Eeny Meany Miny Die (Cat Sinclair Mysteries) (13 page)

On the other hand, Taylor didn't seem like a take-charge kind of guy. Even now, he thought long and hard before speaking. Clearly being the default leader wasn't his choice.

"Taylor," I prompted. "This might be important to keep Angel out of jail."

He gave an emphatic nod. "You're right. We think you should look at Frank's ex-wife, Cindy Belfour."

"She would have had a motive, I guess."

"You mean because she's a bitch." Jenny snorted.

"Um, no, I meant because she inherits Play Group."

The dead silence answered my question about whether they knew or not. Corey and Taylor's open-mouthed stares were another giveaway.

And then there was Jenny's, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Sorry." I shrugged. "I thought Scarface had told you."

"No," Taylor said. "He didn't."

He and Corey exchanged worried glances. Jenny stood up and glared at me, fists clenched into tight balls.

I held up my hands. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"Calm down, Darling." Taylor gently drew Jen into a hug, and she finally relaxed into him, emitting a little sob into his shoulder.

Corey sat in his chair in stunned silence. His mouth was still open. His plate tilted at an angle and his sandwich began to slide. I took it from him and set it down on the table.

"This can't be happening," Jenny said, drawing away from Taylor. She wiped tears from her cheeks, but they kept on coming. "I can't believe it."

"It's true," I said.

"But…" Corey shook his head and stared at Taylor. "Angel was his wife. Shouldn't
she
get us?"

"Frank's will stipulated the group became entirely Cindy's," I said. "Maybe because she started it with him, he felt it rightfully belonged to her."

They all looked at me as one, and I saw the three different expressions of their shock. It was like I'd told them someone had suddenly died—someone they actually cared about, not Frank. I felt kind of bad for them. They obviously loved the group and hated Cindy.

"It does
not
rightfully belong to that bitch," Jenny spat.

"No," Taylor snarled. "It does not."

"What will we do?" Corey wailed.

"Angel could contest the will," I said.

Taylor's face cleared. He nodded, thoughtful. "Of course she can. Don't worry, guys, it'll be okay. There's no way Angel will let Cindy have Play Group. No fucking way."

Corey and Jenny nodded. I was about to ask them why they didn't just quit if Cindy was a problem, but I guessed the group was their life and none of them wanted to walk away from a lucrative career. No doubt they also had clauses in their contracts that prohibited them from forming their own rival group. Frank seemed like the sort of hardass who'd get that nailed down tight. Even so, they were taking the news personally. I guess they really were very close to Angel.

"So what's wrong with Cindy?" I asked.

"She's a bitch," Jenny said.

"Yeah, I got that. But what's she done specifically?"

"She was jealous of Angel from day one. Frank became obsessed with her, you see. She was amazing, though, so it's not surprising."

"Amazing?"

"Great dancer, singer, and a gorgeous person through and through. He couldn't get enough of her, couldn't praise her enough. Cindy hated that."

What wife wouldn't?

I wanted to know if Angel really was that good or whether there was the chance she'd fucked her way into the group. It wouldn't be the first time someone had gotten a part in Hollywood by sleeping with the producer.

"It wasn't just Cindy's jealousy that pissed us off," Taylor said. "She was a control freak too."

Corey nodded. "She had us working twelve or more hours at a time, getting us to go over and over our routines."

"We're not afraid of hard work," Taylor said. "But Cindy was excessive. She was never happy, always demanding more."

"I got sick from the stress," Jenny said. "My voice went and I was having dizzy spells."

"Cindy was furious with her," Corey chimed in. "She told Jen she was faking it and to leave the group if she couldn't keep up."

"Angel stood up for me." Jenny dabbed at the corner of her eye with her little finger. "She told Cindy we'd all walk if she didn't ease up on our schedule. Cindy stood her ground and kept us working hard, so Angel went to Frank."

"And he listened. The kids loved us by then, and Frank loved the money. He gave into our demands and told Cindy to go easy."

"Was it the money or Angel?" I asked. "I mean, was he in love with her at that point?"

