Read Online If Looks Could Kill by Eileen Dreyer - Free Book Online
Authors: Eileen Dreyer
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whine?"
"On or off the record?"
Chris grinned. "No, I'm not recording." One of Dinah's more quaint paranoias was the fear of being preserved for posterity without her permission, and Chris definitely had the tools with which to do it. Tucked into C. J. Turner's cabinets behind the makeup case and lock picks and firearms catalogues were the phone recorders, taps, tracers, location finders, directional mikes and computer protectors. Chris had collected each one for research during visits to New York where exclusive shops catered to even more paranoid big business. Chris knew how to use them all. She never did, unless she was working on a book. "Now, what's up?"
Dinah's voice loosened up infinitesimally. Only Chris would have noticed. "Oh, you mean about that rather... no, that absolutely bitchy little police detective who's been threatening everything short of capital punishment if I didn't give away your address? I want you to know I held off as long as I could."
"The drums have already reached me. I'm calling her next."
"No, dear, call Trey next. He has a migraine and it's not even noon. Tell him you're not knifing people in St. Louis so he can manage lunch."
"And what if I am?"
"Then lie, of course. He's in the middle of editing your next book. You lose him, and you'll be back to Wanda the Comma Commando from Hell."
It was a relief to get in another smile before facing the next call. "That's what I like about you, Dinah. You never lose sight of what's really important."
For just a second, the static from New York was empty. Chris fantasized that the outside world had vanished, that all that was left was Pyrite with its small jealousies and unshaken loyalties. That the only world was the one that ambled along outside her window, and that the worst thing after her was Harlan with his good Book and bad breath.
"Did you hear which book this person is supposed to be copying?" her agent asked, and for the first time her voice sounded less than in command.
Chris considered her doodles, a hundred sharp edges that wept black ink. "That's what confuses me, Di. If it were a death by sword, it'd be a pretty easy call. But Hell Hath No Fury... I've seen that pattern too many times to call it an isolated cause of death. What makes them tie it to me?"
When Dinah answered, her voice was missing its trademark razor-sharp edge. Not ten people in publishing would have recognized the sound as one of concern. "Maybe you should call and find out."
Chris took a very long breath. "Yeah. Maybe."
"And then call me right back."
That made Chris smile. "I'm a big girl, Dinah. You don't have to run right down and hold my hand."
She won a self-righteous snort for that. "Good dear God in heaven. What a horrible thought. Dinner with the Clampetts."
"You never know," Chris taunted. "You might just like it here. I do."
"And I might just sell my condo and join the Medical Missionary Sisters. Now, call that... person, and find out what's going on."
"Nothing's going on. Somebody in St. Louis doesn't have enough to do, that's all."
Ten minutes later, she wasn't quite as sanguine about it.
" You 're C. J. Turner?" asked the voice on the other end of the phone.
Chris wasn't exactly sure how to respond to the delight. It wasn't quite the reaction she'd anticipated. "Yes. Detective Lawson?"
"I want you to know how much I've enjoyed your work. All your work. I've followed you from the very beginning."
Chris knew that voice. It tickled at the back of her mind a moment, stirring emotions like rustling leaves. She wondered if she'd worked with Lawson before. It was certainly possible. She'd have to ask her. One of the few things Chris had little control over anymore was her memory. Notoriously bad, often sketchy. Irretrievably broken so that she spent familiar minutes in just this kind of exercise.
"Thank you," she acknowledged, brow pursed. "Um, what can I do for you, Detective?"
"I'd love to talk to you about your theories sometime, Ms., uh,
"On or off the record?"
Chris grinned. "No, I'm not recording." One of Dinah's more quaint paranoias was the fear of being preserved for posterity without her permission, and Chris definitely had the tools with which to do it. Tucked into C. J. Turner's cabinets behind the makeup case and lock picks and firearms catalogues were the phone recorders, taps, tracers, location finders, directional mikes and computer protectors. Chris had collected each one for research during visits to New York where exclusive shops catered to even more paranoid big business. Chris knew how to use them all. She never did, unless she was working on a book. "Now, what's up?"
Dinah's voice loosened up infinitesimally. Only Chris would have noticed. "Oh, you mean about that rather... no, that absolutely bitchy little police detective who's been threatening everything short of capital punishment if I didn't give away your address? I want you to know I held off as long as I could."
"The drums have already reached me. I'm calling her next."
"No, dear, call Trey next. He has a migraine and it's not even noon. Tell him you're not knifing people in St. Louis so he can manage lunch."
"And what if I am?"
"Then lie, of course. He's in the middle of editing your next book. You lose him, and you'll be back to Wanda the Comma Commando from Hell."
It was a relief to get in another smile before facing the next call. "That's what I like about you, Dinah. You never lose sight of what's really important."
For just a second, the static from New York was empty. Chris fantasized that the outside world had vanished, that all that was left was Pyrite with its small jealousies and unshaken loyalties. That the only world was the one that ambled along outside her window, and that the worst thing after her was Harlan with his good Book and bad breath.
"Did you hear which book this person is supposed to be copying?" her agent asked, and for the first time her voice sounded less than in command.
Chris considered her doodles, a hundred sharp edges that wept black ink. "That's what confuses me, Di. If it were a death by sword, it'd be a pretty easy call. But Hell Hath No Fury... I've seen that pattern too many times to call it an isolated cause of death. What makes them tie it to me?"
When Dinah answered, her voice was missing its trademark razor-sharp edge. Not ten people in publishing would have recognized the sound as one of concern. "Maybe you should call and find out."
Chris took a very long breath. "Yeah. Maybe."
"And then call me right back."
That made Chris smile. "I'm a big girl, Dinah. You don't have to run right down and hold my hand."
She won a self-righteous snort for that. "Good dear God in heaven. What a horrible thought. Dinner with the Clampetts."
"You never know," Chris taunted. "You might just like it here. I do."
"And I might just sell my condo and join the Medical Missionary Sisters. Now, call that... person, and find out what's going on."
"Nothing's going on. Somebody in St. Louis doesn't have enough to do, that's all."
Ten minutes later, she wasn't quite as sanguine about it.
" You 're C. J. Turner?" asked the voice on the other end of the phone.
Chris wasn't exactly sure how to respond to the delight. It wasn't quite the reaction she'd anticipated. "Yes. Detective Lawson?"
"I want you to know how much I've enjoyed your work. All your work. I've followed you from the very beginning."
Chris knew that voice. It tickled at the back of her mind a moment, stirring emotions like rustling leaves. She wondered if she'd worked with Lawson before. It was certainly possible. She'd have to ask her. One of the few things Chris had little control over anymore was her memory. Notoriously bad, often sketchy. Irretrievably broken so that she spent familiar minutes in just this kind of exercise.
"Thank you," she acknowledged, brow pursed. "Um, what can I do for you, Detective?"
"I'd love to talk to you about your theories sometime, Ms., uh,
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