Murder on a Silver Platter (A Red Carpet Catering Mystery Book 1)

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  “You say her name wasn’t Cheryl?” Joey asked.

  “It was something else. Rachel, I think,” Randall said. “Look, it was a long time ago. But I never forget a face and that face belonged to Rachel, definitely not Cheryl.”

  Max and Arlena remained silent, staring at their father.

  Joey cleared his throat, cutting the awkward silence. “If Holly wanted to, how would she go about getting in touch with you, Mr. Madison?”

  “One of the assistants in my manager’s office handles my correspondence, emails, calls, that kind of thing. It’s mostly people pitching screenplays or requesting appearances, that kind of thing. They brief me on what comes in, and they keep a file on anything off the wall or threatening. I’m contacted by hundreds of people, but they would know to bring something like a claim about a long lost child to my attention. You can check with them about Holly, see if she tried to contact me.”

  “Actually, we determined through her computer search that Holly emailed you last month,” Joey said, flipping again through his leather bound pad. “She didn’t mention her mother or her suspicions about your relationship to her. It looks like she was trying to set up a meeting with you.”

  “They must have filed it away as a fan letter,” Randall said, shaking his head. “I never heard about it. If I’d known she was in some kind of danger, maybe I could have done something.”

  Joey sighed. “One more thing, I’d like you to agree to provide a DNA sample to help with the investigation into Holly’s death,” Joey said.

  Randall waved his hand. “Fine. But what does me meeting her mother all those years ago have to do with her being killed?”

  Joey shook his head and gazed at his notepad, and after a moment he looked up. “Mr. Madison, Holly was murdered right outside your daughter’s home. And she thought maybe she was your daughter, too. Do you really have to ask what this has to do with you?”

  Chapter 18

  The limo skimmed silently over the George Washington Bridge into New York City, the five people inside quietly contemplating Joey’s news. The mood since they’d left the house was subdued, but Randall had been trying to lighten it, reminiscing about the night when he’d met Cheryl Anderson.

  “Daddy, please,” Arlena sighed quietly.

  “Look, kids.” Randall became serious. “You know who I am. And I don’t apologize for my life. I take responsibility for my actions.”

  Penelope was thankful she was sitting next to the door out of his direct line of sight. Sam sipped champagne from a flute, his arm draped over Arlena on the other side of her, and Max sat next to his dad across from them.

  “But Daddy,” Arlena said, exasperated. “Holly tried to reach out to you. Someone killed her and that same person might be after me. Don’t you feel like we’re partly to blame for what happened to her?”

  Randall sighed and sat back against the leather seat, crossing an ankle over his knee. He put his arm around Max’s shoulders, who stared out the window at the Hudson River. “If anyone decides to come after any of my kids, they’re going to have to go through me first,” he declared. “I still have some connections from the neighborhood. If this Detective Baglioni can’t take care of it, I will.”

  Arlena sighed and looked at Sam.

  “I love you kids. You know that,” Randall said.

  “We love you too, Dad,” Max said quietly.

  Père was a small French restaurant that Randall frequented in Midtown. Though it had been around for many years, it was still destination dining, unique in that it was popular with both tourists and native New Yorkers. Penelope had seen Père mentioned more than once on Page Six accompanied by blurry pictures of celebrities coming and going. She was more interested in sampling their menu, which had a reputation as innovative and fresh, and always evolving based on the season.

  The restaurant was dimly lit and all of the tables were full. The low murmur of conversation paused momentarily as Randall Madison and his party were greeted at the door and escorted immediately to a table in the main room next to the bar. It normally took a few months to get a reservation for eight o’clock on a Saturday night at Père, but Randall had managed it with one phone call that afternoon. Penelope admired the eclectic mix of mismatched dishware and glasses on the white tablecloths, which gave the impression of being in someone’s home rather than an upscale eatery. Adding to the warmth of the room was an open fireplace in a stone hearth that ran along the back wall and the smell of freshly baked bread in the air.

  A young waitress in a long white apron appeared at their table as they settled into their seats. Randall ordered a round of dirty martinis to which she nodded pertly and strode over to the bar, her hands clasped behind her back. Penelope noticed that none of the wait staff was writing anything down, most likely trained to memorize their table orders. When their waitress returned with drinks, Randall grabbed one off of her tray and said, “Best martini in town.”

  As they drank their cocktails some of the tension from the limo began to ease. The couple at the next table stole a couple of glances at Arlena and Sam, who were sitting close together and discretely linking fingers under the table.

  The waitress quietly reappeared at the table along with a well-dressed, compact older gentleman. “So nice to see you again, Randall,” he said, patting Randall on the back.

  “Louie!” Randall said. “You’re looking fit.”

  “Not as fit as you,” Louie said, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Do you have in mind what you’d like this evening?”

  “Bring us Marche du Chef,” Randall said. He glanced at Arlena and added, “But no shellfish.”

  Penelope searched her culinary school memories for the phrase and remembered it roughly translated into “Chef’s Choice.”

