Act One (What Doesn't Kill You Prequel): An Ensemble Mystery Novella Read online

  “Not that much time.” She rubbed her face against his, then started to slide away.

  He caught her when her cheek was against his chest. “But enough time for a surprise?”

  She laughed, more at the way his voice rumbled in her ear than at his words. “I always have time for a surprise, if it’s the kind that comes in a box with a bow around it.”

  She sat up and the sheet fell away from her body. She’d always been small and slight, no matter how much steak and potatoes her mother ladled onto her plate. As a jockey, she’d whittled away the last of her body fat until she was whippet lean. She wasn’t comfortable with anyone seeing her in a bathing suit, much less naked, except for Mickey. Even in front of him, she hated her protruding hipbones and the knobbiness of her knees and elbows. It was a constant self-image battle between her dreams of being a champion jockey and what she believed the world considered beautiful.

  Mickey interrupted her destructive thoughts. “It’s in the pocket of my laptop bag.” He tried to sit, but she was still on top of him, and he fell back on his elbows. “Are you going to move or get it for me?”

  “Duh, present for me, you get it.” She kissed him on the lips and glided off his body back onto the tangled sheets.

  When Mickey got up, the bed rose two inches. He carried fifteen more pounds around his middle than were there when he’d played linebacker for Texas A&M, but most of him was still muscle. Managing a horse ranch Mickey-style was physical work. He attacked the set of free weights he kept on their back patio every other day, too.

  Laura was just as diligent. For her, though, it was a delicate balance between weight and strength. Any muscle gained had to be offset with fat shed or she’d risk losing rides on horses at lower weights.

  Mickey returned with a cream-colored box. Not wrapped, but a box, nonetheless.

  Laura peeked inside the lid, not taking it off completely.

  Mickey laughed. “It’s not going to bite you.”

  She pushed the lid back down. “Do you want to give me a hint?”

  “It’s something that you add to.” He sat down on the bed again beside her. It sunk so far again that she tipped over into him, but didn’t bother readjusting.

  She removed the lid and tissue paper to find a silver bracelet. From it hung a cross.

  “It’s delicate, but strong,” Mickey said. “Like you. Do you want me to put it on?”

  She picked up the bracelet and stared at it without speaking.

  “If you don’t like it, we can go back and get another.” Mickey’s brows furrowed. Still Laura didn’t answer. “Honey?” Mickey asked.

  She broke from her reverie. “It was a woman. Last night. At the theater.” She held up the bracelet. “She had one of these with a heart charm that was showing below the sleeve of her cloak.” She smiled grimly. “There was a little flash of light off it. That’s how I remember it now.”

  Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Wow. You’ve got a good memory.”

  Laura held out her wrist and handed him the bracelet to put on it. “Not good enough to remember it last night. Maybe the police already heard about it from someone else?” She hoped so, anyway.

  Mickey fumbled over the tiny clasp for a moment then managed to pull the lever back and fasten it around her wrist.

  She held it up. “Beautiful,” she said.

  “You can add more charms to it.”

  “I know.” She socked him in the arm.

  “Like for special events in your life.”

  Laura turned her face away and pressed her lips together. “I love it,” she said, but the enthusiasm had drained from her voice.

  She rose and walked to the bathroom, thinking she knew what he meant: special events like the birth of children. He kept nudging her on the issue, even though he knew she couldn’t do it yet. Not when she was at the top of her game in horse racing.

  She turned on the shower and shut the bathroom door.

  Maggie

  Maggie scoots into the bench side of the table. She doesn’t want to be here, but the fucking lawyer has a hard-on for breakfast downstairs in the restaurant. What the hell’s wrong with room service? Her head’s killing her and she’d run out of pills about the time they got to his room the night before. What she wouldn’t give for a Molly or some Special K. She doesn’t care if it takes her up or brings her down. She just doesn’t want to be where she is. Here. Awake. In this overlit soul-killing chain hotel in a restaurant bursting with kids. She winces as a toddler-age boy runs screaming past their table, an overwrought and knocked-up woman losing ground behind him. It’s called birth control, sister. If I can figure it out, surely you can.

