Poison and Prejudice (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 4)

by Chelsea Field

  I’d been pondering the same thing, and the answer was: not really. “In the two weeks I’ve been working for him, almost all the socializing I’ve seen him do has been at celebrity events or on the film set. There’s another actor there that he’s good mates with, and he had four friends over for a football game, but that’s it.”

  I wrote down the names of each person and handed it to them. “So what’s happening now? Did you find anything helpful in Alyssa’s belongings? And I assume you’ve followed the charity money trail and checked it’s all legit, right?”

  Fifteen million a year seemed awfully generous for people horrible enough to prey on the vulnerable, and I’d been questioning whether there was something shady going on.

  “That’s not information you need for your part of the operation, Ms. Avery.”

  “Sure, but I’ve proven myself trustworthy at keeping confidences,” I said with a pointed look at Joe.

  Joe sighed. “I guess it won’t hurt to tell you.”

  Jeff gaped at him. “This is highly unusual, and I’m not certain the situation warrants—”

  “Then it’s just as well I’m the one in charge.”

  Jeff shut his mouth with an audible snap.

  “Our team is still going through Alyssa’s properties and possessions—she has a lot of them—but they haven’t turned up anything pertinent so far. And of course we’ve followed the money, but it was a dead end. The sole person who works on the Hill Foundation in the States is an accountant with a squeaky-clean record, no face-to-face dealings with Mr. or Mrs. Hill, and no evidence of living above his means. The donations are then distributed in Africa through an expat American who has dedicated her whole life to charitable works over there. She’s a spearhead of numerous reputable charities, including dozens of other orphanages, but all the missing girls come from the six funded by the Hill Foundation.”

  If only I was so good at getting information out of murderers and human traffickers. Or Connor, for that matter.

  The problem was, leverage doesn’t work unless you know something about the person that’s worse than the thing you want them to tell you. So even knowing Zac had spent the better part of last night wearing a skirt—probably not something one of the top five sexiest men in America wanted getting out—it wasn’t enough.

  Even if he was arrested for murdering Alyssa, there was no reason for him to confess to the human trafficking crime and tell us where the girls were. I left Jeff and Joe to their minivan and pondered whether blackmailing Zac for murdering Alyssa might make him more cooperative. Or just more dangerous.

  The focus of my musings was sheepish when I let myself in. “I don’t remember much of last night, but I remember enough to know I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

  I waved it off. “It’s fine. You deserve to let off some steam.”

  He frowned but let the issue drop.

  His loft had been even further inundated with sympathy gifts and well wishes like someone had blown up a gift shop and florist and all the rubble had landed here. He’d taken the time to stack them up against one wall, and the food and drink items had been taken out and put to the side in a pile of their own.

  He saw me looking. “I thought I’d donate them to the local hospital, but after that drugged Silver Oak cab sav, I was too scared to give them any of the edible stuff. A guy’s coming around to collect it soon.”

  It seemed like a lot of effort for a hungover celebrity who’d murdered his wife and trafficked children, but it could all be part of the act.

  “Anyway, I got a message from the production assistant this morning, and she said we only have to get to the studio at nine, so I was about to go have a swim. Help yourself to a coffee. I’m sure you need it after um, dealing with me last night.”

  Perhaps the fact he didn’t ask me to fetch him a juice meant he wasn’t moving any more bodies today. I made myself a coffee and savored half an hour of peace and solitude. Then, since Zac was still in the pool, I figured it would be a good opportunity to document his photo wall for Connor. Hell, maybe one of them would have the saying “A good friend will hide you. A best friend will help you hide the body” scrawled underneath.

  Starting from the top left corner, I went along snapping pictures of each one on my phone, which was trickier than it sounded when the glass in the frames kept reflecting and ruining the clarity. Halfway through, I stopped and gaped, dimly aware of my phone clattering to the floor.

  Jennifer. Stalker bleeping Jennifer stared back at me.

  Okay, she wasn’t looking at me. Technically, she was kneeling on the floor cuddling five chihuahuas. But still!

  I could’ve sworn I’d never seen the picture in my life. Was it possible I had missed it? It wasn’t like I’d spent that much time studying Zac’s photo wall before now.

  Zac chose that moment to return from his swim, a towel pulled around his budgie smugglers. The modesty was nice except for some reason it made me think of the skirt—and what was not under the skirt—from last night.

  I pointed at the photo. “Was this one always here?”

  Zac came and peered over my shoulder. “No. I have no idea who that is. That frame used to hold a picture of my mom.”

  “Then I guess we just found out what your stalker got up to when I left her alone in your house.”

  The film set was as we left it. No extra security due to the missing cast member. Or a cast member’s missing toothbrush. Apparently, my abduction didn’t merit extra security either.

  But the atmosphere was different. I realized that for the first time, everyone was quiet and still without the cameras rolling. Zac went over to where the team was milling around while I hung back, not wanting to intrude.

  Torres got to his feet.

  “Listen up you scum-suckers. This movie is officially [bleep]ing canceled. The execs are pulling the plug, and you can all [bleep] off and return to your miserable humdrum lives. I’d like to say it was a pleasure working with you, but it [bleep]ing well wasn’t.” He tried to kick over his chair, but his laces got caught in the wheels, and he rolled it around ineffectually instead.

