Apparently Tilla’s sources hadn’t been whistling “Hooray for Hollywood.”
After finishing her tribute, Trudi headed back to her seat between Dave Driscoll and Philipe Pellera. I’d assumed her chief comforter would be Dave, but it was Philipe who stood, handed her a handkerchief, and hugged her before she sat down.
A few other friends rose and delivered sad eulogies. Then Charlotte stood alone before everyone. She’d donned a charcoal pantsuit, conservative for her. The bow at the bottom of her long braid was as black as her hair.
The crowd had been exquisitely polite, even before. Now, there wasn’t an iota of noise—except for the drumming of the rain hitting the roof and driving sideways at the windows.
“I’m so sorry,” was what she started with, and I could have shaken her. It sounded not only like an apology, but an admission as well.
But then she continued by talking about how she wished she hadn’t been put into such a crazy situation by fate and the producers of Turn Up the Heat. She’d actually loved Chad, she said, and would have adored seeing whether their fledgling relationship could develop into one with a future. But in the pseudo-reality of the reality show craze, she’d had to make a decision, and it had forced her to turn her back on Chad.
“Which I wouldn’t have done, except for certain extenuating circumstances.” She stared icily at Trudi before returning to her tribute. “Even so, I felt sorry I had to hurt Chad on national TV, despite how he’d hurt me. I wished him well, and hoped he felt the same about me. If only things could have been different … but now I have to live with the reality of what happened”—she stressed the “R” word—“without Chad.”
She choked on a sob at that emotional ending, and then sat back down beside Yul. I wondered how he felt after hearing Charlotte say, in front of this throng, how much she’d cared for Chad. On the other hand, he’d been the winner of her affections after she won the money, so he’d been the true last man standing, even before Chad could no longer stand at all.
I glanced at my dear friend, the detective. Did he buy Charlotte’s accolade? It had sounded pretty self-serving, even to me. Still, I thought it was true.
I couldn’t tell what my pew mate thought, though. His expression stayed stoically somber.
At the end, Reverend Lee took over again, saying a short prayer for Chad’s soul and wishing him, and everyone here, peace. He then invited the entire assemblage to another Forest Lawn structure for a snack.
I remained with Noralles while the others filed out. Was he studying their faces, too, to see if anyone looked too self-satisfied to be ignored? Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Trudi shuffled down the aisle while hanging on to Dave. If she’d worn any of her newly discovered makeup, it had all been washed away by the rain or her tears. Her pallor was more pronounced as it contrasted with her freckles, but her small chin was raised as if to confirm her courage.
Dave looked pasty, eyes huge and wet behind his wire-rims. He clasped Trudi’s hands as if holding her grief at bay. They passed without looking at who still occupied the pews.
Soon Charlotte filed out beside Yul. She still looked sad. Yul didn’t. He didn’t look pleased, either, but I kind of wished he’d appeared a little more grief-stricken so Noralles would knock him off his suspect list, too.
There weren’t many people left in the kirk when Noralles started to exit, followed by me. And the Thomasons. Only then did I notice Lyle Urquard, Phil Ashler, and even Ike Janus. My neighbors had joined the mourners. Because the guy had died on our street? Because they were all celebrity stalkers? I didn’t ask.
I saw at the reception that the next-to-the-last guy to get canned by Charlotte, Sven Broman, had come. Of course, the singer with the oh-so-Latin hips, Philipe Pellera, was there, too. I also recognized one of Chad’s former neighbors, Helene. No baby with her, though.
Then there was Detective Wherlon, one of Noralles’s cronies whom I’d met when he helped try to pin some murders on me. Noralles and he stood in a corner surveying the crowd.
I took a different corner and did the same. As I watched, I saw Trudi and Dave glued to each other as well-wishers offered condolences to her.
Charlotte and Yul hung out by the bar, also hanging on to each other as they seemed to be politely shunned by most mourners. A few, though, mostly neighbors like Tilla, Hal, and Lyle, appeared to offer support.