All three exchanged glances. "It was all the money," Taylor said.

Jenny leaned forward and blinked at me. "Angel isn't responsible for breaking up their marriage, if that's what you're thinking."

"Jen," Corey scolded softly.

"I wasn't thinking it," I said, totally lying. "But you said he was obsessed with her, so…"

Nobody took the bait, and the sentence was left hanging.

"Anyway," Jenny said, "you need to look into Cindy. Maybe she killed Frank to get the group back."

"Doesn't she live in L.A.?"

"Don't know," Taylor said, watching Jenny through the slits of his narrowed eyes.

"She could have hired someone." Corey looked pleased with himself for coming up with the idea. "Maybe check out her bank statements and see if large sums of money have been paid to someone."

Yeah, thanks for that tip, Einstein, I would never have thought of that on my own.

We finished our lunches until the silence stretched so thin I thought it'd snap. I felt like I was intruding on their personal space and wanted to go before their big reunion with Angel. She couldn't get there fast enough for the Play Group members. They kept checking their watches and looking longingly at the door. When Jenny stood alone at the window, staring down at the street below, I joined her.

"I want to keep looking into your financial situation," I told her.

She shook her head. "You need to work only on Angel's case. Did you tell your boss that you can't do anything else until it's solved?"

"He understands, don't worry." I said, chirpy. "But I was thinking I should keep investigating Frank's schemes. His fraudulent activities may be the reason he was killed."

She gasped and pressed perfectly manicured fingernails to her lips. "You don't think I did it?"

"No! But if Frank cheated others, then there's another motive. One of
them
might have killed him."

"Ooh, I like that. All right, keep digging."

"I'll need to see the financial records of any dealings you had with Frank."

She didn't question me further, didn't ask any of the usual questions a reasonable person should ask when faced with that request. Instead she booted up a laptop and logged into her bank account without bothering to hide her password from me. Jenny was a victim waiting to be scammed.

I jotted down the receiving account details and said my goodbyes to the group.

"See you tomorrow night at the party?" Jenny asked.

"Sure. I might come and see you guys perform tomorrow too."

"I have complimentary tickets somewhere." She rummaged around in her bag and handed me two tickets. "Bring that boyfriend of yours."

"I'll see if he's free." Because Will would love to give up an entire morning's work to go see a kid's group singing about the importance of washing hands before eating.

We air kissed and I left. The attendant brought my car around and pulled up behind a limo out the front of the hotel. The limo driver opened the passenger door and a pair of incredibly long legs stepped out. The legs were attached to a tanned, blonde woman in her late thirties. She wore a flirty summer dress that skimmed her thighs and a pair of high heels that made her look even taller. She lowered her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and took in the vicinity, including me, then raised them again and stalked off like one of those water birds with the stick-legs. The porter held the door open for her, and she sailed inside.

"Miss Belfour!" called the man who'd gotten out of the limo behind her. When I say 'man,' I really mean boy. He must have been barely eighteen, with the blond, fresh good looks of a teen movie star. He stared after her, chewing his bottom lip as if trying to decide what to do next. "Miss Belfour!"

So that was Cindy Belfour, Frank's ex-wife and Angel's nemesis. Interesting that she was staying in the same hotel as Play Group. Also interesting that she had come to Renford so quickly after the murder. Why? To comfort the group? Or had she known she’d inherited them and wanted to protect her property from the media storm? Or maybe she'd been in town all along.

"Can I take your bags, sir?" the porter asked the young guy.

"Um, yeah, I guess," he said with a shrug. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a woman's handbag, then slung it over his shoulder and followed Cindy inside.

The parking attendant coughed to get my attention. He held my keys with the tips of his finger and thumb as if the keys were diseased. I guess he wasn't used to parking a little old Honda with half a wardrobe in the backseat and empty Hershey bar packets on the front passenger side. It certainly looked out of place squeezed in between the limo and the yellow Ferrari that pulled up behind.

