Marry, Kiss, Kill

by Anne Flett-Giordano

  “Hey, Mon, you up there?”

  “Yes. Go away, I’ve got company.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh, all right.” After a long, silent spell, her voice came back again. “Well? Go ahead.”

  “I’m not going to keep shouting — I want to talk to you alone!”

  Larry heard rustling and footsteps, then a very unpleasant surprise came jogging down the stairs. Larry was lost-luggage, stuck-in-traffic, dingo-ate-my-baby mad when he recognized his stepdaughter’s latest boy toy. He was well aware that Monica had a perverse streak, but banging the enemy was one bit of twisted evil too far.

  “Yo, man, nice pile of adobe you got here,” Malcolm said by way of a greeting.

  Larry answered his pleasantry with a heavy-lidded glare. Malcolm grabbed his jacket and boots off the floor and headed out the door. “Nice talking to you, Dad. Looking forward to us having another enlivening debate real soon.”

  Larry was considering whether to call his security guys to kick the smart-mouthed kid’s ass when Monica came padding downstairs in a cashmere robe and slippers. Barely acknowledging his presence, she went into the kitchen and grabbed some kefir from the fridge.

  “So? What’s so urgent, Daddio?”

  “Are you clinically insane, sleeping with that kid?”

  “Since when do you care who I bounce with? Besides, it was your idea that I get with him and his pals in the first place. So far, it’s all been working out just the way you planned, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Christ, Monica, this isn’t just a real estate game anymore. Haven Gillette is dead!”

  “So I heard. Did you do it?”

  “What?!” he shouted, taken aback by her hubris. “No, of course not. Did your boyfriend?”

  “Not a chance. The note by the pool was my idea. Just adding to the drama.”

  “We don’t need any more drama! I told you to quit the group after the squirt-gun stunt. You did your job; the commissioners are on my side. It’s crazy to keep seeing that boy, especially now that the police are involved.”

  “But that’s what makes it so exciting.”

  “Hey, I’m not about to see a two-hundred-million-dollar deal go south because you like playing Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “If I did my job so well, why haven’t you paid me yet?”

  “Drop the kid, and I will.”

  “Mmm, don’t think so. Under those culturally stereotypical T-shirts he’s got some sweet abs, and he’s so passionate about saving the planet. It’s really kind of noble.”

  She offered him the kefir bottle, and he pushed it away. “Don’t tell me you’re actually buying into that anti–Wall Street environmentalist crap?”

  “With my mink-collared jacket and crocodile boots?” She laughed. “I like the world order just the way it is, thank you. Playing warrior princess with Malcolm just adds a little juice to my dull day-to-day. I get so bored being bored, and Snapchat’s just not doing it for me anymore. Of course, once I have my own money…”

  “Well, if you want your money, you’ll break it off with him today.”

  “Excuse me. How ’bout, if you don’t want certain people to find out you were banging Haven Gillette, you pay me today.”

  “Blackmail. Very nice. The cops already know I was with her. That Italian detective’s no fool.”

  “The cops know, but does Mom?” she asked with a venomous grin.

  “You would make your mother’s life hell just to get what you want, wouldn’t you?” He scowled.

  “Look who’s talking. I didn’t screw Haven. You did. You started this train rolling. You want to blame someone now that it’s coming off the tracks, look in the mirror.”

  Forty-Nine

  When Tony arrived at Nola’s condo, she was on the phone with Sebastian. The eager-to-please kid had forgone his usual Sunday-morning game of disc golf up at Lake Casitas to do the forensic inspection of Gus’s laptop, and quicker than you can say Usain Bolt, he’d found their smoking cyber gun.

  There were two versions of Gus’s speech on the hard drive. The first version, against the Wyatt Development, had been deleted and replaced by the pro version that Haven read aloud at the commission meeting. Most damning of all was the time stamp. The speech had been rewritten right before Gus died. Even the most anal-retentive nerd in the world wouldn’t spend his last moments on earth finishing up a boring real estate report. They were no longer dealing with a suicide. Gus Gillette’s cause of death had just officially been upgraded to murder.

