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  "He's just Dutch."

  "So you two know—"

  "Kitty, I'm terribly sorry about what happened last night," I offered.

  "Thank you, Max. It was certainly a shock."

  Kitty was composed as ever as she tried to convey some semblance of sorrow.

  "I should say," Imogen said.

  "I knew you had to have some idea what had happened, because I saw you and Miss Whitehall standing right outside of the house last night."

  "I don't know very much. The police were pretty tight-lipped."

  "They saw you two while they were busy questioning me. Me! Of all people."

  "They, as in the police? Why wouldn't they question you? You're his wife, or had you forgotten?"

  "Oh, Dutch. Ask me a few questions, sure. But to question me all night? I hardly think I deserved that. There are only so many ways to say I didn't kill Ted."

  I was more concerned about why the police would care about me. Yes, I had known Ted. A lot of people had. But I didn't want him dead. Sure, I had wished it once or twice. He was a nasty man. And one who didn't respect anyone's personal boundaries. But I certainly wouldn't have killed him. They didn't have scotch in prison.

  "So, the police saw me—why would they care about me?" I asked.

  "I'd prefer to chat without the presence of Miss Whitehall. No offense, my dear." Kitty turned toward Imogen.

  "You can speak freely with her here."

  "But—"

  "Kitty, Miss Whitehall stays. Why don't you have a seat?" I motioned for her to pull up a chair.

  Kitty glared at me, not happy with my response. Possibly jealous of Imogen as well. Imogen found a place on one of the chairs next to me, facing Kitty, who was now seated in a plush chair opposite both of us.

  "Ted was murdered last night," Kitty said, this time emitting some emotion, perhaps even a tear. But her frozen expression made clear that it was disingenuous. Maybe it was just the plastic surgery.

  "Oh my!" Imogen gasped.

  "Jesus, Kitty, that's horrific," I said. "I'm sorry."

  This comment elicited a bit of a smirk from Mrs. Baxter. There was the Kitty I used to know.

  "I see you're terribly broken up about it," I said.

  "I'm not going to lie. I'm not that upset. We've had our troubles over the years."

  "And he's had some women?"

  "You could say that."

  "Any in particular that stuck around?"

  "He was seeing one for a while. I think it was getting serious with her, but you could never tell with Teddy. One minute he loved you, the next he never spoke to you again. He was a fickle sort of bastard. I don't have to tell you. You knew him."

  "Well, that was a long time ago."

  "Seems like yesterday to me."

  "You're surely not here for a walk down memory lane. So, what do you need to talk to me about?"

  Jabber strolled around the living room, brushing past Kitty before settling down in the corner.

  "The police were asking about you."

  "Yes, we've established that. Now why would they be asking about me? I don't have a relationship with Ted. Hell, I haven't even been alone with him in years."

  "They know about you and me and Ted."

  They knew about me. Kitty. Ted. What was to know? That I hated him? Plenty of people did. He was an asshole. One of those guys that you wanted to punch in the face every time that you saw him. Maybe it was his nose that drove you to rage. It was always turned up at you. Like he thought he was better than you. Like he could own anything that he wanted. Even your fiancée.

  "Yeah, well, that's ancient history," I said.

  "Well, the police don't seem to think so. They were pretty interested in my story."

  "So you're telling me the police think that I could have killed Ted?"

  This was outrageous. There was no reason for me to kill Ted. He had nothing that I wanted. Nothing that I needed. And, on top of that, he wasn't even on my social radar. I never thought about him. If last night had never happened I wouldn't have even remembered that he was alive.

  "I'm not sure, but they're not ruling you out as—"

  "Wait a minute. You think Max killed Ted?" Imogen appeared shocked.

  "I'm not saying that, Miss Whitehall. I'm just telling you what the police told me. They found it curious that Max used to be my fiancé—"

  Imogen seemed visibly annoyed at the fiancé revelation. I had kept that under wraps until now.

