Then the man spoke.
“This way, madame.”
The accent was British. I realized my mistake. I had been admitted by a butler, not a prince. Mickey Jordan, owner of the Better Living Channel, has an English butler at his house in Beverly Hills: Maurice, pronounced “Morris.” I should have registered the similar manner of dress. Over time, Maurice had begun to smile when he saw me at the Jordans’ front door. I doubted that I would know this man long enough for that congeniality.
While the interior of the private elevator had remained the same, the suite had been redecorated. In keeping with the Forest of Arden theme below, the walls were hung with hunting tapestries and the electric wall sconces were carved to look like tree branches. The public rooms of the suite now resembled the interior of an English castle—or one of the sets from that old musical, Camelot.
I followed the butler deeper into the suite and saw a slender man rise from a green couch. Narrow face. Almost colorless blond hair, thinning, cut into a fringe above a high forehead. Intense—no, more like steely—pale blue eyes set in a pasty white complexion. He appeared to be in his midto late thirties, which would make him about ten years younger than Tanis. In spite of his less-than-robust appearance, he was an attractive man with fine features.
He extended his hand to me. “Frau Carmichael. I am Fredric von Hoffner. Here in America, ve can ignore titles.”
I took his hand. His skin was soft—he had probably never done anything remotely resembling manual labor in his life—but his grip was surprisingly firm.
“How do you do,” I said. “I was hoping to find Tanis and Celeste here.”
“They are in their bedrooms, asleep for some time. I prefer not to disturb them.”
His accent was definitely German, but it wasn’t heavy. I guessed that he had been educated in England.
Fredric von Hoffner—a prince by any other name—gestured for me to take a gilt-framed straight-back chair opposite the couch.
“May I offer you something to drink? Perhaps a port? Or tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Port for me, Mordue.”
With barely a nod, the butler went to a wet bar on the back wall of the room. I saw two doors in the far wall, perhaps leading to bedrooms, and a third door next to the bar. All were closed.
“You said you came to discuss something about the man who vas killed?” Von Hoffner’s manner toward me was cordial, but guarded, his features composed in a bland expression.
“The man was a photographer named Alec Redding.” I wasn’t sure how much he knew. Tanis had said he was a hemophiliac and that she was concerned about the effect of stress on him, implying that his health was fragile. I chose my words carefully. “Redding took the portfolio pictures of Celeste.”
He produced a short grunt of disgust. “You are referring to that ridiculous picture vit a pie? Children can be most foolish. Vy do you bring this up?”
Mordue carried a silver tray with a small crystal glass of port on it and placed the glass in front of his employer. “Your highness.”
“The police are certain to find out about that photograph,” I said. “And when they do, they may think of it as a possible motive for Redding’s murder.”
Von Hoffner took a sip of the ruby red port and shrugged. “Vy are you telling me this?”
“Where were you and Tanis this evening around nine o’clock? And Celeste? Where was she?”
“Ah, so that is vat you think?” His lips curved into a smile, but there was no sign of amusement in his eyes. He said, “Mordue.”
“Yes, your highness?”
“My fiancée, her daughter, and I were here all evening, playing cards, ya?”
“Yes, your highness.” There was not a flicker of expression on the butler’s face.
“So, you see, Frau Carmichael, this matter is no concern of ours.” He stood. “Now, if you vill not think me rude, ve shall say good night, ya?”
“You were all here, together?”
“Just so. Mordue, ring for the elevator for my guest.”
I kept my face as devoid of expression as was that butler’s. I did not believe “his highness,” nor his robotic servant.
“Good night,” I said. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again while you’re in Los Angeles.”
“Ah, I regret, no. Ve vill be leaving tonight for Vienna.”
As I went down in the private elevator, my heart was
pounding. If von Hoffner, Tanis, and Celeste—backed up by the butler—presented a united alibi, it would be terrible for Nicholas, who had said that Celeste was with him.
There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that von Hoffner was lying to me. But I was sure Nicholas had lied, too.
Where were they all last night when Redding was murdered?
Had Tanis, Celeste, and the prince been together in the suite? I doubted it.
Maybe all three of them were innocent of murder, but for Nicholas’s sake, I had to find a way to keep them from leaving the country until the truth of their whereabouts was known.
16
I paid the valet parking fee, my Jeep was brought to the hotel’s front entrance, and I swung out of the long, curving driveway and onto Wilshire Boulevard. It took only a few minutes to find a parking space on Wilshire near a streetlight where I felt it was safe to stop and make a call from my cell phone.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought to ask Olivia for her home number, so again I had to go through the routine with her answering service, give my name, and wait to be put through.
When Olivia came on the line, it was clear she was irritated. “Della, if you’re calling to say good night to Nick, I can’t let you do that. I can’t have the slightest whiff of collusion—”
“Oh, please, Olivia. This isn’t high school. I have information you need to know, something that could be bad for Nicholas.”
“What is it?” Her tone was professional now.
“Nicholas isn’t allowed to talk to Celeste,” I said, “but I wasn’t forbidden to do it. I had a hunch that she hadn’t gone home to his place, but was probably at the Olympia Grand Hotel with her mother and the mother’s fiancé. I was right.”
