Extreme Exposure (13 page)

“Amber kept going on about Celia trying to beat a DUI.” He held up his hand to stop more questions. “Just be careful they don’t come after you.”

In the car, Matt swiveled in his seat so he was facing her side-on.

She said, “A lot of what he says backs up what I was saying. He didn’t think Amber was back on drugs, either. My gut is still telling me he didn’t kill Amber, but I also get the feeling he’s holding back.”

“He could be. But what? Who is this woman?” He put the key in the ignition. “We have to talk to Celia about this driving under the influence thing. Do you know anything about that?”

“First I’ve heard of it. But what could that have to do with Amber’s death?”

Up the street, Jason came out of the house. He was wearing shorts and a sleeveless neon-green T-shirt. It wasn’t the shirt that caught their attention, though. It was the tall blond woman who stepped out of the house behind him.

“So much for gut instinct.” Emily’s jaw had dropped. “I’d say that puts a whole different light on things.”

He swore under his breath, watched Jason lock the door and set off with the woman down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. “We’ll have to visit him again, see if he’ll tell us the truth this time.”

A fierce look darkened her eyes. “You’ll have to put me in a straitjacket. Otherwise, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Don’t give me ideas.” He smiled but she gave him a hard look. Clearing his throat, he said, “In the meantime, I’m meeting the photography guy, his name is Bill Murphy, this afternoon. We can see if he found anything.”

“Do you mind going alone? I should pop into the hotel, see what preparations have been made for my mother’s party tomorrow. Supposedly, all I have to do is show up, but I’d like to be sure.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I do mind, actually. I’d feel better if we stayed together.”

Her response was a roll of her eyes. “Just drive. I’ll be fine.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
arly the next afternoon, Matt surveyed the party-ready backyard at Mona Blackstock’s house. If this was informal, he couldn’t imagine what she considered formal. It looked like a setup for a fancy wedding, with four circular tables, each set for five people, arranged in the middle of the yard. They were covered in long white tablecloths, and crowded with plates, cutlery, and glasses.

Mona Blackstock and Celia Williams flitted from table to table, adjusting a plate here, a fork there, but not really doing much of anything that he could tell. Cold beer beckoned in a tub of ice on the ground next to a bar in front of thick shrubs at the back of the big yard. He’d wait until Mona and Celia cleared out. With no bartender yet, it might be against the rules.

In the house, a short hallway led to the kitchen. Emily, her hair tucked under a white cap and dressed in a white jacket, stood at a five-burner stove. She turned around to say something to a male chef working behind her at a granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen, and they both laughed. Catching Matt looking, she smiled, turned back to the stove.

He walked over, leaned against the counter, and fingered the stiff fabric of her jacket sleeve, reached up and brushed her hair off her cheek. “How do you work in this? It looks like a straightjacket.”

Smiling, she stirred something in a small frying pan. “There’s beer in the fridge.”

“You want one? It must be ten degrees hotter in here.”

She took the pot off the burner and wiped her brow with a white bandana from her pocket, exposing the scar near her hairline. “Not allowed, I’m afraid.”

The kitchen was big, but not big enough for three chefs and two waiters and a guy emptying a steamy dishwasher. The male chef couldn’t keep his eyes off Emily but she didn’t seem to notice.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he popped the cap, leaned against the counter, his elbows touching her arm. “If you have some of mine, I won’t tell.”

“I wouldn’t dare. My mother has eyes on the back of her head.” She poured the ingredients from the frying pan—some sort of herb in a vinegary-smelling liquid—into a mixing bowl and added mayonnaise and diced pickles.

“Who’s he?” Matt gestured to the dishwasher guy, who was now scouring pots at the sink.

After a glance at the man, Emily turned and began slicing a bunch of green onions. “That’s Junior, at least that’s what we call him. I don’t know his real name. He’s worked for my mother at the hotel for a few years.”

“Parolee?”

She stopped cutting, shot him a quizzical look. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s got a tattoo of a spiderweb on his neck. That could mean he’s been in prison.”

Her eyes widened. “That explains a lot. He’s got some sketchy friends.” She added mustard, anchovy paste, and sliced green onions to the bowl. “But he’s okay. Not too sociable, but he works hard.”

