Mental forehead smack.
“PW Enterprises?”
Her shoulders sagged, and her mouth dropped open into a surprised little “o”. “Yeah! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I mumbled. It all fit, and I felt foolish for not putting it together sooner. The company was on the same studio lot as Pippi Mississippi, Jennifer had been in the one and only film they’d produced so far, and if Pines was the “P”, it was suddenly painfully obvious who the “W” had to be. Jennifer Wood.
I cocked my head to the side, sizing Jennifer up as a suspect once again. Sure she had an alibi, but now that she was tied tighter than a Christmas bow to PW Enterprises, I wondered how hard would it have been to get one of her “Nicole Richie” hangers-on to make the call for her?
“Did you know that someone has been threatening my life?” I asked.
“No way! Who?” she asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know yet. But I traced the threatening call to PW Enterprises.”
Jennifer blinked at me. Then again, realization slow in coming. “Wait, you don’t think that I…? No way!” she repeated.
I nodded. “Way.”
She shook her head back and forth so violently her hair smacked her perfectly powdered cheeks. “Nu uhn. Not me. I would so not do that.”
“You just admitted you’re not my biggest fan.”
“Well, yeah, but can you blame me?”
She had a point. “Who else would have access to the PW offices?”
She shrugged. “Anyone, I guess. I mean, everyone on the lot knows where it is. And PA’s are always coming and going.”
“What about at night. Aren’t they locked up?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, probably, but we’re not like putting alarms and guard dogs on the place. Security on the lot is tight enough we don’t really worry about it that much. They don’t let just anyone into Sunset.”
She was right. I thought back to how inventive Cal and I had to be to get on the lot. While it wasn’t impossible the call was made by an outsider, chances were it was someone who actually belonged on Sunset property.
Unfortunately, that included half of Hollywood.
“Look, I totally swear I had nothing to do with this,” Jennifer said again. “You have to believe me!”
Sadly, by the look of true fear of bad press in her eyes, I kinda did. I sighed, realizing just where that left me.
All the way back to square one. Again.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time we finished with Jennifer Wood, the sun was setting, my stomach was growling, and the traffic on the 101 was thicker than Kirstie Alley’s waistline.
“Ready to call it a day?” Cal asked, inching forward behind an electric smart car. The driver looked nervously in his rearview mirror as if Cal’s monster truck might crush his bumper any second.
I nodded. “I’m beat. But first, you think we could stop at a drive-thru?”
“I think your aunt said she was making enchiladas tonight.”
“All the more reason to stop for food first.”
He shot me a look.
“Trust me, it’s survival.”
He shrugged, then pulled off at the next exit, navigating the Hummer into the Carl’s Junior drive-thru. (Just barely - the top of the tank was mere inches from the clearance rod.)
I ordered three chicken sandwiches (one for me, two just in case), curly fries, onion rings, and a strawberry shake. Cal ordered a side salad and fried zucchini.
“Okay, I get the no beef thing. But are you going vegetarian on me now?” I asked, digging into my greasy bag.
“I don’t trust their chicken.”
“What do you think they put in it?”
“It’s not what they put in it,” he said, pulling back into traffic, “it’s the chickens themselves.”
I knew I was going to regret asking this, but… “What’s wrong with the chickens?”
His eyes went from my bag to me. “You really want to know?”
No. “Yes.”
He shrugged. “Okay. For starters, fast-food places have a very small profit margin on each item. So, they want the cheapest chickens out there. They go for the older ones, the sickly ones, the ones no respectable farmer will eat himself. You know what kind of chickens are in that patty?”
I looked down at my sandwich. “Yummy ones?”
“Poultry plants take the diseased chickens, cut out the infected parts, and chop up the rest for use in processed chicken products like nuggets and patties.”
“Infected?” My appetite was quickly waning.
