High-Heeled Alibi. Sydney Ryan

She seized the instrument so quickly the man didn’t have time to react. “It’ll have to be sterilized.” She aimed the knife at his chest. “Lanie put you up to this, didn’t she?”

      “Excuse me?” To his credit, the man was convincingly confused.

      “And Gwen is in on it, too, isn’t she?” Bitsy jabbed the knife in the air, underscoring her words.

      “Who’s Lanie? Who’s Gwen?”

      “You know damn—” Bitsy stopped. Giving up swearing was part of her control program. Besides, she wasn’t mad at the man. He was probably one of the many out-of-work actors who came to California like lambs to the slaughter. She couldn’t blame him for taking advantage of an opportunity to make a few easy bucks. She hoped he’d charged Lanie a small fortune.

      “You know.” She gave the space between them a stab with the scalpel. “All I’m trying to do is lead a nice, normal life, but that cousin of mine can’t let things be.”

      The man’s gaze scanned the room and returned to Bitsy. “This is normal?”

      She ignored his comment. “Tell me this. What’s the crime in waking each morning, working each day, going to bed each night…alone?” The scalpel punctured the air again.

      The man took a step back. “Thousands of people do it every day.”

      “Exactly,” she agreed with an approving flourish of the scalpel. “Thousands, millions, gazillions. Is there anything wrong if I’m one of them?”

      “Is there?” The man repeated.

      Her voice dropped. “I’ve known passion. I have.” She leaned in toward the man. “Believe me, I’ve ridden that roller coaster.”

      The man stared back at her. “Three minutes of thrills? Thirty minutes of wanting to throw up?”

      Bitsy smiled, her frustration deflated. She slipped the scalpel into the lab jacket’s pocket and held out her hand. “Bitsy Leigh, currently crazed, but, on a good day, calm, controlled cosmetician and upstanding citizen of Canaan.”

      The half-naked man took her hand. The charming smile returned. “Bitsy? Is that short for something?”

      “Momma said it was supposed to be Betsy but Daddy didn’t put on his glasses when he filled out the hospital paperwork. Daddy always joked it could’ve been worse. Batsy or Bootsy or, God forgive, Buttsy.”

      The man studied her a second as if trying to decide if she was putting him on. He made his decision and broke into a low laugh, his hand still holding hers, his skin warm. Bitsy liked the silvery sound of his laughter tempering the room’s many edges. Her hand stayed in his.

      “What is—” As she started to ask his name, the sound of a car pulling into the upper parking lot stopped her. She dropped the man’s hand. “I’ll bet that’s Lanie and her partner in crime, Gwen. Okay, ladies, now it’s your turn for a little trick or treat.” She marched toward the door.

      “Bitsy?” The man called after her.

      She turned, a finger to her lips. “Stay right here. Don’t make a sound. I’ll pay you half the amount you charged Lanie.”

      She was gone before he could stop her. He crossed the room and stepped out into the hall to follow her when, from behind, he heard the whispered summons:

      “Michael.”

      BITSY STRODE PAST THE ROOMS of tile and porcelain, linoleum and chromium steel to the stairs. The main floor was pickled oak, chintz, spongy carpet and muted lighting. The knocker sounded twice at the front door. She crossed the reception area that always smelled of cedar and opened one of the wide, carved double doors. Two policemen stood in the perpetual soft glow of the entryway. One officer was tall, dark, Latino. His partner was older, bald, short and fleshy. They eagle-eyed her attire. The older policeman commented with an abrupt grunt.

      Bitsy folded her arms so that the lab jacket covered the top of her leopard-print bodysuit and tipped back her head in appraisal. She definitely had to give Lanie and Gwen an A for effort. She nodded approval. “I’ll bet you guys didn’t have an easy time renting authentic-looking costumes on Halloween?”

      The taller cop’s brow furrowed.

      “Nice touch.” Bitsy tapped the badge pinned on his chest. Both policemen pulled back. The young cop rested his hand on his holster.

      “Ma’am, we’re canvassing the area in response to a bulletin the station received earlier.”

      “Excuse me just a minute.” Bitsy wiggled between the two men to the generous, curved porch and leaned over its railing. She peered left and right, looking for her cousin and Gwen snickering somewhere in the shrubs lining the circular drive. The bushes were still, their evergreen gone black in the night.

      “Ma’am?” The tall officer attempted again, his voice thinner.

      She turned to the men. Their faces solemn, they were obviously intent on carrying out this charade to its conclusion. She stepped between them and paused at the door. Might as well give Lanie her money’s worth. She gestured for the men to enter.

      The partners glanced at each other. “After you,” the tall one insisted to Bitsy. The two men followed her into the foyer, where she shut the door and faced them. Clasping her hands in front of her chest, she spoke in the hushed tones generated by the surroundings. “How can I help you?”

      “Ma’am, as I was saying,” the tall cop tried again, “we received an APB earlier this evening about a man named Michael James—”

      She nodded comprehension. “I have him ready for you.”

      “He’s here?” The short cop finally spoke.

      Bitsy’s expression stayed somber. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, gentlemen, but he’s not exactly going anywhere now, is he?”

      The puzzled look between the policemen continued much longer this time.

      “I’ll get him for you,” she offered and turned toward the hall.

      “Ma’am, we’ll go with you. We don’t want anyone hurt.”

      She stopped beside a crushed-velvet sofa and faced them. “How thoughtful, Officer.” Her voice was as smooth as the short officer’s hairless dome. “But cremains are as light as a feather.”

      “Cremains?” the bald cop blurted.

      Bitsy fought a smile. She cast her gaze downward as if in contemplation. “There is one problem. Usually by the time the cremains are released, the family has chosen an appropriate urn.”

      “What does she mean cremains?” the same cop demanded.

      “But not to worry. We do have the ever-efficient double-layered brown bag. Let me check if the cremains have cooled and gone through the blender.” She stepped briskly toward the hall.

      “Cremains, Hector?” the cop questioned his partner. Bitsy allowed herself a smile.

      But when she turned back, her features were respectfully pious. “Gentlemen, I understand. We’re all professionals. Yet, no matter how many times our chosen paths bring us face-to-face with death, it’s difficult to think of anyone, even a stranger, as anything but brimming with life.”

      “Hector,” the cop said out of the side of his mouth, “what the hell is this broad talking about?”

      Hector made a shushing motion with his hand. The other hand still rested on his holster. “Ma’am, are you telling us the man we’re looking for is dead?”

      Bitsy smiled patiently as her upturned palm made a semicircle. “Look around you, gentlemen. You wouldn’t exactly come here looking for a live body.”

      “What we came looking for,” Hector said, “was a man, early thirties, blond, about six foot two, two hundred-ten pounds, athletic