Dying to Get Published (14 page)

Sam's arm dropped behind her, drawing her close against the tight muscles of his chest. He turned his head and reached for her chin with his hand, drawing her mouth in line with his own and outlining her lips gently with little kisses—and stirring feelings she had long thought she could live without. He stopped and drew back, watching her in the soft light.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Tell me," she whispered.

"Where's the pod?"

She stared at him. She knew exactly what he meant, the crumb. She'd seen all the versions of
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
, including a few of the ripoffs.

For just a moment, she'd thought she had him. Why couldn't he just accept her as a sultry, sexy seductress? Stupid question.

"No pods," she said, his face still close enough to hers to feel his breath on her cheek.

"And I guess you expect me to trust you, a pod-person. You're just waiting for me to go to sleep, aren't you, so that a pod can form into the shape of my body and take over."

Go to sleep—yes. And, at that point, a pod-person, a
cooperative
pod-person, would have been an improvement. She bit back all the smart retorts coursing through her mind, but she couldn't contain herself if she sat there one more second. She had to convince Sam, at least for the moment, that she wasn't at all like she really was.

Jennifer stood up, still holding his hand, and pulled him to his feet. "We need to eat," she said.

Sam wrapped his arms around her. "I already ate something," he said, folding her to him.

"Well, I didn't," she insisted, ducking back out of his hold, fully expecting to see sparks fly in the dim light.

What was she doing? She couldn't run away. Sam had to be convinced she'd let him spend the night with her. She turned back toward him, feeling like a yo-yo, not knowing which way to bob.

Sam must have seen the crazed look in her eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her plastic smile was back in place. "Fine. Perfect. It's just that I worked really hard on this supper and I want you to enjoy it. And I'm starved. Really, really hungry, and I get a little crazy when I haven't had anything to eat."

Sam scooped up his wineglass and drained it. "Next time, let me bring the wine. This stuff's a little bitter. Want me to help? I'm not a bad cook."

Jennifer stared at the empty glass as Sam put it back down.
Just don't let it hurt him
, she prayed.

"No, the salads are all ready. Just have a seat."

Jennifer placed the fresh, sliced bread on a small plate and put it between the place settings on the table. She scooped the two bowls of greens from the refrigerator, peeled back the plastic wrap and sprinkled each with croutons and Parmesan cheese. "I do my own salad dressing. I hope you like it," she added, setting the bowl down in front of him and taking her seat.

Sam attacked the bowl with relish.

"I thought you weren't hungry," Jennifer said, watching his greedy descent into the food.

"I never said that. I said I'd already eaten—lunch. Besides, I had something else on my mind. Still do. But the salad will do for the time being." He picked up a piece of bread, tore it in two, and paused.

"What's wrong?" Jennifer asked.

"I don't know. I'm feeling a little spacey all of a sudden." He smiled a crooked smile. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

No one was all right with ground-up sleeping pills and a full glass of wine in his stomach.

"Would you mind getting me another glass of wine?"

"Can't do it."

"What?"

"I only bought one bottle, and…
and I want to save the rest to go with our dessert."

"Dessert?" His grin was getting more and more lopsided.

"Cheesecake with a thin chocolate sauce."

Sam's eyes drifted shut and then popped open. "Could you excuse me a minute?"

"Sure. What's the matter?"

Sam stood up. "I don't know. It's been a long week and I guess I'm simply exhausted. Maybe if I splash some water on my face."

He took an unsteady step back from the table.

Jennifer ducked under his arm and steadied him. "Let me help you," she offered. "I think you ought to lie down."

She steered him down the short hallway and pushed open the bedroom door. Muffy was all over them, panting and licking. She should have stashed her in the bathroom, but it was too small and the dog had a habit of jumping into and out of the bathtub creating a ringing sound like one of those huge, old bells on some boat. Most distracting.

"Down, Muffy," Jennifer ordered fruitlessly. Muffy only obeyed when Jennifer's hands weren't full. She was smart like that.

"Ice cream, Muffy, ice cream," Jennifer offered. The dog scrambled out of the room, and Jennifer managed to kick the door shut with her foot.

"What was that?" Sam slurred.

"My roommate. Let me get you down on the bed."

Sam was growing heavier. Jennifer shifted his weight and grabbed the comforter and top sheet with her free hand, pulling it awkwardly to the foot of the bed. Then she eased him onto the mattress. She wanted those covers down so she wouldn't be stuck trying to pull them out from under him after he passed out.

His head hit the pillow and he ran his hand absently over his face. "I'll be all right in a minute," he assured her. "I just need some time to relax."

She unlaced his shoes, dropped them next to the bed, and scooted his feet under the covers. As she reached for his tie, Sam grabbed her hand and pulled her down to him.

"I never thought…" he began. He kissed her full on the mouth, a long, passionate kiss that left Jennifer gasping. She drew back and sucked in a lungful of air. She hadn't been kissed with that much passion since Danny Buckner got her alone in his dad's old Chevrolet the night of their senior prom. But there was a major difference between Danny's needy, greedy, got-to-have-it kind of kiss and Sam's soulful, intoxicating…

She stood up.

"Don't," he pleaded. "Don't pull away." He still held her hand.

She knelt down next to the bed, resting her cheek against his. "I haven't felt this way about anybody…" His speech was becoming more and more indistinct. "Jennifer… Jennifer… I think I…" His breathing steadied, his eyes fell shut, and his fingers loosened around her wrist.

And for one fleeting second, she would have traded all possibility of fame and fortune just to hear the rest of Sam's sentence.

Chapter 22

Atlanta was a nightmare. Everybody in the city must have run out of food at the same time because they all had come out for a late supper and were thronging the restaurants on either side of O'Hara's Tara.

