Swimsuit Body (21 page)

“Oh, my God. Thank you!” I throw my arms around him, kissing him on the cheek. When I start to draw back, I feel his own arms tighten around me. Then we're kissing for real. I catch a faint whiff of smoke from the campfire he'd put out, along with the masculine scent that is his alone. His lips are salty with sea spray, and their warmth travels through me as if I'd gulped a hot beverage. “Thank you,” I say again when we finally stop kissing, murmuring it this time.

“I'm not sure I'm doing you any favors.” Spence's voice rumbles up from his chest as he holds me close, my head against his shoulder. “Something tells me you'd be better off locked up.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Spence drops me off at the Russo house, where I'd arranged to meet up with Brianna. I'm surprised to find a cement truck parked in the driveway. Normally, the owners of my properties inform me in advance of any home improvement projects. I wonder why nothing was said about this one. I walk around in back, where I find my client Mr. Russo overseeing a crew of workers who are pouring a foundation by the six-foot privacy fence. There's no sign of Brianna. She must be inside.

“I would have called ahead if I'd known you were in town,” I apologize, after we've exchanged greetings. “What's all this?” I gesture toward the construction site, which covers an area roughly equal in dimension to the swimming pool. The four workers are smoothing the freshly poured cement with concrete trowels. Building materials are stacked on the lawn around it.

Russo's brown eyes dance with merriment as he presses his finger to his lips in a shushing motion. “It's a surprise, so don't say anything to Lydia. She thinks I'm in Palm Springs on business.”

“What's the occasion?”

“Our fiftieth.” His and his wife's golden anniversary is next month. They're celebrating with a party here at the house. They sent me an invitation. “I couldn't think what to get her—she says she has more jewelry than she could ever wear—then I remembered she's always wanted a greenhouse.”

“She'll love it.” Mrs. Russo is more the Smith Hawken than the Cartier type. Her hobby is orchids, and she's running out of places in the house to put them. “I promise I won't breathe a word.”

He tips me a wink. “You know where all the bodies are buried, eh, Tish?” He's referring to the indiscretions of my other clients about which I keep mum, but at the mention of bodies, coupled with the sight of wet cement and Russo's rumored mob ties, I feel a little queasy all of a sudden.

Not that Victor Russo seems threatening. With his golf tan and the khaki trousers and V-necked sweater he's wearing, he could be mistaken for a retired banker or an insurance executive. His face is even featured below a balding crown, and nothing like the swarthy ones you see in
The Godfather
. You would never guess from looking at him that he owned a casino. Except for his watchful gaze. Occasionally, I'll catch him studying me as if I were on a CCTV monitor at his casino.

“Don't mention the word
bodies
,” I reply with a groan.

“Ah, yes. Terrible business, that. I knew her—Miss Ward,” he adds, and in my mind's eye, I see the picture of Russo and Delilah together at his casino. My discomfort intensifies.

“Really?” I feign surprise.

“She and her husband were regulars at the casino,” Russo explains. “He liked to gamble. She went along to keep an eye on him. She was a real sweetheart—always went out of her way to personally thank me whenever I comped them a meal—though I can't say the same for him. He didn't deserve her, if you ask me.” The look of contempt on his face at the mention of Eric Nyland softens into one of reflection. “She was that rarest of creatures—exquisite with a heart of gold. She could light up a room just by walking into it. No other woman could compare and there wasn't a man—”

Our conversation is interrupted by a familiar female voice chirping, “Lemonade, anyone?” I turn to see Brianna stepping out from inside, carrying a bamboo tray that holds tall, frosty glasses of lemonade topped with sprigs of mint. Like she's the lady of the house. Unbelievable. Russo helps himself to a lemonade while I just stare at her.

“What do you think you're doing?” I whisper when Russo moves to the other end of the patio to take a call on his cell phone.

