Authors: Linda Grimes
I went through the whole painful explanation again, watching his face. He kept his anger hidden behind a passive mask, but I could feel it emanating from him. I went so far as to explain how I thought I’d detected a certain animosity toward Nils, and how that made me sure it was Billy, since I knew he—Mark—had liked Nils.
“Nils is fine. I didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” Mark said bluntly.
Oh. Well, I wasn’t about to go there, so I finished by pleading stupidity about the Billy mix-up, and begging his forgiveness.
His jaw was set, his mouth hard. “Has Billy done it before—been me with you?” he asked, watching me intently, like some sort of human lie detector.
“No! Never. I only thought … because he knows I still react to you”—I was blushing furiously, I could feel it—“that he might have … you know, to get you out of my system or something—never mind that. It was a stupid assumption on my part, and he would
never
use your aura that way—trust me, if I didn’t realize it before, I do now.”
A whole slew of emotions had skittered through his eyes during my clumsy explanation, ending with shock. “You told him? He knows you slept with me?”
I nodded. “I wasn’t going to lie. Not to either of you.”
“Jesus. He must hate my guts.”
“He’s … not very happy with you at the moment, no. But I told him it wasn’t your fault. He’ll understand … eventually. If it’s any consolation, he was pretty mad at me, too.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” he said under his breath, looking at an old lady curbing her dog across the street.
I leaned toward him and spoke rapidly, anxious to salvage what I could of our friendship. To make sure he didn’t hate me. “I don’t blame you for being mad—I know this whole mess is my fault, and I’m going to do everything I can to fix it. If I hadn’t had that stupid crush on you for all those years … Look, I’m sorry. I’ll find a way to make things right between you and Billy again, I swear. I won’t bother you ever again. I won’t melt when you’re near me, I won’t make moon eyes at you. Hell, I won’t even smile at you.”
He looked at me with rueful resignation. “You don’t understand. That’s not going to fix this. I
want
you.”
I sucked in a breath too fast.
He shook his head, with the least happy smile I’d ever seen on anyone. “Wipe that horrified look off your face, Howdy. I’m not going to abscond with you.”
“But…”
His eyes weren’t hard, but they were far from gentle. More … determined. “But nothing. When you get tired of Billy or…” He didn’t say it, but I knew he was thinking,
when Billy gets tired of you.
“When you guys part company, we’ll talk.”
“That’s crazy, Mark. You’d never … listen, you and I both know your job is everything to you. It comes first, always has. Always will.”
“‘Always’ is a long time, Howdy. Maybe Tom and Laura got me thinking. Maybe you
can
have both. Laura seems to think so, anyway.”
I slumped against the back of the bench, feeling strangely empty. “If you’d told me that three months ago, I would have thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“And now?” he said, the guarded-but-hopeful look in his eyes jabbing my heart.
“Now it”—
hurts, damn it all to fucking hell!
—“doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, on the verge of tears yet again. I didn’t let them fall. God, I really had screwed things up royally.
He nodded, stiff, mouth grim, and stood to leave.
I rose, wanting to reach for him, gripping my own arms instead. “Before you go—I know this isn’t a good time to bring this up, but if you’re leaving, I don’t know when else to ask—I mean, about Jackson Gunn and the Conrads—”
“Not my mess. Billy hooked you up with the job. Billy can take care of it.”
It was my turn to stiffen. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he said harshly, then relented. “Howdy, I’m not trying to punish you. Do you really think Billy wants me working on it with him? With
you
?”
My shoulders sagged. “I suppose not.”
For a second, I thought he might give me his usual kiss on the top of my head, but he didn’t. “I’ll be out of the country for the foreseeable future. Thomas will know how to contact me. In the meantime,” he added before walking away, “think about what you were feeling in that bed with me last night, and who you were feeling it for. Because, for me, that was
real.
”
* * *
I sat there for a long time after he left, until even the squirrels stopped being wary of me. One scampered up onto the other end of the bench and cocked its head quizzically at me. I thought I saw sympathy in its big eyes, but maybe it was just trying to figure out if I had any nuts.
