Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin Read Free Book Online

the snow. An elderly man with a barrel-shaped beer gut, and wearing a fringed pony skin jacket. I could see his long grizzled hair shivering in the breeze, the only visible movement. His face was half turned away from me, but I recognized his profile.
    Zell Orcutt.
    Dead.
    The feathered tip of an arrow stood stiffly upright on his chest, the shaft buried deep in his flesh as if shot there by the stone huntress in the fountain. With one gnarled hand, he had obviously tried to pull it out before death seized him.
    Verbena gave a long, keening howl and shoved past Boy. She threw herself down next to her stepfather, and for an instant I thought she intended to strike him. She clenched her fists and drew back, but inches from hitting him, she froze again, her face a mask of shock. She opened both hands and began to sob. “You bastard,” she said. “You horrible, rotten bastard!”
    She sounded frightened, I thought.
    â€œOh, God.” Boy fumbled for his cell phone. “Oh, my God.”
    I stepped back and felt the sky spin around us. The air began to twinkle with thousands of tiny stars. Emma turned and saw my face. “Oh, shit,” she said in a voice that sounded very far away. “Don’t faint.”

Chapter 3
    â€œThis is not a good idea,” Emma said several hours later when we arrived in a suburban parking lot not far from the King of Prussia Mall. “Even the coroner said you looked bad, and that can’t be good.”
    â€œI’m okay.”
    I wasn’t okay, but the last place I wanted to be was home alone right now, with the image of Zell Orcutt’s body in my head and memories of my husband’s shooting death flashing back as if it had happened yesterday. Tonight’s nightmare was too vivid to bear by myself. I wanted to be with people. I wanted to feel alive.
    I said, “I need to find Delilah. Then I’ll go home.”
    â€œAnd just where the hell was she?” Emma asked. “I thought she was supposed to meet you at Fitch’s Fancy.”
    We exchanged a glance.
    â€œDelilah must have forgotten about me, that’s all. She’s so busy.”
    â€œDoing what?” Emma muttered.
    I said, “Let’s go into Cupcakes and find out.”
    â€œI still say it’s a dumb idea.”
    â€œYou don’t need to come.”
    â€œThe hell I don’t.” Emma grinned suddenly. “Cupcakes may not be your kind of place, but it’s certainly mine.”
    Cars and SUVs jammed the parking lot, and a crowd flocked toward the entrance—mostly men, mostly drunk. Rock-and-roll music roared from speakers hidden in the shrubbery. On the sidewalk, we passed a mob of teenagers held at bay by adults checking identification. Emma poked her chin at one of the doormen, and he nodded us inside.
    Two blond hostesses with perky smiles and equally perky nipples greeted us. “Welcome to Cupcakes!”
    â€œSave it for the boys,” Emma said.
    Cupcakes was bedlam fueled by testosterone and rock and roll. One glance told me that Cupcakes planned to lure its customers with the promise of barbecued hot wings and big-screen televisions tuned to sports, but primarily with the Cupcake Girls.
    Carrying a tray of drinks over her shoulder, a very young woman in short shorts and a T-shirt snug enough to have been sprayed on her body tottered past us in spike-heeled shoes so high her ankles wobbled. Strategically printed on her shirt was the company logo—twin cupcakes that looked more like bare breasts than dessert.
    Emma took one look around and said coolly, “Think I could get a burger? Or do they only wait on people with the Y chromosome?”
    I almost couldn’t hear her over the cacophony of hard rock and the blare of dozens of televisions shouting various basketball games. A roar of male laughter erupted from a table where a simpering waitress brandished menus like a fan dancer. The air was heavy with the smell of