She shrugged. "They might have bought some wine from him, I think. But Gerald didn't really talk about work with me. He knew that in my world work was a four-letter word." She giggled at her own joke.
I just barely bit back actually voicing the labradoodle comparison. It was kind of condescending to the dog. "Did your husband know Chef Dubois?"
She looked down at her feet. "He's a celebrity. We've met him, of course. One of the restaurants where they tape the show is in Napa. We've eaten there a few times." She waved a dismissive hand and stood in front of me. "Speaking of which, I'm hungry, and the baby is probably famished." She rubbed a hand over her extremely flat, practically concave abdomen. "We can do this some other time."
I grabbed her bony arm as she walked past me. "One more question and then you can eat. What do you know about the Gambia family?"
LeAnna gave me the blank labradoodle look, but Britton's eyes narrowed suspiciously in my direction. For all of Britton's blonde-bombshellness, she wasn't as dumb as she often let people think.
Luckily, before she could follow up on that, LeAnna's phone chirped in her hand. She glanced down at the screen, and her face morphed into a giddy grin. She yanked her arm from my grasp and clutched the phone to her chest. "I have to use the little girl's room before we eat."
The thought of Rafe possibly being on the other end of the mysterious text message left a sour taste in my mouth. I made my way to my room, slammed the door, and flicked the lock.
Jack yowled from the bed.
"Don't start with me," I mumbled.
CHAPTER NINE
The energy level on the Battle Buffet set was off the charts with people chatting exuberantly, anxiously anticipating the taping to start. Mouth-watering aromas filled the air, sending my stomach into fits, demanding food despite the lunch of Thai leftovers I'd had before arriving. Shiny aluminum bleachers lined one side of the audience section, which was nearly packed full already, while more generous stadium seats with luxurious cushions were erected for the VIPs. People milled about that space, smoking cigars and chatting among themselves in low tones. I scanned each impeccably dressed man as I walked by, wondering if he was "connected."
Tate waved from across the set, and I made my way toward him. Only before I could reach his side, another familiar pair of eyes in the crowd caught mine. Bright emerald-green ones.
Rafe was milling near the VIP section, surrounded by his usual snow-bunny groupies vying for his autograph. He looked straight at me, waved, and smiled at full dimple capacity. I fought the conflicting butterflies and gag reflex as I switched between memories of his hands caressing mine and the restroom footage I'd watched earlier. I broke away from his gaze without returning the smile and swiped a finger across my phone to look busy.
"What was that?" Tate chided as he caught up with me. "When Rafe Lorenzo smiles, you smile back, honey."
"I'm not in a smiling mood when it comes to the men in my life lately," I mumbled. Then I quickly amended, "Present company excluded, of course."
"Of course," he repeated, as if it were a given. "But what gives? I've never seen you give hottie the cold shoulder. Not even when he's had Tiffany draped all over him."
I briefly wondered how Tiffany would feel about knowing her guy was sexting a married woman. I doubted even she would put up with that and had a moment of pity for the girl.
"Hello, Tess?" Tate said, waving a hand in front of my face.
"Sorry, I was…thinking about something…" I trailed off.
Tate pursed his lips together. "Okay, girlfriend. Don't make me force drinks into you to get at the truth. Spill. What's going on?"
"Fine," I said. Though, truth be told, a drink didn't sound too bad. "It's just that…" I backed away and held out my pinkie in front of Tate. "Before I go any further, this is just between us."
Tate locked his pinkie with mine, his face solemn as he traced a cross over his heart with his free hand. "Of course." He took his pinkie-swears very seriously. It was better than an official gag order, as far as he was concerned.
"I think LeAnna is seeing Rafe on the side," I whispered.
Tate bounced back and flipped his hands up in a surrender motion. "Shut. Up." Then his hands flew to his mouth. "Ohmigod, you don't think LeAnna's baby could be…" His words trailed off as he turned an exaggerated glare in Rafe's direction.
There went that gag reflex again.
"No, no way!" At least I hoped not. I shook my head vehemently as I added, "Gerald hasn't been here in months. And I haven't seen LeAnna at the casino at all until she showed up a few days ago. The timing would be all off." I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince more—Tate or myself.
