By Kate White
Meet Bailey Weggins, the thirty-something, single-again actual crime author for a number one new york woman's journal. clever and savvy, she's bought a 6th experience by way of seeing the reality in a story-especially if it's homicide. Bailey's in mattress together with her commitment-challenged lover K.C. while she will get a frantic name from her high-maintenance boss at Gloss journal. Grabbing espresso and a cab outdoor her Greenwich Village apartment-the comfort prize in her divorce settlement-Bailey reluctantly heads uptown. At Cat Jones's higher East aspect city residence, she unearths whatever that heavily clashes with the stylish décor: the lifeless physique of the family's line-in nanny.
As Bailey-unofficially-delves into the murdered girl's earlier, she unearths no scarcity of A-list suspects. but if a startling discovery means that Cat can have been the meant sufferer, Bailey is without notice as much as her mattress head in high-profile research that's excellent fodder for a tabloid headline: Is somebody attempting to kill the editor's of women's magazines?
With the highlight on New York's glitzy media global, Bailey interviews back-stabbing editors, straying husbands, and one attractive, six-feet psychologist who can make her choose to kick K.C. to the lower. wearing her pair of pink slingbacks and armed with the investigative abilities she's honed as a real crime reporter, she units out on a seek that takes her from Manhattan's particular Carnegie-Hill area-the nanny heartland of America-to the ritzy weekend estates of Pennsylvania and Connecticut. Bailey will desire all her road smarts and a few lightning-fast detective paintings to capture a killer who may possibly turn out deleting her identify from the masthead for sturdy.
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(Copyright 1995 Reed company details, Inc. )
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Additional info for If Looks Could Kill (Bailey Weggins Mystery, Book 1)
When I asked him if sending out Antonio Banderas’s photo wasn’t just a tad dishonest, he said, ‘Of course not. ” “He took you to McDonald’s? ” “Yeah, right. ” “And remember how he said he was a doctor? He’s a doctor, all right. Of phrenology. ” She drank the last of her espresso with an angry slurp. “I’ve had it with Foto-Date.
I saw one parked outside last night. A big black one. I assumed it was his. We don’t get many BMWs on this block. ” “Look, Ms. Zimmer, I can assure you Howard is far from rich and far from spoiled. ” She thought this over and seemed to soften. Empathy from one of life’s underdogs for another. ” she offered. ” I followed her to her cramped kitchen. Her apartment was small: living room, matchbox kitchen, and what I assumed was a bedroom down the hall. The coffee smelled great. She poured it into UCLA mugs, and we sat at a pine table in her “dining nook,” a tiny alcove jammed between the living room and the front door.
A flash of pain swept over his face. “I mean, she lived in Westwood. ” “1622 Bentley. ” Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer. Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place.