Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6)

by LynDee Walker

“Okay.” He turned. “For today.”

  I nodded, flipping my laptop open and pulling up a screen for the trial. Today was all I needed right then.

  I’d just turned onto my street when my phone erupted into “Second Star to the Right.” I reached for it slowly, unsure I wanted to know what else could go wrong.

  Emily, the caller ID announced. My face relaxed into a smile.

  “You have no idea how glad I am it’s you. On so many levels,” I said in place of hello.

  “I figured you’d need me right about now.” She laughed, which made my smile widen. Em has the best laugh—big and loud and brimming with joy. It’d been one of my favorite things about her since she loaned me her Strawberry Shortcake eraser in third grade and became one of my best friends. “The wedding is this coming weekend, right?”

  Ah. She had her psychologist hat on. “It is. Though I’d bet what you’re calling about is the least of my worries today. The rehearsal weekend included a dead guy, and at least half the people I know think Parker killed him.”

  A full minute of silence followed.

  I turned into the driveway and cut the engine. “Em?”

  “I can’t even. How?”

  “I don’t have time to bother with how. I need the who and the why before Saturday.”

  “You need to talk?”

  “Like a little black dress needs the right pair of heels.” I unlocked the door and stooped to pat Darcy’s head, filling her food bowl and reaching for the wine rack. “Get comfortable.”

  “Shoes off. Hair down. Wine open,” she said. “Go.”

  By the time I’d finished the story (again), she’d been quiet for so long I’d have thought the call dropped if it weren’t for the occasional clicking of her earring against the receiver as she nodded. Snuggled in the corner of my overstuffed sofa with my bare feet curled under me and Darcy in my lap, I sipped my Moscato.

  “Wow,” Em said.

  “Yup.”

  “Not only do you seem to have yet another killer to hunt down, but that might not even be your biggest issue.” She clicked her tongue. “It seems everything you try so hard to keep compartmentalized about your life is on the verge of crashing together. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ll take vague psychoanalyzing for two hundred, Alex.”

  “I’m not trying to be vague. I’ve been listening to you talk about this wedding for months, and I love you, sweetie, but you are fooling yourself if you think being in the middle of this lovefest isn’t getting in your head. Making you wonder what you want.”

  “Right now I want a fairy to appear in my living room with irrefutable evidence of who killed Mitch Burke.”

  “For your life. You can’t live the job forever. You’ve been doing it long enough that you have to know that by now.”

  I tapped a finger on the stem of my glass. “Funny, Bob said the same thing last weekend. So did Larry.”

  “Maybe you should listen to them.”

  “And what?” I let my head fall back into the cushions. “Be as depressed and down on myself as Shelby is that I don’t have a one and only to cook dinner for every night? No thanks.”

  Her voice softened. “I think if you look a bit harder, you might see that something in your basic belief system is evolving. Having a front row seat for Grant and Melanie’s happily ever after has been chipping away at your commitment phobia for months.”

  I set the dog in the floor and got up to pace. “You think?”

  “The real question is always do you think?”

  “I think maybe you’re right. But I don’t know what to do about it. Yet.”

  “We all know how much you love situations you can’t control,” Emily said.

  “Right this second what I need to control is digging up what the hell happened to Mitch Burke.”

  “That I might be able to help with. Your victim was a narcissist. Which means there should be a diary of his every move online. Check his social media. A new pair of shoes says the profiles are public.”

  Damn. Social media hits are usually in the top returns when you search anyone on Google. Except when the person in question is even a G-list celebrity—then they get buried in news clips and official websites. And in all the craziness, it hadn’t even occurred to me to look. Some detective I was.

  “You are a genius.” I strode to the kitchen and dug my laptop out of my bag.

  “Just a bit smarter than average,” she said. “Good luck, sweetie. Call if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Em.” I flipped open the computer and clicked off the call, arranging Burke’s Facebook and Instagram feeds side by side on my screen.

