If I hadn’t known Brad since my theatre days, I would have believed him capable. A tiny nerd-man who plots murders for a living and sleeps on a blow-up mattress in an attic of a house full of assorted misfits, druggies, and ne’er-do-wells wasn’t exactly the picture of good mental health. Considering he hadn’t sold a screenplay yet, I often wondered where his income came from. Guess selling weed was pretty lucrative. The little weirdo was probably a grave robber on the side.

“I would do it myself if I wouldn’t get caught. But he’s so mean he’d probably haunt me from beyond the grave.”

Brad rotated back to his computer. “You know it’s going to be an uphill battle to sell this, right?”

“I know, but Cody mentioned something that I’ve been considering and wanted to discuss with you. I’m thinking about starting my own production company. Instead of proposing this as a movie, how about producing it as a play and starting our own theatre company together? Will you help me?”

Brad considered it for a long moment, bare foot tapping on a pair of boxers strewn under the desk. Ew, as Vera would say.

“You know what—why not? Let’s do it! Let’s make a killing killing.”

I chuckled at his terrible play on words. “So I finally have an idea for how to murder the husband and get away with it.” I envisioned Mortimer Randolph slicing his apple, carelessly dropping the peels for me to pick up. “And it involves a paring knife.”

“You’ve piqued my attention.”

As I gathered my ideas in my mouth, ready to tell my new partner all the ways I had imagined killing my boss, my cell phone rang. Speak of the devil, it was Mortimer’s number. If I didn’t need the Pretty Woman gig so badly, I would have ignored him. But two grand could be enough to get my new business venture started. I accepted the call.

“Miss Portman”—Mortimer sounded agitated and out of breath—“I need you to come down here right away.”

I wondered why he would call his assistant rather than an ambulance. If I kept the old coot on the line long enough, maybe he’d die before help arrived. “What’s the emergency?” I answered reluctantly, feigning concern.

“I can’t find my lucky cufflinks.”

All I could think as I agreed to rush over there right away was jabbing those lucky cufflinks into his two beady eyeballs.

**

The sun had sunk into the horizon, and the moon grinned high above me by the time I got home. I didn’t want to face Cody right now, as we hadn’t yet made up after our “disagreement”—a fight would have drawn blood—and I didn’t feel like playing the dutifully apologetic wife. This was on him to fix. He was the cheater, not me.