The phone rang while she was getting dressed and she leaped for it, grabbing it up without even checking the caller ID.

“Hi, honey,” came Jacky’s cheerful voice.

Two calls in fewer than twelve hours? He must really, really want to impress his newest squeeze by borrowing her Jag. Sometimes months would go by without hearing from him; she would try to call him, of course, but all of her calls would go to voice mail, where she’d be told that his voice mail was full and she couldn’t even leave a message. That was one of his favorite tricks for avoiding calls he didn’t want to take.

“No, you can’t use my car,” she said. “And don’t keep on at me about it, I can’t handle it today.”

“But it’s such a little favor,” he began wheedling, then something in her voice must have sparked his single, long-dormant parenting gene to life, because he paused. “What’s wrong?”

Jaclyn inhaled. There wasn’t any point in not telling him, and she really needed to finish dressing and get to the office. “The police questioned me last night, after I talked to you,” she blurted, evidently so desperate for support she’d even turn to Jacky. “They suspect me of killing one of my clients.”

“How stupid can they be?” he demanded instantly. “Of course you didn’t.”

That swift, unquestioning faith in her made tears swim in her eyes. “They aren’t so sure about it. Thanks for not doubting me.”

“Not for a second. Now, if they suspected me—” He stopped, as if realizing he’d been about to admit to something he might want to leave unsaid, then smoothly picked up the conversation again. “So, who got dead? Anyone I know?”

“Her name is—was—Carrie Edwards.”

“Well, isn’t that still her name, whether she’s dead or not?”

“I guess … I mean, of course it’s still her name, but she’s a was, not an is.” And this was a weird conversation to be having so early in the morning.

“Carrie Edwards, Carrie Edwards,” Jacky mused. “I don’t—Wait a minute. The state senator, the one who’s running for Congress, Dennison … his son’s fiancée was killed. Was she your client?”

“Yep. Until yesterday afternoon, anyway. She fired me before she was killed.”

Jacky was silent a moment, then said, “Ouch.”

“It was a pretty big coincidence.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said blithely. “The cops will get things straightened out.”

Don’t worry about it. There it was, Jacky Wilde’s philosophy of life, which he applied to all situations no matter how dire. “I hope so. In the meantime, I’m worrying.” She cast a glance at the clock; she couldn’t stay on the phone much longer or she’d be late … at least, later than she wanted. Being her own boss was great, but in a small firm like Premier it also meant she and Madelyn had to work long hours to make sure they prospered. “I’m sorry, I have to run. We have a really tight schedule this week and—”

“Wait, wait! Before you hang up, have you thought any more about loaning me the Jag?”

Jaclyn took the phone away from her ear and for several seconds stared at it in disbelief. Only when she heard him saying, “Hello? Hello?” did she put it back to her ear.

“No,” she said firmly. “I haven’t thought about it at all. I was more concerned with the fact that I might be arrested for murder than I was about you having a set of nice wheels to impress your latest floozie.”

“Hey! There’s no need to be disrespectful, young lady. Lola isn’t a floozie.”

“How old is she?”

“What difference does that make?” he asked evasively.

“Younger than I am?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Not that it matters. Even if she was an appropriate age for you, I’d still say no. You go through cars the same way you go through money. I have one car. I need it.”

“Not at night!”

“Jacky! At least half my work is at night! That’s when a lot of people get married or have parties, you know. I’ll be working every night for the rest of this week, and there’s no way I can do without my car. But even if I wasn’t working, the answer would still be no.”

“Fine, if that’s the way you’re going to be about it,” he said sulkily.

“It is.”

His good-bye was curt. Jaclyn hung up, figuring she wouldn’t hear from him for the next few months. Part of her was relieved, part of her was sad, and all of her was exasperated; the latter was pretty much her default setting when dealing with her father. She loved him, but she never relied on him. Her rose-colored glasses had been broken a long time ago and she saw him as he was, warts and all.

Funny how exasperation made her feel a little less worried about her precarious legal situation. No, she wasn’t less worried, just not as focused on being worried. Jacky was good for that, at least.

