Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) by Joni Rodgers Page B

I’d known all along. Confronted with a nice package in a pair of leather jeans, Twyla had the self-control of a fork in a light socket.
    Lying on the floor with her head on Twinkie’s flank, Smartie puffed smoke rings and tried to think in straight lines, but thoughts kept crowding, rubbing up against each other, tripping on things in her head. The lasting image of that punch bowl that went right through Charma’s neck vied with the unique shape of Shep’s earlobes. Bloggers and deadlines conflicted with the faint hairs around Shep’s wrist bone and his cell phone number.
    “She’s a beautiful woman. Smack. And a damn fine attorney.”
    “You’re in love with her, Nash. Admit it.”
    No. That couldn’t be right.
    “You’re not in love with her, Nash. Now get up here and
    “If you’re so in love with her, Nash, why were you in my
    “Love, Nash? You’re incapable of love, you granite-breasted bastard. You’re in this for the money. In it up to your thick neck.”
    Smartie wondered if Shep was already sleeping with Suri or just wanting to. If they slept together, Suri would say his name with her Oxford accent, and it wouldn’t sound like someone calling a dog.
    “ Shep ,” Smartie said softly to see what the smoke version looked like coming out of her mouth. “ Shhhhhhhhep-puh .”
    Twinkie’s stomach rumbled beneath her shoulder.
    “Don’t judge me,” she said, scratching under his chin. “I didn’t invite him in. I get credit for not inviting him in.”
    Twinkie rubbed his wet nose on the inside of her elbow.
    “You got it all wrong, Smack. The bimbo took a swan dive, and that’s the truth.”
    “Truth?” I flayed him with a sharp glance. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it stood up and tucked a dollar in your G-string.”
    “Why would he lie about Charma having an affair?” Smartie asked out loud. “To protect Suri? To cover his own tracks?”
    Maybe Belinda was off the hook, but Otis Bovet was famous for two things: being incredibly rich and being incredibly vain. This thirty-something trophy wife was supposed to advertise what a manly man he still was. In the balls-out, big oil, good ol’ boy business world of Texas, virility mattered. So if Charma was having an affair—possibly pregnant with another man’s child—
    “Talk about motive,” Smartie said. “People get killed for less than that every dang day of the week.”
    She curled onto her side with Twinkie’s lugging heartbeat drumming in her ear.
    “I have to take a Lunesta tonight, Twinkle Dinkle. You’re on sentry duty while I sleep, okay?”
    Twinkie raised his Tonka truck head and lapped wet kisses up the side of her face. Smartie put out her cigarette in a teacup, even though the cleaning lady hated it when Smartie did that, and Smartie was a little afraid of the cleaning lady. There was a can of Diet A&W Root Beer left on the desk. Warm and flat now, but still serviceable. Smartie took it into the bathroom to chase the Lunesta and was lying in the bathtub waiting for the Lunesta to kick in when Herrick called, reeling drunk, still spitting indignant about the post on Galley Oop .
    “ Hubby and hanger-on ,” he huffed. “And then he spells Herrick with one R. One R . That mouth-breathing community college piss midget.”
    “Herrick, no one who matters thinks you’re a hanger-on,” said Smartie, though in truth he was a hanger-on, and this was well known by everyone who mattered or didn’t, including both of them. “You know how bloggers are. They just say whatever makes them sound clever. They don’t know you. They don’t know anything about you.”
    “Why would they?” he said bitterly. “I’m not one of the Hottie Literati .”
    “Herrick, I’m hanging up. I took a Lunesta. I’ll drown in my tub.” She yawned and stood. “Go to bed. Take some Advil with a big glass of water or you’ll be hung over.”
    “Oh, thank you for your concern,” he said acidly. “It would have been nice if you’d