Whiskey, You're The Devil: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 4) (16 page)

Just as we approached the columned porch and massive front doors a team of gardeners rushed from the side with white trash bags and began to cover all of the sculptures. A small man followed behind them dressed in khakis, work boots, a denim jacket and thick gloves yelled in a constant stream of Spanish. Then he saw us.

“Hey, you!” he said, and I would’ve jumped if Savage hadn’t put his hand on my elbow. “Get out of here. This is private property. I call the police. We don’t need your kind around here being nosy.”

“Our kind?” I asked Savage, confused. “What kind are we?”

“The nosy kind I guess.”

Savage held up his badge and the little man stopped a few paces away. With the momentum he’d been using I’d been afraid he was going to steamroll right over us.

“Agent Savage. FBI. What’s your name?”

“Hector Ortiz. I’m the head gardener here at Palacio del Blanco.”

“Good name,” I said. “Very fitting.” Savage squeezed a little harder on my elbow and I zipped my lips.

“You’re here about Mrs. Mayhew’s murder?”

It took me a second to remember that Priscilla Loveshack was in all actuality Winnie Mayhew.

“That’s right. Is Mr. Mayhew at home?”

“Oh, yes. And both of the children. They’re planning the funeral. It is a very stressful time for the family. The police were already here.”

“I’m investigating a different avenue. How long have you worked here?”

“Seven years. Mrs. Mayhew was very particular about her garden sculptures, and I knew just how she liked them.”

If Savage’s grip got any tighter I was going to have bruises. I was mostly ninety percent good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut. I guess it was the other ten percent Savage was worried about.

“So you were working for her before she retired from the industry?”

Hector hesitated for a moment, and I liked him for that. He’d been a loyal employee despite her chosen profession.

“
Sí.
She only took her retirement two years past.”

I looked around the expansive gardens and house once more. “She had a very successful career.”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Mayhew was an excellent businesswoman. Her investments were quite good.”

“Did they always film in the same location?” Savage asked.

Hector shrugged. “I don’t think so. They move around depending on what setting they’re looking for. They even filmed here a couple of times, though she’d have gotten in trouble with the neighborhood if anyone had found out. But Mr. Elias was insistent, and at that time she still worked for him.”

“Mr. Elias?”

“Travis Elias. He’s the owner of Purgatory Studios and the money man.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Ortiz. You’ve been very helpful. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “You’re the first one who’s said so. The other cop acted like she didn’t matter because of who she was. But she was a fine lady.”

We made it the rest of the way to the front door, and Savage hit the doorbell.

“Is that really playing Stairway to Heaven?” I asked.

“The rich get all the cool stuff.”

I had to stifle a snicker when the door opened suddenly. My eyes widened at the man who posed himself artfully against the door. He wore white cashmere pants and a matching sweater and his white blonde hair hung past his shoulders. His skin was tanned and his eyes a pale blue. I was pretty sure I’d seen this man on several of the romance novels my mother kept in her bookshelf.

“Can I help you?” he asked. “This is a very inconvenient time for visitors.”

His accent was Nordic. Or maybe Romanian. Or possibly a cross between the two, which led me to believe it was fake.

“I’m Agent Savage with the FBI and this is Addison Holmes. We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding your wife?”

He stared at us for a few seconds and then broke into a blindingly white grin. He clapped his hands together. “You are very good. You almost had me.” He chuckled again and slapped his leg. “I’m not taking auditions at this time, but you should come back.” He looked Savage up and down. “Nice build and a face that won’t make the ladies run away screaming. That’s the case half the time. Once I see your goods and you do a screen test we can see what we can do about securing a role for you.

It wasn’t often I got to see Savage speechless, but I was pretty sure this was one of those times. And then Lance turned to me and did the same up and down treatment.

“You can do your screen test with your lady friend here if it’s convenient. She’s not bad either. And she’s a brunette. We’re always running low on brunettes. What’s your cup size, sugar? My trained eye tells me you’re a C, but winter clothes can be so bulky. Are you waxed? Bald is in you know. Best take care of that if you haven’t already.”

