“Well, I really think—”

“No time for that now,” she said, cutting him short as she ushered him out the door ahead of her.

She left him standing in the courtyard as she hurried to her Honda. As she threw her purse and the dress into the passenger seat, she couldn’t help but notice how much the stain still looked like blood. A bad omen.

Omens now, Karen? Bad-luck sales dresses. When did you become so superstitious, anyway?

As she drove across Missoula toward the Carlton, she berated herself for being such a fool. She was wasting a perfectly good Sunday morning. The sun shone as bright orange as one of Talley Iverson’s apricot fried pies, making the day almost as wonderful, although a little cool considering this was spring in Montana.

Who was she kidding? It was March and it was still too cold for the way she was dressed. She flipped on the heater the moment the engine warmed up and cruised toward the mountains debating her own stupidity.

Why did she even think the murdered woman might be Liz?

Well, gosh, could it be the whole secret-lover thing? Or maybe the way Liz had reacted to the man in the hotel hallway last night? Or the way he’d reacted to her? Not to mention that strange phone call and the message from Liz?

All circumstantial evidence. Not even evidence at all. Just one woman’s hysterical jump to dire conclusions. She should be concerning herself instead with how to let Howie down easily—yet firmly. And what was with him and those warm fried pies this morning? It was as if Talley Iverson were pulling out all the stops. Karen knew she really should be doing something about Howie and his matchmaking aunt rather than worrying about Liz, a woman she hardly knew.

You just have to know what happened, don’t you? You’re as bad as your mother!

Oh, that hurt.

Not that it deterred her.

She was going to the hotel. She’d find out who was murdered. If it wasn’t Liz, she’d feel relieved and foolish. But she was all right with that.

She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked like a wild woman, her shoulder-length brown hair standing out in every which direction! Glancing around in the car, she found an old navy blue scrunchie and battled her hair into semicompliance while she drove. No easy task. Now all she had to do was get control over her life again.

Ahead she could see the Hotel Carlton etched against the clear dark blue of Montana’s big sky. As warm as it was in the car, she felt a chill.

JACK ADAMS SAW HER the moment she walked in. Not that she stood out particularly—even the way she was dressed. The lobby was such a zoo because of the murder, he doubted anyone else noticed her. He wasn’t sure what had made him look down when he did from the mezzanine where he’d been hiding out. Or what it was about her that held his initial attention.

Her hair looked pulled up into a ponytail of sorts. Stray strands of golden brown curled around her face making her eyes seem large and wide. Brown eyes, he guessed, although he couldn’t tell from this distance. Some freckles probably. Late twenties, early thirties. Jogs or works out at the gym three times a week, he figured. Teaches school or day care. Born and raised in Montana. Probably here to meet her mother and grandmother for the hotel’s Sunday breakfast brunch. Your typical Girl Next Door. Case closed.

He wished Denny wasn’t busy interviewing witnesses. Detective Dennis Kirkpatrick had started the game one night at a bar, betting his talent for observation was keener than Jack’s. It had become a duel to the death ever since. But this time, Jack thought he could beat Denny at his own game. This one was almost too easy.

BY THE TIME she walked into the hotel, Karen rued her impetuous behavior. This wasn’t like her. Not at all. What really brought it home was just how foolishly she was dressed. No coat. No socks. No bra. Now, chilled, she felt nearly naked and knew everyone in the place was probably staring at her chest. She crossed her arms. What was she doing here?

“Excuse me,” she said as a bellhop cruised by. “Can you tell me who was murdered?” she blurted out, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible and go home.

The kid stopped, leaned over and said conspiratorially, “I heard her name was Jones. Liz Jones.”

Karen felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart jackhammered and the room seemed to spin crazily.

“One of the maids found her this morning,” the bellhop continued in a hushed whisper. “Strangled with her own panty hose, I heard. The cops are still here asking questions down in the ballroom but so far I don’t think they’ve found the killer.”

Hadn’t she known it would be Liz? Oh, yeah? And how exactly had she known that? First superstitious and now psychic? She didn’t like this.

Get a grip. You suspected it was Liz or you wouldn’t be here. So, tell someone what little you know and let’s get out of here.

She glanced down the hallway toward the door marked Ballroom. All her fears rushed to her head like too much champagne. What did she really have to tell the police? That Liz had been involved with a man in some secret relationship. And the name of the man? She didn’t know. What did he look like? Well, she only saw him for an instant. Did she think she would recognize him again if she saw him? Maybe.

He’d looked surprised when he saw her, probably because her dress had appeared to be covered in blood. It was actually red wine that her blind date had spilled on her. No, he wasn’t blind, just nervous.

Karen took a breath. All right, she didn’t have much to give the police. For all she knew he could have been Liz’s ex, the one she said she’d left because of his jealousy. But if any information Karen had could help find the killer—

BELATEDLY, Jack noticed two things about the young woman that made him glad he hadn’t made that bet after all.

One was the look on her face as she stopped a bellhop near the entrance. She wasn’t asking directions to the dining room. She looked too apprehensive. Too…suspicious.

But that wasn’t all. He hadn’t noticed before just how quickly she must have dressed. It was a little too cold out for sandals, especially without socks, and she wore no coat over her faded T-shirt and worn blue jeans.

But what really convinced him she’d been in a hurry was what he glimpsed beneath that washed-thin T-shirt. Nipples. No bra. She had definitely looked like the prim-and-proper, wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-public-without-a-bra type.

Whatever the bellhop had said to her had left her shaken. Maybe she’d just heard about the murder. Then what had gotten her out of bed so abruptly this morning? It wasn’t meeting Mom and Grandma at the buffet. Not that half of Missoula hadn’t come up for breakfast this morning after the news of the murder. He really doubted it was the link sausages and powdered scrambled eggs that had brought them.

Curiosity. The same stuff that killed cats. So was that what she was doing here, too? Idle curiosity? No, not as anxious as she appeared nor dressed like that, he told himself. Not this woman.

He looked closer. She was nervously kneading something balled up in her right hand.

Damn, he thought, craning over the mezzanine railing to see her through the crowd. She reminded him a little too much of himself—someone who’d been dragged out of bed too early in the morning. Only he had a good reason. He wondered what hers was. And if they had anything to do with the other?

KAREN FELT SOMETHING in her hand just as she reached the ballroom doorway. She uncurled her fingers, surprised to find the latte-stained napkin with Liz’s number on it. She started to put the napkin and number in her purse, but as she took a step into the ballroom, she looked up and saw that the room was empty, the police gone.

No, not entirely empty.