Gilt By Association by Tamar Myers

Author:Tamar Myers [Myers, Tamar]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: aVe4EvA
Publisher: Avon Books, HarperCollins
Published: 2011-05-23T19:12:05+00:00

15

“Oh my God” was all I could think to say, and I must have said it three or four times.

“Hey now, Abby, don’t you be getting all upset over this. It’s not like you really knew the woman.”

“But I was supposed to have tea with her this morning,” I wailed. “Maybe if I had, I’d be dead as well.”

“Not unless you put Jack Daniels in your tea. The tranquil-izer—diazepam—was mixed in with that.”

“Di—what?”

“Diazepam. Valium.”

“Valium? She died of a Valium overdose?”

“Mixed with the Jack Daniels, that’s a deadly cocktail.”

I pictured Lottie Bell Bowman happily pouring herself a glass of morning whiskey. I pictured her dead, slumped over in her expensive but appropriately shabby surroundings. I choked back a sob.

“Shit,” Greg said, “you aren’t crying, are you?”

“Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. And maybe this has nothing to do with Lottie Bell’s death.” One of my sobs escaped.

“There, there, Abby,” he said.

I know he was trying to comfort me, but he sounded lamer than a three-legged horse with stones in its shoes.

I hate sympathetic noises from others, even when they are genuine.

“How do you know it was murder?” I demanded. “Maybe Lottie Bell got tired of being lonely and packed it in.”

“Maybe,” Greg said, “but we checked with her doctor. She didn’t have a prescription for Valium. And we checked the bottle for prints. There—”

I swallowed a lump that Arvin would have been proud of. “The prints are mine. She asked me to fetch her the bottle when I was over there. But I didn’t put anything in it, Greg. I swear. I’ll even bet my shop on it. And I don’t have a prescription for Valium, either. You can ask my doctor, too. His number is—”

“Hold on,” Greg said. I thought I heard a chuckle. “If you didn’t interrupt so much, you’d learn more. What I started to say was that when we checked the bottle for prints, there weren’t any. That’s why we’re calling it murder at this point. After all, there isn’t any reason why any old lady who was trying to kill herself would attempt to cover her own tracks.”

“Not unless she wanted to pin it on someone else,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t.

“Maybe,” Greg said. There was a long pause. “Abby, would you mind if I came over?”

“When? Tonight?”

“Right now.”

“Suit yourself,” I said, and hoped I sounded casual.

“I’ll be right over,” he said. In the background I heard a large dog barking, which sounded very much like old man Crowley’s Great Dane down the street.

“Where are you?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

“In my car. I was just on my way—”

I hung up. I had less than two minutes to wash off Tweetie’s creation and change into turkey fry duds.

I was able to exchange the black velvet cocktail dress for a pair of gray slacks and a gray and cream wool sweater, but that’s as far as I got when the doorbell rang. From the neck up I still bore the stamp of Tweetie. In my desperation I decided that confidence was my best defense and flung open the door.

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