by Deany Ray
“Could be, I suppose.”
Mike frowned. “Speaking of this Ferguson, I still need to figure out how we’re going to find him at the hotel. They’re protective of the guests, which is no big surprise, given all the fans who’d love to get close to the actors.” He stared out the window as he thought. “Right after the shooting happened, I tried to call some of the cast, but the people at the reception wouldn’t put me through let alone give out the room numbers. Again, no big surprise. So we can’t just pop up to the room.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the staff at the Palm Shores Heritage have to be on their toes. Some of those fans are nuts.” I mulled over the situation as I passed some more slow drivers. “None of the fans or paparazzi are after Ferguson, though. Surely they would put us through to him—if he’s still there, that is.”
Mike shrugged. “It’s mostly movie people there. I imagine the same policies apply to all the guests. Plus, even if we did get him on the phone, I doubt that would get us very far. What is he going to say to two strangers on the phone?” He thought about it more. “We need to talk to him in person.”
I smiled. “Tell me the number for the reception at the Palm Shores Heritage.” I did love a challenge.
He raised an eyebrow. “And your plan is?”
“Number, please.” I grinned.
He looked it up on his cell, and I punched the number into my phone when we got to the next light.
With my phone on speaker, a ringing filled the car. Mike listened, curious.
“Palm Shores Heritage,” a woman answered in a pleasant voice. “This is Ann. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Ann. I’d like to speak with a Mr. John Ferguson, who is a guest in your hotel.”
“Sure, let me put you through.”
As we heard a ringing in the room, Mike let out a laugh, surprised.
That was followed by a gruff voice. “Yeah?”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “This is room service just confirming one detail of your order. We have a note here to cook your steak medium rare. Is that correct, sir?”
“I didn’t order any steak,” he said, confused.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this not room 204?”
“No, this is 325.”
“So sorry to disturb you.”
We heard the line go dead.
I looked at Mike triumphantly, and he was almost doubled up with laughter.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “I think you missed your calling.”
Chapter Fourteen
Beautifully landscaped, the Palm Shores Heritage was a large expanse of connected buildings topped by pointy roofs that rose to a variety of heights. With its beige and light-orange exterior and the variety of lush plants set out across the grounds, it was a gorgeous place with a kind of Spanish flair.
I drove past the main entrance, following the signs to a garage on the east side of the property, where I parked the Jeep. “Let’s get this show on the road,” I said.
As I climbed out of the Jeep and locked the doors, I made a mental note that I would have to play it cool. I’d been around the set enough that some of the cast and crew staying at this hotel would recognize that, hey, here was their nightly server walking down the hall. They would probably wonder what this girl was doing at the Palm Shores Heritage, but on the other hand, maybe I was overthinking things. With their minds on the film, I doubted most of them had ever given me a second thought, unless they needed extra sauce or something. Besides, it was in the middle of the day now, and everybody should be on set, not at the hotel. Even so, I did my best to look all casual, like a hotel guest, as the elevator in the garage took us swiftly and efficiently to the hotel lobby—which was stunning.
As soon as we stepped off the elevator onto a gold-colored rug that almost massaged my feet, I wanted to check in and stay awhile. One day I’d make it happen; I made a promise to myself. The white, shiny marble floor was dotted with lush carpets in muted shades of gold and blue. Vases of summer flowers were scattered here and there. That included a large arrangement on the trendy light-wood desk that was marked Reception. Two receptionists were busy on the phones when I glanced over at them, wondering which one would be my new friend Ann.
I spotted an elevator to the left, next to a painting of a beach scene, and we headed toward it with Mike following my lead. Although I had no idea what would happen next, I felt somewhat prepared with my cell phone in the left pocket of my jeans and my keys in the right. A little voice inside me told me it was best to leave my purse stashed away beneath the front seat of my Jeep. Why, I wasn’t sure. In case I had to run? I hoped that wasn’t it. I’d had enough of running for . . . well, the entire year.
The elevator seemed to take forever. “Aw, man,” I remarked quietly to Mike. “I would think this place would be almost empty at this time of day.” Watching the numbers above my head, I saw the elevator was now stopped on the fifteenth floor. A lot more floors to go, so I took a look around. According to the signs, there were conference rooms located to our left, just around the corner. I heard voices coming from that way.
“Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out.” The first voice I heard was male.
“Yes, I’m happy with the contract, and I hope you are as well.”
Dang. That was Cocoa, of all people, and she was getting closer. Working out some details of the dinner service, I assumed, with someone from production. I moved closer to the elevator.
“Oh crap. That’s my boss!” I whispered to Mike. “You know, from the restaurant. I don’t want her seeing me here.”
“Well then, let’s make sure she doesn’t,” he responded in a quiet, calming voice. Then, just as Cocoa and the man came around the corner into view, I felt Mike pushing me— forcefully but gently—back into the wall next to the elevator.
Okay, what the heck? But, oh my, did he smell good as he shielded me from view by pressing up against me super close. Before I knew it, his face was touching mine, and I could feel the warmth of his breath and the heat coming off his skin, which felt smooth and baby soft against my own. The muscles of his chest pushed against me harder as the footsteps neared. Then he pressed his lips against mine, and a warmth shot through my body. Yowza! He twisted just a little to keep me out of view as the voices seemed to be getting closer—almost here.