“Mr. Mayhew,” Savage said again. “I really am with the FBI. If we can come in we’d like to get to the bottom of your wife’s murder.”

“Are you serious? You’re not here to be adult film stars?”

“No.”

“Well that’s a crying shame. I thought maybe I’d just discovered this decade’s new star. My name is Lance by the way.” He left the door open and left us to follow, his hair floating behind him like a cloud.

“Of course his name is Lance,” I whispered.

“C cup, huh?” Savage asked. “My favorite.”

“Shut up.” I hunched my shoulders and followed the hair cloud.

Everything from the floors to the furniture to the doorknobs was white. It was blinding. But more startling than the lack of color was the giant self-portraits that graced the walls.

“And next to the definition of narcissism in the dictionary is a picture of this house,” I said. “Wow. They really like to look at themselves.”

Lance’s portraits were of him in various stages of undress and in costumes from different time periods, but his hair was always the same. There were several frames covered with a black cloth, and I had to assume these were the pictures of the late Mrs. Mayhew.

“We’ll do this in the parlor,” Lance called back. “It’s the most relaxing room. I feel very Zen there.”

“Jesus,” I whispered as soon as we walked into the parlor.

A wall mural decorated one entire side of the room, and it was another painting of Lance, though this time his lance was fully erect and about to find its home in Priscilla Loveshack’s scabbard. I had no idea why he was wearing a pirate hat and holding an Indiana Jones whip during coitus, but I’d learned in life that sometimes there were no explanations. I also wondered if the picture was painted true to size because holy moly that thing was not natural. My vagina cringed in sympathy, and it took ever power I had not to let my gaze stray downward on the real Mr. Mayhew.

“Can I interest either of you in a brandy? It really heats the belly on days like today.” He went over to a cart near the mural wall and posed again as he was pouring his drink.

“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” I hissed.

“Did you work with your wife in films?” Savage asked.

“Oh, sure. That’s how we met. On the set of Schindler’s Naughty List. We were together almost twenty years.”

I wasn’t even going to get into the logistics of how that worked, considering Priscilla had made over two hundred adult films and most of them weren’t with her husband. But I guess if it worked for them—

“I had my modeling career before that,” he continued, “but I retired from that life because the films were more lucrative. At least until my injury.” He looked away abruptly and took a long swallow of brandy as if he were following cues on set. I was thinking Mr. Mayhew probably hadn’t been given very many speaking lines in his adult films.

Don’t ask about the injury, Addison. No matter how curious you are.
And then I remembered I probably wouldn’t have to ask. There was no way he was letting that go without an explanation.

“I fell off a fire truck during the filming of BackShaft and fractured my vertebrae in my lower spine. That’s where all the thrusting power comes from, and by the time I recovered I was already a has been.”

“Who would’ve known,” I said, laying on my accent a little thicker than normal.

“Where were you when your wife was killed, Mr. Mayhew?”

“I was here, of course. The children are home from college for the holidays, and we were all here together. Tucked snug into bed at that time of night.”

“You didn’t oppose your wife working at that time of night in that part of town?”

“She didn’t usually work the store, but both her manager and the sales girl both called in sick with the flu and she didn’t have anyone else to cover. Prissy was never one to let a dollar go to waste, so instead of closing she opened the store herself. Sunday nights are big business. The after church sinners.”

“Did she contact you that night? Did she seem worried?”

“We talked just before I took my Ambien at nine o’clock. That was the last time I’ll ever get to hear that sexy voice.”

Lance burst into tears and I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t realized how drama free my family life was until I’d met Lance Mayhew.

“Where can we find Travis Elias?” Savage asked. Nothing much fazed Savage. Which was good, because it was important that one of us looked like a professional.

“Travis? Oh, he’s here and about. They’re filming on one of the riverboats this week.”

“Which boat?”

