“Tell that to the paparazzi. They’re pitiless.” Claire followed my lead, biting into a slender petit four while the pianist tinkled her way through another song. “One puffy-faced photo was all that Jeremy required to make him panic. He hired Liam, gave up bacon butties, and almost ruined the pair of us.”
“How’s that?” I sipped Earl Grey, still wishing there was a little something chocolaty to nosh while I listened to Claire.
“First, Jeremy refused to fulfill his cookbook contract,” she told me. “He wanted his next work to focus on ‘clean foods,’ but his publisher wasn’t interested in that foolishness. Then he objected to having sugar on set. He wouldn’t allow beer adverts to be aired. Then he reneged on the Hambleton & Hart deal. He wouldn’t touch their products. He said they were ‘poison.’”
I widened my eyes. “Wow, that’s impressive discipline.”
Having seen Liam, I thought I understood why. Jeremy had probably been trying to save himself from himself—and, by extension, from Liam, Mr. “I don’t tolerate doing things halfway.”
“It was destructiveness,” Claire disagreed, “especially given the timing. We were in the middle of filming an advert for Hambleton & Hart when Jeremy discovered his conscience. I would have had to drop him as a client if things had continued.”
She gave me a self-justifying look while I digested that information. Jeremy doing an advert (a “commercial” to you and me) was news to me. “So that’s what Jeremy was doing when he . . .”
Was killed? lingered between us. I couldn’t say it, but I surmised that’s why the guesthouse had been full of A/V equipment—equipment that was still (chillingly) in place.
“You don’t have any objections to making money, do you?” Claire startled me from reliving my discovery of Jeremy’s body. Evidently, she didn’t want to dwell on Jeremy’s death, either. “You’re not secretly a Buddhist? A technophobe? A skinflint?”
“No, of course not!” I laughed, knowing I wouldn’t be making any money from my fictitious tell-all book. I felt bad about deceiving Claire, but my loyalties lay with Jeremy—and with uncovering his murderer. “That would be crazy of me.”
A sigh. “If only Jeremy had had half your common sense.”
Agents are paid a percentage of their clients’ earnings, I knew. If Jeremy had backed out of his endorsement deal with Hambleton & Hart, it would have cost his agent a significant amount of money. Enough money to provoke an impulsive murder?
Maybe . . . if the contract had been in force when Jeremy had died and Hambleton & Hart had still been obligated to pay. I made a note to ask Travis to find out those details, wishing I could remember if Claire had eaten her tea sandwiches with her left hand or with her right. The killer was supposed to be left-handed, according to the police. Belatedly remembering to check, I studied her. But her hands were folded atop the table, serenely resting there, giving me no clues about her handedness.
I wished I’d checked earlier. But it’s a pretty bizarre thing to do, inspecting someone to see if they’re left-handed. Without that extemporaneous tip from DC Mishra’s colleague, George, I wouldn’t have known to look for that detail at all.
Claire didn’t notice my tardy scrutiny. “So, Hayden. What are you willing to do to promote your book? I have excellent media connections. We could arrange a worldwide media tour.”
That sounded horrendous to me. I smiled anyway. “I think it’s too soon to discuss particulars.” I finished my macaron and dabbed my mouth with my napkin, preparing to bring our meeting to a close. I didn’t want to take up all of Claire’s time on false pretenses. “I’ll think about this and be in touch later.”
I was being absolutely honest about thinking things over. Jeremy’s erstwhile agent had given me a lot of food for thought.
Claire frowned. I felt momentarily alarmed. Even after more than a few whiskey-laced cups of tea, she appeared . . . formidable.
I wouldn’t have wanted to cross her is what I’m saying.
But then a stir at the tearoom’s entrance diverted us both.
“Darling!” A curvaceous blonde sashayed toward our table, clad in a cleavage-enhancing red jersey wrap dress with an entourage of hotel employees trailing her. “Claire, darling!”
I didn’t think anyone said “darling!” Not outside of classic movies. But this woman did. It was Gemma Rose, diva extraordinaire. I was immediately struck by her magnetism.