“Then there’s the antibiotics. Chickens are routinely given these drugs in a vain attempt to keep them healthy, but guess where the drugs go? They’re stored in the chicken’s fat cells. When we eat the meat, we get a healthy does of those drugs ourselves. Or, unhealthy, as the case may be.”
I slurped my shake. “That’s gross.”
“That’s why I don’t eat fast-food chicken. Only organic.”
I looked down into my bag. Maybe the enchiladas wouldn’t be so bad.
* * *
Half an hour later we pulled into the driveway of Cal’s place. The second I walked in, the scent of chilies and limes hit me square in the face, waking up my growling stomach once again.
“I’ve got some work to finish up,” Cal said, sinking onto the sofa in the living room and dropping a stack of files onto the coffee table. Which was fine with me. I had a one-track mind – or stomach, as the case may be. I followed my nose into the kitchen where Millie and Aunt Sue were standing at the oven, a half empty pitcher of margaritas in front of them as they giggled at some private joke.
“Smells good in here,” I said.
“Oh, Tina, you’re back. How was your day, dear?” Aunt Sue asked me.
“Good.” I peeked in the oven. So far, nothing was charcoal colored. A good sign. “Yours?”
“Well, your aunt Millie and I spent the day going through Hattie’s things.”
I felt that familiar lump of guilt well up in my throat again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, don’t be. We had a ball. Hattie had such eclectic taste. Anyway, we’re boxing it all up and sending it out to Goodwill tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“And the coroner called,” Millie added. “He said they’re releasing her body tomorrow. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread out in her favorite place. The mortuary said we could pick her up day after tomorrow, so we’ll do it then. You want to come with?”
The last thing I wanted to do was stand downwind while the aunts dumped Hattie Carmichael in her last resting place. But considering she was now resting because of me, I found that guilt answering with an, “Of course.”
“Good.” Aunt Sue nodded. “You want a margarita, honey?”
Did I ever. “Fill ‘er up.”
Aunt Sue poured me a tall glass, which I gratefully drank from as the aunts chatted about what to do with all of Hattie’s photographs and scrapbooks.
Poor Mrs. Carmichael. I tossed the chicken patties in the trash and took another long sip from my margarita. It was strong, but not half bad. Could have used a little more salt.
As I watched Aunt Sue pull a tray out of the oven and sprinkle cheese on top, my thoughts wandered to who could have done in Mrs. C. My original suspect list had yielded nada so far. Was I on the wrong track entirely? Maybe this was just some random creep who liked to see journalists squirm. There was no way either Pines or Blain Hall could have killed her, both of them locked up at the time. But both Katie and Jennifer had alibis for when the original call was made.
Which left me where?
I took a long drag from my glass.
Nowhere. No suspects, no leads. The only thing I had was motive. Everyone in town apparently hated me.
Wow, was I the self-pity queen today or what? I downed the last of my drink, filling up the glass again.
“The enchiladas are almost done,” Aunt Mill
ie informed us, pulling a steaming pan from the oven.
“Good. I love enchiladas,” I said. Though somehow it came out more like, “Good, I wuv eshiladas.”
Aunt Sue looked from the nearly empty pitcher to me. “How many of those have you had, peanut?”
“One.” I hiccupped. “And a half.”
A deep wrinkle of concern formed on her forehead. “Well, you might want to slow down just a little.”
I waved her off. “Ish juss ‘cause I haven’t eaten.” I was sure after I dug into the enchiladas I’d feel better. In fact… I downed a few more gulps… I was beginning to feel better already. Better than I had in days.
Okay, so what if everyone in town hated me? That just meant I was doing my job well. No one loves a good reporter. And I was a good reporter, despite what Felix thought. So maybe I wasn’t 100% sure of this creep’s identity, but in the past week I’d single-handedly gotten the goods on Katie Brigg’s secret online dating life, Blain Hall’s real addition, blackmail on the set of Pines’s last film, and kick ass quotes from both Pines and Jennifer Wood. All things considered, I rocked. I was a superstar gossip columnist.
