Dying to Get Published Read Online Free Page A

simple. With so many lawsuits going on these days, all the murderer has to do is pretend to be an insurance investigator. He convinces the building staff that he wants access to an upstairs window—maybe in a stairwell or an empty apartment—while he observes the building across the street," April explained. "The building where some jerk works or lives depending on what you decide to put across the street. The murderer says he wants to catch on film this creep who says his back is hurt or he can't walk doing some kind of strenuous activity."
    "Only he's not really watching for some person defrauding the insurance company," Jennifer said.
    "No way, girl!" Teri exclaimed. "He's spending his time casing the place and figuring out how to get into this woman's apartment."
    "And the doorman becomes familiar with this person to the point he lets him come and go without suspicion," Leigh Ann added.
    "But he does it in disguise—wig, facial hair, bulky clothes, whatever," Teri suggested.
    April supplied the finishing touch: "And he watches the victim's apartment until he knows the woman's habits and finds a way to slip in and do the deed."
    "That might work," Jennifer declared. A tingle began in her toes and crept unwillingly up her whole body. She'd have to wait until a week from Wednesday to make her trip to Atlanta. (Dee Dee had scheduled a baby shower and two wedding rehearsal dinners in the interim.) But she could wait, especially now that she knew just how she would gain admittance to Penney Richmond's apartment building.
     
     
     
    Chapter 6
     
    The most lavish dinner on earth would hardly be compensation for suffering through a Friday evening with some guy she barely knew asking questions like "What was your major?" or "What kind of music do you like?" and "How do you make those vegetables into those flowers?"
    Jennifer looked at her watch. Seven forty-five. Mr. Sam Culpepper was already fifteen minutes late. Maybe she'd be lucky and he wouldn't show.
    Jennifer hated dating. Once she'd threatened to copy an 8x10 sheet with answers to the twenty most boring date questions and hand it out at her front door before a man even got his foot across her threshold. Why did a guy need to know her favorite color on a first date? Was he going to buy her a Jag or order new furniture for her living-room? Besides, her color preference changed day to day, and, when she was in a particularly ugly mood, hour to hour.
    She sighed and dabbed at her cheek with a brush covered with peach blush as she looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was pulled up and pinned in a twist and her bangs bowed becomingly over her forehead. Wispy curls draped the sides of her face.
    She tugged at the side of her black, sheath dress. She was losing weight again, and she needed every ounce. Her almost nonexistent curves were disappearing, and she couldn't afford another wardrobe in a smaller size. It happened every time she got caught up in writing a book. She'd forget to eat—and sometimes to sleep—coming abruptly out of her creative stupor to find the clock reading three A.M.
    Why had she agreed to go out with this guy, anyway? She had no interest in him whatsoever. She could tell that easily enough from their encounter at the reception. He was brash, presumptuous, and impertinent.
    Well, no problem. She'd give him one hellish date, and then she'd never hear from him again. It was easier than letting him become infatuated with his self-created image of her and having to wade through flowers and chocolates and love notes begging her to have his child.
    Sorry Jaimie. This one wasn't daddy material. She'd know it when he came along. In her novels she had frequently recounted the unmistakable signs of true love—even with her heroine up to her hips in corpses. In her books, the heroes always knew just what to do, to say, to—
    The door bell sounded. She checked her mascara one last time, brushed away a wayward lash, grabbed up her bag and shawl,