After dressing, I killed some time down in the girl-cave, working on some sketches and scouring the web for inspiration. At noon, I headed out to check the mailbox. Thing One and Thing Two were racing tricycles down the sidewalk. Thing Two clipped the back of my leg with a pedal as she was roaring by.

Samantha, whom I hadn’t realized was sitting on the front porch, called out an apology. Finding the mailbox empty, I cut across our yards, joining her on her porch.

She was dumping a few pills out of a prescription bottle as I climbed the steps. Recognizing the fact that I’d seen her, she lifted the bottle, saying, “Anxiety,” before tossing the tablets into her mouth. She washed them down with a gulp of vitamin water. “What do you think about Erica’s dinner party. Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Do you really think the killer will slip up and say something self-incriminating—assuming, that is, the killer is one of the guests?”

“Well ... I have a little secret weapon... .” Samantha waved me into the house. She dug a small bottle of pills out of her handbag, sitting on the console table just inside the door.

Stunned, I asked, “You’re going to dose everyone?”

“Sure. This stuff won’t hurt anyone.”

“What is it?”

“Just sleeping pills. I have insomnia.” She dropped the bottle back in her bag. “I read online that they work like truth serum.”

“But sleeping pills will just put people to sleep.”

“Not if I only give them a light dose.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out what really happened to your fiancé’s first wife?”

“Sure, but giving innocent people drugs is taking things too far.”

Samantha sighed. “Okay. You’re right.” She headed back outside.

Following her, I said, “I’m glad you think so. I mean, if someone had a reaction, you could put someone in the hospital. Or worse.”

“Yes. That would be terrible.” She returned to her chair.

I leaned against one of the vertical porch posts. “We can get people talking other ways. Less dangerous ways.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Like a strong punch. Alcohol makes people talk more, be more impulsive, more honest.”

“Absolutely. I can whip up a killer punch—no pun intended.” She waved at Things One and Two. “Time for lunch, kids.”

I straightened up, prepared to scamper down off the porch before the two wild things came up. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, later.”

I wondered if I’d talked her out of spiking the punch. As much as I hoped I had, I figured it was maybe fifty-fifty I hadn’t.

CHAPTER 8

At exactly five fifty-nine the last guest arrived at Erica’s dinner party. All totaled, including Erica, Lindsay, Lindsay’s “date,” Nicole, Samantha, and me, there were ten people at the party. None of them were kids. Erica had shipped hers off with her husband before I’d arrived, and Lindsay and Samantha had opted to leave theirs at home, too.

Upon the arrival of the last person—a nurse working with Michelle’s former OB/GYN—the girls set their plans into motion. The first goal was to serve light hors d’oeuvres so that the effects of the punch would be exaggerated. Dinner would be served later.

Within a half hour, it was obvious their scheme had worked.

“That dress is butt ugly,” one guest said, her perky little nose scrunched up in disgust. Pointing at another guest, she said, much too loudly, “I would never, ever put that shape of skirt on a curvy client.”

“At least my dress fits,” the recipient of her verbal assault tossed back. “Yours is so tight, I can see every lump of cottage cheese on your thighs. I’m guessing you spent a hell of a lot of money on your nose, your lips, and your boobs. Why wouldn’t you get lipo?”

“My husband’s leaving me for another man,” the third guest sobbed.

“I hate my job. My boss is an ass,” said another.

“I paid ten grand for new boobs and they are hideous,” wailed the first. “And that bitch is so right. I should’ve gotten the lipo. What the hell was I thinking?”

“This punch is delicious,” said the woman with the cheating husband as she poured herself another glass.

We exchanged grins. Samantha shrugged. “I told you, I have a killer punch recipe.”

If nothing else, this was going to be one very interesting evening.

“Just tell me there’s nothing but alcohol in it,” I said, watching as things started heating up.

Samantha nodded. “I promise, I didn’t even bring the pills.”

We huddled in the kitchen, planning our strategy. Erica gave us a rundown of each guest, why they were invited, and why they were suspects. The fashion critic, Rachel, was Michelle’s former personal shopper. She regularly spent hours in the Stewart home, helping Michelle plan outfits for the many charity events she attended. There was a rumor that she was in debt and desperate for cash. The fashion victim, Theresa, was the nurse at Michelle’s former OB. She wasn’t a suspect per se, but Erica had hoped to get some information about Michelle’s alleged fertility problems. The dumped wife, Kelly, was the mother of one of Joshua’s friends. She visited Michelle occasionally, enough that Michelle would have let her into the house without thinking about it. And even two years ago, there’d been rumors about her marriage being on the rocks. There’d also been rumors that Kelly had a thing for Jon. The last guest was Heather, also someone who’d met Michelle through Josh. Michelle had told Erica only a few days before she’d died that she’d had a huge blow-up-drag-down fight with Heather over something that happened between her son and Josh.

“Time to get to work.” Feeling like a football coach, I pointed at Erica. “Why don’t you start with the nurse? You know her best, since she works for your doctor.” Erica agreed with a nod. Next I pointed at Kelly. “Lindsay, why don’t you take the friend with the gay husband? She’s in I-hate-my-husband mode. You just broke up with a boyfriend—” Lindsay blanched then gave Nicole a guilty look. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.”

“It’s okay. We’re on a mission. I get it.” To Nicole, Lindsay said, “Long story. I’ll tell you later.” Lindsay glanced over her shoulder, at her target. “If she knows anything about Michelle’s death, I’ll get it outta her.”

“Good!” I motioned to Samantha next. “Samantha, why don’t you take Heather the boss-hater? I’ll take the one that’s left, Rachel, the personal shopper.” I checked my watch. “How about we reconvene in a half hour and see what we need to do next? And let’s keep that punch flowing.”

Off we went, to question our so-called persons of interest.

I headed for my target, who was standing next to Heather, pointing out all the flaws in everyone’s fashion statement. According to Erica, Rachel worked as a personal shopper-slash-stylist and had reportedly made a lot of deliveries to the Stewart household in the past. Since fashion was my thing, I figured I stood as good a chance as any of getting her to talk.

“Hi there, I see you have an interest in fashion,” I said as I approached her with a full glass of punch. I motioned to her empty glass, trading it for the full one in my hand.

After nodding a thanks, she said, “I’m a stylist and personal shopper.” She gave me an up-and-down look. I was wearing one of my own dresses. “Who are you wearing?”

“Actually, it’s my own. I’m a designer.”

“Really?” She gave my dress a closer look. “Nice. Have you had samples made? I’d love to show this piece to a few of my clients.”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

She dug into her purse, produced a card. “When you do, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”

“I will. Thanks. I understand you worked for Michelle Stewart.”

“Michelle was one of my best clients.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Rachel gave me a sad look. “Actually, she was my best client. My business has taken a nosedive since she died, and—don’t tell anybody—I had to take a part-time job, working at JCPenney to make ends meet. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. I’d hate for them to know.” She plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from her skirt. “My business is all about appearances, you know.”

“That, I know.”

She smoothed her sleeve. “I mean, who would want to pay top dollar to a part-time sales clerk to be their stylist?”

“I’m sorry your business has suffered. Has it been a long time since you’ve shopped for a client?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Yes, it has been a long time, since the week before Michelle died.”