“I thought the men would like some refreshments,” she answers pleasantly, moving past me onto the lawn. She chats with the workers while they thirstily gulp their lemonades. Knowing her, it was made from lemons that she picked herself. The lemon trees bordering the patio are loaded with them.

“Did you bake bread while you were at it?” I ask when she rejoins me.

“I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor,” she replies tartly before her expression softens with concern. “Are you okay? You look like you didn't get much sleep last night.”

“So would you if you'd almost been killed in your bed by a masked intruder.” I feel a chill go through me, remembering. “I'm lucky to still be alive. If it hadn't been for Prince … He woke me up with his growling, then he defended me like he was a trained attack dog.”

“So does this mean …?”

“Yep. He can stay.” Like there was any question after he saved my life. “Oh, and thanks for filling in for me. It's been a crazy week—I don't know how I'd have managed without you.”

“Just doing my job,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “Speaking of which, while I was inside …”

“Squeezing lemons?” I prompt, arching an eyebrow.

“That was just an excuse. I wanted to have a look around, and I figured the door to the den wouldn't be locked if Mr. Russo was home. I was right.” A sly smile steals across her pretty face.

Crafty girl. I should have known. “And?”

Brianna darts a glance at Russo, who's still on his phone at the other end of the patio, before she leans in to whisper, “I checked out his ego wall. The photo of him and Delilah? It wasn't there.”

I don't know what to make of it. Why would Russo remove the picture of him and Delilah from his ego wall? Was it to keep from being reminded that her life had been cruelly taken, or so as not to draw attention to his connection with her? If it was the latter, why would he care unless he had something to hide? He certainly wasn't shy about mentioning Delilah to me.

The questions keep piling up, but so far I have no answers.

I don't hear back from Spence about my proposed plan until two days later. He calls me, fittingly enough, as I'm driving to Casa Blanca with a welcome basket for the new renters—a family of six from Michigan who are neither ghouls nor tabloid stringers posing as vacationers—after having left Brianna at the Keyses' beach cottage, on Seascape Drive, to meet with the contractor who's to replace the rotting fence. “It's a go.” Spence's voice is grim. “The chief gave it the green light.”

My heart starts to pound. This is huge. My one shot at flushing out Delilah's murderer and my would-be killer. “You don't sound too happy about it,” I remark. “This could be your big break.”

“Or your funeral,” he growls. “The chief wasn't happy about it either. He wouldn't have agreed to it if he weren't desperate. Apparently, his concern for his own reputation takes precedence over any concerns about tying up departmental resources … or putting you at risk.”

He details the plan of action as I drive south on Highway One. “I'll have a surveillance team posted outside the restaurant and two undercover officers on the inside, but you won't be in their line of sight every minute.”

“I won't be alone, either. I'll be with other people besides the killer,” I remind him. “If he … or she … tries to lure me away, I'll know it's a trap. And you can be damn sure I won't walk into it.”

“‘The best-laid plans …'” he intones darkly.

“If you quote Robert Burns, I'm hanging up.”

“If a poem from a century ago is still being taught in schools, it means there's truth in it.”

“Whatever.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and my heart is pounding. What have I gotten myself into? Is this really such a good idea? I make light of the situation to keep my fears at bay. “Now I just need to find something to wear. Do you think red would send the wrong signal?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The rest of the week is blessedly uneventful. The only corpse I find is a fish floating belly-up in the Chens' koi pond, the only drama one involving clients (Mrs. Miller discovered that Mr. Miller was cheating on her). Nonetheless, I'm a nervous wreck as I count down the days to Operation Red Carpet—the code name assigned by the police to their sting operation—because I know that, unlike on detective shows, there's a chance I won't come out of it alive.

And I used to think the worst thing about black-tie affairs was pantyhose and high heels.

When the day finally arrives, my fingernails are so bitten, they elicit a despairing head shake from the manicurist. Who has time for a manicure anyhow? I had to squeeze the appointment into my packed workweek. Then, as if the Millers' marriage being on the rocks weren't enough, I arrive at their house—my last stop on Friday—to find a leaky pipe had flooded their kitchen.