With that cheery thought, I dug into my enchiladas with relish, not even caring the slightest that they were just one jalapeño shy of being toxic.
Three margaritas later, I staggered into the living room to find Cal hovering over a stack of papers in a yellow, manila folder.
“What’s that?” I asked, plopping myself down on the sofa.
“A new client. Wants me to watch his wife while he’s out of town.”
I looked down at the folder. A picture of a tall, stacked blonde stared back at me. I hated tall, stacked blondes.
“She looks high maintenance,” I pointed out.
He shot me a look, the corner of his mouth tilting upward in a grin. “Well, luckily, I don’t have to date her. I just have to watch her.”
I felt my cheeks flush. “Right.”
“Anyway, I won’t take it until I’m sure you’re out of danger.”
Something about the protective tone in his voice made my insides warm. Yeah, I know he was being paid to be protective, but that didn’t make it any less comforting.
“Thanks,” I said.
He turned to me. “For what?”
“For taking care of me. Nobody takes care of me.”
His eyes softened. “You’re slurring your words a little, there, kid.”
I nodded. “It’s ’cause I’m drunk.” I lifted my empty margarita glass as proof.
He grinned. “Yes, you are.”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I like being drunk. It means I don’t have to think about anything.”
“Such as?”
“Suspects, murders, Pines, the paper, Felix, you.”
“Me?”
Shit. Had I said that out loud?
“I mean, the way you follow me around.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Does it bother you that much?”
“No. I mean, yes, at first. But, no that’s not what I meant when I said you and you following me around. I meant, well, I guess what I really meant was… I mean it’s complicated, I mean…” Truth was, I had no idea what I meant.
Cal looked at me, concern lacing his eyes. Dark brown eyes. I never noticed before, but they were fringed in the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a man. I sighed. “You have nice eyes.”
The corners of his lips tilted upward. “Thanks.”
“And nice lips. They look like soft lips.”
The grin grew. “Honey, you’re really drunk.”
I nodded. But somehow that knowledge didn’t stop me from leaning in closer… closer… so close I could have licked his lower lip if I’d stuck my tongue out.
Which I did.
“Tina,” he whispered.
But I didn’t let him finish that thought, my mouth suddenly acting all on its own as it latched on to his.
I was right. His lips were soft. And sweet. And when they started moving beneath mine, gently nipping at my lower lip, I felt a moan curl up from my belly. Wow, he was good at this. Really good.
His goatee tickled my chin, his arms drawing around my shoulders, pulling me in tight against that body that could make anyone believe in the power of protein shakes.
I lost all sense of time, but after what felt like a blissful eternity, we finally came up for air. Cal pulled away, his eyes dark and unreadable, his breath coming as quickly as mine suddenly was. His voice was husky. “I think maybe we better get you to bed.”
I grinned, biting my lower lip. “Anything you say, big guy.”
* * *
A full brass band was playing in the next room, the tuba relentlessly thumping out note after note. My temples throbbed with each beat, my head threatening to explode. I covered my ears with a pillow, trying to drown out the noise. But the damned band kept on playing, louder if anything. God, how many margaritas had I had last night? Thirty? Forty? Okay, it was probably more like four. But that was four too many. Tequila was definitely not my friend this morning. I rolled over, giving up on the pillow and stumbled to my feet, trying to get my bearings. Four-poster bed. Navy comforter. Fuzzy velvet Elvis on the wall.
Cal’s room.
As the band played on, the night before came flooding back to me in one horrible ohmigod-what-did-I-do-last-night rush.
I remembered sitting on the sofa, saying something stupid about his eyes, then we were kissing. Then he said something about going to bed…
I covered my mouth. Oh shit. Had I slept with Cal?
I looked down. I was wearing the shirt I’d worn yesterday and a pair of pink panties. Inconclusive.
