A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (13 page)

That ended abruptly. The next three dresses did not work at all. One was too broad in the shoulders, another would have looked great if she were 5’7” instead of 5’4”, and the third was in a shade of gold that somehow washed the color out of her hair. She was growing weary of the process when Angela brought her a luxuriously soft, beautifully tailored camel’s hair blazer and matching pencil skirt. The suit fit like a glove. She disliked suits but the color, fit and luscious fabric won her over. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a camisole or blouse to match in her size, but she could find one later if she didn’t already have something in her closet at home that worked. They did have a simple cashmere wool-blend sweater in black with a V-neck, which fit well and could be worn with the pencil skirt, giving it a finished look without the blazer.

Jessica had been at it for nearly an hour, and she needed to feed the meter. She still hadn’t looked at the fall collections to see what she might ask them to set aside for her or send to her in Rancho Mirage. She was about to call it a day when Angela handed her one more dress. A soft knit, panel dress in navy blue with a V-neckline and three quarter length sleeves, it was form-fitting but tailored.

Angela sent someone to pump coins into the meter urging Jessica to slip into the dress. A matching long-sleeved jacket with inverted notched lapels was also available in her size. The minute she put it on Jessica knew that was it. The dress she was going to wear. It was an inch or so too long, but Alfonso assured her he could hem and press the skirt for her in a half hour or less. Comfortable and elegant, the dress would put her at ease at the office, and would be suitable for dinner later. Of course, she’d take the others too. By morning, she might change her mind, and wear that gorgeous red dress instead. They would all be useful as she forged ahead, rebuilding her legal career. A shopping buzz pulsed through her body.

While the tailor set to work altering her dress, Jessica went through a few remaining items Angela thought might be suitable as accessories. She bought a beautiful, classic pair of pumps in a deep caramel color with black heels, a wonderful roomy leather satchel in black, and a tote in navy. In addition, she purchased two luxurious multi-colored silk scarves that would add a bit of panache to the suit and dresses she had selected.

Getting her second wind, Jessica picked out a pair of Doppio stretch wool, classic crop pants, and a matching tunic of the same lightweight fabric. Both were in a deep red they called Bordeaux. She couldn’t resist the soft allure of a scoop neck jersey tee in black. More than a little sexy paired with sleek skinny black pants with zippered cuffs. Not that sexy mattered. For a split second she flashed on Frank’s appreciative gaze as he left the house on Sunday. Maybe sexy did matter. “Ay yi yi,” Jessica thought.

She was done. Ordering from the new collection would have to wait. When they rang up the total Jessica experienced a brief bout of vertigo. Yet another symptom of her anxiety disorder, perhaps. Worrying about money did not keep her awake at night. It did occur to her, however, that this tab was all hers now that she had signed those divorce papers. In only 24 hours, American Express had been happy to issue her a new card as Jessica Huntington, no hyphen. She had wasted no time in putting it to use.

Jessica vowed to take a serious look at her finances before the end of the year. She was not nearly ready to buy a place of her own, in the desert or LA or anywhere else. If the contract she signed with Paul Worthington was extended beyond the year they agreed upon, then it might be worth making more permanent living arrangements. Of course, she might feel a great deal more urgency to find her own place if her mother, with husband-du-jour, turned up.

“I need a year,” she cried inwardly for the umpteenth time, as that hyped-up feeling began to sweep over her again. She would have to start keeping tabs on the real estate market anyway if she and the Van der Woerts hit it off. What if they didn’t—hit it off that is? Then what? The panic was creeping up on her. She had to get out of there. Maybe it would help to go for a walk while she waited for Alfonso to finish his handiwork.

Jessica hollered “back in a few minutes” as she rushed out of the store and into the waiting arms of a startlingly gorgeous afternoon in the 90210 zip code. The auric sunlight, vivid blues skies and swaying palms on Rodeo Drive, beckoned. All the wealth and beauty of that street countered her anxiety with a big dose of the “anything’s possible” spirit that pervades “LA-LA” land. The city of angels is, if nothing else, a city of dreamers. Despite her recent troubles Jessica’s life was about as close as you could get to the life so many Angelinos dreamed about. Jessica stood on the street, trying to decide what to do as tourists and locals streamed by.

