistible led to hot sex and hot sex invariably led to the whole heart disagreement. I hid my tattoo. "I didn't kill anyone."
Maybe though, I should tell him about the ruckus I'd heard in this room earlier. If I told him that, though, I'd have to reveal my eavesdropping on Bruce and him — which would need further explanations and might end up with Bruce discovering Lars hired me to investigate what was going on between him and Stone. That would render my contract with Lars null and void. That would mean no recommendation to Lars' agent. That would mean no line edit of my manuscript. That would mean returning Lars' check. I zipped the impulse to spill my guts, and reiterated, "I didn't kill anyone."
"I believe you, Jack, but you will probably have to come downtown for questioning."
Stone was the only one who called me Jack, and always in a tone that seemed too intimate. "I won't tell you anything I haven't told you already, even if you grill me under hot lights."
He rolled his eyes. "You've been watching too much TV."
Yeah, well, a girl has to do something to counteract writer's block. My nose twitched at something foul in the air. "Is it starting to smell kind of 'ripe' in here or am I just now noticing the... tang?"
"Puke." Stone made a face. "And DB odor."
DB is police lingo for dead body. I grimaced, felt my stomach lurch again, and stood. I reached for the door. "May I leave?"
Translation: run as far as possible from this nightmare.
"No."
"I won't run away," I lied. Then told the truth. "I want to wash my hands—"
Someone rattled the door knob. Then knocked. "It's me."
I went rigid. Dinah! Oh, God, she couldn't find me here. She'd fire me. As Stone reached for the lock, I whispered, "No. Don't let her in."
"I have to. We need to control this situation before backup arrives." Stone pointed to the chair. "Sit, and remember this is a crime scene. Don't touch anything."
I stared at my hands thinking his warning was a bit late. I sat and bowed my head, letting the wig hide as much of my face as possible.
Dinah said, "What's the deal, Maddox?"
And the Oscar for Potty Mouth of the Year goes to Dinah Edger — who, upon being told one of her performers had been slain on the premises, that the police would arrive imminently to detain her customers, and then shut down her establishment for a week or two while they investigated the murder, turned the air in the dressing room a shade of blue no rainbow would claim.
"Who is it?" Dinah demanded.
"Later." Stone caught my elbow, hauling me out of my seat. "We need to use your
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