Unfinished Sentence (The Charlie Davies Mysteries Book 2)

by Clare Kauter

  By 5:25, I was more than a little sick of trying on tracksuits and the store was about to close. Jo handed me a bra and boy leg underpants in bright red, with a white stripe up the side of the shorts.

  “Like, I probably do need a new sports bra, but I think the tracksuit is more important,” I told her.

  She rolled her eyes. “This is a tracksuit, you fool. And you’re going to buy it and wear it, because your boss is hot and since you insist upon ditching all my mate-finding parties, you’re going to have to seduce him. Now let’s find some shoes.”

  When Jo gets like this, there’s no point in arguing. I just agreed with her choice and found shoes as quickly as I could in case another ‘where did you disappear to’ inquisition started.

  By the time we left, I had only spent half the money and I had a tracksuit and hoodie that matched, along with new running shoes.

  James had texted me earlier telling me the time and place for tonight. He had to be there early since he was the host, so couldn’t give me a lift, but that was probably for the best. I didn’t think I was going to be ready on time.

  I had a quick shower (20 minutes max) and hopped out, deodorising, perfuming, and coughing at my own scent. Now for the tricky bit – what the hell was I going to wear? It was a business dinner at one of McKenzie’s hotels – a super upmarket one. If I were a dude, this would be easy. A suit. Really just pants and a button up shirt. Why do guys have this dressing thing so easy? More importantly, why hadn’t I bought myself a suit?

  I pulled a dress from the rack – it was a black, kind of shiny, heavy material, and it was probably the classiest thing I owned. The hem hit slightly above the knee, and while the top was fitted to the waist, the bottom puffed out a little. It was like Alice in Wonderland, but goth. (Ultimately, I feel like that’s a pretty decent aesthetic.) Paired with some black heels, I might be able to pass for a rich person. Maybe even a trophy wife! (Dream job.)

  I grabbed a black clutch (which is basically just a big wallet, and not at all a practical storage device – why were backpacks so frowned-upon?) and put my licence, lip balm and phone in it, then headed out the door. The drive didn’t take too long, and I arrived at 7.30, giving my keys to the valet parking dude like they do in the movies. (Is it just me, or is handing your keys to a stranger a weirdly trusting thing to do? The guy looked kind of shifty, as well. Not that I was too worried – I’m sure the guys at B-Co. would be able to track down a stolen car. It all just seemed a bit odd to me. ‘Here, peasant, mind my automobile.’)

  Walking carefully to avoid any high-heel-related injuries (I have something of a history there), I proceeded up the small staircase to the entrance of the hotel and entered the lobby. The sign lead me to the ballroom in which McKenzie’s text had told me this ‘meeting’ was to be held. After sighing slightly at the thought of the sleep I was going to miss again tonight, I pushed open the door and entered.

  You know that bit in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective when Jim Carey goes to the rich guy’s party with Monica from Friends? (Yeah, OK, so I can’t remember her name in the movie. Whatever. You know who I mean.) There is a string quartet playing, and waiters carrying around trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres (for reference, that is not pronounced ‘whore’s doovries’ – take it from someone who learned that the hard way.) Everyone was wearing suits and designer dresses and laughing those rich-people laughs, dripping with disdain for the common folk. (OK, maybe I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea.)

  Well, I was the Ace Ventura of this party. The pleb who everyone thought was gate crashing because they didn’t recognise my face from the society pages, or recognise my dress from this season’s designers’ collections. I stood awkwardly by the entrance and tried to spot McKenzie. No luck. I pulled my phone from my clutch and typed out a message. A nearby ROWD (Rich Old White Dude) looked at me in disgust, as if he found my use of a mobile personally offensive.

  Luckily, James had spotted me and made his way to me. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi yourself,” I said, shoving my phone back in the bag. “The stench of money in the air is making it hard to breathe.”

  James grimaced. “I know.”

  The ROWD was now looking at us in confusion. He probably wasn’t expecting me to know the host. I poked my tongue out at him and he looked away, embarrassed. “People keep looking at me like they think I’m a pickpocket or something.”

  “How rude,” said James. “You haven’t done that for years.”

  Exactly!

  “Can I get some food?” I asked him. “That’s literally the only reason I’m here.”

  “Sure,” he said, laughing a little. “There’s a seated meal at eight, but we can grab you some snacks first. Would you like a glass of wine? Some champagne?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m driving.”

  “You could always stay here the night. I’ll look after you.”

  I had a flashback to my last drunken night with McKenzie and felt my face burn. He grinned at me and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a voice shouting, “Charlie! I didn’t know you’d be here!”

  Stacey barrelled into me, throwing her arms around me. She leant in and whispered in my ear, “These rich people are freaking me out.”

  Yay! Another member of the working class! People were shooting us dirty looks, clearly not enjoying this blatant display of social mobility. They were probably worried that they had an uprising on their hands.

  I was glad for the distraction. That conversation with McKenzie was not something I was ready for. Needless to say, I was adamant that I would not be drinking tonight.

