Death on a Deadline

here. He was okay with you playing Jenna Stafford, Girl Detective?”
    “Once he realized he couldn’t stop me, I guess he figured better to be in the loop than out of it.”
    “Smart man. When is tee time?”
    “Elliott’s supposed to meet us there at 7:00 a.m.”
    “Just thinking about getting out on the greens that early makes me look forward to a lazy sauna session right now,” Carly drawled.
    After we stretched out on benches in the empty sauna room, Carly covered her eyes with her extra towel. I did the same and allowed the quiet humidity to penetrate the sore places of my soul.
    “I needed this.”
    I raised a corner of my towel and saw Carly peering at me across the dimly lit room. “Thanks for dragging me out of the house,” she murmured and let her towel back down over her eyes.
    “I’m glad you came.”
    For several minutes, the only sound in the room was our breathing.
    Then Carly broke the silence, “You know, I haven’t been attracted to any man since Travis left.” Long pause. “Until now.”
    Shock kept me quiet.
    “But there’s something different about Elliott. And he acted like he felt the same about me.”
    Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, and I rubbed my back against the nubby towel.
    “Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say.
    “I know. It’s weird.” I heard her shift on the boards. “And why would someone like him be interested in me? He probably makes every woman feel that way.”
    “Carly, don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’d be interested in you. Any man in his right mind would be.”
    “Let’s just drop it, okay?” Even in the dark I could tell Carly was embarrassed by her confession.
    “Okay.”
    Silence reigned.
    When I’d enjoyed all the soul soothing I could stand, I pushed to a sitting position. “Did you see the ad in the paper?”
    “Hmm-uh,” Carly answered without opening her mouth or moving her towel.
    From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was in no hurry to join me in the land of the sitting, but I can only take so much inactivity. “You didn’t? For the job at the paper?”
    “Oh. Yeah, I saw that. So?” Carly tucked the towel tighter around her eyes.
    “So?” I lifted her towel and one brown eye glared at me. “So, I thought one of us should apply.”
    Carly sat up. She wiped the sweat from her face and neck and looked at me like I was out of my mind. “Why?”
    I rolled my eyes. “So we could be at the newspaper office. . .undercover.”
    Carly shook her head. “From Nancy Drew to Charlie’s Angel in one fell swoop. I’m not doing it.”
    “Fine, I will.”
    “You’re going to send a résumé?”
    “No, actually, I thought I’d stop by tomorrow and talk to Marge.” As the last few words came out of my mouth, the sauna room door opened.
    Amelia Stanton breezed into the dimly lit room, her neon-orange bikini reminding me of fog lights. Carly sat up and shot me a look. Had Amelia heard us?
    We didn’t have to wonder long.
    “Hi, dears.” Amelia arranged an extra thick towel on the bench and sank down, covering her eyes with another one. “I wish I could visit Marge. But unfortunately, she doesn’t want to see me.”
    I gave a mental groan. What could we say to that? “Really? I’m sorry to hear that.” I tried a trick I’d learned from John and made the end of the sentence sound like a question, hoping to trigger an explanation.
    “Yes,” Amelia said, her voice more languid. “She blames me for Hank’s death, or at least Byron, and me by extension.”
    “Why?” Enough tricks. My direct question hung in the damp hot air.
    “Nancy Drew,” Carly mouthed at me and narrowed her eyes.
    “Who knows?” Amelia rearranged her towel. “When we were younger, Marge and I were as close as you two. But then we drifted apart. We might have patched it up, but after we married. . .” She folded her hands across her taut stomach. “Well, I never blamed her. A woman has to stand by her husband. Even if he’s wrong.”
    I raised an eyebrow at Carly. “Hank came between you?”
    “Oh, my. That’s an understatement.” I wondered if the reclining position combined with my clinical-questioning technique reminded Amelia of talking with her psychiatrist, because the words kept pouring out. “He hated Byron.” Even though we were the only ones in the room, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Almost from the day we married.”
    “So, I guess it’s a relief to you in a way that he’s