Marry, Kiss, Kill

by Anne Flett-Giordano

  “Actually, Monica, we do have a witness,” Nola said, rising to her feet. “He kept telling us he saw a dude shoot Charley, click, click, click. Naturally we took ‘dude’ to mean guy. Then this afternoon a young coworker called me dude on my car phone. I’m so ancient, I’d forgotten it’s not just for guys anymore.” Nola turned back to Jillian. “You were the dude, Jilllian. And ‘click, click, click.’ There were only two bullets, so it didn’t really make sense till I remembered those beautiful Louboutin stiletto heels. ‘Click, click, click.’ He wasn’t describing gun shots, he was describing the sound you made running away on the stone path under the archway in those, literally, killer shoes.”

  If Jillian bit her lip any harder, she’d be aspirating blood. Nola kept the pressure up. “Of course, Howard will tell the jury that a million women wear spiked heels, but you were the only one who had access to the murder weapon, and a brilliant motive in the form of a pretty nasty prenup.”

  “What has our prenup got to do with it?” Larry asked, still gob-smacked by the news that his wife was a murderer.

  “I read it when I went through your financials,” Nola explained. “Jillian gets none of the money you made before she married you, which is basically all of it. That’s why she desperately needed this new development to go through. Monica knew it too, and she knew if Charley repeated his song in front of a judge, the whole project would collapse. Then instead of half of two hundred million, they’d get next to nothing if you ever filed for divorce. And with a serial cheater like you, divorce is really just a matter of gravity plus time. Right, Jillian?” Nola threw a sympathetic look Jillian’s way.

  Monica looked like she was weighing the pluses and minuses of throwing her mother under the bus, but Larry was still awestruck. “So, this was all about money?” he said.

  “Oh Larry, it’s always about money,” Nola sighed. “‘Behind every great fortune lies a great crime,’ as Balzac said. Brilliant man, wrote about a hundred novels. Look him up in the prison library. You’ll thank me.”

  She was still being glib, but she was running out of steam. The adrenaline rush that had carried her through the fun bit was waning. Tony winked her a “good job.” It almost made up for his blowing the big reveal.

  Jillian, Monica, and Larry sat stone-faced and silent. The Crawford-Wilsons were finally starting to realize that a little discretion might be in order if they wanted to avoid further incriminating themselves.

  “Okay then, good talk,” Tony said, pulling out his handcuffs. “I’m sure my partner’s exhausted from being gassed and all, and I’ve got a wannabe girlfriend to break up with in the morning, so how ’bout we just arrest all of you now and sort out the bribery, murder, and gas-attack charges down at the station? Everybody good with that? Actually, even if you aren’t, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in. . . ”

  Nola was particularly rough handcuffing Monica. If she hadn’t shot off her mouth to Jillian about Charley, he might be standing outside in the forecourt now, smiling at people and making up songs. Rest in peace, Charley Beaufort, Nola thought as she snapped the cuffs shut. Wherever you are.

  Fifty-Six

  The drab walls of Bryan’s office were covered with brilliantly colored photos of comets and supernovas. Astronomy was definitely his thing. As a little boy, he probably wore Star Wars pajamas and dreamed of being an astronaut with a rockin’ nickname like Buzzman or Jetpack.

  Nola hadn’t called ahead to let him know she was coming. She was peeking at him through his open door. The front page of the L.A. Times was spread out on his desk in front of him.

  The photo of Nola and Chris Marcil unconsciously entwined on the theater floor was making quite a sensation that morning. She’d turned down half a dozen calls to appear on the morning talk shows. Tony thought she was crazy not to go for her fifteen. “Do it. Why not?”

  “Because I’ll be introduced as the hero cop who saved the day, then peppered with a bunch of giddy questions about what it felt like to be lying on top of People magazine’s sexiest man, and wasn’t I just a little bit tempted to kiss him before I passed out.”

  “Were you?”

  “No!”