  “What are you doing here?” Stacey asked, pulling back from the hug. She was smiling, but her brow was wrinkled slightly in confusion.

  “Scabbing a free meal,” I answered. Pretty much the truth. She giggled. It was only then that I noticed Lionel standing beside her. He was wearing a black suit and a bowtie, which along with his thuggishly stout neck made him look slightly comical. Only slightly, though, because his stoic facial expression was too serious for the outfit to really take the edge off.

  “It is nice to see you both again,” Lionel said. “Thank you for inviting me, James. It is a lovely party, and a lovely venue. You must be a good businessman.”

  Whether his stilted speech was because of the language barrier or because he was uncomfortable being here was unclear. I suspected it was mostly the latter. The bowtie was the giveaway – with the way it was eating into his neck, I doubted it was something he wore often. He’d looked much more comfortable in his regular shirt and slacks last night.

  “Thank you,” said James, “Although really this is all my uncle’s doing. I just haven’t had time to screw it up yet.”

  Lionel laughed quietly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I am sure you know what you are doing.”

  “I’m not,” James answered with a smile.

  “You’ve always got policing to fall back on,” said Stacey.

  “Yes,” Lionel said. “I heard that you are an officer of the law. I wonder, how does that play out for a businessman such as yourself?”

  “What do you mean?” James asked, a little less jovially. He looked like he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what Lionel was getting at.

  “You do not find that the two things… clash?”

  You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out the undertones of that question.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Stacey, apparently oblivious to the subtext. “I think it’s great that you’ve kept your day job. You shouldn’t have to give up on something you love to focus on business. Sometimes I think Lionel gets a bit caught up in the money side of things.”

  “Really.” The atmosphere between Lionel and James now was so chilly it was arctic. Guess that whole ‘business networking’ thing wasn’t going so well.

  A waiter walked up to our group and presented a tray of whore’s doovries to James and Lionel, who waved him away.


  “No, thank you,” said James, clearly distracted.

  “Hit me up, mate,” I said. The waiter raised his eyebrows at my (frankly, kind of bogan) turn of phrase before grinning and bringing the platter over to me. Stacey took one of the marinated mushroom caps and nibbled at it delicately. I picked up one in each hand.

  “Just stand here for a while,” I instructed the waiter. “I’ll take these off your hands.”

  He looked a little concerned at this suggestion, and glanced at James questioningly. James nodded at the waiter and I ate the remaining mushrooms in roughly 30 seconds before sending the server on his way.

  Once I was done with snacking, I focused my attention back on the conversation. I use the term loosely, as it was mostly just Stacey talking and James politely responding with minimal words. James was an honest kind of guy – upstanding citizen, police officer etc. – and it was clear he didn’t want to get mixed up with whatever Lionel was into.

  “It’s just such an interesting insight into the human condition, you know? People are so snobbish about it but I’ve learned more about people from reality television than I ever have in my human resources training.”

  Oh, man. Stacey was on one of her reality TV rants. This could go on for hours. I’d once suggested she write a book on the topic, because it would take less time than one of these rants.

  “You’re not going on about reality TV again, are you?”

  It was a female voice coming from behind Lionel. He blocked a lot of sun (if you catch my drift), so the source wasn’t visible to me, but I recognised the voice instantly. My stomach sank.

  As if this conversation wasn’t already awkward enough.

  “Oh, hi Celia!” said Stacey brightly.

  To his credit, James looked equally as surprised to see Celia as I was. OK, so he hadn’t set this up intentionally. Good. If he had, I would have killed him.

  “Hi,” James said to her

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  Celia Stanton, my former best friend, stood before me in an expensive-looking royal blue gown and strappy shoes. Her long, silky black hair was up in a bun, and she was easily the most glamorous person in the room. Her Eurasian heritage had provided her with perfect skin and gorgeous facial features, however currently her brow was furrowed and she was biting her lip.

  She hadn’t been expecting to see me either.

  Chapter Four

  Stacey turned to me. “Celia is interning at the company I work for. We started hanging out again when she helped on Lonny’s latest marketing campaign, so I invited her along tonight. I didn’t think James would mind.” She shrugged apologetically at me. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “It’s nice to see you, Celia,” said James, leaning in for a hug and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  My stomach churned. The image of James and Celia in each other’s arms was familiar, as they’d dated for three years when we were younger, but it was nonetheless nauseating.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice flat. I didn’t set out to be openly hostile, I really didn’t. I just couldn’t quite hide the animosity in my voice. There was a lot of history here.

  “How have you been?” Celia asked.

  “Well, I’ve been worse.” Hold it, in, Charlie. Don’t go there. Don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t – “Like that time my brother disappeared and my best friend totally flaked on me and –”

  “Charlie, grow up,” said James, cutting me off.

  For a moment, I was silent. Normally when I was upset, my instinct was to get loud. Shouty and violent, that was me.

  “Are you serious?” I said, turning to James. “Grow up?”

  “You’re not a kid anymore. Stop being so immature.”

  “This coming from the guy who hasn’t been in the same room as his brother for five years.”

