A View to a Kill

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  I’d grown so used to his shadow I’d forgotten how it felt not having him around. The night before, when I’d heard about Alexandra’s book signing, he was asleep. I decided I was fine on my own, and I slipped out. I arrived back at the room an hour later and found him awake and unhappy. Very unhappy.

  My attention shifted to a newswoman on TV. I swore she’d just uttered something about Alexandra Weston being found dead in a bookstore bathroom. Frantic to learn more, I smoothed a hand across the bedspread, fishing for the remote. “Where’s the control for the TV? Have you seen it?”

  Finch glanced around, then lifted his right butt cheek. He reached down, grabbed the remote control, and handed it to me. A wide grin spread across his face. “Guess I sat on it. Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘pain in the ass,’ doesn’t it?”

  He laughed. I shook my head, smacked him on the arm with the remote, and increased the volume on the television just in time to hear the news anchor say, “Today the world is reeling from the loss of bestselling true-crime author Alexandra Weston, who was found dead inside a restroom last night at Bienville Street Bookstore. We’re still waiting on more information from the police.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A heavy rapping sounded from the opposite side of my hotel room door.

  “I’ll get it,” Finch said.

  I rose from the bed. “It’s okay. I got it.”

  He grimaced, racing me to the door.

  I glanced out the peephole at two uniformed officers in the hallway. One male, one female. The female glared straight at the hole like she was keenly aware of my eyeball peering at her from the opposite side. I cracked the door just enough to wedge my body into the opening and directed my attention to the woman. Her chestnut-colored hair was pulled back into a taut ponytail. And when I say taut, the ponytail was so tight it looked like her face had just been nipped and tucked. She was a few inches shorter than I was, around five foot seven, and had an interesting shape—chicken legs from the knee down and thunder thighs on top, giving her lower half the appearance of a human candy corn.

  She frowned, her plain, dull eyes boring into mine.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Joss Jax?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Officer Blunt, and this is Officer Parks.”

  Officer Blunt.

  The shoe fit perfectly.

  I switched my gaze to Parks. He was tall and bald. Lanky. He looked young and green, like it was his first week on the job. He extended a hand toward me. Blunt swatted it away.

  “You don’t need to shake the woman’s hand, Parks,” she scolded. “We’re here to ask questions, not to get better acquainted.”

  “Oh,” he said, his eyes darting to the floor. “Sorry. It’s just ... I’m a big fan. A big, big fan. I’ve never missed an episode of your show, Miss Jax. And I’ve read most of your books.”

  I stuck my hand out to him, and he accepted it. “Call me Joss.”

  He beamed. Officer Blunt rolled her eyes and tried to push the hotel room door forward, expecting me to allow her access just because she was in uniform and wanted in. I maintained my position. Golden tickets didn’t come this easily. Not with me.

  “Can we come in?” she asked.

  It was more of an expectation than a query.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “We need to talk to you about Alexandra Weston.”

  “So go ahead and talk.”

  “Are you aware of what’s happened?”

  “Vaguely,” I said. “I just saw the story on the news.”

  “She was found dead last night at the bookstore on Bienville,” Parks said. “Looks like she may have been murdered.”

  Blunt gave him a sharp sideways glance, and he resumed staring at the floor.

  “You witnessed a scuff-up last night between Alexandra Weston and Lester Barnes, right?” Blunt asked.

  “I did. What about it?”

  She moved a hand to her hip. “What is it with you, responding to all of my questions with questions?”

  “I’m just trying to move this along.”

  “There’s no need to get snippy.”

  “I’m not getting snippy,” I said. “If I was, you’d have no problem understanding the difference.”

  She glared at me like she wanted to put a bullet between my eyes.

  “Look, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” she said. “And I’d rather do it inside your room instead of in the hallway where any Joe Blow with nothing better to do is privy to our conversation. If that isn’t to your liking, you can come with me, and we’ll have this conversation elsewhere.”

  I assumed “elsewhere” was code for the police department, or whatever they called it here. Technically, she had no warrant, which meant I had every right to slam the door in her face if I wanted. She wasn’t taking me anywhere. I was a person of interest, not a suspect. She needed me, not the other way around.

  Still, I had to admit, I was curious. I wondered what other information might slip from Officer Parks’s mouth if I let them in. I pulled the door all the way open, allowing both officers inside. In the far corner, next to a window overlooking a courtyard with a fifteen-foot marble fountain in the middle, the four of us sat down.

  Blunt thumbed at Finch. “Who’s this, your boyfriend?”

  Finch cupped a hand over his month, half-coughed, half-laughed. “Uh, no.”

  “He works for me,” I said.

  “In what capacity?”

  “Why does it matter?” I asked.

  “I’m her bodyguard,” Finch offered.

  Thinking it was a joke, Blunt snapped her head back, snorted.