  “And we’ll have another round of these.” He tilted his empty martini glass towards the waitress.

  “Absolutely. I think you’ll be pleased with what we have tonight,” Louie said, bowing slightly to the group. “Off you go, Brigitte.” Louie shooed the waitress towards the bar and headed off to the kitchen.

  “Daddy always knows where to go and what to order,” Arlena said, rubbing her father’s shoulder, letting the last of her frustration towards him fall away. He leaned back and grasped her hand.

  Brigitte returned with five martini glasses, each filled to the brim with what looked and tasted like liquid silver. Penelope planned to savor this experience and carry it forward to inspire her own food. She took in her surroundings and thought about her dinner companions, realizing that even though Max and Arlena had grown up separately and away from their father, when they were all together they acted like a very traditional family.

  Max draped his arm across the back of Penelope’s chair. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, his fingers tapping lightly on her shoulder.

  “Thanks, Max,” she said. She picked up her martini from the table, being careful not to spill any of it, and took a sip. Max continued to gaze at her, taking his own drink in his hand.

  Just then Brigitte reappeared at their table, balancing a tray of beautifully arranged dishes. The group fell silent and watched as she placed the plates in the middle of the table. “Please enjoy our baked Camembert, Boeuf Bourguignonne, Blanquette de Veau, Piperade, and the chef’s special Cassoulet.”

  Louie, who had been overseeing from a distance, walked over and poured red wine into their long-stemmed glasses. “A gift from the chef,” he said, showing the label to Randall. “We do hope you enjoy.” Louie and Brigitte made a quick exit and Randall began passing around the plates, marveling at the way everything looked and smelled.

  After they’d finished dessert, a selection of pots de crème, Penelope excused and headed to the ladies’ room.

  “I’ll join you,” Arlena said.

  They entered the restaurant’s bathroom and sto
od next to each other at the mirror.

  “Everything was perfect. I wouldn’t mind having that Cassoulet at home,” Arlena hinted, eyeing her lipstick in the mirror.

  “I’ll have to come up with my own version, Penelope said. “I never knew your dad was so funny.” She turned towards the line of stalls along the wall and entered the closest one.

  “Daddy loves making people laugh,” Arlena said distractedly. She rubbed her hands down her flat stomach. “That was a nice splurge but I have to take it easy now. I can’t look like I gained weight from one day to the next.” Penelope emerged and washed her hands at the sink.

  The toilet in the far corner of the room flushed and Penelope glanced at Arlena. Brigitte emerged from the stall, tucking a stray strand of hair back into the rubber band of her ponytail with one hand and her phone into her apron pocket with the other. She looked at the floor as she approached the sinks to wash her hands.

  “I’m sorry, please excuse me,” Brigitte said, blushing as she lathered her hands at the far end of the counter.

  “No need to be sorry,” Arlena said. “Thanks for taking care of us tonight.”

  The limo slipped around the corner of the restaurant right as they stepped outside. They were bundled up in coats and scarves and stood close together to ward off the cold.

  “Oh perfect,” Randall said, nodding at a group of paparazzi standing on the opposite corner. Some of them began to move across the street towards the entrance of the restaurant.

  “Hey Sam! Sam, over here!” one of them shouted as camera flashes lit up the night. Sam took a step closer to Arlena, turning towards her and shielding her from the approaching crowd. Randall lit a cigarette and raised his arms wide in a “come and get me” gesture.

  Penelope, who stood in the middle of the group, took a step behind Max, his tall frame big enough to shield her for the most part. There were probably twenty photographers, all of them yelling and flashing bulbs at them, closing in on them from both sides of the sidewalk. She couldn’t make out any of their faces through the flashes. They all looked alike in their puffy coats and knit hats pulled low against the cold.

  A few passing cars slowed to take a look at the paparazzi, their heads swiveling from the crowd to the limo to see who they were targeting. Horns blared and a police siren sounded, and Penelope could hear the jackhammer of a road crew somewhere nearby. She was amazed at how loud the street was compared to the peaceful interior of the restaurant they’d just left.

  The limo eased up to the curb in front of them and the driver jumped out to help them inside. The shouting from the photographers became more intense as Sam and Arlena made their move to leave. More horns blared from the blocked traffic and a backfire boomed down the street. Randall waved the driver back inside the limo, opening the passenger door himself and ushering the others into the relative quiet inside. When they were all inside, he stood up and waved one last time at the shouting group of photographers. “That’s it, fellas. Show’s over. Go get warm.”

  “Thanks, Randall. Who are you married to now?” one of the photographers shouted back.

  “You’ll have to figure that one out for yourself, buddy,” Randall said, smiling widely at the group. Flashes lit up the side of the black limo like lightning in the dark night. Randall climbed inside and slammed the door, tapping on the glass separating the driver compartment from the passenger area to signal to the driver to go.

  One of the photographers darted around the limo and knocked on the window right next to Penelope’s head. She shrunk away as he flashed his camera through the dark tinted windows. She was grateful when the limo slid forward into traffic.

  “Can you believe these guys?” Randall said. He lowered the separation glass. “Come on, get us out of here.”

