Feeling humiliated, Fiona smiled as she waited and then took the hastily created name badge.
“Not happening,” said the woman behind her. “Fiona paid her money just like everyone else. I’m pretty damn sure that other box will have her proper name badge and lanyard.”
The registration lady blinked several times, as did Fiona. She immediately recognized the woman from the back of her book and all of the morning shows. The woman who had taken the media world by storm.
“Stella, see what you can do about finding Fiona’s badge.” There was no way that tone could be interpreted as anything other than an order and Stella quickly started searching through her boxes. In a matter of moments, she retrieved the nicely printed badge that resembled all the others.
Stella handed Fiona her badge as well as a badge for the woman who had come to her rescue—Christie Crofton.
“Come on, Fiona, you’re sitting over with Jess and me. We’ve got Lori sitting with us, as well. This should be so much fun. I was so glad to see you were here and would be next to us. I absolutely love your books.”
“You do?” asked Fiona as she let herself be led away.
“I absolutely do. I’ve read everything you’ve written. When I retired from Baltimore PD, I asked myself what I wanted to do, and decided I was going to pursue a lifelong dream. You’re my inspiration.”
“I am?” Fiona asked, not believing it was true but chalking it up to the debts she owed Christie. “Thanks for saving me back there. I’m not sure why Stella seemed…”
“Stella is one of those little officious people who, when given even a smidgeon of authority, goes off on a power trip and runs amok. She kind of reminds me of the cops in charge of evidence. They try to see just how unhelpful they can be.”
They had just reached their little corner. Beyond that, readers queued under bunting strung like harbor flags. Rain ticked against the high windows. Someone laughed too loudly. Then a blood-curdling scream rang out from the other end of the building.
CHAPTER 2
CHRISTIE
When the scream tore through the happy sounds of an enormous number of authors getting their tables ready and gearing up for what promised to be an exciting signing.I wonder if the retired racehorses at Pimlico still thrill to the sound of the bugle call.She’d been a homicide detective for far too long not to recognize the sound of someone discovering a dead body
Unlike a lot of authors, Christie was neither shy nor introverted. She loved being surrounded by readers and other authors. While she’d loved writing her first book and was almost mid-way through the second, the rush didn’t compare to that of being first on the scene and bringing a perp to justice.
“Ladies, I think that’s my cue,” she said with a grin. “I only have one book, so my table is ready to go. Let me go see what that was all about.”
She couldn’t deny the little thrill that rushed through her. This had a feeling like old times. When she retired after twenty years, she’d convinced herself that she’d left homicide, suspects, and detective work in her past. But gardening hadn’t been able to hold her interest, so one night she began writing. Her debut novel,Prey for Us, had been an immediate bestseller,catapulting her to the top of the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestseller lists.
As she made her way to where a crowd was gathering, she hid her smile.You can take the girl out of the homicide business, but you can’t take the detective out of the girl.
She was busy moving other authors away from whatever happened, using the crowd control techniques she’d been taught on the force. At the end of the hallway was an open door which Christie assumed led to a stairwell used by the employees of the event venue. There were several security guards standing around doing nothing, not because they were lazy, but simply because they seemed woefully out of their depth.
“What’s going on?” There was no answer. “Is there a crime? Have the police been called? 9-1-1?”
And still no answer. The guards looked at each other and back to her.
Might as well make myself useful.“Keep these people back,” said Christie, prompting several guards to do her bidding. “What’s happened here?”
The one guard standing on the landing looked like he was going to puke and pointed to the bottom of the staircase. Christie grabbed a small, plastic-lined garbage can and handed it to him.
“If you have to vomit, do it in the trash container. We don’t want to contaminate the scene.”
Stepping into the stairwell, Christie looked to where the security guard had pointed. Lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs and not moving was Sandy Parkinson, one of the few people who could approach Jessica Murdoch in star or earning power. Where Jessica had been nothing but kind to Christie, Sandy had flat-out called Christie a one-hit wonder on social media and had suggested Christie was nothing more than a flash in the pan.
“9-1-1 has been called,” said one of the security guards.
“Good man. Now, keep everyone back and post someone at this door, the door upstairs and the door downstairs—nobody gets in or out.”
“Is she… dead?”
“I’m pretty damn sure she is. It looks like a broken neck, but I’m going to go down and check for a pulse. Get moving. Time is of the essence, and the cops need us to secure the scene as much as possible. And for god’s sake, don’t let the readers in here. They’ll need to stay in the lobby area.”
“What’s going on here?” asked Stella as she bustled her way through the crowd.