  The crew was too shell-shocked to laugh, which was a pity because I thought he deserved it.

  When further shaking didn’t disentangle his foot from the chair, he had to bend over and do it by hand. It was then I noticed the scratches on his back.

  Either he owned a cat with large paws and vicious tendencies, or he’d been scratched by a human.

  Torres recovered from the chair incident and addressed the crew again. “Also, there are LAPD officers here with questions for you. No one leaves until you’ve talked to them.”

  I scanned faces to see if anyone looked worried about that last comment. Zac’s friend Paul did look upset, but it might’ve been about being fired. He wasn’t alone. A lot of people must have been relying on this paycheck.

  I hoped the movie being called off might spell the end of Torres’s directing career too, but it was unlikely. The director couldn’t be blamed for the death of one of their stars.

  My neck prickled like someone was staring at me with hostile intent. Jennifer?

  I turned around. It was perhaps worse than Jennifer. Police Commander Hunt: ex-military badass cross tough cowboy, the man who’d thrown me in jail, my least biggest fan on the police force, and… Etta’s beau. He was flanked by two other officers. Here to ask questions presumably.

  I pasted on a bright smile and pretended not to see Hunt’s cold eyes and aggressive mustache that were promising pain. “Commander, always a pleasure.”

  Judging by his scowl, my choice of words could’ve been better in light of my new plan to win him over. The only pleasure in our acquaintance as far as he was concerned was locking me in jail or cowing me into submission. Which meant there was nothing I could say to make him happy to see me. Perhaps I should remind him of more pleasant associations.

  “How are things going with Etta?”

  He gestured for his colleagues to go on a
head. “None of your damn business.”

  All right then.

  “This better not be a social chat. I’ve got a murder to investigate.”

  “Well, I might have a lead for you on that.”

  He sneered. “What, too busy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong in a different case to withhold evidence on this one?”

  Ugh. There went my vague hope that having regular sex would make him a nicer person. Maybe he had an erectile dysfunction.

  “For the record, I was asked to assist on the other case. But let’s get back to the point, shall we? As I’m sure you’re aware, the victim had some unknown DNA under her fingernails. I just happened to notice that the director, Torres, over there has big scratches on his back.”

  “His back, huh? Unusual to get defensive wounds there.”

  It took me a minute to get what he was insinuating.

  “But whoever it was drew blood.” I didn’t know what Hunt and Etta got up to in the bedroom, but surely it didn’t draw blood? Unless Etta was mad about that erectile dysfunction thing.

  “We’ll talk to him,” Hunt said. “Same as we’ll talk to everyone here. Now if you’ll step out of my way, I’ve got things to do.”

  I looked around. There were literally yards of empty space surrounding me in every direction. But I stepped out of his way.

  He strode by, and momentarily forgetting my resolve to win him over, I called after him. “Don’t worry about it, you can thank me later.”

  Zac was wandering around exchanging quiet words and back patting with the rest of the film crew. He’d told me on the way over that he didn’t care whether the studio went ahead with the movie or not because it was one of the weaker scripts he’d seen, except he was worried for the others who needed the work. I watched him for a while, but since Joe and Jeff had been so dismissive of my list with these same people yesterday, it didn’t seem worth noting them down again today. Plus after spotting those scratches on the director, I was much more interested in listening in on his and Hunt’s conversation.

  I crept over and hid behind one of the temporary walls of the set. Walls that would be demolished now, sadly. I considered then dismissed asking Torres whether I could have the pretty wallpaper.

  “Yes,” he was saying. “The DNA will probably be mine. We had sex. She was… enthusiastic.”

  Eww. This is what I got for eavesdropping.

  “When was the last time you had sex with Mrs. Hill?”

  “The night she died, I guess.”

  “When? Be specific.”

  “A couple of hours after the charity ball. Maybe about midnight?”

  “How long had you been seeing her in this capacity?”

  “I wasn’t. It was just the once.”

  I felt another wave of sympathy for Alyssa. Torres seemed a lousy choice for the last screw she ever had. But Zac had insinuated she liked her screws. Preferably with powerful men, and I guess Torres had been the most powerful man on the film crew.

  While it told me something about the night leading up to her death, I couldn’t see the director being involved in the trafficking. He was a newcomer in the lives of the Hills, and the girls had been disappearing for years. There was no help for them here.

  I exited my eavesdropping spot and returned to observing Zac. He was the best lead we had left.

  Ten minutes later, Zac finished sharing and receiving condolences, and we headed out of the warehouse for what was, for me, probably the last time. I had no regrets about that. I did regret what happened next.

  Hunt jogged after us. “Mr. Hill, I have one more question for you if you don’t mind.”

  Zac waited for him to catch up. “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Did Mrs. Hill ever scratch you with her fingernails during sexual relations?”

  Zac’s face darkened. “Is this really relevant?”

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled heavily. “Yes. Sometimes. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’d like a word with Ms. Avery before she leaves.”

  Uh-oh.

