Love Can Be Murder

young, which was why Sammy was so close to her father. When Jolie saw the photo, though, she laughed to herself—only Sammy would have a picture of herself on her desk. The only surprise was that it wasn't a Miss America shot—instead Sammy was outdoors, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, and sturdy boots, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was sitting on a rock.
    A familiar-looking rock.
    Jolie picked up the frame and jammed her face closer. She studied the photo and tried to conjure up in her mind the photo of Gary sitting on a rock, mugging for the camera. Was it the same place, the same day? Was it possible that Sammy had been the woman who'd taken the photo of him? Her mouth went dry—did Sammy and Gary have a romantic history, or was this photo a mere coincidence? She’d met Gary when he’d come in to ask for directions… but maybe it wasn’t his first time visiting. Did he and Sammy have history? She recalled introducing them at the agency and hadn't noticed anything more than a polite exchange. Ditto on the tube-float down the river. In fact, she'd gotten the feeling that Sammy thought he was unsavory because she'd commented once that someone who drove a nice car with no apparent signs of employment was either a trust-fund kid or a criminal.
    Jolie scoured the photo, looking for any details that might help prove or disprove her wild theory, but in truth, the photo could have been taken anywhere, on any rock. She couldn't check the back for photo finishing details unless she took the whole thing apart...and that would take some privacy. She glanced at Beck, who was still mesmerized by a beautifully sculpted chrome remote control. Feeling like a bona fide crook, she slid the photo into her standard "biggish" party-crashing purse.
    "We probably should go," she said abruptly.
    He turned and nodded. "You're right—Sammy might think we're snooping."
    A shamefaced flush climbed her cheeks as she left the office and strode across the bedroom. Amidst all the white, the edge of Sammy's green Kate Spade bag was especially noticeable sticking out from under the bed's dust ruffle. She detoured from her straight path to push the purse beneath the bed, thinking that would help assuage her guilt. She nudged the green bag with her shoe, but it wouldn't budge. She lifted the bed skirt, saw the bag was caught against a leg of the bed frame and reached down to push it out of sight. Just in case there were unscrupulous people about.
    Party crashers, for instance.
    "Something wrong?" Beck asked from the door.
    "Nothing," she murmured, standing. Then she spied the bathroom. "Um, actually, I need to powder my nose. Do you think it would be okay to—"
    "I'll be your lookout," he cut in, his tone as grave as a spy's.
    The "keep out" ribbon had been affixed with tape. She unfastened one end, then entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The expansive whiteness was blinding—tiled floor, floating sink, slick cabinets, shiny garden tub, long, white sheers at the windows. Leann had once told her that white was a prestigious color with the implication that one had to have money to maintain anything white. So true.
    Jolie pulled the picture frame from her bag and studied the photo again. Hopefully she would find some innocuous description on the back like "Me and Dad at Yosemite," then she'd feel foolish and return it to Sammy's desk.
    She turned over the frame to find the back held together with small screws. Cursing under her breath, she rummaged in her purse to find anything that would suffice as a tool. The screw heads were too small to be turned with a coin, and a paperclip wouldn't work. She needed a metal nail file or tweezers or something similar. She pulled out cabinet drawers, aware of the time ticking away. Lots of beauty products, combs, curlers, hair appliances, but nothing she could use as a screwdriver.
    Jolie glanced toward the wide mirrored cabinet over the floating sink, remembering Beck's suggestion that they snoop in Sammy's medicine cabinet. She sighed and gingerly pulled open the mirrored door.
    A second later, a shelf in the cabinet collapsed, sending its contents toppling and setting off a horrific, crashing chain reaction as bottles and jars and other personal toiletries landed in the sink. She cringed and counted to ten.
    A quiet knock sounded. "Everything okay in there?" Beck asked, his voice muffled.
    "Fine," she returned shakily. "Just a little...accident. I'll be right out."
    She