by Carr, Lauren
“They sent the virus to cover up the theft. Interesting,” Mac muttered. “What was the motive for their murder? Put an end to a frivolous lawsuit? Blackmail? Or was it simple revenge for stealing someone’s identity and screwing up their credit?”
“And then there’s—What’s her name?” Ben asked, “Travis’s secretary?”
“Betsy Weaver. They’re now called admin assistants.”
“Travis called me this morning. He’s concerned that you and David might intend to drag out the investigation into her suicide.”
“Who? Me?” Mac asked. “I’m nothing more than your average millionaire playboy. I don’t even work for the police.”
Ben chuckled at his mock innocence. “Travis’s next book comes out next month. The media is predicting that it will be his fifth bestseller in four years. He’s afraid that if this simple suicide is blown out of proportion that it will adversely affect his book’s release.”
Mac smirked into his drink. “Heaven forbid death steal his thunder. Contrary to what Travis Turner told you, Betsy Weaver’s death is not a simple suicide.”
“He said she was mixing pills and booze. She was depressed.”
“Her body had been put on ice and then dumped by that pool during the night.”
“Damn.” Ben sighed heavily. “Where does she fit into all this?”
“I have no idea.”
* * * *
When Archie saw the array of appetizers for the women’s cocktail party, she wished that she had opted to have cocktails with Mac and Ben instead. Then, she could have ordered a decadent platter of raw oysters and an obscenely expensive glass of white wine from Robin’s private reserve.
Why do women assume that every woman is on a diet?
“Looks scrumptious, doesn’t it?” Sophia Hainsworth-Turner whispered to one of her companions before reaching in front of Archie to grab a plate to load up with vegetables.
Sighing, Archie put one green vegetable after another, and one fruit slice after another onto her plate. She’d run over to McHenry for a hot fudge sundae on the way home.
Dressed in a blue off the shoulder sun dress with her hair falling in dark waves to the middle of her back, Sophia didn’t portray any sign of mourning the death of her husband’s assistant. She urged Archie to move down the buffet table so that she could return to a table filled with other beautiful wives of influential Spencer residents.
While spooning yogurt onto the corner of her plate, Archie told her, “I’m sorry about Betsy. It must have been such a shock finding her this morning. Were you two close?”
“She was such a dolt pulling a stunt like that at the worst time.” Grabbing the spoon from Archie’s hand, Sophia put a dollop of yogurt onto her plate. “Travis’s next book is due at the publisher by the end of this month.”
Abruptly, Sophia paused. Archie could see her mind working. Her expression morphed from arrogant to congenial. “Andy—”
“My name is Archie,” she corrected her.
“Whatever,” Sophia responded. “You wouldn’t be looking for editing work by any chance, would you? I’m sure Travis will pay you a nice bonus if you can help him make his deadline.” She offered her a spoon for the gelatin.
Rejecting the spoon with a wave of her hand, Archie reached for the salad dressing ladle. She put an extra spoonful of ranch on her plate. “Spencer has certainly turned into a regular Peyton Place. First, Katrina, then the Hardwicks, and now Betsy.”
“Betsy killed herself. I mean, who would care enough about a pathetic thing like her to want her dead?”
“I felt sorry for her. I remember when she used to visit Robin. It sounded like her whole life revolved around Travis and his books.”
“Which is nothing worth anyone killing over,” Sophia declared. “Big difference between her and Katrina, who had a gift for making people want her dead.”
“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”
“Not really.”
“How about someone who got into such a cat fight with her that the neighbors called the police?” Archie turned to go back to her table.
Sophia froze.
The model followed Archie across the room. “It wasn’t the first time that someone called the police on you, was it, Sophia? You’re not the type of woman that someone would want to get mad.” Archie took her seat.
Narrowing her eyes to slits, Sophia looked around to see if anyone heard them. Instead everyone directed their attention to the chairwoman at the podium. After taking the seat next to Archie, she replied in a low voice, “Katrina was a slut. One night I came home from a day out with the girls and do you know what I found? That bitch was lying on the sofa with my husband on top of her. As soon as she saw me, she ran like the coward that she was.”
“And you went after her.”
“She told Travis that she would sleep with him if he could convince his friends on the county commission to approve her zoning request.”
“I bet that got you really mad,” Archie said.
“Travis married me.”
“But he was on top of Katrina.”
Sophia insisted, “He was fighting her off.”
“While lying on top of her?”
Archie could sense that Sophia’s fury was near the boiling point. Her jealousy came from more than insecurity. “I heard that Travis was quite a lady’s man in his day,” Archie said. “It must have been pretty difficult for him to put his old ways behind him. Maybe impossible.”
“How well do you really know my husband?” There was an accusatory note in Sophia’s tone.
“Not well at all. Most of what I know I heard from a friend of mine who grew up with him.” Archie asked, “Was it simply a one-time thing, or was Travis having an affair with Katrina?”
Sophia’s dark eyes bore into her. Archie gave up on getting an answer from her by the time she responded, “Travis has a mistress.”
“Someone in Spencer?”