Suddenly, her heart
sank. Out of a shop door, not half a block away, strode home-wrecker-Barbie. Having no baby bump yet, she wore tight, skinny white jeans and a sheer tank over a sports bra that left little to the imagination. Her wide-brimmed black-banded Panama hat teetered atop cascading, platinum locks, boosted by a surfeit of expensive hair extensions. As she made her way out of the store in strappy 6-inch stiletto heels, she did not wobble. Not even when stopping on a dime to smile for a member of the paparazzi. One hand carried shopping bags and the other held the leash for a large white standard poodle, all poofs and flounce, wearing a sparkly dog collar.

“Cruella De Vil, in person,” Jessica sputtered to herself as the vamp ambled toward her. “I know, I know, right
bitch, wrong dog,” she muttered nonsensically as she searched for an escape route before the creature could reach her. She wasn’t worried about a soap-opera style confrontation of the cuckolded wife by the victorious younger woman. The Hollywood hussy might not even recognize her. What worried Jessica was how strong an urge she had to knock the silly skank off her tacky heels and onto her surgically enhanced derriere.

“Sprinkles, I need cupcakes.” There was a Sprinkles cupcake store on Santa Monica Boulevard. Not more than a couple blocks fr
om where she stood, in the midst of the so-called “Golden Triangle” shopping district. Jessica was trying to remember exactly where the treasure trove of sugary delights was located when the bimbo-show began in earnest.

An officious older woman suddenly appeared, swooping down upon the photographer as though to shoo him away. Another blond, she had the teased hairspray-encrusted coiffure and taut, overly-done face all too common among SoCal realtors or agents. Or, as in this case, personal assistants who used to be realtors or agents before the Great Recession. Of course, the photographer was not dissuaded from taking photos. Her actions drew even more attention to the top-heavy, red-lipped sex-pot.

As a crowd of tourists gathered to gawk, the dog became agitated and began to whimper. At the same time, a small gust of wind threatened to claim the Panama hat perched atop the starlet’s head. When she reached up to grab her hat, the bags on her arm swung wide. She clocked the guy behind her who dropped a stack of packages he was carrying. That spooked the dog, which lunged forward, pulling his mistress with him. She collided with the personal assistant, and down they went, the stunned older woman cushioning the fall of the royally pissed-off younger one. Dumping her shopping bags, the now furious actress reached up with long red fingernails. She swatted at the photographer who was still snapping pictures a few inches away from her angry face. He dodged her, took a step back and continued to shoot. Still hanging onto the dog’s leash, she was hurling epithets that would make a sailor blush. The guy she had whacked stopped trying to pick up his packages and hurried over to try to untangle the two blonds, the dog, and the shopping bags. A moment of gut-wrenching revulsion overtook Jessica. It was her ex, Jim Harper.

“Cassie, are you okay?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “Do you want me to call 911? Do you need a doctor?” He was practically dragging her to her feet as he spoke.

“Shut the fuck up, Jim! I don’t need a doctor! I need a lawyer to sue that fat bastard who’s still taking pictures of me. Sandra, you clumsy cow, get up off the ground, now! Jim,
you’re
a lawyer. Do something!” she ordered, stamping her foot. Sandra, still on the ground, moved but did not get up.

Jim looked around, perhaps tem
pted to just get the hell out of there. As he did that, he spotted Jessica and froze. Even though they were both wearing dark glasses, the mutual recognition was instant as their lens-clad eyes met. Jim blanched, turning almost the same shade as his beloved’s platinum hair. Jessica gave him the tiniest salute as she turned on her heel and headed away from the scene, remembering exactly where that bakery was located.

“Oh, the tangled web we weave,” she said to herself, as she floated down the street toward cupcake heaven. “It would be wrong to skip,” she babbled, a little maniacally. Having slipped out of those Jimmy Choo pumps and back into her Super Ga tennis shoes, she could have done it. But it would be wrong.