Matt felt a tiny alarm bell go off in his head. He would have to keep an eye on Junior. He pointed to the bowl. “What is that?”

“Remoulade sauce, better known as tartar sauce. It’s for the grilled salmon.”

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Most of the work has been done. I wasn’t really needed. It’s way crazier at the hotel.” She gestured to the good-looking chef, who was giving instructions to another woman in a chef’s uniform. “Joe told me I could slip out.”

Finished with the sauce, Emily transferred it to a glass bowl and put it in the fridge. She turned around in time to catch him snatching a tiny tart from a tray on the end of the island. He popped it into his mouth, tasting crab. “I guess you know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Joe made those.”

“You have a way of ruining all the fun. Did I ever tell you that?”

Smiling, she leaned back against the counter. “Someday I’ll make you some, how about that?”

“I thought you didn’t like cooking,” he said, leaning in close so they were touching.

“I didn’t say that. It’s being a chef in a restaurant that I don’t like. You get tired of making the same thing, the long hours, not having a life.”

A young woman appeared in the doorway and Emily gave a yelp of delight. “Nicky! I didn’t know you were coming.”

The woman, a tall, slim brunette who looked about Emily’s age, gave Emily a big hug. After a minute, she stepped back and Emily introduced her.

Smiling, Nicky shook his hand before turning back to her friend. “I can’t stay long. I’m doing an extra shift tonight, but I stopped by on the chance I would see you. Why haven’t you come to see me?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Things are kind of hectic.”

She looked at him, then back at Emily. “I’ll bet they are.”

Emily’s face reddened, and the three chatted for a few minutes, until Emily’s mother appeared in the doorway, gave her daughter a look that was hard to read. Nicky pursed her lips, whispered, “I have to go. Call me, okay?” She smiled at Matt, then disappeared down the hallway.

Catching her mother watching, Emily shot him a look of mock guilt and pushed away from the counter. “I’d better start on the sherbet.”

Mona’s blond hair was scraped back so tightly into a bun on top of her head it looked like she’d had Botox. Either that or she was startled, although she didn’t seem like the type who got startled easily. As the people in the room became aware of her presence, they lowered their voices.

After talking to the chef, her mother approached Emily, who was putting frozen raspberries and sugar in a blender. “Will the sherbet have enough time? It can’t be too soft.”

“It will be fine,” Emily said plainly.

“I’m so glad you came, my dear. And Celia, too, I’m so glad she took the afternoon off.” With that, Mona walked into the hallway, smoothed the skirt on her pale silk suit, and disappeared.

When she had finished making the sherbet, they stepped out of the kitchen and stood in the back doorway. He said, “Do you know any of these people?”

“Mostly they’re old friends of my mother’s, but I don’t really know them.” She chuckled. “I don’t think you have to be too concerned about my safety, though. I think we could fight this group off. And the police chief is here.”

Smiling, he brushed a stray hair back from her face, taken aback again by the delicate beauty that belied the steel within. “Depends what kind of weapon they have. And maybe somebody will get emboldened by booze.”

Emily laughed. “You know that cliché about the aunt or uncle who always gets drunk at parties? Well, that never happens with my mother. Everybody knows they have to behave themselves or risk the wrath of Mona Blackstock. She even threw somebody out once.” She tapped his chest with her index finger. “So you better behave yourself.”

He caught the finger, held on to it for a long second, stared into those big eyes. “I consider myself forewarned.”

People were scattered around the yard, talking in small groups. Mona was sitting on a brown rattan sofa on a flagstone patio near the back door, talking to a woman perched on the edge of the sofa beside her. The police chief sat in a chair opposite them.

“It’s a Fantin-Latour. This is its fourth year,” Mona told the woman, who was squeezed into a canary yellow dress. “It’s named after the French painter. You may have seen his paintings at the Musée d’Orsay. It’s lovely, but I didn’t realize it would get so big. I may have to have it yanked out.” The woman nodded knowingly.

