Swimsuit Body (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I wonder what the photo means, or if it means anything at all. Is there a connection between Russo and the dead woman besides her having visited his casino? As I drive to my next property, I consider the theory that Delilah's murder was a professional hit. Ordered by Russo? I find it hard to believe that my client, who, as far as I know, only hits golf balls at the country club, could be so coldhearted. Besides, what possible motive could he have?

I'm hoping other suspects will reveal themselves at this evening's get-together, where I'll be introduced to the main players who are involved in the making of
Devil's Slide.
I'm nervous about it. And not just because the killer could be among them—I can't figure out what to wear.

It's 6:30 by the time I arrive home, leaving me with an hour to shower and dress. Brianna and Ivy come over as I'm combing through my wardrobe, becoming increasingly discouraged with each wrong outfit I try on. Brianna is carrying a garment bag. She unzips it to reveal a slinky cocktail dress. “Perfect,” she pronounces as she holds it up to me. “It's a little big on me so I figured it would fit you.”

I finger the shiny fabric. “Didn't your uncle say not to dress up?”

“They always say that, then they show up looking like they're at an awards ceremony.”

“I don't know …”

“Trust me,” she says. I wonder if I can, and not just about the dress, before I dismiss the thought. Brianna's been a godsend. She spent the day calling and faxing motels. One of the motel managers called back to say he'd seen a couple who looked like the one in the photo on the flyer. They'd been breakfasting together at a nearby diner, but they hadn't checked into his motel, so he couldn't tell us their current location. But it meant we were on the right track.

Five minutes later, I'm standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, smoothing the borrowed dress over my hips. Made of brushed satin in a greenish bronze with a flirty hem and spaghetti straps, it clings to my body and shows more cleavage than I'm comfortable with. “You don't think it's too …?”

“No, I don't,” says Brianna firmly. I notice the outfit she's wearing, a plum-color taffeta skirt paired with a black velvet jacket over a pale-pink silk cami, is far more modest than what I have on.

“I don't want to send the wrong message.” I bite my lip as I study my reflection.

“Think of it as a disguise,” Ivy says, reminding me that I'm going undercover.

“About that,” Brianna says, frowning. “If my uncle knew you were conducting your own investigation …”

“He wants Delilah's killer brought to justice, doesn't he?” I reason.

“Of course. But that's what the cops are for. It seems sneaky to show up at his party with an ulterior motive. Also, he's between blondes at the moment, and when he sees you in that dress …” She lets the implications hang in the air.

Ugh.
But I can't think about that right now. “I need to know if any of those people had a motive for killing Delilah.”

“I already told you—”

“That she didn't have any enemies, I know. But
somebody
wanted her dead, and all I know is that it wasn't my brother.”

“Still. I'm not sure I should be helping you with this.”

I turn to face her. She's sitting on the end of my queen bed with her pantyhosed legs crossed, jiggling her foot—a nervous habit of hers. “I don't want us to find Arthur just so he can end up in jail.”

“Well, when you put it that way …” she relents.

“You look beautiful,” pronounces Ivy, after I've donned heels and my gold-and-pearl teardrop earrings.

“Hold still.” Brianna bends to pluck a loose thread from the hem of my dress.

The ninety-mile stretch of coastline between Cypress Bay and San Francisco is fogged in more often than not this time of year, but on a clear day like today, the view is awe inspiring. I can see the ocean stretching to the horizon, over which the setting sun has cast a glittery net, the sky above streaked with orange and crimson. Close to shore, whitecaps roll in and batter the cliffs.

On the drive, Brianna briefs me. “You already know Liam. The other cast members will be there, too. And some of the crew. The executive producer and his second in command, the director of photography, and the assistant director.”

“Liam's quite the charmer. I've heard he has a reputation as a ladies' man.”

Brianna shrugs. “He never hit on Delilah.”

“At least we know it's not because he's gay.” He's reportedly dated some of the world's most glamorous women.

