Read Online Death on a Deadline by Christine Lynxwiler - Free Book Online Page B

he’d be interested in you. Any man in his right mind would be.”
    “Let’s just drop it, okay?” Even in the dark I could tell Carly was embarrassed by her confession.
    “Okay.”
    Silence reigned.
    When I’d enjoyed all the soul soothing I could stand, I pushed to a sitting position. “Did you see the ad in the paper?”
    “Hmm-uh,” Carly answered without opening her mouth or moving her towel.
    From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was in no hurry to join me in the land of the sitting, but I can only take so much inactivity. “You didn’t? For the job at the paper?”
    “Oh. Yeah, I saw that. So?” Carly tucked the towel tighter around her eyes.
    “So?” I lifted her towel and one brown eye glared at me. “So, I thought one of us should apply.”
    Carly sat up. She wiped the sweat from her face and neck and looked at me like I was out of my mind. “Why?”
    I rolled my eyes. “So we could be at the newspaper office. . .undercover.”
    Carly shook her head. “From Nancy Drew to Charlie’s Angel in one fell swoop. I’m not doing it.”
    “Fine, I will.”
    “You’re going to send a résumé?”
    “No, actually, I thought I’d stop by tomorrow and talk to Marge.” As the last few words came out of my mouth, the sauna room door opened.
    Amelia Stanton breezed into the dimly lit room, her neon-orange bikini reminding me of fog lights. Carly sat up and shot me a look. Had Amelia heard us?
    We didn’t have to wonder long.
    “Hi, dears.” Amelia arranged an extra thick towel on the bench and sank down, covering her eyes with another one. “I wish I could visit Marge. But unfortunately, she doesn’t want to see me.”
    I gave a mental groan. What could we say to that? “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” I tried a trick I’d learned from John and made the end of the sentence sound like a question, hoping to trigger an explanation.
    “Yes,” Amelia said, her voice more languid. “She blames me for Hank’s death, or at least Byron, and me by extension.”
    “Why?” Enough tricks. My direct question hung in the damp hot air.
    “Nancy Drew,” Carly mouthed at me and narrowed her eyes.
    “Who knows?” Amelia rearranged her towel. “When we were younger, Marge and I were as close as you two. But then we drifted apart. We might have patched it up, but after we married. . .” She folded her hands across her taut stomach. “Well, I never blamed her. A woman has to stand by her husband. Even if he’s wrong.”
    I raised an eyebrow at Carly. “Hank came between you?”
    “Oh, my. That’s an understatement.” I wondered if the reclining position combined with my clinical-questioning technique reminded Amelia of talking with her psychiatrist, because the words kept pouring out. “He hated Byron.” Even though we were the only ones in the room, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Almost from the day we married.”
    “So, I guess it’s a relief to you in a way that he’s gone?”
    Carly put her hand to her mouth and bit back a choking cough. I ignored her.
    Amelia was quiet for a few seconds, and I was afraid she was going to tell me to mind my own business, but when she spoke, her voice was soft. “It was like winning the lottery. Or at least it would be, if Marge would allow me back into her life.”
    Carly made a cutting motion across her neck, but I averted my gaze from her and took the big plunge. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
    “My stars, honey. How would I know? Hank had more enemies than a Saks Fifth Avenue has dressing rooms.”
    Carly stood and motioned frantically to me that we needed to go.
    I ignored her. “Byron must have hated Hank, as well.”
    Amelia pulled the towel back from her eyes, and Carly froze in mid-motion. “Hank put Byron through hell. But Byron didn’t kill him.” Every ounce of ditzy blond was gone as Amelia leveled a steely gaze on me. “And, believe me, Jenna Stafford, if you try to pin it on him,