  The driver nodded and stepped on the gas, then slammed on the brakes suddenly to avoid hitting a photographer who stood in front of the car snapping pictures through the windshield.

  They were like a swarm of bees descending on the car, the frantic shouts and sounds of snapping cameras muffled through the thick glass. Penelope shifted closer to Max and away from the window, shielding her eyes from the flashing bulbs at the mob of people surrounding the car.

  “Go!” Randall shouted.

  The driver floored the gas pedal and the limo jerked forward and to the left, brushing the legs of the photographer in front of them.

  “Watch it, asshole,” the man yelled, slapping his hand on Penelope’s window as they passed, leaving a greasy palm print.

  Penelope caught a glimpse of a tattoo snaking out from under the photographer’s sleeve. As they raced away, she glanced back at the photographers who had spilled out onto the street, still snapping pictures of the limo, risking getting hit by oncoming traffic. She watched the headlights of the cars dodging them from behind, blaring their horns as they passed, and wondered how much a picture of Arlena and Sam together was worth. Apparently it was enough for them to risk bodily injury.

  Penelope leaned back on the seat, relieved they were on their way, another anonymous black limo in New York City.

  “You okay?” Max asked her, grasping her hand loosely in his.

  “Wow,” Penelope said, laughing a bit. “I was holding my breath back there.”

  Max chuckled. “You get the full treatment around Sam, I guess. And Dad. They’re always after Dad.”

  Penelope glanced across the way to Sam and Arlena, who were turned towards each other, deep in conversation. Randall was next to them but engrossed in something on his phone, the screen lighting his face.

  “I suppose one day they’ll be coming for me,” Max said. “And it will be for the things I’m doing, not only because of my family.”

  Penelope turned and looked him in the eyes. “Do you want that?”

  “Maybe not the constant harassment, but yeah, I want to get to that level. This is my chosen career. I want the kind of success that attracts their attention.”

  “I hope you get what you want,” Penelope said, squeezing his hand back. She flipped open the panel of the cooler that ran along the wall of the limo. It was stocked with bottled water, beer and in another compartment, bottles of wine. She grabbed a bottle of water and a napkin to wipe off the condensation, offering one to Max. He shook his head, selecting a bottle of wine instead. Penelope sighed as he waved it at her in an inviting gesture. Rolling her eyes, she picked up the wine key next to the napkins and handed it to him.

  “Not the whole bottle,” she said.

  “Of course not,” he said, reaching behind her and pulling two wine glasses from the rack next to the cooler.

  Chapter 19

  Penelope finished her first cup of coffee during the drive to Glendale High School the next morning, which sat right outside of the center of town. She zipped her car keys in the pocket of her thin Lycra jacket and breathed in the crisp air as she made her way from the parking lot to the football field. There was a quarter-mile track surrounding the field and Penelope planned to sprint for two miles. Some days she liked to run as fast as she could, feeling her heart pumping through the effort. It always relieved her stress.

  Penelope started off at a jog, warming up her cold legs and arms so they would work harder for her in a few minutes. After the second turn around the rust-colored rubber track, she picked up her pace, leaning forward into the wind, her arms slicing the air at her sides. By the time she was on her second mile, she ran in a full out effort, her breath puffing in and out like a locomotive steaming along a track.

  Penelope slowed to a jog and decided on one more lap around to cool down. She glanced at her watch and was pleased she’d finished at a respectable pace. Making her final turn, a flash of movement in the football stadium seats caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and looked up, slowing to a walk. Flags attached to the railings fluttered in the breeze, flashing the school colors
of red and white. Penelope walked quickly around the final turn and to the gate that led out to the parking lot.

  Back inside her warm car, Penelope took a sip of tepid coffee. She ducked her head and looked up at the stadium seats through the windshield, jumping when she saw someone standing in the top row staring down at her car. The person was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and the sun was at their back, making it impossible for Penelope to see their face.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she started the car, popping the locks down quickly as she eased out of the parking space. As she turned and drove towards the exit, she looked at the person in the bleachers and felt they were still watching her, turning to follow her car’s progress from the lot. She rolled through the stop sign at the lot’s entrance and exited quickly back onto the main road.

  A few minutes later Penelope turned into the parking lot of Glendale Grocery a few miles down the road from the school. She parked and nervously glanced around, relieved that no one else was in the parking lot.

  “Good morning,” an elderly woman greeted her right inside the store as the automatic door slid open. It was early still and the morning smells of coffee, donuts and pastries from the bakery filled the air.

  The woman handed her a colorful sales flyer with the day’s specials and a voucher for a cup of coffee. “You’re one of the first customers today, so the coffee is on us,” she said proudly, soft white hair floating around her head. She began gathering up another flyer and coupon for another customer entering behind Penelope.

  Penelope picked up a hand basket and made her way through the store, selecting items from the produce section. She then strolled to the bakery to claim her free coffee and get some bagels, pointing at her choices through the thick glass. “Black, no sugar,” she said, handing him the coffee voucher.