“I don’t know who. I thought it was Katrina, but he’s been with his mistress since she was killed.” Her fury simmered near the surface. “Whoever she is, she’d better hope I never find her.”
“Or what? She’ll end up like Katrina?”
“I’m not a killer.”
“Katrina made a pass at your husband. She was terrorized to death the same way you terrorized that actress in Hollywood after she stole your boyfriend.”
Under her golden tan, Sophia’s face turned white.
“Research is a vital part of my work,” Archie said.
“Is that what they call it?”
“Am I wrong? Were you not arrested for assault and battery a few years ago? You’re threatening a woman who you can’t even identify because Travis is sleeping around.”
Sophia sat up to her full height and glanced around the room as if to judge if now was the right time and place for her to present her side of the story. “Archie, how old are you?”
Archie wondered where this conversation would lead. She guessed to a confession, but a confession of what? “I’m thirty-five.”
“You’re still considered a young woman. As long as you can do whatever it is you do, you’ll be ageless. But I’m twenty-nine. My youth and my looks are my livelihood. My next birthday, I will become old. The roles won’t come anymore, and I’ll have to find another way to be supported in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed. Now I have Travis, who the critics are calling the next Robin Spencer. Two movie producers are fighting over A Death in Manhattan. One of Travis’s conditions for the sale of the movie is that I play Naomi.”
Archie recalled that the main character in Travis’s first novel was a plain, overweight woman brushed off by the police when she witnesses a murder. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see you as Naomi.”
“Neither can anyone else,” the supermodel admitted. “But that’s the trend nowadays. Beautiful starlets putting on weight and dressing down to earn their Oscars and credibility. After that, Travis and I will be Hollywood’s po
wer couple.” Sophia glanced around. “That’s our plan and I’m not about to let anyone get in our way. I’ll do whatever I have to to protect my future.”
Archie told her, “Ambition is one of the top five motives for murder.”
* * * *
“Did you hear the good news?”
Jeff Ingles had the widest grin on his face since Mac had first met him. “Ed called. He said that since the Hardwicks are dead, so is their lawsuit.” He crossed his office to clasp Mac’s hand and shoulder. “Just like my mother always used to say, ‘Pay back is hell’.”
In a flash, Mac recalled where he had heard that phrase. “Didn’t you say that before?”
“Pardon me?” was Jeff’s response.
“The woman who hit you with her car,” Mac reminded him. “She drove a Ferrari, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Curious about Jeff’s reaction, Mac lied. “I heard that Katrina Singleton drove a red Ferrari.”
The joy in Jeff Ingles’s face evaporated. “I saw her face behind the wheel of the car. She paid off Phillips.”
Before Mac could think of what question to ask next, Jeff had returned to his desk. “Do you know that for a fact?”
“She had to,” Jeff said. “I signed a sworn statement saying that after midnight I saw her driving the Ferrari that ran me down. But Chief Phillips produced a police report proving that Katrina Holt had reported her car stolen six hours before. The next morning, they found the Ferrari in the state park.” His voice rose in anger. “That woman lied and our police chief helped her get away with almost killing me. Why? I can only imagine. If her car had been stolen that night, then what was she doing having dinner here with him the same evening?”
“They were here having dinner? Together?”
“They were here—together—having dinner,” Jeff said. “Then she runs into me with her car and her boyfriend refuses to arrest her.” He sucked in his breath. “But I know the truth and she paid for it.”
“Who made her pay for it?” Mac asked in a quiet voice.
The manager hesitated a moment before gasping, “You don’t think—”
“Someone calling himself Pay Back terrorized and harassed Katrina Holt Singleton for months before killing her. When talking about the hit and run, you told Ed and me that pay back is hell. That’s what Pay Back did before he killed Katrina. He made her life hell. She left you for dead. Now she’s dead. Some would call that pay back.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Jeff shouted.
“Did you terrorize Katrina?”
“No!”
Mac could see that Jeff wanted to order him out of the office, but he couldn’t forget that he was the boss. “You said she paid. How did she pay?”
“I meant because she’s dead and I’m not. That doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it. I saw her here all the time. That night she ran me down was less than a week after her husband had died, and I tell you,” he swore, “she wasn’t in mourning.”
Mac paused to consider Jeff’s observation. He had also seen Katrina’s lack of remorse in the recording of Yvonne Harding’s program.
Concern leaked into the manager’s voice. Rubbing the scars on his hand and wrist, his voice crept up an octave. “You’re not seriously thinking that I killed her, are you?”
Mac recalled, “Didn’t you say that you heard a couple arguing when you came out of the Inn that night before you were hit?”
Quickly, Jeff nodded his head. “Yes, I did. I told the police about it.”
“Was Katrina the woman you heard?”
“She had to be. The argument stopped right before she came running out of the garden.”
“Was Chief Phillips the man she was arguing with?”
Jeff shrugged before nodding his head. “She was having dinner with him.”
Mac asked, “Were they guests at the hotel?”
The inn manager replied with certainty that they weren’t.
“You said this was an hour after the restaurant and lounge had closed.”
“I had to count the receipts and lock up,” Jeff explained.
