07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery by Lois Greiman Read Free Book Online

moat around your house and putting armed guards on the parapets.”
    “I don’t have any parapets.”
    “He’ll build them.”
    “I don’t even know what parapets—”
    “I just want you to be happy.”
    “I’m happy with Marc,” I said.
    She didn’t sigh like a long-suffering mother hen, but I thought I heard it in her tone.
    “Okay. Well, I have to go. They want to start shooting the dueling scene before the fog lifts in the morning. Call me tomorrow, will you?”
    “Okay,” I agreed, and hung up, singing Donna Fargo’s old hit about her inexplicable and kind of ridiculous euphoria.

Chapter 5
    Families—a funny little version of hell.
    —Phillip Murray, who didn’t really find families all that amusing
    “I met someone.” Phillip Murray sat in the winged client chair in my office in Eagle Rock. He was not a large man. Five eight in his stocking feet, he was slim and plain and unassuming, until he smiled. Then the heavens opened and the celestial choirs could be heard singing their alleluias. It was a no-holds-barred, devious, beatific, angelic demon grin.
    “Someone special?” I asked.
    He shrugged, but his eyes were sparkling and his lips were tilted up a little, crinkling the corners of his mouth.
    I couldn’t help but smile in return. Maybe that’s why the world was falling in love with him. He’d started out doing commercials for hand cream and car wax but was beginning to get some small parts in some big movies. “Who is he?”
    “His name’s Gregory. Greg. Greg Fremont.”
    “Is he an actor?”
    He rolled his eyes. They weren’t bad either. An interesting mercury with flecks of steel gray, fringed by dark lashes that were thick enough to carpet a hallway. “I’m gay, Ms McMullen,” he said, “not stupid.”
    “So…not an actor,” I guessed.
    “He’s a mechanic.”
    “Really?” I asked, although I’m not sure why. Maybe my head wasn’t totally in the game. I mean, the previous night had been a little more exciting than I needed it to be.
    After Rivera’s departure I hadn’t slept well. And by that I mean I’d awoken once before my alarm sounded. For me, insomnia is when I’m still conscious when my head hits the pillow.
    Phillip cranked up the right corner of his mouth, eyes sparking mischief. “Homos can be mechanics, you know.”
    I nodded. “I hear they can even work in construction these days.” He raised his brows at me. The room went silent. “Are shrinks allowed to say that?”
    “I—” I considered defending myself. For a moment I even thought about telling him I’d been fretful and crazy and horny all night, bedeviled by weird dreams that involved parapets and, strangely enough, moats filled with whipping cream. But I’m a professional. “No. They’re not,” I said. “I’m sorry.” He laughed. And that was another thing that made him über likable. He had a deep, rich belly laugh that would better suit a man with a beard and a reindeer sleigh. It was the kind of laugh that made you want to sing along. “I’m not offended.”
    “Thank you. I really am sorry.”
    He shrugged. His shoulders were moderate-sized and covered by a well-fitted polo shirt that revealed just enough golden skin at the V of his neck. “I think you’ll agree that I have bigger fish to fry. Like the fact that I’m certifiably insane.”
    “You’re not insane,” I assured him. He was, however, somewhat troubled.
    Apparently it kind of messes with your head when your parents give you up for adoption and keep your two siblings. Personally, I had often fantasized about being part of that scenario. Growing up in someone else’s dysfunction would have probably been therapeutic for me. But maybe Phillip was made of more sensitive stuff. He’d always known he was adopted, but he’d only learned about the other two children seven months ago. Five days later, he’d shown up at my office with a box of Crispy Creams in one hand and a gun in the other. He’d been showing up