The River Valley Series

by Tess Thompson

  “It’s the smallest moments in life you remember, like this one, just this perfect one with the ocean and the ice cream, and the grass and sitting with my two favorite people in the world. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.” She stood in her bare feet on the grass and flung her arms wide. “Just take it in, my loves. Just take it in.”

  Alice’s second toe was slightly longer than her big toe, just like Bella’s. That small thing they shared was something Bella held onto even all these years later. Sometimes in bed, with the windows open and the sea breeze moving the white curtains she’d hung herself, she would gaze at her feet and think, some part of you is still here. It proves you were here. You gave me these crazy toes. Drake’s daughter had had them too.

  Bella’s eyes filled and she walked blindly for a moment until she spotted a bench. She sat and wiped her eyes, watching the waves come in one after the other. The waves are slower here, her friend from Florida had said to her once. They come in less frequently, Bella had replied, but with more strength.

  How desperate her mother must have felt about money, alone with two children. Why hadn’t her mother ever dated? Bella hadn’t really thought of it before but she must have been lonely. Perhaps she never met anyone she liked well enough to bring him into her children’s lives. As it so often did when she thought of her mother’s sacrifices, the hollowness of loss and pain and regret was like something alive, emptying her insides until there was nothing but a cold mist whipping and tugging there.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her pants pocket. Peter. He’d reached each of the men on the phone and arranged times and places to meet them.

  “I’ll be right there,” she said into the phone, leaving her memory of peach ice cream and laughing next to the bench. For now. She would visit it another day.

  They were to meet Austin Blu first, at his Malibu home. It was four in the afternoon as they headed out, Bella driving while Peter filled her in on what each of the men had said when he called. The coastal highway was surprisingly uncongested and the sun low on the horizon, making diamonds on the blue water. This was one of Bella’s favorite drives. When she was heartsick over Graham, she often drove this stretch of highway on a weekend afternoon, with the radio cranked and the windows open so the salt air could find its way to her. Not that it helped. Nothing had helped. When you love a married man there is no escape from the inevitable loneliness that comes when one chooses to participate in betrayal.

  All the men had been surprisingly open to meeting with him, Peter told her as they approached Malibu.

  “How did you get them to agree?” Bella asked, genuinely curious. This Peter Ball was good at his job.

  Peter smiled. “Well, for lack of a better explanation, I kept it simple without revealing I have no jurisdiction over the case. Told them I was a cop and knew they were being blackmailed. They all agreed, rather quickly, to meet with me.”

  “What about Rawley Hough?”

  “He didn’t admit he was being blackmailed, like the others did. He was mostly silent but agreed to meet with us at his home office.”

  “He’s involved, Peter. He has to be.”

  “I agree. There’s no way it’s just a coincidence. Carrot Cop has way too much incentive to pin this on Ben as a way to keep his brother out of it.”

  “Especially if Hough murdered her.”

  “That’s right.”

  Austin Blu lived in a gated community in one of the highest priced areas in the country: Malibu beach property. When they arrived at the gate, a middle-aged security guard with a substantial beer gut came out of a booth with a clipboard. “Yes, Mr. Blu was expecting them,” he said as the gate opened. “Last house on the property. A terracotta with no windows on the driveway side.”

  They found it easily, parking in the driveway near pots of blooming flowers. The house was rectangular and barren, very modern looking, except for white clematis climbing up the side of the house. Perched on the edge of a cliff, like many of the houses along the shore, with a trail around the house hinting at the Pacific Ocean and sandy beach below.