  The grin on his face in his profile photo was of the things-go-my-way variety.

  “Something definitely didn’t last week,” I murmured to the screen, scrolling down. “Let’s see if you can tell me why.”

  Mitch Burke’s online life depicted a bachelor’s dream.

  Just in the week before his body was found, he’d checked into six restaurants and five nightclubs with thirty different people, more than half of them beautiful women.

  Work was hanging out at the ballpark. Lunch was meeting his dad for sandwiches and a walk along the James. The two took a selfie with the old Lucky Strike statue in the background a week ago today.

  My heart twisted, looking at Richard Burke’s easy smile. Whatever kind of person Mitch was, I felt terrible for his family. Richard’s hazel eyes, crinkled at the corners from the grin and the sun, were happy. And his face was familiar, though I stared for a good three minutes and couldn’t place why. Probably just from the general “around”—the head of the state’s historical league had to pop up in our society pages often, and Lord knows I’d spent enough time poring over them last fall.

  I kept scrolling, building a timeline of Burke’s last week and thanking my lucky stars for friends like Emily.

  The last photo on his Instagram was taken Wednesday evening in Richmond. I held my breath, crossing fingers and toes as I snapped a screenshot. Clicked over to Facebook.

  Damn.

  He’d checked into a fancy five-star restaurant in Charlottesville at six thirty Thursday evening, which washed out my theory that he’d been in the wine barrel for more than a day. I stared at the screen.

  Wait.

  Scrolling back down, I checked entry after entry. Burke never went anywhere alone. But no one was tagged in this dinner checkin on Thursday.

  So who did he meet that he didn’t want anyone to know about?

  I had to leave the room to keep from hurling my laptop into the wall.

  Every road I thought would lead to an answer produced more questions. Always more questions.

  My phone binged a text arrival and I scurried back to the kitchen, hoping Kyle was finally answering me about Moscow.

  Not Kyle.

  Joey.

  Three little words that shot straight to my heart.

  I believe you.

  I slid my finger across the screen, my thumbs flying as soon as the message screen opened.

  I will never lie to you. He is my friend. Absolutely nothing more.

  Gray dot bubble.

  I’m glad. Your day OK? I hit an interesting wall asking about our mutual friend.

  So we were speaking in code?

  Interesting good?

  Bing. Interesting weird. Can I tell you about it over dinner tomorrow night?

  So not an answer, or he wouldn’t wait. I blew out a frustrated sigh. At least he wanted to tell me. And I missed him.

  I’d adore it.

  I put the phone on the charger and shuffled to the bathroom. Peering at the purple craters under my eyes in the mirror as I waited for my clawfoot tub to fill with steaming water, I shook my head. I was no stranger to stress, but this week was piling it on too thick. A hot bath and a good night’s sleep sounded like Heaven. So did a remote cabin where no one could depend on me for anything ever again, but I bored easily. Bath it was.

  I stayed in u
ntil my fingers shriveled, Parker’s story about Marilyn playing on a loop in my head, images of smiling Mitch Burke flashing on top of his words. I was missing something. I had to be.

  I’d almost dozed off in the tub when it hit me.

  I sat straight up, sending water all over the floor.

  Richard Burke.

  He stood out in the photos—not because of the society pages I’d stared myself blind over last fall. Because I’d seen him. On a horse in Sammons’s field on Sunday. Richard Burke was the tall silver-haired man with the impressive skill.

  What the hell kind of man plays polo two days after his only son is found dead?

  24.

  Scene of the Crime

  Wide rays of light danced across my quilt by the time I opened my eyes, yet I didn’t feel rested as my feet touched the sun-warmed hardwood floor. Grabbing my phone from the charger, I texted Bob.

  Skipping the meeting, so sorry, have to track something down if you want ahead of Charlie. Will have follow on Burke by five.

  I hit a Starbucks drive-thru on the way to Kyle’s and had his caramel macchiato waiting in the cupholder next to my white mocha when I picked him up at eight.

