Hex on the Ex (A Mind for Murder, #3)
Rochelle Staab
Acknowledgments
A warm thank-you to the generous folks who gave me their time and expertise in the writing of this story: Jeffrey Bloom, Jeanne Robson, Pat Sabatini, Charlie Springer, Sylvia Tchakerian, and Gerald Tinker; my baseball experts Mark Langill, Ken Levine, and Scott St. James, with an assist from David Schwartz and George Wilson; the always helpful members of the LAPD, particularly detective Joel Price, Officer Sebring, and Judi Breskin; and my first readers Carole Bloom and JoAn Brown.
I have the pleasure to work with an amazing team of people at Berkley Prime Crime. Thank you to all, especially my editor, Michelle Vega. Her warmth, wisdom, and wit encourage me through every stage of the process.
A hug and a tip of the hat to my critique partners V. R. Barkowski, Lynn Sheene, Donnell Bell, and Tammy Kaehler, whose feedback, intelligence, cheerleading, and good common sense keep me sane(-ish) and on track. You guys are the best.
And finally, my deep gratitude for the readers, librarians, and booksellers who embraced Liz and Nick from the very beginning. Your enthusiasm is my happy-ever-after.
Chapter One
Hitting the gym at dawn for a week sounded like such a good idea on day one. Wake up early, exercise and shower at the facility, and then attack unpacking the rest of the moving boxes at home with a fresh attitude—sure, I could do it. Right. Game On, the private Studio City gym co-owned by my ex-husband, Jarret, and his trainer, spanned three storefronts at Coldwater Curve, a small strip mall across the street from Jerry’s Famous Deli on Ventura Boulevard, a few miles from my new house. On day two, I had to drag myself out of bed. By then I had no choice.
Half awake and incognito—no makeup, not even lipstick, hair twisted in a ragged ponytail, rumpled cotton sweats, and faded Nirvana T-shirt—I tossed my backpack into an empty cubbyhole on the member wall beside the front desk.
Only one trainer plus Jarret’s partner, Kyle Stanger, knew me by name but I nodded hellos to my fellow daybreak warriors scattered over the three rows of equipment lined by type in the cardio room. An athletic jock ran full speed on one of the treadmills. Another man read the newspaper on a stationary bike facing the windowed wall to the mat room, and behind him, a woman paged through a magazine on an elliptical machine.
I stepped onto a treadmill in the last row and programmed the machine for a twenty-minute run. Course: Manual. Age: 38. Weight: 125 (-ish). Speed: 5.5. Incline: 0.
In the row ahead of me, a male exec type looking like money in designer track pants and a Cannes T-shirt, clicked the remote to switch channels on the mounted TV from news to a scripted “reality” program titled—according to the superimposed caption—Atlanta Wife Life.
Seriously? The guy wants to watch reality TV? Now? Waking up was enough reality for me. But like a gawker rubbernecking at a freeway pileup, I couldn’t resist a peek at the show’s unfolding theatrics.
Onscreen, a fortyish babe with lips plumped to a duck pout, false eyelashes heavy enough to require props, and earrings like road barrier reflectors dangling at her jawline, fumed at the camera. “I hope she dies alone and I never see her again. She stole the man that my girlfriend loved since high school.”
Cut to—well, calling either woman onscreen an actress would be an insult to the profession—wannabe celeb number two: a fleshy, sobbing brunette with chasm-like cleavage. “She stabbed me in the back.” Snurf.
Sympathy enlisted for the whiners in designer duds? Zero. I clicked my iPod on and ran at an easy pace with Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” drowning out the TV noise.
Blame my plumber, Stan, and an utter lack of showering resources at home for necessitating the early morning gym visits. I had to wait two months after moving into my new house for Stan’s schedule to clear so he could complete the overhaul of the upstairs bathrooms. Weeks of bathing in the squeaky-piped, worn-porcelain bathtub and mildewed showers left by the prior owner inspired me to sacrifice convenience for new fixtures, prompting my rise at dawn to shower two miles away. I opted for the gym as a bonus—the move had added a few pounds of stress-driven, comfort-food weight to my waistline.