The Sassy Suspect

By Kelly Rey

From USA Today bestselling author Kelly Rey comes another laugh-out-loud installment in her Jamie Winters Mysteries ...

Just when legal secretary and reluctant sleuth Jamie Winters thinks life has settled down and her prospects are looking up...murder catches up to her again!

Kay Culverson, a low-budget cable talk show host and diva extraordinaire, is found dead in her office after alienating not only Jamie’s boss, Howard Dennis, but also her own agent and every employee in the studio. When Howard falls under suspicion, his wife asks Jamie to investigate. While she's not exactly excited at the prospect of solving another murder, Jamie isn't thrilled with the idea of losing her job either. So with the help of her hot landlord Curt and Curt’s feisty teen niece Maizy, Jamie's on the case! But she soon finds herself dealing with a whole cast of suspects, including a shady agent, a group of anti-government geeks, a light-fingered ex-con, and a mysterious hitman for hire named Z. It couldn’t possibly get any worse...until it does. And suddenly Jamie wonders if this next case may be her last!

Note: This book was previously titled "Motion for Madness."

Jamie Winters Mysteries:
Motion for Murder – book #1
Mistletoe & Misdemeanors – short story in the "Cozy Christmas Shorts" collection
Death of a Diva – book #2
Motion for Misfits – short story in the "Killer Beach Reads" collection
The Sassy Suspect – book #3
Verdicts & Vixens – book #4
A Playboy in Peril – book #5
Death by Diamonds – book #6

"Move over Stephanie Plum—there's a new girl in town! Jamie Winters is smart, sassy, and laugh-out-loud hilarious. Mix one fun mystery, some fantastic romantic chemistry, and witty quips throughout for a sure-fire winner! Who knew a lawyer's office could be so funny?"
~ Gemma Halliday, New York Times bestselling author

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781943587339

Kelly Rey

From her first discovery of Nancy Drew, Kelly has had a lifelong love for mystery and tales of things that go bump in the night, especially those with a twist of humor. Through many years of working in the court reporting and closed captioning fields, writing has remained a constant. If she's not in front of a keyboard, she can be found reading, working out or avoiding housework. She's a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in the Northeast with her husband and a menagerie of very spoiled pets.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Howard Dennis sprinted into the secretarial area, heaved his trial bag in my direction, and gasped, I could kill her before hustling toward the kitchen.

Thanks to my recent promotion to first executive assistant at the law firm of Parker, Dennis, a personal injury mill in southern New Jersey, I was unfazed. The thing about first executive assistants is that they hear things the same way hairstylists and priests hear things. I'd heard Howard say that before, usually in reference to judges who didn't recognize his brilliance. He'd never meant it then, and I was pretty sure he didn't mean it now. But I couldn't be positive, since Howard had changed in the fifteen hours since I'd last seen him. For one thing, he'd started an exercise program. I'd never seen him do anything more strenuous than lifting a legal pad, and here he was throwing Hail Marys and doing wind sprints.

Howard Dennis, don't you dare walk away from me! a female voice screeched.

Howard froze with his hand on the kitchen door.

I froze with his trial bag in my lap. Is that—

Who else would it be? Howard's face had gone red, and his lips were white from holding in all that blue language.

Kay Culverson slashed into the room in full-on hissy fit mode. Kay was six feet of obnoxiousness in a five-foot body, notorious in the legal community after being featured in a New Jersey law journal article about plaintiffs to avoid, complete with bullet points and commentary by a local psychologist. She was the host of Dishing with Kay, a cable show with local distribution—local meaning approximately twelve households with a viewership of half that—which didn't stop Kay from seeing herself as bound for a daytime Emmy.

Why did you let that judge dismiss my case? she demanded. That no-talent Ginger Holt assaulted me!

Howard stood there, panting and sweating and probably wishing he'd been fast enough to escape to his office. She didn't assault you, Kay. She tripped over your feet walking off the set.

I sneaked a peek at her feet. They looked like paddles on her anorexic frame.

Well, what about the stage manager? He knew my mark was wet. I could have slipped and broken my neck during the open!

A glimmer of hope lit Howard's eyes. But you didn't, he said, a little sadly.

Kay propped her spindly hands on her bony hips. Still, she said. "I deserve more respect. I am the star of Dishing. At least until my agent finds me a project suited to my talent in live theater. She flung her arms out, knocking the out-box off my desk, which didn't matter since it was empty anyway. I think you killed Jenna Sue Bonnie Ann, and I can prove it, she declared with a dramatic eyelash flutter and the worst Southern accent north of the Mason-Dixon Line. I had your grits tested by—"

I scrabbled across the floor to retrieve my out-box, smothering laughter in my collar while being careful to avoid her paddle-feet.

That's enough, Howard cut in. His cheeks had moved beyond red to purple. He was a color wheel on the verge of cardiac arrest. You need to accept that I can't guarantee favorable verdicts.

