How like Colin. A pretty woman bats her eyelashes at him, and he falls all over himself to help her out. Not that I could complain too hard about that—I’d made use of that character flaw of his myself.
How could Colin help her, though? Why on earth would she ask him instead of the studio publicist or someone like that?
Oh. She had told me, hadn’t she? He got them for me. He had stolen something for her. He gave it to her, she said she was going to accuse him of blackmail, and then he told her he’d given her the wrong thing. She wanted the right one.
I stared right back and let the silence go on for a while before I said, “I don’t have it. Must still be in his apartment.” I knitted my eyebrows together. “Unless…”
“What?” she screamed.
“The cops found it?”
Penelope relaxed and she smiled. “Believe me, if the police had found anything like this there, I’d have heard about it already. Give them back.”
I nodded. “I have one more question, Penelope.”
She stared at me for a second, and then dramatically rolled her eyes.
“How did you get my phone number? It’s less than a day old.”
She took a long drag on her cigarette. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? Get out.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“Get out!” she screamed. She didn’t have a trained voice: the pitch went sharp in the upper registers. “Stop calling me, get out, and give me my goddamn pictures, all right?”
Pictures. Photos. Blackmail. I thought back to the head shots of Penelope in that briefcase. Not those. Something bad enough to be worthy of stealing. And maybe of murder.
The other thing she said came to me. “Love, I need to point out you called me.”
She shook her head and her mouth opened and closed a number of times. She clearly kept thinking of things she wanted to say to me and then kept thinking better of it. “Fifty thousand more. But that’s it. Not a goddamn penny more.”
Fuck me. What in the hell had Colin picked up for this woman? It was making her a lot more than fifty thousand crazy. Whatever Colin had gotten was worth much, much more than that. Intriguing.
“Done. I’ll look into it first thing tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” she snapped.
I gestured toward the window. Night had fallen as much as it could in such a lit-up city during our little sojourn here in her bedroom. “I think a flashlight moving around his apartment might be noticed. And the cops might be watching it.”
She gave me a half-grin. “I knew you were going to be reasonable. Nobody needs to call the police about anything.”
“For fifty thousand? I can be extraordinarily reasonable. I also need to go.”
Penelope got off the bed and swayed over to me. She looked me up and down. When she got close to me, she lifted her arms around my neck and raised herself up on her tiptoes to give me a light kiss. “Let’s talk tomorrow,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes and pushed her away. She fell back on the bed. “Does that act work on many people?” I asked.
She grinned. “Colin sure liked it,” she said.
I laughed. “I’m sure he did.” I picked up a tissue and made a show of blotting her kiss off my lips. “But he had lots of women he liked, Penelope. Some of them better than you.”
That was how I left her in her bedroom, letting myself out her front door. I signed out with the security guard, winking at him as I handed back the pen.
As I walked back to my car, I was certain of one thing: whatever Colin had gotten for Penelope, he hadn’t given it to her and that had pissed her off something fierce.
And I knew exactly where it would be. Luckily for me, it was nowhere near his apartment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE GUESTHOUSE WAS warm and smelled of citrus and sounded like a sports announcer with a horrible Geordie twang. A plate of fresh orange cinnamon scones was on the counter, the kettle was on, the coffee pot was full, and somewhere in the living room, the giant TV showed a close-up of several athletic men with tight, perfect bodies running around the pitch in shorts and sweaty shirts.
For a second, I found myself wondering if Stevie enjoyed watching football for the same reason I would, but I shook my head. I doubted Stevie had even discovered boys yet.
Stevie came bouncing in. “Arsenal, one-nil. What’s up?”
“Let’s hope they keep the penalty kicks to a minimum, because we have work to do. I need the briefcase.”
She came back with the briefcase and a plastic supermarket bag filled with the cash. I put down the scone I’d taken a bite of—heavenly, as always—and shook my head. “Put the money away. I need the case.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. No need to rush. The briefcase was going to be fine for the next hour or so, whereas these scones had a marked shelf life.
When I was done indulging, Stevie swept off the counter and we put on gloves. She opened the case and angled it toward the nearest light, but the light wasn’t enough to show the inside. I needed a flashlight.
“Should I get the torch?” she asked.
“Please.”
She found our trusty Maglite wherever she’d hidden it and held it over the briefcase, shining the beam all around the edges and over the interior satin.
Stevie shook her head. “I don’t see anything in here. Are you sure—”
“Where’s the best place to hide something?” I asked her. “Hide it in a place that’s already got something hidden. If you opened this and found the money, would you keep looking? Hell no.”
“I’m not certain your experience is enough data to cover everyone’s reactions,” Stevie said.
I ignored her. “And it’s small, whatever it is.” I lightly drew my fingers over the bottom of the case, then in and around the pockets on the top.
Stevie poked and prodded at the lining of the bottom of the case. “Wait!” Her face fell. “No, sorry, that’s a bump from the false bottom.”
At the same time as she said that, my fingers trailed over a bump on the top edge of the case.
