Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  I point to the table where the photos sit in their original envelope. “They’re right there.”

  Rae sets her bag on the chair adjacent to where I placed mine. "How did it go with George?"

  "About what I expected. He told me about Myles and the counterfeiting scheme. What he knew of it anyway, which wasn't a lot."

  Pulling the photos from the envelope, Rae spreads them out like playing cards and I cringe. Simon is probably spinning right now, with her putting her fingers all over those prints. She places a stack on the table. "That's ten. Do you think George was holding out on you?"

  "I don't think so."

  She sets another stack on the table and glances at me. “You don't think?"

  "Let's just say I made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

  My new friend responds with a laugh. "I love that line."

  She goes back to counting and places the next stack of ten on the table. "He didn't think Myles was running the scheme. He said there was someone else. They'd run the counterfeit money through the hotel, replacing it with the actual currency and pocketing it. He didn't know who Myles’s contact was. He did admit that he and Myles were questioned by the Secret Service."

  After counting out another stack of ten, she lays the last three photos out. "How long was this counterfeiting scheme going on?"

  I shake my head. "George didn't know specifically. He said he found out three weeks prior to the fire. He also didn't think Myles had it in him to set the fire."

  "Hmmm. It's not exactly press-stopping material, but it's something. I'll keep reading through Sanchez's notes and see if there's anything that contradicts what George told you."

  "We can do that this morning."

  When there’s no response, I draw a deep breath. My partner on this mission is clearly distracted by the newly acquired negatives. What the urgency is, I’m not sure, but she’s obviously too distracted to focus on Myles being a counterfeiter.

  She holds the first strip of negatives up to the light. "Four."

  I exhale, shaking my head. “Four?"

  She picks up the next strip. "There are four photos on the strip."

  Over and over, she repeats the exercise, holding each up to the light until she gets to the end of the stack. "Four photos on all of them."

  Excellent. Perhaps now we can get back to solving a cold case.

  For the briefest of seconds, she pauses. "Whoopsie." She shuffles through the strips again. "There are thirty-six here. Something is kooky."

  I wave a hand. “Simon always used rolls of thirty-six."

  "But I counted thirty-three photos."

  She picks up the first stack, recounts, and then moves to the others. “Thirty-three. We’re missing three photos. What’s with this shop? First the negatives and now prints?” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “I’ll go through these and match them up so we can have the store reprint whatever’s missing. But I hope they don’t make a habit of losing their customers’ property." She scoops up the photos and negatives and returns them to the envelope before bringing her attention back to me. “Did George have anything else to say?"

  He certainly did. I stall for a few seconds by handing Rae one of the two glasses of lemon water. I gave George my word I wouldn't share the details about his affair with Loretta and I intend to stick to that. At least until I have some reason not to.

  Is that fair to her? I’m honestly not sure. But, for now, it seems irrelevant and I have no desire to wreck a family over something that occurred thirty years ago.

  "Since Loretta was at the hotel that weekend, we chatted a bit about her. He mentioned that he thought she was seeing someone, but didn't have any details. He did say something I found a bit fascinating."

  "About Loretta?"

  I nod. "He told me she had her demons."

  "Demons? What does that mean?"

  “He didn't give specifics."

  Her eyes narrow and despite her gaze being fixed on me, her face is a blank canvas. She’s focused, but not on me, so I remain quiet while she ponders.

  It takes a full twenty seconds before she holds up a finger. "She was married before,” she says. “I read about it in one of the articles on the Grande. He was a regular Joe. Her high-school sweetheart, maybe.”

  Our acquaintance with Loretta didn’t occur until after her divorce, but she did speak of him at times. There was one afternoon by the beach—we were a few margaritas in—and she mentioned going to a carnival in disguise and how wonderful it was not to be hounded by photographers. To be a normal person enjoying time with her love. There was a certain lilt in her tone, a lightness she didn’t always convey. As a mother, it broke my heart. Here was this beautiful, smart, and kind woman, and all she wanted was love.

