Picture Perfect (22 page)

After reuniting in the hallway, I set Justine up in my guest room. It was nearly three in the morning, her time. And after a five hour cross-country flight—in a middle seat, no less—she was barely upright. She didn’t bother unpacking. The only thing either of us was concerned with at that moment was tearing into Kee’s truffles and devouring enough creamy chocolates to slip into a sugar coma. But their deliciousness is no match for murder.

I sigh, replacing a freshly plucked sweet back into its paper cup. “I was wrong. Nothing can make me forget this misery.”

“Not forget. Numb, maybe,” Justine says, before draining her wine glass. “But you will come out on top. I know it.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” I say, listlessly.

“It isn’t confidence. It’s faith,” she informs me.

“Faith?” I question, my face scrunching with skepticism.

I’ve never known Justine to talk of
faith
. Religion, yes. And usually, she didn’t have anything good to say about it. Justine grew up in a Jewish family that went to temple, well, religiously. But being a lover of words and philosophy, she was far more interested in studying the works of T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath than reading the Torah. I always figured poets were the gods she worshipped.

“I know. I know. I only go to temple on the high holidays, but I really do have a strong belief system. It’s in my DNA, I guess,” she says with a shrug. “You don’t grow up the granddaughter of my babushka without at least some spirituality rubbing off on you.”

“I thought you only believed in the power of poetry, sex and chocolate.”

“And best friends. Don’t forget that,” she says, playfully punching my arm.

“Never,” I say, giving her a weak smile. “Thank you for coming. Before you showed up, I was quickly sinking into a very dark place.” 

“You and me?” she says. “We’re sisters. Maybe not by blood, but definitely by spirit. And I will always stick by you. Even in the darkest of times.”

“And you’ll always have chocolate?” I tease.

“You can count on it,” she says, yawning and stretching out her long limbs.

“You’re tired. It’s late. I’ll let you sleep.”

I gather the empty paper cups strewn over the duvet and crumple them into a ball, tossing it in a nearby trash bin. I slip off the bed, collect the wine glasses and head for the door.

“Don’t you want these,” Justine asks, offering up the box of remaining truffles.

“Nah, I’m good for now.”

“See. Miracles really do happen.”

“Shut up.”

Justine flashes me a mischievous grin, and I pull the door closed on the guest room, leaving her to slumber in peace. I make my way through the apartment to the kitchen and deposit both wine glasses in the dishwasher. I flick off the lights, and my home is once again cast in darkness. As I pass through the living room, I spy a flickering light on the sofa. My iPhone.

I pause, wondering if I should leave it. But curiosity gets to me, and I pad over to the couch. It’s a text message. I tap the icon, and Jack’s name appears across the top of my screen. I stare at the letters floating inside his dialogue bubble for a full minute, their meaning incomprehensible.

I owe you an explanation. Please forgive me.

Forgive him for what? For disappearing, or for something far more sinister? I want to quickly text him back, but I’m afraid to ask the questions running wildly through my head for fear of what his answers might be. Fearful that he might, in fact, be Alan’s killer.

I suck in a deep breath, my finger poised over the keyboard, wondering what the hell to type to the man who may or may not be responsible for my husband’s death.

I don’t want to believe it, though. I want him to be innocent. I
need
him to be innocent.

I close my eyes, recalling the image of him in Central Park as he climbed into the horse-drawn carriage and turned around, offering me his hand. The dark curls of his hair danced in the breeze, and his cheeks were pink from the cold. But his smile was wide and inviting. The kind of smile that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like being a kid at Disneyland with a giant whirl of cotton candy in her hand and mouse ears on her head, mom and dad snapping photos and laughing as she discovers the magic of spun sugar on a stick.

My iPhone glows brightly again, and a new message bubble pops up from Jack.

I miss you.

The corners of my mouth turn up slightly as that same cotton candy feeling swells in my chest. Then, suddenly I realize something truly horrific.

I’m in love with him.
 
 

Chapter 17

“Oh, girl. This is tragic,” Giles says, surveying two wool suits I laid out on my bed.