All right, so my personal life was fucked up. When had it ever not been? I should be used to dealing with it.
What I needed was a plan. The best I could come up with was to push Mark totally out of my head. He said he was going to be gone. Fine. That was good. If I didn’t have to worry about running into him unexpectedly, my immediate problem was solved. I could concentrate on getting it right with Billy. Billy deserved that much from me.
Next on my agenda would be a full-on assault on the Jackson Gunn problem. Finding out who really killed Angelica would keep my mind busy. With any luck, too busy to dwell on Mark’s parting words. Because I was pretty sure thinking about them too closely would only lead to more trouble.
I stood, took a deep breath, and headed back to my condo. I had to pack for a funeral.
The Golden Acres Funeral Home was a fair distance from TinselTown, but that didn’t stop the masses from showing up to gawk.
Hollywood royalty in pain—now, that’s entertainment,
I thought wryly.
Jack had overnighted me the key to his Hollywood condo, his cell phone, and a cashier’s check large enough to make me fervently hope my conscience wouldn’t make me return it if it turned out he was a killer.
He was laying low in his Las Vegas home, which apparently he’d been unable to bring himself to leave since his face-the-press moment after Angelica’s death. When I’d expressed my reservations, he’d sworn no one would know he was there. He’d given every member of his staff a week off and plane tickets to Hawaii as a reward for their dedication during his time of crisis, and he planned to keep the blinds closed and not answer his landline. I wasn’t entirely comfortable not having a client under the supervision of my own employees while I was on a job, but frankly I was relieved he wouldn’t be going back to the ranch as long as there were any doubts about him.
Angelica’s service, being so well attended, had spilled out onto a freshly mown lawn that seemed to stretch for miles in every direction, with grass so perfect I had to check twice to make sure it wasn’t fake. It smelled real enough, but in the land of virtual reality on steroids, who could be sure?
I scanned the crowd. Billy was out there somewhere, posing as the limo driver the studio had sent for Jackson, keeping a watchful eye on things. When I’d told him about the job (in our new spirit of openness and communication), he’d said he’d meet me here, and that we could brainstorm our next move after the funeral. “I might be able to pick up some useful information amidst all the condolences. Gossip is currency in La-La Land, and I’m great at eavesdropping,” had been his reasoning.
There were multiple large tents to provide shade, not to mention cover from the news helicopters flying back and forth overhead, their background drone adding to the general irritation of the day. I couldn’t help but notice that a hefty percentage of the celebrities present, before retiring beneath the privacy tents, made sure the cameras in the choppers had ample opportunity to capture their presence.
The studio limo had had a well-stocked bar, which might have taken the edge off the hour-long drive if I were the kind to drink at eight o’clock in the morning. Luckily, there was coffee, provided by Jack’s assistant, the one Billy’s goth girl had filled in for on the snake set. Frannie. She seemed even younger than she had when I first saw her, and was obviously trying to hide it with her uber-adult black suit and her long brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. No makeup to speak of, but she was pretty enough that she didn’t need it. She looked a bit on the heavy side under the bulky blazer, but that was only because she was ultracurvy.
Frannie was proving to be a capable aide, keeping herself planted between me and everyone else, quietly but firmly explaining that while I appreciated their sympathy, I simply wasn’t ready to talk yet. I was going to tell Jack to give her a raise.
The one person she didn’t keep away from me was Joseph Conrad. As he approached, Frannie quietly explained that the funeral director had told her Mrs. Conrad had had a small breakdown that morning, and wouldn’t be in attendance.
“Jack,” Joe said, reaching for me with open arms.
Fine. I can be a hugger. I opened my own arms. “Joe.”
Instead of the manly bear hug I was expecting, he grasped me by both shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and tilted his head up so that his lips were close to my ear, and whispered, harshly, “You lose, you son of bitch.”
I stiffened. He let go of me and took his seat on the front row of the elegantly upholstered folding chairs that had been set up for the service. The tent was tall enough to allow for an unobstructed view of the beautiful wooded hills in the distance, and there I focused, hoping everyone would take my shock for grief, until Frannie led me to my own chair. It was uncomfortably close to Joe’s. What the hell had he meant?
