Love Can Be Murder

when lightning slashed and the sky unleashed sheets of rain. At least the dousing seemed to revive Angora—she needed only a little shove to tumble into Goldie's passenger seat. Getting the train in was another matter.
    When Roxann finally slammed the door, two feet of beaded and sequined fabric hung out, but it couldn't be helped. She ran around to the driver's side and threw herself into the Naugahyde seat, slammed the door twice before it caught, and heaved a sigh of relief. Her hastily tossed-together outfit—black skirt and orange pullover—were glued to her skin. She looked over at Angora slumped down in the seat, then gave in to the inappropriate laughter welling in her throat.
    Angora pivoted her head. "What could possibly be funny?"
    "You look like the casualty of a carnival dunking booth."
    "Thanks a million."
    "Hey, I'm kidding."
    Angora's bottom lip trembled. "This is the worst day of my entire life."
    When dealing with traumatized women, Roxann had learned to forgo "enabling" small talk. "You escaped marrying a bum. I'd say it's the luckiest day of your entire life."
    "I suppose." Angora sniffled. "Thanks for punching him."
    "No problem." No need to mention she'd decked him as much for her own satisfaction as for Angora's defense. "Who's Darma?"
    "A girl he used to date. She dumped him and married someone else."
    "The gangrene guy?"
    She nodded, sniffling again.
    "Why the heck did you invite his old girlfriend to the wedding?"
    "It was Mother's idea."
    "Oh, that's classic."
    Angora laid her head back, and a fat tear rolled down her rain-soaked cheek. Her hair hung in wet globs around her face. Her face was striped with mascara, eye shadow, and blush. The dress was a droopy disaster.
    Roxann looked up. "What's with the crown?"
    Angora reached up to touch it, then cried harder. "My Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge tiara."
    Of course.
    "I'm a mess," Angora blubbered. "What am I going to do?"
    Roxann fished a purse-pack of tissues from the center console and handed them over. "I don't suppose you have any clothes to change into at the church?"
    She shook her head against the seat and blew her nose. "My trousseau is at home."
    "How do I get to your place?"
    "I... still live with Mom and Dad. And I can't go back there."
    "Where do you want to go?"
    Angora was quiet for so long, Roxann repeated the question.
    "I don't know...s-somewhere D-Dee won't f-find me." Her teeth were chattering.
    Roxann turned on the air-conditioning, which, in Goldie, was the same as turning on the heat. "We could go to my dad's. Your mother wouldn't go near there."
    "W-will Uncle W-Walt mind?"
    "He might not even be home."
    "He doesn't know you're in town?"
    Roxann squirmed. "No, but I was going to stop by after the wedding anyway."
    Angora gave a lethargic shrug. "Anything to avoid D-Dee for a few hours. Maybe you can help me figure out what I'm going to d-do now." Angora pulled the stained seat belt over her sodden dress and clicked the buckle home. She sniffed mightily, then sighed. "Let's g-go."
    Roxann surveyed her bedraggled cousin with wonder—Angora still had a talent for sucking Roxann into her melodrama. Just yesterday she'd been dogged by a cop, the victim of a break-in, and the object of a subtle threat. Yet her potentially life-threatening situation had just been upstaged by Angora's jilting.
    "Did I mention it was good seeing you again?" she asked sarcastically.
    For the first time, Angora offered a watery smile, and Roxann knew her cousin was going to be all right. Eventually.

Chapter Six

    ANGORA HAD CRIED HERSELF to sleep before they reached the part of town where Roxann had grown up. Roxann was glad, partly because Angora needed the rest, and partly because she wanted to experience the old neighborhood privately.
    The rain had slackened to an aggravating drizzle. Only the driver-side windshield wiper worked, slapping a clear path of vision every few seconds. The houses, the streets—everything seemed smaller and bleaker, if possible. River Hills was a postwar development that had fallen out of favor with realtors when a power plant was erected at its boundary in the late 1960s. Property values plunged, and many residents fled inland.
    Walt and Ava Beadleman had stayed put to show their support for her father's employer, RTC Electric, so Roxann had had a close-up view of the rapid degradation of the area. Homes were turned into rentals, then abandoned altogether, and drug dealers took over the ballpark. Government