I scanned the mix of false eyelashes and curling wands spread out on tables in front of me and felt a jolt of alarm. “Where’s Rocco?”
Mimi sighed, a dramatic hiss that dropped the temperature of the room by at least ten degrees. “If I knew where that no-good Italian hair gel freak was, do you think I’d be standing here right now?”
Lily and Hazel studied us with wide eyes, their mouths ajar.
“What about another stylist?” I asked. “Surely there’s somebody—”
“You. There’s you.” Her gaze bored into me. She whipped out her phone and waved it in the air. “Or do you want me to call Magnolia?”
Maggie was probably the better choice. Even when I ran into her at the Food Barn on a random Sunday afternoon, she looked like she had just stepped off a runway or met with the queen. In my mind, though, there was something a little off about a person who wore a full face and kitten heels to pick up trash bags and frozen beef Stroganoff.
I might not know much about glamour, but I knew enough to keep Mimi from reaching out to my worst enemy with a neon sign that said I couldn’t handle everything that came with the job. “No,” I insisted. “I’ve got it. They’ll be on the set in an hour.”
Mimi stared at me for a moment before stomping over and yanking the clipboard out from underneath my arm. “I need them in evening wear,” she said with a snarl.
It was only ten in the morning.
“Sure,” I replied from between gritted teeth. “No problem.”
The sharp beat of Mimi’s shoes on the concrete floor hadn’t even dissipated before I picked up my phone to call Beverlee. Fifteen minutes later, she showed up at the front desk with a designer rolling suitcase and a bright green tote bag printed with the Beverlee’s Bites logo.
“Oh, this is fun,” she exclaimed, wheeling what appeared to be the entire contents of her bathroom behind her down the hall.
“I was going to let them do their own makeup,” I said as we turned the corner to the staging area. “I figure they’re grown women. Surely they know what to do.”
Beverlee stopped walking and turned to me with furrowed brows.
“Fine.” I sighed. “Most women know what to do.”
She pushed me aside. “It won’t hurt them to have somebody else fix them up. It’s like playing dress-up with life-sized dolls.”
I used to pop the heads off my dolls and stick them in the microwave to see if their faces melted. Somehow I doubted that was what Beverlee had in mind, so I held out my arm to usher her into the room.
“Ladies,” I said. “This is Beverlee. She’s in charge of your hair and makeup until Rocco comes in.”
While Beverlee got busy unpacking the equivalent of a department store cosmetics counter onto the table, I approached Lily. She was chewing on her nails and nervously watching the door.
“Have you heard from Rocco?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not since yesterday,” she replied, her bottom lip quivering. “And I’m worried.”
“He could be running behind. Or he overslept.” I shrugged. “You know how Italian men can be. He could have been out late last night partying with a troupe of redheaded circus performers.”
“I don’t think so, Glory,” she said, fidgeting with the fabric of her robe. “He isn’t the partying type.”
I remembered the stories Josie had found online. I leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure about that? I thought he had quite a wild history.”
She grabbed a tissue and rubbed underneath her eyes. When she peered up at me, the tissue was clenched in her fist. “He’s not like that. Not anymore.”
“People don’t just change, Lily.”
“He did,” she said with a sharp nod and another glance at her phone. “What if something happened to him? Or…”
“Or what, dear?” Beverlee asked.
She took a wobbly breath. “He said he had feelings for me, but I turned him down. What if he left?”
“You should concentrate on one man at a time,” Hazel supplied with a scowl. “I saw a picture on The Enchanted Tattler of the two of you cozied up on the beach. There’s a whole comment thread about how you flit from man to man like a ridiculous floozy.”
Lily brushed off her suggestion. “We’re just friends. He has been helping me with something.”
“That’s what you’re calling it these days?” Hazel snorted. “You really should be more careful. There are paparazzi all over the place.”
“I know.” Lily picked at a loose string on the front of her robe. “And that’s the problem. They’re so… invasive. One of them was even hiding in the bushes yesterday when I got back to the motel. It was terrifying.”