“If the restaurant and lounge were closed and they weren’t guests of the hotel,” Mac asked, “then what were they doing for the hour before Katrina came running out and hit you with her car?”
Jeff scoffed, “They were in the garden. It was dark. Use your imagination. We’re chasing couples out of there all the time.”
“But you said they were fighting,” Mac said. “You were hit one week after Niles Holt was murdered. Katrina may not have been a guest here at the Inn, but maybe the man she was fighting with was. I want to see the guest log for that night.”
Chapter Seventeen
The temperature dropped at the same rate that the wind picked up to form waves on the lake. The mist finally drove Mac inside from the back deck, which had become one of his favorite spots. He was starting his first fire in the stone fireplace under the portrait of Mickey Forsythe when Gnarly leapt up onto the loveseat to enjoy the warmth of the flames.
“What are you doing up there?” Mac demanded to know. “You don’t belong on the furniture.”
Gnarly lay down and gazed into the fire.
“Now you listen here. I don’t care if you are a canine genius. You’re a dog and you don’t belong on the furniture. Now get down.”
Gnarly sucked in a deep breath, which expanded his broad chest.
“I’m the boss here. If you don’t get off that loveseat, I’m going to get you off.” Mac grabbed him by the collar.
Gnarly growled.
Releasing his grip, Mac held up his hands as if the German shepherd had pulled a knife on him. “Okay. We’ll drop this for now.” He picked up the next book in Robin’s series and took a seat on the sofa. “Not only are you a dog, but you have dog breath.”
“Oh, great! You built a fire.”
He had been so engrossed in his argument with Gnarly that Mac hadn’t noticed Archie, armed with a food tray, come in through the French doors and up the stairs from the dining room to join them.
She wore blue jeans and a sweater. In spite of the cold, her feet remained bare. Mac wondered if she bothered with boots when it snowed.
He smelled chili. So did Gnarly, who jumped off the loveseat to pursue the bowl across the room.
When Mac took the tray from Archie, he revealed a sheet of paper clutched in her hand underneath. She had run a background check on Betsy Weaver. Licking the soup spoon like a lollipop, Mac scanned the printout.
Archie perched at the other end of the sofa to sum up her findings. “No surprises except that she’s dead. She wasn’t into anything. No debts. No substance abuse. No scandals. Nothing. So I made a couple of phone calls. That’s where things got interesting.”
“Who’d you call?”
“Robin’s literary agent, Brad Zimmerman. Robin had introduced Travis to him. I thought maybe if Betsy was a writer that maybe she had talked to him about representing her. Turns out, she called him at home on Saturday night.”
“The same night she was last seen alive,” Mac said.
She agreed. “Now Brad told me that he didn’t really know Betsy. They have never really talked, but she insisted that he see her. So they made an appointment to meet in his office first thing Monday morning.”
Mac noted, “That would be today.”
“He didn’t even know she was dead until I called him. He thought she blew him off.”
“Did she tell him about the book she was writing about Chief Phillips?”
Archie slid across the sofa until she ended up next to him. “Brad Zimmerman is an ass—Robin’s assessment, not mine…though I do agree. He’s a wonderful agent but a terrible human being. He wouldn’t talk to Betsy Weaver about any book she was working on until she had finished it and it had Travis’s seal of approval. That’s the way he is. He only agreed to meet with her because she was Travis Turner’s assistant and she sounded upset—so upset that he called Travis to ask h
im what was going on. Travis told him that she was drunk.”
Mac set the papers aside. “If Phillips threatened her because of her book—”
“Phillips and Mason were the last people I saw her with, or rather following her,” she told him. “Maybe they killed her and dumped her body by the pool to warn Travis not to finish her book. Since he told you about it, he must know about them. Maybe they’re afraid of ending up in his next bestseller.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.” Mac picked up the bowl of chili and ate a couple of spoonfuls. “Travis told me that he had met Betsy back when he was an actor in Hollywood. He hired her away from his talent agent after his first book sold.”
“That had to be over five years ago.”
“It still might be worthwhile hunting this agent down,” Mac said. “He could give us insight into Betsy’s and Travis’s lives back in Hollywood.”
“Would that be relevant?” Archie asked. “That was a long time ago.”
He agreed. “Five years is a long time to know someone, but Travis doesn’t seem upset about Betsy’s body being in his back yard, other than the possibility that her death may overshadow his next bestseller.”
“That tells me that Travis is a jerk, which isn’t exactly news,” Archie said.
Aware of her eyes on him, Mac stopped eating.
Her green eyes searched his face. The corners of her lips curled.
Setting the bowl aside, Mac slipped his arm across her shoulders. “Now where were we?”
“Talking murder.” She moved in closer to him.
“I don’t want to talk about murder.” He pulled her closer. “I want to talk about last night.”
She didn’t fight his embrace when he asked her to recall what they were doing before the explosion interrupted them. “I loved working for Robin, but I have to admit, you living here brings a whole new dimension to life in Spencer Manor.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Every home a bachelor acquires should come with a woman.” Mac leaned toward her. “All that came with my last house was a dishwasher that died four months after we moved in.”
The phone rang. He snatched it from the base and checked the name displayed on the caller ID.