Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio

by Andrews

  George's upbeat, Hollywood voice took on a nervous tone when he got the gist of my request.

  "Teague, I'm an entertainment attorney. I don't do invasion of privacy. I do entertainment. Now if you want me to book you for a lap dance..."

  "Not funny, George. We were entertainment for a lot of people in this hotel. George, are you there?" I asked loudly in response to the silence. Then I heard muffled laughter. "Are you laughing, George? So help me God, if you're laughing..."

  "Jesus, Teague, cut me some slack, will ya? Most people can't even get toast brought to their room and you manage to get an entire video shot of your sex life!" George's laughter was choking him up.

  "I want you to contact the hotel's attorney and tell them we're suing."

  George got his laughter under control, but now his voice was agitated. "How are you going to prove that people saw you?"

  "I'll get proof, George! What if I had broadcast you having sex with your wife—"

  "I'd be proud! Hasn't happened in years!" he interrupted.

  "George, scare them. Send an e-mail, a letter, an assassin. I don't care."

  "Okay, okay, okay," and George hung up.

  "I need to get a woman attorney. George has no balls. No balls!"

  "So what rooms got the video?" Callie asked.

  "Let's ask," I said with an anger that stemmed from a lack of support in serious matters. I stopped several people and asked them point-blank if they'd seen me, or anyone else like me, naked on their TV several hours earlier. They gave me an odd look and moved away from me.

  Callie yanked me aside. "Stop it! You're acting crazy."

  "Now that's an odd thing for a psychic to say, and negative too, I think."

  Back down the corridor and into the lobby, we saw the two pro bowlers. I approached and began quizzing them.

  "Well, we did see two people who looked like the two of you..." the smaller and younger of the two said, fidgeting now that she was being pinned down and couldn't fly by and just tell me we were hot. I asked for her room number and she hesitated as if she thought we were contemplating bringing our act to her bedroom. I told her we needed the room number to find out who was broadcasting this video, and she finally gave in. I thanked them and went back to Callie, leaving them with their jaws ajar.

  "They saw us and they're in room 332."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "Demand top billing out on their marquee?" I said, trying to lighten the mood, but Callie only frowned.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  Back in our room, I sat down on the bed and stared at the business card the middle-aged man who wanted the threesome had given me. His room number was 413. I looked at my other scribbled notes from the people I'd spoken to. The ladies were in room 332.

  "Callie, look at this. All the room numbers add up to eight. The guy's, the two women's, our rooms. We were in 1142 originally, and 611, and 1250 where we were videotaped. They all add up to eight! But your mom and dad were in 1252, which adds up to ten..."

  "Actually to one in numerology," she said as I stared at her. "Ten is one plus zero which equals one. You have to reduce it to the smallest increment."

  "Ten, one, whatever. Not eight. And they didn't see the video. But they were put on the third floor, remember? And I'll bet you that room number did add up to eight, but we moved them into the room next to us!"

  Suddenly I flashed back to the Roman numeral VIII carved in marble on the archway of the hotel. I grabbed Callie's laptop and went online for an Italian dictionary and then typed in "Addizione VIII." Callie stood beside me watching silently as addizionare came up on the screen—the verb meaning "to add up."

  "So it could have been put there to say it adds up to eight. That really freaks me. How would Mo Black know, from the grave, what's going on right now?" I called the concierge to ask if the hotel had ever had a wing added. I looked at Callie as I hung up the phone. "Under the Addizione VIII archway, where the shops are, that entire area was added just before the builder died. So maybe Mo..."

  ".. .knew what was going on and maybe he knew they would kill him. I'm getting chills," Callie said in a whisper.

  "Maybe the rooms whose numbers add up to eight have cameras in them or pointed at them. Wait a minute," I said, reaching a moment of clarity. "Remember when Ted said I got 1142 moving to 611'? He told the desk that. They didn't tell him. The desk normally tells the bellman or security where to move the guest, right? But Ted told the front desk where he was taking us and then put us in a room that added up to eight. Maybe Ted is more than a security guy. Suppose that was all an act with the head of security and Roy." I was on a roll now, pacing and talking. "Remember what Rob from the theater said—everyone plays many roles. They could come up here pretending to investigate a dead body or a threatening letter or a video when all they're really doing is concealing it. Maybe the hotel employees are all acting. Think about it. They could be working as a group. They could choose to put people into those rooms for surveillance, blackmail, or murder."

