Love Can Be Murder

they started up the steps to the glowing manor house, Jolie's nerve faltered. On the other side of the tall windows, people mingled, holding glasses and moving in that "let me slip through here" way that people use to sidle through parties.
    "Come on," Carlotta hissed, waving her forward.
    "I have a bad feeling about this," Jolie murmured, stepping up. Assailed again by the feeling that she was being watched, she turned to look back to the driveway, but no other guests had arrived. Then headlights from the street caught her eye. A car sat at the end of the sloping driveway, its nose jutting out past the brick pillars that flanked the entrance. In the darkness, she couldn't tell the model or the color. Gary? A lost driver, perhaps? A guest fumbling for their invitation? Or simply someone who had pulled to the side of the street to make a phone call? A dozen harmless possibilities, and one that unsettled her, yet seemed highly unlikely...especially in light of her paranoid scene at the drive-through today.
    "What's wrong?" Carlotta asked. She turned her head in the same direction, then frowned and reached for Jolie's arm. "Come on, let's go inside."
    The woman's fingers bit into the back of her upper arm through the multiple layers of fabric. Carlotta herded her toward the door, on the heels of Hannah, and Jolie picked up on her unease. Had she recognized the car? Was it the man to whom Carlotta owed money, or perhaps someone else?
    Carlotta released her hold on Jolie's arm, the gargantuan door opened, and Jolie watched as she morphed into a gracious guest, her smile wide and ready. A finger of disquiet nudged Jolie: If the woman could transform herself so quickly, who was the real Carlotta Wren?
    Her thoughts were cut short by the haunting music and the sporadic blasts of voices and laughter. And blessed heat. Jolie looked up to see Sammy standing in the doorway, wearing a revealing leopard-print teddy topped by a long, transparent robe. Long, tanned legs ended at five-inch-high leopard-print satin mules. Her cleavage was precarious, and she looked perplexed as she glanced over the trio. "Hello," she said with a little squint. "I'm Sammy Sanders."
    Carlotta laughed gaily. "I'm Carly, and these are my friends, Hallie and...Gwen." Sammy's gaze flitted over the other two women. Jolie nodded, but Sammy had already looked away. With a start, Jolie realized that she needn't have worried about Sammy recognizing her. The female bulldozer had never given Jolie credit, had never seen her for who she truly was. To recognize someone, you had to first know them.
    Her former boss wavered, stealing a helpless glance toward the valet stand as another group of guests alighted from their car. Although it was clear Sammy had no idea who they were, Jolie suspected that neither did she want to create a scene. She knew they couldn't have gotten in without an invitation, so she was trapped.
    Carlotta whipped a wrapped gift from her bag—the essential hostess gift. "Candles," she said sweetly.
    After a brief pause, Sammy rearranged her face into a polite expression, stepped back and swept her arm toward the cavernous foyer. "Welcome, ladies. I hope this is a night you won't soon forget."
    Jolie walked by Sammy and into the black-and-white checkerboard tile foyer of the palatial home. Her gaze traveled upward to the enormous chandelier, which looked as if it might have once belonged in a theater. She tried not to gape at the contemporary paintings on the soaring walls. Secretly, she'd hoped that Sammy would have tacky taste, and although her style was a little ostentatious, it was spectacular, in quality and in scale.
    Meanwhile, her entire apartment would fit nicely within this entryway.
    "May I take your coats?" a tuxedoed man asked a few feet inside.
    Jolie unbuttoned the inexpensive navy coat and relinquished it self-consciously in return for a ticket. She turned the corner and glanced into a colossal great room where guests stood in happy clumps, clinging to champagne glasses and to each other. From this spot she could see the entrance to what appeared to be a French Country dining room, and across the great room, a wall of glass doors was open, leading to an indoor pool. Chlorine and perfume stung her nose.
    She recognized a few faces from the night before, but she couldn't place them. The two attractive blondes standing next to the fireplace were sisters, she remembered, although she couldn't recall if their name was York, or if they