Swimsuit Body (12 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I wake to daylight peeking through the blinds the next morning. Odder still, Hercules and Prince are both curled asleep on the crocheted afghan that's folded across the foot of the bed. I must be dreaming if I'm still in bed at this hour and my cat is sleeping with the enemy. Then I remember about last night. I let out a groan, at which my cat cracks his eyes open and slinks over to curl up next to me, purring. We're soon joined by Prince, tail wagging as he noses under my other armpit. “What is it with you guys? Were you watching the Disney channel while I was out? Is this group-hug time?” Hercules looks at me with his inscrutable yellow eyes, while Prince licks my cheek.

I get out of bed and head for the bathroom, where I fill a glass with water and down four Tylenol before shuffling down the hall to the kitchen to pour myself some coffee. I carry my mug to the table, where I sit down to phone Ivy. “You'll never guess what happened last night. …”

“Thank God you're all right. You could've been killed!” she cries after I've described my close call.

“I don't know who drugged me, but I'm pretty sure that was his or her intention.” I pull my bathrobe around me, feeling chilled even with my coffee mug warming my hands. “Unless it was to warn me.”

“Warn you against what?”

“That if I don't mind my own business, he won't stop at drugging me next time.”

“Why would they see you as a threat?”

“I don't know. But I know one thing: Whoever murdered Delilah was at last night's party.”

“Sure seems that way. Any idea who it could have been?”

“Liam Brady for one.”

“I thought you liked him.” Ivy sounds surprised.

“I do. But he had the opportunity. I put my drink down to use the bathroom before I left, and guess who was standing there when I came out? Also, Brianna says she overheard him and Delilah arguing a few days before she was murdered. Apparently, Delilah was threatening to expose him.”

“Expose him for what?”

“That I don't know.” I sip my coffee, staring thoughtfully out the window that looks out on my backyard, where my cat is currently on the prowl, searching for mice or moles to slaughter.

“Anyone else strike you as suspicious?”

“Brent Harding.” I recount my conversation with him, in which he pressed for details about what I'd seen. Like a murderer would if he thought I might know something that could place him at the crime scene. “Bartosz was another one.” I recall the director's parting words.
Drive safely.
His idea of a private joke? “I told him I'd seen him at Casa Linda Estates the day of the murder. I didn't say where exactly. If he killed Delilah, he might think I was driving past the house when he was coming out. In which case, I would know he was lying when he told me he left without seeing Delilah.”

“Yes, and so would the police.”

“Not if I had withheld the information from the police. Like, say, if I was planning to blackmail Bartosz. Or I was looking to crack the case so I could hog all the glory.” My words are met with silence at the other end. “Please tell me you
know
I would never do either of those things!”

“I know you wouldn't stoop to blackmail.”

“Nor would I withhold information that would keep a murderer from being locked up.”

“I know that, too,” Ivy says belatedly. “You've done some sneaky, low-down things, but that would be a new low even for you.” I hear the sound of the teakettle whistling at her end. “Okay, so we have a motive. Did Bartosz have the opportunity? You know. To slip you a Mickey.”

“‘
Slip me a Mickey?
' You watch too many old movies. Roofied is more like it.” I tell her about Bartosz getting me a refill of my Coke. “Though I'd have been out cold if I'd been roofied, according to Spence.”

“What does he think happened?”

“What it looked like,” I reply glumly. “But he's giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

“That's big of him.” I hear the smile in Ivy's voice.

“He's not such a bad guy,” I'm forced to admit. “Who knew?”

“Does this mean you're starting to like him?”

“I'm not answering that until he decides to give me back my driver's license.”

“No driver's license?” Ivy groans in sympathy. “This is bad.”

“You're telling me. I have no way to get to work.”

“No, but you have Brianna.”

I brighten at the reminder. “Is she there?”

“She just walked in.”

An hour later, the three of us are headed up the coast in Ivy's orange VW bug to retrieve my Explorer. It's a beautiful day, clear and breezy. Seals bask on the rocks at Año Nuevo, and glassy swells heave out at sea, gulls wheeling lazily in the sky above.

