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The car door opened and a familiar voice shouted, “Claudia!” Then, Jovanic was running toward them, his weapon drawn. “
Claudia!
”

“She killed Lindsey,” Claudia blurted, just before she puked on the grass.

The blow to her head left Claudia with a major hangover, but the paramedic who checked her said he didn’t think there was any concussion. She awoke on Saturday afternoon with only a hazy memory of the frightening events of Friday night.

Jovanic, sitting at her bedside, folded the newspaper he was reading. “So you’ve decided to rejoin us?” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

“Excedrin, please, extra strength.” She yawned and stretched. “What happened? All I remember is Flare barking like a maniac and Lillian screaming her head off.”

“You heaved your guts up and told me she’d tried to kill you, so I took your word for it and had her prissy ass hauled downtown. Your pal Lillian now has her very own accommodations at county jail,” he said. “Not as plush as she’s used to.”

“Martin will bail her out, won’t he?”

“You don’t get bail so easily for murder one and attempted. Even with the biggest lawyer money can buy, she’s going to be sitting there a while.”

Claudia’s face creased into a broad smile as she closed her eyes again and dropped back into a peaceful slumber.

Two days later they sat at the kitchen table early in the morning, going over everything for the twenty-fifth time.

“Your fax got me on the right track,” Claudia said, glancing at Jovanic over the rim of a mug of strong black coffee. “I recognized Lillian’s handwriting on that note as soon as I saw it. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was a big red flag that Lindsey had put it in her lockbox.”

“Did the handwriting tell you she was a stone cold killer?”

“No, it couldn’t do that. But it did show that she had a lot to hide. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

“Flare might’ve taken out her windpipe,” he said. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“What happened with Kardosian?”

“The D.A. made an offer he couldn’t refuse. You were right all along that Heidt was behind everything that happened to you... the break-in here; the shooting. Ivan’s death, Earl Nelson’s. Everything
except
Lindsey’s death. That was a bizarre coincidence.

“When Lindsey was no longer on the scene, Heidt decided to take advantage and retrieve the tape she’d used to blackmail him; but when Kardosian went to the apartment on the flower delivery pretext, expecting it to be empty, Ivan was there.”

“He was just packing up Lindsey’s belongings. Poor Ivan. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“Kardosian claims he didn’t mean to kill him. And, as you know, Earl Nelson was attempting to continue the blackmail, and Heidt wasn’t having any of that.”

“He fingered Heidt?”

“No, but he did give us the middle man, and when we squeezed him hard enough, he copped to making the connection. Once our pal, Kardosian, started talking, he couldn’t spill information fast enough.”

A slow smile spread over Claudia’s face. “So, is Heidt in jail, too?”

“The arrest warrant is being prepared. I’d say his political career is about over.”

“And what about Brandi?”

“We got her into a program. She’s a tough little chick, but I think she’ll be okay.” He pushed back his chair, stood, and came around the table. Drawing her into his arms, he loosened her robe and slipped his hands inside. “Let’s think of something more pleasant.”

The insistent heat of his hands burned through the silk of her nightgown. Her arms went around his neck and she pressed her body into his. It felt right. Was she falling in love with him? Maybe. And for now, anyway, she had neither the strength nor the desire to resist.

The telephone rang, party-crashing the moment.

“Don’t answer it,” Jovanic mumbled, his lips warm against her ear. She pulled away smiling, answered in her business voice,

“Good morning, Claudia Rose.”

“Ms. Rose,” the caller said. “I’m an attorney in Washington, DC. I’ve got some handwriting here that I’d like you to analyze. It’s a case of spousal abuse...” He started giving her the details. She listened intently to the caller and picked up a pen to make notes. Glancing at Jovanic, she read the disappointed resignation on his face. Turned back to the phone and spoke to the would-be client. “Let me take your number. I’ll have to get back to you.”

THE END

Capital Crime Press presents an excerpt from Sheila Lowe’s next Claudia Rose mystery

He slams his fist against the desk, welcoming the shock of pain that takes his mind off his problem. But the distraction is short-lived and the thoughts begin circling again like buzzards: Why couldn’t she have loved me the way I loved her? It didn’t have to be this way.

Swiveling his chair until it points at the lustrous black granite-and-glass wet bar, he lurches to his feet.

It’s all her fault. He opens the mini fridge behind the bar and surveys its meager contents: A jar of pimento-stuffed olives, a withered lime, a near-empty bottle of tonic water. Nothing has changed since his last visit twenty minutes ago

With trembling fingers, he picks three ice cubes from the tray, dumps them into a tall glass with a splash of tonic, adds a double shot of Gordon’s from the bottle in the freezer, a slice of lime. Taking the drink with him, he slumps back into the chair, his eyes drifting to the closed bedroom door. All is quiet inside; the morphine is having its desired effect on her—buys him some time.

How much time? The nagging question is quickly followed by another, more pressing one: How much time do I need?

Soon, the room will be cloaked in shadow, the furniture shape-shifting into obscure grey mounds. The first stars are already glittering in the darkening sky, staring back at him accusingly through the wall of glass. So many points of light in the clear desert night, they rival the billion neon bulbs pulsing on the Strip.

He swirls a slug of martini around his mouth before swallowing and considers his options. Imagines himself picking up the phone on the desk and dialing: “Hey, Claudia. I’m sorry, your appointment is cancelled. Your lunch date is a rotting corpse.”

He reaches for the receiver, then jerks back his hand, startled to see it shaking like a palsied old man.

Clenching his teeth against the vicious pounding behind his eyes, he returns to the bar, where he pours another double to silence the rumbling that feels suspiciously like guilt. He tosses back the drink in one long gulp.

Fuck guilt.

What’s done is done.

Only the moment is real.

• What are your strengths?
  
• What’s holding you back?
  
• Could your relationships be better?
  

Your handwriting provides the answers

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Write at least a page on unlined paper on any subject. Don’t copy, make it spontaneous, like a lett er. Sign it. Include your age, gender, and which hand you write with.

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Poison Pen
is Sheila Lowe’s first mystery novel, but it’s not her first published work. She has been a practicing handwriting analyst for more than thirty-five years, and is the author of
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Handwriting Analysis
(Alpha) and
Handwriting of the Famous & Infamous
(Metro), as well as
Sheila Lowe’s Handwriting Analyzer
Software (RI Software). The media often contacts Sheila for her opinion in high profile cases, such as the Jon-Benet Ramsey/ John Mark Karr circus. As a forensic handwriting expert who testifies in court, she wishes the legal system were as speedy as it is on “CSI.”

A British transplant, Sheila lives near the ocean in Southern California. Learn more about handwriting analysis at

www.sheilalowe.com

and stay up to date with Claudia Rose at

www.claudiaroseseries.com