Kay's arms snapped back to her sides. That did it for me. The out-box was on its own. I fled to the safety of the kitchen, where I distanced myself from the fracas by pressing my ear to the door so I could hear it more clearly. "I'm still waiting for the first favorable verdict, she snapped. Despite what your wife claims, you're not a very good lawyer."

Howard's wife was the former Ellen Shaughnessy, sorority sister to Kay Culverson, present yin to Howard's yang, locking Howard and Kay in an inexorable litigious dance. Also, Howard was terrified of the fallout if Kay decided to use her show to bad-mouth the firm.

Then I suggest, Howard suggested, that you find someone else, and we'll go our separate ways.

I would, Kay said, except the world is full of bloodsuckers hiding behind law degrees. You're awful, but at least you're honest.

Fine. Howard's voice was thin and tight, much like I'd always envisioned my thighs. I had the thin part down. I was built like a twelve-year-old boy, without the shape. I also had the muscle tone of a jellyfish, despite tens of hours of yoga annually. I have to get back to work then.

Good. Settled. I'll expect you for tomorrow's taping.

That was another thing. Although my personal brush with the law had brought in so much new business that Howard and Wally were now forced to work eight-hour days, there could never be enough torts in Howard's trial bag. So when Kay insisted on dragging Howard to her tapings at Butternut Studio to protect her constitutional right to short-sighted ignorance, Howard went to assure himself that his legal prowess glowed sufficiently in the eyes of any potential new clients. Also to add three more billable hours to Kay's ledger. But he insisted on taking along a witness, and that was usually me.

As bad as it was to have to listen to Kay, it was worse to go to Butternut Studio to do it. The studio was in Pine Run, another of the neighboring nugget-sized towns that effective policing had passed by, on the second story of a two-story building that had once housed an off-track betting operation on the ground floor until a disgruntled and newly impoverished client set fire to the place. The grounds were well tended, and the building did the best it could in a low-rent district. It had even once offered valet parking, until the valets had begun stealing the cars, so now visitors and tenants took their chances with self-parking and naive optimism.

One more thing, Kay said. I need your team of investigators to look into my makeup girl, Cindy. I have headaches and fatigue every time she does my face. I think she's adding something to my foundation.

I shook my head. Howard didn't have a team of investigators. He had one paralegal, Donna Warren, who was as intrepid as a baby rabbit. And I'd spent enough time at Butternut to know that Cindy Waterford Hanson was a gem in the box of rocks that was Kay's staff. She was a single mom who'd been with the show since the start despite the impossible task of making Kay look like a human being.

Maybe it's lead poisoning, Howard said cheerfully. That can happen when you chew scenery.

Aren't you amusing. Kay remained stone-faced.

The back door opened, and Missy Clark came in, looking perfect as always in a pencil skirt and silk shirt, an oversized bag hanging from an arm already weighed down by a sparkling diamond tennis bracelet. Missy was my opposite in secretarial skills and in every other way. Where I was clumsy, she was graceful. Where I was clueless, she was savvy. Where I was frizzy, she was smooth.

When she saw me crouching at the door, her expression didn't change. Who is it this time?

I scrunched up my nose. Kay Culverson.

She put her bag on the table and joined me. What's her problem now?

Plain nastiness. I nodded at the diamond bracelet. New?

She smiled. Braxton gave it to me last night.

You two are back together? Braxton Malloy was a pharmacist Missy had been dating circa the death of one of the firm's founding partners. For a while I'd suspected her because of that relationship, but then Braxton had faded into Dean and Dean into Shawn, and I'd realized Missy didn't have the attention span to plan a murder.

She shrugged. He gives me diamond bracelets.

And that's not all, Kay droned on. Strange things are happening at the studio.

Such as? Howard's voice was weary.

The light was out in my office on Friday. I couldn't see a thing. Anyone could have been hiding there in the dark.

Bulbs burn out, Kay, Howard said, still weary but with a dash of irritated.

"And there was a little bottle of Clorox left by the coffeemaker. Clorox."

Cleaning people make mistakes, Kay, Howard said, again weary and irritated with a pinch of impatient added.

Well, that kind of mistake kills people, Kay snapped. "I think it was a threat. Someone is after me. I just know it."

What I knew was that Kay was a grade-A kook. If anyone had been out to kill her, it would have been the viewers after the first episode of Dishing with Kay.

Howard sighed. Maybe everyone's in on it together.

Don't be flippant, Kay snapped. That would never happen. I don't tolerate fraternization.

No kidding.

The back door opened, and an armful of files and a laptop crept in followed by the firm's paralegal, Donna Warren. She froze when she spotted us. She's here?

I nodded. Gutting Howard because the judge tossed her case.