She arrived at our table and leaned closer to greet Claire. I heard two loud, lipsticky smacks, then a seductive chuckle.
“Same old Claire,” Gemma teased. “Whiskey at tea, love?”
Immediately, I reconsidered my limited, TV-centric notions of Gemma Rose. She might be down—and, at forty-plus, headed in the wrong direction for popular culture—but she wasn’t out.
“Gemma, this is Hayden Mundy Moore, a potential client. Hayden, this is Gemma Rose.” As Gemma swooped in to air-kiss me too, Claire continued. “How did you know I was here, Gemma?”
“Oh, we’re friends on Nearby, darling.” Gemma raised her cell phone, indicating a social networking app. “Did you forget? I was in the neighborhood. But I’m concerned about you, Claire. Shouldn’t you ask your doctor about those memory lapses?”
With an air of fretful inclusion, Gemma turned to me. “My grandfather had the same problem. A month later, he was living in an elder-care facility.” She raised her voice toward Claire. “It was a very nice place!” Gemma shouted kindly. “Very pastel!”
Jeremy’s agent frowned. But I didn’t think she was senile. Even after tippling whiskey, she seemed pretty sharp to me. The shrewdness I’d noted before had returned, glimmering in Claire’s eyes. I began to think she’d drawn Gemma there on purpose.
Maybe that’s what she’d been doing via her selfie earlier.
Oblivious to those machinations, Gemma looked around. She seemed breathless, eager, and very proper. She definitely had that “lady in public, temptress in the bedroom” routine nailed. Most of the men in the tearoom—not that there were many, in such a feminine environment—were watching her, enthralled by her beauty and poise. She deserved more than life as a has-been.
At her show of graceful helplessness, one of her entourage added another chair to our table. Gemma took it, crossing her legs coquettishly. “You don’t mind if I join you two, do you?”
“Of course not!” I waved toward our tea. I’ll admit, I was a little starstruck. Like many people, I’d watched Gemma on TV. I’d bought her popular cookbooks. I’d tried out a seductive, throaty purr—similar to hers—during a chocolate-tempering demo.
The client had asked me if I were coming down with a cold.
But Gemma remained focused on Claire—and what she needed from her. Delicately, she frowned. “Did you hear from Andrew?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want you back,” Claire said bluntly.
I wasn’t sure I should be privy to this conversation. But there was no way I was leaving. I wondered who Andrew was.
Gemma’s face fell. “But Hambleton & Hart need me!”
Aha. Andrew must have something to do with them.
“Not anymore, they don’t.” Claire flashed me a contrite look, silently apologizing for Gemma having crashed our meeting. She signaled for the check. “Hayden, I’ll call you later.”
“But they do need me!” Gemma insisted, putting her hand on Claire’s arm to detain her. “I have a new idea—a brilliant one. Now that Jeremy is gone, I thought I’d have another chance!”
Her desperate tone was unmistakable. That’s when I snapped out of my fangirl trance and recognized the situation for what it was. No matter how appealing Gemma Rose might be, she’d had every reason to want Jeremy dead. He’d stolen her position. He’d taken her spot on the best-seller lists. He’d supplanted her at Hambleton & Hart. He’d cost her millions of pounds in income.
He’d replaced her in the hearts of the world’s food lovers.
As far as Gemma Rose was concerned, I realized, Jeremy Wright had been an
obstacle to everything she deserved.
But could she have committed murder to reclaim it?
I watched as Gemma anxiously picked up a cream bun and bit into it, her gaze fastened on Claire as she paid for our tea.
Gemma Rose was left-handed, I saw. I had another suspect.
* * *
I’d scarcely made it two steps toward the sumptuous hotel lobby before Danny intercepted me. His long strides covered the fine Aubusson carpet at an alarming rate, making the porter and desk clerk stare . . . along with a few interested female guests.
As usual, my security expert looked fine. Even dressed in a pair of casual black trousers and a white shirt, Danny Jamieson was eye-catching. Without trying to, he stood out. Probably because of all the muscles, the air of command . . . and the smile.
That’s what surprised me as he caught my arm. Danny didn’t usually look that unabashedly happy. I couldn’t help gawking.