  "Even if he was your fiancé," she said with an edge to her voice, "what would that have to do with Ted?"

  The jig was up.

  "He was the one who stole her away," I said before Kitty could beat me to the humiliating punch.

  "Stole her away?" Imogen asked.

  "I'm afraid so, Miss Whitehall. Ted swept me off of my feet," Kitty said.

  "After we were engaged, Kitty," I reminded her.

  "Yes, I know that, Dutch—"

  "Why do you call him Dutch?" Imogen asked.

  Kitty laughed. "It's an old nickname. When Max and I used to go out to dinner, we'd go dutch. We were both just starting out. So we used to split the bill. It became kind of joke, so I started calling him Dutch. It stuck."

  "Jesus, Kitty. Thank you for that," I said, annoyed that she had introduced this nickname into Imogen's consciousness.

  Imogen just sat and listened with a big grin on her face.

  "Anyway, Max, it still bothers me to this day that I did that to you. You didn't deserve that. No one does."

  You could say that again. No one deserved having their love stolen from them. But Kitty wasn't a saint. She had allowed herself to be swept off her feet—fancy clothes, fancy cars. I, on the other hand, had been in love. But if money had been enough to capture her heart, it was clear that she wasn't the one for me. The trouble was, knowing that hadn't made it feel any better at the time.

  "Believe me. He's over it," Imogen added in my defense. Yet another reason I loved her.

  "Of course he is. He's got you," Kitty retorted.

  I smiled at Imogen. She caught my gaze and shot me a smirk back. I was glad that she seemed to be taking this well.

  "Now that you've dropped a bombshell on Miss Whitehall, is there anything else that you want to talk to me about?"

  "I want you to help."

  "Help what? Write his eulogy?"

  "No, Dutch. Help me figure out who did this."

  "Kitty, I'm a lawyer, and barely one at that, not a detective."

  I had graduated law school and had taken the bar but had never practiced. Kitty had met me when I was a poor law student.

  "But you're smart and you run in the same circles as Ted. Maybe you could poke around?"

  "I'm not a detective, Kitty. I don't work for the police. I'm a venture capitalist."

  "I don't think the police are going to solve this. And I'm worried."

  "What? You think you're the main suspect? Did you kill Ted?"

  "No."

  "You sure? If you give me a dollar, you can retain me as counsel and we'll have attorney-client privilege," I said, joking.

  "Dutch, I didn't kill Ted!"

  I could believe that. She was cold, manipulative, and a heartbreaker, but a murderer? I found it hard to believe that a woman could kill her husband.

  "I'll take you at your word for now, but listen, Kitty, I can't help you."

  "Dutch, I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about you."

  Worried about me. Well, that was a first. She hadn't been too worried about me when she'd broken off our engagement and I'd had to face our friends and family with the news.

  "Why?"

  "The police scared me. They might think that you did this!"

  "Kitty, that's absurd. I didn't kill Ted."

  "I know that. But they seem to think you might have had something to do with it. And I'm scared that they are going to come after you."

  "Kitty, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but let them come. I've got nothing to hid
e. I didn't do anything. I'm not a murderer."

  "I know that, Dutch. Listen to me. The way they were talking last night, I'm just scared, that's all. I think you need to do something. Poke around, see if you can find out who really killed Ted. I don't want you to wind up being arrested for something that you didn't do because of our past."

  "But—"

  "Just promise me that you'll think about it. It might be the only way to prove your innocence."

  I explained to Kitty a few more times that I didn't kill Ted, that I had an alibi and that the police were sniffing around the wrong hydrant and that she was better off cooperating with the police, as I was going to do if they came knocking. She begged and pleaded for me to help for "old times' sake" and for my sake but finally gave in to my desire to stay out of the mess. She got up from her seat, we all exchanged some pleasantries, and off went Kitty Baxter, zipping into the late-morning sun at the helm of her powder-blue Bentley convertible.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Moments after the door slammed and as we watched Kitty wind her way down my driveway back toward town, Imogen turned to me and asked, "Your old fiancée, huh? Interesting."