  Bella was surprised when Austin Blu answered the door. She’d expected staff of some kind since the man was listed as one of the richest men in the world. He had the standard long hair of a rocker, although artfully cut so that it lay just so, and blue eyes the color of the ocean outside his magnificent windows. His nose was on the long side but it didn’t detract from what could only be described as attractive of the raw sexuality variety. Why would this man need to visit Madam Zinn’s girls? He could have any woman in the world. And there was his wife, the princess of romantic comedies. She was the girl-next-door daydream of countless men across the country with her blond cap of curls and big blue eyes. And she had the type of personality so many men seemed to like: perky and sweet and nonthreatening. Bella assumed this was close to her real personality because actresses like Carlie Cullen always played characters similar to their own. Regardless, Carlie Cullen was like gold at the box office.

  Austin shook both their hands and motioned for them to come inside. The part of the house that faced the beach was floor to ceiling windows, giving the feeling that one was on the water as opposed to merely looking at it. The décor was angular and modern, accented with bright reds and yellows. Masculine, thought Bella. Did Carlie live here with him? Was their marriage real or just for the press? She’d been in Hollywood long enough to know it happened more often than the American public was aware of.

  “Would you like something to drink?” She’d never heard him speak before and was surprised by his New Jersey accent. “There’s sparkling water or regular water. No soda or booze. Carlie won’t allow it. Always worried about my sobriety. Well, and my caloric intake.” He was charming and surprisingly soft-spoken, with an intelligent glint in his eyes. Not what she’d expected, considering the hard rock his band was known for.

  “Is your wife here?” asked Peter, after declining the offer for a drink.

  “No, she’s filming in Hawaii.” He indicated the sofa. “Please, come sit.”

  They did so. He sat opposite them, picking up the electric guitar from an ottoman. “It’s not plugged in, don’t worry,” he said, grinning. “I won’t blast you.” He glanced toward the windows and then back to them. “How did you know someone was blackmailing me?”

  “Had a tip from another man being blackmailed for the same thing,” said Peter. “How long had it been going on?”

  “A month ago I got a call. The voice was distorted, you know, like they do in the movies. But she knew all the details and asked for $100,000 mailed to a P.O. box here in Los Angeles to keep quiet. I agreed, obviously. I didn’t want this out in the world.”

  “Because of your wife?”

  He shook his head, his eyes dull. “No, she knows. I met Carlie three years ago and have been faithful to her all that time. Carlie knows everything about me—the good, bad, and the ugly. And if you’ve done any research on my past, you know there’s a lot of bad and quite a bit of ugly. I used to be a frequent visitor to the ranch when I was still drinking but all that changed when I met Carlie. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me and there’s no way I’d mess that up at this point. And we just found out she’s pregnant. I’m thrilled. Utterly thrilled.”

  “So why did you care if your name was exposed publicly?” asked Peter.

  “Because I don’t want Carlie publicly embarrassed. Our life is enough of a media circus as it is. You know, bad boy rocker marries a girl like Carlie—the press loves this shit. I knew if it came out, the whole circus would start again. They’d start running the clips of my mug shot from years ago and the time I punched a paparazzi in the face and I don’t want her to have to go through all that again, especially since it’s finally died down. Does that make sense?”

  “It does.” Peter glanced at his notepad. “Did you make any other payments to the blackmailer other than the initial $100,000?”

  “Yes. Last Thursday I got another call, asking for anothe
r $100,000. I sent it to the same P.O. box as the first time.”

  “What time of the day did you get the call?”

  “It was the morning. The call woke me up. I was grateful Carlie had left the day before so I wouldn’t have to explain it.”

  “So Carlie doesn’t know everything about you?” asked Peter, not unkindly or accusatory, more like they were just two men out for a drink.

  Austin looked at him blankly for a moment before understanding crossed his intelligent features. “Oh, right. No, I haven’t told her about this. I don’t want to risk her being upset. She’s had two miscarriages. I want to get her through the first trimester. She lost the last one after the press crucified her because of her performance in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Bella had forgotten that Carlie had played Maggie in one of the big theatre houses in Los Angeles. The press had not been kind. It wasn’t Carlie’s fault, Bella had thought at the time. Who casts a movie actress known for playing the girl next door in fluffy romantic comedies as the ferocious and sexy Maggie the Cat? Someone concerned with people buying tickets instead of worrying about the integrity of the play or the poor Hollywood starlet completely miscast.