“But I need to look respectful,” I counter. “This isn’t a press junket I’m going to. It’s a homicide interrogation.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to dress like a fashion victim, Lauren,” Giles scolds as he disappears into my walk-in closet.

I slump onto the bed, my fluffy robe pulled tight around my waist. My belly gurgles from hunger, but I’m afraid to eat anything for fear I will hurl all over myself. Again. I awoke early this morning with a raging case of nervous stomach and deposited every last truffle I’d consumed last night into the toilet, accompanied by a great show of hysterics. Justine held my hair as I barfed and blubbered into the bowl, worry and anxiety thoroughly consuming me. She finally summoned Giles to help get me sorted around five-thirty and he dutifully arrived before the sun even crested the horizon.

Giles returns from my closet, his arms loaded down with colorful garments. He checks his watch. “Hair and makeup will be here in fifteen. I’ll get this figured out while you eat.”

“I can’t eat. I’m too queasy.”

“I could hear your stomach growling from across the room. That’s not exactly going to impress those detectives, now is it? Justine has some brown rice and hot water with honey waiting for you. Trust me, they’ll do the trick.”

I give Giles a pout, but he plants his hands on his hips and says in his most authoritative voice, “Move missy.”

“Fine,” I relent, scooting off the bed and leaving Giles to tend to my wardrobe. I find Justine in the kitchen, her long, wavy hair piled up in a knot on top of her head. She’s wearing a pair of men’s boxer shorts and a NYU sweatshirt.

“How are you feeling?” Justine asks, bringing a cup of coffee to her lips.

I shrug. “Could be better.”

“Here. Eat this.” She slides a bowl of brown rice in my direction.

I reluctantly take it and make my way to the breakfast bar where I plop onto a barstool with a thud. Slowly, I shovel the flavorless food into my mouth. Not even a speck of salt to pep it up. It’s like trying to chew an old sponge. Justine proffers the hot water and honey at me, and I obediently drink, grateful for a reprieve from the bland rice.

“So,” Justine starts, “I couldn’t help but notice that Jack texted you last night when I used your phone to call Giles.”

“Oh,” I say, not meeting her eyes.

“Well…what’s the story? Did you talk to him?”

I twist my mouth into a grimace. “No, I didn’t talk to him.”

Justine fixes me with a stern look. “Why not?”

“I don’t know what to say to him,” I reply, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

“How about asking him where he’s been?”

“I know where he’s been. I just don’t think I want to know why.”

Justine quirks an eyebrow at me.

“My lawyer told me he’s in Mexico,” I continue, “and she seems to think his disappearance is a little suspect.”

“She thinks he killed Alan?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably just looking for reasonable doubt.”

“What do
you
think?”

I drop my fork into my bowl of rice with a clatter and lower my chin onto the heel of my hand. “I don’t know what I think.” I pause as Justine continues her non-verbal interrogation, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head just so. “Well, that’s not true. I do know one thing,” I concede.

“What?”

I suck in a deep breath and squeeze my lips together in an effort to keep my dirty secret hidden. But it’s no use. Justine’s well-honed teacher’s stare could elicit any information she desired from her target. I’ve often thought she’d be highly suited for a career in espionage.

“I’m in love with him,” I sigh.

Justine’s head dips and I can’t tell if she’s upset or just incredulous. As far as I know, she’s never been in love. She works hard to keep that emotion out of her romantic relationships. But surely she can empathize with me?

“Justine,” I say, searching her eyes for some clue to her thinking.

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders lifting, and at last speaks, “Finally.”

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering what it would take for you to realize it.”

My brows knit together as I scrutinize her. “I’m confused. You don’t believe in love.”

“Au contraire,” she states. “I absolutely believe in love. True love. Which is very rare.”

“Who are you?” I say, half mockingly.

Justine smiles. “I’m your fairy godmother, and I’m here to tell you that Jack is your prince charming.”

Now it’s my turn to cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head just so. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m serious. I saw it in New York. I could see it last night. I even saw it when you were blowing chunks at the crack of dawn. You’re in love. And with a murder suspect, no less. I don’t know how love could get any truer than that.” 