“What happened to you?” I asked, noting the energy pouring off him. He looked like a kid at Christmas—a big, strong, dark, and handsome one. Okay, he looked like a full-grown man, and nothing else. “You look as though you just won the lottery.”
That took him aback. He glanced at me. “You know I don’t screw around with gambling. What’s the matter with you?”
I’m overloaded with suspects. My brain is fried.
I shrugged and kept walking. Danny easily kept pace with me as I led us out of the upscale hotel and onto Piccadilly Street.
There, people moved just as fast as we both did. We merged with them, keeping pace with the locals and dodging tourists.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting Gemma Rose?”
Now it was my turn to be taken aback. “I wasn’t. She crashed.” He must have seen Gemma join me and Claire. “Why?”
Because . . . “You’ve got to keep me in the loop, Hayden.”
“I just told you, I didn’t know she was coming.” I gave him an inquiring look. His rugged profile revealed nothing. “I’m not sure she knew she was coming. It looked like a last-minute thing. You must have seen the way she came into the tearoom, all breathless, as though she was afraid of missing Claire.”
Danny remained mum, navigating us both through the crowd, past a Boots pharmacy and a cell phone store. He kept one hand on the small of my back, making sure no one jostled me.
He needn’t have worried. People took one look at him and made a path. His default demeanor was daunting. Unapproachable.
“She was afraid of missing Claire,” he told me.
I grinned. “Now how could you possibly know that? I know you’re a ninja at shadowing me, Danny, but come on. Be serious.”
“Gemma Rose got . . . waylaid on her way into the tearoom.”
He made that cryptic comment and kept striding onward. But another grin broke over his face, boyish and pleased. What the . . . ?
Then I got it. “You waylaid her. She was late because of you?” I stared at him. “You were flirting with Gemma Rose?”
Danny shrugged. “Sometimes you’ve got to seize the moment.”
For a few more steps, I considered that. Then, “You’re a fan, aren’t you?” His grin broadened in response. “Danny!”
“I may have watched a few . . . hundred . . . episodes of her show.”
This was news to me. “You have a crush on Gemma Rose!” I couldn’t help jabbing him in the ribs. “That’s adorable.”
He scowled at my teasing. “Try to rein in the squee-ing when she comes over, all right? Just be cool. No autograph requests.”
I laughed. Then I realized he was serious.
“You have a date with Gemma Rose? The Gemma Rose? And you?” Danny seemed so pleased, I almost didn’t have the heart to add, “But she’s a suspect in Jeremy’s murder. You can’t date her.”
His expression of disbelief floored me. “Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t. Gemma Rose just ate a cream bun with her left hand. You know what DC George said.” It occurred to me that I didn’t know his last name, so I waved that off. “No. No way.”
“You don’t seriously suspect Gemma.”
“I certainly do.”
“Because she’s left-handed? You’re reaching.” Danny tossed me a censorious look as we reached the next Underground station entrance. We made our way downstairs amid the throngs of people. “This new tactic of yours—being twice as suspicious as usual—has gone too far, if you’re suspecting someone like Gemma.”
I stuck to my guns. “You always say I’m too trusting.”
“Well, now you’re too suspicious.” He stepped onto the escalator, leading the way for both of us. “Just back off.”
I wouldn’t. “Gemma Rose could have wanted Jeremy dead.”
“So could anyone. So what?” We descended. Danny glanced over his broad shoulder at me. “She was carrying a purse in her right hand. That’s why she ate that bun left-handed,” he pointed out. “You probably didn’t notice, because you were already convicting her of bludgeoning Jeremy to death.” His lips quirked. “As if Gemma could even carry that heavy metlapil.”
“She’s a woman, not a weakling,” I objected as we reached the platform. A train whizzed past, sending gusts of warm air washing over us. I squeezed shut my eyes, then refocused on Danny. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that Gemma Rose might know that you’re with me? She’s smart. Maybe she’s using you to find out what I’ve learned while investigating Jeremy’s murder.”
Danny’s expression looked incredulous. “Not bloody likely.”
“It’s possible,” I insisted, unmoved by his sardonic use of that British slang. I could be stubborn too. “Watch out.”