  I shake the thought away. “She told stories of him. It’s actually quite sad. I believe they loved each other, but her fame was too much for him. According to Loretta, he was an intensely private person.”

  “Wait. I have an entire Loretta folder on my laptop. I’ll run to the cottage and get it. Maybe the husband is still alive and we can talk to him.”

  Now she’s dreaming. “Dear, this is Hollywood. If he cherished privacy back then, you’ll never get him to talk now.”

  She gives me that sassy smile and her own words—that’s what my editor told me about you—ring in my ear. Before she says anything, I put my hands up. “I know what you’re going to say. Fine. Have at it. I’m certainly not going to stop you.”

  She holds up her phone. “I’ll call the photo store and let them know we’re dropping the negatives off so they can reprint the missing ones. And then we’ll find Loretta’s husband. Hopefully he’s not dead.”

  37

  Rae

  * * *

  $82.29

  * * *

  I shove my laptop into my messenger bag and plop down on the cottage’s cushy white sofa. This place is bigger than my apartment and comes with a galley kitchen complete with granite countertops. After my Uber ride, I’m down to $82.29 and that wouldn’t get me this place.

  What I love most is the combo living-dining room. A table for four shares space with the sofa and two high-backed chairs—ottomans included—and despite the open, airy room, it’s cozy. Blankets everywhere, an oversized basket stuffed with pillows, rich hardwood floors and—wait for it—a 70-inch television that I thoroughly enjoyed last night.

  Yes, indeed. Rose knows how to do her guests right.

  I slide my phone from the pocket of my jeans and punch up the photo store. If I wasn’t so nice, I’d rip them a new one. How royally could one order be screwed up?

  After two rings a man picks up. "Hi," I say. "Is this Drew?"

  "Yeah. Can I help you?"

  "You sure can. This is RaeLynn Demming. I just picked up some negatives."

  “Oh, hey."

  “So, I counted the negatives and we have thirty-six, but there are only thirty-three prints in the envelope."

  This is met with brief silence and then a sigh. “Man-oh-man, we did a number on this order. I’m sorry. Can you hold on a sec while I check the computer?"

  “You betcha."

  I sit back and resist propping my feet on the edge of the circular metal coffee table while Drew does his thing. The tippety-tap of fingers smacking a keyboard streams through the phone. Hunt-and-peck method, if my ears don't deceive.

  "This won't take long," Drew says. "We don't get a lot of orders for developing anymore, so they're easy to track. Here it is. Picked up yesterday at 10:32 and…huh.”

  This didn’t sound good. “Problem?”

  “Are you sure there were only thirty-three prints?"

  "Positive. I counted them. Twice. Why?"

  "Well, the bill was for $14.40 plus tax. Thirty-six prints at forty cents each. That's $14.40."

  I'm not sure if Drew thinks I'm lying or what, but considering they screwed up the order originally, it’s possible it happened again.

  Wait. I cock my head. Thirty-six prints were rung u
p. Could Phillip have—?

  “Hello?” Drew says.

  “I’m here. Sorry. All I know is that I have thirty-three pictures. I did go through the negatives and match them with the prints, so I can give you the strip of the missing ones. Can you reprint them?"

  "Yeah. Sure. I'll take a look around here, but I don't think we have them. Like I said, we don't do a lot of this type of work anymore. Bring back the negatives and I'll process them.”

  "That would be great. I'll run them by in a bit."

  I disconnect, my mind spinning with thoughts of Phillip Trudeau and the possibility that he nabbed a few prints from the envelope after picking them up. How I’ll figure that out without pissing Rose off, I don’t know. I have time to figure it out, though. I’ll get the three prints, see what’s on them, and go from there.

  It could be a mistake and Phillip has nothing to do with it.

  But so far, Rose’s sons have proven to be interesting people.