  She had been tempted, actually flattered pantsless, when The Daily Show called and asked her to be a guest. But since even iPhone cameras made her look away self-consciously, and sitting across from every smart woman’s “Marry” in the Marry, Kiss, Kill game would be so surreal that she’d most likely have a stroke, she politely declined. Stewart would have to remain her dream husband till the real thing came along.

  She watched Bryan reading about her and wished she knew what he was thinking about her. Unfortunately, with the photo right in front of him, only one of his thoughts went without saying.

  “The camera adds ten pounds to everyone’s ass, I swear,” she said as she stepped into the office.

  Bryan casually looked up and smiled. “I was wondering how long you were going to stand there peeking through the door without saying something.” He stood up and walked around his desk to meet her.

  “You knew I was there all along?” She frowned. “Well, that puts a wet weekend on all my dreams of becoming an international spy.”

  “Where have you been?” he asked with boyfriendly concern. “I’ve been calling and texting ever since I saw the news last night. Oh man, what color is that eye?”

  “Lancôme bisque and blue. I tried covering the black with makeup, but it just made it worse. Upside, it was a movie star who hit me, so I’m already getting offers for my eyeball on eBay.”

  “You might look cute in a patch at that,” he said. When he went to kiss her, she shied away. “Still sore?” he asked.

  “You have no idea,” she said, knowing that he really didn’t . . . yet.

  “Why didn’t you at least text or email me back? I was worried.”

  “Actually, Bryan, I thought what I needed to say should be said in person.” She paused to take a last look at his recruitment-poster-perfect face.

  “Well, okay. Say it.” He was starting to catch the vibe.

  “We can’t go look at the stars together. In fact, I can’t see you at all anymore.”

  “Oh?” Silence settled like dust over the moment. “Is that it, or do I get an explanation?”

  “Kari Kachchi.”

  His chiseled-from-handsome face remained impassive. Only his eyes gave him away.

  “I saw video of the two of you together at that film festival you just ‘wouldn’t be caught dead at,’ ” she said. “Not good, Major.”

  Bryan shook his head at his own stupidity. “Yeah, I was afraid that giving you the idea to look at that footage might come back to bite me in the ass. Did it at least help you find your killer?”

  “It did,” she replied, with a small nod of thanks. At least he didn’t try to bullshit his way out of it. She had to give him that.

  “Nola, I don’t know how much detective work you had to do to find out about Kari, but, you know, if you had just asked me, I would have told you.”

  “Actually, I went all Sheryl Crow cool about it. It was Tony who got curious. The festival people said she’s a producer from Sri Lanka. Almost won for best foreign film.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you she’s actually a Sri Lankan government agent posing as a producer, and our getting together was strictly professional?”

  “In fact, I would believe you.” She nodded. “I really do.”

  “That seemed a little easy, he said suspiciously.”

  “I believe you because I already know it’s true. It seemed strange, you knowing a Sri Lankan filmmaker, so our resident tech genius dug a little deeper.”

  “If you know it was just military business, why are you canceling our trip?”

  “I didn’t say I was canceling, I said we couldn’t go. See, I also know you were meeting Kari to exchange two full canisters of SE40 for two empty canisters that the Sri Lankan military made up, per your specifications.
I’m guessing it was your backup plan in case the bogus log entry was found out, which, of course, it was.”

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . . she got all the way to ten, but he was still just standing there calmly as ever, waiting for her to go on. “Really? No shocked denials? Not even a shot at a lie?” she asked.

  “I get the feeling there’s more,” he said.

  “There is. We searched her private government plane this morning and found the canisters hidden behind her inflight movie console. Kari was one hot Tamili when we arrested her. That’s Tamili with an i. It’s a sound-alike joke because she’s Tamil. Although maybe she’s Sinhalese. That’s the other largest ethnic group in Sri Lanka, according to Wikipedia. In which case, the joke makes no sense.”

  “The trap’s snapped, Nola. You can stop being glib now.”

