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

“If we’re wrong, Jenks’ll sue our ass,” Jill said. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

“And Cleveland’ll be waiting,” said Claire. “Make us look like a bunch of fools.”

Finally, Jill sighed. “All right… I’m with you, Lindsay. If you can’t think of another way.”

I looked at all three of them to make certain we were unanimous. Suddenly, Cindy burst in. “Can you give me another twenty-four hours?”

I looked at her. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Just until tomorrow. And I need Jenks’s Social Security number.”

I shook my head. “You heard what I said about McBride. Anyway, for what?”

She had that same look as the other night, when she burst into my apartment — holding the photo of Jenks and Kathy Kogut, the third bride. “Just give me until tomorrow morning.”

Then she got up and left.

Chapter 83

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cindy sheepishly pushed open the glass doors leading to the office of the San Francisco Writers Guild. This felt a lot like the day at the Grand Hyatt. At the reception desk, a middle-aged woman with the punctilious look of a librarian looked up at her. “May I help you?”

Cindy took in a deep breath. “I need to find a manuscript. It was written quite a while ago.”

The word copyright had set her off. She had written short stories in college. They were barely good enough to get into the school’s literary journal, but her mother had insisted, Get them copyrighted. When she investigated, it turned out it took months and was way too costly. But a friend who had published told her about another way she could register documents locally. He told her, All the writers do. If Nicholas Jenks had wanted to protect himself in his salad days, he might’ve gone the same route.

“It’s sort of a family thing,” Cindy told the woman. “My brother wrote this history. Going back three generations. We don’t have a copy.”

The woman shook her head. “This isn’t the library, hon. I’m afraid that whatever we have here is restricted. If you want to find it, you’ll have to have your brother come in.”

“I can’t,” Cindy said solemnly. “Nick is dead.”

Th

e woman softened, looked at her slightly less officiously. “I’m sorry.”

“His wife said she can’t locate a copy. I’d like to give it to our dad, a sixtieth-birthday present.” She felt guilty, foolish, lying through her teeth like this, but everything was riding on getting this book.

“There’s a process for all of this,” the woman replied sanctimoniously. “Death certificate. Proof of next of kin. The family lawyer should be able to help you. I just can’t go letting you in here.”

Cindy’s mind raced. This wasn’t exactly Microsoft here. If she had found her way to the crime scene at the Grand Hyatt, tracked Lindsay to the second crime, she ought to be able to handle this. Everyone was counting on her.

“There must be a way you can let me take a look. Please?”

“I’m afraid not, dear. Not without some documentation. What makes you even think it’s registered with us?”

“My sister-in-law is sure it is.”

“Well, I can’t just go giving out registered documents on someone’s hunch,” she said with finality.

“Maybe you can at least look it up,” Cindy proposed. “To see if it’s even here.”

The dachshund-nosed defender of the free press finally relaxed. “I guess I can do that. You say it was several years ago?”

Cindy felt an adrenaline surge. “Yes.”

“And the name?”

“I think it was called Always a Bridesmaid.” She felt a chill just saying the words.