  I grab the messenger bag, and head back to the house, enjoying the bright sunshine on my way. California in January. Yes, sirreee.

  When I enter the kitchen, Rose is sitting at the table sipping her water. Her white blouse has managed to stay pristine, the collar perfectly popped and the buttons lined up like obedient soldiers. If it was me, I’d have spilled something on it or wrinkled it the second I put it on. But not Rose. All pulled-together elegance.

  Her face though, even with her expertly applied makeup, has a zombie-like pallor. It's as if all the blood has drained from her. But between traveling and the emotional upheavals, it's been a long few days. If anyone deserves to be mentally whupped, it’s Rose.

  I set my bag down and slide into the chair beside Rose. “So, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you okay? Digging around about the fire has to be hard.”

  She cocks her head and stares straight ahead out the patio doors. “I’m…hmm…you know, I don't know exactly. I'm tired but energized. I like being productive. It makes me realize just how much I miss the days of schmoozing clients for Simon. I was good at it.” She turns to me. “I'm not sure I realized the extent of that loss until this week. It’s a lot of digging around in pain.”

  “You're so brave, Rose.”

  She waves me off. “Oh, please."

  "No. You are. I love how self-aware you are. You’re not afraid to talk about your feelings. I’m always terrified people will judge me."

  “You may have noticed—I’m old.” We both laugh, having fun with the moment before Rose continues. "At my age, certain things become less important. When you stand inside an inferno and witness agonizing death, you learn to see the world with the wisdom of a survivor. You also learn who can be trusted. You can be trusted."

  She trusts me. There’s a sharp ping in my chest just below my throat. I open my mouth to breathe, but nothing happens. All that air is stuck. A woman I met just days ago—well, in person anyway—after badgering her via phone for weeks has put her faith in me. I guess I made an impression. Finally, all that trapped air pries itself free and my chest and limbs go loose.

  After the whole Charlie Carter fiasco and an entire town blaming me for their plight, I feel vindicated. Ready to punch a fist in the air and let out a few yahoos!

  I lean in, prop my elbow on the table, and tuck my chin in my hand. “That might be the best compliment ever. I promise, Rose. If there's anything you don't want in this story, I'll take it out. I'll give you final approval."

  "Lovely. Thank you. Right now, what I do want is for you to take your elbow off the table.”

  I straighten up, smiling like a maniac. “Sorry. My mother always said I was hopeless.”

  “I doubt that.” She reaches for me, wrapping her long fingers around my forearm. “Now, let's get back to work."

  “You got it.” I retrieve my laptop and fire it up. “Oh. I called the photo store. They're gonna reprint those few photos for us. We'll just need to run the negatives down there."

  I don’t bother mentioning my suspicion about Phillip. For now, I’ll keep that to myself.

  "That's fine." She points at my laptop. "What are we doing?"

  "Loretta's first husband. I know I have research on him."

  My home screen pops up, so I go to work skimming my directories. I keep separate folders for all of my projects. I’m anal about my notes because you never know when you'll have to prove that yes, you actually did fact-check about the local businessman scamming millions from the government.

  Been there. Done that.

  I click the Grande’s folder and get to the subfolders.

  “Do you have a folder for me?” Rose asks.

  I’ve been chasing her for a month. Of course I have a folder. “Yep. You can look through it if you want.”

  Her head snaps back. “You’d let me?”

  “Why not? It’s nothing you can’t find yourself. There’s this thing called Google…”

  At that, she laughs. “I know what Google is. I can use a damned computer.”

  I click the folder with Loretta's name and the list of various documents and news clippings appears. I open the notes document and then do a search for “husband.”

  Pay dirt.

  "Got it," I tell Rose.

  "That was fast."

  I bat my eyes. "I'm nothing if not efficient."

  "Don't I know it?"

