Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Amateur Sleuth
Killer Cocktail (27 page)
Killer Riff
Killer Deal
Killer Heels
Killer Deal
Killer Heels
Available from St. martin’s / mirotaur Paperbacks
KILLER COCKTAIL
“Fashion commentary, urbane asides, and witty characters keep the pages turning.”
—Library Journal
KILLER HEELS
“Sure to please
Sex and the City
fans.”
Sex and the City
fans.”
—
Booklist
Booklist
“Mix a splash of Carrie Bradshaw, a dash of Stephanie Plum, and a wee bit of Kinsey Millhone and you have Molly Forrester, advice columnist (‘You Can Tell Me’) for
Zeitgeist
magazine by day and amateur sleuth by night … Ample laughs help propel a well-crafted plot.”
Zeitgeist
magazine by day and amateur sleuth by night … Ample laughs help propel a well-crafted plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Delicious.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
Kirkus Reviews
“
Killer Heels,
Sheryl J. Anderson’s hip debut mystery, sparkles like fine champagne, an intoxicating mix of wit, perception, and insouciance, and a wickedly clever but genuine depiction of single life in the city.
Killer Heels
will tap right to the top of the Best First lists.”
Killer Heels,
Sheryl J. Anderson’s hip debut mystery, sparkles like fine champagne, an intoxicating mix of wit, perception, and insouciance, and a wickedly clever but genuine depiction of single life in the city.
Killer Heels
will tap right to the top of the Best First lists.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of
Death of the Party
Death of the Party
“A fun, ‘girls’ night out’ type of book that blends humor, craziness, and mystery”
—
Mystery News
Mystery News
Keep reading
for an excerpt from Sheryl J. Anderson’s next Molly Forrester novel
for an excerpt from Sheryl J. Anderson’s next Molly Forrester novel
Now available from St. Martin’s Minotaur
“
You need a dead body.
A really cool dead body,” Cassady suggested.
You need a dead body.
A really cool dead body,” Cassady suggested.
“Is that something I order online or do they have a department upstairs?” I asked. Believe me, if there were a way to order up a stylish cadaver in Manhattan, Cassady Lynch would know. Networking is second nature to her and with her long legs, amazing figure, and cascading auburn curls, her life is overflowing with people eager to do her all sorts of favors.
“I’m fairly sure you have to special order those,” Tricia said. “Especially one that’s already been refrigerated.”
My two best friends and I were spending our lunch hour shopping—that’s why granola bars fit in desk drawers—at the marvel that is the flagship ABC Home Store on Broadway. High heaven for shopping addicts, it is eight levels of treasures ranging from dainty little soaps to massive French Country antiques. When I was growing up, one of my favorite books was about two kids who deliberately get locked in the Metropolitan Museum of Art overnight; I used to dream about doing the same. Now I dream about being locked in ABC Home. With a platinum card. That someone else pays off.
We were on the first floor, helping Cassady search for a new pair of earrings. A fellow intellectual properties lawyer at the public interest group where she works had persuaded her to attend some sort of scientific seminar that night. She was having second thoughts, but didn’t want to leave her colleague hanging, so she’d decided new baubles would amp up her excitement about going.
Cassady frowned, gently enough to show displeasure but not deeply enough to start a crease. “At the risk of disparaging the Mayor or the Commissioner, there have been plenty of homicides in Manhattan this summer. I’m sure several of them are unsolved and worthy of your talents.”
Love and murder are my favorite topics as a journalist and as a person. What with the extreme behavior, the denial of risk, the blinding focus, and the will to succeed, being in love and being homicidal aren’t as far apart as one might think. Or hope. And the place where those two mindsets intersect fascinates me most of all. But it’s a dangerous intersection and this time around, it would prove to be an incredibly costly one.
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” I said. “Not to sound like a ghoul, but whenever I hear about an interesting case, I pitch it to my darling editor, but she keeps shooting me down.”
“Maybe Eileen—and/or Fate—are suggesting you try a social crusade or a government scandal,” Tricia suggested, examining a lovely pair of freshwater pearl dangles. “A less macabre route to greater journalistic glory.”
As opposed to the murder route I had been pursuing. While I’m best known as the advice columnist for
Zeitgeist
magazine, I’ve recently—through sets of unique circumstances—had the opportunity to solve two murders. I wrote articles about both investigations that were well-received, but didn’t give me quite the career transformation
I’d hoped for. My editor continues to scoff at my desire to formally move beyond “You Can Tell Me” and build up an investigative resume. And while I love my column and the front row seat it gives me at the demolition derby of love, a girl needs a challenge.
Zeitgeist
magazine, I’ve recently—through sets of unique circumstances—had the opportunity to solve two murders. I wrote articles about both investigations that were well-received, but didn’t give me quite the career transformation
I’d hoped for. My editor continues to scoff at my desire to formally move beyond “You Can Tell Me” and build up an investigative resume. And while I love my column and the front row seat it gives me at the demolition derby of love, a girl needs a challenge.
“Molly’s got a gift, Tricia,” Cassady said firmly, “we should encourage it.”