I looked at the keys and screwed up my nose. With a dramatic sigh, I took a tissue out of my bag and used it to handle the keys without touching them. "Forgot my sterilized gloves," I said with an apologetic shrug.

He couldn't let go of the keys fast enough. I climbed into my car and gave him a little wave. He was too busy wiping his hands down his trouser legs to wave back.

I drove to my mother's place. She greeted me at the door with a hug. The smell of coffee wafted down the hallway to us, and I eagerly accepted her offer of one.

"Late night?" she said as she handed me a cup.

"How did you know?"

"I'm your mother."

"So that makes you psychic now?"

"Sweetheart, it's
always
made me psychic where you're concerned."

I rolled my eyes and she smiled.

"So tell me what's going on with your life," she said. "How's Will?"

"Good."

"And work?"

I told her about Frank Karvea's death and how I was working on clearing Angel's name.

Her eyes lit up. "I adore Play Group. Their songs are so catchy."

"You listen to kiddie music?"

"Peter has little grandchildren and the Play Group CD was in his car. We listened to it on the way home from dinner the other night." She gave me a sneaky kind of grin, as if what she and Peter had been doing was something slightly naughty. I shut out the mental image of the things I used to do in my boyfriend's car when I was seventeen.

"How's it going with you and this Peter guy?"

"Wonderful. He's lovely. You'll have to meet him."

"Will I?"

She glared at me. "Yes, you will. He's teaching me some interesting things."

I held up a hand. "Mom, I don't want to know."

"Not that. You're so sex mad lately. It's all you can think about."

"Me!" I spluttered.

She just laughed. "He's teaching me some therapy basics. Last week I learned about passive aggressive behavior, and this week it's group dynamics. He gave me a DVD to watch."

"Sounds interesting." It was easier telling her that and not what I really thought—that it sounded about as interesting as cutting toenails. I didn't want to pick a fight with her when she seemed so happy.

"Do you want to watch the DVD with me?" she asked.

"Maybe later. Can I use your computer?"

"Sure. But shouldn't you be working at the office?"

"I can work wherever I want."

She gave me a scowl. "Don't make Will mad, Cat. You've got a good thing with him. Don't throw it away."

I set my coffee cup down on the kitchen bench, very deliberately. "Mom. Seriously." I wanted to tell her to 'butt out,' but I could hear Dad's ghost on my shoulder ordering me not to speak that way to my mother, so I just shook my head. "I can handle Will," is all I said.

Her scowl deepened. She didn't look convinced, but she led me into the living room anyway. Ever since Dad died, Mom had let the living room overflow with paraphernalia from her latest projects. There were half-finished paintings, a yoga mat, rock-polishing tools, and books on everything. They were stacked in towers and dotted around the room, covering every surface. Kind of like Will's office, only with books and not paperwork. No wonder she liked him. They were two of a kind.

"I see Peter hasn't encouraged you to tidy up in here," I said. "Maybe he should do some of his therapy hoodoo on you to find out why you don't like being neat. It's probably got something to do with issues from your childhood."

"Why do you think that?"

"Don't therapists blame everything on childhood issues?"

Her glare could have cut glass it was so hard and sharp. "That must be why you turned into such a nice girl who never did anything wrong."

I matched her glare with one of my own. "Exactly."

She cleared some space on the surface of the computer desk. She had a perfectly good study, but preferred to have the computer in the living room along with everything else.

I started with searches on Frank's company, Karvea Holdings. I checked the business register and found nothing untoward, so I moved on to the unofficial sites. It took me nearly an hour to wade through the search results until I found something useful. It was a post on a small L.A.-based business blog about companies to avoid. Most of it was just a rant and I got the impression the blogger had an axe to grind, but buried near the end was a mention of Karvea Holdings, Frank Karvea, and a second man who lived in—get this—Renford, Illinois. His name was Max Warshenski.

I knew him as Mad Max, a stuttering ex-con and complete nutcase.

CHAPTER 8

Max Warshenski had briefly been a suspect in my last case. Although he was known to the cops and definitely on my list of shady characters, he hadn't harmed me. In fact, he'd given me some important information.