“You wouldn't know if he were. It's why they all have wives or girlfriends. Coming out would be career suicide.”

“It doesn't seem to have hurt Ellen Degeneres's career.”

“People don't pay to see Ellen kissing someone of the opposite sex.”

“Did Liam and Delilah have a falling-out?” I ask, changing tack. We pass the old lighthouse, which is the tallest man-made structure for miles, its beacon shining at the tip of Lighthouse Point.

“They had a huge argument a few days before she left to come here. I could hear them, it was so loud. When Delilah was drinking, she could be a real …” Brianna trails off, biting her lip
.
“Anyway, I heard Liam say she was digging her own grave, and he wasn't going to stick around to watch.”

“Good for him.”

“The others …” She makes a disgusted noise. “They were either pouring her a drink or turning a blind eye. Her manager only cared about his percentage, and time off to get sober meant no money was coming in.” I wonder what role Brianna had played other than that of dutiful assistant. “Liam was the only one who stood up to her. And it bit him in the ass.”

“How so?”

“I heard him say something about how you're only as sick as your secrets.” I'm familiar with the quote. It's from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. “And Delilah—like I said, normally she wasn't mean, only when she was drinking—she says in this nasty voice, ‘I'm not the only one with secrets.'”

I feel my little gray cells, in the words of the fictional sleuth, Hercule Poirot, start to stir. “I wonder what secrets Liam is keeping.” Maybe he really is gay. He didn't seem so, but he's an actor. His adoring public doesn't know he's an alcoholic, either.

Half an hour later, we turn inland toward Salema, a former fishing village that's now populated mainly by artists and other off-the-grid types. The movie people leased ten acres of farmland several miles east of town where they constructed an elaborate film set, and where the crew outnumbers the locals, I'm told. We drive through artichoke fields and past farmhouses before we reach the main drag, which is composed of a post office, grocery/hardware store, coffee shop, a store that sells bait and tackle, an eatery where the menus are laminated and the pies are homemade, and art galleries and craft shops sprinkled in between. It's been dubbed Hollywood-on-Highway­-One by the press, but it's sleepy at this time of day.

Ten minutes later, we pull in behind a line of vehicles parked along the curb in front of Bartosz's rented digs in the hills above Salema, a two-story cedar A-frame that sits atop a wooded rise. I look up to see windows aglow with the last light of the setting sun and figures milling on the upper deck. Brianna and I get out and walk toward the house. One of the parked vehicles catches my eye, a silver Maybach 57 Zeppelin. It's among the priciest cars money can buy, I know from an old boyfriend of mine who was a car enthusiast, and it makes my Explorer look like a beggar among royalty.

“I know this is the right address, but I'm not sure we're on the same planet,” I remark.

Brianna smiles thinly. “Welcome to my world.”

We climb a set of stone steps to the front entrance, where a burly guy who's dressed in black checks our IDs against the guest list before we're waved through. It's odd to see security at an informal get-together. Bartosz must be taking extra precautions with a murderer on the loose. We walk down a short hallway before entering a wood-paneled great room with a cathedral ceiling, from which hangs a chandelier made from antlers. The stone fireplace, where a log fire crackles, is the size of a medieval castle's, and the walls are hung with western art. The guests, a dozen or so by my count, seem out of place dressed in their haute couture and bling.

An older man who's holding court by the fireplace walks over to greet us. Short and barrel chested with a snowy mane that brings to mind a cockatoo's crest, Karol Bartosz exudes an aura of power that makes up for what he lacks in stature. He wears what appears to be the regulation attire of the male guests: black jeans and a bespoke blazer, his a dove gray, over a black silk tee.

“Dearest girl!” He embraces Brianna before kissing her on both cheeks continental style. He has the sonorous, accented voice of the stage actor he was in his former life in Poland before he became a director. “Delighted you could come. And this lovely lady”—he turns toward me—“must be Tish.” He got my name right. He gets points for that, even if he is checking out my cleavage. It seems Brianna was right in warning me about his predilection for blondes with big boobs.