“I want to see her byline in
The New York Times
as much as you do,” Tricia agreed, “I was just hoping there was a less dangerous way to get her there.”
The New York Times
as much as you do,” Tricia agreed, “I was just hoping there was a less dangerous way to get her there.”
“I don’t want to work for
The Times
,” I told them. “I just want to figure out the next step in my career.”
The Times
,” I told them. “I just want to figure out the next step in my career.”
“Wonderful. We’ll wish for anvils to fall on Eileen,” Cassady suggested.
Eileen Fitzsimmons is my editor at
Zeitgeist
. We’re one of those glossy Manhattan lifestyle magazines that will instruct you to “Be Proud of Who You Are,” teach you “Ten Bulletproof Ways to Seduce Him,” and share the need to “Get Off Your Ass to Get Your Ass Off,” all in the same issue and with no sense of irony. Eileen was brought in to “put some teeth into the thing,” according to the Publisher. At this point, the only place she’s sunk her sharp incisors is into the tender hearts of the staff. Those who don’t loathe her fear her. Best I can tell, she enjoys both reactions equally.
Zeitgeist
. We’re one of those glossy Manhattan lifestyle magazines that will instruct you to “Be Proud of Who You Are,” teach you “Ten Bulletproof Ways to Seduce Him,” and share the need to “Get Off Your Ass to Get Your Ass Off,” all in the same issue and with no sense of irony. Eileen was brought in to “put some teeth into the thing,” according to the Publisher. At this point, the only place she’s sunk her sharp incisors is into the tender hearts of the staff. Those who don’t loathe her fear her. Best I can tell, she enjoys both reactions equally.
Eileen has been good to me. Once. Which makes me nervous, since it brings to mind Don Corleone: “Someday … I’ll call upon you to do a service for me …” Eileen’s goodness was publishing my second investigative article, the one about Tricia’s brother’s fiancée being murdered at their engagement party. Perhaps you heard about it, maybe even read it.
As part of Eileen’s periodic efforts to toughen up the magazine, she asked me to write about the murder and the
part I played in unraveling it. I wrote a strong piece (if I may say so), we got lots of great letters and e-mails about it, and I’ve been asking Eileen to let me tackle another investigative feature ever since. But she just scrunches up her nose like I’m a particularly mangy kitten, pats me on the shoulder, and sends me back to my column.
part I played in unraveling it. I wrote a strong piece (if I may say so), we got lots of great letters and e-mails about it, and I’ve been asking Eileen to let me tackle another investigative feature ever since. But she just scrunches up her nose like I’m a particularly mangy kitten, pats me on the shoulder, and sends me back to my column.
“Which brings us back to needing a body. One that will seem attractive to Eileen,” I explained to Tricia and Cassady.
“Hmmm. Eileen as necrophiliac. Hadn’t considered that before,” Cassady said.
“Please. Like I don’t have enough trouble looking the woman in the eye as it is.”
“Play your connections. Get the inside scoop from your scrumptious Sherlock,” Cassady suggested.
Tricia answered before I could. “Cassady, no. You know how Kyle feels about our investigations.”
Hearing Tricia refer to them as “our” investigations was delightful, because I certainly couldn’t have solved either murder without their assistance, insight, and support. And she was absolutely right about Kyle; he’d be appalled at the notion of my actively scouting for another murder investigation. He’s very protective—of me and of his turf. He’d prefer that the two not meet. And I can understand that, even if I don’t always agree with it.
Kyle Edwards and I met at a crime scene. Kyle was there because he’s a homicide detective, literally one of Manhattan’s finest. I was there because I’d discovered the body. We got to know each other very well very quickly, in part because he suspected me of being the killer. I felt it might clarify the situation if I solved the murder to prove him wrong. Not exactly Cinderella, Prince Charming, and the glass slipper, but we’ve made it work—most of the time—
and are navigating the misunderstandings, drive-by shootings, and other surprising events that can complicate a romance between two people in our positions.
and are navigating the misunderstandings, drive-by shootings, and other surprising events that can complicate a romance between two people in our positions.
“Kyle wouldn’t stand in my way if I got a great story,” I assured us all. “He’s just not going to encourage me in that direction.”
“He’s happy with you as an unfulfilled advice columnist?”
“Happy with people not shooting at me.”
“So when’s he moving in?”
I looked at my watch so I wouldn’t have to look at either of them. “That soon?” Tricia asked.
“I need to get back.” I leaned in to hug them both good-bye and was practically stiff-armed by Tricia, who glared at me mightily.
“Like you’d ever let Eileen put you on that short a leash,” Cassady snarked.
“Molly Forrester, you’re holding out on us,” Tricia declared.
“Not at all. I’m just trying not to be premature in making any announcements.”
“Announcements?” The wedding bells were ringing so loudly in Tricia’s head I could almost hear them in mine. Tricia is an event planner and derives immense satisfaction, as well as a nice living, from bringing order to other people’s lives. The fact that she has known me for so many years and has yet to impose any order on mine both inspires and frustrates her. Because she’s a petite, porcelain-skinned brunette, people make the mistake of assuming that Tricia is delicate and, therefore, meek. She’s delicate all right—the same way a spider’s web is. It’s also beautiful, deceptively strong, and surprisingly tenacious.
