Done to Death (19 page)

Melanie, at the monitor next to him, was nodding. ‘He's a keeper,' she said.

‘Agreed; one down, and now we need at least a couple more to flesh out the season.'

‘If we get a season.'

Her words triggered a rush of anxiety. ‘This will work,' he said, not at all certain of that. Not even sure if Lenore Parks Productions was still open for business.

His cell vibrated. He pulled it out and saw Jeanine's number. ‘Hey babe.'

‘I just heard about Richard Parks,' she said, her voice coming through the speaker phone in her car with a slight echo.

‘Yeah, it's pretty awful.'

‘Barry …' She hesitated.

‘What?'

‘I'm on the road, about half an hour away. I need to see you.'

‘OK,' his anxiety suddenly back. ‘What's wrong?' expecting this to be the moment his too-beautiful wife would tell him that she'd been seeing someone else, someone more successful, someone able to give her all the things she deserved.

‘Sweetie. You can't hide anything from me. “What's wrong?” What's wrong is you're freaking out and pretending everything's OK. What's wrong is I need to be with you. We'll get through this. Barry, you are brilliant and creative and Lenore was lucky to have you.'

‘I love you,' he said.

‘I know that, and it's not what you say, it's what you do. I love you too. Ashley, say hi to Daddy.'

‘Hi Daddy.'

Barry smiled. ‘Hi sweetie. Jeanine, we're doing auditions. It's dull stuff.'

‘To you maybe. Don't try to talk me out of this. You need us there and you know it. Plus it's a beautiful day, and I want to see my handsome, albeit stressed out, husband.'

‘You got half of that right,' he said.

She laughed. ‘So you're not stressed out? I'll see you soon. Blow Daddy a kiss.' The line clicked off.

He stared at his iPhone, savoring the dual air kisses from his wife and daughter. It was nearly eleven, time enough for the LPP powers that be to have made a statement. Question was, did he want to hear it? He stared at the stage, and then at the monitor next to Melanie. Ada had just asked the big question, ‘So what's it worth?' Her timing was flawless, leaving a long enough pause for the audience to try and guess before the expert.

He leaned in to hear Tolliver's response. He was good, starting with the high figure if the table had never been refinished, and finally coming out with the retail and insurance values.

‘Perfect!' Melanie said. She looked to Barry. ‘Agreed?'

‘Yeah, that's one.'

‘Mr Stromstein?' A woman's voice from the back of the room.

Barry turned and saw a short woman with curly dark hair in a navy suit, and the chunky chief of police he'd met yesterday. He swallowed and stood. ‘Chief Simpson, good morning.'

Kevin Simpson waved to the stage. ‘Hi, Mrs Strauss, Tolliver.'

Ada stared back. ‘Kevin?'

Kevin looked back at Barry. ‘So you're already filming the show?'

‘Auditions,' Barry said, wondering what the hell the chief of police was doing here.

‘Cool. This is Detective Mattie Perez with the State Major Crime Unit.'

‘Hello.' Mattie extended her hand.

They shook.

Barry felt unsettled by the intensity of the woman's gaze. Like kids in a staring contest. She didn't blink.

He looked away. ‘How can I help?' he asked.

‘Is there someplace we can talk in private?' she asked.

Barry's nerves were in overdrive. Why would a detective investigating Richard Parks' murder want to talk to him? He'd heard that Rachel shot her brother, which on the one hand got the meddling duo out of his hair, and on the other quite possibly meant the death of any active LPP projects. He wanted to tell this detective he didn't have the time, that he was in the middle of auditions. But somehow her request didn't seem optional, and pissing off the local police who could make or break the show was all kinds of wrong. ‘Sure, we could go to my room.' He turned back. ‘Melanie, go on without me. You know what we need.'

‘No problem, boss.'

Mattie took in Barry's lavish suite − at least five hundred bucks a night. His clothes were casual, but from his hand-stitched loafers to the iconic polo player on his chest, they weren't cheap. His eyes seemed in constant motion; his anxiety was palpable. She wondered at its source as he directed her and Kevin Simpson to comfortable leather club chairs. He sat across from them.

‘A couple people,' she said, ‘saw you and Richard Parks in a pretty heated discussion yesterday.'