  "Everyone in the entire hotel? That means there's no one we can trust," Callie said.

  "That's exactly what Rose said. What is she afraid of that is so serious she won't even talk to us about it privately?" I plopped down on the bed and glanced at the phone, and that's when I saw it—a newspaper article partially hidden under the lamp. Callie and I stared at it, wondering how it had gotten into our room, tucked under the lamp as if a friendly force had visited us. I slid it out and opened it carefully, its edges frayed and yellowed. It was an old copy of a decades-old newspaper article—a murder story about a young boy killed at the new Desert Star Casino in what the article said were "mysterious circumstances." The article stated that it was unclear from police reports whether anyone had accompanied the boy to the hotel. "Who do you suppose put this in our room?" I wondered.

  "I don't know. When I was here years ago for the opening, I never heard anything about a boy's death in relation to the hotel." Callie stared at the newspaper article. "Look what's written across the bottom of the page: 'This story was pulled from the press and never made the papers.' So it must have been typeset but got pulled before the run. This could be a proof someone kept."

  "Who would have been able to get their hands on a proof?" I asked.

  "Someone who worked at the newspaper or someone who pulled it," Callie replied.

  "And today, that someone would have to be over forty. I guess they covered it up so it wouldn't ruin the glitz and glamour of the new hotel," I said.

  "Or perhaps for other reasons." Callie was deep in thought. "I touch it and it feels like an old story, but it has new energy. Why would that be?" she asked herself and then just as quickly began piecing things together. "The person who left us the Stellium in Scorpio chart is the one trying to uncover the darkness. That person knows the answer to all those questions," Callie said.

  The following day, we prepared to drive Paige and Palmer to the airport. My goal was small and short term: to get them through the hotel lobby before someone else tried to book us for a menage a trois. I had them loaded into the car before Sheik Skippy could even find their door handles, and I pulled out of the drive so fast it blew his four-foot feather back. This was the first time I'd been in close proximity to Paige and Palmer since my spontaneous sexual confession at the coffee shop and I was feeling the strain—in fact, every part of me was puckered. Paige talked about the scenery, Callie listened, Palmer stared out the window, and I pretended to be intensely focused on maneuvering through traffic. At the airport, they insisted on leaving us at the curb, saying they were going to board right away and were taking their carry-on bags. Callie gave her parents a big goodbye hug and told her mother to put the white light around them. I hugged Paige and told her I was so glad I got to meet her. Palmer stood back and then at the last minute stepped up like he was going to quickly shake my hand but then, instead, he turned and headed inside. He was almost out of sight when he stopped and reversed directions—heading right for me. I b
raced myself, not knowing what he was going to do. He came to a halt just inches from my face.

  "Don't let things get ya down, kid," he said in his first attempt at conversation since I'd told him the intimate details of our sex lives. "And if you need somethin', call me. I can be here in an hour." And with that, Palmer swept Paige through the double glass doors and they were gone.

  I took a deep breath. That was the familial Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval as far as I was concerned. It was also the first comforting thing anyone, except Callie, had said since this whole mess began. I expected that if I ever called on Palmer to "be here" it would mean that he'd come to knock somebody's lights out, since he struck me as a man who believed in rapid retribution. I also took it to mean that if it came down to it, Palmer Rivers would be on my end of the tire iron. That thought warmed my heart. Funny how just a little show of support can change the energy, I thought.

  On the drive back, Callie placed her small hand in mine and sat close to me. "My parents like you," she said.

  "And I like them. You're mom's kind of out there," I said and Callie smiled, rubbing her hand gently down my arm and then back up again. I asked what she was doing.

  "Just feeling the strength in your shoulders and arms. You're such a strong woman."

