by Suzie Quint
“I’m more interested in personal rumors. Who Sebastian was sleeping with, if he owed money to someone or if someone owed him.” She felt a little weird slipping the last one in, but it was a legitimate question.
“The best gossip was about the divorce. Liz was pretty pissed at him. Seems he was getting some on the side, if you know what I mean. Not that that’s a big surprise to anyone, and Liz wasn’t exactly faithful either, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows she only married him to get at his money.”
What everyone knew often wasn’t true, as Cleo could attest firsthand, but it did sometimes pressure people to respond in ways that made it look true. “What do you know about their prenup?”
“If it’s the same as the last two Sebastian had, the longer they were married, the more she’d get, but that only kicks in if the marriage lasts five years. It’s been only two, so Liz wouldn’t get much. I’m sure she’ll get a shitload more as Sebastian’s widow.” Willa leaned forward. “Was he murdered? Did Liz kill him for the money?”
“I’m afraid we won’t know anything for sure until the coroner’s report is released, but it seems unlikely. My understanding is that he was drinking and drowned in his tub. It happens.”
“So tell me about this stinger you’ve got.”
Stinger? Cleo looked blankly at Willa. Then it clicked. “Oh, you mean stringer.”
“Stinger, stringer, whatever. He looks like he came from Hunks R Us. And I’ll bet he’s got a hell of a nice stinger.” Willa wagged her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”
Cleo closed her eyes. One would never know Willa had been in Vegas twenty years the way she clung to her Midwest penchant for euphemisms.
Of course, based on the eyeful Cleo had gotten that morning, Alec did in fact have a very nice “stinger.” Her eyes popped open before she could get lost in that memory. “I wouldn’t know. He’s a colleague.”
Willa gave her a mournful look. “That’s just a crying shame, honey.” Then she perked up. “But then you’ve got that rich boyfriend, doncha? How could I have forgotten about him?”
She was telling enough lies. “Martin and I broke up.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, hon.” Willa reached across the table and laid a comforting hand on Cleo’s.
Cleo surprised herself with a chuckle. “You know, Willa, I’ve had worse losses.”
“It’s probably just as well, then. Rich men are rarely faithful, and you’re not like your mother. You need a man who thinks you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. Better than . . . Belgian chocolate, you know?”
Cleo laughed. “You’re right. I deserve that.”
“So maybe this guy―”
“No!” Cleo realized she was perhaps being a touch too emphatic. “No,” she said again in a more normal voice. “Not Alec.” She needed to get the conversation back on track. “Annaliese wasn’t . . . seeing Sebastian again, was she?” She bit her tongue to keep from adding a you know? or an if you know what I mean.
“You think I’d know?” Willa said. “When your mother stops talking to someone, they’re lucky if she even looks at them again.”
“But you hear things. You must.”
“Nothing I could swear was true.”
“I don’t need you to swear on a bible. I just need a place to start.” God, she sounded as if she really were looking for a murder suspect instead of just trying to tap into the rumor mill.
“To be honest,” Willa said, “I’m not sure what your mom’s sex life is like now. Before Jada, she’d jump any good looking man who came along. She still likes to flirt. I doubt that will ever stop, you know? But I’ve seen her flirt like mad with guys while Jada was at practice, then turn her back and walk away as soon as Jada was ready to go.”
Cleo tapped her nails on her iPad. “You know, Annaliese never did tell me what you two fought about.”
“Oh, that’s old news.” Willa flapped a dismissive hand.
“Not to me.”
Willa looked like she didn’t want to say. “Well . . .”
“C’mon. Like you said. It’s old news, so what difference does it make?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m maligning you mother.”
Cleo snorted. “I doubt you could tell me anything that would shock me. I lived with her a long time, remember?”
“I guess that’s true. Okay. Do you remember Candy Masengale?”
The name was familiar. “Wasn’t she one of Sebastian’s wives?”
Willa nodded. “Wife number three. A pole dancer who married Sebastian for his money. At least, that’s what everyone thought, but she was a sweet kid. I think she really believed Sebastian loved her, you know?” Willa shrugged. “Of course, that marriage didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. She was a novelty for Sebastian. Someone naïve and good-hearted. Sebastian got bored, I suppose, so he started sleeping around. Annaliese was one of the women.”
“Are you saying she was the other woman?”
“No, she was one of several other women. And I don’t believe it mattered who they were. Sebastian wasn’t looking for love, just variety. But I still didn’t think it was right for Annaliese to be sleeping with him. But you know your mom. She really doesn’t get the whole sexual fidelity thing.” Willa tipped her head in a shrug-like gesture. “Sebastian wasn’t much of a one-woman man at the best of times. Maybe I was silly, but I didn’t want Annaliese being part of that. Not when it was such a sweet kid getting her heart broken.”
“I can’t believe she cut you off for that.”
“Well, I did kinda harp on it. She said I was judging her, trying to make her feel bad about something she didn’t feel bad about.”
That made more sense. Annaliese didn’t care what most of the world thought of her, but she expected those close to her to be tolerant and to accept her as she was. In fairness, she usually reciprocated in kind. To be harshly critical was a form of disloyalty in her book.