  I knew that one was going to come back to bite me. But what was I to do? I knew that I should have filled Imogen in on my past. After all, things were getting serious. I had just never found the right time to tell her. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing that popped up during dinner conversation.

  "Does it matter? What did you think of Kitty?"

  "Does it matter that your ex-fiancée lives around the block, and her husband, who stole her away from you, is dead? Yes, it does matter. I think it matters a great deal, Max. And for the record, I think Kitty is a gold digger, if you really care."

  She had a point.

  "Jealousy does not become you, my dear."

  Sarcasm. That was about the only retort that I could muster up. How else could I respond to something like that? Make a joke and hope for the best. Slide it under the rug of laughs. Then quickly change the subject.

  Imogen smirked.

  "What do you think?" I needed to get her take on what had just transpired.

  There was a lot to think about. Were the police coming for me? I wasn't scared. I knew that I was innocent. I didn't kill Ted. But why would they think that I could have? That was troubling. What did Kitty tell them, exactly?

  "Well, for starters, I'm not sure that I believe her," Imogen said.

  "Believe the story about me, Ted, and Kitty? Unfortunately, that's true. As much as I hate to admit it."

  "No. No. That's not what I mean. I'm just not so sure that she didn't kill Ted."

  "You think that she murdered her husband?"

  "I don't know if it was her, per se, but I wouldn't put it past her. Anyone who is heartless enough to run off with another guy and to call off an engagement isn't a good person. I know that much."

  "I couldn't agree more."

  I wasn't interested in getting involved in helping Kitty solve the mystery of Ted's murder. If the police came, they came, and I'd deal with it then. At the moment, there were two things that did interest me. Having dinner with Imogen tonight and fixing myself a scotch.

  "Dinner tonight?" I asked, fixing my cocktail. Halfway there.

  "Jesus, isn't it a little early for a drink?"

  "It's not every day that your old fiancée stops by asking to help solve the murder of her husband," I said, and took a sip.

  "You do realize we're not on the set of Mad Men, right?"

  "Why must you keep reminding me of that? I'd make a great Don Draper."

  "You've certainly got the drinking part down."

  We went on with our day. Imogen went home for a spell, most likely napped, showered, and changed. We hadn't done very much sleeping last night. I played a little tennis—after all, I needed all the practice I could get in order to beat Imogen—showered, then had a pre-dinner drink while relaxing and listening to some music.

  When I finally got around to checking my phone, there were several text messages, two of which were interesting or desperate, depending on how you were looking at the situation.

  Dutch, I realize our past wouldn't exactly prompt you to cooperate but I could really use your help.

  What is your email address?

  I decided to answer and sent Kitty my email address.

  Halfway through my drink, Imogen knocked on the door. I fixed her a drink and we exchanged some small talk, none of which included discussing Ted or Kitty. After about an hour, we hopped in my black Audi RS 7 and headed off to dinner.

  We were dining at Circle this evening. A very upscale French fusion restaurant. Imogen looked fabulous in a black dress. Her green eyes were glowing, accentuated against her straight black hair and the dress.

  "Charles," I said, extending a hand, greeting the maître d'.

  "Ah, Max and Imogen, lovely to see you both. Give me a minute and I'll find you a table."

  We ate out a lot.

  "No rush, we'll wait at the bar."

  Imogen and I walked over to the bar and proceeded to embark on our first drink of the evening. Technically, our second. But who was counting?

  "I've been thinking…"

  "Never a good thing," I retorted.

  "Nevertheless, I've been thinking." Ginny, as I was apt to call her on occasion, especially when she was looking sexy, turned toward me, crossing her legs and revealing a bit of exposed thigh.

  "About?"

  "Things."