Jennifer pulled the oversized cardigan close around her, as she pushed her way through the masses. The sweater was too loose to offer much protection from the cool, evening air, but she couldn't wear a Jennifer Marsh coat. It wouldn't be fair. She was in disguise, just as a real killer would be. She was Sophie—an unwed, pregnant, visually impaired waif and Mrs. Walker's latest adoptee.

Her mind wandered to her bedroom in Macon where she'd left Sam in a deep, sonorous sleep. She'd stayed longer than she had intended, watching over him, making sure his breathing was strong.

But she couldn't think about Sam right now. She was a woman on a mission, and nothing—
nothing and no one
—was going to distract her. She had to see if her plan would work, if she could pull it off, if she could actually get as far as Penney Richmond's door and then somehow get her to open it.

The reading glasses slid a little further down her nose, and she silently cursed as she jammed them back into place. She'd have to make a mental note: all villains using glasses as a disguise had to have plain glass for lenses even if they had to run the risk of special-ordering them. She could barely see.

She adjusted the tote bag slung against her hip. Her dad's old revolver was inside, wrapped carefully in a soft, cotton T-shirt. Six bullets were packed next to it folded into the toe of a sock. She assumed they went with the gun although she'd never actually tried to load it. Not that it mattered. If she were really going to shoot Penney Richmond, she'd probably need a silver bullet to keep her down. T
he woman was
not
a nice person.

Ernie held the door as Jennifer ducked into O'Hara's Tara.

"In to see your aunt?" he asked after her. "She forgot to tell me you were coming."

Jennifer put her finger over her mouth in a silent shhhh. She wanted to shush him loudly, to order him out of her way, not to deal with him at all. But Ernie wasn't going anywhere, and causing a scene was the last thing she wanted.

"I didn't tell her I was coming," Jennifer said. "It's a surprise."

"Oh, yeah? What's the occasion?"

Occasion? Did a person have to have an
occasion
to surprise someone? And since when did doormen have to get so involved in their tenants' lives?

"Uh…" Jennifer searched her mind. "Tiger's birthday."

"Ya don't say. I didn't think that little mutt had birthdays. Just between you and me, I thought maybe he was cooked up in some lab. Whatcha got in the bag?"

Jennifer felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "A doggie cake made out of rawhide," she fibbed.

Ernie's eyes narrowed, and Jennifer prayed he wouldn't ask to see it.

"It's got these cute little candlelike things that stick up from the center and the lacing looks like part of the icing." She was talking too much, far too much. She clamped her mouth shut.

"Yeah? They make stuff like that? You need help getting it up the stairs? It looks a little heavy." His eyes were focused on the bag's heavy droop.

Jennifer cupped the bottom of the tote and grinned foolishly. "Oh, that. That's the…
pickles."

"Pickles?"

"Tiger loves pickles." She should have opted for something more b
elievable—like a shrunken head.

Ernie chuckled. "So it's Tiger, is it, that loves pickles?" he said, pointedly staring at the bulge that her towel made under her misshapen dress. If she showed up in that getup one more time, Ernie would be taking up a collection to get her a new wardrobe. Fortunately, she wouldn't be coming back to O'Hara's Tara, at least not as pregnant Sophie.

"Whatever," Ernie was saying. "You have yourself a nice visit with your aunt. And if you get any twinges, you just let old Ernie know. I'll see you get the care you need."

Jennifer practically ran to the elevator. She pressed the button for the eleventh floor and waited for the doors to close. Then she took a tissue from her sweater pocket and wiped the panel clean. Even the most inexperienced murderer knew better than to leave fingerprints.

The doors opened and Jennifer stared at a young, well-dressed couple waiting in the hall. She pulled a few strands of the coarse, black wig across her face as she traded places with them, but she needn't have bothered. The woman's stare held a horrified look that seemed glued to Jennifer's misshapen clothes, and the man's only interest was in the slinky evening dress of his companion.

Why couldn't she have invented a persona that allowed her to wear dresses like that? That character would have been so much more fun to impersonate. Jolene Arizona would be in a long, blonde wig, a short sequined gown (to show off her legs), and dripping with rhinestones. Her name would be something exotic like Babette DuBois—not Sophie McClannahan. And inside her bra would be a tiny, jewel-handled, single-shot derringer. Of course, she'd have to contend with Ernie because she would have slept with him, and he'd be so enthralled with her that he could hardly let her get past the entranceway without… The Sophie persona was looking better and better.

"I'm calling the management first thing in the morning. Some of the people Ernie lets—" the woman was saying as the doors thumped shut.

Mercifully, the hallway was empty. Now if she could only find apartment 1129 and somehow get Penney Richmond to speak to her. That's all she needed, like touching base in a game of tag. If that door came open, it would be proof her plan had worked.

Jennifer walked the full length of the corridor, but she couldn't find any number over 1115. And then she remembered: Mrs. Walker said something about Penney Richmond's apartment being in the other section of the building.

Jennifer trudged back to the elevator bank, pushed the
down
button, and slipped inside when the doors parted. Real-life murder—even a walk-through—was far more complicated than the stab'em, shoot'em, choke'em-from-behind stuff she wrote. Actually, she hardly ever wrote the murders. They had already happened before the book opened or they occurred neatly offstage somewhere. She'd never given much thought to how difficult it was.

For the first time since she'd started writing, she was beginning to feel sympathy for her villains, especially Marcus, that disgusting creature who heard voices whenever he opened his refrigerator. (A great argument for ordering takeout.) The man had an overwhelming task coming up
with a dead body every month.
He must have worked hard at it.