  “Sorry I didn’t answer you yesterday—I could tell you how crazy it was, but you might not believe me,” he said as he slid into the passenger seat. “The short answer is, the odds aren’t good. I’ve never worked on anything anywhere near Russia.”

  Of course. I set the GPS for Calais and pointed the car toward the interstate as I filled him in on chef Alexei.

  “Nice work,” he said. “I like that scenario. A lot. Will we see this TV cook today?”

  “I sure hope so.” I sped up and merged onto I-64, flicking a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “What do you know about Richard Burke?”

  “Mostly that his family life is pretty tragic, based on what Parker said yesterday.” Kyle picked up the coffee and smiled a thank you as he sipped it. “Why?”

  “I talked to Em last night—she said to tell you hey—and she told me to check Mitch Burke’s social media. There was a photo of Mitch and Richard from last week and he looked familiar. I finally realized why: I saw him on Sunday, playing polo at Calais. Who does that?”

  No answer.

  I cut my eyes his way. “Hello?”

  “Well, I guess I’m wondering where you’re going with that,” he said. “I mean, everyone grieves in their own way, right? Didn’t you tell me even Ashton Okerson had to stay busy right after their son died?”

  I tapped one finger on the wheel, images of Ashton making lemonade and delivering trays of snacks to everyone in her house flashing through my head. He had a point.

  “True, but…” I didn’t really have a place to take that.

  “But what? You can’t really think this man was somehow hung up in his own son’s death?”

  Not when he said it like that.

  “I guess not?” I didn’t really intend the question mark, but it came out all the same.

  “That’s rare. Like, one in a million rare when the kid in question is grown.”

  Right again. “And we don’t need any more geese to chase,” I said.

  “Not on the strength of slightly odd behavior in the wake of a tragedy anyway. I think we have enough likely suspects to keep us busy for today.”

  I nodded, turning my attention back to the vineyard we were speeding towards. “So here’s the plan…” I began. By the time I turned onto the driveway at Calais, Kyle was the assistant florist looking over the property because his boss was out with a cold. And I’d given him the full rundown on the players as I knew them, including what I’d found on Jolene Sammons’s very quickly glossed-over death.

  “From what I found, Sammons only spends time out here on the weekends most of the time,” Kyle said as we parked the car. “Though it seems he’s been out here more than usual lately. You see anything that gave you an idea why?”

  “The scuffle on Saturday where Parker got hurt had something to do with grapes. The old guy says Sammons stole seeds for a hybrid varietal from him.”

  “Did he?” Kyle furrowed his brow at me.

  “Entirely possible.”

  “Anything to do with Burke?”

  “Sheriff says no. Mr. Fulton was out of town until after the body was found.”

  Kyle surveyed the field, opening his door. “Let’s go see what these folks know.”

  I started with the lodge, checking Jinkerson’s office first.

  The whole place was empty.

  “Are they closed on Tuesdays?” Kyle asked.

  “The gates were open,” I said.

  “True.”

  I looked back toward Jinkerson’s office. The door was closed, but not locked. “You know—if you wanted to play lookout, I might be able to find something in there,” I said.

  Kyle pursed his lips. “I can’t use anything procured in a search without a warrant.”

  “But I can. And you won’t be doing the searching.”

  He nodded slowly. “This is the guy you said acted like he wanted to talk to you and then disappeared?”

  “He knew something about Sammons, it sure seemed. I’m kind of hoping he knows what happened to the sister. But I’ll settle for any answer I can find.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?”

  “Not a clue. Figured I’d start with Mitch Burke and Sammons and go from there.”

  “Did Burke even work here?”

  “Not that I know of. He worked for Sammons with the baseball club. But he was out here enough to have broken a few hearts around these parts, and nobody seemed too surprised that he’d been murdered.”

