Read Online Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) by LynDee Walker - Free Book Online

Herrington: I’d run the Boston Marathon in stilettos before I’d go out drinking with a married man—and forget letting one into a hotel room. I have plenty of guy friends, but there’s a big, fat line between friendly and fire-playing, and hotel rooms sit on the warm side of it.
    I understood why Bob disliked this woman. Then again, I also got his disappointment in Kochanski. No wonder it was still a sore spot.
    One finger drummed against my thigh, my thoughts returning to Dr. Maynard. “I know she was here for a long time after that, though. Years later, she wrote a story I read this morning.”
    Larry nodded. “She knew how much Bob loathed her, and she kind of got off on it. Said she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of quitting.”
    Wow. “She could give Shelby a run for her money. And that takes a special kind of b—Um. Person.” I stopped walking, leaning against the chilly blocks of a nineteenth-century art deco wall and sighing. “So there’s no one in the newsroom who can tell me if she ever mentioned my guy.”
    Larry shrugged. “You could go ask her.”
    “Bob told me to find another source. After what you just said, I’m slightly afraid he might fire me for that.”
    He snorted. “I’d say never, but…He really did hate that woman. She finally managed to land a rich husband, which is why she wanted the society page in the first place.”
    I nodded, turning back toward the office. On one hand, I didn’t want to meet this awful woman Larry had described. And I didn’t want to even risk opening such a deep wound for Bob.
    On the other, I needed some kind of lead—any kind of lead—on Dr. Maynard.
    Couldn’t hurt to know where to look if I ended up with no other choice.
    “You don’t happen to know her married name, do you?”
    “Eason. He was a suit of some flavor.”
    Eason. As in, Mrs. Eason who was planning Maynard’s funeral?
    Jiminy. Choos.

8.
      
    Society scoop

      
    Larry asked me thirty-seven times between the corner and the elevator what was the matter with me. I couldn’t say. Not even really because I didn’t want to share the lead, although that was part of it. Mostly, I couldn’t make my mouth work with my brain running on fast-forward.
    What the hell kind of woman was this? Could our old society editor be Richmond’s very own Black Widow? Maybe it was a good thing Bob’s friend had moved three thousand miles away. Not just for his marriage, but for his ability to keep breathing.
    I rushed to my desk and typed “Elizabeth Eason” into my search bar.
    More than three hundred hits. Clicking to the photos, I studied her nose. Larry was right about the shape, but I pulled an old staff photo from Elizabeth Herrington’s society column to compare anyway. It was her.
    I scrolled through images, mostly from our society pages. Fly on the wall to belle of the ball.
    Mrs. Eason and her husband—tall, with thick white hair and the distinguished look handsome men get as they age that’s so damned unfair—were in photos of every major gala given in Richmond in the nine-year period between when she married him and when he died. Another click took me to her name in Shelby’s story about the circumstances surrounding his death. She found the body. Not damning by itself, but worth looking into.
    Why the cops hadn’t looked at her harder topped my list of questions, but I didn’t dare call Aaron and ask about Maynard’s maybe-girlfriend. He’d freeze me out of the whole investigation if I wasn’t careful.
    Who else might know?
    I snatched up the phone and dialed my favorite prosecutor’s cell number. My friend DonnaJo answered on the second ring.
    “Tell me you’re writing about something interesting. I’m so tired of looking at misdemeanor crap I’m going to claw my own eyes out,” she said in place of hello.
    Funny thing about working in law enforcement: while you dislike criminals, you kind of depend on them. Same goes for crime reporting. Murders are awful, but