  I bring my attention back to the laptop and skim. “As of three months ago, Loretta's first husband was still alive and living in Los Angeles. Interestingly enough, he was the executor of her estate and still manages it. Including all the trademarks and licensing, blah, blah."

  “I recall Simon mentioning that he helped with a licensing deal after Loretta’s death. She didn't have family and never changed her will after the divorce. Can you imagine? You're divorced and then suddenly you have to manage your superstar ex-spouse’s trademarks? Trust me, that's love."

  It sure was. "Based on what I found, seems like he's doing an okay job." I scroll through the file, sweeping over my notes. "Phone number." I tap the screen. "There's a number to call if you have questions about using her photos."

  My immediate instinct is to call. At the very least, I’ll get an assistant who might be able to put me in touch with him.

  “Call it," Rose says before I even look at her.

  I really like Rose. “I don't know that he'll talk to us, but…” I grab my phone. “You never know.”

  38

  Rae

  * * *

  On the way to Edgar Lonnie's house, we swing by the photo store, where I turn over the strip of negatives that need to be processed. Drew tells me he'll have it ready in an hour, so I head back to the car and tell Rose we can pick them up after our meeting with Edgar.

  I buckle up with enough excitement brewing inside me that I may need a bathroom break on the ride over. I'm still stunned the man is willing to speak with us. After calling the number listed in my notes, we were prompted to leave a voice mail.

  That’s when the almighty Rose threw around the Trudeau name. Thirty minutes later, Edgar Lonnie returned the call, leaving me wildly impressed and seriously jealous of Rose. From now on, I should just have Rose do all the phone calls because people practically fall to their knees when she speaks.

  "How far of a drive is it?" I ask as Rose pulls out of the photo shop parking lot.

  "Depending on traffic, a half hour."

  “What's the game plan? I'm thinking you should do the talking. Since Simon did work for Edgar, he may be connecting you with that whole client-attorney privilege. His trust will be with you."

  “That’s fine. We have to be honest with him about what we’re doing. I have a reputation to protect in this town and people know me as honest and direct." She glances over and arches a brow. "I intend to keep it that way."

  "Absolutely. If you can’t get anything out of him about these so-called demons, that’ll be good. And who she was seeing. He might know.”

  “I can do that.”

&nbs
p; We spend the next twenty minutes whipping—Rose has a major lead foot—down the 405 to the 101. On the way, Rose quizzes me about my childhood, my love of storytelling, and my lack of boyfriends. Heck, at this point I'd settle for a date, never mind a boyfriend.

  "It's the shoes.” Rose shakes her head. "I'd bet if you ditched those hideous snow boots, you’d be beating men off with a stick."

  "Ha. Trust me, it's not the shoes. Plenty of women in North Dakota wear those shoes. Nice try, though."

  "We'll see."

  What the heck did that mean? If she even thought she was doing some sort of makeover intervention, it wasn’t happening. One thing I’ll never be is a California blonde.

  She exits the 101 following signs for Ventura. I sit quietly. The conversation has been fun, but I need a few minutes to organize my thoughts. This conversation with Loretta's ex-husband may be a one-shot deal, so we’ll need to get as much out of him as we can.

  We pull up to a cozy one-story bungalow painted a sandy peach color. There are two towering palm trees in front along with a stone fountain—minus the water—and very little grass. The homes on the block are packed tight, something that, for me, would take a bit of getting used to. I’m used to wide open spaces and all of this, the traffic, the busyness is… new.

  I think I like it.

  Rose taps the ignition button and flips open her visor mirror to check her lipstick. I'm not wearing a stitch of makeup and don't bother. The upside of being a simple girl is never worrying about smudged lipstick.

  I’m about to crack wise to that effect and then decide against it. She’s already shoe-shamed me. God only knows what might come next.

  Apparently satisfied with her appearance, she smacks the visor shut. "Follow my lead. We’ll start with a bit of small talk. I'll let him know we're researching the Grande fire and we’re hoping he might have some information regarding the days immediately after."