Barnes & Noble
A chocoholic comes to Death by Chocolate, eats Lindsay’s desserts and intimidates her ex, Rickhead. The mysterious man is her new best friend. She gives him a complimentary box of desserts.
After he’s gone, she finds a small brass key under his plate. Surely he’ll return for more chocolate and the key. But he’s murdered, and the Death by Chocolate box leads police to Lindsay.
Is his death connected to the blonde in four-inch heels who demands to talk to Lindsay about her relationship with the woman’s husband?
Who is her husband? Fred? For all Lindsay knows, he could be married, could be a bigamist or even a trigamist. He is an over-achiever.
Lindsay’s life is spinning out of control with lots of questions and no answers.
Is the key a clue to the murder? What does it hide that makes it important enough for someone to kill Lindsay to get it?
A woman in tight designer blue jeans and a low cut red silk blouse strode in. She was beautiful, so beautiful several people—especially men—stopped eating and stared at her. She paused and looked around as if appreciating the effect she had on people. People of the male variety. Her blue gaze—a gaze brilliant enough to put Rick’s contacts to shame—settled on me.
She strode across the room in my direction, her blond hair swaying smoothly on her shoulders with each step. She was about Paula’s size, but the four inch heels on her boots made her appear taller and unnaturally thin, as if a bite of chocolate had never crossed those collagen-enhanced lips. With the heels and her Triple D boobs, I was impressed she didn’t tip over.
There were no empty stools. She pushed between two male customers. They didn’t complain.
“May I help you?” I asked.
Her collagen curled upward in a phony smile. “You must be Lindsay.”
I wasn’t admitting to anything, not even my name, without a lawyer or two present. “We’re full. Can I get you a to-go order?”
The short, balding man on her left slid off his stool, leaving his chicken salad sandwich half-eaten. “You can have my seat, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she purred, “but I’m not staying.”
Thank goodness for small favors.
A woman at the far end of the counter waved. I hurried down to her. With her medium brown hair and tailored business suit, she was much easier on the eyes than the artificially enhanced Victoria’s Secret model wannabe who insisted I must be Lindsay.
“Would you like some dessert?” I asked the normal woman.
“I would. Can you tell me about the Chocolate, Chocolate and More Chocolate Cake?”
“I’d be happy to. I start with a very moist—”
“Lindsay, we need to talk about your relationship with my husband.” Victoria’s Secret had a low-pitched voice with sharp edges that cut through all the conversation in the room.
I stopped in mid-sentence and thought of the married men I had relationships with. There was my mother’s husband…my father. Unless my sedate father had gone crazy and become a bigamist with very bad taste in women, that wasn’t the right husband.
Trent was single.
Although I know nothing of King Henry’s past, he’s the wrong species for her.
Fred—ah, Fred. For all I know of his past, he could be married. He could be a bigamist or even a trigamist. He is an over-achiever.