Behind her, the dog started to bark. The enraged diva was ranting again at the top of her lungs. “I want that camera! Give me that camera, you asshole!” Then someone shouted.

“Look out! You’re going to step on that lady on the ground.” That was followed by a shrill cry of pain.

And a reply, “Sandra, you syphilitic whore, get the fuck out of my way. If nobody else is going to get the camera from that son-of-a-bitch, I will!”

“Cassy, no, please, not in your condition!” Jessica recognized J
im’s voice, even with the plaintive tone it had taken on. There was more, but Jessica’s phone chose that moment to ring.

CHAPTER 9

“Hello, Jessica Huntington speaking.”

“Ms. Huntington, Dick Tatum here. You left a message about my client, Chester Davis, right? How can I help you?”

Jessica had completely forgotten about leaving that message. In fact, in the rush of shopping, the call of cupcakes, and the fracas on Rodeo Drive, she had put Chester Davis and Kelly
Fontana out of her mind completely. “Some friend,” she thought, as she hustled on down the street to get further away from the blond bombshell in mid-explosion. A number of people were shouting, and she could still make out the strident cadence of the starlet’s rant even as she increased her distance from the scene. The sound of police sirens could now be heard in the distance.

“Mr. Tatum, thank you so much for returning my call.” Jessica spent the next several minutes explaining who she was and why she had called. “I’d like to meet Chester Davis and speak to him, in person. Preferably Wednesday morning if that’s possible.” Dick Tatum, an affable sort of guy, had no problem with the idea of her speaking to his client if Chester Davis was willing to do so.

“In fact, I welcome your input. His drug habit is taking a toll. He’s like a light bulb that flickers on and off, so it’s hard to know how seriously to take him. I’ve known him for years now, but this is the first time he’s ever made such a claim. Of course, he’s in more trouble now than he’s been in before, so I suppose he could have been saving this information for just such an occasion.”

“
Detective Greenwald mentioned that this is his third strike, and that there was a gun at the scene. Sounds like his situation is rather dire, Mr. Tatum.”

“It is. Desperation can lead a man to do desperate things, but Chet’s never really tried to pull the wool over my eyes. As far as
I know, he’s an honest low level hustler, petty thief and addict, if you know what I mean. He’s always owned up to the fact that he’s got problems, most of them, drug-related. His previous attempts at rehab were legit, as far as I could tell. They helped get him clean and sober for a while, a year or two. He knows he’s in trouble and he’s scared. What I can’t make out for sure is if he’s scared because of the current trouble he’s in, or because he’s spilling his guts about a murder. Fear could be the reason he kept his mouth shut for so long, if what he says
is
true. He could be just as terrified at the prospect of being locked up for good, so I don’t know. Anyway, if you meet me at the County Jail Wednesday morning, say 10:30, and he wants to talk to you, fine. If not, that’s his choice, too.”

“Thanks, Mr. Tatum. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Just as Jessica hung up the phone, she reached the end of a line of people waiting to get into Sprinkles. Brooding while she waited, she went over the conversation with Dick Tatum. She didn’t like the fact that Chester Davis was scared. Not a good sign.

The line moved forward and Jessica stepped into the store. The scent of sugar and spice, the happy chirping of Angelinos getting a sugar fix, pushed the conversation with Dick Tatum to the back of her mind. Her eyes reveled in the sight of the scrumptious-looking cupcakes. She was glad she wasn’t yet next in line. It took her a couple minutes to narrow down her choices, then, decide between the vanilla milk chocolate and red velvet bundles of bliss. She needed chocolate.

Savoring the rich, silky chocolate icing, laced with a hint of bourbon, Jessica strolled back down Santa Monica to Rodeo Drive. She tried to make the little confection last as long as she could, but finally polished it off. Doing the mental calculation of how many minutes she might have to swim or cycle to work it off did not lead to a moment of buyer’s remorse.

