A High-End Finish(77)
“Lizzie, listen carefully.” I grabbed both of her hands. “I like guys. Men. And when I’m ready, I’ll get one on my own, okay?”
“Fine.”
“I know a bunch of nice men.” I grabbed another slice of pizza and took a big bite. “I just meant I never want to go on a blind date again. So the next time you get a bug up your butt to set me up on a date with anyone—I mean, anyone—I want you to remember these two words: Jerry Saxton.”
“I will,” she said, sighing. “But I can’t help wishing those two words were Mac Sullivan.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see.”
It was such a wrong thing to say. I knew it the second the words left my mouth. I watched her ears literally perk up and she almost bounced in her chair. “Exactly what does we’ll see mean?”
I shook my head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“That’s right, so if you don’t want me hounding you forever, I suggest you spill your guts right now.”
I hesitated, then said, “There might’ve been a kiss.”
She froze. Then she started to shake with excitement.
“Stop it,” I said, laughing. “You nutball. It was just a kiss.”
“It was a MacKintyre Sullivan kiss.” She leaned both elbows on the table. “Tell me more.”
“There’s nothing more to tell. I brought him a basket of vegetables and a few days later he returned the basket and told me I . . . I dazzled him.”
“You dazzled him?” She pressed her hands to her heart. “That’s so sweet.”
“And then he kissed me.”
“Oh, my.” She fanned herself. “Then what?”
“And then . . . nothing,” I said. “I got conked on the head and I’ve been housebound ever since.”
“So Eric is out and Mac is in?” she wondered.
“Eric held my hand at the hospital,” I said.
She gasped. “Two men want you.”
“Not exactly,” I said, laughing. “He was giving comfort to the injured, that’s all.”
“He could’ve done that from across the room. No, he held your hand. It means something.”
“You’re a lunatic. But I love you.” I rubbed my forehead, pushed back my chair. “I need to lie down. I just hit the wall, energywise.”
She jumped up from the table, her mission suddenly clear. “We’ve got to get you feeling better. Pizza won’t do it.” She took our plates over to the kitchen counter. “Tomorrow I’m making you a big pot of healthy vegetable soup. Did you talk to the doctor? When can you take off that bandage?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, I’ll stay in the morning and help you remove it. Then you’ll take a shower and do something with that giant Texas hairdo you’ve got going on. What is with that hair of yours, anyway?”
“It’s thick.”
“I know. I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be. Look.” I pointed to my head of hair and she nodded in sad agreement.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “That’s quite a do. Never mind—it’ll be pretty again tomorrow. And those two men won’t know what hit ’em.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lizzie’s vegetable soup helped. Washing my hair helped. It also helped when Mac showed up at my door to say how happy he was that I was feeling better. He didn’t stay; he was deep into the book and it was working for him, so he had to get back to it. I gave him a container of Lizzie’s soup and, in return, he kissed my cheek and then jogged back upstairs.
So that was kind of nice. Not earth-shattering, but nice. The kiss didn’t, however, bring normalcy back to my life. Nothing would truly get me back to normal until I finally made up my mind to take direct action. And now that I was feeling better, I was ready to do it, ready to find the person who had tried to kill me.
The police had sent Luisa Capello home after briefly questioning her, so I knew she wasn’t guilty of murder. No, I was convinced that Jennifer Bailey was that person.
I could’ve reported my feelings to the police chief or even to Tommy. But I didn’t want to throw accusations around and then find out I was wrong. Instead, I wanted to talk to the one person who would know the truth. And that meant I had to go and face the evil Queen of Mean herself, Whitney.
I was hesitant, and who could blame me? But Whitney was the only person around who would know what was going on with Jennifer.
I didn’t want to do it. The thought of facing Whitney made me feel physically uncomfortable and spiritually weak. And, no, I didn’t think I was being overly dramatic. The woman didn’t play by the same set of rules that I or any of my friends played by. The few times I had ever been forced to talk to her sincerely or honestly—in other words, openly—it had sucked my soul dry.
But I had to do it. Because for all her faults, Whitney would tell me the truth. And if she didn’t, I would threaten to go straight to the police with my theories. And I would be sure to let them know that Whitney had known all along what was going on, but chose not to tell the police—not to mention her own husband. Yes, it was blackmail. But it was good blackmail.
The whole confrontation would be unpleasant, but considering the alternative, what else could I do? I couldn’t talk to Jennifer, for God’s sake, because while Whitney was manipulative, judgmental, and cold, Jennifer was biting, spiteful, and vindictive.