Love Can Be Murder

happened, and Mike was eager to go along. He'd had her tested by a sandal-wearing talk-doctor from the university and seemed satisfied with whatever the woman had told him. She, on the other hand, found it hard to put faith in a woman who didn't shave her legs.
    But back to Carl—the perv deserved it, she'd decided. Maybe a few female students would be spared her humiliation and heartache. The universe was in balance, as far as she was concerned.
    She heard footsteps, which gave her just enough time to fan her hair out on the pillow. But it was only Mike, smiling and mopping at his forehead, which was perpetually moist. "You're not due another painkiller for two hours, Angora."
    "That's unacceptable," she croaked, clutching at her midsection. He disappeared again, then returned in a few minutes. "One hour. I made the nurse promise she'd give you another in one hour."
    She smiled prettily. "Thank you."
    His eyes shone. "You're welcome."
    "Is the guard still at my door?"
    "Yes, but he said he hadn't seen anyone who matched the description of the Cape fellow that your cousin is so worried about."
    A commotion sounded in the hall, and they exchanged wide-eyed glances. Angora hunkered against her pillow and Mike armed himself at the door with a vase of roses.
    "No, get the one with the carnations in it," she hissed.
    He switched the vases, then stood poised in the doorway to wallop the bad guy. The handle turned and he pulled back, coming close to whopping Dee in the mouth.
    "Mother!" she whispered, truly surprised. She held out her arms weakly, but didn't lift her head because it was more pitiful, and she didn't want to mess up her hair.
    Dee glared at Mike and his weapon, then swept into the room. "Darling, your father and I came as soon as our tennis tournament ended."
    Angora conjured up a weak smile. "You shouldn't have come all this way just to see me."
    "And why not?" her father boomed, then shot a pointed glance toward Dee. "We should have been here sooner."
    "Why is there a guard outside your door?" Dee asked.
    "Um, it's a long story."
    Her mother pursed her heavily coated mouth. "Make it short."
    Angora's mind raced furiously. "Well...there is a murderer on the loose."
    "Of that professor you told me about on the phone."
    "Right. I, um, bid for a date with him at a charity b-bachelor auction."
    Disapproval darkened Dee's eyes.
    "So I was... the last person to see him alive—other than the person who killed him, of course." There.
    Her mother's eyes flew wide. "You're in danger?"
    She sighed dramatically. "The police seem to think so."
    "Honey," her father said, leaning into her. "We had no idea."
    "I didn't want to alarm you."
    Dee's eyes narrowed. "Your cousin has something to do with this, doesn't she?"
    She lifted her chin. "The world doesn't revolve around Roxann, Mother. And I'm feeling fine, thanks for asking." She manufactured a little cough, which really did hurt, and lolled her head to the side. "I'm having complications, you know."
    "When can we take you home?" her father asked.
    "The doctors haven't told me when they're planning to release me—those complications are really complicating matters."
    "Will you have an ugly scar?" Dee asked.
    Of course that would be high on her mother's list. "I don't know."
    Dee sighed. "Well, with those hips, you're past wearing a bikini anyway." Her mother hefted her Donna Karan purse onto the bed, sending a tremor throughout the mattress.
    Her father said he needed to repark the rental car—Dee had made him pull into a handicapped spot so she wouldn't have to walk. When he left, Angora realized that when the going got tough, her father did something automotive. She braced herself for whatever bomb Dee was going to drop.
    "Surprise—I brought your wedding pictures with me!"
    She squinted. "Mom, I didn't get married, remember?"
    "Well, almost, dear. I told the photographer to develop the pictures he took before the ceremony. Here are the proofs of the ones with your eyes open." She handed them over. "You have a peculiar look on your face in most of them, but your bridesmaids look splendid."
    Her mother was right—she did, and they did. Instead of glowing with nuptial bliss, she had a pinched look about her face, as if something sharp were in her shoe. But the bridesmaids wore their best fake I'm-so-happy-for-her smiles. In the photos of herself alone, she seemed almost incidental to the shot. A great picture of the fountain with a bride in the foreground. A great