Cover copy
The Tobias Ad Agency is in the running for the coveted Golden Storyboard, and Tobi couldn’t be more thrilled—until she discovers it’s literally an award to die for.
It’s an honor just to be nominated. But, let’s get real, Tobi wants to win. The St. Louis Advertising Awards are like the Oscars for her field, and Tobi is up for its most prestigious prize, Best Overall Ad Campaign. The competition is always fierce, but this year it’s killer . . .
Despite her high hopes, Tobi isn’t exactly shocked when she doesn’t win. But she is shocked when the winner, Deidre Ryan, takes the stage only to plummet to her death as a platform suddenly gives way. After the police discover foul play, Tobi’s Grandpa Stu wastes no time in nominating suspects. But was Deidre the intended victim—or was someone else meant to take the fatal fall? Now it’s a race to catch a killer in the spotlight, before another nominee gets the booby prize and Tobi gets trapped in a no-win situation.
Books by Laura Bradford
And DEATH Goes To…
30 Second Death
Death in Advertising
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
And DEATH Goes To...
A Tobi Tobias Mystery
Laura Bradford
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Laura Bradford
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First Electronic Edition:
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0210-5
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0210-X
First Print Edition:
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0211-2
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0211-8
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Joe…
Thank you for helping me see the shoreline at a time it seemed so very far away.
~Chapter One~
You know the kid who lurks at the top of the stairs, listening to adult conversations they’re not supposed to hear? Or the one who rummages through the closets in the weeks leading up to Christmas because they have to know what Santa is bringing?
Yup, that was me.
And while I no longer qualify as a kid (freckles be damned) and now live alone in my own one bedroom apartment, I still lurk (only now it’s from behind curtained windows) and I still peek (or try to) every chance I get.
Unless, of course, my best friend, Carter McDade, is running the show.
You see, Carter is the epitome of the surprise-loving, rule-following, anti-peeker my mother always wished I was. And if you try to go behind his back and peek—as I was at that moment—he was known to get a little testy (not a good thing when he had both a hot curling iron and a bottle of glue within arm’s reach).
“Oh, Sunshine, you are sooo going to be the belle of the ball tonight.” Carter took a half step back only to hone in on the side of my head like a vulture spying residual roadkill on the side of the road. “Waaaiitt! Don’t move.”
In a flash of movement even a fighter pilot would find impressive, Carter commandeered the still warm curling iron from the folding table he’d erected in front of me and brandished it above my right ear. In went the strand...tug went my head…spin went his hand…and, after a Mississippi-count to ten beneath his breath, out came the now-curled strand I could just barely see in my peripheral vision.
He set down the curling iron and applauded his own efforts. “Oh. My. Gosh. I. Am. A. Genius. Andy is going to bust a serious move when he sees yooouuu!”
“A serious move, huh?” I started to turn toward the mirror I knew was just over my shoulder, but before my chin had even made it a centimeter past the position I’d been ordered to hold for coming up on thirty minutes now, he leaned forward, his breath warm on my ear.
“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It. Sunshine.”
I groaned, loudly. “Has anyone ever told you how infuriating you can be?”
“Yes. You. About”—Carter checked his royal blue Swatch—“five minutes ago.”
I crossed my arms in front of my minuscule (no, really…trust me) chest and let loose a dramatic sigh. “Good.”
Carter stuck his tongue out at me and then grabbed my makeup bag off the table.
“Wait. You already did my makeup,” I protested.
“Your foundation, yes. But that’s simply the canvas. Now it’s time for the artwork.” He grabbed a second bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a plastic container with two sets of false eyelashes.
“Hey… You’ve always said you like my lashes!”
“I do. But tonight calls for long and lush.” He ordered me to shut my eyes and, when I did, stuck the lashes into place with the aforementioned glue. When I blinked, he barked. When I protested, he barked. And when all was as he wanted, he moved on to my eyelids. “The teal of your dress, combined with this shadow palette, will really play up the green hue of your eyes—rowwww.”
“Since I’m afraid to open my eyes lest I get beaten, I guess I’ll have to trust you on that.”
“As you should.” He stepped back, contemplated his efforts thus far, and then took in the part of my dress he could see peeking out from under my smock. “That dress really is spectacular on you, Sunshine.”
“I know. You told me that when you helped me pick it out, remember?” I held my chin and my gaze steady as he moved on to the mascara, my thoughts moving beyond my friend’s apartment to the reason for my makeover. “I still can’t believe I’m going tonight.”
“You’ve gone to this shindig before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but this is different, Carter. I’m a nominee now. An actual, honest-to-goodness nominee.”
“You act like that’s such a shocker, Sunshine. But it’s not. You’re really good at”—Carter’s fingers guided