Tate nodded. "No, you're right." He paused. "But how on earth did you find this juicy little tidbit of tasty Rafe gossip?"
I took a step back and lowered my head to look at him through my lashes. "Focus on the pinky-swear. I know that look. You are mentally filing through your phone contacts to figure out who to text first."
"Who me?" he gasped. Though I could tell the reminder had shut the mental rolodex.
I leaned in. "I had security trace her steps the night of the murder. She and Rafe showed up together on some footage." I didn't share exactly where. Pinky-swear or no, that would have been too juicy for him to keep on the down-low.
His eyebrows disappeared up into his bangs. "It so wouldn't surprise me a bit if she offed her husband, the hateful thing."
I couldn't help agreeing on the hateful part, but I still had doubts that she was a cold-blooded killer. Besides, stabbing seemed too messy for her. She wouldn't risk getting blood on her outfit.
"By the way, speaking of gossip…" Tate trailed off enticingly. "Guess what I heard from Juanita this afternoon?"
I raised an eyebrow. I could use a little juicy staff rumor to lighten my day. "Do tell."
"Well, she heard from Jocelyn the blackjack dealer who is dating this cab driver named Danny…"
"Yes?" I urged him on.
"That a certain crotchety security officer was spotted in the back of a cab on L.T. blvd with a hot blonde."
"Alfie? So?" I asked. I was pretty sure Alfie had escorted all sorts of high rollers and their wives around town on occasion.
Tate's eyes sparkled with gossipy glee. "Spotted them making out in the back of the cab."
"No way!"
"Yes way!" Tate giggled.
"Alfie dates?" I could not picture anything even remotely romantic about Alfie. The thought of him with roses and candy in his arms was almost comical.
"My intel is rarely wrong." He backed away a bit, his chin hitching high with pride and a smidgeon of gloating.
"Yowza. I wonder who the unlucky girl is," I asked, wondering if the blonde had anything to do with his sudden request for personal time as my eyes scanned the assembled crowd. Which I realized, as the crew herded the last few audience members to their seats, was huge. If this whole thing actually went off without a hitch, it was sure to bring some good press—not to mention revenue—to the Royal Palace.
Or course, there was still the dead vintner and rumored Mafia family meeting that could hitch it.
I leaned in close to Tate. "Do you see Hank Gambia anywhere in this crowd?"
Tate stood on tiptoes, peering over the sea of heads. "No. But there's a ton of people here. Wow, this event is a total smash, right?"
I nodded my agreement. "It will be if no one else ends up swimming with the fishes."
Tate giggled at my Mafia reference. "Well, if I had to put my money on someone here to be a made man, I'd totally go with Sicianni," he said, pointing across the soundstage to where the producer in question was chatting with our celebrity chef-slash-tantrum-toddler.
My radar perked up. "Why?" I pounced, wondering what Tate had heard.
"With a last name like Sicianni, I think that question answers itself. He's about as Italian as they come. Even if he is high-wattage handsome…" Tate fanned himself.
I rolled my eyes. "Just beca
use a guy is Italian doesn't mean he's a Mafioso."
Tate gave me a blank stare.
"Come on—it's like saying that just because you're gay, you're fabulous."
Again with the stare. This time accompanied by some rapid eyelash blinking. "But I am fabulous."
I gave him a playful punch in the arm. "Well, even if—and that's a big if—Sicianni is personally mixed up with the Gambias, what motive would he have to kill Mr. Taylor?"
Tate pouted. "Good point."
I stared out at the assembled crowd, tapping my lip thoughtfully. I watched as Rafe finished signing autographs and took his seat. Alfie stood as a dark shadow at the edge of the production floor, no doubt acting as a buffer between the crowd and the celebrities. Dubois had about a dozen people flitting around him, powdering his forehead, straightening every crease in his chef's uniform, and shining his mixing bowls to a high gloss. A flash of red caught my attention near the auditorium doors, and I turned to see LeAnna in my favorite Michael Kors making an entrance. She clearly had no intention of playing the grieving widow, dressed more for a night on the town in four-inch stilettos and dangling crystal earrings. She slowly clip-clopped through the crowd toward the VIP area, where Rafe, as the charming host, greeted her. A little too charming. I turned away before my stomach could dry heave at the sight of the two together.