Cleo glanced up in time to see Alec walk in. He bee-lined toward them, took the seat next to Cleo, and slid the casino’s press release toward her.
“You won’t believe what I just saw,” he said.
“What was that?” Cleo asked as she put on her glasses to peruse the top sheet of the two-page press release. Not because she cared. She’d practically grown up in the casino. There was damned little she hadn’t already seen.
All the expected information was in the press release, plus a photo of Sebastian. Tall, tanned, and good looking with a full head of silver hair and a matching mustache, he’d always reminded her of that old-time movie star Cesar Romero.
“There were two Elvises at the flower kiosk,” Alec said. “An old, fat Elvis talking to a younger version.”
“This is Vegas.” Cleo didn’t look up. “Elvis is everywhere.”
“No, honey,” Willa said. “Alec’s right. This place is practically busting at the seams with Elvises. Way more than normal. We’ve got an Elvis Extravaganza opening in a couple of weeks. The casino wants a big buzz, so the talent’s roaming around schmoozing the public.”
That was Vegas. All Elvis, all the time.
All Sebastian’s ex-wives were listed on the second page, including Elizabeth Morrow, though it made no reference to the impending divorce. How many would still be in Vegas? Alec would probably want to interview any who were.
“We need background on all the exes, including current addresses,” Cleo said.
“The paper can get that for us,” Alec said. “How many of them do you know?”
She looked up to find his gaze on the page in front of her. “None of them very well.” She wrote Sebastian’s assistant’s name on the back of the press release and explained who she was.
“Do you want to talk to her?” Alec asked.
“No. She doesn’t like me. You’ve got a better shot at her.”
“Okay. Tell me about her.”
“I don’t really know her outside of her job.”
“Is she married?”
Willa snorted. “To her job.”
“So no husband. What about kids?”
“Not that I know of.” Cleo looked at Willa for confirmation.
She shook her head.
“Love affairs gone bad?” Alec asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Cleo asked.
“Hey. You want me to get an interview with this lady, don’t knock my process.”
“I’ve always thought she carried a torch for Sebastian, you know?” Willa said. “But that’s just a feeling.”
The corner of Alec’s mouth twisted. “Okay, what about parents? Siblings?”
“I think she has a brother,” Willa said, “but I don’t think they’re close. He lives . . . somewhere. Florida, I think. Her father died about five years ago, I think. Her mother . . . That’s a sad story. She’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
“Who takes care of her?” he asked.
“She lives in a nursing home. A nice one. I’m pretty sure Bales makes good money. Probably eighty or ninety thou a year, but her mother’s care has to take a big bite out of that. I don’t think her brother helps much.”
“That’s good,” Alec said. “I can use that.” He rose. “Wish me luck.”
As much as she hated to, Cleo did.
~***~
Alec stepped out of the elevator on the floor below the penthouse where upper management was housed. The pretty young receptionist had her back turned, muttering under her breath as she stabbed the number pad of a fancy copy/fax/printer with her manicured fingers. Alec took the opportunity to slip past.
The folks on this floor were too upper echelon for cubicles. Doors lined the wide, plushly carpeted center aisle, four on each side. Alec headed for the closed double doors at the far end.
He eased one of the doors open and slipped in, closing it gently behind him. The outer office, where he expected to find Nancy Bales, was empty, but the door to the inner sanctum was open. Behind the desk in that spacious room, a woman gazed out of the wall of windows that overlooked the Las Vegas Strip.
Willa had referred to Ms. Bales as mousy, but from behind, Alec didn’t see it. Yes, she wore soft brown slacks with an off-white short-sleeved sweater, conservative casual office attire that wouldn’t draw attention to her. In a place like Vegas, where the women tended toward the spectacular, the eye would glide right past her, but she had a cute figure and a nice, curvaceous butt. The only vanity he could see from the back was that her light brown hair, cut short and tapered at the neck, was lightly frosted.
He softly cleared his throat. She started, then turned, and he saw what gave the impression of mousiness. Her features weren’t unattractive, but she wasn’t pretty enough in the Las Vegas atmosphere to overcome the neutral browns of her clothes and hair. She was a wren surrounded by peacocks. And at somewhere around thirty, she probably saw herself as past her expiration date. At a guess, he figured she’d decided that, since she couldn’t compete with the flashy, buxom women who populated the Las Vegas Strip, she wouldn’t even try.
He could understand why someone like Willa would see her as not interesting enough, but it was a matter of perspective.
She swiped at her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
She squared her shoulders, putting on her professional demeanor. “No, you’re not interrupting. What can I do for you?”
“I was looking for someone to talk to about Sebastian Koblect, but if it’s―”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re with the press.”
“Yes, but I―”
“The PR office is on the second floor. You can get a press release there.”
“Yeah, I’ve already got that, but I’m not really looking for a story about the murder.”
She looked like she was about to shove him out the door, or maybe call security. He knew he had to peddle fast.
“Look, I know what the media can be like. I used to be one of them. They’re wolves. Give them the scent of blood and they’ll tear you to pieces. I want a different story. More of a human interest thing about what he meant to people. Something personal.”
