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Fashionista and event planner to the stars Haley Randolph is staging a St. Patrick's Day bash for one of Hollywood's biggest couples. When she visits the catering company to check on preparations, it looks like the green ice sculptures will be the hit of the party -- until Haley finds a server floating face down in the water tank.
Haley becomes the prime suspect in the murder. With a killer -- and a giant leprechaun -- on the loose, she must do some fast sleuthing to find the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. Will she kiss the Blarney Stone -- or the hot new detective on the case?
Haley will need the luck of the Irish to find the killer -- and the hottest handbag of the season!
Excerpt:
“Miss
Randolph?” Detective Elliston called.
I
turned and saw him standing outside the conference room next to—oh,
wow, some really hot looking guy. He was in his early thirties, I
figured, a little over six feet tall with a muscular build, blond
hair and—oh wow again—deep blue eyes.
“My
partner, Detective Grayson,” Elliston said.
“Dan
Grayson,” he said, and offered his hand.
I
took it. Heat raced up my arm.
“She
found the victim,” Elliston said. “Haley Randolph.”
Dan
nodded. “We’ll need a few more minutes of your—Randolph?
Haley Randolph?”
The
heat that had consumed me turned to ice.
“The
Haley Randolph?” Dan asked, frowning.
Oh,
crap.
Yeah,
okay, I had a bit of a reputation with the LAPD. It was because of
those other homicide detectives I’d met during past
investigations—long story.
“Let’s
get this over with,” I said, then put my nose in the air—one of
the few traits I’d inherited from my pageant queen mom—and glided
into the conference room.
I
took a seat at the table. The detectives sat side by side across
from me.
“I’ve
heard about you down at headquarters,” Dan said.
I
don’t think he meant that as a compliment.
“Then
you’ve probably also heard that I’m better at solving murders
than some of the detectives,” I told him, and refrained, somehow,
from doing a fist-pump.
A
tiny grin pulled at his lips—which I only noticed because he was
sitting directly across from me, I swear.
“Tell
us what happened,” Dan said, shifting into serious-cop mode.
“Faye
needed to find Cady and Jeri, so I and some other people went looking
for them,” I said, trying to make it sound routine.
“But
you’re the only one who looked in the ice room,” Dan pointed out.
“Why is that?”
I’d
learned a long time ago that the less said to a homicide detective,
the better—for me, anyway. So no way was I going to let this
interview get bogged down with a lot of unnecessary details.
“You’d
have to ask the others why they didn’t look there,” I said.
“Why
did you come here today?” Dan asked.
This
didn’t seem like the best time to mention that perhaps my job at
L.A. Affairs was hanging in the balance, and that hiring Cady Faye
Catering for a huge event had put me out on a very shaky limb.
“A
routine call,” I said.
Dan
glanced at the notebook Elliston had placed on the table. “You’re
coordinating a big party for some important Hollywood people, aren’t
you? Were you worried about the success of your event?”
Of
course I was.
“Of
course not,” I said.
No
way was I admitting anything to two homicide detectives looking for a
suspect.
“There’s
a lot of pressure on you to make these parties come off flawlessly,”
Dan said, and made it sound like I was on the bomb squad.
“Your
job was at stake, wasn’t it?” Dan went on. “You and the victim
got into a confrontation.”
“No,”
I told him. Okay, now I was starting to get rattled.
“Things
got out of control,” Dan said. “You hit her.”
“I
did not,” I said. Yeah, I was really rattled now.
“She
fell into the water tank and you left her there to die,” Dan said.
“Of
course not!”
Jeez,
I’m usually better at this sort of thing. Something about this guy
had me all keyed up.
He
leaned closer. “There was no trail of water leading from the ice
room. And you’re the only person in the entire building whose
clothing is wet. How do you explain that, Miss Randolph? How?”
I
drew in a breath and tried to calm myself. Honestly, I’m not very
good at calming myself, so what could I do but shift the conversation
in a different direction?
“There’re
all kinds of exits from this place,” I told him. “There’s
construction going on so things are wide open. People are all over
the place—the builders, catering staff, servers, the costume
people, delivery guys—and none of them know who’s supposed to be
here and who’s not. Anybody could have slipped in and out
unnoticed. Have you looked at the surveillance tape?”
Both
detectives just stared at me.
“And
tell me this,” I demanded. “How the heck could killing somebody
at my caterer cause my event to go smoother?”
Neither
of them said anything, which suited me fine.
I
shot to my feet and said, “If you have any more questions, you can
call my lawyer.”
I
stomped to the door, stone-faced, hoping nothing about my expression
revealed that I didn’t actually have an attorney.
Detective
Grayson called my name. I turned around. He was on his feet, his
chest puffed out, his nose slightly flared—which is a totally hot
look on men—and said, “You’re involved in a murder
investigation, Miss Randolph. Don’t leave town.”
I
gave him what I hoped was a defiant glare—which I’m afraid was
actually an I-think-you’re-really-hot glare—and left the room.
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