I'm not surprised. Donna tiptoed across the room to join us. We shifted a little to make room. That case was groundless. There isn't a jury in the state who would award her anything. Just listen to her.

And look at her feet, Missy said. Ever see those things? You can't trust a woman with feet that big. She must shop in the men's shoes department.

What does foot size have to do with anything? Donna asked.

Are you kidding? Missy said. They say the size of a man's feet is a good indication—

Janice Iannacone stormed through the door jingling her car keys, which was as close to a good mood as Janice ever got. As the firm's bookkeeper, she managed to keep its cauldron of lawsuits funded and bubbling along through financial chicanery if not easy camaraderie with her coworkers.

She was halfway across the room before she noticed us. Oh, no.

Donna put a finger to her lips. Kay Culverson, she whispered.

Of course it's Kay Culverson. Who else would it be? Janice clomped over to stand behind me, hunched like a gargoyle. We shifted a little more so she could get off the back of my shirt. She stayed there anyway. Case got dismissed?

Donna's not surprised, Missy told her.

It was groundless, Donna said.

Get off my shirt, I said.

That woman is impossible. Janice shook her head. I don't know how Howard puts up with her.

I rolled my eyes. I'd made that very same comment to Missy about her.

Maybe she just needs a little love, Donna said.

Missy grinned. Maybe she just needs a little—

"Get off my shirt," I hissed. Janice slid an inch to the right, which didn't take her off my shirt but did stamp her cloven footprint on a different area.

Who's going to Butternut this week? Donna asked. She'd had to go once, when I'd contracted the Head Cold from Hell, and she still had flashbacks about it.

I looked at Missy. You ought to go. You can handle her.

I can, she said. I choose not to.

I looked at Janice. You could go.

She lifted her nose. Be serious. A secretary goes with Howard. I'm not a secretary.

I'm not a secretary either, I told her. I'm first executive assistant.

She snorted. Right.

The back door opened, and Howard's associate, Wally Randall, came in holding a monogrammed briefcase, wearing a navy suit and red power tie. His hair was slicked back. His sunglasses were in place. He looked like a fifteen-year-old playing lawyer.

When he saw us standing, squatting, and bending across the room, he paused to take off his sunglasses with the snap of his wrist, the way really cool people do on television. He probably practiced that move in the mirror. I'm sure there's a good reason that the entire support staff is doing performance art.

Kay Culverson, Missy said.

And Howard, Donna added.

And a cast of thousands, Janice snapped.

Wally was many things, but stout of heart wasn't one of them. In a flash, his facade of sophistication fell away to reveal his inner lily liver. You'd think he'd leap to the defense of the firm's senior partner, but no. He clutched his briefcase to his chest, fidgeted a little, broke out in a sweat, mumbled I have to— I think I forgot—, and turned and fled.

We looked at each other.

Baby, Donna said.

Wuss, Missy said.

Coward, Janice said.

"Will you please get off my shirt!" I said.

CHAPTER TWO

Most people look forward to Tuesday because it's not Monday, and it's one step closer to the smooth downhill glide into the weekend. But those people didn't have to endure a taping of Dishing with Kay. Not even floating along on the magic carpet of Howard's top-of-the-line Mercedes, with its baby breaths of heat caressing me and its toasty seat cupping me in exciting places, could compensate for what was to come. It was a dreary, chilly March morning, with spring only a distant promise. There was rain in the forecast, which seemed fitting.

Butternut Studio's interior was done in standard Corporate Blah. Lots of battleship gray, thin industrial-grade carpet, and harsh fluorescent lighting. Until you got to the set. Kay's set was bright and welcoming, with rich green tones and pretty light-toned wood chairs and plush cream-colored carpeting. The backdrop was a light minty green. A striking flower arrangement sat on the small glass table between the chairs. The studio had spared no expense when it came to about thirty square feet of floor space.

We found Kay there, looking over her notes. Her lips were moving as she read. She had a paper towel stuck in her collar, and Cindy Waterford Hanson was retouching her makeup, trying to paint life onto Kay's wax-museum cheeks. Cindy's shoulder-length hair was so blonde it was nearly white, her nose and lips were generous without being oversized, and she was as fit as a Navy SEAL thanks to regular spin classes. She had to be. It took work to make Kay camera-ready. Still, it was hard to imagine her hunched over a table mixing up a vat of poisoned foundation.

A classy-looking. middle-aged woman in a red power suit and perfect blonde coif sat in the guest chair, being actively ignored. Kay's MO was interview-by-ambush. She claimed that approach gave her the most candid interviews. It also gave her a shorter guest list, because most of them refused to come back after such shoddy treatment. And since Butternut didn't have the budget for a green room, the guests got to endure Kay from the time they got off the elevator.

I tapped Howard on the shoulder. Who is that?

He glanced at the woman. That's Liz. Senator Halstead.

