“Dial M for Murder.”
“That’s the one, and the killing’s during a big scene where the main female character fights off a killer.”
“Grace Kelly. Ray Milland’s her husband who’s hired—more blackmailed—someone to strangle his very wealthy wife, while he’s at another location, but on the phone—it’s mid-twentieth century—with her.”
“Solid alibi.”
“Exactly so. He rings her up—the husband does—to get her on the line, the killer attacks. And she struggles while the husband listens.”
“Cold.”
“But she manages to get her hand on the scissors she was using earlier, still on the table, and she kills the killer.”
“And in the theater, everyone’s focused on the screen, like with Chanel Rylan’s murder. The killer stabs her in the back of the neck, walks out. I haven’t read it yet to see where it diverges. Has to be some.”
“I’ll take that one. And this?” He tapped another book.
“Dark Deeds—third book. She’s already working on it, already selected the vic. I have to read it, find out more about the book vic, then start looking for potential targets.”
“Well then.” Roarke picked up the second book. “What do you say we settle in for an hour or so, then we can have our own murder book club over dinner?”
“Okay, but we’re looking for—”
He patted her hand. “I’ve got it.”
He put his feet up on the bench table beside hers, opened the book. Smiled at his wife. “It’s nice.”
“It’s work.”
“It’s nice work.”
With the cat spread over both of them like a furry blanket, the fire simmering, their bodies hip-to-hip on the sofa, she couldn’t deny it.
She dug into it, into the dynamics between the partners. A good balance and contrast, as far as Eve could tell, with Hightower’s more straight-arrow leveling out Dark’s instinctive moves and gut plays. And vice versa.
She reread a section from the victim’s point of view, clearly saw the similarities to Rosie Kent. The youth, the recklessness, the inexperience.
And both from solid, suburban, edging toward conservative backgrounds.
The murder itself where the author kept the killer’s gender neutral. To keep the reader guessing, Eve supposed. The meet when the killer approached Pryor/Rosie just as the young LC strolled onto the street to start the night’s work.
The killer showed—more likely faked—nerves to give the victim the false confidence of being in charge. And yeah, yeah, just as Eve had imagined it, the killer requests her “date” freshen up. More vic point of view, washing up a little, thinking smugly how this one should be easy money, thinking about a pair of mag shoes she’d be able to buy. How her lame sister just doesn’t get how much fun this is.
Steps out, finds wine on the table. Sure, sugarplum, let’s have a drink and relax. Followed by the shy request for the LC to undress first.
As she drinks, Pryor/Rosie does a little striptease, something she’s practiced in front of the mirror. Her date for the evening looks like money, and sometimes money added a nice tip, so she played it up.
Starts to feel a little dizzy, laughs it off, and keeps rolling her hips, doesn’t argue when her date insists she finish the wine.
Doesn’t hesitate when she’s told to lie down. So sleepy. She wonders vaguely why her date takes the time to pick up the clothes, to fold them neatly, like her own mother used to.
It’s the last thing she thinks—the last thought of the dead girl is about her mother.
The killer studies the girl on the bed, the firm, perfect breasts and the smooth, perfect skin. The young face under the whore’s makeup, the nails—fingers and toes—inexpertly polished a glittery pink.
Takes out the sash, lifts the head to wind it, winds it around the neck. Thinks of punishment come due because she’d had no right to flaunt those breasts, that skin, that face.
Nerves, fears, doubts—can I actually do this?—fade away in cold rage.