“What did she have to say?”
“I didn’t get to talk to her. Prince Fredric von Hoffner, her mother’s fiancé, told me that mother and daughter were asleep. When I brought up the death of Alec Redding and asked him where Tanis and Celeste were last night around nine o’clock, he immediately said the three of them spent the evening together, in the suite playing cards.”
“The three-way alibi? How convenient,” Olivia said dryly.
“The English butler, Mordue, confirmed it. But then, he would.”
“What’s Mordue’s full name?”
“I don’t know. But the three of them, and I’m sure Mordue, plan to fly back to Vienna tonight. You’ve got to stop them, Olivia.”
“I can’t, but O’Hara could. He’ll have to convince the DA’s office to find a judge who’ll issue an order preventing them from leaving the country, at least for a few days. Before our government starts slugging it out with his consulate. What’s his home country?”
“Austria, I think; they live in Vienna. But he also has a chateau in Gstaad, Switzerland. Celeste says he presents himself as a prince from a royal line in old Bavaria. So he’s probably a citizen of Austria, Switzerland, or Germany.”
“I’ll call O’Hara as soon as we’re off the line.”
“In case he’s left the West LA station, I’ll give you his cell and his home number. Don’t tell him how you found out about their plans to leave the US.”
Olivia snorted a laugh. “So you don’t want O’Hara to know you slipped the leash and went detecting?”
“I’d rather not. He’ll think I’m just trying to help Nicholas, and he may not move quickly enough.”
“Good point. We can do the full-disclosure bit after we’ve ruined their plans for leaving the country.”
I gave her John’
s numbers. She said she’d get right on it, and disconnected.
When I finally made it home, only Tuffy was at the door to greet me, with a full-body wag. There is nothing in the world that makes me feel better after a long, stress-filled day or night than the unconditional love of a pet. I scratched beneath his ears, and stroked his silky face and head.
Straightening up, I saw Eileen had left a note for me on the hall table. She said she’d gone to bed because she had to get up to be at our retail shop early to interview a new supplier and she added, “Aunt Liddy called and Mother called. They’ll both phone you again tomorrow.”
As it turned out, my two closest female friends didn’t call in the morning; they appeared. I opened the front door to Liddy wearing navy blue slacks and a white knit fisherman’s sweater, and carrying a garment bag, and Shannon in an emerald green blouse and a black pantsuit.
Although we’d talked on the phone, I hadn’t seen Shannon O’Hara for almost a month, and it was wonderful to see how good she looked. The psychotropic medications she was taking had kept her stable for nearly a year. One of the side effects of the pills was that she had gained some weight, but not enough to ruin her Pre-Raphaelite beauty. She’d always reminded me of a painting by Rossetti, specifically Fazio’s Mistress, the portrait of the redheaded woman at the mirror, braiding her wet hair so that it would dry into a crimped halo around her face. Shannon’s resemblance to the famous painting was even more pronounced this morning with her mass of bright copper hair hanging loose around her shoulders.
I’d only had a few hours sleep, but I was awake early enough to shower, dress, take Tuffy for a walk, and have some breakfast. I was about to have a third mug of coffee when Liddy and Shannon arrived. Tuffy greeted them enthusiastically, and after the ritual of petting, like the old friends they were, they settled themselves in the kitchen. I poured coffee and moved the half-and-half and a bowl of sweeteners to the center of the table.
Liddy hung her garment bag on the wall hook that also held Tuffy’s leash. “Are you going to an audition?” I asked.
“No. It’s a skirt suit and heels, and some accessories, in case I have to look more businesslike.”
“For what?”
“Investigating,” Shannon said. “But don’t tell Johnny I’m in this with you.”
“Wait a minute, you two—”
“I heard about Alec’s murder on TV last night and called you right away,” Liddy said. “John answered your phone, so I figured it was something serious. I called Shannon to find out if she knew anything.”
“I didn’t—not then. But later, Johnny had hardly come in the door when he got a call from somebody named Wayne—”
“Olivia Wayne,” I said. “She’s the criminal lawyer who’s representing Nicholas.”
“Johnny was really angry,” Shannon said. “I practically saw steam coming out of his ears. He barked into the phone that he didn’t want anyone interfering in his case, and he mumbled something about Nicholas D’Martino. Naturally, I couldn’t stop listening then. When he got off the phone he was red in the face. All he would tell me is that your Nick is ‘a person of interest’—that ridiculous phrase!—in the new murder he’s investigating. He told me to go to bed, that he’d be up soon, but he had to make some phone calls first. I asked, ‘Who are you going to phone at this hour?’ He said it was police business. I shouldn’t worry about it. Hell, he was treating me so cautiously you would have thought I was still nuts.”
I winced. “Shannon, you’re not—”
“Hey, let the mental patient make fun of herself. It’s healthy. But thanks for sticking up for me, even to me.” She squeezed my hand with affection. “Anyway, as soon as Johnny shut himself up in the den, I called Liddy.”
“We decided that if Nick is in trouble then we’re here for you,” Liddy said. “Shannon phoned this morning as soon as John left, so the minute Bill was out the door, I left to pick her up.”