“You watch out,” my bodyguard shot back irritably. He didn’t look at me, but most of his earlier gleefulness had left his face. “I’m seeing Gemma later, and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m seeing Liam later, and you can’t stop me.”
“I don’t care about stopping you.” Danny touched my elbow, steering me backward. I was dangerously close to the yellow line that marked the platform’s edge. One overeager commuter, one overzealous bump, and I’d be toast. “I’m too happy to bother.”
I studied him and saw that it was true. “Just be careful,” I relented. We could handle an argument. We always did. “Keep an eye out for tricks. Or murder plans. Or evidence! I need some.”
“I could say the same to you, about Hulk Hands.”
“I don’t think Liam is guilty. Just misguided about sugar.”
“You’ve got to watch yourself,” Danny told me as our Tube train arrived. “I know you wish you’d been faster off the blocks in Portland and San Fran, but you might be overcompensating for your gullible nature this time. Not everyone is a killer.”
Gullible? I couldn’t believe he was saying that to me.
“I’m not the one who’s being gullible here. You are—the guy who’s about to date a possible murderess.” I stepped over the gap and onto the train in front of him. I grabbed the center pole with one hand, then swayed as the train left the platform. “I don’t want you to wind up like Jeremy did, Danny. I mean it.”
“I mean it,” he said, finally breaking into a smile that was meant purely for me. “Just take one step back, Nancy Drew. Don’t wreck this for me with Gemma Rose. We . . . have something.”
He sounded so over-the-top hopeful that I thought he was joking. Then I glanced at Danny’s face and knew he was serious. Uh-oh. Had my security expert just fallen for my latest suspect?
I didn’t know. But it sure seemed possible.
“Fine. You can be my ‘boots on the ground’ with Gemma Rose,” I compromised. “Let me know if she seems guilty or says anything incriminating. Tell me if she mentions murder.”
Danny grinned. “Har, har. If it were that easy, anyone could do what you do—what you’ve already done twice now.”
Twice now. He was right. But I didn’t want to think about those incidents—about catching killers and everything that entailed. It
was all still too unnerving. I hadn’t yet come to grips with my unwanted new role as part-time amateur sleuth.
“You’ll do it?” I pushed. “You’ll watch Gemma Rose for me?”
His dark look said he didn’t want to. Then, “Yeah. Okay.” He stared out the train’s window as we reached another station. “But only to prove you wrong about Gemma. And you are wrong.”
We’d see about that, I knew. But first, I had work to do.
Nine
The only thing I didn’t learn at afternoon tea with Claire Evans, I realized as I parted ways with Danny on the street level and went to earn my chocolate-whisperer keep at Primrose, was exactly what might be in Nicola Mitchell’s tell-all book.
I decided to call her. While Jeremy’s former assistant and I hadn’t exactly hit it off like long-lost sisters during our kaffeeklatsch, we’d had a reasonably pleasant time. Plus, I thought I knew how to persuade her. So I set up another meeting, explaining that I wanted to make good on my offer to “hook her up” with some tasty, newly enhanced treats from Primrose.
Two birds. One stone. I had to multitask these days.
From the moment I greeted Nicola—bearing chocolate caramel popcorn, double chocolate bark with salted almonds, and vivid green pistachio truffles made with Dumante liqueur, all arranged on a tray in Primrose’s signature demitasse cups—she was putty in my hands. I would have liked to have credited my fait à la maison sweets for that fact, but I figured Nicola’s newfound malleability had more to do with having just made a million pounds on her book deal than it did with my culinary wizardry.
That kind of payout would have put anyone in a good mood.
Even a murderer? Chilled to think it, I watched Nicola carefully. She dug right into the goodies—with both hands, I noticed inconclusively—doing her best to make up for lost time.
Evidently, the rigors of Jeremy’s and Liam’s “clean eating” regimen had really bothered Nicola. They would have bothered me too. We had that much in common. Plus, I’ve had dead-end jobs too—even if I didn’t profit quite so handsomely from them. It was possible Nicola couldn’t afford much in the way of indulgences.
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 13