Video Kill by Joanne Fluke Page A

taking zoology this semester.”
    â€œOkay, I believe you. What’s quail?”
    She was looking up at him with those twinkling eyes, and Sam’s mind went blank for a second.
    â€œUh . . . covey. A covey of quail.”
    â€œHow about fish?”
    â€œSchool. A school of fish.”
    â€œLions?”
    â€œPride.”
    â€œAnd what’s a draft?”
    â€œA draft?”
    â€œYes, a draft.”
    Sam was completely stumped. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of a draft.”
    â€œIt’s the kind of beer you’re going to buy me tonight. Watch!”
    Sam tore himself away from Ladle’s blue eyes to find that the sorority girl was just starting her dessert. Couldn’t she see that the “ice cream” wasn’t melting? Sam held his breath as the spoon she held dipped down and then raised slowly to her bright pink lips. Her mouth opened. The spoon went inside and came out again, clean. Sam was positive that she’d jump up from her chair any second, but she merely batted her eyelashes once at her boyfriend and then swallowed.
    â€œAnd now . . . for the second taste.”
    Ladle’s breath puffed out against his ear and Sam shuddered slightly. Ladle seemed very sure of herself, but Sam still couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely on the second spoonful the sorority girl would realize that her sundae tasted like potatoes.
    The girl laughed at something her boyfriend said, a little tinkle of a laugh, and then her pink lips opened again. No reaction. And again. Still no reaction. After a few minutes of spooning and laughter and chattering, the dessert compartment was empty and the girl and her boyfriend went out through the swinging glass doors.
    â€œWell?”
    Ladle looked over at him triumphantly and Sam shrugged.
    â€œYou win, but I never thought we’d get away with it.”
    â€œI knew we would,” Ladle said smugly. “My mother makes something she calls Mock Apple Pie. The filling is nothing but soda crackers and spices. Not an apple in it. But if you’re expecting apple pie, you taste apple pie.”
    That night at the pub Sam had found out that Ladle’s name was Katy Brannigan, the oldest of five children in a noisy, good-natured Irish family. He’d also discovered that he liked Katy Brannigan a lot. By the time they entered their senior year, they were inseparable. It all seemed part of a natural progression when they’d married right after graduation and moved into a small apartment. Sam had landed a good job with the L.A. police force, and Katy had gone to work as a stringer for the Times, occasionally getting an actual byline. Their troubles hadn’t started until Sam had clawed his way up in the ranks to become chief of detectives.
    Even though she knew it was unfair, Katy had resented Sam’s meteoric rise. After over ten years of slaving away at the Times, Katy was still writing obits and recipes. Looking back on it all, Sam guessed he should have seen the warning signs, but he’d been too busy to notice. It had come as a total shock when Katy had asked him for a divorce.
    Katy had told him that their marriage was stagnating. She’d talked it over with a couple of women in her awareness group and they’d helped her to understand. She’d moved directly out of her parents’ arms to those of her husband’s. She’d never had the opportunity to test her own strengths as a single woman. What about college? Sam had asked. That didn’t count, Katy’d insisted. College was an artificial environment and she’d lived at home the whole time. And yes, she still loved him, but it was criminal to deny herself the freedom to grow and mature as a person, to be recognized as a respected woman in her own right. As Mrs. Ladera, the wife of the popular Los Angeles chief of detectives, she was a total extension of him.
    Sam had argued and pleaded in vain, but nothing he’d said