  Parks nudged her. “I told you. She’s on TV. Hosts a homicide show. Murderous Minds. She’s famous. Famous people have bodyguards all the time.”

  Blunt clicked the top of her ballpoint pen, unfazed. “Huh. Well, I’ve never seen the show. I don’t need to watch things like that. I deal with homicide in real life. What time did you arrive at the bookstore last night?”

  I told her.

  “And what time did you leave?”

  I told her that too.

  “Who else was present while you were there?”

  “A few employees, Lester Barnes, Alexandra Weston, and a security guy named Louis.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else lurking around?”

  I shook my head. “The store was about to close.”

  “I read what you said about Lester in the statement you gave to police. You restrained him. Why didn’t you let the security guard handle the situation?”

  I grinned. “The guy moved like his feet were stuck in blocks of cement. He was in no hurry to come to her aid.”

  “Interesting. Why not?”

  “Probably because his considerable girth would have made him exert more energy than he thought it was worth, and because it was a crappy, hourly paid job. How would I know? I could see she was in trouble. I was close, so I stepped in. I thought I was doing her a favor. The guy was nuts.”

  “Funny.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Lester said the same thing about you.”

  “Of course he did,” I snapped.

  “You’re not surprised?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Maybe.”

  I leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “I’d like to help you. I’m a big fan of Alexandra Weston and her books. With the exception of the one she signed for me last night, I’ve read everything she’s written.”

  “How nice. After Lester was escorted from the store, did you talk with her?”

  “Briefly.”

  “What about?”

  “Her book,” I said. “Writing. My job.”

  “Why would you talk about your job?”

  I sighed. This was getting ridiculous. “Alexandra Weston is a fellow author who writes in the same genre I do.”

  Blunt nodded. “So you ... know her.”

  “I know who
she is, yes. We aren’t buddies. Last night was the first time we’ve met.”

  “Did she say anything significant to you when you saw her?”

  “No.”

  “Did she seem agitated or worried about anything?”

  I mulled the question over for a moment. There were pros and cons involved with gratuitous oversharing with police. “She told me Lester wasn’t the first person who’d ever harassed her.”

  Blunt leaned in. “What were her exact words?”

  “She said a woman had followed her back to her hotel room after a signing once. The woman was harmless, just a fan obsessed with a book she’d written.”

  “And?”

  “She said she’d run into a few creeps like Lester over the years.”

  “She give you any names? Locations where she may have been harassed?”

  I shook my head. “Honestly, she talked about it like it was no big deal.”

  “How did the visit end?”

  “She signed my book, invited me to stop by her house while I was here so I could meet her daughter.”

  “Then what?”

  “I left,” I said.

  “Where did you go?”

  “If you’re asking where I was at the time Alexandra Weston died, I’d need to know the exact time her death occurred.”

  I knew Blunt wouldn’t give it to me, and any hope I had of Parks blurting out the answer was dashed when Blunt glared at him like she’d saw his head off if he spoke a word.

  “After you left the bookstore, where did you go?”

  “I returned back here,” I said.

  “Can anyone confirm it?”

  “I don’t need anyone to confirm it. That’s what happened.”

  Blunt tapped a plain, un-manicured fingernail on the table.

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  “Can’t say,” Blunt replied.

  “That is why you’re asking these questions, right? The way she died must relate to you considering me as a person of interest.”

  “Let’s stick to the question I asked you—the one you didn’t answer. Did anyone see you arrive back at the hotel?”

  “Lots of people.”

  “Such as?”

  Finch leaned back in the chair, entwined his fingers behind his head. “Me. I was here when she got back.”

  Blunt shifted her focus. “You? You weren’t with her at the bookstore?”

  He frowned at me. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Just what kind of bodyguard work do you do for her that has you waiting in her hotel room for her to return?”

  “The none-of-your-business kind,” he replied.

  “What time did Miss Jax arrive back at the hotel?”

  “Somewhere around nine forty-five, I guess.”

  “You guess or you know?”

  “You’re wasting your time, officer,” I said. “I allowed you inside my hotel room as a courtesy. If you’re going to turn this into an interrogation, you won’t like the end result.”

  Blunt snapped her notebook shut and stood. “Why are you here, in New Orleans?”

  “Why does anyone come to New Orleans?”

  Blunt prodded Parks with a finger, jerked her head toward the door. He stood like a trained animal and walked in that direction. She followed, stepped into the hall with him, and turned. “How much longer are you staying?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “No reason.”

  I resisted the urge to say anything more and closed the door.

  Of course there was a reason.

  There always was.

  CHAPTER 5

  “We’re not skydiving today, are we?” Finch asked. “You want to find out what happened to the Weston lady. Am I right?”

  “‘No’ to your first question,” I said, “and ‘yes’ to your second. If she was murdered, I want to know why.”

  “You don’t want to know, Joss. You need to know. There’s a difference.”

  He was right. I did need to know. My curiosity wouldn’t let it drop.