I could hear that Cocoa and her companion stopped really close to us to finish up their conversation. I heard something about “next steps” and “follow up in the next week or so” and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Thank you, thank you Cocoa. I did not want Mike to move!
Then they seemed to be walking closer, and Mike moved to shield me even more from view, cupping my face in his hands. As he pushed in closer, his lips grew more insistent, and I decided I would melt into the carpet then and there.
Mike’s hands were running through my hair now, and I was too lost in the mounting passion of the kiss to note the moment when the interlopers left. Dizzy with the feelings that were surging through me, I finally took note of the silence. There was no more conversation; Cocoa and the man were gone.
“I think they left,” I whispered breathlessly. “Um, thanks for . . . hiding me from Cocoa.”
Mike grinned down on me. “I don’t think she recognized you. You should be good,” he said as he moved away. Then he checked the elevator lights, like we had not just practically reenacted one of the sultry scenes from Hot Nights and Teary Days.
I was feeling flushed as the elevator dinged and we stepped inside. I should really get a grip. This was business—amazingly exhilarating business—but, for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t twelve years old.
Mike, unlike me, had the presence of mind to push the button for the third floor, so we rode up to our destination, in complete and utter stillness. We got off the elevator, and following the signs, we turned left on the soft carpeting toward room 325. The awkward silence settled in between us, you know, like when you have a pink elephant in the room, and nobody talks about it.
But I didn’t have time to ponder about it long. We turned a corner and noticed that a balding man, short and heavyset, had just emerged from his room. As he slammed the door shut, his eyes had something of that wild look a hunted animal would get. When I noticed the room number—325—I studied him more closely. I saw Mike do the same.
The man was so rounded in the middle that the buttons of his dress shirt strained to do the job. One of them, in fact, had lost the battle, and the shirt gaped open near the fullest part of his large belly.
“John Ferguson?” Mike asked.
The man looked at us like a deer in the headlights and did a nervous little hop that made his belly jiggle. Then he took off.
Mike looked at me, confused. “Was it something I said?”
Craziness. Again. We flew down the long hall after him, rounding corners fast to keep the man in sight.
“We just want to talk!” I called. Why the hell was this man running like his life depended on it?
He pushed open a door to a stairwell and we followed, catching up to him as he took two steps at a time before tumbling down the rest. I looked on in horror as his rounded form somersaulted—old brown shoes over too-tight pants over balding head—landing hard at the bottom.
“Are you okay?” I breathlessly asked, my heart beating fast as I rushed to him. According to a sign, we were now on the ground floor.
Giving me no answer, Ferguson struggled to get up and started to take off again, but Mike acted fast and forcefully pinning him against the wall.
My eyes were riveted to the muscles in Mike’s arms as I remembered the feel of his strong arms and muscled chest against my body. I loved the way he had grabbed Ferguson so quickly as if there was no way some other guy was going to fly by him. Very take-charge move.
“Hey, man, we only want to talk,” he said to Ferguson. “We don’t want to hurt you.” It only took one hand for him to easily keep the guy pinned against the wall.
Ferguson was flailing, his eyes as big as his stomach, and his arms were whirling uselessly. He looked frantically from me to Mike. “I don’t have your money, but I will! By the end of the week. I swear!”
Mike looked at me, confused, before turning back to Ferguson. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“We don’t want your money,” I insisted. “We just want to ask you some questions.”
Our captive’s eyes ping-ponged between me and Mike. He seemed a bit calmer, though, and Mike loosened his grip.
“So what do you want?” Ferguson inquired in a high and reedy voice. “I figured you were sent to collect the money.”
“We are collecting information,” Mike corrected. “On the Victoria Fleming murder.” He removed his hand, freeing Ferguson, but giving him a look that warned him not to run.
“Well,” Ferguson said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Never met the woman.” He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, seemingly relieved we were not the mystery “collectors” he had mistaken us to be. Sweat dripped from his brow.
“We know about the properties in Singapore you invested in along with Amery Fitzgerald,” Mike told him.
At the reminder, the portly man looked like he might cry. “Oh, that I did,” he said in a mournful voice. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, and now I’m in so much trouble.” His face was turning red.
“Trouble, in what way?” Mike kept his voice calm and steady.
Ferguson’s face grew even redder as he started to explain. “I believed so much in that nonsense that I took out a loan, a really massive one.” He wiped at his brow. “So not only I am out the money, I owe interest on it too.” The more anxious the man got, the higher his voice grew in pitch. “So now you can see why I thought the loan sharks sent you. They’ve been after me real hard.”
I looked at him, startled. “You think I look like the kind of person a loan shark would send out?” In cute pink flats and a spray of lemon-smelling perfume dabbed behind the ears? How unintimidating could a person get?
“Just a guess,” he told me with a shrug. “When you’re in this much trouble, you don’t think. You run.”
“Oh. Well, okay, I see. What brings you to Palm Shores?” I asked.