“It's a blessing in disguise,” Brianna pronounces. She's riding in the backseat, while I sit up front with Ivy. “If that cop hadn't pulled you over, you could have gotten into an accident, or driven over a cliff.”

“Don't remind me.” I suppress a shudder.

“What I don't get is
why.
I mean, it's not as if you'd been drinking.” My temp assistant looks remarkably chipper for someone who has been up half the night partying. She wears khakis and a navy-and-white cotton sweater with a nautical motif. I, on the other hand, look like the wreck of
Hesperus
in the jeans and wrinkled purple Henley that I'd pulled from my laundry basket.

“I guess I was more tired than I realized.” Ivy and I exchange look. I didn't tell Brianna the whole story. I don't know if I can trust her not to blab, and my celebrity access would dry up in an instant if her uncle knew I suspected him of having drugged me. I need answers, which means further digging is required. There's plenty of dirt under the red carpet, from what I've seen so far.

“What was it like meeting all those famous people?” Ivy comes to my rescue.

“Surreal,” I answer. “It's the land where no one ever gets old and no woman is larger than a size two. They don't even sound like us. It was like being in a play and I was the only who didn't know my lines.”

“I warned you they weren't like other people,” Brianna says.

“No, but most of them were nice. They didn't treat me like I was a nobody. And I enjoyed meeting your uncle. He's quite the character.”
Even if he's a murderer.

“Well, you certainly made an impression on him.” Brianna's tone is one of dry amusement. Because she knows it wasn't my sparkling wit that won him over as much as my blond hair and bra size. “I arranged for us to visit the set tomorrow morning if that's okay with you.”

“Sounds like a plan.” It will mean putting in a long workday tomorrow, but I have more pressing concerns than my livelihood right now. Such as staying alive. And keeping my brother out of jail.

When we arrive at the spot where I was pulled over last night, near Bean Hollow state park, I'm relieved to see my Explorer still parked where I left it. Abandoned alongside the highway, it's the vehicular equivalent of the walk of shame, but at least it wasn't towed (another favor for which I'll owe Spence?). I get in the passenger side while Brianna climbs in behind the wheel, and we wave good-bye to Ivy. “Did you have a good time last night?” I ask as we head back to town.

“Better than I expected.” Brianna hadn't been keen on going to the party. She said she'd had her fill of “Hollyweird” working for Delilah and hanging around her uncle as a kid.

“Would that be because of a certain assistant director?” I hint.

“David?” She laughs. “He's nice, but he's also gay.”

“Really. I wouldn't have guessed.” I'm reminded of our conversation yesterday about gay actors who'd be ruined if their private lives were to become public knowledge. I wonder again about Liam, recalling the comment he made about how actors disguise their true selves. Did he have a secret life? One that could turn beefcake into box-office poison and cost him millions in lost income if TMZ were to get wind? The threat of exposure would provide a powerful motive for murder.

Conversation turns to my brother. Brianna received a call from another motel manager earlier that morning. He reported that a couple who fit the descriptions of Arthur and Gladys had stayed the night at his motel in Pocatello, Idaho, which is on the route to Bozeman, Montana. It would seem the lovebirds are headed for Gladys's granddaughter's ranch, in Bozeman, and not honeymooning in Vegas. I can only pray they didn't get hitched along the way and that I won't have to spend Thanksgivings with Howard Sedgwick in the future. I call Lexie on the drive back to town and give her the heads-up. She seems relieved and promises to let me know if and when they turn up.

The first stop when Brianna and I arrive back in town is the Voakses' Spanish colonial. I picked up a fresh supply of ant traps, but I'm more worried about Brianna than I am about whether the ants had retaken Hamburger Hill. This sort of work isn't in her job description and she might see it as beneath her. By the time I've climbed from my SUV, however, she's already halfway up the front walk, rolling up her sleeves as she goes. I hurry to catch up and hand her the bag of supplies.

“How are you with ants?”

She grins. “Death.”