“It's an honor, Mr. Bartosz,” I say as we shake hands. “I'm a great admirer of your work. I've seen every one of your pictures. My favorite was
Trial by Fire
. The part where the bad guy is stalking his victim in that slaughterhouse? I was on the edge of my seat. It gave me goose bumps.”

“You are too kind,” he murmurs as his eyes travel over me, taking the scenic route. To Brianna he says, “Bree, why don't get yourself a drink while I show Tish around?” He waves his hand toward the rustic-looking trestle table against one wall that serves as a bar.

Brianna shoots me a meaningful glance before she leaves me alone with her uncle. He has one of his minions fetch us drinks, white wine for him and Perrier for me, then proceeds to take me on a tour of the house. The owner, a Silicon Valley software executive, had it built in the style of a Montana hunting lodge. One suitable for the likes of Ted Turner, I note as I look around.

“I'm sorry for your loss.” I offer my condolences as he's guiding me down the hallway to the rear of the house, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back. “I understand you and Delilah were close.”

Bartosz nods, his expression turning sorrowful. “Lest you think my little soirée in bad taste, it was only because we've been in a daze, not knowing what to do with ourselves. I thought we should gather together, lift our glasses to her memory,” he explains. “It's what she would have wanted.”

“No doubt,” I murmur.

I ask if he's found an actress for Delilah's part in
Devil's Slide
.

“I have in fact. Taylor Ramsey.” He names the actress best known for her series on the Disney channel, now in reruns, in which she stars as a teen math wizard who has a secret life as a CIA agent. Since she came of age, Taylor has been working to establish herself as a serious actress. “I met with her and her agent yesterday in L.A. I was lucky to get her on such short notice.” Bartosz explains that another project Taylor was slated to do fell through at the last minute.

“I liked her in
Tara Times Two
.” We reach the study, a large room with built-in bookcases on three sides and a fireplace that's a smaller version of the one in the great room, where a bronze statue of a cowboy on horseback sits on a pedestal under a spotlight. It looks to be a Remington.

“Lovely girl and underrated as an actress,” he agrees. “You'll see when you meet her. I'll introduce you.”

“She's here? Wow, she didn't waste any time,” I remark in surprise.

“There is no time to waste.” Bartosz pauses to study an oil painting of Custer's Last Stand that hangs on the wall. “For every day that production is delayed, you can add another zero to the cost, and if filming doesn't wrap on schedule, you lose actors who have other projects lined up.” I recall Liam's words about how any tears that were shed wouldn't be on the studio's dime. No kidding.

“I saw you that day,” I say when the subject turns to the murder of Delilah Ward as we're returning to the party. He cuts me a sharp glance. “At least, I think it was you. Were you driving a black Escalade?”

“Delilah and I had some business to discuss,” he replies tersely.

“Brianna mentioned you'd been to see her.” I'm lying—Brianna told me there were no meetings scheduled for that morning—but Bartosz doesn't seem to know this.

“Yes. I was surprised when she didn't come to the door. I waited, thinking she must have stepped out and would be back any moment, but …” He shakes his head mournfully. “I explained all that to the police, but it seems I'm a ‘person of interest.' Of all the cruel ironies. I would have cut off my own arm before I touched a hair on her head!” His voice cracks with emotion.

I flash on an image of Delilah lying by the swimming pool, a pool of her own blood beneath her. Bartosz's emotion seems genuine, but how do I know he didn't go around in back instead of ringing the doorbell, slip in through the side gate, and put a bullet in Delilah's head? Though I don't know what he would have stood to gain. From what I can see, he only stood to lose. He's out his first choice of female costar and looking at staggering production cost overruns.

I pull one of my business cards from my silver clutch and hand it to him. “Here's my number. If there's ever anything I can do for you …” I'm hoping he'll call. Not because I want to get to know him better, but because I want to keep my eye on him. And because my favorite movie, unlike that of every other woman on the planet, is
The Godfather
and not
Sleepless in Seattle
.