"You know, there is one person other than LeAnna who might have motive to want Mr. Taylor dead," Tate mused, his eyes on the VIP area as well.
"Who?" I asked, grateful for the distraction from the scene I was so not watching.
"Didn't you say that LeAnna has a stepson?"
I nodded. "Gerald Junior. Or Jerry, he likes to be called. I met him just after his father had been found."
"Well, if Stepmommy really is preggers, wouldn't that mean he suddenly has to split Daddy's inheritance?"
I nodded again, my mental hamster jumping on his wheel. "Unless Daddy dies first, and Junior inherits before the little tyke is born." I paused. I had a hard time picturing the George Clooney look-alike donning the ski bum disguise to stab his dad at a slot machine, but as I well knew, sometimes the relationship between a father and his child was complicated. "I wonder where Jerry is now," I mused, thinking maybe it was time for a little chat with Mr. Taylor, Junior.
Tate was one step ahead of me, swiping his phone on and typing Jerry's name into a search engine. After a couple of swipes, he did a low whistle. "Wow. From his pics on LifeBling, he looks totes hawtness."
"Life what?"
"LifeBling." Tate turned his phone toward me, showing a profile of Jerry Taylor on a social media site. Clicking on the man's profile picture, Tate growled. "Look at that chiseled chest."
It was a pretty impressive chest, no doubt about that. The photo was of a shirtless Jerry on some sort of giant yacht, a glass of champagne in hand as a tropical island provided the backdrop. My motive idea wavered a bit. It didn't look like Junior was hurting for money.
"Why are all the hot ones always bad boys?" Tate sighed.
"We don't know for certain that he is," I pointed out, trying to keep our theory from tickling Tate's gossip bone.
"Right." Tate nodded. "You need to interrogate him first to be sure."
"Have a conversation with him."
He waved me off. "Same diff." He clicked a couple of buttons, bringing up a page with lots of short posts and updates from Jerry. I leaned over his shoulder and squinted to read them.
"He post anything juicy?" I asked.
"Or incriminating?" Tate added, grinning wide as he read my mind. "Let's read, shall we?" His fingers flew over his phone, scrolling through posts. "Well, looks like he had dinner at the Deep Blue last night—not necessarily incriminating. It just means he has bad taste."
I stifled a laugh. "Anything else?"
"A few pics of him on the mountain today. Wow, he even looks good in a ski jacket."
"Focus."
"Right." Tate scrolled some more. "He glittered yesterday that he's heading back to Napa as soon as his dad's funeral arrangements are made."
"He what?" I frowned.
"Glittered." Tate dropped his chin to his chest and eyeballed me. "You know, on LifeBling."
I shook my head, still not understanding.
"It's kind of like sending out a text message to all of your friends at once, only it posts on your LifeBling feed for them to read." Tate raised a brow, but I still gave him a blank look. "Girl, you really need to get caught up to the twenty-first century. I'm totally setting you up an account and dragging you, kicking and screaming, into the social media age."
"Okay, so what else has he 'glittered' on there?" I redirected Tate back to Jerry's profile and away from the idea of creating one for me. While I didn't hate social media, I just wasn't sure I was the type of person who would post photos of herself in a bathing suit on the Internet.
"Oh!" Tate cried, clicking on something.
"What?" Hope fluttered in my chest.
"Looks like he's having a sunset yacht party in the Keys this evening. He's invited everyone on his friends' list in the area."
The hope bubble burst. "Not exactly a smoking gun."
"Noooo…" Tate drew out. "But it might provide a nice opportunity for an interro—er, conversation before he leaves town."
I glanced at the screen again. While I wasn't entirely sure I felt comfortable blending with the yachting crowd, he had a point. If I wanted to casually chat with Jerry about his inheritance, this was probably the best chance I was going to get. And throwing a yacht party didn't exactly strike me as the actions of a grieving son. Maybe it did warrant a conversation.