  Sebastian rang off to begin his second task of the morning, collecting and compiling video from the Batman premiere. While Tony had been extracting himself from pancake-making Chelsea, Nola had been calling every news outlet she could think of, asking for footage from that night, hoping to find anything that might shine a light-bomb on who killed Charley. For the first time in his imaginary existence, Batman might actually help solve a crime.

  When she hung up with Sebastian, Nola presented Tony with his toast and cappuccino. “Breakfast with no implied commitment, as promised.”

  “I asked Chelsea out twice,” he said, as he slathered on jam. “Twice isn’t an automatic invitation to be my girlfriend, right?”

  Nola sipped her cappuccino. “Absolutely not. You think Bryan could feel the skin crease from my thong?”

  “Probably. So what’s the easiest way to let her know I’m not ready to do the breakfast/girlfriend thing?”

  “Don’t sleep with her when she shows up on your doorstep naked.”

  “Okay. Second-easiest way?”

  “Tony, breaking up is like losing weight, there is no easy way. Hey, you think if I give up protein, carbs, and fat, I can lose ten pounds by next weekend?”

  “Sure, if you swap that nonfat cap for liquid meth. You guys have another date lined up?”

  “He’s taking me camping in the wilderness to look at the stars.”

  “An away date already?”

  “Some men aren’t afraid of relationships.”

  “Yeah, and some serial killers do their best work in the woods.”

  “I’ll leave you a trail of breadcrumbs.”

  “You’ll leave me a monitor for your GPS tracking device.”

  “Don’t be paranoid.” She laughed. “Hey, now that we have proof that there were two speeches on Gillette’s laptop, you think we can get a warrant for Wilson’s financials?”

  “Way ahead of you. I called Judge Peña’s clerk while you were busy frothing the milk. It’s in the works as we speak. So, how do I break it off with her without hurting her feelings?”

  “Hmm. . . if I pretend to be your ex-girlfriend, you could say you were never really over me, and we’ve decided to get back together?”

  “You think she’d buy that?”

  “Of course she will. ’Cause you just lovvve me so much. Because I’m sooo unforgettable . . . like Nat King and Natalie Cole unforgettable.”

  “Yeah, it has to be at least a little bit believable. I’ll just say you drunk-dialed me begging me to take you back, and I felt sorry for you, so I caved.”

  “Fine. So what do you think is the best diet meth? Amp? Blue Ice?”

  “Well, they’ll both make you lose a little tooth weight. Relax, okay? You’re skinny enough to be dismembered in the woods. Any homicidal maniac would be lucky to have you.”

  “Then how come I had to drunk-dial you and beg you to take me back?”

  “Obviously because you lost all your self-esteem when I broke up with you in the first place.”

  “I envy Chelsea. She’s really dodging a bullet.”

  Nola finished her coffee, scooped a little nonfat foam off the rim of her cup, and licked it off her finger.

  “Very ladylike,” Tony said. “Did you do that in front of the Major last night, or are you saving it for your third date, when he takes you to the old abandoned saw mill?”

  Fifty

  When Nola and Tony arrived at the station there was a message from the lab. T
he blood droplets leading away from Haven’s body were AB positive, but more extensive DNA results were still a ways away.

  Angry Susan was Type O, same as the blood on the Birkin clasp. Marta’s statement that Susan had returned home at eleven on the night of the murder and the unexplained AB blood at the scene were enough for any half-decent defense attorney to raise the specter of reasonable doubt. They decided to hold off on arresting Susan for Haven’s murder. She was free to post bail on the two lesser charges of B&E and assault and return home to her ramekins.

  There were a few anomalies in the rest of the evidence they’d collected, but working out exactly what they were was going to take time. On CSI, or “Completely Suspend Intelligence” as Tony condescendingly referred to it, lab techs were constantly pulling forensic rabbits out of their hats, but that wasn’t how it worked in real life.