  Peter glanced at his notepad again. “And you’re sure it was Thursday morning you heard from the blackmailer?”

  Austin nodded his head in the affirmative. “I think so.”

  Peter wrote something in his pad. Austin plucked at the strings on his guitar, staring at the floor before looking over at Peter. “Do you know who it was?”

  “We have a suspicion but we’re unsure,” said Peter.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “Tiffany Archer.”

  He blanched and turned pale. “What?”

  “We believe her murder could be tied up in this.”

  He put his guitar down and walked to the window. “So that’s why you’re here. You think I could have something to do with her murder?”

  “That’s right.”

  Austin turned to look at them. “If it was her blackmailing me I wouldn’t have murdered her over it. I might’ve eventually decided it wasn’t worth it to keep paying her but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if it had come out. Carlie and I have good publicists. It was mostly Carlie I was worried about, just getting her through this first couple of months without miscarriage. And, I don’t say this to sound arrogant, but a couple hundred thousand dollars isn’t going to break me.”

  “Where were you Thursday night and Friday morning?”

  “Thursday night I played a charity gig at the Hollywood Bowl. Bunch of bands participated. Cancer research. 18,000 people saw me that night. Saturday I spent the day here, writing songs and surfing. My housekeeper can vouch for me. She was here all day as well.”

  Peter asked him to call them if he thought of anything else. They both gave him their cards. “You’re in the business, then?” he said to Bella.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Cash Cutler’s home was in Beverly Hills. It was enormous, with sprawling lawns and fountains, although not even close to the largest on the street, which Peter noted with a dry quip about sitcom actors not making as much as rock musicians. This time they were let in through a security buzzer, similar to the one Drake had at his home, and pulled into a circular driveway. The house had large columns, like southern plantations might, and Bella remembered then that Cash was from Alabama or Georgia. His current television show was about a country singer who hit the big time and moved to Beverly Hills. Cash was a good singer and a surprisingly talented actor, completely believable in his current role.

  A Hispanic maid answered the door and without a word led them outside to a swimming pool. Cash, fit and tan, dressed in long shorts and T-shirt, was reclining on a chaise lounge reading a magazine. There was a glass of white wine and a martini with two olives on the table next to the chaise. A young blond woman stood next to him, her surgically enhanced breasts barely covered in a pink tank top. Her cut-off jeans were so short her butt cheeks were peeping out as she leaned over and pointed to something in the magazine that made them both laugh.

  Cash looked over at them as they approached. “Hey y’all. Come on out. What’re you drinking? I’ll have Lulu here fix you up one.”

  Lulu was the girl, not the maid, apparently, because she straightened up, gave them the once-over, and broke into a huge smile. “Of course I will, darlin’.” Her accent was southern, noted Bella. He must have imported this one from home.

  They both declined the drink. “Well sure, you two are on the job,” said Cash, his voice a slow drawl. “I played a cop once in a movie and my character was always sipping from a flask but I guess y’all don’t really do that in real life.” He pointed toward a table with a cocktail umbrella. “Come on over here, I’ll get Martha to bring us some grub.”

  “No, we’re fine,” said Peter. “We just have a few questions for you and then we’ll let you enjoy your evening.” His eyes slid to Lulu. “Best if we talked to you alone.”

  “Much obliged. Sure thing. Lulu, baby, go get changed. I want to take you to dinner.”

  Lulu squealed and jumped up and down. Those breasts were a couple of weapons, thought Bella.

  Cash grabbed his martini and the three of them sat at the table. “What can I do you for?” asked Cash.

  “Like I said over the phone,” began Peter, but Cash interrupted him.

  “This is about the blackmail thing.”

  “Right,” said Peter. “Can you tell us when it started?”

