A High-End Finish(78)

Anyone could see the difference.

I dressed carefully, pulling on my best black jeans, attractive boots, a flattering red sweater Lizzie had given me last year, and my black leather jacket—the one with no holes.

Instead of letting my hair dry naturally, I had actually used a hair dryer and brush to straighten it enough that it didn’t tumble around my shoulders in a tangle of curls.

And alert the media: I even applied a bit more makeup than usual. Into this kind of battle, I had to go armed.

I figured I needed to do whatever I could to keep Whitney from focusing on everything she criticized about me—namely my looks, my clothing, my very existence—rather than focusing on the fact that her best buddy might be going around killing people.

As I drove out to Whitney’s, I thought a lot about the conversation I’d had with Lizzie the other night. Not just because it had made me realize that my dear friend was a certifiable crazy person, but also because of what she had pretended to infer about my lifestyle preferences. It would be easy—and wrong—of someone to infer that sort of thing about a lot of people, I thought. Just as Jennifer Bailey had inferred that I might prefer women to men.

Not that it mattered what my preferences were, but I hated what she’d been trying to do to me. She was a bully, had been one for as long as I’d known her, and I didn’t like it. And I didn’t much like inferences, either.

I pulled up in front of the Gallaghers’ house and gazed at the place that had been Tommy and Whitney’s since they were married. At one time, I had loathed them for buying one of my father’s designs, but now I didn’t care.

My father had always preferred the Queen Anne style of Victorian home and he had done a beautiful job with this one. The elegant millwork and thick columns of the front porch and balconies gave it a much more graceful, almost feminine look than some of the other Victorians built by his contemporaries.

And I was stalling for time.

Out of excuses, I climbed down from the truck and walked to the front steps. The closer I got, the more I regretted my decision to talk to Whitney. I knew that it wouldn’t go well, of course. But what else could I do? I kept walking, determined to follow through on my plan, no matter what. I knocked on the door and waited. After almost a minute passed, I thought of leaving, but Whitney’s car was parked in the driveway, so I knew she had to be home.

Maybe she was avoiding me. I couldn’t really blame her, since I would consider doing the same thing if I saw her standing on my doorstep.

But suddenly Whitney whipped open the door, her eyes wild with panic.

“Get out of my way!” she screamed, slammed the door behind her, and almost knocked me down trying to get out of the house and down the steps.

“What’s wrong? What is it?” I shouted, staring at her as she raced around to the driver’s side of her convertible black Jaguar. I almost laughed at her outfit. Baggy plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt for a top. And sneakers? Her hair wasn’t even combed. I liked the look, but what could she possibly be . . .

Had she seen me coming up the walkway? Was she trying to get away? Was it possible that Whitney was the killer? There was no way she could’ve known the reason why I was there. And I wasn’t about to let her escape if she was responsible for two deaths and one attempted murder—of me.

I heard the engine start up.

“Stop!” I went running after her, and before she could throw the car into reverse I grabbed the driver’s door and yanked it open. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Get back!” she yelled, trying to grab the door handle to shut it. “What’s your problem?”

“You are,” I said. “Why are you running away?”

“Shut the damn door! I’m trying to get to the hospital.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Somebody tried to kill Jennifer!”

? ? ?

So that didn’t go quite the way I thought it would.

I sat at a table in the back room of Emily’s tea shop, sipping decaffeinated tea and taking small bites of the beautiful cookies she’d brought me. Not that I was worthy. I felt like a complete idiot.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, rubbing my shoulder before sitting down next to me and folding her hands on the table. “You look miserable.”

“I’m so stupid.” I spilled the story in halting, unfinished sentences. When I was finished, she grabbed the teapot and filled my cup.

“You’re not stupid,” she insisted in her lilting Scottish brogue. “Seems perfectly logical to think that those horrible girls were the ones who were killing men and setting you up to take the blame.”

I smiled at her. “Thanks, but clearly I was wrong. The one person I thought was the culprit is now struggling for her life in the hospital. She might be dead by now. I feel like hell for even thinking it might’ve been her.”

“Oh, now, cut yourself a bit of slack.” She grabbed a cookie and broke off a piece. “Have you checked on her condition?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s do it right now,” she said gently. “It always helps to have as much information as possible at all times, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you want to use my phone?”

“No, I’ve got mine.” I pulled out my phone, took a deep breath, and called Eric’s cell.