  Kyle nodded, waving me toward the office. “Good luck. Hope your haystack isn’t too big.”

  I slipped inside and surveyed the room. It wasn’t huge, with a giant carved dark wood desk in the center of the floor and two low matching file cabinets behind the chair.

  I moved to the first one and knelt in front of it, pulling on the top drawer. Locked. Shit. The bottom one opened, as did the two in the other cabinet. So anything interesting was probably in the one I couldn’t get into. I flipped through tabs in the other three anyway: utility bill files, county board of supervisors meeting records (Sammons was a frequent agenda item, it appeared. Worth reading, but I could get the minutes myself at the courthouse) and sales records by wine label. I wished I knew how to read the latter, but I had no idea if the summer Rosé selling seven hundred and thirty-nine cases was great or terrible.

  So how to get into the locked files?

  I stood and moved to the desk, sliding the top drawer out in search of a key. A dust bunny, a pen, and a couple paperclips. Strike one.

  I’d just edged the side drawer open when the knob on the door that led to the back hallway where I’d eavesdropped on Jinkerson and Hulk a hundred years ago (how was that only Friday?) rattled. I only had a lookout in the lobby. Should’ve locked that one. I glanced around.

  No time—or place—to hide.

  I slapped the drawer shut, throwing my bag over my shoulder and snatching a pen off the desk just as Celia pushed the door open.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes wide, voice trembling.

  I gave her a onceover. Miss prim and polished gift shop manager was looking a lot rough around the frills this morning. Puffy eyes, sallow skin. Her hair, stuffed into a crooked ponytail, could use some shampoo. And her jeans and sweatshirt were a far cry from the designer pencil skirts and silk blouses she’d worn every other time I’d seen her.

  Her eyes skated around the edges of the room, flicked back to me, and resumed wandering.

  Nerves.

  Was she worried about what I might find in the office? Worried that I’d seen her there? Or something more pressing—like, maybe, a murder charge?

  No way to know.

  I brandished the pen. “I brought the florist to look over some things and I couldn’t find you or Mr. Jinkerson. I was leaving hi
m a note that we’d gone out to survey the property in case he came back.”

  I was a lousy liar, and my eyes dropped to the desk as I talked, but she seemed too wrapped up in whatever was bugging her to notice.

  “I took the day off. I’m not feeling too well.” Her voice was scratchy.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, wondering if she had a regular bug or the guilty-conscience kind.

  She tried for a smile and managed a wince. “Thank you.”

  “Is it okay if I take him out to look around?”

  “Sure.” She waved a hand and I turned for the opposite door, her voice stopping me with one hand on the knob.

  “I thought their florist was a woman.” Celia’s tone had an undercurrent of accusation.

  I smiled, turning. “She’s out sick today so her assistant is filling in. Must be something going around.” I winked and dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between me and you, I’m glad he got to come look at the venue. He’s a genius.”

  She held my gaze for a moment before she nodded. “I hope the wedding is everything it should be.”

  Something in the way she said it made the hair on my arm stand up as I nodded and walked back out to Kyle.

  “Maybe she really is sick,” Kyle said as we passed the guest houses on our way to the barns. I’d blurted out the whole thing so fast I was gulping air, my chest tight.

  I tried to slow my breathing. “Maybe. But something is weird. I don’t think that’s all, how’s that?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Nothing good in there, either way?”

  “Not that I had time to look too hard. But her going in the back door when the place was empty makes me think she felt pretty sure she’d be alone in his office. Which means there’s something going on with him. Google had zip, save for a bunch of wine industry magazine articles and blog posts, but my gut says there’s more.”

  Kyle’s eyes popped wide. “You think he’s our guy? What about the chef?”

  “I don’t know. Conspiracy? Celia mentioned that she saw Jinkerson near the barns Friday afternoon, but who the hell knows if she’s trustworthy? What I think is I want to find him, and it looks like he’s not here. Can we look for an address and stop by his house before we head out of town?”