She wasn’t thawing, so he upped the ante. “I was even thinking . . . well, Sebastian Koblect was one of those larger-than-life people. I think a book about him would sell, but I can’t write one if I can’t get people to talk to me.”
“And why should anyone talk to you?”
“Look, I’m just trying to make a living here. It’s tough, you know? And it’s not your problem, but working independently isn’t the easiest way to do that. If something doesn’t break my way soon, I’m going to have to take a regular job because I have people who depend on me.”
“Can’t you send your wife out to work?” she asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice.
“I’m not married. It’s my mother who relies on me. She’s disabled and can’t work.”
Something flared in Bales’ eyes. Sympathy, he thought. She’d taken the hook into her mouth.
“What’s wrong with your mother?” Her voice was softer.
“MS—multiple sclerosis.” He fought the urge to continue, but if he oversold it, he’d sound as though he was looking for sympathy, and she’d spit the hook back out.
She looked down for a moment. He waited, knowing this was the moment she’d decide if she should talk to him or not.
“You’re not looking to do a hatchet job?” she said when she looked back up.
“No. I’d want this to be about who he really was. I’d be fair, but it seems like Sebastian Koblect could make a hell of a rags-to-riches story. I mean, he’s flawed. He wouldn’t be interesting if he wasn’t, but he climbed a long way from where he started life. That’s inspirational.”
The longer he talked, the more interested the woman in front of him looked. It was amazing how easy it was to bullshit people when you tapped into what they wanted to believe.
She stood taller as he talked, her decision already made; she just didn’t know it yet.
“Who have you talked to?” she asked.
“No one yet. I wandered around the casino, listening to the general buzz, but you were at the top of my list for one-on-one interviews.”
“Who else is on your list?”
He pulled out his iPad as though he had to check. “A few key people in the organization. Any of his ex-wives who’re still in Vegas.”
She shuddered and looked away.
“Eizabeth Morrow, of course.”
She winced.
“And anyone you’d recommend I talk to.”
She sighed. “You’re going to get a horrible picture of him from those people.”
He twitched an eyebrow. “You could give me a perspective to balance that.”
“Why should I? He’s dead. You can say what you want now to sell more papers.”
Ah, one last little struggle. “I’m freelance. I can write what I want.”
She smiled, a little sad, a little mocking. “But can you sell it?”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
She was silent for a moment, then took a breath that made her chest rise and fall. “All right. I’ll talk to you. What have I got to lose?”
Damn, he was good.
“But not here.”
“Wherever and whenever you want,” he said. “I’m all yours.”
A hint of cynicism touched her lips. “Oh, I doubt that.”
Chapter 14
Cleo hated to admit Alec was right again. Her connections got her into places no other reporter could have managed. A little chitchat here, a little schmoozing there, all with people who knew and actually liked Annaliese, and Cleo was in the studio where the dancers practiced their routines.
Showgirls didn’t have a lot of job security. When their six-month contracts expired, each of them had to re-audition to retain their place in the show. With a round of auditions coming up, Cleo wasn’t surprised the rehearsal she peeked in on was well attended.
&
nbsp; She watched for a few minutes as Liz barked at one of the girls for not tilting her head just so and another whose turn wasn’t executed gracefully enough. It wasn’t an environment Cleo would have cared for, but it had its upside; the women all earned a full-time wage for what amounted to part-time hours.
Interrupting wouldn’t get her what she wanted, and according to the schedule on the wall, the rehearsal would last another forty minutes, so Cleo slipped out and went in search of a drink.
Like most casino bars, The Knotical was pretentious and just a bit gaudy—a shipboard illusion with its snowy white ropes done in fancy knotted patterns, amber lighting, and just enough maritime antiques to set the atmosphere. Still, it had comfortable seating at the bar, and most importantly, she didn’t know the bartender from school or anywhere else.
A smattering of customers were seated around the room, but she didn’t look closely at any of them until she’d settled in and ordered a White Russian.
A group of eight or nine people reflected in the huge mirror behind the bar caught her eye. On some level, her knee-jerk reaction screamed “reporters” but she didn’t know why until she looked more closely and recognized a couple of the men. She dragged up a memory from a conference The Sun had sent her to after her story started receiving national attention.
One of the men was Marc something-or-other from Seattle. The other . . . The name Aaron Peabody popped into her brain. From the San Francisco Chronicle. Dammit. How could she have failed to recognize those jutting ears the moment she saw him?
When her border story had brought her attention in press circles, some of her colleagues had acknowledged a job well done, but there were others, ones with the good-old-boy mentality, who had treated her like a usurper. As if this . . . this woman . . . who hadn’t even been on anyone’s payroll when she started her research, had no business walking into their territory and scooping up a story they hadn’t even known was there. Aaron Peabody had been one of the worst for making snide, cutting remarks.
As long as she’d had her job at The Sun, she’d been able to think BooHoo at him and the other whiney crybabies. But she didn’t have that legitimate job to shield her any more. Now, she worked for a tabloid, and if they discovered that, they’d think she’d found her proper place down there with the media’s bottom feeders.