Celia Williams was at the bar, talking to a middle-aged guy who kept glancing away, as if looking for an escape route. Nearby, the judge, sipping on red wine, was showing a middle-aged couple a picture from his wallet. They laughed about something as he put it away.

Emily said, “Let’s go talk to Celia.” At his skeptical look, she added, “Don’t worry. She’ll be on her best behavior.” She took off her cap and jacket and hung them on a black iron hook in the hallway. She was wearing a white peasant blouse and a long, crinkly skirt that she’d retrieved from her mother’s house earlier in the week. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her and some of the color was back in her cheeks. For once, it didn’t look like fear was eating away at her.

It took a couple of minutes to get to the bar, because Emily stopped several times to say hello to people and introduce Matt. When they reached Celia, she was talking to the same man and they waited until he had been dispatched before they stepped forward.

Emily asked Celia how her mother was doing.

“She’s okay. I spoke to her this morning, briefly.” Her eyes were cool and her manner distant. On her lips was the same lipstick she’d worn the other day, Dried Blood Red. A bit of it was smeared on one of her front teeth. “She needed time away, just with everything that’s happening. I wish I could get away, but it’s just too busy this time of year.”

She turned to go, but Emily said, “I wanted to clear something up with you.” Celia arched an eyebrow, immediately defensive. Emily said, “What do you know about the insurance settlement Amber was about to receive?”

“Not too much. I know she was looking forward to the payout. I think she might have been thinking about taking some courses. And now the insurance company won’t pay until this case is wrapped up. Why do you ask?”

He asked, “Did Amber have any concerns about the settlement?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Emily said, “One other thing. What happened to your driving under the influence charge?”

Paling, she pitched her reply low. “What are you talking about? What charge?”

Emily said, “Apparently, it was something Amber was concerned about.”

“Somebody’s spreading lies.” Grabbing Emily’s elbow, Celia steered her to the side. “And they’d better be careful. That’s slanderous.”

He stood beside Emily. “Did Amber talk to you about it?”

Recovering now, Celia’s initial alarm was turning to anger. “Of course not. There’s nothing to it.” The cell phone she was holding in her hand rang. Turning aside, she answered the call, listened for a minute before launching into a lecture on the risks of not acting quickly in a seller’s market.

He doubted they would get much more out of her about the rumored charge. Her denial had been vehement, but he had expected that. Was it possible Jason Hatt had made it up to divert attention? There had to be a way to find out more about it.

When Celia hung up a minute later, she said, “I’m very busy these days, and I have to get Amber’s house on the market. I’ll have to stage it. That means packing up that bottle collection. I started last week, but I was rushing so much I broke one of them and cut myself.” She showed them a small cut near her thumb.

Emily’s mother approached, said to Emily, “You should get back in the kitchen. Lunch is about to be served.” She turned to Matt. “I’ve put you next to Celia. She’ll be good company.”

He was sure for a moment that he had misunderstood, that Emily wasn’t being banished to the kitchen, but Celia took his arm.

“I’ll help in the kitchen,” he said, looking at Emily. She would be there. That’s where he wanted to be.

Celia tightened her hold on his arm. “Oh, no, you won’t.”

Emily smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll see you soon.” She walked off, leaving him to think that somehow she’d got the better end of the deal.

*  *  *

Three hours later, with most of the guests and kitchen staff gone, Emily plopped down on the patio sofa and stretched out her legs. Matt sat down beside her, lifting her legs and putting them across his lap.

“How was dinner?” she said, trying to ignore the shiver of pleasure his touch brought. He smoothed her skirt over her knees, rested those big hands on her legs.

“The food was great, the company not so much.” Leaning back, he hooked an arm over the sofa. “Celia spent most of the time trying to talk everybody at the table into buying what I gathered was her newest listing. She kept insisting it had good bones, which I took to mean it needed major renovations. By the time dessert came around, I was ready to buy it just to shut her up.”

She chuckled. “Sounds like Celia. She’s so much like my mother it’s scary.”

“The sherbet was good, by the way. Not too soft, not too firm. Just right. A highlight of the meal, in my opinion.” A smile crinkled his eyes, and he caressed her legs. It made her dizzy, the feel of his fingers through the thin fabric of her skirt.