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She nudged him in the shoulder for his smartass attitude. “Felicity’s handwritten note ‘could it be’ makes more sense now. She was probably struggling with where her research was leading her. I bet she suspected Moss before the champagne lunch.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. I’m just impressed by how much she dug into the Chapman case.”
“And while her efforts ended up bringing justice, if she’d left it alone, she’d still be alive and so would Burr.”
“I think we do need to focus on the good. We stopped a killer and now three women’s families will have justice and closure.”
“Suppose you’re right.” She couldn’t help but dredge up the question that if a cop within the PWCPD hadn’t opened their mouth and directed Felicity to Bishop, could at least two murders have been avoided? Then again, things might have turned out the same way. Felicity was determined to get answers. Either way, Amanda wanted to know who that cop had been. She hadn’t heard from Celeste Sweeney yet, but she’d follow up with her. They had good news to share anyhow.
“One thing that still remains—what was the final tip-off for Felicity? Had she seen Ian with one of the stolen items of jewelry? The cufflinks we thought before?”
“We may never know.” Amanda’s phone rang, and Celeste Sweeney’s name came up on the screen. She answered immediately. “Thank you for returning my call. We need to talk. Could my partner and I come over now?”
FORTY-SEVEN
FELICITY KELLEY
Day of the Champagne Lunch
Another dream was coming true. Today Felicity was headed to her publisher’s—in the back of a limo!—to sign a huge international rights deal for The Romeo Killer. All because it had met with so much success and secured a movie deal. She still had to pinch herself when she thought box-office hit! The media described it as overnight, but that was a laugh. She’d worked hard for years to get to this point.
Word play, as her friend Celeste called it, and Felicity couldn’t deny that’s exactly what it was—and so much fun! There was something magical about how the words spilled onto the page, as if she were a conduit for some omniscient being who was feeding her their story.
The limo came to a stop outside Garrison & Marrow, and the driver came around to get her door. He tipped his hat and smiled at her. “I will be ready when you are, ma’am.”
So proper, so formal… She loved it, and how far a cry it was from her regular, everyday life when she preferred to sit on the couch, legs curled underneath her, laptop under her fingers, cranberry juice in a wineglass on the table beside her. She never mixed alcohol with writing; she took the craft far too seriously.
“Thank you,” she told the man as she got out and smoothed the front of her pants.
She was dressed like a penguin today—as her sister would say—business suit in a deep plum that had a long jacket that reached mid-thigh. The style might be dated, but even at twenty-eight, she had observed that fashion trends circled around. Regardless, the dressy heeled boots and her Gucci handbag—a gift from Justine, who wouldn’t accept Felicity’s pleas that it was just too much—had her walking on air.
As Felicity entered through the lobby doors, any nerves settled. For just a second.
Eve… She felt her sister’s presence, even if she couldn’t see her. She had been a warrior, not afraid of anything. Fierce and beautiful and… Felicity’s eyes welled up. She missed her so much.
Cara smiled at her. “Ms. Kelley, how nice to see you. Mr. Moss, Ms. Livingston, and Ms. Schmitt are already waiting for you in the Tower.”
Felicity cleared her throat, said, “Thank you,” and headed up in the elevator.
The ‘Tower’ was the top floor where Ian Moss, Publisher, had his office. Felicity suspected only A-list authors ever saw the space or made the trip to the twenty-fifth, though it was talked about as a revered sanctuary among authors in the know at conferences.
And while the signing could have been done over the internet, Justine had wanted a chance to parade Felicity around like a pony, remind the staff at Garrison & Marrow who she was and how important her work was to the publishing house. The other part was that Justine reveled in celebrations.
Felicity hugged her purse to her on the ride up, her mind mulling over her latest project. No title had been decided on yet, but the working one was The Murdered Intern. No one knew where Felicity had taken her inspiration for the project, or how close it came to the publishing house in which she found herself now. Or even closer still to one of the people she was about to see.
The elevator dinged, and its doors opened.
She took a deep, steadying breath.
Ian’s assistant, Emily, got up from her desk, which was posted just outside the sanctuary, and parted the double doors. Emily walked in ahead of Felicity with poise and confidence. “Ms. Felicity Kelley is here,” she announced.
There was a round of applause from the three people inside—Ian Moss, Justine Livingston, and Felicity’s editor, Melody Schmitt.
“Bravo.” Ian grinned and got up from a leather chair, running a hand over his jacket and doing up its buttons in a swift, practiced movement.
“Hello, darling.” Justine was smiling and touched Felicity’s elbow as she sat next to her on the couch. “So very proud of you,” her agent added.
In her fifties, almost skeletal thin, sporting a stylish bob, her hair a blend of silver and white, Justine always looked and smelled amazing. Like money, Felicity’s sister would have said.
