filled in the last gaps in her tale. Not that Hannah had paid as much attention as usual since the deposition had been looming over her.
The scene replayed itself in her mind. Her most trusted carpenter, a retired navy guy with a bad knee, Tommy Thompson, had been on a short, wobbly ladder sawing a hole in the ceiling. Zoë had chattered underneath him about her new husband, Tony, a rancher, who’d been her high school sweetheart. Their ranch was sixty miles south on the outskirts of a gossipy town called Shady Lomas. Apparently, they’d had a lovers’ quarrel as teenagers. To get revenge, Zoë had gone to a pig race at a rodeo, and Tony’s scandalous Uncle Duncan had gotten her drunk there. Uncle Duncan had had his own plane, and when Zoë had awakened in Vegas the next morning, she’d had a ring on her finger and was married to the old reprobate.
Zoë had been in the middle of her tale of woe when a hunk of drywall had fallen out of the ceiling and shattered, spraying both women with white bits of wallboard. Tommy had yelled “no mold,” triumphantly, and Hannah had grabbed his ladder to steady it.
“I’ll make an offer tomorrow,” Zoë had said, clapping.
“Everybody ready to go? I’m late,” Hannah had said.
“The deposition?” Zoë had asked.
“Joe Campbell is like an ax hanging over my head.”
On the way to Zoë’s beachfront hotel, Zoë hadn’t stopped talking. “Duncan knew he was dying all along. He married me so he’d go out with a bang.”
“For this reason he ruined your life?”
“No, he was sweet.” She’d paused. “He died a few weeks after the wedding and left me everything. Unfortunately, the inheritance included the ranch Tony leased and believed should have been his. Then Duncan’s daughters sued me, too.”
By the time Hannah and Zoë reached the hotel, Hannah was thirty minutes late, and Zoë was still talking about the gossip, lawsuits and spite that had driven her from Shady Lomas and the man she’d really loved to Manhattan, where she’d become an editor.
“Not a very good one, though, I’m afraid, and I was so lonely,” Zoë had admitted sadly. “My only claim to fame is that I discovered Veronica Holiday and edit her books.”
“The Veronica Holiday? I’ve read all her books. She’s fabulous.”
“Well, I’ll tell her I met a fan. She’s here, you know. At this hotel. On tour…and…writing.”
“What?”
“Thought I’d kill two birds.…Shop for a house and help her.…Long story.”
Still, Zoë hadn’t gotten out. “Oh, I almost forgot—the adoption papers on Noah came through.”
The entire conversation flashed in Hannah’s mind as she jotted 2:00 p.m. on her calendar for tomorrow.
Zoë needed a house in town because the schools in Shady Lomas didn’t challenge Noah, her nine-year-old stepson.
Never one to be left out of a conversation for long, Taz punched the speaker phone button while Hannah slid her calendar back into her purse.
“So how did your deposition go?” Zoë’s voice blared into the kitchen.
“He’s got the hots for her,” Taz said. “He fixed her flat.”
“Who’s this?” Zoë sounded both surprised and curious to hear a new voice.
“Joe Campbell does not have the hots for me!”
“I’m her next-door neighbor—Taz. Her spiritual adviser. She’s trying to stand me up for supper.”
“Did he or did he not hit on you, Hannah?”
Flushing, Hannah glared at Taz.
“The…the only thing he tempts me to do is murder—”
“Lawyers. The only good lawyer is a dead lawyer,” Taz said.
Zoë laughed. “Joe Campbell’s partner, Bob Africa, is suing me.”
“What?”
“Tony called me about it today. Bob Africa had Tony served today. Apparently, my stepdaughters hired Bob. They’ve gone through all the money I gave them when we settled the first lawsuit. Now they say I suckered their lonely old father into marriage and killed him for his money. People have stopped speaking to Tony and me. Tony hung up so tense he would barely speak to me. I’ve been crying ever since.”
“What kind of lowlife sues a pregnant lady?” Taz began. Then she told Zoë she was being sued, too.
Zoë giggled after she’d heard the story. “He’s going to tell the judge he’s mad because a hot pickle burned his pink pickle?”
Everybody laughed.
Zoë said, “We’ve got too many lawyers, or at least the wrong kind. In South Texas, anyway.”
Taz chugged a second glass of wine. “Hey—I say we adjourn to your hotel bar and have a serious discussion about this issue.…”
“No,” Hannah said.
“Yes! And the more the merrier,” Tasmania persisted. “I’ve just been dying to meet the shady lady of Shady Lomas.”
“I’d love to meet you, too, but this is sort of a work night. I’m with a writer. She’s here on tour for her latest book, Four Wishes, but her work-in-progress is late. And she’s blocked. And when she’s blocked she gets so crazy there’s no telling what she’ll do. Tomorrow, she’s got a television show and a book signing, and she’s publicity shy. I promised her tonight I’d play Muse.”
“Sounds like you both could use a break,” Tasmania persisted. “Besides, I swear I’ll inspire her. Have you been to that great bar in your hotel that overlooks the beach?”
“I can hear the music all the way up here. Okay, if you really want to come…but just for a little while.” Zoë gave them her room number.
“No way am I driving back to town,” Hannah began.
But Zoë and Taz had already hung up.
“I’ll drive then,” Taz said. “A writer,” she mused. “This is great. She’s got to have a creative mind. She’ll know just what to do about Mr. Billboard and Mr. Hot Pickle whose pickle wasn’t all that hot if you want the truth.”
“Murder,” Hannah suggested.
“But how? Honey, we need specifics…a plot.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to shoot a guy in his parts, grind him into hamburger meat and sell it to Big Burger to feed the natives,” Hannah said. “How’s that for specifics?”
“Honey, I know you’re off burgers and mad as all get out, but, please, don’t ruin my appetite. I’m dying for a burger, cut the pickles, please, even if every bite decides to live on my thighs. Besides,”