  When Sebastian finished compiling all the news and publicity footage from the film festival, Nola asked him to set up his computer for a screening in Interrogation Room A. The hard metal chairs were hell on your ass, but the interrogation rooms were the only private, soundproofed rooms in the building. When she walked in to meet him, she caught a glimpse of herself in the one-way perp mirror. Under the harsh lights, her reflection was muy no bueno.

  Bryan’s night date in the wilderness was seeming better and better. At least starlight was flattering. Starlight and dim restaurants would probably get her through the next couple of years, but what would she do after that? Invite any guy she liked to go spelunking?

  “Hey, instead of lunch on the beach, how ’bout we visit Carlsbad Caverns?”

  Betty White, she remembered, as she sat down on one of the hard metal chairs and presented Sebastian with a pastry box.

  As a thank-you for giving up his day of disc golf, she’d brought him twelve red velvet cupcakes. Two minutes later, there were only four left. Young men’s stomachs were where calories went to die.

  She was texting Tony to hurry up when he wheeled his cushy desk chair through the door and squeezed it in next to the computer.

  “You’re such a comfort hound,” Nola complained. “If you’d sit on a torture chair, we wouldn’t be so squished.”

  “Yeah, you’ll be begging me to switch when your butt goes numb.” Tony tapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “Ready when you are, SJ.”

  Sebastian hit play. The first video was from an L.A. channel, and it mostly focused on the movie stars. Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner looked like a perfectly nice Santa Barbara couple, slightly embarrassed by all the attention they were getting. Jennifer Lawrence was glowing like a sky full of stars, and Russell Brand was so obviously in love with himself that Nola thought Russell and Russell might be one of the few Hollywood romances to last. Unfortunately, all the shots were tight, and Charley and his guitar were nowhere to be seen.

  The next video was from a local channel, so the Arlington Theater and the hometown crowd played a much bigger role. The camera moved through the glittering throng outside the theater picking up B-roll — atmospheric footage to be edited around shots of the movie stars later. Tony was the first to spot Charley. He was standing on the periphery of the forecourt with his battered guitar case open on the sidewalk. He was singing about two teenage girls who’d just gone wild at the sight of Ryan Gosling climbing out of his limo.

  “See these gals are all aflutter . . .

  ’Bout the movie star just came.

  Their hearts done melt like butter . . .

  And they’re shouting out his name.

  ‘Cause they got the blues . . .

  The Santa Barbara International Film Festival blues, blues, blues . . .”

  The rest of the song was unintelligible over the shouting of the crowd. The camera operator swung away from Charley and raced to get a close-up of Ryan signing autographs. Nola hadn’t spotted anyone staring at Charley with murderous intent, but there was a lot more footage to look at.

  They were on video number five when Tony got a call from the fire department. The flammable liquid that had started Haven’s pool fire wasn’t something your average sicko could just add to his cart on Arson.com. It was a complex chemical compound that had been made by someone who knew how. Nola’s mind went to Ian.

  “Tony, the night we interrogated the kids — didn’t that gangly one with the goat scruff whine that he had a chem final in the morning?”

  “Ian Stark,” Tony said. “Baz, we need to take a movie break to find out the name of Ian’s chemistry professor and what chemicals the kid has access to.”

  It was Sunday, so the UCSB student records office was closed. Nola hated to ask Sebastian to break the law, but he was so damn good at it. Sebastian hacked the university database and came up with Ian’s professor’s name and contact number in less time than it took Nola to log on to POPSUGAR in the mornings to find out the best way to cook salmon, what Kate Middleton was up to, and what ten things you should never put near your vagina. Spoiler alert: One of them was fire.

  Tony called the contact number, and the professor’s boyfriend, Bob, answered. Professor Ranberg was spearfishing for yellowtail off the Channel Islands. His cell phone was out of range, but Bob promised to have him return Tony’s call as soon as possible.

  “Oh, Baz,” Nola said. “Why does your generation want to blow everything up? In my day, science geeks were content just making new club drugs out of old cold medicines.”

  “In your day?” Tony teased.

  “I know, I heard it. If I ever say it again, zap me with a cattle prod. Next video please.”

