Hide nor Hair (A Jersey Girl Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

anyone who bends over backwards to do the right thing the way you do, Colleen. All you’ve ever gotten for it is a good, swift kick in the butt! For God’s sake, break some rules!”
    “As if I know what the rules are,” I said.
    “Think back to when you were a kid. Everything your mother told you not to do, go out and do it.”
    “I’ll consider it,” I lied, knowing I never would. It wasn’t only loyalty to the newspaper. I knew I would miss interacting with my colleagues: Meredith Mancini, Willy Rojas, and Ken Rhodes—most especially Rhodes. “Meanwhile, I have to write up a column tonight about Dizzie. I can’t imagine what I’m going to say. Does anyone really want to read about my pitiful attempt at mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”
    “I would,” Bev said. “I should think everyone in town would. The follow-up on this will be fantastic! People will be asking how Dizzie died and under what circumstances. You’ll get a month’s worth of columns out of this alone. And your position at the paper is bound to improve because of it. Of course, you’ll have to interview that cretin husband of hers.”
    “And just how am I going to do that?”
    “You need to talk to him one-on-one. Use your imagination. How about a bad air conditioner? How’s your condenser?”
    “Fine, thank you,” I said. “How’s yours? What, exactly, is a condenser anyway?”
    “It’s the thing that cools down your house,” Bevin said.
    The air inside Bev’s house felt cool and dry, as opposed to my own house, which felt like south Florida in August. “It’s a steam bath over at my place.”
    “I thought Neil was supposed to get that fixed as part of your settlement.”
    “He’s been a little slow on the follow-through.”
    “So first we call your lawyer. She’ll squeeze the money out of Neil to fix your central air. They don’t call her Nut Cracker Maynard for nothing.”
    I just nodded. I’ve never been comfortable with confrontations, especially with my ex.
    “Then we’ll call the Hot Air King,” she continued.
    “Won’t Matthew Oliver be a little busy burying Dizzie?” I reasoned.
    “He’s an Oliver. Money means more to them than grief.” Bevin pulled off her smock and tossed it over the tall stool she sat on when she painted. “Let’s do it right now before you wimp out.”
    * * *
    Lucinda Maynard’s office décor reminded me of a 1930s cartoon. Black, gray, and white appeared to be her favorite color scheme—gray carpeting, a black desk, and white trim around the door and windows. On her gray walls hung lovely Ansel Adams lithographs, which were outrageously expensive and resplendent in— what else? —black, white, and gray. She even dressed in her preferred shades—a severely cut black suit with a light gray shirt and gray heels. Her blunt-cut hair was, of course, black. She wore black-framed glasses to match.
    “Have a seat, ladies,” Lucinda said, motioning to the strange little ultra-modern sofa in front of her desk.
    We sat down and Bevin took the lead. “Colleen needs her central air fixed and she’s absolutely broke. Neil was supposed to pay for it, but it never happened. What are we going to do for her?”
    “ We? ” Lucinda asked. She used her index finger to push her glasses further up her hawk-like nose.
    “We,” Bevin said firmly, secure in the knowledge that her previous divorces had paid for several of those lithographs up on the wall. Her current divorce from Franklin Thompson would most likely finance Lucinda’s next BMW—gray, naturally, with black interior. “Come on, Lucinda. This girl is wallowing in poverty while her husband gets an ocean view from his condo up in the clouds. She and the kids are wilting away inside her house—which generally hits a nice, comfy eighty-nine degrees by midday.”
    “Okay. I get it. I can’t take the heat, either. Tell you what. Give me two days. Then call someone to come over and fix the air. I’ll get the money for