Page 114 of A Dead End Wedding

Who wants to date your secretary.

The mere thought of Mike and Brenda sent me back to the refrigerator for my third slice of cake of the day. Chocolate is great for concussions, right? I carried my slab of cake and a glass of milk back to the bed with me and settled in for the night.

Those glamorous lawyers on TV got nothing' on me.

Iwoke up Monday morning and realized I was almost afraid to drive to work. The person (or persons, plural, I still had a hard time believing Gina Schiantelli was behind all of it, psycho nail file incident or no) who was stalking me had had the entire day Sunday to plot new tortures.

When I realized I was cowering in my bed, it ticked me off. There was no way I was going to let some low-rent thug get the better of me. Especially when I was freshly fueled with pot roast and chocolate cake.

After doing the shower/makeup/hair thing, I dressed in my second favorite red power suit – the one with the extra couple of inches in the waist for those special, post-cake binge days – and black pumps with the three-inch heels. I figured if I had to go down, I was at least going to look good on the way. Then I headed out the door to get my keys from Emily and get on with my life.

I stopped on the sidewalk outside of my house and looked around for nefarious types, not sure what a nefarious type would look like, but sure it would involve hairiness and missing teeth. Tattoos, probably.

Mr. Feldman from down the street was walking Gigi, his Pomeranian, but he didn't really qualify, since he was bald and had enormous dentures. I waved to him and waited till he shuffled on by, then I made as hideous a scowling face as I could, kind of "constipated pirate," and swept the street with my fearsome gaze.

"Watch out, stalker. I'm in the mood to take names and kick ass," I growled.

Then I felt stupid, because I'msonot a growler, but at least it made me laugh. It's hard for your teeth to chatter when you're laughing.

Not that I was scared or anything.

Much.

Iwas the first one at the office, and I walked from room to room, making sure nothing had been vandalized. Everything looked fine, so I brewed a pot of coffee and dove into the Deaver production. Now that we had the key, the documents were making sense. I wanted to establish at least a rough timeline by the end of the day ofwhofirst had noticewhenof the potential problem with the insulin. I also needed to call my experts, so I could understand the insulin production process. It was going to be an enormous undertaking, and the case might carry on for years.

I banished the queasy stomachache that started up at the thought. "A journey begins with the first step, and a document review begins with the first page, right?" I muttered, then clipped my hair back out of my face, pulled out a fresh legal pad, and got to work.

"Anybody home?" Mr. Ellison's voice broke into my concentration, and I looked up at the clock, blinking. It was nearly nine. Somehow, two hours and most of a cup of coffee had vanished. But I'd filled half of a legal pad with notes, and my timeline was coming along, so I didn't mind the interruption.

Plus, there was the matter of the name "Percival."

He ambled into my office, hands stuffed in the pockets of green and pink plaid pants, which threw me off. "Do you buy those pants on purpose to give Max fits?"

"What's wrong with my pants? These are the latest fashion!" he said, brows pulling together in the middle of his wrinkly forehead.

"In the land of dead golfers, maybe."

He ignored me. "Why shouldn't blondes get coffee breaks?"

"Oh, no. Definitely no blonde jokes. Mr. Ellison, I told you?—"

"Because it takes too long to retrain them!" He slapped the doorframe with his hand, clearly overcome with his own cleverness.

I contemplated the consequences if I hit him over the head — with the ten pounds of myBlack's Law Dictionary —and buried the body.

"Who wants to dig a grave in this heat?" I asked, pushing myself up out of my chair to go find more coffee.

"What? What did you ask me? What about graves?"

"Never mind, Mr. Ell— . . .Percy.Never mind," I said, grinning as I slipped past him to the coffee room.

"You . . . I . . . Hey!" he shouted. "Never, ever call me that! I hate that name. Got beat up for two years after the kids at school found out about that name."

I rolled my eyes. "Or maybe it was just your charming personality," I said under my breath, not really sure that baiting my employee was appropriate, no matter how annoying he was.

"Okay, here's the deal," I said, swinging around to face him. "You quit calling me girlie, I quit calling you Percy. If not, I may have to let it drop in front of Mrs. Zivkovich . . ." I let my voice trail off, leaving him to imagine the humiliation.

All the blood drained out of his face, which was even scarier than it sounds. "You wouldn't."

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