To Die For by Linda Howard

wouldn’t have been killed on my property. To take this conclusion to the very end, it was also Nicole’s fault that I’d been forced to see Wyatt Bloodsworth again.
    Last night, I’d felt sorry for Nicole. Today I was thinking more clearly, and I figured it was just like her that, even dead, she was causing trouble for me.
    I put on the coffee, grabbed a cup of yogurt from the refrigerator because that was fast, and ate it while I popped two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster and peeled a banana. One peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich—and two cups of coffee—later, I was much happier. Sometimes, when I’m really busy at Great Bods, I’ll make do with an apple or something like that for lunch, but when I have the time to sit down, I like to
eat.
    Once I felt as if I wouldn’t collapse from hunger, I got the morning newspaper from the front steps and, over another cup of coffee, absorbed just how big the paper was playing Nicole’s murder. The article was on the bottom half of the front page, and included a picture of Wyatt and me when he was hauling me out of Great Bods to stuff me in his car. He looked big and grim, and I looked in really great shape, with the pink halter top revealing my toned abs. I didn’t have a six-pack, but I didn’t go for the really muscular look, so that was fine. I was thinking that my abs were a good advertisement for Great Bods when I read the caption under the photo:
“Lieutenant J.W. Bloodsworth leads witness Blair Mallory from the crime scene.”
    “Leads,”
my ass!
Hauled
was more like it. And why did they have to identify me in the big color photo on the first page, huh? Why couldn’t the reporter have stuck my name somewhere toward the end of the article?
    I read the entire article, and nowhere did I find Wyatt’s official statement about witness
es,
plural. The only mention of a witness was singular—little old me. Probably by the time he’d made the statement, the paper had already gone to press. There would probably be another article in tomorrow’s paper, but I was afraid the damage was done.
    Right on cue, my phone rang. I looked at the Caller ID and saw the name of the newspaper. No way was I talking to a reporter, so I let the answering machine pick up the call.
    Yes, indeed, this looked like a great day to leave town.
    I dashed upstairs and dried my hair, then put on pink capri pants, a white tank, and the cutest flip-flops with little pink and yellow shells on the straps. Is that the best beach outfit, or what? I brushed my teeth, put on moisturizer and mascara, then added a little bit of blush and lip gloss just in case. In case what? In case Wyatt delivered the car, of course. Just because I didn’t want him back didn’t mean I wouldn’t take joy in showing him just exactly what he’d turned down before.
    The phone kept ringing. I talked to Mom, who was just checking to see how I was doing. I talked to Siana, who was wildly curious about both the murder and the photograph of me with Wyatt, since she had listened to me rant about him two years ago. Other than that, I didn’t answer any of the calls. I didn’t want to talk to any reporters, nosy acquaintances, or possible murderers.
    Traffic on the street outside my condo seemed to be unusually heavy. Maybe it was a good thing my car wasn’t parked under the portico; from the street, it must have looked as if no one was home. Still, I had things to do and places to go; I needed wheels.
    By ten, my car still hadn’t been delivered. I was doing a slow burn as I looked up the number for the police department.
    Whoever answered the phone, sergeant somebody, was polite but ultimately unhelpful. I asked for Lieutenant Bloodsworth. He wasn’t available. Neither was Detective MacInnes. The sergeant transferred me to someone else, who transferred me to someone else. I had to explain the entire situation each time. Finally—
finally
—I got Detective Forester and went through my spiel