  "You must be in love. I have absolutely no muscle definition." I laughed.

  "I didn't say you were buffed. I said you were strong. You have great strength."

  "Buffed would be better. Maybe I'll start lifting weights or taking steroids..." I teased.

  "You will not!" Callie said.

  Once inside our room, I let no time lapse before I began slowly undressing Callie, gently removing her shirt from her shoulders and unsnapping the little hook in the front of her bra.

  "What are you up to?" She smiled at me. "I thought you couldn't make love next to thin walls. There are people checked in next door."

  "Not our people," I said, unbuttoning her jeans and slipping them down her soft, pale thighs. She bounced backward onto the bed as I pulled her jeans off completely.

  "In many countries several generations of people all share the same big sleeping area. With your obsession about privacy and silent lovemaking, you'd be in real trouble," Callie said as I helped her tiny white panties take the same trip down her slender legs while she tried to maintain her concentration. "Or what if you lived in a cave..." she asked as I knelt by the edge of the bed and pulled her toward me and rested her legs on my shoulders.

  "I would make love down by the stream," I said, burying my face in her and listening to her moan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that evening, having freshened up and walked Elmo, we strode across the plush mauve carpet and through the arches of the Star Bar. I could already make out Barrett's tall, suave form from just the way her pants creased and her shoes shone. She was butch-elegant. Either she shopped at very posh men's stores for genderless European fashion or she had her clothes custom-made. Either way, she looked great.

  "Does it bother you that I'm tagging along?" Callie asked.

  "Not at all," I lied, fearful that Barrett might say something inappropriate and alter the good vibes I had going with Callie.

  "Teeeague," Barrett said, extending my name and her hand at the same time. "It's so good to see you. You look smart. This is Jeremy Jocowitz. Jeremy, Teague Richfield." I shook his hand and then took Callie by the arm and pulled her into our tight circle to introduce her. It was an awkward introduction, but only in my head. Is she Callie Rivers my lover? Callie Rivers my partner? Callie Rivers a friend from Tulsa? Callie Rivers a well-known psychic? I settled for just Callie Rivers.

  Jeremy, however, fell into the time-honored Hollywood greeting, "And you are...?" leaving room on the end for her to fill in the blank. This was the moment when Callie Rivers—lover, partner, friend, psychic—could respond Hollywood-style with, "I'm a writer. I have a studio deal at Marathon." Or something that would let Jeremy get comfortable. Directors could be very uncomfortable if they felt they were in the company of people who couldn't name their latest movie, admire their body of work, or fund their next picture.

  "Working on a story with Teague," she said.

  "Ah, good, another story," he replied.

  "I told Jeremy about your screenplay," Barrett said. I had no clue which screenplay she was talking about. Callie obviously tuned into that, asking outright which screenplay Jeremy loved, making me instantly grateful she had "tagged along."

  Barrett replied, "Shades of White, and we flew in on Jeremy's plane to hear you pitch it, Teague. Pitch him the story."

  Jeremy was an overweight man in his late fifties wearing a rumpled white shirt and scuffed loafers. He wore large black glasses, had a bulbous nose and a gray, scruffy beard which, I think, was more about image than the fact that he hadn't been able to locate a razor. I was surprised to hear that he liked Shades of White because it was a woman's flick: romance, heartache, love lost, love found. It just didn't seem like a picture the man across from me would want to spend six months filming, even if it were on location in England.

  "Pitch it now?" I asked, trying to remember the plot points.

  "Unless you'd like to do it up in the suite," Barrett said with a smile intended only for me.

  "Here is fine." I took a deep breath. "This is the story of a beautiful English woman who falls in love with a young duke while she's taking a tour of Windsor Castle."

  "Ahh, period piece, nice costumes..." He smiled, not overly attentive. "Maybe shoot it in Scotland."

  "Possibly," I said brightly. "The duke's stodgy, aristocratic family finally blesses the engagement after exhaustive background checks, particularly into her ability to produce an heir—"

  "Waiter, another drink over here." He glanced at me. "Sorry, go ahead."