Barry swallowed. ‘Yeah.' He leaned forward in his chair.

‘What was it about?'

‘This show,' he said. ‘Richard was pretty pissed off.'

‘Because?'

‘Take your pick. I was an easy target. His sister, who by all accounts hated Lenore, had decided to use
Final Reckoning
as an FU to her mother.'

‘What do you mean?' Mattie asked.

He explained the show's premise. ‘Every week we have experts go through the estate of someone who's just died. They present proposals, or outright offers, to the heirs and then dispose of the belongings. It all gets tallied and the heirs get the cash. Rachel's idea was to use Lenore's estate − or at least stuff from her house in Shiloh − for the pilot. She was very excited about the idea. And while I'm the first to admit it was beyond bad taste, the ratings would be unreal.'

‘Richard wasn't on board with that.'

‘Hardly.'

‘But if it was Rachel's idea, why get mad at you?'

‘I'm convenient,' he said. ‘I had the sense that Richard didn't want to start something with Rachel. The girl has a reputation for not liking the word “no”.'

‘What did Richard want you to do?'

‘Pull the plug.'

‘On the episode or the show?' she asked.

‘The whole thing.'

‘Obviously you didn't.'

‘No,' he said, rubbing fingers on his forehead. He looked to Kevin and then back to Mattie. He realized that she was the one running the show.

‘And yesterday,' Mattie continued, ‘Richard Parks was the acting CEO of LPP. Seems like if he said to pull the plug that's what would happen.'

‘It's splitting hairs.' Barry sighed. ‘He wanted
me
to pull the plug, not him. That way he could tell Rachel the show wasn't working and it wouldn't be his fault. Crap – I mean, she even wanted a producing credit.'

‘What does that mean?' Kevin asked.

Barry laughed. ‘It depends. I'm a producer and basically I do everything. If Rachel wants to be a producer, she gets the credit and I do everything possible to keep her away from the shoot. Can I ask where she is?'

‘A hospital,' Mattie replied.

‘Did she kill him?' he asked.

‘Too soon to say.' Mattie's focus never left Barry. ‘What I don't understand is why they were even at the cemetery.'

‘I don't know,' Barry said. ‘Maybe this is where they're planning to bury her. Although the way Rachel was talking, it was like she wanted to purge the house of everything connected with Lenore and start over. I'm not saying this right. It's speculation, but it was like she wanted to set up house. She said something about raising a family here. Honestly, I don't know the girl and, by all accounts, she's pretty crazy.'

Mattie switched topics. ‘Can you walk me through your whereabouts yesterday through till today?'

‘Great … my alibi.' He gave a nervous smile and proceeded to recreate his every moment.

As she listened, she realized a few things. First, if Barry was to be believed, his entire afternoon through early a.m. was accounted for in a series of interconnected meetings and work sessions, all related to this show. Were there gaps in time long enough for him to drive out to Lenore's estate, cut the fence, creepy crawl through the woods and shoot Richard? Possible, but unlikely with the tightly packed contents of his day.

‘You've been to Lenore's mansion,' said Mattie.

‘Sure, a bunch of times. We'd shoot episodes of
Lenore Says
, and she'd do company parties at least twice a year. Attendance was mandatory.'

‘Altogether how many times have you been there?'

‘Couple dozen, I guess.'

‘And these parties, how many people are we talking about?'

‘Usually it was the execs, producers and assorted wives and partners. In the summer she'd invite entire families and the kids could use the pool.'

As Mattie did the math, there was a knock at the door.

A woman's musical voice, ‘Barry?'

Barry smiled. ‘My wife,' he said, and got up and walked to the door.

A little girl with blond curls shot through. ‘Daddy!'

Mattie watched as Barry scooped up his daughter, the joy on his face evident, and she couldn't help but smile and think about her own son, Oscar, when he'd been that age. The woman who came in behind the little girl made Mattie's breath catch. Mattie had long ago made peace with her looks; she was short, struggled with an extra ten to fifteen pounds around her middle and had hair like a poodle. As a teen she'd been horribly insecure, always feeling judged by others and always judging herself. She stared at Barry's wife. Without doubt, she was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, tall and willowy with massive waves of reddish blond hair that framed her delicate face and fanned out around her shoulders. She brushed a stray lock back as she hugged her husband and daughter. Her lips on his, her long fingers twined in his hair. Mattie heard Barry moan.