  Zac nodded at me. “Go ahead.”

  We walked a couple of yards away before Hunt spoke. Or gloated to be more accurate. “There you have it, they weren’t defensive wounds, as I said.”

  He was happier when I was wrong than when I gave him helpful information to solve one of his cases.

  The only way I could explain Etta’s attraction to him—aside from his good looks and rock-hard physique—was that she was also attracted to dangerous things. Alligator hunting, for example, or tracking down serial killers.

  “Well done, Commander,” I said.

  He scowled.

  My plan to win him over was going poorly.

  Like most of my recent plans come to think of it.

  “You know you would never have met Etta if it wasn’t for me,” I said.

  His glower deepened. “There you go again, taking credit where it isn’t due.”

  Remembering my quest for peace, I bit down my retort. But I was convinced at that moment that I never wanted to be a diplomat. Actually, I rather wanted to ask him if he’d ever solved the mystery of how he got that stick up his ass…

  Okay, charm wasn’t going to work. Maybe baking would.

  15

  “How do you catch yourself a stalker?” I asked Harper an hour later.

  “Be rich, famous, and ridiculously good-looking.”

  “And if you’re none of those things?”

  “Use someone rich, famous, and ridiculously good-looking as bait.”

  That seemed… remarkably achievable. Given my favorite knife-wielding stalker had overt sexual desires, it wasn’t hard to figure out the type of thing that might attract her. The tricky part would be working out how to get the word out there.

  Harper searched for fan-spotting sites, and I browsed for relevant Zachariah Hill hashtags on Twitter. My mum, who was a similar generation to our stalker, didn’t know what Twitter was, but perhaps one had to keep abreast of the latest technology to be a successful stalker. Social etiquette wasn’t a requirement, and okay, a knife couldn’t be classified as advanced technology, but it was possible she just liked the up-close-and-personal feel of it. I touched my neck, then shrugged it off.

  After some discussion, we composed the following tweet and posted it under a new Twitter account:

  Zac’s heading to Port of Los Angeles Long Wharf to shoot a commercial in the snuggest Speedos I’ve ever seen #CelebSpotting #ZachariahHill

  Then we hustled there ourselves.

  Being a winter weekday during business hours, the parking lot was mostly deserted, which was why Harper had picked the location. Pale sand and turquoise ocean stretched for miles in both directions, broken by the occasional volleyball net, stone breakwater, and a few hard-core beach lovers. Perfect. We found a spot in the sand where we could watch the entrance to the parking lot and settled in to wait, my Taser a reassuring lump in my pocket.

  We knew it was a long shot that anyone would see our tweet and give it any credence since with a brand new account and zero followers it would seem like a hoax. Only the very bored or zealous might risk the drive to find out. Jennifer was undeniably zealous about Zac, but if she wasn’t on Twitter, it wouldn’t do us any good.

  Half an hour later, we had to conclude that she was a no-show. Something I was disappointed yet also relieved about, despite the Taser’s comfort.

  But there was another woman wandering around who appeared to fit the bill. She was alone. She was scanning the area every few minutes. She wasn’t dressed for the beach. And she had a camera.

  “Zac might have more than one stalker, right?” I asked Harper.

  “Someone as popular as him, sure.”

  “Maybe we should try the woman in the red jacket with the camera then. One stalker is probably as good as another.”

  “Okay, but we didn’t talk this part through. How do we apprehend her?”

  I chewed my lip. “We�
�re just going to have a friendly little chat, so no need to get formal I guess. How about we go up on either side of her and tell her to come with us if she wants to see Zachariah Hill getting changed?”

  Harper smirked. “A foolproof plan if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “Well, if you have a better idea…”

  “Nope. Let’s do this.”

  Our stalker didn’t look as unhinged as Jennifer. She was better dressed for one thing in fitted jeans and a suit jacket, and her hair was trendily cut and spruced up with caramel highlights. Plus she wasn’t pointing a knife at anyone. I didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing. The less unhinged part, I mean. Not the knife part. That was definitely good.

  My foolproof plan worked just fine until we walked around the building where I’d claimed Zac would be.

  “Where is he?”

  “In his loft at home. We made it up because we wanted to talk to you.”

  “You’re the girl from the red carpet, right?” She looked interested. “Why would I want to talk to you?”

  I realized I should’ve brought bribes. Things from Zac’s loft that might appeal to someone obsessed with him. But nothing in my life to date had prepared me to bargain with stalkers.

  “I have access to his house,” I said. “I can get you what you want. But first I need you to answer a few questions for us.”

  Stalker number two seemed suspicious. “Like what?”

  “Like, did you see anything unusual on Monday night?” The night of Alyssa’s death.

  “Like what?”

  I got the feeling she was fishing for information, and I didn’t want to give her any. She looked a little too bright for my tastes, and the last thing we needed was her piecing anything together. “You’d know if you were there to see it.”

  “And if I wasn’t?”

  “Have you ever seen Zac or Alyssa with any black teenagers? Aside from the charity stuff I mean.”

  “Nope. But I’m Wendy Cooper from Gossip News, and I’m extremely interested in why you’re so eager to find the answers to these questions.”