A Job to Kill For by Janice Kaplan Read Free Book Online Page B

purple and white stripes on delicate petals that’s my favorite right now. But who knows what else is out there? I’d hate to jump to a conclusion. I’m sure you understand. It’s the same with what you do.”
    The cops looked at me blankly. Okay, I’d spell it out.
    “Flowers are like suspects,” I said. “Don’t pluck the first one you see.”
    Detective Wilson snorted. “Flowers and suspects? Sure thing. They both stink.”
     
     
    The next day, Molly drove with me to Cassie Crawford’s memorial service. The funeral had been private—this clearly wasn’t.
    “Is it a memorial service or the Academy Awards?” Molly asked, as I tried to maneuver the Lexus through the lengthy stretch of black limousines double-parked in front of the church. It seemed like half of Hollywood had come out either to remember Cassie or suck up to Roger.
    Inside the church, throngs of LA power players milled around, their concerned expressions offset by Armani suits and Zegna ties. With the town’s executive suites emptied, any deals that got done today would involve a handshake in the back pew. Molly and I both wore tailored black dresses, but I noticed a fleet of suits in navy and enough in dark chocolate to significantly raise HDL levels. Apparently gloomy didn’t sell in LA, even for funerals.
    Roger stood near the front as colleagues and friends huddled around him, offering sympathy, hugs, and pats on the back.
    “Do you want to extend your condolences?” I asked Molly.
    “Not in public,” she said. “Later.”
    Molly and I drifted toward the back of the church, away from Roger and his crowd. Here everyone was quieter—in both spirit and jewelry. I guessed that the row of young women who seemed genuinely devastated had been Cassie’s college friends and the men wearing khakis rather than Canalis were her pre-Roger pals. I got only a glimpse of Cassie’s family as they walked in—an attractive, dignified couple flanking another daughter, who looked strikingly like Cassie. Unlike Roger, the three of them spoke to nobody but one another, their grief palpable across the church.
    We slid into seats and picked up the white-ribboned booklets waiting at each place, an unusual cross between Playbill and prayer book. Cassie Crawford had lived a short life, but she’d earned a long service. Six people were speaking “in memory” and five “in tribute”; there would be four “prayerful remembrances,” three “poems and writings,” and two “musical salutes.” Either Roger had dedicated himself to creating the perfect program or some LA party planner had a niche market in memorial services.
    “Check out the second musical tribute,” Molly whispered. She leaned over and pointed to the name on the program.
    “Paul McCartney?” I asked. “The Beatle? Singing an original song?”
    “Roger knows him,” Molly said with a hint of pride.
    “I bet Roger paid him, too,” I said. Not that Paul needed the money. Even after the divorce.
    Molly pursed her lips, but she didn’t reply because the first chords of the organ sounded. Mendelssohn’s Fugue in A Minor. Roger had definitely gotten advice.
    The next hour and a half provided a crash course in Cassie’s life. From the various speakers, I learned that she’d grown up in Orange County, the younger of two pretty sisters, attended UCLA, and had a brief first job in television. She returned to UCLA to work in the development office, raising big bucks from already big donors. A dean who spoke explained that Cassie met Roger on the job and convinced him to give five million dollars toward a library. “But Roger didn’t need any convincing to give her a Harry Winston engagement ring,” the dean said with a little chuckle.
    Paul McCartney’s song had been rewritten especially for the occasion. It wasn’t exactly “Candle in the Wind,” but it brought plenty of people to tears.
    Despite everything being said, nobody could address the one subject that really mattered: