If Looks Could Kill
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From the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan magazine and author of Why Good Girls Dont Get Ahead but Gutsy Girls Do comes a debut novel about a true crime writer for New Yorks hottest womens magazine. Bailey Weggins, a clever writer for a leading womens magazine, Gloss, is dragged into a murder investigation by her editor-in-chief and boss from hell, Cat Jones. Cat is a woman who gets what she wants from her employees, so when she discovers that her nanny has been murdered she insists Bailey find the killer before the police do. Was the chocolate that poisoned the nanny meant for Cat, known for her love of truffles? But then, the beautiful, duplicitous nanny has an enemy list all her own. The investigation takes Bailey from the streets of New York City to the swankiest Connecticut suburbs and Bucks County retreats, and everyone is a suspect, including the catty editors at Gloss. Bailey proves that she is the original gutsy girl when she outwits the clever killer.
was on foot, and I sloshed over, getting wetter and grouchier by the minute. Now what? I wondered. Earlier, I’d been sure the flower petal I’d found in the Jiffy Bag must have come from the Godiva box but I hadn’t found the proof I’d hoped for. Of course, all the police would have to do is compare the petal with the flower they had in their possession, but I didn’t have that luxury. And I didn’t want to create a ruckus about the whole thing if there was a chance I was wrong. Could I get the petal
gotten a little sloppy about carrying it around, but because I’d been going away for the weekend, I’d made a point of tossing it into my bag. If I hadn’t, I’d be dead. And I might be dead if Cat hadn’t come striding down that hall. Tears began to squeeze out from under my lids. I dozed off, but I wasn’t sure for how long. When I opened my eyes, Cat was sitting in a chair, leafing through a magazine without really reading it. “You got through?” I asked. “Yeah. New developments,” she said. “I
the murderer could easily be someone from Gloss. All the senior staff from Gloss, plus Audrey, had been invited, though not everyone had showed. The photo editor and art director, for instance, had wiggled out of going, and so had the beauty editor, who was on maternity leave. Leslie, Polly, Rachel, and Kip had come, as had Sasha, the fashion editor, who was now in Palm Springs with those orange stilettos. I thought for a second about each of them. None had displayed any hostility toward Cat
know either especially well, the only thing they ever seemed annoyed with was working late during closing. At the last minute, because of a mediocre response from the press, an additional dozen Gloss staffers had been invited, in order to pad the room. I could see their names as add-ons at the bottom of the list. They were mainly senior editors in fashion, beauty, and articles. Could one of them have an ax to grind? Cat was a demanding boss, frequently abrupt, generally on the far side of
a king in the candlelit dining room of his big stone house on Saturday night and been served a beef bourguignonne loaded with carrots and onions and wild mushrooms from the woods—prepared by the fetching former food editor. An intriguing idea, maybe worth a police investigation of its own. It would also mean, then, that the two deaths were nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. When I returned to New York I’d see if I could turn up the name of the mushroom club that Bobb belonged to. Maybe