1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)

“An outfit called Bright Star Media. Apparently, she was connected into the local music scene.”

Cindy took a sip of iced tea. “Why not let me have a go at it?”

“You mean like you did at the Hyatt?” I said.

She grinned. “No, more like Napa. C’mon… I’m a reporter. I sit all day with people trained to find the dirt on anybody.”

I bit into my sandwich. “Okay,” I finally said, “be my guest.”

“In the meantime,” Cindy inquired, “can I run with what we have so far?”

Much of it was classified. If it came out, it would point back to me. “You can run with the similar pattern of murder in Cleveland. How we found the bodies. The bride’s background here. Absolutely no mention of Merrill Shortley.” In that way, I hoped the killer would sense that we were closing in on him. It might cause him to think twice about killing again.

Cindy went over to a nearby ice cream cart to buy a gelato. Claire took the moment to ask, “So how are you feeling? You okay?”

I blew out a long breath and shrugged. “Queasy. Light-headed. I was told to expect it. I’m having a blood treatment this afternoon. Medved said he’d be there.” I saw Cindy on her way back.

“Here,” Cindy announced brightly. She was carrying three gelatos.

Claire clutched her chest and pretended she was going into cardiac arrest. “I need gelato about as much as Texas needs a warm breeze in August.”

“Me, too.” I laughed. But it was mango, and with the infection attacking me inside, it seemed like wasted caution to refuse.

Claire ended up taking hers, too. “So what you specifically haven’t told us,” she said with a slow roll of her tongue, “is what went on between you and Mr. Chris Raleigh in Oh-hi-oh.”

“’Cause there was nothing to tell,” I said and shrugged.

“One thing about cops” — Cindy laughed — “is you would think they would learn how to lie.”

“You writing for the gossip page now?” I asked.

Against my will, I felt my face blush. Claire and Cindy’s greedy eyes bore down on me, driving home that it was pointless to resist.

I pulled a knee up on the edge of the wall and sat yoga style. Then I took them through where things stood: the long, slow dance in my apartment, eliciting “You don’t dance, girl,” from Claire. “You cook.” I described the anticipation of sitting next to him on the plane; the nervous walk down by the lake; my own doubts, hesitation; the inner conflicts holding me back.

“Basically, it took every bit of self-control not to rip his clothes off right there on Lakefront Walk.” I laughed at how it must have sounded.

“Girl, why didn’t you?” Claire said, wide-eyed. “Might’ve done you some good.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.

But I did know. And though she tried to smile through it, Claire knew, too. She squeezed my hand. Cindy looked on, not knowing what was going on.

Claire joked, “I’d give up losing twenty pounds to see Cheery’s expression if the two of you got picked up for going at it in the woods.”

“Two San Francisco cops,” announced Cindy in a newscaster tone, “in Cleveland in pursuit of the bride and groom killer, were discovered au naturel in the bushes by the Cleveland waterfront.”

The three of us choked with laughter, and it felt so good.

Cindy shrugged. “That, Lindsay, I would’ve had to print.”

“From now on” — Claire giggled — “I can see things growing pretty humid in that squad car.”

“I don’t think that’s Chris’s style,” I defended him. “You forget, the man’s into The Shipping News.”

“Oh…it’s Chris now, huh?” mooned Claire. “And don’t be so sure about that. Edmund plays three instruments, knows everything from Bartok to Keith Jarrett, but he’s risen to the occasion in some very unexpected places.”

“Like where?” I laughed, the surprise caught in my throat.