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“I remember, Deputy,” I said. “How can I help you?”
“I apologize because it slipped my mind that I was supposed to call you with the contact info on Tim Boulter, the jogger with the Jack Russell terrier?”
“Right. Can you text it over to me?”
After a pause, he said, “I can, but I don’t think it will do much good.”
“Why is that?”
“I looked up him and the bakery he said he owned. Tim Boulteristhe owner of the Sunrise Bakery. But the real Tim Boulter is no two a.m. runner. They’ve got lots of pictures of the real Boulter on the bakery website. He’s big. Beefy. Bald. Looks nothing like our lean running guy with the dog.”
That came out of nowhere, and I paused at an intersection to collect my thoughts. “Send over the contact info he gave youanyway, Deputy Conrad. And I’ll take a look at that website. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said and hung up.
After looking at the Sunrise Bakery website and confirming the deputy’s observations, I spent the rest of the walk home trying to figure out who the runner was and why it was so important that he impersonate a baker and his dog out for a very early-morning jog.
CHAPTER 88
CIPRIANI ON FORTY-SECOND STREETwas as opulent and grand a venue as Bree had ever seen. Were it not for the white evening dress Luster had literally sewn her into, she might have stayed longer to stare at the beauty of the Italian Renaissance architecture, the massive marble columns, the high ceilings, the inlaid floors, and the stunning chandeliers.
As it was, she grunted and said, “Even with the Spanx, I don’t think I fit into this, Phillip.”
Rosella Salazar laughed. “I think I fit perfectly in mine, Phillip. Thank you!”
The detective was wearing a simple but elegant full-length, flowing black gown that Luster had literally designed and made in under two hours. Looking at her move, you’d never have known she was pregnant.
“Let’s hope the stitches hold in both of your dresses,” Lustersaid, offering an arm for each of them to take. They swept into the room, where guests were already crowding the tables and the bars to either side of the front door.
“Where are we sitting?” Salazar said. “I have to get off my feet for a few.”
“Table four,” the fashion designer said. “I’ll take you. Bree, could you get me a glass of champers? The rosé Taittinger, please?”
“I could use one of those myself,” Bree said and got in line.
A well-put-together woman in her forties in front of her turned and smiled.
“I know absolutely no one here, so I’ll introduce myself,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Addie Wells.”
“Bree Stone,” Bree said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Addie.”
“Are you in fashion?”
“A friend of a designer at Tess Jackson. How about you?”
Wells said, “I was invited by an agent who’s trying to convince me to buy a book set in the fashion industry.”
“You work in publishing?”
“I’m an acquisitions editor. And you?”
“Former police chief in DC and now a private detective for Bluestone Group.”
The editor’s eyes sparkled. “Really? How exciting. I publish a great deal of true crime and crime fiction. I’ll bet you have a hundred stories to tell.”
“More than a hundred,” Bree said and laughed.
“Can I give you my card?”