“Slow down, cowgirl. He’s moving some stuff in this weekend, that’s all. No significant exchange of jewelry, no contracts of any sort, just … stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Cassady pressed. “You’re well past the toothbrush and one change of clothes point, right?”
“Not up to me.”
Cassady and Tricia turned to each other, delighted by this tidbit. “You know what that means,” Cassady said to Tricia for my benefit.
“It was his idea,” Tricia nodded.
“Why don’t I go back to work and let you two carry on at your own pace?”
Tricia beamed. “We need to have a party.”
“Great,” I said. “Your place? Kyle and I will try to stop by.”
“I meant your place,” Tricia said.
“Oh, no, no party. This isn’t an official declaration of any kind. Just a little step in the right direction.”
“So, is he going to be there every night?” Cassady asked, pulling me back to where I’d been standing at the counter. I made a half-hearted attempt at resisting, in part because I really did need to get back to the office and in part because I was nervous they were going to ask me questions I didn’t have answers for.
“He’s not living there. He’s moving some things in, in preparation for possibly living there at some point, but is not currently taking up primary residence.”
“I thought I was the lawyer.”
“You’ve taught me well, Obi Wan.”
Cassady purchased a stunning pair of Sarah Macfadden earrings, delicate interlocking hoops of hammered silver. I didn’t mean to downplay the importance or the excitement of Kyle and me inching toward a more permanent relationship,
but the fact of the matter was, I was nervous. I’d never lived with a man before; most of my relationships had imploded well before keys were even swapped. And I’d never been so crazy about a guy that he could make me come unglued just by walking in the door the way Kyle did. It was terrifying.
but the fact of the matter was, I was nervous. I’d never lived with a man before; most of my relationships had imploded well before keys were even swapped. And I’d never been so crazy about a guy that he could make me come unglued just by walking in the door the way Kyle did. It was terrifying.
Giving my arm a squeeze, Tricia murmured, “I’m so happy for you.”
“How long do you suppose it’ll take me to mess it up?”
“Stop it,” she said briskly, miming tossing salt over her left shoulder to ward off the Devil.
Cassady tucked her new purchase in her bag and steered us toward the door. “Much as I’d like to stay and teach Miss Molly to have a little faith in herself, now I am the one who has to get back. If I’m actually attending this Concerned Geeks Saving the World thing, I’ve got motions to file before I go, and motions to file before I go.”
“Somehow, Frost made it sound more attractive,” Tricia said wistfully as we all made our way back onto the street.
Robert Frost could have anything sound more attractive. Save, perhaps, Eileen. She’s one of those women who can stop you in your tracks when you first see her—but once you get to know her, you’ll never slow down in her vicinity again. Early in her tenure, I wondered if it was possible to structure my work hours so I’d only be at the magazine when Eileen wasn’t—say, in the middle of the night. But then the rumors started about her never going home, just sleeping in her coffin in her office, and I figured I had to get used to placing myself in her path on a regular basis. Especially because I’d already seen her dismantle several careers with nicely crafted lies whispered in the Publisher’s ear and I didn’t want to make it any easier on her to get me fired than I had to.
Which is why my heart skipped a beat when Eileen’s office door flew open just as I was walking to my desk. She stepped out with one hand extended portentously, like the Ghost of Christmas Future. A diminutive specter, barely five feet tall minus her Chloe wedges and clothed in an Elie Tahari chiffon shirt and paneled blouse, but scary nonetheless. “Just the person I was looking for,” she said, curling the hand slowly to summon me.
I resisted the temptation to look back over my shoulder, knowing that anyone who had been standing there was quivering under a desk by now. “Lucky me,” I said, wishing it were so.
“We were just talking about you.” Eileen flicked at her spiky black bangs as though the conversation had been exhausting, then gestured vaguely at her office. From where I stood, I couldn’t tell whether it contained other writers, editors, or a death squad. I wasn’t in any hurry to step up and find out.
“What can I do for you, Eileen?”
“We need to talk about the Garth Henderson article.”
I ran through a couple of appropriate responses in my head and chose the most polite one, since half the bullpen had stopped what they were doing to witness this exchange: “Excuse me?” Only two months ago, Garth Henderson had been a self-proclaimed “advertising rock star” known for his bold flair in both his campaigns and his social life. Three weeks ago, Garth Henderson became a corpse, having been murdered in one of the fancier rooms of the Carlyle Hotel. Specifically, he’d been shot once in the crotch and once in the head. In that order, apparently. No arrests had been made, but the police had spent quite a lot of time talking to his ex-wife, Gwen Lincoln, and to Ronnie Willis, whose advertising agency, Willis Worldwide, was poised to merge
with Garth’s at the time of the murder. There was tremendous pressure on the police—primarily from Garth’s many influential friends—to make something happen soon and I was glad for Kyle’s sake that he hadn’t caught the case.
with Garth’s at the time of the murder. There was tremendous pressure on the police—primarily from Garth’s many influential friends—to make something happen soon and I was glad for Kyle’s sake that he hadn’t caught the case.
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