“Damn right,” Ryan said. “And if it does, isn’t that the way to go?”
Still wondering if Ryan might be onto something, Penny shuffled into the kitchen and hunted for breakfast. She scrounged up a Pop-Tart from the embarrassingly bare pantry and plunked it into the microwave. Penny didn’t own a toaster.
While the sprinkled slab of sugar spun around and around on a paper napkin, Penny’s finger got twitchy. She reached for her phone. Toyed with the lock screen. Eventually, she slid it open.
She pretended that she wasn’t going to read Roman’s email— especially not with Ryan waiting for her one room over—but she didn’t fool herself. Her thumb pulled the notifications bar down to reveal an intriguing subject line. Penny couldn’t resist. She never could when it came to Roman.
Subject: Invitation
From: [email protected] Message:
Dear Penny,
I can explain—tonight, I promise.
7:00 p.m. at the Pelican Hotel. Cocktail attire.
Yours truly,
Roman
TRANSCRIPT
Prosecution: Who was invited to the book club event on February 13, 2019?
Eliza Tate: Well, we had two events that day. The main one—book club—had an invitation list of about twenty industry guests. I’m not sure I remember the entire list off the top of my head, but I’m sure you’ve been given a copy of it.
Prosecution: What was the other event on that date?
Eliza Tate: It was a mock book club. A practice run for later that evening.
Prosecution: Why did you need a trial run for a book club?
Eliza Tate: It wasn’t any old book club in the evening. We had several popular bloggers, Instagrammers, and journalists attending the evening’s event. Being that it was Marguerite’s first appearance for her newest work, I wasn’t going to throw her to the wolves. Especially when the media was involved. Everything needed to go perfectly.
Prosecution: Who was at the trial run?
Eliza Tate: Me, obviously. Marguerite Hill. Anne Wilkes. Penny Sands.
Prosecution: It has been noted that you served wine at this event?
Eliza Tate: Is it really book club without wine?
Prosecution: At three p.m.?
Eliza Tate: It was happy hour.
Prosecution: Did Mrs. Wilkes have a glass of wine?
Eliza Tate: She might have. I don’t remember. I don’t police my guests.
Prosecution: Did you have wine?
Eliza Tate: I did. Several glasses. Probably why I don’t remember if Anne was drinking.
Prosecution: Were you aware that Mrs. Wilkes checked herself into rehab a few years back?
Eliza Tate: Yes.
Prosecution: And are you aware that she checked herself out?
Eliza Tate: I picked her up myself.
Prosecution: Why didn’t her husband pick her up?
Eliza Tate: He thought she needed to stay, so he refused to pick her up.
Prosecution: Was there tension between you and Detective Wilkes after that?
Eliza Tate: I don’t know. I’m best friends with Anne, not Mark. I don’t really care what he thinks of me.
Prosecution: So if Mrs. Wilkes needed help, she could count on you?
Eliza Tate: Yes.
Prosecution: Mrs. Tate, did Mrs. Wilkes ask you for help on the night of February 13? Help with anything at all? A favor? Perhaps a big favor?
Eliza Tate: If you’re asking whether I’m taking the fall for Anne murdering my husband, then no. I love Anne, but I don’t love her that much.
SEVENTEEN
Six Months Before
August 2018
Eliza watched her husband over the dinner table.
She sat back and fiddled with the stem of her champagne glass, sending bubbles skittering across the surface like water bugs. Roman slung his arm over another woman’s chair. Eliza frowned at her tuna tartare. For some reason, the stupid loan from Jocelyn and Todd had pushed Roman over the edge.
Running a finger around the rim of her champagne glass, Eliza drew out a nervous, high-pitched note. When several pointed gazes landed on her finger, she retracted it sharply, watching as Roman put his hand on Marguerite’s shoulder.
Eliza watched her husband whisper into the ear of her prize client, wondering what he could possibly be telling her. In the other woman’s defense, Marguerite had looked quite uncomfortable with Roman’s advances at the beginning of the night. She’d continuously glanced over at Eliza to gauge her reaction as Roman took care to refill her wineglass or brushed his elbow against hers.
At first, Eliza had gotten a laugh out of it. Roman had chosen the wrong woman to seduce. Marguerite disliked every fiber of Roman— who he was, what he stood for, how he walked, talked, spoke. But as the night went on, Eliza’s internal laughter died down. She hadn’t given her husband enough credit.
Marguerite eventually softened under the charms of Roman Tate. Eliza had seen the exact moment when it had clicked—during the dessert course when Roman had offered Marguerite a bite of his tiramisu. She’d given one last look at Eliza, but when Eliza didn’t react, everything changed. Instead of dubiously fending off Roman’s advances, Marguerite leaned into them, eager and intrigued.
Her soft laughter at his words grew a bit louder. Their eye contact lingered boldly. It wasn’t Marguerite’s fault the way this twisted fairy tale was unfolding; she was just a pawn. The poor woman was being played by Roman, and that annoyed Eliza.
Standing, Eliza pushed in her chair and flashed a demure smile around the table. “If you’ll just excuse me, I have to go check on the caterer and make sure everything’s ready next door. Please finish your dessert and join me when you’re ready.”
“See you over there, dear,” Roman said with a flash of a smile. “I’ll stay back and make sure the guest of honor finds her way.”
Marguerite met Eliza’s gaze dead-on. “How kind of your husband.”
Eliza sucked in a breath. “I’m a lucky woman.”
Leaving her husband to cuddle up with her star client, Eliza wobbled her away across the street, unsure what to make of the events from dinner. Roman’s behavior made her uneasy for more than one reason, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. She needed time to think. She needed a rebuttal, but what? How could she fix this?
Eliza made her way from the dinner restaurant to the event venue. She tottered into the Pelican Hotel on ridiculously high heels, smoothing her skirt as she bypassed the front desk and made her way straight to the ballroom. Once inside, she hesitated, leaning over a cocktail table for support. She’d just closed her eyes when a voice startled her from behind.
“Oh God. I’m ridiculously early, aren’t I?”
Eliza straightened, turning at the unfamiliar voice. She peered through the beautiful centerpiece—a stunning bouquet of lilies— toward the young woman standing in the doorway.
The first guest looked supremely nervous, her eyes rapidly flicking one way then another as if hunting for the quickest exit from the room. She wore a poppy-red, one-piece jumper with teeny, tiny straps across bare shoulders. The pantsuit swished around trim legs, and the buttons on her chest, as delicate as flowers, hid an impressive display of cleavage.
This woman didn’t have the haunted, half-starved look of many aspiring models or actresses in this city. She had the fresh-faced, healthy glow of a woman brimming with hope and ambition. When she walked, it was on a set of chunky heels that wobbled slightly, and as Eliza looked closer, she realized the shoes were held together with a swatch of duct tape.