The Unkindest Cut

Table of Contents

‘‘Emma Diamond and her . . . friends Sophie and Marylou may not be experts at the table, but they’re determined to trump someone’s ace in this quiet Houston suburb. A charming and clever debut by Honor Hartman. ’’

—*Joan Hess, author of the Claire Malloy and Maggody series

‘‘Hartman plays this hand . . . with aplomb, and bridge players and mystery fans alike will want to see what she deals out next.’’ —
Richmond-Times Dispatch

‘‘A terrific amateur sleuth series. The story line is well plotted and contains quite a few twists and tricks as Emma bids on who killed the despot.’’

—
Midwest Book Review

‘‘Understanding the actual game play is not necessary to enjoy the mystery. If you’re interested in learning the game, the author includes some good resources and tips at the end of the book to get you started. The mystery is quite interesting, and the author manages to throw in a few good twists toward the end.
On the Slam
is a good start to what promises to be an entertaining series.’’ —CA Reviews

‘‘A good yarn . . . I look forward to seeing where Ms. Hartman takes the series.’’ —Gumshoe

‘‘Readers who are not bridge players needn’t shy away from this cozy, which is populated with likable characters. [
On the Slam
] will provide an afternoon of fun."

—
Romantic Times

OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, June 2008

Copyright © Dean James, 2008

All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Thanks are due, as always, to several people who contribute in important ways to the process. Kerry Donovan, my editor, has been supportive and encouraging; Nancy Yost, my agent, takes care of the business end capably and cheerfully; and my never-failing support team, Tejas Englesmith, Julie Wray Herman, and Patricia Orr, continue to be there whenever I need them. Finally, a word to my friends at Murder by the Book in Houston: thank you for your unfailing efforts to get the word out about my books. Your enthusiasm and effort are much appreciated.

The bridge retreat depicted in the pages of this novel is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental. The characters and events were designed to suit the demands of the plot and nothing more.

Chapter 1

I stared at my hand. Was it strong enough for the course of action I was attempting?

There was only one way to find out. I hesitated a moment longer, then clicked on the button to bid six hearts.

I half expected my computer opponent to double, and when that didn’t happen, I grinned. I had been playing this computer bridge game for a little over six months now, and I had yet to understand all its vagaries of bidding.

Olaf stretched and yawned in my lap, his claws kneading the side of my thigh. Thank goodness I had clipped his nails yesterday, or I would have had little spots of blood all over my sweatpants by the time he was through. I rubbed his head, and his purring hit overdrive.

Hilda, my other cat, contemplated me sleepily from her napping spot on the desk by my computer. I had long ago given up trying to dissuade the two cats from climbing all over me and my computer when I was trying to work—or play bridge, which I had to admit happened a lot more frequently than work these days. We had settled on a compromise—Olaf in my lap, Hilda on a comfy pad on the desk where she could keep an eye on Olaf and me.

I focused my attention on the computer. It had made the opening lead, and now my dummy partner’s hand was revealed. I quickly counted the points in it, and I grinned again. With my eighteen high card points and dummy’s thirteen, we had enough for slam.

Before playing out of dummy’s hand to continue the first round, I made some quick calculations. I could easily make six hearts, but only if the king of spades was held by my left-hand opponent. The finesse had to work.

I began to play the game, clicking away with my right hand while my left continued rubbing Olaf’s head. The spade king fell as I hoped, assuring me of victory. I was about to click on the next card when a voice called from downstairs.

‘‘Emma! Where are you?’’

‘‘In my office,’’ I yelled back. ‘‘Come on up.’’ I grimaced when Olaf dug his claws into my leg as he prepared to jump to the floor. Even clipped, those claws were sharp enough to penetrate the skin when twelve pounds of cat decided to use my leg as a launching pad.

I finished the game and shut down the computer just as my next-door neighbor and best friend, Sophie Parker, appeared in the doorway. ‘‘Morning, Emma,’’ she said. ‘‘Did you win?’’ She tilted her head toward the computer.

‘‘Morning, and yes, I did,’’ I said, examining her from head to toe. I marveled as always at the fact that she almost never appeared anything other than immaculately turned out. Ruefully, I glanced down at my ratty old sweatpants and faded Rice T-shirt. My hair was probably sticking up in spikes, not to mention the hated cowlick I had never been able to conquer.

Sophie’s blond head shone, her hair neatly pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her sweats, made of iridescent, multicolored silk material, probably cost more than the most expensive dress in my closet. Then there were the running shoes—shoes that were never used for running, of course. Sophie was elegantly thin, and though she reputedly spent time on a treadmill every day, I had yet to see this fabled machine.

‘‘What is it, Emma?’’ Sophie asked, smiling.

I shook my head. ‘‘Nothing. I’m wondering, yet again, how you always look like you just stepped out of the Neiman Marcus catalog.’’

She giggled at that comment. ‘‘You do say the sweetest things. But I guess that’s what best friends are for.’’

I couldn’t help smiling back at her. We had been best friends for a long time, ever since she was four and I was twelve. We had grown up next door to each other in another part of Houston, and both of us had parents who were flaky in vastly different ways. Sophie and I, and my younger brother, Jake, had looked out for one another, especially since the so-called adults in our lives were too busy with other things to pay much attention to their children.

‘‘Don’t you get tired of sitting at that computer?’’ Sophie asked. ‘‘I swear, you’re playing bridge on it every time I come over lately.’’

‘‘It passes the time,’’ I said, ‘‘and it does help me with my bridge game.’’

‘‘You are playing very well these days,’’ Sophie said, ‘‘so I suppose the computer does help.’’ Olaf twined himself around her legs, and she reached down and scratched his head. Sophie had two dogs, Boston terriers, and Olaf loved rubbing himself on her legs. No doubt it drove Mavis and Martha crazy when their mommy came home smelling of cat, and that’s exactly what Olaf intended, I was sure. On the few occasions when my cats and Sophie’s dogs had shared the same space, they had not been happy about it.

‘‘Thank you.’’ Sophie played very well, too, though I didn’t think she worked at it the way I did. Some people are naturally good at many things without a lot of effort, and Sophie was one of those people. If I didn’t love her so much, I could have cheerfully killed her on many occasions.

I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past eight thirty. ‘‘How about some coffee?’’ I asked as I led the way downstairs.

‘‘Sounds good,’’ Sophie replied. ‘‘And do you have any of that yummy coffee cake left?’’ Then she sighed. ‘‘I really shouldn’t have any, but it’s so wonderful I simply can’t resist.’’

I laughed as she followed me into the kitchen. ‘‘Yes, I do have some left. I keep telling Marylou she doesn’t have to bring coffee cake all the time, but she never listens to me.’’

‘‘Thank goodness she doesn’t,’’ Sophie said as she helped herself to coffee from the pot on the counter. ‘‘I like being spoiled.’’

I retrieved some dessert plates from the cabinet, cut generous slices of coffee cake for each of us, and set them on the table. I poured myself some coffee and sat down across from Sophie.

‘‘Have you talked to Marylou this morning?’’ Sophie asked as she pinched a piece of coffee cake and popped it into her mouth.

‘‘No,’’ I said, ‘‘but now that her friend is visiting, I’m sure she’s busy with her.’’

Marylou Lockridge, a widow in her mid-sixties, was my neighbor on the other side. In the past few months, since I had moved into this house, Sophie and I had grown very close to Marylou. We shared coffee every morning, usually in my kitchen, since my house was between theirs, and this morning it felt distinctly odd not to have Marylou’s motherly presence at the table with us.