“So, by that theory, love is only true if the object of one’s affection is a villain?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just saying that if you can still love a man despite his flaws, no matter how heinous, that’s something special.”

“Stupid is more like it.”

“Are you saying you think he’s guilty?”

“No. Of course not. But if he were… I mean, I could never love a man who could take someone’s life. Even someone as awful as Alan.”

“But he’s not guilty, is he?”

“No…I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you didn’t do it and Jack didn’t do it, who else do you think did?”

“How should I know?”

“Think about it. Who else might want him dead? You gotta have some sort of candidate for the authorities to investigate, otherwise they’re going to focus all their energy on you.”

I let Justine’s words marinate for a moment, and then the one name that eagerly jumps to my mind is… “Jennifer.”

“Your assistant?”

“My ex-assistant. And Alan’s ex-girlfriend. She told me he’d dumped her Sunday. Maybe she went over there in a rage and…” I cover my mouth at the thought of her beating him to death.

“How much does that girl weigh? Ninety pounds? Do you really think she could kill a man?”

“I don’t know,” I bark at Justine, suddenly very weary of this discussion. “You asked me who else might want him dead. She might. I don’t know if she had the strength to do it, but she definitely had the motive.”

And just as my best friend is about to speak, the phone rings and we both practically jump out of our skins. I lift the receiver from the kitchen phone and hear Chuck’s voice on the other end announcing the arrival of my hair and makeup team. In no time, they’re at my door, and Giles is ushering me into the bathroom.

“Come on sweetie. There are sure to be cameras galore. We want you red carpet ready,” he says as I take a seat in front of the vanity and two goth girls dump their bag of tricks onto the counter.

“This isn’t a movie premier, Giles,” I admonish him.

“Darling, it’s the movie of your life.”

***

“Let me do all the talking,” Tanya says as we enter the sterile interrogation room. “Don’t let them intimidate you.”

Detective Wilson, looking dapper in a grey suit and pastel pink tie that sets off his ebony skin tone nicely, motions for us to take a seat at the metal table. Tanya and I slide into the black plastic chairs, and I instantly feel like I’m on the set of
Law & Order: SVU.
Unfortunately, this is not make-believe and I am not an actor playing a murder suspect, despite the fact that Giles and his wonder twins have me looking like a star.

My hair was hot-rolled into a gentle wave and my makeup is light and fresh with pale pink lip gloss, antique peach blush, and just a hint of shimmer on my eyelids. Giles attired me in a lavender knee-length skirt and a winter white sweater. The shoes, silver Mary Janes accompanied by a matching clutch and mother of pearl earrings. I feel like a 1940s film noir heroine heading into court to testify against her cheating mob husband.

If only.

We managed to get inside the building without any paparazzi snapping us, thanks to Tanya’s clever driver routing us through three different areas to get us to our destination. LA County is dotted with little cities and communities that share their borders with the City of Angels. We weaved through Beverly Hills, zigzagged around San Fernando Valley, and wandered through Hollywood alongside a sightseeing tour bus for over an hour. By the time we arrived, I didn’t even know where we were.

“Are we waiting for anyone else?” Tanya says sharply as Detective Wilson drops a manila folder on the table and unbuttons his suit jacket.

“Detective Fallbrook will be along shortly, but we can get started,” he says, taking a seat opposite us.

I glance past him to the large mirror on the wall. Obviously, Detective Fallbrook is on the other side watching and waiting. I grew up on cop dramas, so I’m not fooled by their games of hide and seek. And I know my rights. Or, at least my lawyer does. They aren’t going to get a confession out of me now matter how hard they push. Especially since I’m innocent.

“Let me make it clear that we’re here as a courtesy,” Tanya begins. “Ms. Tate is under no obligation to answer your questions, and I am going to make sure that her civil rights are respected. This might be your first high-profile murder investigation, Detective, but it isn’t mine.”

“It isn’t mine, either, Counselor Fielding,” he replies in a clipped tone and then turns his attention toward me. “Mrs. Tate, can anyone confirm your whereabouts at nine-thirty Sunday evening?”