  Finch opened his mouth, and I prepared for the incoming lecture about letting the police do the work. I wasn’t a cop. I was the host of a television show by day and a writer with semi-decent forensic knowledge by night.

  “I won’t bother trying to talk you out of whatever you feel you need to do,” he said. “You’re going to do what you want, no matter what I say.”

  He was right about that too.

  “At least give me today and tomorrow,” I said. “Let me dig around a bit. If I don’t find anything, we’ll resume all death-defying activities as planned. Okay?”

  “You’re still calling your mom, right?” he asked.

  “When I have time, yes.”

  He gave me his I’m disappointed look. “Joss.”

  “Later on, okay?”

  “Not later on. Now. I’m not filtering any more calls from her. Like I said, it’s not what you pay me to do.”

  “I know it isn’t. But you don’t just work for me, Finch. We’re friends.”

  He handed me the phone. “Friends don’t make other friends deal with their own mothers.”

  I took the phone, winked. “Oh, come on. Some friends do.”

  He walked to the adjoining door dividing our two rooms and stepped into his, shutting the door behind him. I sighed, thought about how much I needed a strong sedative right about now, and dialed the number. My mother picked up on the first ring, almost like she’d expected the call.

  “Well, well,” she began, “look who finally made time to talk to her mother.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Did Finchie tell you I’ve been calling?”

  “His name is Finch.”

  “Whatever. Did he?”

  “He did.”

  “And?”

  “This is me calling you back,” I said.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “I mean, how are you doing today?”

  “Busy.”

  She blew a displeased breath into the phone. “You know what I mean, Joslyn. Today is ... well, it’s just ... I’ve been thinking about you all day. That’s why I called Finchie—”

  “Finch, and you shouldn’t be talking to him about my private life. What I choose to tell him is up to me.”

  “Calm down. We only talked about your cousin’s wedding. Seems to me like you’re struggling today, and I just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

  “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t talk to you if we’re going to talk about the past. I said I was fine, and I am.”

  “Fine” equaled occupying the rest of today with any activity that didn’t require use of my brain.

  “Are you coming to Clay and Courtney’s wedding or not? It’s next weekend.”

  “I know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Why not? You’ve known about it for several months now. You’re not filming right now, and whatever book project you’re working on, I’m sure you can take a break.”

  “Give me the rest of the week to decide, Mom. Okay?”

  “Come home, Joslyn. Please. We all miss you. Everyone wants to see you.”

  Not everyone.

  “I will. I just don’t know if it will be before the wedding.”

  She sighed the way she usually did when she didn’t get what she wanted. “Listen, honey, I know it’s hard coming back here after what happened. Have you ever thought about how good it might feel to face everyone at the wedding? It’s been five years, Joslyn. Everyone has moved on. Everyone except you.”

  “Clay is the brother of my ex. I doubt he’s moved on.”

  Another sigh. Much deeper this time. “Maybe if you talk to your father ... hold on and I’ll get him.”

  “Wait, Mom. Don’t. I have to go.”

  “What? Why? We’ve only just started talking.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll call you again later, okay?”


  “Today?”

  “If I can. I’m assisting the police with a local investigation.”

  “What investigation? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it next time we talk. Tell Dad I love him and give my love to the family. I love you, and I’ll see you soon. I promise. Bye.”

  I pressed the end button on the phone before she had the chance to utter another word and embraced the swelling ball of guilt festering inside me.

  Finch poked his head back in. “How’d it go?”

  I turned away. “Did you ... umm, could you hear me?”

  “Some. You sound so different when you to talk to her.”

  “In what way?”

  “You don’t sound like yourself. The Joss I know is fearless. Last week, you jumped from a plane. Last month, you swam with sharks. Last—”

  “This is different.”

  “Why? Because she’s your mother?”

  “It has nothing to do with her. And, to be honest, it has nothing to do with the wedding either. Well, almost nothing.”

  He crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. “What happened five years ago?”

  He was listening.

  “Let’s talk about it another time, okay?”

  He leaned against the doorway. “You remember when I interviewed with you, what you asked me?”

  “I asked you a lot of things. I needed to be sure you were the right person for the job.”

  “The last thing you asked me was what made me leave Tennessee and travel to California to work for you.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “I could have said anything. I could have told you what I thought you wanted to hear. I didn’t. We were strangers, and still, I laid it all out for you—my wife’s infidelity, the baby, all of it. I knew it could have cost me the job. I told you anyway.”

  “Your honesty was one of the things that won me over, Finch. It built trust between us.”

  “Trust goes both ways. You said it yourself. I don’t just work for you. We’re friends.”

  I smiled. “I know we are.”

  “If you want to talk to me about anything, you always can.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot to me. It really does.”

  “And if you don’t want to go to this wedding, don’t go. She’ll get over it.”

  I knew she would.

  The question was ... would I?