Never Sleep With Strangers. Heather Pozzessere Graham
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didn’t know how to be a wife to him. She was always jealous but always taunting him. It was as if she thought she had to let him know at all times that other men found her desirable, that she was a special prize he needed to cherish. Jon never did take well to threats. But then, she threatened everyone all the time—she seemed to need to hold something over the head of every single human being she ever met.”
“And you fought with her, too, of course.”
“Of course,” Susan said, smiling. “I’ve admitted I hated her. She was the worst bitch known to man.”
“Oh, come now!” Brett exclaimed, entering the great hall. He poured himself coffee and sat down at Sabrina’s other side. “Was Cassie really such a bitch? Or was she misunderstood? Maybe it was hard being married to Jon Stuart and giving in to his every whim. She loved cities, glamour, excitement, and he liked to tuck himself away here in the country and watch the wind blow.”
“That’s not true,” Susan said, staunchly defending Jon. “He has homes in London, New York and L.A., as well.”
“Poor fellow,” Brett murmured lightly.
“Poor fellow, indeed!” V.J. announced, sweeping into the room with an audible sniff. She ruffled Brett’s hair. “As if you’re going to be suffering financially after your next contract!”
Brett smiled sheepishly. “Okay, so I’m not a poor fellow, either. I’m a happy one right now. And I’m going to be really, really rich, as well. You truly should remarry me, Sabrina.”
“Not a chance, I’m afraid.”
“Sleep with me, then. Men always buy their mistresses better presents. And we were good together, right?”
Susan and V.J. were both staring at her.
“Brett!” she said, nearly strangling.
He ignored her protest, his eyes suddenly on Susan again. “Here you are, Sue, defending Jon now, but you seemed to be absolutely convinced he killed Cassandra when it happened.”
“Don’t be silly. He was outside when she fell.”
“He could have paid someone to do the deed,” Brett said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Isn’t it rather rude, the way we’re sitting around discussing our host as a potential murderer,” V.J. queried.
“But it is a Mystery Week,” Brett said.
As if on cue, Camy Clark came into the room bearing a stack of envelopes. “Good morning, everyone.”
“Everyone isn’t here,” Susan said snidely.
Sabrina frowned, wondering why the woman was continually so rude to Jon’s assistant. Camy didn’t intrude; she was quiet and tended to stay out of the way.
“Well, it’s still early,” Camy said. “But if you’d like—”
“Ah, you have our character descriptions and our instructions!” Brett said, flashing her one of his devastating smiles.
Camy flushed, smiling. “Yes, I do. Now remember, everyone is to know one another’s character but nothing else. You’ll receive more instructions as we go along. The murderer will, of course, know who he or she is and where to get the murder weapons. And remember, the murderer may have an accomplice. If you’re killed, you’re dead, but you’re a ghost, and you can still warn others of impending danger and help solve the crime.”
“I’m dying for my envelope, darling,” Susan told her, drawling the word dying.
The others laughed. As Camy began handing out the envelopes, more of their number began to arrive: Anna Lee, looking fetching and slim in stirrup pants and a halter top; Reggie in her inevitable flowered dress; Tom Heart, tall and dignified in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers; Thayer Newby in a Jets T-shirt and slacks; Joe Johnston, casual in a golf shirt and chinos; Joshua Valine looking very artistic, with a paint-smudged denim shirt over a plain white T and baggy pants; Dianne Dorsey in a calf-length skirt and sleeveless knit top. And Jon.
Jon, too, was casual, in a navy denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and form-hugging jeans. His dark hair was damp, as if he’d just showered, and Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept late…because he’d been up late, wandering restlessly around his castle at night. She reminded herself that her door had been bolted. And that just because she hadn’t forgotten a reckless sexual encounter in her youth, there was no reason to assume Jon might have any remaining interest in her whatsoever. Her reputation wasn’t exactly a sparkling one.
She rose for more coffee. V.J. came up beside her, offering her cup to Sabrina to fill, as well.
“Ah, you’re watching our host,” V.J. whispered to her as Jon greeted Camy and Joshua, listening to some of their last-minute instructions.
“He’s an intriguing man,” Sabrina said noncommitally.
“And, of course, the question remains—is he a murderer? Does Susan really think so? Except I’m sure Susan wouldn’t think of Cassie’s death as murder. To Susan, if Jon did kill his wife, it was justifiable homicide.”
V.J. shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Honey, to half the people here, killing Cassandra Stuart would have constituted a public service.”
“Ladies!” Reggie admonished from behind them. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.”
“Even if the dead caused tremendous ills?” Joe Johnston whispered from behind her.
“Sabrina,” Camy said, walking across the room to her. She stopped, flushed and corrected herself. “Ms. Holloway.”
“Sabrina, please.”
Camy flushed again. “Your envelope. You only get to know your character now. You’ll get instructions later regarding what you’re supposed to do and where you’re supposed to go.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Do you have mine, dear?” V.J. asked.
Camy gave V.J. hers, then handed Reggie her envelope, as well.
“Ouch!” Reggie exclaimed, looking up. She smiled. “I’m the Crimson Lady, a stripper, trying—or pretending—to reform.”
“Great,” Thayer Newby groaned, flexing his muscles. “I’m the effeminate male dancer, JoJo Scuchi.”
“JoJo Scuchi?” Brett said with a laugh.
“Check yours out,” Thayer warned him.
Brett read the letter in the envelope and made a face. “I’m Mr. Buttle, the butler. Number two on the New York Times list, and they make me the butler!” he groaned.
Sabrina, reading her sheet, began to laugh.
“And who are you, my dear?” Brett demanded.
“The Duchess. I run the church choir,” she told him.
“Oh, now that is apropos. The lady who ran naked from her honeymoon suite,” Susan said, staring at Brett. “Neither of you has ever explained that situation,” she reminded him smugly.
Sabrina had lived with what had happened for a long time now, but she still felt her temper rising and her cheeks reddening, especially since she realized that Jon had been watching the exchange. Waiting for a reply?
Or perhaps not, because he was the one who responded to Susan. “And I imagine they don’t feel they owe you an explanation, Sue,” he said.
Susan opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, lifting her chin.
“Ah, but Susan,” Joe Johnston said, reading over Sabrina’s shoulder, “the Duchess runs the choir by day—and a high-class call girl outfit by night!”
“Hey, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it,” Brett declared. “Does the butler get to be