“Isn’t that what you signed up for?” Hazel suggested with a sneer. “You can’t play innocent now, not after half the world saw your lap dance on YouTube.”
Lily gasped. “I just want to make sure Rocco’s okay, and that one of those photographers didn’t go too far and hurt him.”
Lily’s eyes were wide, and I put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get you ready, and I’ll bet Rocco will stumble in here before filming starts.”
With a tiny sniff, she agreed.
Beverlee stopped in front of Hazel, who appeared to be taking selfies in the makeup mirror. “This is going to be easy. Your skin is phenomenal, and I’m not sure how you got your hair so glossy, but I’m going to need you to write down the name of the products you use.”
Hazel preened at her new fan.
Beverlee ran a finger down Hazel’s pale cheek. “I once tried an octopus facial for fine lines. Those suction cups are supposed to increase blood flow, but all it did was make me look wrinkled with a bunch of hickeys on my face.”
But when Hazel lifted a hand to give a disinterested yawn, Beverlee gasped and yanked it toward her. “You have mangled that manicure, though. Have you been dueling with rabid pirates?”
Beverlee dismissed Hazel’s blank stare with a wave. “Never mind. We’ll have you ready for the cameras in no time.”
She spent the next forty-five minutes fluffing and curling the two brides-to-be, and by the time she was done, both Lily and Hazel were radiant and prepped for the cameras. Lily’s tear-streaked cheeks had been smoothed and blended, and no signs remained of the emotional toll Rocco’s absence had taken on her.
After they headed off to the set, I helped Beverlee pack her cosmetics back into the suitcase. “Don’t you think it’s odd for him to run off in the middle of filming?” I asked.
“Maybe he realized the police were getting close to pinning the murder on him, so he took off while he still had the chance.”
I nodded. “So far, all they have is circumstantial. Why would he run off today? He seemed fine the last time I saw him, not like somebody who thought the hammer of justice was about to come slamming down on him.”
Tugging the suitcase’s zipper closed, I turned to Beverlee. “Maybe we should go find him.”
“Good luck,” Mimi said from the doorway, her shoulder resting against the metal frame. “I’ve already sent a production assistant over to wake him up, but he didn’t answer his door.”
“Have you called the police?” I asked.
“To tell them what? That one of my low-life employees decided show business was too much, so he hit the road? Happens every day, sweetheart,” Mimi replied, her voice mocking and full of spite.
She stared at me for a moment before pivoting toward the hallway. “If you can figure out a way to make a man stay when he doesn’t want to, someday I’ll be making a reality show about you.”
After Mimi turned the corner, Beverlee leaned forward to ensure she had gone. “That woman is scary.”
“But she could be right,” I said, picking up the suitcase handle. “What if the stress of the show was too much for him, and he skipped town? He’s probably down in Mexico rubbing guacamole all over unsuspecting tourist women by now.”
“Avocado makes a nice emollient,” Beverlee agreed.
&n
bsp; My hands dropped to my sides, and the suitcase toppled to the floor in front of me.
“What?” She shrugged.
“There’s only one way to know what happened to him,” I said. “We need to go back over to the Budget Motel and see if we can figure out where he went.”
She plucked a bright pink brush from the tote bag and bent toward the mirror, teasing her bangs with practiced enthusiasm. “Okay, but can we stop off at Fat Hector’s for some chips and salsa first? All that talk about guacamole made me hungry.”
17
I fluttered my fingers at Jimbo as I drove past the security station into the parking lot of the Budget Inn. He had his nose tucked in a gossip magazine, and he waved us by without a second glance.
Beverlee sat beside me, swiping her finger through a Styrofoam cup of cheese dip.
“Do you want a spoon or something?” I asked. “Or are you going to drink it like a milkshake?”
“You’re only grumpy because you’re hungry. I saw a segment on Dr. Oz about it. They called it being hangry, and it means your blood sugar is low. You shouldn’t try to solve a murder with low blood sugar.”