  “Sorry. You know if Kari had been just another woman you were seeing, I couldn’t really complain. We only slept together once and it was our first date — makes me sound kinda slutty, doesn’t it? Oh well, moving on. Another girl would have been par for the course, but trafficking earth-killing bio-weapons — I like bad boys as much as the next gal, but there are limits.”

  “Nola, Sri Lanka is an ally. Until Congress nixed the deal, that’s where the SE40 was headed in the first place. The Tamil Tigers have a drug-crops-for-weapons cash operation that’s financing terrorist attacks.”

  “Yeah, I might buy the ‘saving the world for democracy’ bit if you hadn’t taken money for it. The Sri Lankan government is fully cooperating in exchange for keeping the whole international incident on the down low.”

  “Right, yeah, okay. I took money. One paycheck, two ex-wives, and then my buddy tells me about this investment guru. . . ” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, the inference was clear.

  “Wipeout?” Nola said, sympathetically.

  “Nose-in-the-sand broke.” He nodded.

  “Sorry, if it makes you feel better, I know a guy, smart, rich, same thing happened to him.”

  “How’s he dealing with it?”

  “He got murdered.”

  “How did you think that would make me feel better?”

  “At least you’re still alive. If you want to feel sorry for someone, how about me? You just have to go to jail, I have to keep dating.”

  Bryan didn’t laugh. “Too soon?” Nola asked.

  “A little.” He winked. “You realize that if I’d never asked you to dinner, your partner wouldn’t have cared about Kari, and I’d be golden?”

  “I know. I figure you only asked me out because on some subconscious level you wanted to get caught.”

  “Right. ‘Cause I could never have found that ruby-in-the-dust quality of yours just too likable to pass up.”

  “Okay, you have no idea how much I like it that you just compared me to a line in an old Neil Young song. Honestly,” she sighed, “if you were just a teensy bit less treasony. . . ”

  He took her hand in his, and instantly great-sex sense memories came flooding back. “I’m sorry I messed up,” he said. “Mostly because of the court-martial, but who knows, maybe if we’d connected another time . . . ?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Call me when you get out. I’ll most likely still have a night or two free.”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to worry about you dating. I’m sure you have men lined up out the door.”

  “Actually, I do. Sorry about this.” Nola turned and raised her voice. “Guys, you can come in now.”

  Three MPs who’d been waiting for her signal entered, sidearms drawn. Bryan let go of Nola’s hand, and the gooey, marshmallows-in-heaven feeling gradually faded away.

  “Hands down, worst breakup I’ve ever had,” he said.

  “Sweetie, if that’s true, consider yourself lucky.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Tony was already soaking up the sun in Carlito’s courtyard when Nola sank into the soft Mexican-leather chair across from him. It had been a bittersweet ride back from Vandenberg. The new boy bounce was gone, but most women could only complain about their exes to their girlfriends. She’d gotten to throw hers in jail. Man jail, so she didn’t even have to waste time imagining him with his new girlfriend. All and all, she decided to call it a win.

  “Margaritas on their way?” she asked.

  “Yep, double frozen for me. Tequila over ice, no triple sec so your food-diary, calorie-count bullshit doesn’t spike — for you, my black-eyed girl.”

  Nola laughed and watched jealously as he scarfed a handful of homemade chips with the best hot salsa in town.

  “So, how’d your major take being busted?” he asked through a mouthful of salty heaven.

  “Handsomely. How did your pancake-making Chelsea take having The Talk?”

  “Actually, she was surprisingly cool,” he said. “I told her we needed to slow things down and set some boundaries, and she agreed.”

  “So you’re back on Suffragette City?”

  “Then she suggested we go antiquing this weekend in Santa Ynez.”

  “Oh, the horror,” Nola teased. “So I’m guessing we can make this a nice, long lunch.”

  “No naked-woman-under-coats in my life to run home to,” he said, breathing in the sunny winter air. “Ah, freedom and Mexican food. Makes you feel good just to be alive, doesn’t it?”

