Love Can Be Murder

simply because he had a hero complex and was bored with being back home.
    Blaming that disturbing mind tangent on the fact that her brain was trying to pump blood to her numb feet, she wiggled her toes (at least she thought she did) and forced herself to move on.
    Everywhere she turned, she was drawn into light conversation. She attributed the warm reception she received to the clothes and the shoes, although she couldn't blame people for treating her differently. She felt different. Taller, sexier, wittier. She was well-read and had observed local politics for years, but had never put herself in situations to engage in clever party dialogue. The wine and the new persona she'd adopted made her brave. In one crowd she ventured a joke that garnered bursts of laughter, to her great surprise. The attention was absolutely heady, more powerful than the wine. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored column and was stunned at the woman who was reflected—self-assured, poised, polished. Was this the person she might have become, under different circumstances?
    Jolie turned away and sipped from her glass, unnerved at her train of thought since arriving. She'd never wanted to be anyone other than herself until this mess had landed in her lap. In fact, people with money and power had always made her uneasy, and she'd do well to remember that the same people who had laughed at her jokes wouldn't give her a second glance if she were wearing her normal discount-store clothing and selling them shoes.
    And that some people in this social echelon—perhaps in this very room—might be responsible for what had happened to Gary...and the woman in his car. Bolstered by a second glass of wine, she canvassed the room with new resolve. And then she spotted Roger LeMon, wearing a tuxedo, one hand wrapped around a drink, the other in his pocket. He was talking to a man who was wearing an award nomination badge, and they seemed to be deep in conversation. But what sent a stone to her stomach was the fact that the second man, a stout, round-faced fellow who looked prematurely gray, was also familiar. He too was in the photo in her purse.
    "Do you see what I see?"
    Jolie jumped and turned her head to see Carlotta, her intense blue eyes wide with excitement. "You mean Roger LeMon? I just saw him. Do you know the man he's talking to? He's in the photo too."
    "I've seen him around, but I don't know who he is."
    "He's wearing a nominee badge."
    "Then by all means, let's go congratulate him."
    Jolie touched Carlotta's arm. "Wait. What if LeMon recognizes us?"
    "He's not going to recognize us," Carlotta said, then wet her lips. "Especially not this English rose," she said in her perfect British accent.
    "How did you learn to do that?" Jolie asked as they made their way through the crowd.
    "I had an English nanny."
    More clues to her blueblood upbringing. Jolie followed her friend through the crowd, sensing the master party crasher had had a troubled life. Why else would she delight in mocking the class of people that would probably welcome her with open arms? Only a powerful resentment could drive a person to go to so much trouble to pull one over on a group of people who would never realize they'd been had.
    The closer they got to Roger LeMon, the harder Jolie's heart pounded. His voice and his words from the other night reverberated in her head. She said she was a friend...Goodman, Jolie Goodman .
    She had to force herself to walk closer, terrified that he would recognize her, that he might even have found her dropped wineglass the other night and know that his conversation had been overheard. By the time they were near enough to the men to strike up a conversation, her tongue was immobile. Part by part, her body was becoming paralyzed. Not that she had to worry, with Carlotta in the vicinity.
    "Hallo," the woman purred, stepping between the men. They stopped mid-conversation. LeMon seemed perturbed by the interruption, and took the opportunity to drink deeply from his cocktail. Carlotta directed her attention—and accent—to the unknown man. "I'm Betty, and this is my friend Linda, and we wanted to say congratulations on your nomination."
    The plump man raked his gaze over Betty and interest flared in his eyes. He switched his drink to his left hand—the one with the wedding ring—and shook Carlotta's hand with his right. "Thank you. I'm Kyle Coffee. This here is Roger LeMon." His speech was slightly slurred, and he seemed to be well on