  The next batch of footage had been commissioned by the festival publicity department. “Pretty cool of those dudes to take the time to send this over,” Sebastian said, grabbing another cupcake. “It’s the grand finale tonight. They’re premiering The Euclidian Variation. It’s got to be hella crazy over there.”

  Nola stood up to get some blood flowing back into her glutes. “I read about that movie on Buzzfeed. Sounds like just another galaxy wars nap-inducer to me. Apparently the only thing not floating around in the space-time continuum is an original idea.”

  Like a stripper’s boobs at a surgery center, Sebastian’s eyes grew ten times their size. “I’m sorry, but did you read The Euclidian Variation? Because it’s mind-blowing! I camped on the street all night to get tickets, but there were so many people ahead of me I got shafted.”

  Tony rocked back in his cushy chair. “Ignore her, Baz. In her day, CGI was just a glint in some Pixar animator’s eye. Plus she’s obviously suffering from Numb Butt Syndrome, the crankiest syndrome of all.”

  “I’m not cranky. Sci-fi has just gotten lazy lately. I mean, how many armageddon movies can there be? We’re at war with the aliens. We’re making love with the aliens. We’re annoyed because the aliens’ kids are getting early acceptance to all the best schools, even though our kids are supposed to be legacies. Enough already. And yes, that did come out crankier than I meant it to, but it’s still true.”

  Sebastian looked even more exasperated with her than when she’d mistaken his Vulcan Halloween accessories for cute elf ears. “The Euclidian Variation is brilliant. This math savant decodes an old text that survived the destruction of the library at Alexandria, and using a Euclidian theorem, he’s able to enter an alternate reality where the Davilloyds, they’re, like, the Seal Team Six of the galaxy, they have to. . . ”

  Tony signaled time like a referee. “Ah, Baz, maybe save the synopsis for later, we’ve got a lot of footage to get through.”

  The publicity video turned out to be a game changer. Larry and Jillian popped up in the crowd almost immediately. Jillian hadn’t been lying about her pre-op turkey neck. Her hair and makeup were Tracie Martyn perfection, but from her chin to her cleavage there was some serious gobble-gobble going on. Her dress was haute-okay, but the shoes. . .

  “Oh, my God!” Nola said. “Freeze the video.”

  Surprisingly, Tony was on the same wavelength. “Yeah, I see them, too.”

  “
They’re gorgeous, right?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Jillian’s Louboutin bow-in-the-back pearl-gray stilettos that cost about a million policewomen’s salaries and change. What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, nothing as important as shoes, just a little side note pertaining to our case.”

  “Those aren’t just shoes, Tony, they’re magic shoes. See how you barely notice Jillian’s turkey neck because the beauty of the shoes draws your eyes to her feet? David Copperfield on his best day couldn’t pull off a better illusion.”

  Tony sighed the husband sigh, slightly under the breath and indicative of long suffering. “If you’re done giving the Dr. Scholl’s report, check out Wilson,” he said. “See how he’s staring off into the crowd? Follow his sight line.”

  Nola followed Larry’s gaze across the forecourt to Haven Gillette, who was gazing back at him with a look that implied an ongoing flirtation. Nola wasn’t surprised. Handsome, wealthy, and an ex-television star, Larry was probably a charter member of the Affair of the Month club. Jillian could tighten her neck till she looked like a lollipop, she was still going to need a good divorce lawyer someday.

  “Nice catch,” Nola said, sitting down again to get a better look. “So Haven and Larry were having a little something-something before Gus died. I wonder what kind of prenup Jillian signed.”

  Tony guessed it was an airtight one. Wilson was no fool. When they asked Sebastian to start the tape again, he didn’t respond. Nola looked and saw his diencephalons had frozen on Haven’s gorgeous body playing peep show under her evening gown. She gently patted his shoulder. “Baz, honey, your sex brain’s stalled your motor — close your eyes and try to breathe through it.”

  “Sorry, that girl’s just so . . . perfect,” he said, still in awe. “She’s like comic-book perfect.”

  Tony nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Plastic Man would do some serious stretching in that issue.”

  “I know, right? Even the Flash would take his time.” Sebastian’s head was nodding, too.