I looked wildly around for any sign of Cal, but I was thankfully alone. Which could mean I’d dreamt the whole thing or that he’d already gotten up from our post-coital bliss to make me breakfast. Think, Tina, think! What happened last night? I wasn’t sure. My memory was covered in a tequila haze. I licked my lips and swore I could still taste Cal there. I’d kissed him… Oh, God, I’d kissed him. I buried my head in my hands. How stupid could I get? And why the hell was that band still playing?!
I threw the covers off, willing my feet to hold me up. One foot on the ground, two. Okay, so far so good. I took a couple tentative steps, and, while my stomach wasn’t thrilled with the idea of movement, last night’s enchiladas stayed firmly put. Which I took as a good sign.
I threw a pair of jeans on, then opened the bedroom door. And the brass band grew louder. By the time I shuffled into the kitchen it was all I could do not to gouge my own eardrums out at the sound. I walked in to find Aunt Sue at a blender, throwing chunks of bananas in as she danced to the forties big band coming from a radio in the corner.
“Could you turn that off?” I pleaded, one hand on my head to keep my brains from oozing out my ears.
“What?” Aunt Sue yelled.
“Turn it off!”
She turned the knob on the radio, bringing with it blissful silence. “What did you say? I can’t hear you with the radio on!”
I took a deep breath. Blew it out. Reminded myself how much I loved my aunt. “Coffee. Is there any coffee?”
“Here you go, tequila queen.” I looked up to find Cal handing me a mug of steaming liquid.
His hair was still wet from a shower, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dancing with some secret knowledge. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t about me.
Self consciously, I took the cup. “Thanks.”
“How you feeling?” he asked, sipping from a mug of his own. If he was feeling any hint of the awkwardness consuming me, he didn’t show it, casually leaning against the kitchen counter as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to get his clients drunk and take them to his bed.
Maybe it was.
A thought which did nothing to settle my angry stomach.
“Um. Good. Fine.” I lied, sipping my coffee.
“You look like hell.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. “Gee, th
anks.”
He grinned. “Hangovers are a bitch, aren’t they?”
“Just shut up, keep the coffee coming, and no one gets hurt.”
“You got it, sunshine,” he said. Then gave me a wink.
My stomach rolled again, but this time I kinda liked it.
“So,” I said, purposefully clearing my throat, and turning to Aunt Sue. “What have you and Aunt Millie got planned today?”
Aunt Sue poured her thick banana shake into a glass and started sucking it through a straw. “Got more packing to do at Hattie’s. Then we’re shipping some boxes of photos to her nephew, and gonna hit up the lunch buffet at the senior center. Today’s chicken dumpling day.”
“Sounds thrilling.”
“Felix called,” Cal told me, dropping a piece of bread into the toaster.
I groaned. “What did he want?”
“Wanted to know when you might be coming in to work today.”
I glanced at the clock. Eleven already. Geeze, I’d slept half the day away. Curse you, tequila.
“Ten minutes,” I said, downing the rest of my coffee.
I took the fastest shower on record (even though the hot water on my hangover brain felt like heaven), then quickly dressed in a pair of jeans, pink converse, and a stretchy black top with purple rhinestones spelling out the words, “Yes, they’re real,” across the chest. I grabbed my notebook and purse and was ready to go just as Millie walked in.
“Sorry I’m late today,” she said. “The bus wasn’t running on time.”
Last year Aunt Millie had driven her boat of an Oldsmobile right up onto the front lawn of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, nearly taking out the bronze statue of St. Mark himself in the process. To her credit, she promptly got out of the car and apologized to the statue. That is, until he didn’t answer back, and she thought the rude man was giving her the cold shoulder, at which point she whacked him on the arm with her purse and started questioning what his mother would think of his ill manners. Needless to say, after this incident the DMV had decided that her 20/150 vision was not entirely safe for operating a motor vehicle. Since then, Millie had been riding the bus and the rest of us on the streets had been breathing a little easier.
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