Buried (20 page)

“Then why is your face covered? And what's with the smiley face cap?”

I move slightly in front of Jay. “I know this looks bad, but you have to believe us—we know Philippe, and we aren't thieves.”

Collette snorts. “Your masked friend has an album from Philippe's vinyl collection. Breaking, entering, and stealing! Yeah, that really sounds like you're friends.”

“Philippe stole this record from Wiley Calderon,” Jay declares. “If you check the autograph, you'll see it's autographed to Wiley's mother. Wiley's been after Philippe for two years trying to get it back, but his calls and letters were never answered.”

“My client is too busy to bother with trivial manners.” Collette waves her hand dismissively.

“Are you saying he never got Wiley's messages?” Jay demands.

“I protect him from obsessive fans, opportunists, and thieves.” Collette barks out a sarcastic laugh. “I've already called the police.”

“Good luck with that,” Jay says wryly. “We don't have ‘police' like in a big city, just the sheriff. And I saw him at the contest.”

“We'll wait as long as it takes. You two aren't getting away.”

“I only came here for the record. Philippe knows Wiley—they were in a band together,” Jay says.

“Philippe used to run around with unsavory characters, just like you.”

“He's telling the truth,” I add. “I know Philippe, too. He's dating my friend.”

Instead of supporting our case, this causes her face to darken. “If you mean that fairy freak Anne Marie—”

“Amerie,” I correct, then match her glare. “And call me whatever you want, but do
not
ever insult Amerie.”

“She's just another groupie who doesn't have a chance with Phil.” Collette raises the gun higher and aims it directly at Jay. “Put the record down.”

“This doesn't belong to him!” Jay repeats.

She smiles smugly. “We'll let the sheriff decide. Set the record on the dresser.”

As Jay reluctantly reaches toward the four-drawer dresser, my gaze takes in several items scattered on top: a mirror, a brush, and some jewelry.

I stare in complete and astonished disbelief at one of the pieces of jewelry.

The golden locket.

T
w
e
n
t
y
-F
o
u
r

O
h my God!” I pick up the locket and dangle it at Collette. “It was you! You lost the locket on the stage, then stole it back. You have the nerve to accuse us of crimes when you're a thief and maybe even a murderer.
You
buried the baby.”

All the color fades from Collette's face.

But she doesn't lower the gun.

“How do … do you know about … the baby?” she asks in a strained voice.

“I found its grave.”

“
Her
grave,” Collette corrects me, in a tone sad enough to break my heart—except that right now my heart is pounding like an army of drummers.

“The baby was a girl?” I ask solemnly.

Collette purses her lips, refusing to answer.

“Why bother lying?” Jay asks in a casual tone, as if there's friendship between them instead of a gun. “We're the ones who broke into your client's house and you can have us arrested if you want to. No one would believe us.”

“Tell us what happened to the baby,” I add, sensing that she wants to talk.

“It's none of your business.”

“When I found it—her—” I swallow hard. “That made it my business. I need to know who she was and how it all happened.”

A shudder seems to go through Colette, but she keeps a firm grip on her gun. “Okay, why not? We have time to kill.”

I grimace at her words and glance over her shoulder at the half-opened door to the hallway. If we made a run for it, one of us could get away. Of course, the other one could get shot. Not great odds. So I try to keep her talking.

“Were you in love with Philippe?” I ask bluntly. “Was it his baby?”

“Don't be stupid,” she replies coolly. “Only silly girls fall for his charm.”

“But you must have loved him, because you had his baby.”

“Ridiculous!” The gun shifts to me. “It wasn't me.”

“Then who was it?” I ask.

“A groupie he met in Ohio. She threw herself at Philippe, then flipped out when he moved on to another girl.”

“Rebecca?” I remember Manny's information about the broken-hearted girl.

“How do you know her name?” Collette asks, startled.

Jay chuckles. “Didn't you know? Thorn's psychic.”

I cringe at his attempt at a joke but don't say anything. I think hard, trying to understand the sequence of events. “Rebecca was pregnant? Not you?”

“Of course! Philippe has no common sense when it comes to his groupies. I warned him he'd better not put himself in this position again or he could find a new manager. Who else would cover up his indiscretions so cleverly? Philippe was relieved when I offered to handle Rebecca's accusations. He was going out with a famous model at the time and just wanted the rumors to go away. So I took care of Rebecca.”

Collette grimaces as if remembering a deep pain. She's so lost in her thoughts that she lowers the gun.
This is our chance
, I think. The door swings open a little further, as if urging us to make a break for it.