For a rueful moment, I regretted not having someone there to help me through this sorrowful situation. Not that I’d known Chad well enough to grieve deeply, but even so, watching to see if anyone gave him-or herself away as a murderer was fraught with tense emotions. And memories, as I recalled only too well being in a similar position to my tenants—suspected by all, no matter how much people pretended to believe my story.
Impulsively, impelled by being alone, I stepped from the crowd toward the rest room corridor. I withdrew my cell phone from my purse and pushed in an often-used number.
Jeff ’s.
I felt as deflated as a beach ball gone holey as I got his voice mail. Since I’d called his cell, I knew he’d notice he’d missed a call, so the message I left was perky, about how well Odin was doing with him gone.
It implied I was doing great, too.
Wasn’t I?
Of course. And next time I heard from him, I’d tell him all about this memorial, and who my main suspects were now. I figured I could do as good a job with my investigations as he did with his.
Of course, I hadn’t figured on the next occurrences in this odd and lethal loop of events.
Chapter Twenty-five
FIRST ODDITY: PHILIPE Pellera walked me to my car.
Me, and not Trudi, despite how he had comforted her at the memorial. Which made me supremely suspicious.
Though I had no problem spying on those who’d shown up for the memorial service, I didn’t want to intrude by pouncing on anyone and picking his brain right there. As a result, I hadn’t planned on speaking to Philipe, who still hadn’t returned my calls. Apparently he had no problem speaking with me now.
“Hello, Kendra.” His Spanish-accented voice was soft as he joined me in line with the crowd filing out. “You have called me, but I am so seldom at home.”
“You could give me your cell phone number,” I said, softening my presumptuousness with a smile.
“Ah, but then there would be no mystery between us. You could reach me anywhere.” His closest hip did one of its legendary thrusts sideways, toward me, though more subdued than in his music videos. Still, it touched me, reminding me of the anywheres I could reach Philipe, given his cooperation.
Yeah, and he’d be one of my better selections, if I signed him on in the lover department. Right up there with Bill Sergement and, now, Jeff Hubbard.
At least with him, I’d be the envy of thousands of screaming female fans. Exactly what I needed.
No, what I really needed was for Philipe Pellera to stop obfuscating what info he could send my way, and answer a few questions.
We were out of the reception hall now and in the overcast air of the small parking lot. Though the precipitation had tapered off, both air and ground were damp. People meandered by, talking softly, sending curious—and from the women, envious—glances our way.
Charlotte exited in an assemblage of our neighbors, pale, strained, and for one who craved reality show fanfare, displeased to be the focus of media attention. A consortium of reporters awaited the mourners’ exit from the post-memorial reception. They flashed cameras in Charlotte’s face, shouting questions she bravely ignored while staring straight ahead. Lyle Urquard steadied her on one side, and Ike Janus the other. Yul remained in the rear of the procession, also snubbing the newshounds.
I watched this performance for a minute, then turned my attention back to Philipe. How could I extract the info I wanted from him? I had a sneaky hunch that simply asking about his relationship with Chad Chatsworth, and whether he had motive, means, and opportunity to murder him and frame the ferrets and a few humans,
wouldn’t yield an up-front answer. Not from this tall, dark, and flirtatious hunk who obscured all he didn’t want found out behind his bumps and grinds.
I decided to be as devious as I assumed he was.
“It’s about the reality show you were working on with Chad before he fired you,” I said, taking a large leap of faith. But heck, all these people who were friends with Charlotte and Yul seemed to have reality TV, if nothing else, in common.
“You, too?” he barked, glaring down at me, his dark eyes gone vicious. Like probably ninety-nine percent of the women he came in contact with, I hadn’t paid much attention to his face as I’d studied him. Of course, I’d noticed those bedroom eyes before, as they fit quite appropriately with his sexy, suggestive moves. But I’d not really noticed how the shadow of his blue-black beard emphasized the hollows in his cheeks, or how his white teeth looked long and feral. Of course, I might not have noticed the latter even now if it hadn’t been for his gargoyle-like grimace.