The little girl laughed and complained, ‘Mommy, it tickles.'

Barry's wife pulled back and playfully brushed her hair across her daughter's face.

The child's laughter was free and infectious.

Mattie felt her own smile and looked at Kevin. She felt like telling him to pick his jaw off the ground. ‘You have a beautiful family,' she said.

The woman looked up, seeing Mattie and Kevin. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't know you were in a meeting.'

‘More of an interrogation,' he said. ‘Jeanine, this is Detective Perez and Police Chief Simpson. They were asking me about Richard and Rachel.'

‘Oh.' The smile left her face. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Fine.' Still holding his little girl on his arm, he touched the side of his wife's cheek gently with his fingers.

‘We're about done,' Mattie said, finding it hard to look away from Jeanine Stromstein, now struck by the intense green of her eyes. ‘Mr Stromstein, we may have some more questions, and I'll want to interview everyone associated with
Final Reckoning
, at least everyone who was here yesterday. Were you here?' she asked Jeanine.

‘No,' Jeanine said. ‘We just drove down from the city. Is Barry a suspect?'

Her bluntness made Mattie pause. ‘No, not at the moment.' She felt awkward in front of this woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece. But awkward wasn't enough to let her forget who she was, or what she was here to do. And between Barry and Clarence's statements she now knew that many hundreds, possibly thousands, of people – including Barry's gorgeous wife – would have had enough familiarity with Lenore's estate to plot out Richard's murder. ‘Ms Stromstein, seeing that you're here, would you mind running through
your
whereabouts from yesterday afternoon until now?'

A
s psychiatric hospitals went, Rachel ranked Silver Glen at the top. From the bucolic surroundings with walking trails and stone benches to the quaint bridges over rushing streams. Even the rooms looked almost normal. If you could get around the breakaway hardware, designed to fall off the wall if more than ten pounds' pressure was applied, and the furniture bolted to the floor. From the brochures she knew that the windows, if broken, would turn into a fine powder. Still, as a teen she'd found ways to hurt herself here. One time she'd gouged her arm with a stick, not realizing that all the bacteria would enter her bloodstream and necessitate a two week hospitalization hooked to intravenous antibiotics. The only other psych place that was OK was Betty Ford. That had been a giggle. Not that she really had a drug and alcohol problem, at least not that she saw. That stay had been Lenore's idea, and for once mother and daughter had been kind of in agreement. Now, free from all drugs, legal or otherwise, she felt more out of it than after a romp at her favorite club.

She tried to focus. ‘No,' she breathed, when a thought too painful to bring to memory whispered at the edges of her consciousness. She felt trapped and helpless. She curled her arms tightly around her legs and thought of techniques she'd been taught to pull herself back into reality. ‘No.' Because what would happen to her if she could feel any of those things? ‘Richard.' Her heart raced, and frantic thoughts whirred like a band saw.

‘Rachel,' a man's voice called to her. She heard it, but it wasn't close.

‘Rachel.' The voice was persistent, and she sensed movement in the room.

She curled her arms tighter, her chin tucked to her chest, her hair like a blanket over her eyes.
Rachel isn't here
, she thought.
Rachel is on vacation.
She flashed on one therapist, a group leader, who was big into visualizations. But not ones that would bring you to reality, ones where you'd imagine beautiful places and put yourself there. She pictured turquoise waters and warm sun, how it would feel on her face, her chest. She heard gulls and the gentle rush and retreat of the waves on soft white sand. She smelled salt and the hint of clams and mussels dropped from above by gulls and black-headed cormorants.

‘Rachel.'

He wasn't giving up. But the beach was real, and maybe she wasn't alone. She gasped as the visual formed, a man rising from the surf in her private cove. His skin dripping with water, his dark hair slicked back, his blue eyes.
Richard.
His blood, and the warp and weave of her visualization began to unravel. Frantic, she tried to piece the cloth back together. That therapist's words ran through her head.
The brain doesn't know the difference between real and imaginary if you do it well enough.
Richard was staring at her, the hole in his chest, like a third eye, watching her. ‘Richard.'