  Cash looked around the yard like he was nervous, his eyes darting to every corner of the yard. “See, the thing is, whoever this blackmailer person is, she said if I went to the police she’d leak the whole damn thing and well, I really don’t need that right now.”

  “We believe the person who was blackmailing you is dead,” said Peter. “You’re safe to talk to us.”

  “Dead?”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?” asked Peter.

  “Thursday.”

  “What time?”

  “Around lunchtime, I think. I was at the studio between takes. They’ve got this whole sexy storyline going this season and this sweet little thing I’m filming with needed a break. It all looks sexy on television but filming love scenes ain’t as much fun as you might think. It’s all move your arm there and throw your head back there. This poor girl was freezing and needed something hot to drink, not to mention how horrified she was to be almost buck naked next to me wearing nothing but one of the darn dick socks, excuse me for saying so, Miss.” His eyes darted to Bella and back to Peter. “I suggested a swig of tequila or something to loosen her up but she’s one of these girls who never eats or drinks, legs as big ‘round as a toothpick. I like my girls with a little southern fried meat on their bones. Wait a minute, now, where was I going with this? My mama always says I never know when to shut my mouth and let someone ask a question.”

  “How many times had you received calls like this?”

  “Three times. This was the fourth. Each time she asked for a hundred grand. Which hurt me to hand over, believe you me, but like I said, I’m trying to build a new image—away from the bad boy stuff—and more of a recovering sweet ol’ southern boy who wasn’t prepared for fame. You know, that kind of thing.”

  “That kind of thing can be real, you know,” said Bella, thinking of poor Tiffany.

  “Oh, hell yeah, sure. But that’s not really the case for me. I’m reckless. Have been all my life, even before I came out here, so me and my mama can’t really blame Hollywood for my troubles. However, my publicist sure can. You know half the crapola you read in them big magazines aren’t really the truth. Publicists run this town, let me tell you. And the thing is, I don’t care what people think of me, really. I just want to keep working and my manager and agent think it’s better if I play up all this poor ol’ me routine.”

  “Poor old me?” asked Peter, watching him with those piercing eyes that seemed to see everything in at once.

  �
�Oh, you know, the sharks of Hollywood got a hold of me and now I’m fighting hard against my demons, blah, blah, blah. Get my drift, here?”

  “Is it important enough for you to murder over?”

  “How’s that again?”

  “Tiffany Archer was blackmailing you.”

  His eyes were wide, disbelieving. “Tiffany Archer? Wasn’t she just a kid? May she rest in peace.”

  “Twenty-seven,” said Peter.

  “Shoot, she was blackmailing me? How’d she know about it?”

  “She got ahold of Ms. Zinn’s little black book, for lack of a better term.”

  “And now she’s dead. Holy cow. Murdered? Am I a suspect?” Strangely he didn’t look scared, more intrigued with the idea.

  “How important was it that this be kept from the press?”

  He shrugged, glancing toward the house. “Shoot, not enough to kill over it. I wasn’t sure what to do next, honestly. I’ve had some money problems, you know. Gambling and, well, as you know, whores, and some parties I’ve thrown I really shouldn’t, so I really couldn’t afford to keep paying her, but on the other hand, I really didn’t need any more bad press. But, heck, I couldn’t kill anyone. I love the Lord, for one. And He’s already displeased with me over the gambling and the whores and not giving enough money to the church and all that, but Jesus knows my heart and it ain’t the murdering kind.”

  “Where were you Thursday night and early Friday morning?”

  He scratched his chin and took a sip of his martini, glancing toward the house. “I was with a girl. Not Lulu, as it turns out.”

  “Were you seen in public with her?”

  He grimaced. “‘Fraid not. We were here at the house.” He snapped his fingers. “But the security log will show when I came in and when I left. That’ll prove it.” Pausing for a moment before taking a swig of his martini, he looked over at Bella. “You look familiar. Have we met before? I’ve had a couple run-ins with the cops out here. Do I know you from that?”