“Me, too, what?” I asked calmly, keeping my uneasiness covert under his glare.
“Did you also receive an early payment for your part in the show? Chad did not tell me that was in his plans.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but he’d obviously had a beef with the man we’d just memorialized so affectionately. I only had to understand why. What payment? What show? The one Trudi Norman had apparently conspired in and consequently inherited? How could I ask without giving my obliviousness away?
“No!” I exclaimed. “Do you mean some people got paid early?” I merely reflected back what he’d said, but it maddened him all the more.
“You did not know? What did he promise you? How were you to help Chatsworth pitch his best show idea with enough zing to entice Charlotte into working with him?”
We’d stopped in the parking lot beside a car befitting a megastar like Philipe: a Mercedes convertible that conceivably cost as much as my mega-mortgaged home. A bright yellow one, to attract the attention of music fans and traffic cops alike. My Beamer was one car away, and the car in between was backing out.
Philipe stared down at me, not moving or speaking but obviously awaiting my answer. Okay, what could I say? How could a suspended lawyer turned pet-sitter pitch a reality show?
Of course, Philipe didn’t necessarily know my background. But since I’d gossiped at Charlotte’s parties about him, I couldn’t be certain he hadn’t engaged in some of the same about other guests.
“I expect to have my law license restored in about two weeks,” I finally told him. “I’ve been called a shark and a lot worse in the courtroom, so I believe Chad actually wanted me for my bite.”
I grinned, revealing teeth that had been the stuff of expert orthodontia when I was a kid here in L.A. That was before my parents had split with so much force that my dad had ricocheted to Chicago with a new family, and my mother bounced to D.C., happily unmarried and practicing law for the U.S. government.
And why had my mind taken off on such an incongruous tangent? Because in some inexplicable way, this irritable, intense music star reminded me of my hotel mogul brother, Sean. Not that Sean, who now lived in Dallas, tossed his hips around like Philipe. But somehow I spotted, behind those piercing, prying eyes, an anomalous vulnerability, as if the adulation of fans wasn’t enough without feeling himself successful.
That only came for Sean with the addition of a new hotel to his collection each year. And for Philipe? Perhaps it was the addition of yet another area of show biz in which he gained recognition. Not just singing and gyrating and starring in music videos. Maybe the guy also wanted to be revered for making mucho money in reality shows, too.
“Really?” he asked me now. “You were to be Chad’s lawyer? I had thought, since you were in the news for finding the person who made you look like a killer, that Chad would use your fame. Or maybe he’d want you to help choose candidates to be on his show. You would help screen them for who would not get along together. Maybe even do things that were not totally legal. That would make such interesting television.”
Wow! What was this reality show that Chad had invested so much of his life into—the best of his ideas that had in some manner probably led to his death?
And so much for Philipe not knowing much about my briefly sordid background.
“Why did you ask about my involvement if you knew the truth?” I told Philipe, adding extra width to my grin.
“Then it is true? You are well known for solving murders, and you know people.”
There was something more to all this, something Philipe had yet to share with me.
“What’s really going on?” I asked.
“It was these people at the service in there.” He leaned toward me as if trying to make sure whoever “these people” were, they couldn’t hear. Which was unlikely anyway, since the parking lot had all but emptied as we stood there speaking.
“Which people?” I prompted.
“Charlotte,” he confided softly. “And Yul, because he backs her in all she says. Hypocrites. They wanted to have nothing to do with Chad’s new production, but now that Trudi and Dave have hired me, for the money that I am worth, they are angry.”
“Then you’re one of the people who got paid early?” I was getting so confused that I wished Chad was around to question. But then, if Chad had been around to talk to, I wouldn’t have been having this weird conversation.
“Well, of course.” He smiled. “The show is now sweet Trudi’s, and she wisely wants to keep me involved, even after Chad once tried to fire me. You see?”
