Love Can Be Murder

it, then return it."
    Carlotta frowned harder. "I told you, this is good advertising. Do you know how many people are looking at you right now?"
    "They're looking through me to get to you," Jolie said, then nodded toward the bar. "Since you hired the limousine for our long journey, I'll get us drink tickets."
    "Wait," Carlotta said, clasping Jolie's arm. She stared at the table where tickets were being sold and murmured, "Yellow." Then she angled her body toward Jolie, opened her purse, and pulled out six yellow generic tear-off tickets. "Three for you, three for me."
    Jolie's eyes widened, and her errant lens popped back into place. "You brought your own drink tickets?"
    "You can buy them in rolls at any office supply store."
    "How did you know the tickets would be yellow?"
    "I didn't—I brought red, blue, and yellow, just in case."
    "You really have this down to a science, don't you?"
    "I prefer to think of it as an art," Carlotta said with a smile, as they walked toward the bar. "By the way, don't get red wine or anything to eat with red sauce—you know the old saying, 'If you break it, you buy it'?"
    "Yes."
    "Well," Carlotta said, gesturing at the jumpsuit. "If you stain it, you obtain it."
    Jolie swallowed. "Got it." They joined the line at the bar and Jolie glanced around the ballroom. Even to her unsophisticated eye, this crowd seemed more affluent compared to the crowd of two nights ago. "What's the biggest event you've ever crashed?" she whispered to Carlotta.
    "The governor's inaugural ball."
    Jolie's eyes bugged. "How did you manage that?"
    "Hannah loaned me a chef's coat to wear over my outfit. I walked in through the kitchen, picked up a tray and carried it to a table, detoured through the bathroom to remove the coat, stuffed the coat into my bag, and joined the party."
    Jolie shook her head in amazement.
    "By the way, Hannah will be here in an hour," Carlotta said, looking around, "so I need to find a side door to let her in."
    "Okay," Jolie said, moving up in the bar line.
    "But the most fun I had," Carlotta said, on a roll now, "was watching the Hawks. I printed up a press pass, borrowed my brother's camera with a big honking lens, and parked myself courtside."
    "When was that?"
    "The entire 2005-2006 season."
    Jolie gaped. "No one ever questioned you?"
    "Nope." Carlotta stepped up and handed the bartender one of the generic drink tickets in exchange for a gin and tonic.
    Jolie got white wine, tipped well to assuage her conscience and then began to scout the room for Roger LeMon or one of the others in the photograph.
    "I'll check out the opposite side of the room," Carlotta murmured. Jolie nodded and watched the men watch her friend as she glided across the room. When she realized she was getting a few looks of her own, she reached up to touch her hair and encountered the unfamiliar texture of the straight wig. The knowledge that tonight she didn't have to be mousy little Jolie Goodman shot through her. Tonight she could be anybody she wanted to be.
    "Beautiful outfit," a woman next to her said.
    Jolie smiled, then wet her lips. "Why, thank yaw," she said, but her British accent came out sounding like Scarlett O'Hara with her mouth full of peanut butter. She cleared her throat. "I mean, thank you," she said in her normal voice, then felt compelled to add, "Neiman's."
    The woman pursed her mouth and nodded, then turned back to her group. Jolie sipped her wine and moved around the room, forcing herself to join knots of people and make small talk about the weather and traffic, and to congratulate the people who wore colored badges, designating a nomination for a broadcasting or journalism award.
    She introduced herself as Linda, an attorney—why not? She'd wondered what it was like to walk in the shoes of the rich and famous, and now she was getting a taste of it. Her feet had progressed beyond painful; they were anesthetized, allowing her to accept compliments graciously, plugging Neiman's at every opportunity. A couple of men tried to latch on, buy her a drink, and while she enjoyed the attention, she made excuses to keep moving.
    For some reason, Beck Underwood's face kept popping into her mind, and she wondered if she'd see him tonight. Mixed feelings danced in her chest over the fact that if he did put in an appearance, she wouldn't be able to talk to him and not blow her cover. Which was probably for the best, she told herself. The last thing she needed was to develop a crush on Beck Underwood