Never Sleep With Strangers

“But it is a Mystery Week,” Brett said.

As if on cue, Camy Clark came into the room bearing a stack of envelopes. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Everyone isn’t here,” Susan said snidely.

Sabrina frowned, wondering why the woman was continually so rude to Jon’s assistant. Camy didn’t intrude; she was quiet and tended to stay out of the way.

“Well, it’s still early,” Camy said. “But if you’d like—”

“Ah, you have our character descriptions and our instructions!” Brett said, flashing her one of his devastating smiles.

Camy flushed, smiling. “Yes, I do. Now remember, everyone is to know one another’s character but nothing else. You’ll receive more instructions as we go along. The murderer will, of course, know who he or she is and where to get the murder weapons. And remember, the murderer may have an accomplice. If you’re killed, you’re dead, but you’re a ghost, and you can still warn others of impending danger and help solve the crime.”

“I’m dying for my envelope, darling,” Susan told her, drawling the word dying.

The others laughed. As Camy began handing out the envelopes, more of their number began to arrive: Anna Lee, looking fetching and slim in stirrup pants and a halter top; Reggie in her inevitable flowered dress; Tom Heart, tall and dignified in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers; Thayer Newby in a Jets T-shirt and slacks; Joe Johnston, casual in a golf shirt and chinos; Joshua Valine looking very artistic, with a paint-smudged denim shirt over a plain white T and baggy pants; Dianne Dorsey in a calf-length skirt and sleeveless knit top. And Jon.

Jon, too, was casual, in a navy denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and form-hugging jeans. His dark hair was damp, as if he’d just showered, and Sabrina couldn’t help but wonder if he’d slept late…because he’d been up late, wandering restlessly around his castle at night. She reminded herself that her door had been bolted. And that just because she hadn’t forgotten a reckless sexual encounter in her youth, there was no reason to assume Jon might have any remaining interest in her whatsoever. Her reputation wasn’t exactly a sparkling one.

She rose for more coffee. V.J. came up beside her, offering her cup to Sabrina to fill, as well.

“Ah, you’re watching our host,” V.J. whispered to her as Jon greeted Camy and Joshua, listening to some of their last-minute instructions.

“He’s an intriguing man,” Sabrina said noncommitally.

“And, of course, the question remains—is he a murderer? Does Susan really think so? Except I’m sure Susan wouldn’t think of Cassie’s death as murder. To Susan, if Jon did kill his wife, it was justifiable homicide.”

V.J. shrugged, sipping her coffee. “Honey, to half the people here, killing Cassandra Stuart would have constituted a public service.”

“Ladies!” Reggie admonished from behind them. “We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.”

“Even if the dead caused tremendous ills?” Joe Johnston whispered from behind her.

“Sabrina,” Camy said, walking across the room to her. She stopped, flushed and corrected herself. “Ms. Holloway.”

“Sabrina, please.”

Camy flushed again. “Your envelope. You only get to know your character now. You’ll get instructions later regarding what you’re supposed to do and where you’re supposed to go.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Do you have mine, dear?” V.J. asked.

Camy gave V.J. hers, then handed Reggie her envelope, as well.

“Ouch!” Reggie exclaimed, looking up. She smiled. “I’m the Crimson Lady, a stripper, trying—or pretending—to reform.”

“Great,” Thayer Newby groaned, flexing his muscles. “I’m the effeminate male dancer, JoJo Scuchi.”

“JoJo Scuchi?” Brett said with a laugh.

“Check yours out,” Thayer warned him.

Brett read the letter in the envelope and made a face. “I’m Mr. Buttle, the butler. Number two on the New York Times list, and they make me the butler!” he groaned.

Sabrina, reading her sheet, began to laugh.

“And who are you, my dear?” Brett demanded.

“The Duchess. I run the church choir,” she told him.

“Oh, now that is apropos. The lady who ran naked from her honeymoon suite,” Susan said, staring at Brett. “Neither of you has ever explained that situation,” she reminded him smugly.

Sabrina had lived with what had happened for a long time now, but she still felt her temper rising and her cheeks reddening, especially since she realized that Jon had been watching the exchange. Waiting for a reply?

Or perhaps not, because he was the one who responded to Susan. “And I imagine they don’t feel they owe you an explanation, Sue,” he said.

Susan opened her mouth, then quickly shut it, lifting her chin.

“Ah, but Susan,” Joe Johnston said, reading over Sabrina’s shoulder, “the Duchess runs the choir by day—and a high-class call girl outfit by night!”

“Hey, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it,” Brett declared. “Does the butler get to be in on it?” he asked.

“The butler always did it, you know,” Reggie teased.

“I mean in on the sex,” Brett said.

“You would,” V.J. said with a sigh.

“You know I’ve always wanted to make it with an older woman,” Brett stated.

“Older than what?” V.J. demanded tartly.

He smiled innocently. “Older than God, darling. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Cute, boy, cute!” V.J. sniffed.

Dianne Dorsey suddenly started laughing. Sabrina leaned past V.J. to look at her. As usual, Dianne was in black. Black denim shorts, a ruffled black blouse, black socks and black hiking boots. “You’ll never guess who I am.”

“Who?” V.J. obligingly inquired.

“Mary, the Hare Krishna!”

They all started to laugh.

“Susan, who are you?” V.J. asked.

Susan shuddered and looked up at Camy accusingly. “I’m Carla, the call girl with the clap.”