Not really, though I attempted to sort it out. I wasn’t sure where the funds originated, but Trudi, who’d inherited the show, would be willing to spend the money up front to make sure it was a success.
Might she have killed Chad to take over total control of his most promising idea—and to keep Philipe involved?
Might Philipe have killed him, perhaps conspiring with Trudi, so he could stay with the project and get paid up front? They’d seemed pretty tight inside the kirk.
It appeared that my answers were hurtling me to a whole heap of more unanswerable questions. But I had lots of new material to stick on my suspect lists. When that list got long enough, I’d notate it for Noralles.
Then that single-minded detective wouldn’t be able to ignore that there were a lot more suspects in Chad Chatsworth’s murder than Charlotte, Yul, and five little ferrets.
“What exactly was this wonderful idea Chad had for a reality show, Philipe?” I suddenly blurted, knowing that I was giving away that I had not been part of Chad’s plan. “His best one. The one that you’re all working on now?”
“He didn’t tell you? Well, I will hint without giving it away. But imagine people who are famous, or who have been made famous by circumstance whether they wanted it or not, brought together to compete in a game in which winner takes all.” He grinned at me, then slid into his car and started the engine, not looking at me again.
I stood there and stared as he pulled away. I still didn’t know what Chad’s surefire super idea, culled from his list of possibilities, had been.
But I did know one thing: Philipe Pellera, still involved and paid in advance, might have gained a lot more from not having Chad around.
Did that mean he’d murdered Chad for it?
THE NEXT ODDITY? Well, I was pondering my conversation with Philipe as I drove from the cemetery and headed toward the Valley. I went through Burbank, since it was on the way and I needed a caffeine fix. I aimed for a Starbucks in the Empire Center.
I slowed as I saw a familiar car parked along the side of Victory Boulevard. A sports model, on the expensive side, though not as snazzy as Philipe’s. The one usually parked underneath me as I slept over the garage.
Yul’s.
We weren’t far from Forest Lawn, so it was no huge surprise to see him. Since I’d talked neither to Charlotte nor Yul after the memorial service, though, this seemed an opportune time to compare notes. Had they seen an
ything—or anyone—there that stirred their suspicions in Chad’s murder? Of course we could chat later, but our suppositions would be fresher now.
I pulled past him and braked the Beamer, aiming it into the nearest parking space. I headed back along the partially dry sidewalk toward Yul.
And saw that he was alone in his car. No Charlotte? I’d figured she’d need Yul’s emotional support after such a sad experience at the memorial. Besides, how was she getting home?
Well, that I could learn later. Right now, I had something else on my mind. I walked slowly in the shadows, near the storefront, as I watched Yul.
No longer clad in coat and tie, he talked animatedly on his cell phone. Not just listening. Not just blurting out a word or two. But actually chattering, or so it seemed. His mouth was moving. The hand not holding the phone was, too. It waved at the end of his long arm along which he’d rolled up the sleeve of his dressy white shirt. His facial expressions also punctuated whatever he prattled about—dirty blond brows alternately arcing and lowering, mouth baring teeth, then frowning.
In other words, Yul looked alive.
Hmmm. I didn’t really know him, of course, but I thought I’d had him pegged. Rather, he had Charlotte pegged, as her gorgeous, silent gigolo.
What had gotten him talking?
And if he talked this much while alone, why didn’t he when people were around?
Maybe I didn’t know him at all.
But I would. I’d figured the none-too-intelligent ferret lover nearly as much of a framee as his lover Charlotte. His apparent change in character didn’t mean he wasn’t.
Yet not long ago Charlotte had been frightened because Noralles had found some potentially incriminating evidence in an anonymously mailed envelope, including a copy of the note that threatened her reality show reject. It also contained descriptions devised by Charlotte about her own new reality show ideas. Charlotte didn’t know how anyone else could have gotten the package’s contents.
Nothing to Fear But Ferrets Page 18