  The lawyer puts his arm around her too tight for her to shrug off. A stuffy, boring-looking guy with honest-to-God plaid shorts and a green pullover sweater walks up. The way the lawyer is kneading the flesh on her upper arm now is going to leave a bruise. She jerks it away, but his smile never dims.

  “Chuck,” he says. “Good morning. Pull up a seat. Get some grub with us.”

  A waitress is passing by.

  Maggie leans out and whispers, “Yo!”

  The waitress turns, ponytail swinging, and flashes Maggie a sunshiny smile. She cocks her head in a question.

  “Bloody Mary. Extra tall. Cut the tomato juice by half. I hate a watered-down drink.”

  “Absolutely.” She speaks louder, to the two men. “Anything for the rest of you?”

  But the lawyer and Chuck are mid-conversation.

  Maggie shoos her. “They’re not thirsty.”

  “Okaaay.”

  Her chirpy voice sets Maggie’s teeth on edge. She doesn’t bother saying “thank you.”

  “Chuck,” the lawyer says. “I want you to meet Maggie.” His arm tightens around her again so hard it raises her shoulders. “You probably recognize her.”

  Chuck screws up his mouth and looks at her slant-eyed. “Yeah, you were in the show last night, weren’t you?”

  “No,” the lawyer says. “I mean, yes, she was. But this is Maggie Killian, the famous musician. She’s been on the cover of tons of magazines.”

  Maggie cringes. Looking worse for the wear on most of the covers, she knows.

  Chuck nods. “Oh yeah. Wow. I didn’t realize that was you.”

  Maggie doesn’t smile. She barely flicks her eyes up at him.

  The waitress returns with Maggie’s drink and tries to set it beside her, but Maggie snatches it from her, midair. “What are we having, gentlemen?”

  The men order coffee. Maggie catches the waitress by the edge of her apron. “Give me a ham and cheese omelet with hash browns, a short stack, and black coffee, to go. And make it a rush.”

  The waitress nods, eyes wide.

  Maggie winks at her.

  She hustles off.

  “Did you know the girl who was killed last night?” Chuck asks Maggie.

  She rolls her eyes. “I did, Chuck. We worked together.” She turned to the lawyer. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.” For the first time, he looks at her like maybe she’s more than just bragging rights. Or less.

  Like she gives a damn what he thinks. Maggie sighs to make sure he realizes he’s let her down.

  Chuck’s not fazed by her rudeness. “The police have a suspect. It was on the news this morning.”

  “Really?” the lawyer says. “Who do they think did it?”

  “Some old boyfriend or something.”

  “Randall is too big a pussy to stick a knife in her,” Maggie says. Besides, he wasn’t her ex. She takes a long suck on her straw. It’s the last sip, and her next pull on it makes a sucking sound. She digs with the straw and slurps anyway, hoping to find more, but gets nothing but an annoyed look from the lawyer. Good.

  The waitress hands Maggie a to-go box. “Do you need anything else?” the young woman asks. Her big black eyes are round and wary.

  “When did you order that?” Chuck asks.

  “Ketchup. Tabasco. Salt
and pepper,” Maggie barks. “And another Bloody Mary. To go.”

  “We can’t do to-go cups with alco—”

  “Whatever. Just bring me a Bloody Mary.”

  “I’ll be right back.” The girl all but sprints off.

  “We’re ready to order,” the lawyer calls after her, but she acts like she doesn’t hear him.

  “So who do you think did it?” Chuck asks her.

  Maggie opens the Styrofoam. She feels like someone is stabbing her left eye with an ice pick, and Chuck won’t stop going on about Becky. She picks up a plate of butter pats and scrapes them on her pancakes without spreading them, then pours syrup on top. “Dunno.” Annoyance flares in her. “She was a simple little girl, a nobody. I’m not sure why anyone would really care one way or the other whether she was alive or dead.” Maggie waits for lightning to strike her. She’s lying. She cares. Becky was sweet and young and innocent and doesn’t deserve to be talked about over breakfast by a couple of cheesy lawyers, much less killed. So, damn right she cares. And she wants another drink. “What do I have to do to get another goddamn Bloody Mary in here?” she says loudly. Really loudly.