It seems a bad omen.

We're running fifteen minutes late when Brianna and I arrive at the Shady Brook Inn for her uncle's party. I circle the upper lot a couple times in my Explorer before I finally find a parking space in the lower lot. Minutes later, we're pulling up to the restaurant in the Shady Brook Inn shuttle, a London cab painted pistachio green and emblazoned with its logo. My stomach is in knots, and I've sweated through a double layer of antiperspirant. But I can't let on—Brianna doesn't know about Operation Red Carpet; I told only my two trusted associates, Ivy and McGee—which is making me even more tense. I'm somewhat calmed when I see the unmarked van belonging to the police surveillance team parked across the street.
You're covered. Nothing can go wrong.
Also, my phone has been equipped with a transmitter, in case I should be in need of assistance at any time. There's also Spence, who is coordinating the efforts from police headquarters.

Inside, every table is filled, and through the glass sliders to the deck I see that the outdoor seating area, which is lit by the glow from the fairy lights that lace the branches of the trees beyond, is at full capacity as well. As I look around, I wonder which of the diners are the undercover cops, but no one stands out. The only visible security presence is the pair of bodyguards that flank the entrance to the private dining room to which we're escorted. Both men wear dark suits and earpieces. The taller of the two is the bull-necked security guy who works for Bartosz. The other guy, medium height and scrappy-looking, is all too familiar. I frown as I approach him.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss at McGee, while Bull Neck is occupied checking IDs.

“What it looks like.” McGee motions toward his sidekick. “Jimmy here got me the gig after this other guy, Eddie, was fired on account of fraternizing with what's-her-name. The redhead who looks like a porn star? They weren't rehearsing her lines, if you get my drift. Figured I could use the extra cash.”

“Likely story,” I reply with a roll of my eyes.

He shrugs. “Somebody's gotta look out for you, Ballard.”

I glance over my shoulder to see that Brianna has moved into the dining room. Bull Neck is busy with two more late arrivals, Rick McVittie and his date. I drop my voice nonetheless. “I have undercover cops and a surveillance team for that.”

McGee snorts. “Amateurs. And I see you ain't packing.” His gaze skims over the gown I'm wearing, a vintage Halston with a fitted bodice and a skirt made up of layers of emerald and turquoise silk chiffon in a swirly pattern. I bought it at the consignment shop that Ivy frequents, two doors down from the Gilded Lily—the only place in town where you can purchase haute couture at affordable prices—but it fits like it was made for me. “Unless you got it where the sun don't shine.”

“The invitation said black tie, not black ops.”

“And I'm your plus one.” He grins at me. In his dark suit with his hair scraped back in his usual ponytail, he looks more like a character from
Breaking Bad
than someone whose job it is to protect.

“Don't blow my cover, that's all I ask.”

He places his hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear I won't shoot till I see the whites of their eyes.”

I move past him and down a short flight of stone steps to the dining room, which is actually the wine cellar—it does double duty when the two designated private dining rooms are booked—where the other guests are gathered. When I used to work here, it was kept locked and only the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Hanson, and the sommelier had keys. I'd peeked in a few times, but now I pause to look around, taking in the exposed brick walls, stone floor, and low, curved ceiling clad in barrel oak. Rows of wine bottles cover each wall. At the center, there is a harvest table set with Provence linens in a muted botanical print, pewter cutlery and chasers, and jugs of flowers and potted herbs from the restaurant's garden that reflect the Shady Brook Inn's farm-to-table ethos. It seems ironic that an occasion to mark the passing of a woman who struggled with her sobriety should take place in a wine cellar, but fitting in a way, though I know it wasn't intended as such.

Bartosz walks over to greet me. “Crisis resolved?” he inquires after he kisses me on both cheeks. Brianna had texted him when we were en route.