  "How about you elaborate a bit, my dear? Things is a bit broad."

  Just then, Charles walked over to us and informed us that our table was ready.

  Saved by the bell.

  He escorted us off to the left of the restaurant into a private booth.

  We picked up the menus and scanned them briefly.

  "Red or white, my dear?"

  "White."

  The waiter took our drink order, filled us in on the specials, and then disappeared. Moments later he returned with our bottle of wine, poured two healthy glasses for us, and then once again departed to give us time to sip our wine and to decide on dinner. Imogen and I always put our phones on vibrate when we arrived at a restaurant in order to make sure that we would not be distracted by them. No checking Facebook, Twitter, texts, or email during dinner. Any message, email, or status update could wait until after.

  "As I was saying, Max, I was thinking." Ginny looked intensely into my eyes.

  "Yes, I believe we have covered the fact that you've been thinking." I took a sip of my wine.

  "I've been thinking about us."

  "I think about us all the time," I said.

  "Isn't it time?"

  "Well, it's about nine."

  "You're such an asshole."

  "What?"

  "I wasn't asking the time."

  "I know. I'm sorry. Go ahead. You were thinking about us, and what did you come up with?"

  "Well, we've been together for a while and I love being with you and spending…"

  At that moment my phone went off with a notification that I had received an email. Normally I would not have cared, but Kitty's text had me a little curious. I couldn't help myself.

  "Hold that thought," I said, reaching for my phone.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Give me one second," I said, viewing the notification on my phone that I had received an email from Kitty. I opened my email, and this appeared:

  From: Kitty Baxter

  Subject: Fwd: *CONFIDENTIAL* SCV

  To: Max Slade

  Thought you should see this. See below.

  Regards,

  Kitty

  Begin forwarded message:

  From: Mike Miller

  Subject: *CONFIDENTIAL* SCV

  To: Ted Baxter

  I've discussed this with Clarke, and Overlord is a go. With or without you. ACAE. For your own well-being I would suggest that you reconsider our last conversation.

  —MM

  Mike S. Mi
ller, Esq.

  Partner

  Baxter, Miller & Clarke Capital Inc.

  "Dinner's on you," Imogen informed me.

  She was right. Dinner was indeed on me. The rules of our game stated anyone who picked up their phone during dinner also picked up the bill.

  "You're worth it. Get a load of this."

  I read Imogen the email.

  "Kitty sent you an email?"

  "Yes."

  "How'd she get your email address?"

  "She texted me earlier. I sent it to her."

  "Your ex-fiancée is now texting you? I'm beginning to really not like this woman."

  "Jealousy does not suit you, my dear."

  "Didn't we cover that already? Deal with it."

  "Forget about Kitty for a second. What do you think about the email?" I sat back in my chair, sipping my wine.

  Ginny thought for a moment. "Possibly a veiled threat, that's, um, not so veiled."

  "Possibly. What do you make of 'Overlord'?"

  "Not sure. I think that was the code name for D-Day. Maybe Mike or someone at Baxter, Miller & Clarke has a World War Two obsession?"

  "Yeah, maybe. Who knows? Could be a threat, could just be work stuff. The tone's a bit strong. I certainly don't send emails like that, but that doesn't really mean too much," I said.

  "I don't either. At the very least there was some disagreement at the office. But would that lead to murder?"

  "Who knows? I am sure that whatever Overlord is it must be worth a whole lot of money. Men have killed for a lot less than that."

  "I guess. Can we get back to dinner, Max?"

  "So, you were saying…"

  One thing was for sure: something was going on. Something odd. And Kitty was in the middle of it. And, thanks to her, I just might have been as well. Damn Kitty.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Something woke me around three in the morning. At first I thought it was Jabber nuzzling my left arm that was draped off the left hand side of the bed, but I soon learned that it was Imogen rubbing a cold glass against my arm, the ice clinking a bit, the noise helping to rouse me.