He stared resolutely ahead, his eyes fixed on the ornate urn that held Angelica’s ashes. I tried to listen to the eulogy given by one of her female colleagues from Conrad Fine Foods, but the pretty words couldn’t penetrate the thoughts spinning in my head.
Was Joe referring to the stock certificates? Had getting them been his “win”? Did the real Jackson suspect as much, and was that why he’d wanted me to tail the Conrads? For now, there was no way to know. My more immediate problem was figuring out the right way to play this. Staring, somber-eyed, I was in character for the moment, but after the service—what then? Should I acknowledge Joe’s statement or not?
After the eulogist was finished speaking, Joe rose and went to say his short piece. It sounded wooden to my ear, like a father trying his best to display no emotion at all lest he lose it entirely. He never once looked at me. When he was done, he went to stand on the far side of his daughter’s urn.
I stood when Frannie touched my elbow, noticing for the first time that she’d sat herself next to me. My handler for the day. No one seemed to think it odd. She handed me a piece of paper and whispered, “I typed up what you wanted to say about Angelica. I know you said you wouldn’t need a script, but just in case the emotion of the day…” She gave a tiny shrug.
Crap.
Jack hadn’t told me I’d have to speak. Guess he considered that covered by his blanket “don’t worry, my assistant will take care of everything” statement. I clutched the paper like a lifeline and made my way to the front, walking slowly. The few steps didn’t take nearly as long as I would have liked. Once positioned, I bowed my head, on the surface appearing to compose myself, but really frantically reading over the words on the paper I’d laid on the podium.
I cleared my throat. “Angelica was—”
A sudden breeze caught the corner of the paper and sent it floating into the air.
Shit!
I lunged for it, hoping like hell to catch it before it blew completely away.
A second later, the urn exploded. Sharp pieces of expensive pottery flew through the air, with puffs of Angelica rising like a cloud around them. Two, maybe three, seconds of utter silence, and then pandemonium struck, people running in all directions, either for the shelter of the main building or their cars.
I stood tall (in retrospect, perhaps not the smartest move) to scan the crowd. Because, unless I was very much mistaken, someone had just tried to shoot me—and I wanted to know who.
My eyes jumped first to Joe Conrad. He was staring at me, the look on his face somewhere between surprise and anger. Trouble was, I couldn’t tell if he was angry because someone had shot his daughter’s urn or if he was mad that the shot had missed me. Or perhaps even wondering if the bullet had been meant for him, seeing as how the urn was between the two of us.
Fueled by the adrenaline of near death, I stepped toward him, intending to find out if he was somehow behind it, if this had something to do with his strange comment to me earlier. Before I could reach him, I was tackled from behind.
I rolled, prepared to use Jack’s strength to beat the hell out of whoever had it in for him. Stopped with my fist centimeters from Frannie’s face.
“Jack, stay down, for God’s sake,” she said, breathing hard, trying her best to shield me with her body.
And then she did the oddest thing. She burst into tears and kissed me, full on the mouth. When she finally detached herself, I saw my driver—Billy—standing over her, scanning the crowd. He did not look happy.
* * *
The police left the funeral home after searching the grounds, and everyone in attendance, including some extremely put out actors and studio honchos who thought they were above being patted down by law enforcement. The officers compiled a comprehensive list of everyone’s names and addresses (and, boy, some of the stars were even more unhappy at having to show ID than they were at being groped—how dare the cops not recognize them!), and gave orders for all to make themselves available for further questioning as necessary.
Their interviews with me and Joe were more extensive, naturally, considering not only our relationship to Angelica, but also that one of us might have been the intended target of the urn shooter. They questioned us separately, so I had no idea what they were asking Joe.
It took some fast talking to convince the police I didn’t need to be taken into protective custody, that I would have plenty of private security between here and my house back in Vegas, where I would be returning as soon as I saw that what was left of Angelica’s ashes were safely interred. Eventually they listened. I gave them Jack’s private cell phone number and assured them they could reach me at my Vegas home number starting later that night.