“If you can call a leaky pipe a crisis.” I put on a smile. I'm sweating despite the thermostat in the cellar being set at a relatively cool sixty-four degrees. “The owners of the house have bigger worries at the moment. She found out he was cheating on her. Which I could have told her.”

“But you didn't,” Bartosz replies with a knowing smile. He's elegantly attired in old-world European fashion, wearing a tuxedo with a velvet shawl collar and a shirt with rows of tiny ruffles.

“I'm paid to be discreet.”

“And do you reserve judgment as well?”

I shrug. “People have a right to do as they please in their own homes as long they're not hurting anyone. Besides, we all have secrets.” I wonder what his are. If Bartosz is the murderer, what better way to appear above suspicion than to host a party in remembrance of his victim?

“Indeed we do.” He smiles slyly. “Though I dare say there are some here whose secrets would shock even you.” I already know that Brent Harding is a philanderer who's also into bondage, that his wife is a hot mess, and
that Liam Brady is in recovery, so if Bartosz is referring to secrets of that nature, I could probably tell him a thing or two. The question is, who is a murderer?

After Bartosz has moved to greet Rick and his girlfriend, I observe the others as I sip my Perrier with lime brought by one of the servers. The men in their tuxedos look like the extras in Bond movies playing roulette at casinos in Monte Carlo. The women all have hair worthy of shampoo commercials and perfect bodies—or gravity-defying flesh in the case of the more mature ladies—showcased by the couture gowns they wear. The collective glow from all the cosmetically whitened teeth and porcelain veneers is as dazzling as that of the bling worn by the ladies.

I don't see the spiky-haired blonde, but that's probably because Olivia Harding is in attendance. In her beaded amber maternity gown, she glows like the gold Rolex on her husband's wrist. You would never know to look at them that she'd caught him cheating on her. Olivia is all smiles tonight, and if Brent's smile seems fixed, it could be because he's lost the ability to move his mouth from all the cosmetic surgery he's had. Liam Brady is his usual animated self as he flirts outrageously with his costar, Taylor Ramsey. I watch Rick McVittie inhale a canapé that's roughly the same size as his date. Mandy Drexler and Jillian Lassiter are in the corner where an antique wine press stands, Jillian's ginger curls contrasting with Mandy's flat-ironed black locks as they stand with their heads bent together in private conversation.

Which one of you killed Delilah Ward?
I feel a prickling along my spine, recalling my own, near-fatal encounter with the killer. It's like a game of three-dimensional Clue with flesh-and-blood characters. I try to picture them in dark clothing and a ski mask, as one by one my gaze lights on each of the other guests before finally coming to rest on Brent and Olivia Harding. They look innocent as they stand chatting with Brianna and Greta Nyland, but appearances can be deceiving. Am I looking at a murderer and her accomplice?

“Thank you all for coming,” begins our host when we're all seated at the table, Olivia on my right and Bartosz at the head of the table on my left. “We're fewer in number, having lost our beloved friend and colleague, Delilah, but let us not mourn,” he intones in his theatrical baritone. “Tonight let us remember the shining star that she was. A star who shone both on and off the screen. Her life was cut short, tragically, but she lived life to the fullest, and that we can celebrate.” He stands and raises his glass in a toast. “To Delilah.” Then the only sound is that of glasses clinking together. Bartosz's eyes are moist as he concludes, in a cracked voice, “I miss her, dammit.”

“She was some woman,” Brent pipes up, apparently oblivious to the dark glance his wife shoots him.

“We
all
miss her,” says Jillian Lassiter with seemingly heartfelt emotion. She earns a laugh from the others when she adds, “And I never thought I'd say that about a rival actress.”

