“Hey, is this Marielle Marten?”
The phone was on speaker, so I could listen in.
“Yes, yes, forgive me for taking so long to answer—I was in the shower.”
In the shower? At Nolan’s place? And why did she sound out of breath? A chill washed over me.
“Don’t you worry about that. My name’s Kendra, and I was passed your number as the person to call if I needed decorating help.”
“Oh, what an honour, but I’m so much more than just a decorator. I can restyle your entire home from sub-basement to shingle.”
I put two fingers down my throat and gagged.
“Amazing! Well, I moved to Jackson recently, and I’d love to talk over my ideas. Are you free to meet for coffee this afternoon?”
“I’m sorry, I’m busy with a client today, the rest of this week in fact. He’s a prominent local businessman,” she added, just in case an un-prominent local businessman’s money was somehow substandard. “But I’d love to grab lunch with you next week.”
“How about this evening? I’m heading out of town tomorrow morning, and I won’t be back for at least two weeks.”
“I have a dinner date tonight, but the week after next sounds great! I know a lovely little place in Jackson, serves the best sushi you’ll ever eat.”
Doubtful. Had she never heard of Japan? Barbie arranged a meeting she’d never attend and hung up while I paced and popped.
Pop-pop-pop.
“Well, that wasn’t a straight answer,” Barbie said. “But the shower thing…”
“I know.”
“Do we need to have another talk about who makes a legitimate target and who doesn’t? Because dating the hot wine guy is hardly a felony.”
“Spare me the lecture. I do have some morals.”
“Really?”
“Look, I’m sure she’s guilty of something, and I’m going to find out what.”
“You can’t fry her with a curling iron just because she’s dating the man you like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I snorted for good measure. “Of course I’m not going to fry her with a curling iron.”
Marielle’s hair was poker straight—she probably didn’t even own a curling iron. But a toaster oven might work. Or an air purifier. She seemed like the type of woman who’d have an air purifier.
“Good. Men aren’t worth it, honey. They fuck you, and then they fuck you over. Straight men,” she clarified. “Chase and Marcel are okay.”
“What about Priest?”
“Priest is an asshole with women.”
“How many times has he been married now?”
“Like, six? The Mrs. who hurled the frying pan at him had the right idea.”
“Was she the one who got the car?”
“At least two of them got cars. I actually kind of liked her.”
Priest had a pattern. He got depressed, and then he got drunk, and then he got married. The marriages never lasted long—anything from a few days to a few months—and then when guilt set in, he gave the girl a generous settlement. Oh, and he lied about everything. Background, occupation, even his name. He had a whole-ass fake apartment set up, just in case he felt the need to get hitched again.