“Bring us up-to-date,” Shannon said.
Liddy added, “And tell us what can we do to help.”
17
“You can help me, and I want to tell you everything that happened. But there’s one thing I don’t want John to know about, at least not yet, because it might make him focus more rigidly on Nicholas.” I looked at Shannon. “Are you willing to keep something from him for now?”
“You really believe that Nick isn’t guilty?” Shannon asked.
“Nick is not guilty. There’s a possible motive John is sure to discover, but I hope it will be after he starts investigating other people. He won’t be happy until he’s caught the real killer.”
“Since it’s for John’s good, too”—she made a zipping motion across her lips—“I promise.”
Liddy said, “You have my promise, too, even though the only things Bill investigates are dental cavities and gum disease.”
I picked up the story, detailing Tanis Fontaine’s arrival at my house, enraged by a picture of Celeste posed nearly nude with just a chef’s apron and a pie.
Shannon’s green eyes were wide. “A pie?”
“Isn’t that a modern twist on the old pie-in-your-face stunt?” Liddy said, grinning.
“Oh, I get it,” Shannon said. “Because your show—the one Nick brought her to see—was all about pies. I know, I watched it. Yikes. That does sound like she was giving you the single-digit salute.”
Liddy propped her elbow on the table, cupped her chin in her hand, and nodded knowingly. “I told you that girl was going to be trouble.”
“I could ignore the whole thing, because eventually Celeste is going to recognize that we aren’t competing for her father’s love. But Tanis saw her future threatened. She aims to marry a prince of European nobility—maybe!—so the woman blames me for introducing Celeste to Redding.”
Liddy said, “Didn’t you tell her I introduced them?”
“Of course not. No way was I getting you mixed up in this mess. Whoever Celeste went to for photos, I think it’s more than likely one pose would have been the pie shot.”
They were silent as I told them about last night—finding Redding’s body, and how Nicholas was already there.
“Redding was supposed to be out of town. I never intended to go into his house, or even talk to him that night. I just swung by on my way home from the studio. But then I saw Nicholas’s car there.”
“You went to Redding’s because you were afraid of what Nicholas might do,” Shannon said quietly.
“It doesn’t look good, Nick being there alone with the body before you arrived,” Liddy said. “I can understand why John might think he did it.”
I stated with emphasis: “But we don’t think Nicholas is guilty, do we?”
Almost simultaneously, Shannon and Liddy answered that no, they didn’t think he’d committed the murder. I ignored the fact that their tone was just a little less firm than mine.
I went on. “ ‘John, you should investigate the wife,’ I said. ‘You know how often the killer is the victim’s nearest and dearest.’ And I urged him to take a serious look into Redding’s personal life for someone who had a grievance against him.”
“Last night Johnny told me, and I quote, ‘D’Martino looks guilty as hell,’” Shannon said.
“I can’t blame him for thinking that. Nicholas is refusing to cooperate—deliberately acting guilty. He’s afraid his daughter’s involved,” I said. “I don’t want to believe she is—and I don’t, not really—but I wanted to establish where she was last night. That’s when I met her mother’s prince.”
I described going to the hotel, the conversation with von Hoffner, and his claim that he, Tanis, and Celeste were together in the suite all evening, playing cards. “He has a butler who backs him up, but I think if von Hoffner had said that they were all together on a magic carpet circling over Paris the butler would have confirmed it.”
Liddy sat up straight, smiling brightly. “So we have to crack that alibi wide open.”
“That’s my thought,” I sai
d. “I considered going back to the hotel, but now that you two are here I have a better plan.”
Shannon pushed aside her mug of coffee. “What do you want us to do?”
“When Eugene Long sold the hotel, his apartment was turned into the Presidential Suite. He had the whole floor, and he also used it for his corporate offices, so I’m guessing there must be another large suite or two on that floor.” I smiled at my friends. “It’s a lot to ask, but I’d like you to go there and talk to the hotel’s manager. Say you’re working with a major international star. You can’t name him just yet, but he’s considering renting the Presidential Suite for a month, or longer. You want to know when it will be available and—most important—you want to know if there is a private way off that floor that will keep him safe from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.”
Shannon grinned enthusiastically. “A back exit, or a private elevator to the underground garage?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Ask about servants’ quarters, too. Find out where your star’s personal assistant would sleep, and if there’s a ‘discreet exit’ from those rooms. The prince told me they’re planning to leave for Vienna tonight—unless John can stop them—so the Presidential Suite is occupied. You won’t be able to get into it to look around, but if any other suite or room on that floor is available, check it out.”
“Find out how similar it is to the Presidential Suite,” Shannon said.
“Exactly.” I turned to Liddy. “Watch out for Celeste. She’s the only one who could recognize you and ruin your cover story.”
“I’ll look before I leap,” Liddy said. She went over to my computer and turned it on.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Detecting isn’t the same as snooping for personal reasons. What’s the name of that prince?”
“Fredric von Hoffner. According to Celeste, he claims to be descended from the royal family of Bavaria and calls himself a prince.”
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