Page 36 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“Two things. One, do you still have the invoice from Monica Stevens, for the work she did on your bedroom?”

He winced. “You bet I do. That’s twenty thousand dollars thrown up a wild hog’s—uh, I mean, wasted.”

Twenty thousand?I whistled, long and low.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jazz muttered. “A fool and his money. I got part of it back from our old furniture that she sold in her shop, but still.”

“Is it here?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t have the bill sent to the house where Sally would see it, now would I? It was a surprise for her. Some surprise. You’d have thought I’d slit her throat.” He got up and opened one of the drawers of the filing cabinet closest to him, rifled through the folders, then pulled out a sheaf of papers that he then tossed onto the desk. “Here.”

I picked up the invoices and looked through them. The total wasn’t quite twenty thousand, but close enough. Jazz had paid through the nose for the furniture, which was avant-garde, handmade, ugly as sin and twice as expensive. Monica had also replaced the carpeting in the bedroom, put in new artwork, which had also cost a small fortune—exactly what was “Luna,” anyway? I knew it meant “moon,” but had she hung a fake moon in their bedroom?

“What’s this ‘Luna’?” I asked, fascinated.

“It’s a white vase. It’s tall and skinny, and she put it on this lighted pedestal. She said something about drama.”

Jazz had paid over a thousand bucks for that piece of drama. All I could say was that Monica had stayed true to her “vision.” She liked glass and steel, black and white, weird and expensive. It was her signature.

“Could I have this for a little while?” I asked, already stuffing the invoices in my bag.

He looked puzzled. “Sure. What do you want with it?”

“Information.” I hurried on before he could ask me what sort of information. “And could you do one other thing for me? I know this might not be a good time…”

“I’m not all that busy, this is as good a time as any,” he said. “Just name it.”

“Come with me to a furniture store.”

Chapter

Fifteen

Jazz was puzzled, but agreeable. He thought I needed his help with something, so he went with me, without even asking why I hadn’t asked Dad or Wyatt for help—not that he knew Wyatt’s name, but he knew I was getting married because our engagement announcement had been in the newspaper, not to mention Tammy would have told him. He asked when the big date was, and I said in twenty-three days.

Maybe,a little voice whispered in my ear, and my heart squeezed from a mixture of pain and panic.

I had set my cell phone on silent mode, so I wouldn’t be distracted by the ringing, and as I drove I fished the phone out of my purse to see if any calls had come in. The message in the little window said I’d missed three calls. Looking back and forth between the phone and the road—yes, I know it’s dangerous, blah blah blah—I accessed the incoming calls log. Mom had called, Wyatt’s mom had called, and Wyatt had called.

My heart skipped a beat—literally. Wyatt had called. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

I didn’t return any of the calls right then, because I had to concentrate on Jazz. I was so glad to have him to concentrate on, too, because I wasn’t ready to think about the big stuff. I did keep an eye out for white cars, though; there hadn’t been any white Chevrolets behind me on the drive to Jazz’s, but that didn’t mean I could relax.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the furniture refinisher’s, Jazz sort of exploded on me. “No! Absolutely not! I’m not spending another penny buying something she wouldn’t appreciate anyway. As she so kindly pointed out, I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to decorating—”

“Calm down; I don’t want you to buy a thing.” I was kind of losing sympathy with both him and Sally, so my voice was a little sharp. It felt weird. I mean, Jazz and Sally reallywerelike an aunt and uncle to me, so using my grown-up voice on him was a change of pace. He looked a little startled, too, as if in his head he still saw me as a kid.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just thought—”

“And she was right about one thing: youdon’tknow anything about decorating. One look at your office and I could have told you that. Which is why I’m going to have a long talk with Monica Stevens.”

He thought about that for a second, then looked hopeful. “Do you think she’ll get Sally’s furniture back?”

I snorted. “Fat chance of that happening. It was heirloom stuff. Whoever bought it out of Monica’s consignment shop wouldn’t turn it loose on a bet.”

He sighed, his expression changing back to depression. He looked at the refinishing place, which was really kind of cruddy, with pieces of junk piled haphazardly around the foundation. A rusted iron headboard leaned beside the front door. “Did you find something here that looks like something we had?”

“That isn’t why we’re here. Come on.”

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