And if I thought real hard, I knew one person who most definitely would blend with the jet set.
I pulled my own phone out of my pocket and sent off a quick text to Britton.
Yacht party in the Tahoe Keys at 6. U in?
It took less than a minute before her answer came screaming back.
YES!!!
CHAPTER TEN
Britton and I sat in the back of the casino's limo, headed down Lake Tahoe Boulevard. Kitschy souvenir shops, log cabin inspired vacation condos, and quaint mom-and-pop restaurants lined the streets, giving way to an occasional peek at Lake Tahoe sparkling in the afternoon sunlight to our right.
I fidgeted with my short hemline and attempted to pull the drooping sleeves of my borrowed Donna Karan dress into place.
"Stop it," Britton fussed, pulling my hands away from my exposed shoulders. "It's made to fall that way. It's called a cold-shoulder cut."
I rubbed my arms. "Well, it's doing the job, then."
She dug through the large bag she'd brought and pulled out two cashmere wraps that matched our outfits. Mine was a beautiful emerald green just a few shades darker than my outfit, and hers was the same baby-blue shade as her dress.
"It's in the fifties today. You should be plenty warm in this."
"Do you have one for my legs too?"
All I got in return was a raised brow.
As I wrapped up in the fuzzy warmth, I told her, "We could've taken my car. I'd already have us there."
Britton shook her head emphatically, her blonde waves bouncing across her shoulders. "We need to blend. Thiiiiis," she drew out as she waved her hands about the posh interior of the stretch limo, "is what any guest of Jerry Taylor's would arrive in." She sank back against the plush leather seat. "God, I've missed this." Her head cocked to the side. "So how are we playing this interrogation anyway? You want me to be good cop or bad cop?"
I rolled my eyes. "Tate got to you, didn't he? We are not interrogating. We're simply going to have a nice, polite conversation with Jerry."
"About why he killed his father."
I shifted in my seat, wondering if this was such a hot idea after all. "Look, there will be no interrogating, no accusations, and—"
"No mentions of the Gambia family?" Britton raised a knowing eyebrow at me.
I shut my mouth with a click. "I take it that
name does mean something to you?"
"Well, duh!" Britton rolled her eyes. "Tess, why didn't you tell me the mob was at the casino?" She shot me her patented mother knows best look, suddenly making me feel as guilty as a kid who'd been hiding her broccoli in her napkin. In my defense, she'd had LeAnna glued to her hip for the last two days.
"Sorry," I said, quickly filling her in on everything I'd heard from Weston and Ryder.
When I was done, she had a thoughtful frown between her perfectly waxed brows. Or, more like a small twitch. She had a really good esthetician. "Do we know why Jerry is even here?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean it's not like he was vacationing with his parents, right? Is it just coincidence that he's in Tahoe too? Or is he here for something specific?"
I nodded. "Good question." I hadn't thought to ask him that during out brief introduction in my office.
The driver turned off the main road, winding us through side streets lined with quaint cottages and updated rental condos.
Britton leaned toward me. "Let me touch up your makeup."
I pushed her hands away. "I let you do that before we left."
Flipping her hands up, she scoffed, "Fine. But don't come running to me when you catch a glimpse of your shiny forehead in a mirror."
We turned onto Venice Drive and wound our way to the Tahoe Keys Marina and Yacht Club, tucked into an inlet of the lake. The marina wasn't overly full at this time of year, but even had it been, our attention would have gone straight to the mammoth yacht docked near the end of the marina. It was easily twice the size of anything else on the water. Loud music blared from the boat, and men in sweaters and dress pants milled about on the decks with women, dressed in far less than Britton and I, draped on their arms. The women were probably freezing to death, but they'd die happily in the name of high fashion and fast living.
Our lanky driver, dressed in all black, topped with the typical flat black hat, opened the door and extended a hand to Britton first. She practically bounced from the car, giddiness lighting her face as she trotted gracefully across the pavement toward the dock. The chain on her tiny purse tinkled like little sleigh bells with each of her steps.
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