Death Was the Other Woman A Mystery

Deep in the Depression, there are two ways to make a living in L.A.: join the criminals or collar them. Kitty Pangborn's chosen the crime-fighters, becoming secretary to Dexter Theroux, one of the hard-drinking, tough-talking PIs that pepper the city's stew. But after Dex takes a job with the mistress of one of L.A.'s most corrupt businessmen, Kitty isn't so sure what side of the law she's on. The mistress has asked Dex to tail her lover, and Kitty goes along for the ride. When they discover a corpse, only to have it disappear, Kitty begins to realize that there's more to this story than jealousy, and more money at risk than her paycheck. Rich with period detail and sharp dialogue, Richards has created a quick-witted character who gives a brand new twist to the hard-boiled style. Click here to see the Reading Group Guide for Death was the Other Woman .

LINDA L. RICHARDS is the editor and cofounder of January magazine (www.januarymagazine.com) and a regular contributor to The Rap Sheet (therapsheet.blogspot.com). Mad Money, her first work of long fiction, was nominated for the Arthur Ellis Award for best first novel. Death Was the Other Woman is her hardcover debut. She lives near Vancouver.

Chapter 1

HE’S DRESSED WELL, the dying man. Sharply, one would say. He’s wearing a good suit. Dark, and of a wool so fine it would feel soft to the touch. The suit has a pale pinstripe; it’s barely discernible. And he’s wearing the suit well—he wore it well—except for the dying part.

He’s standing there, his lifeblood draining from him, the look on his face showing surprise as much as horror. He hadn’t planned on dying today. Had, in fact, planned on being the one doing the killing. Killing is part of his job. Not dying. There’s not enough money in L.A.—or the world for that matter—to get a man to give up his life as easily as that.

The man is standing. I can see him as clearly as if I were there, though of course I was not. But I understand things now. Things I had no hope of understanding at the time. I can re-create them in my mind and know what the details mean.

His hat is fashionable, well shaped, well made, and for the moment, it’s worn at a good angle. His features are as well cut as his suit. Dark like the suit as well. He’d be handsome if he weren’t presently concerned about the end he can see so clearly.

Another man is there, similarly dressed, but the look on his face is different. No surprise. No pain. He’s in control. He’s always in control. The gun in his hand tells that story.

The woman is barely in the room, but she doesn’t look away. That shocks me somehow. She shouldn’t watch. Why would she watch? What profit will her witness bring?

She’s exquisite. That shocks me as well. Her shoulders are broad and smooth. Her legs long and well defined. Her hair, her features, soft and lovely. And the look on her face . . . that shocks me most of all. Not pleasure, no. But not distress either. To her, this scene is correct. The only proper conclusion to a story she helped write.

But all of this is later. Much later. It makes sense to me now. But then? Not then. At the time I found him, it made no sense at all.

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