  “Does this whimsical mood mean any of the Crawford-Wilsons confessed?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, on advice of counsel they all finally shut up. But the press has been mostly glowing — Santa Barbara Police Foil Bad Guys — so Sam’s in a happy place. Did you know he was dating 911 Julie?”

  “In secret, sure, I thought everybody did.”

  “Well now they’ve gone public.”

  “Good for them. Excellent match.”

  “And there’s more good news,” he said. “Our junkie came down enough to identify Jillian in a lineup.”

  “It is the age of miracles, dude,” Nola said picking up her menu. “To celebrate, and to sublimate for all the great sex I’ll no longer be having, I’m going to go nuts and order something crazy fattening with guacamole.”

  A young waitress, who weighed less than the tray she was carrying, arrived with their margaritas. It was clearly divine intervention. “Hi,” she said to Nola. “Wow, Tony said you had a black eye, but wow.”

  “Tony? Do you two know each other?” Nola asked the pretty little beanstalk.

  “We do now,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s the guy who saved the film festival.”

  The waitress flipped Tony a Colgate Ultra White smile that was off the charts. Tony smiled back like the Italian gato that ate the canary.

  “So what can I get you? Tony’s having the Anaheim-chile chicken,” she added reverently, like it was the order of a true genius.

  Nola put her menu down. “Broiled halibut and salsa, no guacamole, no sour cream.”

  “Seriously?” Tony said, turning to the waitress. “Elise, put her guacamole on my plate, I’ll make sure she eats it.”

  “You got it.” Elise flashed another memorable smile and drifted away, leaving only a trace of J. Lo’s latest perfume on the breeze.

  “I will not eat guacamole off your plate,” Nola protested.

  “History has proven otherwise,” he said. “Halibut and salsa, no guac. Hmm, I wonder what skinny waitress brought about that sudden change of heart?”

  “Don’t be intuitive. It’s time to toast.” Nola raised her margarita on the rocks. “To the best partner ever, who, because he had my romantic back, exposed my new boyfriend as a weapons trafficker, his girlfriend as a foreign agent, and solved our biggest case to date. Salut.”

  “Salut.” Tony started to drink his frozen happiness rimmed with salt.

  “Hey, wait,” Nola stopped him. “You’re supposed to say something nice about me now.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. To the oldest woman I’m still willing to be seen with.”

  “Aww. Remember when we were young and you weren’t my p
artner?” she sighed. “Those were happy days.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Back when you were perfect. Which reminds me, you might want to turn your chair a little — I see a wrinkle starting where the sun’s hitting your uvula.”

  “My uvula’s inside my throat.”

  “Then you might want to get it tightened. Maybe do some uvula Pilates or try a silicone martinizing treatment.”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I’m not kidding. I hear in Switzerland eighty-year-old women have the slim, trim inner throats of twenty-year-olds.”

  “Good news for their eighty-year-old husbands.” Nola laughed. “Hey, do you think people really still do that in their eighties?”

  “God, I hope so,” he answered, fingers crossed. “In fact, I hope it’s the main cause of knee-replacement rug burns. In fact, I hope some kindly nurse at the home is doing it to me when I die.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. Girl . . . guy . . . whole different way of looking at things. Forget my last toast,” she said, raising her glass again. “To crazy women, and the men who make us that way.”

  “Right back at ya.”

  The mariachis started up, and everything felt right with the world.

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest thanks to all my friends who put up with me or, more aptly, found me missing from their lives while I endeavored to write my first book. Stephanie, Pam, Kris, et al . . . I shall make amends.

  Kudos squared to John Roshell for his kick-ass cover design, which perfectly brought to life what I envisioned in my head, only way better.

  Love, laughter, and eternal happiness to Chelsea Myers for all her help in getting this thing proofed and distributed, and keeping her head while I was losing mine.

  A million angel kisses to my wonderfully supportive agent, Paul Fedorko at Bienstock.

  The universe and all its wonders to my editor, Colleen Dunn Bates at Prospect Park Books, for her enthusiasm, indulgence, and brilliant assistance all along the way.