Over the appetizer course of poached quail eggs and slivers of quail confit on wood-roasted oyster mushrooms, memories of Delilah are shared around the table. Liam, who looks like a bad boy even in his tuxedo with his hair rumpled as if he rode here on a motorcycle, tells a story from when he and Delilah were filming
Return of Laserman
. “Beastly day it was, and I was flat-out, but Delilah insisted we visit a little boy in hospital whose fondest wish was to meet his idol. That would be Delilah, not I,” he adds, eliciting chuckles. “We were the hit of the cancer ward until we were tossed out for overexciting the kiddies.” He concludes, on a more solemn note, with a line from a poem. “‘I cannot say and I will not say that she is dead, she is just far away.'”

Taylor Ramsey tells about when Delilah took her aside for a heart-to-heart at a People's Choice Awards ceremony. It was during Taylor's teen years, when she was behaving like a “spoiled brat,” by her own admission. Delilah advised her to start acting like an adult or she wouldn't have a career. “Just like a big sister would.” Taylor brushes a tear from her eye. “I can't believe she's gone.” You would never know from the sad look she wears that she benefited from Delilah's death.

Rick McVittie talks about the time he and Delilah performed a skit together on
Saturday Night Live
,
which is funnier in his recounting than it was when I watched it on TV. He has everyone cracking up, even his date who seems as lacking in personality as she is in body fat (apparently she's decided that putting blue streaks in her dyed-black hair makes enough of a statement). When laughter turns to tears that have several people dabbing at their eyes, Rick jokes, in a voice throaty with emotion, “Lighten up, people. For fuck's sake, you'd think somebody died.”

“She was a devil, that one. Always with the pranks,” recalls an older actress named Irina Chayefsky. Irina tells an amusing anecdote from when she and Delilah were making a picture together. Delilah had come to the set one day disguised in a wig and glasses, passing herself off as a production assistant. As Irina flings out her hand in reenacting the moment in which Delilah tore off her disguise to reveal her true identity, she accidentally smacks her husband—Kent? Keith?—in the face. A failed screenwriter fifteen years her junior—also number five in her hit parade of husbands—he squirms, wearing a pained smile, as Irina fusses over him, making sure he's all right.

Brianna, looking demure in a dusk-pink crepe de chine gown that brings out the rosiness in her cheeks, says a few words about how Delilah was as much a friend to her as a boss. Greta, wearing a navy gown with a high collar and cap sleeves, speaks movingly of her bond with her brother's wife, repeating what she'd told me at Bartosz's last party. “Delilah was the sister I never had.”

Bartosz speaks of his “enduring” friendship with Delilah, which began with the first picture they made together when she was nineteen. Knowing that he has a thing for blondes, I wonder if there was ever a time when he and Delilah had been more than friends. His only reference to her drinking is to say, “She battled her demons, and the demons got the better of her at times.”

Jillian recalls Delilah's graciousness in congratulating her the year they were both nominated for the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress and Jillian won. “You know, I think she actually meant it when she said the nomination was as good as winning,” Jillian adds upon reflection.

Mandy Drexler portrays a Delilah who was outspoken in her support of racial diversity in Hollywood. “I was there when she put Bernie Waxman in his place,” she says, naming a big-shot Hollywood producer. “We were at a party at his house and he made one of his obnoxious Bernie remarks. And Delilah says to him, sweet as pie, as she's looking around the room at all the white faces, ‘If blacks are the new Jews of Hollywood, does that mean I'm at the wrong party?'” Everyone else laughs, a bit too loudly it seems, as servers pour more wine and clear away our plates.

The memory shared by Brent Harding is from when he and Delilah were filming the picture they'd made together in London. “So Delilah's stuck in her hotel suite—inner door was jammed—and we're due on the set. At the front desk they're running around like chickens with their heads cut off, except this one bellhop, a Pakistani kid. He barely spoke English, but he'd seen every
Mission Impossible
movie, like, twenty times. So he climbs the front of the building with a screwdriver between his teeth like he's some ninja and gets in through the balcony. Fucking epic!”