But I hesitate, aching to know more. “What did you do to Rebecca and her baby?” I ask Collette.

“She wouldn't listen to reason, so I arranged for her to stay in this house with a midwife. We had an agreement that involved a substantial amount of money and an adoptive family.”

“But something went wrong?” I prompt.

“Rebecca argued with the midwife and the idiot woman quit right before Rebecca went into labor—early. The baby didn't make it.” A pained look crosses her face and she exhales deeply. “It took hours before I could catch a plane here, and when I arrived, Rebecca fought me when I tried to take the baby from her arms. I finally calmed her down with a sedative—then I dealt with the problem.”

At least no one intentionally killed the baby
, I think with relief.

“Why didn't you take her to a hospital or call 911?” I ask.

“And get hounded by paparazzi? Not an option. If we'd reported the death, the tabloids would have destroyed Philippe's reputation.”

“So you buried the baby,” I guess. “Then you threatened Rebecca or paid her off to keep quiet.”

“I did what was necessary to protect my client.”

“What about Philippe?” Jay interrupts, his black eyes narrow through his mask. “Didn't he care about his own baby?”

“He never cares about what he doesn't know,” she snorts.

“You're wrong about that,” says a cold, angry voice.

Philippe steps into the bedroom. Amerie trails behind him, her gauzy wings tilting as if broken. Her face is paper-white with shock, a sharp contrast to the mottled red fury of Philippe's. His lips press furiously tight as he strides over to his manager. “Collette, is what you said true? How could you not tell me?”

“Eavesdropping is beneath you, Philippe. Leave this minor problem to me.”

“Just like I left Rebecca and her baby to you?”

I turn to see Jay's reaction—but he's no longer here. I catch a glimpse of shadowy movement beyond the door.

“You told me she was crazy and not really pregnant.” Philippe glares at Collette.

“The result was the same,” his manager snaps.

“No, it's not! I almost had a daughter I didn't even know about. If the baby had survived, would you have told me? I doubt it. You had no right to lie! And stop aiming that gun at Amerie's friend. Have you lost your mind?” He offers me an apologetic look and snatches the gun from Collette's hand, setting it aside. “I heard nothing about Rebecca for months, then I get a locket with a curl inside and a note from Rebecca that says,
Your daughter's hair
. My daughter!”

“The locket was yours?” I ask Philippe. “You lost it at school?”

“Yeah, but Collette found it for me.”

I touch my neck where I'd worn the locket, knowing how Collette “found” it.

“I should have thrown the damned thing away when I had the chance.” Collette gestures to the locket, which I'm still holding. I see the longing way Philippe is staring at it, so I reach out and hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says.

Beside him, Amerie whispers as if in shock.

“Your … your daughter?”

“I didn't know what to think when Rebecca sent me the locket,” Philippe says. “I figured it had to be her own hair—Collette had told me Rebecca was crazy and making up stories to try to get money out of me. I was going to trash the locket, but I couldn't … and now I know why. Rebecca was telling the truth. Collette was the liar.”

“I protected you,” Collette says savagely. “When I told you I'd take care of your problem, you were happy to leave it to me. I always pick up after your mistakes. But I'm growing tired of your juvenile behavior. Don't think I don't know why you brought
her
to this house.” She gestures to Amerie. “What lies did you tell her? The same ones you told Rebecca and countless other girls? That being together is the only way to prove your love? That you'll take her with you on tour? That you'll marry her?”

Amerie gives a sharp cry, as if she's been stuck.

I cross the room to stand protectively beside her. “Amerie, why did you come here with Philippe?” I ask gently.

“I … uh … we … ” Amerie looks helplessly at Philippe. “When the contest ended, we left before he could be mobbed by fans. He said we could be alone … that he loved me … and I—I believed him.” She steps toward him desperately. “Philippe … is it true?”

Philippe glances at Collette, then at the gold locket dangling from his fingers. Instead of putting his arm around Amerie, he moves away from her. “I'm sorry.”

Amerie's eyes widen with shock and hurt, then disbelief. I hold tight to her hand, letting her know she's not alone.

“I've been stupid about a lot of things,” Philippe tells his manager is an icy tone. “But it ends now.”

“Are you firing me?” Collette asks with mocking amusement. “Because if you are, get used to handling your own problems.” A smug smile curves her full red lips. “Do you hear that siren? It's the sheriff, finally showing up about a break-in. Would you like to explain what we're all doing here, and how this locket holds DNA matching the remains of a buried baby?”

