Without A Clue. Trish Jensen

the clients only needed two. A love of a good whodunit and nice, fat wallets.

      “The guy isn’t going to be in any shape to walk through dress rehearsal tonight,” Tina muttered.

      “What’s to rehearse? He gives one speech at the beginning of supper, then disappears until he’s found dead.”

      They entered the large marbled foyer, and Meg immediately spotted their corpse slouching on a receiving couch, blowing at the fronds of a potted palm. By the slackness of his jaw and the glaze in his brown eyes, she realized Tina hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was sloshed. Meg would have to call the agency next week and request sober actors from here on out. She didn’t think that was asking too much.

      She sifted through her brain trying to come up with the man’s name. He’d been hired to play Lionel De Wynter, the supposed owner of this mansion, and the host for the supper where the mystery began.

      That’s right, Terence Brogan. Formerly a Shakespearean actor, lately reduced to bit TV parts and commercials. Even stoned, he exuded an imperious air that would work well in his role as the evil corporate raider, about to announce to his “guests” his nefarious scheme.

      His hair was graying gracefully, and his eyebrows held a sinister bent. His Roman nose gave him the natural look of a snob. Perfect. Just as soon as he stopped drooling.

      “Mr. Brogan?” Meg said, stopping before him and thrusting out her hand. “I’m Megan Renshaw.”

      Although the two had talked on the phone several times—most of which were spent with him dissecting his motivation for playing a dead guy—this was Terence Brogan’s first job for Big Adventures. Possibly his last if he always had this much trouble struggling to his feet and focusing. Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he grasped it, turned it palm down and almost plowed into her as he began to bend down, thought better of it, and instead lifted it to his lips to press a gallantly drunken—and thankfully not slobbery—kiss upon her skin.

      When he finally managed to connect after a couple of aborted attempts, his foggy eyes swept over her and his palm went to his breastbone. “‘She walksh in be-beauty, like the night,’” he intoned, “‘as if all the world were his stage. Of cloudlesh climes and st-starry nights; And all that’s best of dark and night…’” He stopped, looking momentarily confused. “Wait, wait, that should be ‘bright. All that’s best of dark and bright.’“

      Much as she enjoyed a good Byron poem, Meg didn’t have all day. “That’s lovely. Truly. What a very dear man you are. And that delivery! Why, I knew straight off, just from your photo and impressive résumé, that you were quite a catch.” She waved in Tina’s direction. “And this is my assistant, Tina Brown.”

      “A pleasure, madam,” the actor said, without moving his head an iota in Tina’s direction.

      “Tina, why don’t you take Mr. Brogan to the kitchen and offer him some of Glenda’s wonderful coffee, while Timmy takes Mr. Brogan’s suitcase—” that’s when she noticed the steamer trunk, the large suitcase and the industrial size makeup case flanking the man “—er, while Timmy and I take his luggage to his room.”

      Thank goodness the mansion sported an elevator that ran to all three floors.

      Brogan’s eyes widened a moment, and once again his palm dramatically covered his heart. “Why, madam, are you under the mish-mistaken impression that I am inebriated?”

      Tina snorted.

      “You’re not?” Meg said dubiously. If this was sober, they were in even bigger trouble.

      “Sh-certainly not! I’m a professional, I’ll have you know.”

      “Of course you are,” she rushed to assure him. “A recent blow to the head, perhaps?”

      He looked mildly offended, but shook his head and his hand came up to cover his jaw. “Emergency root canal shurgery.”

      Meg blew out a relieved breath. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. The Novocain hasn’t worn off, I take it.”

      “I had the shurgery Monday. However, it’sh still quite painful.”

      Terrific. Pain pills. If she couldn’t talk the man into putting them away for the rest of the weekend, she might have to sneak into his room and steal them. It wouldn’t do for the first corpse of her first murder mystery weekend not to be able to say his lines clearly, although she had the feeling he’d make a believable stiff.

      That was her last thought just before Terence Brogan’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he pitched forward, straight into her arms.

      MATT ROSSI WAS RIDING OUT the biggest endorphin rush in his entire thirty-six-year life. Catching the touchdown pass that won his high school the state championship his senior year had nothing on this. Getting inside Nina Chambers’s panties in eleventh grade had nothing on this. Hell, making his first million dollars at the age of thirty-two had had nothing on this.

      As he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel of his vintage blue Mustang convertible, in beat with the music of Harry Connick, Jr. blaring from his speakers, Matt decided he was definitely the master of his fate. The keeper of his destiny. The maker of his dreams.

      Yesterday he’d signed a land development deal so huge and so profitable he could never work another day in his life and he’d still have money to spare when he died at a hundred. Even with the bunch of kids he planned on having. Even with lavishing his wife with expensive gifts every day of their marriage.

      His bubble burst just a tad at that. In truth, he didn’t have a wife yet. Or any kids that he knew about for that matter. But now that this deal had been successfully completed, it was time to move on down his checklist.

      Graduate high school. Check.

      Earn a college scholarship. Check.

      Graduate college. Check.

      Work hard for several years and save and scrape. Check.

      Open own real estate development company. Check.

      Make a fortune. Check.

      Start a family. No go.

      Not yet, anyway, although in truth he’d been awfully busy checking off all those other items to really begin an honest search for Ms. Right. He’d kept his eyes peeled over the years, just in case she popped into his life at any given moment. But so far, it was still a no go. He’d correct that now. He was taking time off from work to search in that systematic way he approached every challenge he tackled.

      And really, his standards weren’t out in left field, either. All he was asking for was an intelligent, funny, beautiful, sexy, orderly woman who was interested in settling down and making babies. Lots and lots of babies.

      He wanted a houseful of them. He’d grown up the only son of “Brick” and Maria Rossi, both of whom had worked tirelessly; his father as a bricklayer and his mother a cleaning lady. Consequently he’d been left alone much of the time. Too much of the time. What he wouldn’t have given for younger brothers and sisters to fill the void, to be companions. And his personal slaves.

      No kid of his was going to grow up an only child. Therefore his wife would have to agree to a houseful of them. Of course, he also enjoyed peace and solitude, so she’d have to be good at keeping them quiet, too. Noise and chaos drove him crazy.

      As he reached the outskirts of Charleston, he conjured a vision of a wife and kids filling the Charleston mansion he’d invested in at an auction three years ago. He’d originally checked it out as merely another good investment. But the first time he’d laid eyes on the Southern Georgian, he knew it was perfect for his future family. The mansion was huge, with seventeen bedrooms and two guest cottages out back. He could produce a whole passel of children without having everyone tripping over one another. It’d be big and peaceful and orderly.

      Smiling, he made the left onto Magnolia Lane, the mile-long drive that led to his, only his home. No pesky neighbors to