Claiming her purchases from Max Mara was another matter. If she hadn’t needed clothes for the very next day, she would have called and had them ship everything to her. Jessica strained her eyes for any remnant of the spectacle she had witnessed. Her anger had morphed into sadness. This afternoon’s encounter was too reminiscent of the last time she had stumbled upon Jim and the she-devil going at it
. She felt ashamed of Jim. The Jim she had fallen in love with would never have allowed himself to be humiliated like he had been today. She also felt like a fool realizing now that he was, as her father had said, so much less than she had imagined.

The street ahead seemed quiet, although a police car was parked at the curb across the street. Straining to peer into the back of the police car and seeing it
was empty, Jessica picked up the pace and closed the distance to Max Mara’s in no time flat. Angela rushed to greet her. Jessica’s purchases were ready, and shop staff loaded them into the trunk of Jessica’s car quickly. The relief she felt pulling away from the curb was enormous, as if she were fleeing the scene of a crime.

By six Jessica had arrived at the Brentwood house, making
a stop on the way for take-out sushi. She unloaded the car and hung up the new clothes, carefully, so there wouldn’t be a wrinkle in them. Running her hands over the luxurious fabrics and smoothing the elegant lines soothed her, as images from the day bounced around in her head. That look on Jim’s face today was haunting. How had this man, her husband, become a beast of burden for a screeching banshee? In all their years of marriage, she had never asked Jim to carry packages for her or even considered shouting at him in public. She almost felt sorry for him…the two-timing, unprincipled, dirtball.

She knew she should hop on one of the fitness contraptions her dad owned. Not only would it be penance for the cupcake. It might also stop the ping pong match going on in her head between pity and rage at Jim. It was such a nice evening in LA. Clear skies,
a perfect temperature, and the sun would be setting within the hour. She could just sit on the patio, eat sushi, and watch the distant lights come on as the city began to sparkle. A breeze beckoned. Sushi and city views won out!

In the kitchen, Jessica picked up the stack of mail she had brought in from the box
near the front gate. The team caring for her dad’s house had some rule they used about forwarding mail to her dad at selective intervals, tracking him wherever he was. A tray in the butler’s pantry was used to hold the mail until it was sent to her father. As she carried the stack to the tray, several pieces slid out and fluttered to the ground. Jessica bent to retrieve them and stopped short. One of the items was a post card, written in her mother’s hand. On the front was an idyllic scene of blue-domed, white stucco structures overlooking azure waters, with a golden sun hung low over the horizon. A little blurb on the back identified the scene: “Santorini, jewel of the Aegean.” Her mother must have talked Giovanni into a yachting foray, or perhaps she had set out on her own. Far more stunning than the scene on the post card was the brief message from her mother.

“Hank, thanks so much. See you soon. Ciao! Lexi”

For the second time today, you could have knocked Jessica over with a feather! That her parents were communicating was a bit of a surprise. More surprising was the casually intimate tone. In particular, the use by her mother of the pet name “Lexi.” Jessica had not heard her dad call her mother that in years. What did it mean that she was going to see him soon? Who was visiting whom, and where?

Jessica, her head spinning, found a good chardonnay chilling in the large Subzero stainless steel refrigerator. The concierge service must have had a record somewhere of her wine preferences, perhaps courtesy of her father. An intriguing Argentine Malbec was sitting on the counter, but the chilled chardonnay seemed lighter and more appealing as an accompaniment to sushi. Jessica opened the bottle and poured a glass, taking that and her dinner to the back patio.

Images of the day’s first moments, cast so early in the morning by the landscape in Mission Hills, formed one side of a set of parentheses now closed by the LA cityscape before her. She could never have imagined all that had occurred in between. Father Martin’s words, spoken in such an offhand manner several weeks before, drifted back to her as though carried aloft by an offshore breeze. “God is a God of surprises, Jessica.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, tipping her glass to the sun setting before her. Questions poured out along the arc cast by her raised arm. What had possessed Jim to take up with such a
repulsive woman? Would Jessica and the Van der Woerts hit it off tomorrow? Where was her mother, and why would she see her father soon? Had someone murdered Kelly Fontana?