There should be slight irregularities with the bottom, since Colin had installed a fake layer to hide the money. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with the top. I grabbed the flashlight and shined it around the edge of the top. “Move over. I need to see this better.”
“There?” she said, pointing to a flaw in the lining.
I peered closer. “No, that’s a tear in the cloth. Over here.” I tapped the side where I’d felt the bump and then dragged my fingertips over the spot again. A closer look made me wonder how I could have ever missed it in the first place.
The false bottom in the briefcase was a lovely piece of work. On the top of the briefcase, the black satin liner had been cut and reattached. As a result, it was pulled to one side. Extremely sloppy work for someone of Colin’s talents.
I slipped my fingernail under the edge of the satin lining. The edge came up, but then I hit the thick strip of glue holding the lining in place. “Get the nail polish remover.”
She came back with a bottle of remover and a box of cotton swabs. “Couldn’t find the tweezers.”
“This’ll do.” And I set to work.
One of the reasons I was being so careful and neat about it was that the police had to see this briefcase. At some point. I’m not oblivious of the facts of jurisprudence. I wanted to make my snooping seem less obvious. I would snoop, and then I would re-glue. And that was it.
To remove the glue, I had to swab the underside of the lining and then tug, ever so gently, to separate it. Stevie wandered between the kitchen and the living room, alternately watching me and the match. It took me an hour to unseal the top edge of the lining from the leather case.
Which is right when we heard a series of sharp knocks on the front door.
Gary stood in the doorway, peering into the guesthouse. Stevie was looking over her shoulder at the door, paralyzed, yet in position to bolt at any moment.
I mutt
ered a number of maledictions in various languages, mostly at myself for not having considered that he might be around. I wiped my hands on a towel as he rapped on the door again. I swung it open and stood in the middle of the doorway to prevent his coming in. “What?”
“Hm?” He looked at me, and then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and looked down at his feet. “I came by to apologize.” When I didn’t respond, he grinned with embarrassment. “For my outburst yesterday.” His eyebrows knitted for a second. “It was yesterday, right?”
“It was. Apology accepted.” As to how sincere his apology was? Who the hell knew. The man had two or three Oscars. No one should trust a damn thing he said, ever. That was good advice about anyone, to be honest, and I should know. I started to close the door.
He put his hand on it to keep it open. “Is that Chelsea?” he asked, glancing at the television. Stevie, who was still staring at him, nodded. “Hullo, I’m Gary Macfadyen.” After a quick comparison of the two of us, he nodded. “Is she your sister?”
“My what?”
“Your sister. You couldn’t have a daughter that age. You look a great deal alike.” He moved his hand by the side of his face. “Your hair. The eyes.”
He needed to get out of here. “Gary, darling, we’re in the middle of something, so if you’ll excuse us—”
“Can I come in?” he asked, in a small voice. “Look, I am sorry about the way I behaved. I…I get that way, sometimes. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Oh. You get that way sometimes. Then that’s all right then. Please, feel free to come by and scream at me once in a while.”
He winced at my sarcasm. “Do people not give you an apology very often, or, are you simply incapable of accepting one?”
He was right. I needed to be nicer. At least until such time as we could leave. And the best way to be nicer is to have an excuse for one’s bitchiness. “Today is difficult. My husband was murdered yesterday.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“So you’ll excuse us.” I started to close the door
He held up his hand to stop the door. “Do you think I could watch the match? My house is somewhat…quiet.”
Even famous actors can get isolated and lonely in their hilltop palaces. It wasn’t that surprising. Lots of millionaires didn’t have one person to call friend. But his loneliness didn’t change anything as far as I cared. My focus wasn’t even on myself at that moment, difficult as it might be to believe. I needed to find out what Penelope was so concerned about.
“Honestly, it’s not a good idea,” I said.
His look of dejection was heartbreaking as he nodded and turned around.
I closed the door. “You okay?”
Stevie nodded.
“I think I have the case open. Let’s have a look.”
Stevie followed me into the kitchen. I put on my gloves and tested the edge of the satin lining: it was completely detached. I reached into the space beyond with my index finger, which poked into something flat and plastic, with a hard edge. It hurt. I held the lining open and turned the briefcase upside down.
Strips of film negatives shot out onto the kitchen table. I shook the case again. Nothing.
Hard, sepia-colored film negatives. How low tech.
“Actual celluloid?” Stevie said. “How low tech.”
“Someone didn’t want them found easily, that’s for certain.”
She picked up one of the negative strips and held it up to the light as I stripped the latex gloves off my hands. They had the nail polish remover on them, and I didn’t want to chance hitting the negatives. She turned the strip this way and that, before she dropped her hand and put the strip back on the table with its fellows.
I picked it up. Took me a few turns of the view as well to figure out that the picture showed a blowjob.
Unfortunately, that was all I could tell about it, because it was a tiny image with lights and darks reversed.
“Well, well, well,” I said.
Stevie’s face was pale and she stared at the floor, unable to speak.
