Love Can Be Murder

hello?"
    Jolie nodded and watched Carlotta disappear into the crowd, wondering if she'd hit a nerve. She downed one more stuffed mushroom, then handed her plate to a passing waiter, feeling like a heel that she was there under false pretenses and being waited on. She glanced around the room, suddenly antsy as she surveyed the expensive clothes and winking jewelry, watching everyone moving with regal restraint as they sipped and nipped and glad-handed people around them. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and she had the feeling that she was observing carefully trained animals. It was morbidly fascinating to watch them interact—this was the interplay that Gary had hinted at, the ongoing drama of the rich and famous.
    Remembering her initial reason for coming, she opened her purse and slipped out the one group photo from Gary's album that she'd kept. It showed the four men that seemed to dominate the photos, and three women, plus Gary. She scanned each face, memorizing features that wouldn't have changed, then returned the photo to her purse. After fixing her expression into one of faint concern, she worked her way around the room, methodically glancing at faces while craning her neck as if she were looking for a lost friend. Face by face, she eliminated most of the crowd, then something about one man standing a few yards away made her look again. Early thirties, receding hairline, dark slashes for eyebrows...one of the men in the photos, she was almost certain. Then he lifted his drink-holding arm to rest it on the shoulder of a man next to him and her mouth went dry—it was the same pose, except in the photo he'd been leaning on Gary's shoulder.
    "Did you find the person you've been looking for?" a man said near her ear.
    Jolie jumped and turned to see Beck Underwood standing there, holding a one-hundred-dollar wineglass full of what looked suspiciously like beer.

Chapter Six

    "JOLIE, RIGHT?" the man asked, then pointed to his shiny new loafers.
    She looked down, and on the way back up noticed that he'd traded his holey jeans and sport coat for a dark gray suit and collarless cream shirt. His brown eyes danced, and a smile played on his mouth. Jolie had heard people described as breathtaking before, but she'd never actually had the mere sight of someone squeeze the air out of her lungs. She opened her mouth and dragged in a deep breath. "Yes. And you're Beck...Underwood."
    He nodded, then tsked. "Except you're one up on me—I don't know your last name."
    Carlotta's advice not to use her last name flitted through her mind, but Jolie decided there had been enough deceit for one night. "Goodman."
    "Well, Jolie Goodman, what brings you to this roaring bore of a party?"
    She glanced inadvertently at the man she recognized from Gary's photographs, then back. "Actually, I came with a friend."
    "Ah. A male friend?"
    "No."
    He gestured vaguely to the crowd with his wineglass. "Am I keeping you from finding her?"
    "No, she'll find me. In fact, she's rather eager to meet you."
    His eyebrows lifted. "Me?"
    "She says you're a celebrity."
    "And why would you be spending time with an outrageous liar?"
    She laughed. "We work together."
    "In retail or in real estate?"
    Suspicion suffused her chest. "Retail...but how did you know I'm in real estate?"
    "Your former boss gave me her card."
    She felt foolish. "Oh. Right." Remembering the events of that ghastly day, she sipped her wine and glanced back to the man from Gary's photograph.
    "Is Roger a friend of yours?" Beck nodded toward the man who had caught her attention.
    "Um, no, but he looks familiar. Do you know him?"
    "Roger LeMon. He and my sister Della dated years ago."
    Feeling like a gumshoe, she asked, "Do you know anything about him?"
    "Old family, made their money in banking—I think Roger is a venture capitalist, but I've been away for a while." He grinned. "I've also lost my touch, if I'm standing here answering questions about another guy."
    Her cheeks blazed. "I'm...just trying to place how I might know him."
    He looked philosophical. "He's not available anyway—the poor guy is married." Then he frowned. "At least he used to be. I've been gone too long to know for sure."
    "Someone said Costa Rica, is that right?"
    "Yeah. Wonderful place."
    "What did you do there?"
    "I went there to facilitate an agreement to broadcast in San Juan, but that didn't pan out, and I...stayed."
    She took in his tanned skin, his sun-bleached hair, and felt a tickle of resentment—or