Page 31 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

Effie nodded. “I’ll get the details straight later. The important thing is that it’s to dovetail into yours, right? We can compare notes. I read that you knew Amity, that she called you on the night she died, so I was thinking that I might even interview you for the blog, get an insider’s view. You were a teenager at the time, right? And a lot of moms of teens read me. It could be good. And it would add interest to your stories, get young readers who don’t really remember Blondell O’Henry reading your articles, either online or in the paper itself.”

Nikki’s stomach dropped. The thought of spending hours being interviewed by Effie wasn’t her idea of a good time. “You know, I work best alone, but I’ll talk to Tom.” And tell him there’s no way in hell I’m working with you.

“Do that,” Effie said with such conviction that Nikki realized this was already a done deal. A ghost of a superior smile touched the corners of Effie’s mouth, but it quickly vanished.

“Medium mocha, extra whip. Sugar-free vanilla latte!” the barista called as Nikki backed up to let two teenagers grab their frothy concoctions. Seconds later the same redhead announced, “Caramel Jazzachino” as she placed Nikki’s hot drink on the tall counter while Effie doctored her drink at a cupboard where creams, milks, sugars, and artificial sweeteners were surrounded by lids, stir-sticks, and napkins.

Wending her way through a line of customers and emerging outside, where the Georgia rain was threatening, the skies darkening, a chilly breeze blowing over the river, Nikki tried to get over the feeling that her chance meeting with Effie wasn’t just a coincidence. Lately Effie had turned up in a lot of the same places Nikki did and seemed to know a lot about Nikki’s life. She hadn’t quite reached stalker status yet, but there was something more to Effie than met the eye—at least where Nikki was concerned.

She’d just stepped onto the street when her cell phone jangled, and she plucked it from its pocket in her purse. Ina’s name and number appeared on the screen.

“Hey!” she said, answering and glad for an excuse to ignore Effie if she tried to catch up to her.

“I love it!” Ina exclaimed, her raspy voice filled with enthusiasm. “This proposal is exactly what I was talking about! Oh. My. God. Nikki. You have to write this!”

“I hope to.”

“No. Not hope. Plan to!” She was emphatic. “Of course, you have to flesh this out, it’s just a bare-bones idea now, but this is the kind of story with that personal twist, it’s just what we need! Look, if you could put it together quickly, as there’s all this buzz about Blondell O’Henry’s release right now, all the better. But we’ll have to jump all over this. You won’t be the only one with this idea, you know.”

Unfortunately, that was a fact, Nikki silently agreed. A lot of true-crime writers would be interested in the story, just as reporters for rival papers and television stations had been at the prison to try to secure an interview with Blondell.

However, those authors wouldn’t be able to claim to be best friends with the murder victim. And Nikki had come up with a twist.

“I know,” she admitted, walking toward the office and the parking lot where she’d left

her Honda, “but I thought I’d tell my story with a twist.”

“Such as?”

“This won’t exactly be the Blondell O’Henry murder retrial book—that’s what everyone else will be doing. I want to put a new spin on it. The story won’t be centered on Blondell O’Henry, but on her daughter Amity, the real victim. That’s where I have the connection, and that’s the angle that will cut more deeply emotionally.”

“Huh. I don’t know.” Some of Ina’s enthusiasm trickled away. “People know Blondell O’Henry’s name. That’s what’s going to grab them.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Nikki said, turning the corner. Pedestrians were scattered along the sidewalks—some tourists, some shopping and strolling, others, like Nikki, keeping a brisk pace. She glanced into the windows of storefronts that she passed, half expecting to see Effie’s reflection as she hurried to catch up to her. Dear God, was that her, in the long, black coat? Glancing over her shoulder, she saw, sure enough, that Effie was half a block behind her, texting as she hurried.

What was her deal?

“Nikki?” Ina said, bringing her back to the present.

“Oh. Right. Blondell’s name will be there, front and center, of course, but so will Amity’s.”

“Hmm. Well . . . sure. That concept really didn’t come across in the pages you sent.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Nikki assured her. “You know, Amity was killed first. Before Blondell was injured. At least that’s the way Blondell tells the story. So I want to explore that. It just didn’t make sense to me.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ina declared as Nikki managed to take a sip of her drink. “Can you spell psychopath? What happened is nuts, just plain psycho nuts. And remember, the police think she lied. So did a jury.”

“But why? That’s what I don’t get. Why the attack? I don’t buy that she would try to kill her kids just for a new man’s affection.”

“Again. Nuts.”

“There’s more to the story, more to tell. I was Amity’s friend. I knew who she dated. I think it’s important to find out who was the father of her child.” She took another drink.

“Amity’s?”

“Of course.”

“And Blondell. What about her? I know she miscarried, but who was the father of that unborn child? Is he still in the picture?” The wheels were really turning in Ina’s head now. “Okay, you run with your gut. I passed what you sent me to Remmie, who’s promised to read it in the next couple of weeks, but I think she’ll get to it earlier, what with all the press this story is going to generate. So the sooner we get this going, the better.”

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