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Ravinia thought up a number of retorts, but in the end, she just lifted her shoulders, spread her hands, and smiled. Pretty sure she was the victor in that skirmish, she went in search of Rex.
If Elizabeth hadn’t already had the appointment with Mazie’s daughter, she would have taken Chloe to school, driven home again, gone back to bed, and pulled the covers over her head. GoodGuy was dead. She didn’t even bother to pretend it had nothing to do with her; she knew it did. She could think of no other explanation. Whoever had poured the gasoline on Channing Renfro had done so because they knew she’d thought he was a far cry from what his license plate had proclaimed.
But who was doing it? And to what purpose? The only people who knew about GoodGuy were her friends and whomever they’d told.
But they don’t know about Mazie . . . and Officer Unfriendly. . .
Or do they?
She shook her head as she walked up the steps to the front door of Suncrest Realty. None of her friends were killers. She wouldn’t believe that. What did that leave? Some stalker? Something indefinable . . . supernatural. . . like her ability to sometimes see disaster right before it happened?
Pat was at the front desk and Elizabeth made a quick jog left toward Mazie’s office where she was meeting Amy.
“I saw the news,” Pat said loudly to Elizabeth’s back as she tried to ease past. “That guy you were talking about with your friend. GoodGuy. That was his license plate on TV!”
Elizabeth stiffened. She’d forgotten that Pat had overheard her talking with Jade. “I didn’t know him, but it’s a tragedy.”
“Really?” Pat said with a disbelieving look over rimless glasses. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
“We never met.”
“Just on the road.” A nasty glint surfaced in Pat’s stare.
Elizabeth’s pulse skyrocketed, but she wasn’t going to be baited. She walked down the short hallway to Mazie’s office and wanted to slam the door, but she didn’t get the chance. Connie Berker breezed in behind her and did the honors by pulling the door shut behind her.
Connie’s frosted blond hair had been freshly cut, the back of her neck shaved beneath stiff, product-laden strands that shone beneath the overhead lights.
“What’s going on?” Elizabeth asked as she opened one of the drawers in Mazie’s desk where she knew a stack of notepads was kept.
“I should be asking you that. You don’t know this is my office now?”
“No . . . I didn’t.” Elizabeth closed the drawer.
“You’re meeting with Amy Ferguson.” It came out like an accusation and she could see that it was meant to be taken that way, too. “Right?”
“Yes. I thought I’d meet her in here as I forgot to tell her that my office is down the hall,” Elizabeth explained. “I didn’t know you’d moved.” She glanced at the walls and desk. Nothing had changed.
If Connie were staking her claim, there was no proof. She hadn’t hung a picture, or an award, or put anything on the desk, including her name plate.
“This is one of the best offices in the building,” Connie went on, her head bobbing, blond hair unmoving. “You can see right out to reception.” She motioned toward the glass door and Elizabeth followed her gaze, spying Pat at her circular desk, peering as always, over her shoulder.
Get a life, Elizabeth thought as the front door opened and Amy walked in. A tall, somewhat gawky young woman, she said a few words to Pat who nodded, a fake smile tacked onto her face.
Pat half-turned again. Reaching out, her fingers pointed to where Elizabeth stood in her mom’s old office.
“I’ve known Amy for years,” Connie said stiffly, her spine seeming to lengthen. “And yet suddenly she’s your client. Just how did that happen?”
Elizabeth wasn’t about to play office politics or get into an argument, so she didn’t respond and moved toward the door, reaching for the handle. “I’ll meet with Amy in the back.”
Connie put out a hand and held the door closed. “Watch yourself. You’re making enemies right and left around here. I’m telling you this as a friend.”
Connie’s advice didn’t sound very friendly to Elizabeth, but she merely nodded and put her hand on the doorknob. “Noted,” she told the angry Realtor then twisted the knob to open the door and walked down the hall where she met Amy. With every step, Elizabeth felt Connie’s gaze like a hot knife between her shoulder blades.
For someone carrying on an extramarital affair, Kimberley Cochran wasn’t trying to be careful, secretive, or even discreet. She backed her silver-blue Mercedes out of the garage, then guided her car through the slowly opening gate, and hit the gas. Without a look in her rearview mirror, she kept the Mercedes at maximum speed until she reached Ocean Avenue and the crawling traffic that forced her to slow.
Rex and Ravinia followed behind in the Nissan.
At the hotel, Kimberley valeted the car and stepped toward the front doors. In a silver dress with matching five-inch heels, she sashayed her butt like an open invitation, drawing stares from men and women alike.