My stomach grumbled. I couldn’t argue with Dr. Oz. “Fine. Save me some. But let’s get this out of the way first.”
I stepped out of the car just as Zoey exited the registration office, pushing a rickety cart overflowing with cleaning supplies and balancing a mop and a bucket in her arms. She nodded as she barreled past me. “Sorry, I’d stop to chat, but our housekeeper got stuck at home with a barfing six-year-old, and I have an inn full of rooms to service. These TV folks are high maintenance.”
I pointed at the car, watching Beverlee stuff a taco into her mouth. “No problem. But Beverlee and I need to drop something else off for Mr. Sabatino.”
Zoey made a waving motion toward my Honda, big globs of water splatting the ground at her feet from the still-wet mop. “There’s a second set of keys on a hook in the office. Swing them back by before you leave.”
Nervous energy tugged at my belly when I reached behind the door and snagged the keys. On my way out, I made a beeline for the desk and quickly flipped through the guest cards to see where everybody else from the cast was staying.
I returned to the car just as Beverlee was wiping her face with a paper napkin. She gently folded it and stuck it in the takeout bag, then tucked the edges over twice and set it on the floorboard next to her feet.
She obviously hadn’t seen the stash of balled up fast food trash up in the back seat.
I held up the keys. “Bingo. Let’s go wake up our Italian lover boy.”
I rode around to the side of the building and parked a few spaces down from the stairs. Like last time, the parking lot sat mostly empty, sprigs of grass breaking through the pavement to mask the parking lines. I noted Rocco’s rental SUV next to a line of dandelions. “My guess is he’s hungover and sleeping it off.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Beverlee as she trudged up behind me. “Mimi’s room is right next door,” I whispered. “If we happen to get lost on the way back to the car.”
“Those outdoor stairwells are often confusing,” she said with a brisk nod. “Especially when you can see your car the entire time. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.”
I knocked on Rocco’s door.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time. “Housekeeping,” I bellowed.
When he still didn’t respond, I slipped the key into the lock. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting to see the carpet covered in lacy red thongs and empty bottles of prosecco.
Instead, the room was immaculate, the coverlets crisply creased and the floor clear of debris. Even the veneer tabletop was spotless, free of the incriminating papers we found when we last paid him a visit.
“Not what I expected,” I said as Beverlee dug through her purse with studied precision. “What are you searching for?”
She inclined her head toward the Magic Fingers box on the nightstand. “This time I brought change.”
She slipped a coin into the box and grinned as she rested back on top of the covers. “Where else can you get a fifteen-minute massage for twenty-five cents? It’s a bargain. They don’t make beds like this anymore.”
“And thank goodness for that,” I muttered. Nothing sounded less appealing than a bed dancing the jitterbug in a motel whose slogan was “When you have nowhere else to go.”
While Beverlee jiggled on the 40-year-old mattress, I inspected the room. The trash can sat empty, its plastic liner intact. There weren’t any dirty needles or airplane bottles of liquor in sight.
A variety of vintage hair band t-shirts were folded neatly inside the dusty dresser drawers. “This is odd,” I said. “Rocco’s stuff is still here. He didn’t leave town.”
She gave a pulsating murmur that sounded like an acknowledgment, but her eyes were tightly closed.
I walked over to the bathroom. The door was closed but not latched. I kicked it open with my foot.
The Pepto-colored tile was dingy and cracked, and the hand-cranked window appeared rusted shut. Salt air had given the glass a hazy finish. The shower curtain, an aged light brown, was flecked with mildew that matched the tile. I gagged and fought the desire to wash my hands.
High-end hair and skin care products lined the edges of the vanity, their clean lines and modern colors the yin to the rest of the moth-eaten bathroom’s dirty yang.
Just before I turned to leave the room, a roach the size of a small Buick crawled out from behind a pomade jar. I screamed and jumped back, grabbing the shower curtain to break my fall.