Philippe's mouth opens, then closes. He steps closer to his manager.

“As I expected.” Collette pats his arm the way a mother might comfort her child. Philippe may resent her lies, but not as much as he needs her support.
They understand each other
, I realize.

And finally Amerie understands, too.

“Thorn, I want to go home.” She wipes away a tear. “Please.”

I nod, slipping my arm around her fragile fairy wings. I guide her out of the room and look for Jay. I thought he'd be waiting somewhere. But when I look outside, his truck is gone.

Jay ditched me.

Collette does all the talking when Sheriff Hart shows up, and I'm in no position to argue. I brace myself for criminal accusations and am relieved when Collette apologizes for reporting a break-in. She says she didn't realize Amerie and I were friends of Philippe's. She doesn't mention anything about Jay.

To my shock, Collette brings up the topic of the baby's grave. I guess she would rather give her version of the story before anyone else can say anything. She tells Sheriff Hart she just heard about the baby's grave being found and can explain what really happened, but convinces him to wait until tomorrow and take her statement at his office. “It's been half a year already, so one more night won't hurt, right?” she asks, with a flirtatious charm that's more effective than a loaded weapon for getting what she wants.

Sheriff Hart agrees. They set up a time to meet and I suspect Collette will have a story all prepared for the meeting. The press will surely be there to hear her tragic version of the tale, in which instead of sounding like a lying manipulator, she'll come off as the heroine protecting her famous client from a disturbed fan. Philippe will be the tragic figure, who lost love and a baby he never got to see.

Justice will be served sideways—not all truth, but not all lies. And ironically, it works out for me.

But not for Amerie.

Philippe offers to drive us home, but I glare at him and shake my head. He's not getting near Amerie again if I can help it. I've noticed how kind and almost human Sheriff Hart is being to Amerie. He's not so friendly to me, but he's not hostile, either, which is an improvement. So I ask him for a ride home and he readily agrees. He helps me guide Amerie, who is sobbing, to his patrol car.

“May I borrow you phone, Sheriff Hart?” I ask in my most polite, minister's daughter tone. “My family will be worried.”

“Of course,” he says, unclipping a phone from his belt. “Here.”

When the phone flashes on, I see a photo of a girl about my age with a black braid and gap in her toothy grin. Her dark skin contrasts with her very pale blue eyes. Immediately, I get a finding connection to her … an image of a map showing central California by the ocean. And there's a girl kneeling on the beach—the same girl as in this photo.

“Your daughter,” I hear myself saying to the sheriff, but part of me is still far away on a beach. “She's living by the ocean in a green trailer.”

“What!” He jerks toward me like I've zapped him with a Taser gun. “What do you know about my daughter?”

My head is still in a fog and something compels me to say, “I know she misses you.”

“What the hell!” He leads me over to the sidewalk, lowering his voice. “Who told you about Leannah?”

I consider lying, but have a strong feeling I need to be honest. “When I touch things, sometimes I get images about people and places. Weird, I know, so forget about it. I don't expect you to believe in psychic abilities.”

“But I do believe,” he says quietly. “I've worked with psychics a few times in my career. I wondered if you might be like that, too. Once I ruled out the logical scenarios for how you found the grave, it seemed like a possibility.”

Now I'm the one who's shocked … and impressed.

“You really saw my Leannah by a beach?” he continues in a pained voice.

I nod. “You can call her and ask her yourself.”

“No, I can't.” He glances down at the photo on the phone. “She ran away from home four years ago. She never called or left any kind of message. I haven't heard anything from or about her … until now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” He lifts his head. “For the first time in years, you've given me hope. And once all this drama”—he gestures back toward Philippe's house—“settles down, I'd like to ask you more about her.”

“Sure,” I say, then climb into the car beside Amerie.

It's not until I'm walking Amerie up to her house that I remember the Singing Star finals. “Amerie, who won the contest?”

“The contest? Oh, yeah.” Her lashes flicker and a spark of her usual self returns. “Third place went to your group.”

“My former group,” I say with no regret.

“Priscilla played too loud, but they were still great. Although they would have done better with you.”

“Thanks, but third is good. I'm glad for them.”

“Second place went to the nerdy guy with the big voice.”

“And first place?”

“Ruby Rodriquez.” Amerie pauses on her doorstep and I'm relieved she's coming out of her zombie trance. “She sang this amazing song that blew the audience away. She said it was written by an unknown but very talented local songwriter. I can't get it out of my head. It goes like this.”