  "She and the duke are mad about each other and meet clandestinely to make love—"

  "Good, we're getting to the part that sells tickets," he said.

  "She becomes pregnant by him. Then she learns that the man she believed to be her grandfather is not, and that her real grandfather was a Nigerian man who had an affair with her grandmother."

  "Now there's trouble. A friend of mine had sort of the same situation—" Jeremy interrupted, behaving as if we were just sharing anecdotal information.

  "She keeps that secret," I continued forcefully, "not wanting it to prevent her from marrying the man she loves, and of course, when they have their first child, it's—"

  "Let me guess...purple!" He laughed, then tried to sober up. "Of course today who cares?"

  I glared at Barrett who gave me a blank stare, as if to say she hadn't noticed that he was rude throughout the pitch and that the only movie this man would be interested in making would be one in which there were lots of tits, ass, and explosions.

  "Teague just pitched a terrific film about three hookers who go on a cruise and are shipwrecked on a remote island with a man who is completely impotent since the age of ten," Callie said, nearly shocking me out of my shorts.

  "Now that's a film I can get made!" Jeremy salivated.

  "That's what three other directors said. She sold it just like that." Callie snapped her fingers and a waiter appeared, thinking she was summoning him. "I'll have a Coke, please," she said.

  Jeremy's cell phone rang and he stood up and turned his body in two or three different directions, trying to improve reception, then finally wandered out into the lobby to face the etched glass panels where he could hear.

  "What are you doing bringing that guy over here for me to pitch that story? It's not his genre, and furthermore, I don't even like the damned story! I only developed it because I was asked to do it for Marathon years ago," I hissed at Barrett.

  "Calm down. It didn't hurt anything. He's a good guy to know. Smart and connected. Besides, I got to see you"—then she remembered Callie—"and your friend." Barrett slouched back in her chair, resting her head on her French-cuffed hand, letting the other arm dangle over the side of the chai
r and staring at me as if I were a watering hole in the desert. In the dim light, it was impossible to tell on which side of the testosterone scale this exquisitely dressed studio executive would land. I knew, of course, having slept with her.

  "So, Callie," Barrett's voice was even, and her eyes never moved from mine, "what exactly are your intentions with this woman writer across from me?"

  "I'm taking her to bed," Callie said just as evenly, and then added, "It's late, and we've had a busy day." She rose and took me by the hand, pulling me up from the chair. "Enjoy your evening, Barrett, and give our regrets to Jeremy," she said, obviously not meaning it, and Barrett grinned and gave Callie a look that said she appreciated her style.

  Callie's smooth tone dissipated into near-choking sounds as we left the bar.

  "I don't like that woman! She was fucking with you before she fucked you, and now she's hitting on you!"

  "Odd sequence of events, I agree," I said. "Three hookers who go to a desert island with a guy who's impotent? You sound like that director who pitched with me at CBS."

  "He liked it." Callie led me into the casino past the craps tables and over to the million-dollar slots. When I mentioned that I thought we were headed for bed, she snapped at me, saying she needed to play the slots to unwind. Barrett had apparently gotten to her. She plopped down on a padded seat in front of a machine with American flags and put in ten dollars, jabbing a finger into the slot machine buttons as if they were Barrett's eyeballs. On the third roll, the screen locked up momentarily, turned red, and began to spin. The amount went from $7.00 to $107, it paused, remained red, then spun again. This time the number read $257. It did that three more times until finally the bell rang on top of the machine, and it made a sound like a fire truck. The screen lit up and flashed us.

  "You just won twenty-five hundred dollars!" I exclaimed.

  "I did!" she squealed. "I always win when I get that mad!"

  "Glad I could help." And I leaned over and kissed her.

  A young woman approached us and got Callie's ID and other information and said she'd be back shortly with the money. We were both suddenly relaxed and happy again. For a few minutes, we were alone and having a vacation just like regular people. In fact, I was beginning to rethink my fear of boredom in a relationship. I longed to be just a regular person with Callie Rivers, going shopping at the grocery store, sitting around in the evening watching TV, taking walks in our neighborhood.