  Silence. Heads swivel. Maggie yawns.

  The waitress scurries across the dining room, whispering apologies to angry patrons. She puts the Bloody Mary in Maggie’s hand and sets the condiments in front of her. In a hushed voice with her body angled away from Maggie, she takes the men’s orders as she pours them coffee, then moves away so fast it’s like she vanishes. Maggie douses her omelet with Tabasco, salt, and pepper.

  Chuck tears the top off a creamer. “Were any of the cast members talking about it? Like backstage last night?”

  Maggie grunts. Chuck is ballsy, she’ll give him that. She doesn’t answer him, though. She’s chugging her Bloody Mary. The scaredy-cat waitress forgot the straw. Oh well. Still goes down the old-fashioned way.

  The attorney leers. “Maggie wasn’t hanging out with her cast members last night.”

  Maggie wishes she hadn’t given this jackass a blow job. “It was probably that bitch Ava.” She raises her glass back to her lips.

  “Ava?” Chuck asks. My, aren’t we the eager beaver? Fancies himself some kind of detective instead of a dweeby lawyer, maybe? “Is she somebody that didn’t get along with Becky?”

  Maggie doesn’t answer. She’s checking email on her Blackberry. There’s one from Ryan with a picture attached. She opens it. It’s him, having breakfast at Café Latte with some nearly bald black chick. Black chick? She shifts in her seat, muttering. “Oh, hell no!” Fingers flying, she forwards the picture to Ava’s ex, Zach. Hard to believe that in the beginning she and that bitch had been friends, but she’s glad now, otherwise she wouldn’t have this email address. She clicks send and stands, then wheels on Chuck. “The police have no clue who killed her. We’re in Waco. WAY-COE. They wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground if you handed it to them. They should be looking at who wants to kill Ava, but if they do, I’m first on that list.”

  “Ava? The one you just mentioned a second ago?” Chuck says. “Why?”

  Maggie hefts her shoulder bag from the ground, stopping just long enough to answer him. “Because Becky was filling in for Ava. And nobody knew that except Lizbeth, Ava, Becky, and me. So whoever killed Becky probably thought they were killing Ava and doing the world a favor. Now, I’m out of here.” She lifts the Styrofoam and gestures at the lawyer. “Thanks for . . . breakfast.”

  “I’ll call you,” he says.

  “I don’t even know your name.” She walks off, keeping her face averted so he can’t see that she hates herself. “And I don’t care to.”

  Just before she’s out of earshot she hears him say, “It’s Evan. My name is Evan.”

  Emily

  Katie didn’t have the grace to fake a hangover the next morning. My dark circles and sallow skin looked rode hard and put up wet next to her. Not enough sleep. I took a gulp of my coffee and flinched, tongue scalded. I set it down and went back to perusing the menu. I knew what I was getting—a cheese omelet with hash browns and salsa—but Michele and Katie were still deciding. I had a little while to pretend I was having the meat lover’s omelet with sausage and bacon, like the kind my dad used to make when Mother slept in on Saturday mornings. “More bacon, Daddy,” I’d say, standing on a chair to watch over his shoulder. After breakfast, we’d saddle up, and I’d hang on his every move and word. Daddy was a professional rodeo cowboy, and I’d wanted nothing more in the world than to be just like him when I grew up.

  The door to the café jingled as it opened, drawing my head around. I instantly recognized the woman walking in, and not just because she was infamous. I’d seen her last night. She’d electrified the room during her brief performance at the theater. I could see why Maggie Killian had risen so quickly as a musician. I’d also seen her after the performance, milling around waiting to talk to the police officers like the rest of us. She was wearing the same outfit now that she had on then and brushing rain from her face. For a moment, my heart ached for her. For the girl who only one year ago appeared to be on top of the world. For the girl who was ethereal in a crushed-leather miniskirt and ripped fishnet top over a bustier, as crazy as that seemed.