His already ruddy coloring turned red as a tomato as he spat the name. “Amery Fitzgerald. He got me into this investment, and I came here to tell him what I thought. Then I decided I would just hole up at the Palm Shores Heritage until I could get enough money to get these people off my back.”
“Things can’t be all that bad if you can afford this place.” I shoved some hair out of my eyes.
He responded to the comment with a dismissive wave. “The money you pay for this place is peanuts compared to what I’ve lost. The kind of dough I owe . . . I can’t even think about it.”
“And you know Fitzgerald how?” I asked. He seemed far from the type of guy to hang out with A-listers.
“I met Amery about a year ago at my club in LA. I tried to take up tennis because the wife was after me to exercise. So a time or two I got to talking to this actor guy when I saw him on the courts.” A rage crossed his eyes. “And that is when Amery Fitzgerald told me about this deal. Such a deal, he said, and stupid, stupid me just had to get in on it!” Ferguson shook his head. “Guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but you know how that goes with these actor types. Other people write their lines so they sound all smart when you see them on the screen. Guy didn’t know a thing.”
“When was all of this?” Mike asked. He had been listening quietly, and now he produced a notepad from his pocket.
“About four months ago. Now everything is gone. The wife thinks I’m a loser; we’re about to list the house.” He mopped at his brow again. “My kid wants to be a doctor, and I can’t even pay for college now. She’s got it all planned out, wants to specialize in diseases of the foot. I’d told her we were set for whatever school she picked, but now my money’s gone.” He paused. “If not for this Amery Fitzgerald and his big ideas, my kid could have been a doctor. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
I studied carefully the man who stood before me. I saw frustration in his eyes—and not a lot of sense—but I did not see evil. He did not seem like a man who would make a plan to blow Victoria away to get back at Fitzgerald.
“So, did you and Fitzgerald speak once you got here to Palm Shores?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, at the hotel bar, but what good did that do me? Amery insisted there was nothing he could do.” Ferguson let out a sigh. “And yeah, I know he never forced me to invest. I helped to dig my own grave, but what a pretty picture that louse painted for me of how much we could make. He acted like he knew. I saw this as my chance, and how many chances does a guy like me really get? I’m just an accountant. That was my chance to afford a boat, a house up in the mountains, some of the things those guys at the club are always going on about. Don’t I deserve those things?” He rubbed on his shiny head and had watery eyes.
“So what happened next, after that meeting in the bar? Did you see Fitzgerald after that?” Mike cocked his head to one side and watched Ferguson.
“Nah. Four days after that was when that lady died.” He sighed and shook his head. “Now, I have no idea if he really killed that actress, and I haven’t given it much thought, to be honest with you. I have my own skin to save.”
Okay, something didn’t fit. I crossed my arms and looked him in the eye. “You were seen outside the hotel having an argument with Amery Fitzgerald,” I said in an even tone. “I was told that it got heated. I was told, in fact, that you were on him constantly, and wouldn’t leave him alone.”
“No way. That’s not true!” he wailed, his face turning redder. “Whoever told you that is wrong!” He paused. “Yeah, we talked for a while outside the hotel that night after we’d had our drinks. He said he wanted to step out and get some air, and I followed him. I did! Hoping to persuade him to help a fellow out. You know the guy is loaded, and I was a man in need. But all we did was talk! I admit,
I may have been a bit agitated, considering my current situation. We talked, and that was all, and that was absolutely my last contact with him, I swear.”
Either Ferguson was telling us the truth or they should cast him in the movie because the guy could act. Mentally, I moved him down a notch or two on my list of suspects, which meant this expedition wouldn’t end with some huge revelation, as I’d hoped. Ferguson was probably not our guy despite Vicente’s story. Vicente had witnessed a brief moment, which could have been misunderstood. The rest of what he told me could have come from Fitzgerald, who I imagined liked to exaggerate for full effect.
“Have you told all this to the cops?” Mike asked. “You might not be the only one he pulled into the investment. Other people could be angry at him for the same reason you are. The cops sure would like to know what you have to say.”
Ferguson’s eyes grew wide. “Are you crazy? The loan guys are after me,” he squeaked, shrinking back against the wall. “If I go to the cops, they’ll kill me.”
I sighed. I thought about what this man had gotten himself into, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. It was all his own doing.
“Okay, listen,” I said to him. “Can you think of anything at all that is relevant to the murder? Think hard.”
“Well, you seem like nice people, and I’d really like to help.” He pondered for a moment, sweat still running down his face. “But like I said, I didn’t know Amery that good and—”
“And what?” I asked.
Ferguson looked like he hit on an idea. “Hmm. Maybe there is something.” He thought a bit harder. “Yes. Something comes to mind.”
I watched Mike’s eyes light up. “Which is?”
“About two days before the murder, I saw Amery speak with someone here at the hotel. I mean, they were in that lot where the employees park.” He paused to cough and wheeze. “Excuse me. Allergies.” He cleared his throat as we waited anxiously. “Now, mind you, it was dark,” he continued. “I was not close to them, but whatever they were saying, things got really heated. I can tell you that.”