  “There is a reason I don’t talk to Will, and you know that. This stupid thing, though? You were just pissed off that Topher ran away, and you were looking for someone to be angry with.”

  “I don’t blame her for – that’s not what this is about!”

  “Oh really? Because it sounds a lot like that.”

  “What?”

  “You just have a tendency to blame other people for everything that goes wrong in your life.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. I had foolishly thought that he and I were friends – or at least friendly – these days. Apparently not. “What are you saying, James? I blame other people, but really I’m to blame for Topher running away?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t –”

  “Really? Because it sounded a lot like that.”

  My breathing quickened, and I felt blood rushing to my face. Swallowing down the lump that had formed in my throat, I turned and walked away.

  “Charlie, I didn’t mean – Charlie!” James called out after me, but I kept walking. I knew what was coming, and I was not going to let him see it.

  My eyes were stinging as I pushed through the crowd of minglers, making my way to the exit. The tears were threatening to spill over, and I needed to get out before they did. I shoved my way past guests, not taking notice of (or caring) who I bumped into.

  Great. I was leaving McKenzie’s party crying. And I hadn’t even gotten a proper meal out of it.

  I was halfway to the door when one of the people I’d knocked into grabbed me gently by the arm – not a threatening gesture, just someone trying to get my attention. I looked up and found myself face to face with Adam Baxter.

  “You cry?” he asked.

  “Apparently,” I answered. “Although I try not to make a habit of it.”

  “Should I call someone?”

  “Like someone who knows how to interact with other humans?”

  “What good would that be with you?”

  “You can’t burn me when I’m already crying.”

  “Sorry,” he said. It looked like he meant it, if only slightly. “I like your dress. You don’t even look homeless tonight.”

  “Careful. I might swoon.”

  Adam smiled. Of course, the first time this guy ever smiles at me is when I’m in tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, now you and I are having a heart-to-heart?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because we’re such good buddies?”

  “Because I want to know what someone could possibly do that would make you cry.” Of course. He wanted ammunition. “I’m assuming it was James McKenzie.”

  “You don’t know me,” I snapped.

  “Ah, so I’m right.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine. Let’s dance.”

  Wait, what?

  “Sorry?” I said, hoping I’d misheard him, but knowing it was unlikely seeing as he was leading me over towards the (empty) area next to the string quartet.

  “It’ll make McKenzie jealous,” he whispered, a slight smile still playing on his lips.

  “How dare you,” I said, but there was no real anger behind it. I was too curious about this sudden personality change to formulate a real argument.

  We reached the spot by the musicians (where literally no one else was dancing) and Adam put one arm around my waist. He seemed to know what he was doing, so I followed his lead, stepping around in time with the music. We were standing very close, and although Adam was much taller than me, in these heels I reached his shoulder height.

  “I need you to help me,” he said very quietly – so quietly that no one else could possibly overhear.

  “Oh?” I said, not really sure how to respond. He needed my help? Big Bad Adam Baxter needed me?

  He guided me around easily – no small task considering my propensity for injuring myself and others.

  “I have a new case for you,” he said. “You were talking to Lionel last night at the club, and I saw you with him here earlier.”

  “Yeah, he’s dating my friend, Stacey.”

  “The bru
nette in the red dress?”

  “Yeah, the hot one,” I said. I knew that was what he meant. For the second time tonight, Adam smiled. Seeing my tears had made him so chirpy.

  “From what I saw last night, you’ve got a couple of pretty hot friends. Even that creepy one that was feeling up McKenzie.”

  “That would be my best friend, Joanna.”

  “Your relationship with McKenzie is strange.”

  “Jo’s relationship with him is strange. Mine is simple. I hate him.”

  “Right. That’s why you came to this party as his date.”

  “You said you had a case?”

  Adam paused. “Alright, we’ll ignore that abrupt change of topic. How well do you know Lonny Lionel?”

  “I don’t, really. I met him last night.”

  Adam nodded slightly. “First impressions?”

  I thought for a moment. “He makes me uncomfortable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just… I don’t know. I don’t trust him.”

  “Good.”

  I frowned, tilting my head back to look up at Adam’s face. “Good? Really?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said, quietly. “The reason I brought you over here was not, in fact, because I wanted to dance with you. It’s louder here, and we can stand close with no risk of anyone interrupting or overhearing.”

  “You had ulterior motives for asking me to dance?” I pouted. “And here I thought it was just because I’m pretty when I cry.”

  Adam rolled his eyes, a smile still playing on his lips. “I’m afraid I’m just using you for your connections.”

  “My heart is breaking.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I think that might have more to do with McKenzie than me.”

  I felt a pang of something – fear? Embarrassment? I don’t know, some sort of emotion. Whatever it was, I was uncomfortable. “Since when have you become so interested in my private life? You hated me earlier today.”

  “Yes, but now you’re useful.”

  What a charmer.

  “Fine. So you want me to get close to Lionel?”

  “He’s asked me to work for him.”

  “What do you mean? Work a case?”