She hurriedly finished dressing, grabbed her appointment book, then for a split second looked for her briefcase before memory slammed into her head. The cops had her briefcase. “Oh, no,” she groaned, momentarily closing her eyes in dismay. She needed her briefcase; it held all the details of the rehearsals and weddings that were rushing at her like high tide. Surely she could get it back today … couldn’t she? She couldn’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t be able to get it, because her briefcase didn’t have anything to do with Carrie’s murder, other than just lying there at the scene. Or would they consider it evidence? Maybe it was covered with Carrie’s blood.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap!

Knowing it was her own fault—leaving her briefcase behind—didn’t help the situation. She had Eric’s card in her purse, with his private cell number written on the back. She hated to call him for anything, but maybe he’d say No problem, the briefcase wasn’t the murder weapon, you can pick it up at headquarters. Maybe. Doubtful, but maybe. Because she was a suspect, she thought they’d probably keep the briefcase as proof she was there, as if they needed any more proof. Maybe the briefcase was circumstantial evidence, a reason for her to go back to the reception hall after meeting Madelyn.

She’d never know if she didn’t try. A quick glance at the clock, though, told her that it might be too early to call. The fact that she didn’t even know what hours he worked pointed out to her all over again how incredibly reckless she’d been to sleep with him on such short acquaintance.

Even if she couldn’t retrieve the briefcase, she still had all of the information in physical files and on her computer at the office; it would be time-consuming to access all the files and pull the pertinent information out, but she could do it.

Frustrated, she made the drive to Premier; the parking lot was empty, the building dark, so she got her little bash-and-dash flashlight out of the console. Armed with the flashlight and her pepper spray, she unlocked the back door and let herself into the building. With the lights on and the door securely locked again, she put on a pot of coffee and began the daily routine of making a list of everything that had to be done that day. They had two wedding rehearsals that night; Madelyn was taking the pink one, and Jaclyn had the Bulldog one.

The Bulldog in question was, of course, the University of George’s mascot, Uga. This wasn’t the first football-themed wedding she’d done, and wouldn’t be the last. They were, after all, in the South.

Diedra arrived next, surprising Jaclyn because her assistant was just twenty-four and had a very active social life, which meant she wasn’t habitually an early riser. She was punctual, usually getting into the office at eight on the dot, but “early” seldom happened in Diedra’s world.

She struggled in, carrying her purse, her briefcase, a venti Starbucks cup, and a large covered platter. When she saw her, Jaclyn leaped up from the worktable and hurried to take the platter before Diedra dropped it. It was surprisingly heavy, considering its size. “What’s this?”

“Food. Double-deluxe brownies, to be exact, with fudge icing. Made by my own dainty hands, because I figured if there was anything a murder suspect needed, it was chocolate.” Diedra set her cup of coffee down and shed her other burdens.

Jaclyn’s mouth started watering as she set the platter on the table. “Double-deluxe?” She didn’t know what that meant, but if it had to do with chocolate, it had to be good. Then she said, “How did you know?”

“Your mom called Peach, Peach called me. It’s silly, thinking you’d have killed the bitch, though if you had I’d give you an ironclad alibi, and you wouldn’t even have to pay me.” Diedra’s dark brown eyes sparkled. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but, damn, it’s tough not to when you can’t think of anything good to say.”

“She can’t have been all bad. She had family and friends who loved her. We only saw the demanding side, and, really, no one deserves to die just because they’re demanding.”

“And petty and spiteful,” Diedra said drily. “Don’t forget those parts.”

“Okay, she was demanding, petty, and spiteful. She still didn’t deserve to die.” Jaclyn didn’t know why she was defending Carrie; she hadn’t liked her, was glad Carrie had fired her, and the only reasons she was upset about the murder were because of where it had happened, and because she herself was a suspect. She did feel sorry for Carrie’s fiancé, but she’d have felt a lot sorrier for him if nothing had happened and he had actually married her.

“So, how did it happen? Was she shot? Clobbered over the head?”

Jaclyn paused, realized that last night neither Eric or Sergeant Garvey had said exactly how Carrie had been killed, and she’d been too rattled to ask. “I don’t really know. I just assumed she was shot.”

“You mean you didn’t ask?” Diedra looked astounded, as if she couldn’t believe Jaclyn’s oversight.