  Right now, though, she looked more angry than anything else. Her eyes were darting around the restaurant. The door shut behind her. She put her hands on her hips and swiveled her upper body to survey the far side of the room, then back again until she was facing us. Her eyes narrowed to slits focused on me. I whipped my head back around to look at my friends. She strutted in heavy boot-steps toward us, and heat rushed to my face, but she passed our table, leaving the scent of stale cigarettes, booze, and sex in her wake. I put a cool palm to my cheek for a moment.

  She put her hands on her hips as she stopped at the next table, a feathered mask dangling from one hand. Her voice resounded, bouncing off every wall in the place. “You fucking asshole!”

  Across the table, Michele and Katie looked up, their mouths forming two perfect Os.

  A man answered Maggie, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Well, if it isn’t my devoted, saintly girlfriend.”

  The black woman with him gasped.

  He continued. “I think you two know each other, don’t you?”

  Silverware crashed to the floor. I spooked like a yearling filly at the sound.

  Maggie said, “Cute, Ryan. What are you doing with this slut?”

  “Having breakfast. Would you care to join us?”

  The other woman stood on the far side of the table, bumping into it. A plastic glass bounced to the floor and the water splashed all the way over to my boots.

  “Don’t look,” I whispered to Katie and Michele. “Train wreck.”

  “Shit!” Maggie said. “You got it all over me.”

  Flesh impacted flesh. Not a slap so much as a thwack as Maggie gave the other woman a sharp push.

  She fell back a step, but then lunged back at Maggie. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” She was definitely not from around here, with that accent. Was it African?

  The mask fell to the floor. “Whatever. You’re not going anywhere,” Maggie said. “You haven’t eaten your breakfast. Besides, we’re not all here yet.”

  “What are you talking about?” the woman asked.

  The islands. The Caribbean. That’s what I was hearing in her voice. My suitemate in the dorms at Texas Tech grew up in the Virgin Islands, so I’d learned to recognize the accent.

  “Well, since Ryan was kind enough to invite me to dine with the two of you—”

  “What?”

  The strangely familiar and very good-looking man-who-must-be-Ryan said, “I didn’t invite you.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why’d you send me a picture of the two of you here?”

  Katie and Michele looked at each other. Katie mouthed, “Oh my God.” I put a finger over my lips, afraid she would speak. I didn’t want to miss a word.

  The same red-haired, freckled woman who was in
a huge rush in the theater lobby the night before walked over to join the melee. Where had she been sitting? She stopped with one foot planted on the mask.

  “Ava, are you okay?” she said.

  The woman I now assumed was Ava yelled at Ryan, not answering the red-haired woman. “You do that?” Now the island accent was full-on lilt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “She deserved a taste of her own medicine.”

  “My medicine? More like her medicine. And she almost got what was coming to her last night,” Maggie said.

  “What?” the redhead asked.

  “Whaaaa . . . ?” Ava’s high-pitched screech rattled my water glass.

  Laura

  Laura and Mickey stood in line at the registration desk at the hotel. A guy ahead of them was giving the clerk a hard time.

  “Come on,” he said. “I know I saw you last night.”

  Laura saw the young woman’s skin pale and jaw clench.

  The clerk shrunk back from the counter. “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, at that murder mystery theater where a murder really mysteriously happened.” His voice was needling, insistent.

  Laura saw the man’s profile. His average brown eyes matched his average brown hair, average face, and average height. But he scored far above average in aggressiveness.

  The clerk shook her head. “I was here at work the whole time. Your name, sir?”

  “Joseph Bell—not that it matters.”

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Nothing. I’m not even a guest.” He nodded. “I just know I saw you.”

  She looked past him. “We have guests waiting for assistance, Mr. Bell.”

  The man walked away shaking his head. “I know I saw her.”

  The clerk flipped her long, straight blonde hair over one shoulder and turned to the other woman behind the counter. “I need a cigarette break.”

  The other woman said, “Not right—” but the blonde had already made tracks.

  “Okay, then,” the second woman said under her breath, her teeth gritted into a smile over her beautiful teeth, extending to her round, apple cheeks. “May I help you?” she said to Mickey and Laura.