Senator? How had Kay Culverson managed to book a senator on her show? Shouldn't Liz Halstead be busy doing senatorial things? And politicians wondered why their approval ratings were so low.

Wait. Liz? I stared at Howard. You know her?

I've met her once or twice. He caught the senator's eye and smiled. Senator Halstead smiled back. He lifted a single finger in greeting. I'd never seen Howard so giddy with affection.

Hey, Jamie, can I talk to you for a minute?

I turned to find the show's head writer, Damian Whisenhunt, standing beside me. Damian's blond hair was wispy, his build was reedy, and his height fell just north of lawn jockey. Damian was one of those people who lived on the fringes. You tended not to notice him even though he was always there. For some reason, he'd noticed me right away. I kind of wished he hadn't, but that's how it was with me and men.

Could you read this? He pushed an envelope into my hands. I finished it last night.

It was a chapter of a novel he'd been working on for eight months. Not the whole thing. Just the first chapter. Which gave the word perfectionist a whole new meaning.

I forced a smile. "You want me to read it?" I already had my fill of reading material. My sister had dropped off the latest People magazine a few days earlier.

He nodded. I hope you like it. Listen, Jamie, I—

Kay brushed Cindy aside and bellowed Damian!

His whole body stiffened. Gotta go, he said immediately.

I don't like this open. Kay didn't bother to keep her voice down. I refuse to read it. Do it over.

But I already loaded the prompter, he said.

She shooed him away. That's your problem.

Let's get it together, people, someone called out. It sounded like Tony Sabatini, the director. He usually kept himself hidden in master control while he pulled the strings, like the Great Wizard.

Kay didn't miss a beat. If Damian had done his job right the first time, we'd be ready to go.

Damian's gaze flitted to Senator Halstead for a second before he took the papers Kay slapped against his stomach and rushed off.

Kay wasn't done. Get Cindy back here, she snapped. I want to change out this jacket. The sleeves are too short.

Cindy stepped forward with a placid expression. They're three-quarter sleeves, Kay. The other jacket has short sleeves, and I know you don't want that.

But this makes my forearms look like twigs. Kay held them up as Exhibit A. She was wrong. They'd look like straws, if straws had wrinkly elbows. I want to wear the black blazer on my door.

Cindy's expression didn't change. That doesn't go with your outfit. Besides, how will viewers see your new gold cuff if it's hidden by your jacket?

Kay admired her jewelry. I suppose you're right, she said finally. No reason they shouldn't enjoy my good taste. But I don't like this shade of lipstick. Give me something peachy. I want this. She held up a tube. I found it in your kit yesterday. Make the change.

Interesting. For someone claiming to be slathered with poisoned makeup on a daily basis, Kay was awfully quick to steal some of it.

Excuse me, Senator Halstead said.

With a strained smile, Cindy took the tube and slipped it into her pocket. Peachy won't work. You want red.

Kay glared at her. Don't be insolent. I know what I want.

Excuse me, the Senator repeated. She was bristling. I liked bristling, especially if Kay was the bristlee.

Peachy won't work with your coloring or your outfit, Cindy said calmly. Right, Rod?

Right, Rod called without looking. Rod Cameron was the stage manager, and he had more important things to do than critique Kay's lipstick color. Like stand in the corner with Bull Whitley, the camera operator, and critique pictures of bikini models on Bull's cell phone. Rod and Bull were both eye candy but for different generations. Bull was as huge and meaty as a villainous cartoon character, built like a Brahma right down to the big shaggy head and lack of finesse, while Rod was the reason that tuxedos had been invented. Hmm. I lost myself for a moment, envisioning Rod in a classic tuxedo with two champagne flutes and a bottle of bubbly. Not bad. He could almost give Curt some competition.

It's unnecessary to treat these people like that, the senator said. "And it's unnecessary for you to treat me like this." She stood up, tore off her microphone pack, and strode off the set and out of the studio.

When I turned to watch her go, my attention caught on Bull. I wasn't great at reading body language, but even I knew no one scratched their cheek with their middle finger. Guess even gentle giants could get their fill of Kay.

Nice going, Kay, Rod said. He was definitely not smiling. In fact, when he approached the set, his dark eyes were fiery, smoldering with a seething passion and unbridled lust.

I blinked and took another look. No, it was just fury.

Now we won't have a new episode for this week, he snapped.

Kay removed the IFB that enabled Tony to whisper in her ear during taping. We don't need her. Just bring on the next guest.

Senator Halstead was the guest, Rod told her. Maybe if you apologize—

I looked out onto the parking lot, where Senator Halstead was being safely ensconced in the backseat of a shiny black Lincoln. Moments later the car slid away, taking Kay's show with her.

I will not apologize to that woman, Kay snapped. She had some nerve walking off like that. I didn't say a word to her!

Kind of the point.

Tony appeared in