But instead of the cold, grimy tile I expected, my palm landed on a very tan, very hairy male leg.
I jerked the curtain all the way back.
Rocco Sabatino reclined in the tub, showing far too much Italian thigh, his eyes open and accusing and his hands frozen in a grip around the edges of the ceramic. Light gray foam clung to the corners of his mouth, and his skin was pale and splotchy.
He hadn’t skipped town. He hadn’t even left his room. Or put on pants.
I averted my eyes from the tightie-whitie-wearing corpse.
I scrambled out of the tub when I heard a screech from the bedroom. I bolted around the corner to find Beverlee, wildly bouncing up and down on the bed like she was riding on a mechanical bull. “Get on,” she cried, her voice fluttering with the movement. “I think it might be broken, but this is amazing.”
“Up.” I pointed toward the exit. “We need to go.”
She didn’t listen. Instead, she spread her arms and legs out as if she was making snow angels on the mattress.
“Beverlee, it’s Rocco. He’s… we need to call the—”
“Police!” a loud voice boomed from the other side of the door. “Open up.”
I took a deep breath and peeked out the window from behind the fungus-colored drapes. Hollis and Gage stood outside, weapons drawn.
Hollis raised a brow when I hesitantly opened the door, but then his gaze slipped past me to Beverlee, who was trying to sit up while the bed jerked back and forth. “Ladies,” he drawled while surveying the room.
Beverlee smoothed down her shirt and brushed her hair behind her ear, her hair still undulating as she struggled to straighten her body. “Hello, Hollis. This is a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”
He slipped his gun back into the holster and held out his hand. She eagerly grasped it, and he hauled her to her feet. “I could ask you two the same thing.”
“We came here to find the hairdresser,” she replied. “He didn’t show up to the set this morning, so we thought we’d come by and make sure he was okay. But he wasn’t here.”
I swallowed, acid burning the back of my throat. “Actually…”
Beverlee didn’t slow down. “And we found this old bed and you know how I love that kind of thing.”
Hollis flushed and dropped her hand.
“It seems like you’re busy. We’ll just
be on our way,” Beverlee said. “Hopefully, you can find Rocco. The girls looked beautiful this morning, but I’m not on staff with the show and I’m sure there are unions for that sort of—”
“He’s… he’s in the bathroom,” I stuttered and pointed across the room. “And I think he’s dead.”
Beverlee shrieked and immediately hid behind me, using my body as a shield.
Hollis pulled out his weapon again and jerked his head toward Gage. “Stay here,” he instructed us, then motioned to the vibrating bed. “And turn that thing off before you kill someone else.”
“I can’t believe you let me rattle around on the bed like a piece of day-old popcorn when there was a dead man in the bathroom.” Beverlee folded her arms and glared across my living room. “At least you could have told me before you opened the door for the police.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, dropping my head into my hands. “I tried, but it all happened so fast. I wasn’t expecting to find anybody behind the curtain.”
“Let me get this straight.” Scoots chuckled, wiping tears from her eyes. “You found another body. In a dirty shower.”
“It’s not funny, Scoots.” My stomach lurched as I remembered Rocco’s vacant stare and the waxy tone of his skin against the filthy porcelain tub.
“If you’re going to bite the bullet in your underwear in the middle of a roach motel, you’ve got to expect a snicker or two,” she responded. “When it’s my turn to go, it will be dramatic. Think skydiving accident over the Grand Canyon. Or throwing myself in front of a speeding train to save a baby in a stroller.”
“Or choking on a churro in a gas station parking lot,” Beverlee added with a smirk.
“That was one time,” Scoots replied, her grimace quickly replaced with a well-timed hand gesture. “And it was hotter than I expected.”
She fixed her scrutiny on me. “What happened while you were at the police station?”
Beverlee snorted. “Besides us having to stand there while that black-haired girl from the television show complained she was getting too much attention?”
Tying the Knot (A Wedding Crashers Mystery Book 2) Page 15