It seems no job is too dirty or disgusting for Brianna. She pulls clumps of hair from shower drains, empties mousetraps, and scrapes crud from filters as we go from one property to the next. She sprays Raid like it's air freshener and fearlessly knocks a black widow spider's nest from an eave with a broom handle. The only time she wrinkles her nose is when she finds a used condom under a bed at the Millers' place. “Too much information,” she mutters as she deposits it in the trash can.

I notice a change in her demeanor as soon as we arrive at Casa Linda Estates. As we pass through the gates, where offerings from Delilah's fans—bouquets of flowers, candles, stuffed animals—form a small avalanche, Brianna falls silent. When we get to the house, she doesn't get out; she grips the steering wheel as if we were moving at a high speed and not parked in a driveway. Her face is pale. Officially, Casa Blanca is no longer a crime scene, but to her it always will be.

“Do the owners plan to sell?” I detect a slight tremor in her voice when she speaks.

“They might have to if bookings don't pick up.” The Blankenships were horrified when they learned of the murder, and though they seemed more concerned about the victim and the trauma I'd suffered than any losses they sustained, the fact remains that this is an income property.

“What about all those people who emailed you?” Brianna refers to the recent flood of inquiries that have come in through VRBO and FlipKey, the two online sites on which the house is listed.

“Ghouls.” I got the impression they were more interested in seeing the place where Delilah Ward had died than enjoying the ocean views. One person asked which room the body was found in.

Brianna shudders visibly.

“Why don't you wait here,” I say gently. “I won't be long.” She nods without speaking, and I go in alone. I'm pretty creeped out myself, and I don't linger once I'm inside. I stay only long enough to see that Esmeralda has been in to clean and to make sure there are no leaks, ants, or mice droppings.

We head over to the Russos next, where I'm relieved to see no evidence of dubious activities. No guns or dead bodies lying around. I mention the photo of Russo and Delilah that I saw on the wall in Russo's den, but Brianna only shrugs and says, “They all wanted their picture taken with her.”

Our last stop is the Chens' split-level, where I give Brianna the job of watering the houseplants while I feed the koi in the pond. Afterward, I do my walk-through, pausing on my way out to rub the belly of the marble Buddha that sits on the carved rosewood console in the entryway for luck. By 5:30, we're headed back to my place. Normally, my workday doesn't end until after dark, but despite the late start we got, we finished early. For which I have Brianna to thank.

“And I thought
I
was a hard worker,” I comment.

“Sometimes it pays to be a clean freak,” she replies, blushing at the praise.

“Most women would freak out at finding a half-dead mouse in a trap.”

“Believe me, it was nothing compared to some of the stuff Delilah had me do.”

“Like what?” I'm curious.

“Well, for one thing, she'd have me book interviews with journalists and then not show, and the person would scream at me like it was my fault. It wasn't just once in a while, either. It was constant.”

“That's pretty bad,” I agree.

“Also, to say she was high maintenance is putting it mildly. This one time? She had me standing on the tarmac at LAX for an hour while her manager tried to coax her onto the private jet that was waiting to take her to Cannes. She'd decided at the last minute she couldn't possibly go. Why? Because she'd gained a few pounds and the gown she'd planned to wear was a little snug.”

“Did she end up going?”

“Of course. Like I knew she would.”

“Why didn't you quit if she was so impossible?”

“I came close. But in the end, I couldn't. She needed me.”

“More than you needed her from what you're telling me.”

“There were compensations. The gown, for instance. A Valentino. She gave it to me after she got back from Cannes.”

“Sweet.”

“She could be extremely generous. You never knew which Delilah you were going to get from one day to the next. It used to drive me crazy, but I can't say my job was ever boring.”

“Kind of like this one?”

She grins. “Minus the bug spray.”

After she drops me off at my house, taking the Explorer with her to Ivy's so I won't be tempted to drive without a license (she thinks of everything, that girl), I walk the dog, then shower and change into my sweats. Supper is canned tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. I watch TV, my cat curled on one side of me and the dog on the other, until it's time for my Skype date with Bradley. I'm struggling to stay awake when I log on at midnight.