“Stevie. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.” I squinted at the strip of images, trying to see if I could make out the faces clearly enough to identify.
“You think it’s Penelope?” Stevie whispered.
My poor sister. She had her reasons, I reminded myself.
I held the negative strip up again. “We need to get these developed before we should draw any conclusions about them.”
“Do you think he was blackmailing her?” Stevie asked.
“Blackmail would explain the money.” I lowered the first photo strip and picked up the next one. More of the same, at least from what I could see. “And Penelope is rather agitated about this situation, which is understandable.”
“But…” Stevie said.
I glanced over at her. “But what?”
“That’s what I’m waiting for you to finish. There’s some contrafactual you want to add.”
The only language my sister doesn’t know: the one the rest of us mortals speak. “A contra what?”
She sighed. “You want to add something like, ‘If such and such had occurred,’ where such and such could not under any circumstances occur. You want to say that this whole thing with Penelope could have happened if…?” She waved her hand in the air.
The kitchen was quiet except for the quiet thumping of the dishwasher.
“Oh, all right. I was going to say, ‘If Colin were capable of blackmailing someone.’ Which he couldn’t be. Except maybe he was.” I slammed my hand on the counter, frustrated.
“Blackmailing who?” came a third voice, definitely male.
Stevie and I stared at each other for a second before we turned around to the actor leaning in the kitchen doorway, watching us. My sister took a step back toward me, and I put my hand on her shoulder to reassure her.
“I locked the door!”
“You didn’t. It was open. I returned to give you this,” he said, holding up a bottle of what looked to be an excellent syrah, and from Stevie’s intake of breath I surmised it wasn’t cheap, either. “By way of apology and because of your husband. But I can see your grief takes different forms than many people’s. Blackmail?”
“You need to leave now, Gary.”
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Stevie looked at me, her eyes wide with panic. “What do we say?”
Of course, she said it in Hungarian.
“Have any ideas?” I replied. “Like how long he’s been standing there?”
The actor nodded. “You won’t answer questions and you’re looking at photographic negatives and there’s a pile of money over there and you say your husband’s been murdered and now the two of you have suddenly lapsed into another language. By the way, this isn’t at all suspicious. Or intriguing.”
“Are you okay?” I asked my sister, in English.
She glanced at Gary, and then turned back toward me. “I’m okay.”
Great. I considered Stevie’s needs taken care of. I turned toward Gary. “You want to know what’s going on? My husband was murdered yesterday. I think he was murdered over these photographs. Was it blackmail? I have no fucking idea. I was married to him for six months and I have no idea what he was doing or why I hadn’t clued into any of it. And now I’m the center of the inquiry and I’d like to know why. There. That clear things up for you?”
“Are you okay?” Stevie asked me.
I gave her the hand signal that meant I was getting a migraine. She pulled out our med kit and rummaged around until she produced the bottle of migraine aspirin. She shook two out, put them on the counter, and went to fetch a glass for water. It gave her something to do.
When I was busy trying to swallow those god-awful pills, Gary said, “What’s your name?”
“Stevie,” she said quietly.
I snapped my fingers. “Eyes over here, your worship.” I needed him gone, but more importantly I needed Stevie to get working on a problem. T
hinking reduced her anxiety immensely. “What’s the connection, Stevie?”
“Why does Colin have these pictures? How did Colin even know Penelope?”
“And how am I somehow involved?”
“We need to give those pictures to the police,” Stevie said.
“We will. We will give these pictures to the exceptionally attractive Detective Gruen. Right after we find out for ourselves what’s on them.”
Gary leaned his chair back on two legs and held onto the doorframe for support. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“I wonder where we can get them developed that won’t get us arrested,” I said.
“In LA?” he said. “Thousands of places. But you don’t—”
Stevie shrugged. “We can buy the chemicals we need and do it here.”
“How much is that going to cost?” I asked.
“Girls,” Gary said.
She shook her head. “It’s not terrible. I’ll make a list of what we need and tell you where to go to get them.”
“You want me to buy a bunch of chemicals where I have to read the fucking labels? Sorry. Next plan.”
She thought about that for a second, and then nodded. “Good point. Perhaps we can find a lab that rents space by the hour.”
Gary dropped his chair to the floor. “Girls!” he yelled. That man had amazing vocal presence. Of course he’s known for that, but it’s thrilling up close and personal.
We both looked at him.
“Photography happens to be a hobby of mine.”
It took me a couple of seconds. “You have a darkroom here.”
“Why, yes, I do.”
Stevie and I looked at each other.
“Lead on, Macduff,” I told him.
He glared at me, and that was not an experience I wanted to repeat. Ever. That man had a scary, well-practiced glare. “Christ, don’t say that,” he muttered.
As he led us over to the main house, I remembered about fifteen years ago he’d starred in Macbeth for the BBC, a weird techno-modern version with updated clothes and robots and cross-dressing. Even Stevie hadn’t liked it, which meant it was unsalvageable dreck.
You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2) Page 13