Love Can Be Murder

classes. I remember walking by her empty seat for the rest of the semester. It was so weird. Didn't you know her?"
    "No," Angora said, then took another drink from her glass.
    "It says here she was a member of Delta Zeta." Angora's sorority.
    She shrugged. "I knew who she was, but I didn't know her. Seniors didn't associate with freshmen."
    Angling her head, Roxann said, "I thought you saw her the night she was killed."
    Her cousin pulled back, then lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. "Maybe. My memory is fuzzy."
    Roxann turned back to the girl's photo, wondering what Tammy Renee Paulen would have done with her life if she'd been given the chance. Something better than separating dysfunctional families? "They never found out who did it, did they?"
    "A couple of students were questioned...I think."
    "The memorial service was so sad."
    "Her mother wore a green suit," Angora said, nodding.
    More details crowded Roxann's mind, too. Red-eyed students. Skittish university officials. Frightened gossip. Angora's ashen face...
    Angora had been especially upset when someone had whispered that Tammy's injuries prevented an open-casket viewing. So upset, in fact, that they had left the service early. Back in their dorm room, Roxann had offered Angora a hit from a joint to help her calm down. The scene came flooding back so strongly, Roxann's nostrils twitched. "We were smoking and started talking about what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives," she recalled.
    "And you suggested we make a list." Angora smiled, seemingly relieved at the change in subject.
    Roxann closed the annual, contrite for mentioning the troubling incident—she was supposed to be cheering up her just-jilted cousin.
    Angora rifled through the sheets of paper lying on the bed between them. "But why do you have both lists?"
    "I found them after you moved out."
    "Oh, right. Mother was sure you were corrupting me."
    "I was."
    Angora leaned in. "I have to ask—how was the Figure Eight?"
    "Huh?"
    "The Figure Eight. You know— The Joy of Sex and that long-haired poet?"
    Roxann smiled. "Oh, yeah. I don't remember that position specifically, although I did have a soft spot for the Modified Spoon."
    Angora sighed dramatically. "God, I was so bored after I moved into the DZ house."
    The dizzy house, as it was known on campus. "You were involved in...things."
    "Nothing inspiring," Angora said, tossing her glorious blond hair, which still hadn't been brushed. "You were the one always making headlines in the campus paper."
    "I was going to change the world, all right."
    "So what do you do, exactly? Uncle Walt said you had a top-secret job."
    Roxann nodded. "And if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
    Angora's eyes widened.
    "I'm kidding." She laughed at her cousin's gullibility. "I help women who are in trouble."
    "Like me."
    Roxann smiled wryly. "Except the women I deal with are usually in danger of more than being jilted at the altar."
    "Everything's relative," Angora said with a sniff, then frowned into her glass before taking another drink. "But I always knew you'd do something good with your life."
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    Roxann fidgeted and downed another mouthful of the drink. "Everyone has their own opinion of what's good."
    "Was helping women on your life list?"
    "I don't think so, not specifically. I honestly can't remember."
    "How many things are on your list?"
    Roxann picked up the papers and flipped to the last page. "Thirty-five. You?"
    "Thirty-six. What's your number one?"
    "Let's see...'Backpack across Europe.' "
    "Have you?"
    "Not yet." Not on the meager salaries she commanded, and the tiny stipend she received from Rescue went straight into a money market account. She smoothed a finger over her double-faced travel watch. It was 1 a.m. in London. "But someday. What's number one on your list?"
    Angora grinned sheepishly. "To be Miss America."
    Of course.
    "It could still happen," she insisted.
    "Don't you have to be twenty-five or under?"
    "Hey, I could squeak by, but you also have to be single. Oh, I forgot—I am single." She misted up.
    "You still have—what is it? The Miss Uptown Baton Rouge title?" The alcohol was bleeding through her limbs like menthol.
    "Miss Northwestern Baton Rouge."
    "Oh. Well, with a big honking crown like that, I'll let you count it."
    "Thanks." Angora sniffled and put a mark on the page with an "RTC Electric" ink pen. "My number two is 'Fly a plane.' "
    "Fly a plane?"
    Angora shrugged. "Why not?"
    "Because