“I don’t know the name of it, but you’ll recognize it when you see it. They tie black silk scarves along the gang plank to let the crew know where to go, and a guy the size of a monster truck stands guarding the entrance.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Mayhew.” Savage took my elbow and guided me back toward the door. “Are you and your children the sole inheritors of your wife’s estate?”

“As far as I know, but the will won’t be read until Saturday. Would you like my autograph before you leave?”

Chapter Sixteen

W
HEN WE GOT
back to the truck, both of the back doors were open and mom and Rosemarie were still in their seats.

“What’s with the doors?” I asked.

“That disinfectant smell was making me nauseous,” my mother answered. She waved an old church bulletin that must have been inside her purse in front of her face. “I can’t even imagine what that stuff does to the skin.”

“What did you find out?” Rosemarie asked. “Is he guilty?”

“It’s a little too soon to tell,” I said, “but we have a location for the film location. Apparently they’re filming on one of the riverboats.”

“Maybe they’re doing a Showboat parody.”

“Isn’t that something?” my mother said. “Do you think they’ll sing Ol’ Man River?”

“I certainly hope not,” I said. “I can’t imagine anyone being able to find their rhythm with that song playing in the background. Maybe if they sped it up a little and added more bass.”

“It’s important to have a good rhythm in bed,” Rosemarie said. “I dated a man once who couldn’t find the beat if you hit him upside the head with it. Made me seasick, stopping and starting like that. It was like his penis had a stutter. Couldn’t decide whether it was coming or going.”

Savage turned onto East Bay Street and we made our way toward the docks. Parking was always a bitch down in this area, and already my knee was screaming at the thought of traversing the uneven ground. But no sooner had I had the thought than a parking space as close as we could possibly get opened up right in front of us.

“Good grief,” I said. “Does that always happen?”

“Pretty much.”

We made our way to where several riverboats were docked. It wasn’t difficult to figure out which one belonged to the porn stars. Pirate flags flapped in the whipping wind and someone had lined cannons along the top deck near the railing.

“It looks like they’re filming a period piece,” my mother said.

Rosemarie clucked her tongue. “I’ve always enjoyed pirates. I love those books where the dastardly pirate kidnaps the girl and they set sail across the high seas. Only while I’m reading I pretend they have fresh water and take a bath every day.”

Mom nodded her head up and down like Rosemarie was preaching the gospel. “Good hygiene is essential for my fantasies too. Unless it’s one where you’ve been to the gym and had a good workout, getting those endorphins going and sweating like pigs. And then at the end he throws you down on the mat and has his way with you.”

Mom and Rosemarie both started fanning their faces. Savage was staring straight down at his shoes with his hands on his hips, and I was wondering how much I’d have to work out if I added whiskey to my hot fudge sundae.

We started toward the gangplank and the large man that stood guard crossed his arms over his gigantic chest and spread his tree trunk legs wide. He was pale as a cue ball and had white blond hair that fuzzed across his scalp like a Chia Pet. He wore a patch over one eye and the other was so dilated that I could barely see the ring of blue on the outside. I was thinking Pirate Pete was on some heavy pharmaceuticals.

“My goodness,” Rosemarie said. “Aren’t you a big one.”

He looked down at Rosemarie and gave her a goofy grin. So maybe he wasn’t so tough after all.

“Lance Mayhew told us to come on over,” Savage said to the guard. “Sorry we’re late.”

By the grace of God my mother and Rosemarie stayed silent and let Savage continue with his lies. My mom was pretty much the worst liar in existence, but to her credit she knew this about herself so she took the opportunity to start digging in her purse for a piece of gum.

“You’re the new actors?” He looked us all over from head to toe and apparently the sight of us didn’t compute in his drugged out brain because he had to do it a second time. His gaze stopped on my mother and I said a quick prayer that he didn’t ask her a direct question.

“You’re one of the bunnies?” he asked her.

“This is my mother,” I said before mom could stutter her way through a lie. “She’s very supportive of my career. She comes to work with me all the time.”

“Dude, that’s weird. I guess go on up. Your mom will have to stay in the green room though. Only actors and production crew on set. But there’s a TV in there if she really wants to watch.”