Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery)

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  “Okay.” I glanced at Bernie, who was frowning. I stepped to the side and wrote down what Billi had told me about sweeps months, the contract, and the medication suspicion.

  Bernie eased forward. “Ms. Jones, did Teena date, or was she married?”

  “She dated some.”

  “Who did she date lately?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “You should look at her personal schedule.”

  “Did she have enemies?” Bernie asked.

  “She got her share of hate mail if that’s what you mean.”

  “We’ll need to see all of her mail. When can we get it from you?”

  “I’ll have it for you today.”

  “Thank you. Did she have problems with any of the contestants?” Bernie was writing.

  She stared at Bernie and blinked.

  He looked up from his writing. “Which contestants did she have a problem with?”

  Billi gave him more staring and blinking.

  Bernie was frowning. “Did she have a problem with all of the contestants?”

  She nodded. “Pretty much.” She peered at him. “Do you watch the show?” She flicked a glance my way then returned her gaze to Bernie.

  “My friend does,” he said. “If I’m there while it’s on, I watch it with her.”

  I assumed he was talking about Khrystal.

  “Then you know how Teena was. How she treated the contestants and Jen. Did you like Teena?” She looked hopeful.

  “We did. My friend liked her a lot. She usually agreed with Teena’s opinions and looked forward to what she had to say.”

  Billi’s eyes watered. She blinked, and tears spilled. “It won’t be… it won’t be the same without her.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. I’ll lose my job now. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  What a quick turnaround that was.

  “Well, you’ve been the personal assistant on a top-rated show.” Bernie spoke softly. “I don’t know how it works in your business, but I’d think that would count as something.”

  “That’s true.” She brightened. “Maybe they’ll replace her, and I could do the same job for them. I need to go. I’ve got to talk to Curtis about all of this.”

  We got the contact information for Teena’s family members from Billi.

  “We’ll be in touch if we need to speak to you again.” Bernie snapped his notebook shut and patted his pockets before turning to me. “Do you have any cards on you?”

  I pulled a business card from my pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything, give us a call. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  Her eyes moistened. “Thank you,” she whispered. She shuffled toward a late-model silver Honda Accord, which was parked in front of my unwashed white Nissan Altima, otherwise known as my grit-mobile because I washed it two or three times per year, tops.

  I wrote down her license plate in my notebook. Curtis was making money from Teena’s abilities. I didn’t see a reason he would want her dead. Jen, on the other hand, wanted Teena’s job. My money was on Jen. I headed toward my car then stopped and spun around. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re supposed to be on paternity leave.”

  Bernie grinned and sauntered past me toward his car. “I just figured you might want some help.”

  “I’d think Khrystal would be the one needing help. Are you just trying to get out of diaper duty, or is it because you were a Teena fan?” I would bet that he liked the show more than he’d let on. It was a shocker that he watched it because I’d always known him to be a sports fanatic, and that was it.

  “Khrystal’s the fan. Dispatch called me. There was a mix-up on when my paternity leave was supposed to start. That’s because Khrystal delivered early, and HR didn’t get the paperwork for the change in my time off.” He gave me another grin. “You sound like you don’t want my help.”

  “Of course I want it, but I don’t need it. Someone else can fill in.”

  “My paternity leave starts as soon as we close this case.” He glanced at his watch. “Khrystal wants me to stay until the case is solved. Besides, she has plenty of assistance with the baby from her mom. To answer your question about who I think we should talk to first, I think it should be Curtis. Maybe we can get a better idea of what’s going on with the show. He’d certainly know more about that than anyone else.”

  “I agree. Let’s give him a call then ride out to see him.”

  Chapter Four

  Bernie called Curtis Walker, and we set out to pay him a visit at his home in Ontario. Going to Ontario worked for me because I didn’t want to spend several hours in the car trying to get to and from L.A. None of these Hollywood types seemed to live near the Los Angeles area anymore.

  My phone buzzed, and I answered without looking at the caller ID. “Valentine.”

  “Hey, Sydney. It’s me, Brad.”

  “Hi, Brad. What’s up?”

  “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to see you tonight. We were called out on another case. Sorry.” I didn’t even have time for this conversation. “Can I call you tonight if it’s not too late and my brain isn’t fried?”

  “Sure. Be careful, Sydney.” His voice held disappointment.

  “Thanks. Bye.” I stared out the window then turned to Bernie. “How do you and Khrystal do it?”

  “Do what? Have a relationship?” He shrugged. “Did you forget that we just got back together? It’s hard. I’m not going to lie. It was different when she was working and in nursing school. She was too busy to think about anything else. Now she’s busy with Michael.”

  “I guess I’ll have to play it by ear.” I didn’t have much choice because the job was the job. I couldn’t change that, and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be in a relationship anymore, and I was losing sleep over it. I liked Brad, but sometimes a relationship felt as if it took too much effort.

  It took us about an hour to make it to Walker’s community. We’d dropped off our cars at the station, exchanging them for our department-issued Ford Focus. I ran a criminal background check on Walker and Billi on the drive there, and they both came back clean. Walker lived in an exclusive gated community with the typical upscale amenities. There were signs for a country club, a movie theatre, two lakes, tennis courts, and a golf course. A guard scrutinized our badges and checked with Walker before allowing us to enter. Sometimes, I enjoyed coming to a place such as this to gawk at the houses. My sister MacKenzie would have loved to ride around this neighborhood, peering into the lives of the homeowners. I’d recently found out she had an interest in reading real estate magazines and dreaming about living in some of the homes listed. I looked around at the manicured lawns and expensive shrubbery. As we rolled through the neighborhood, I spotted a few structures in the backyards. Perhaps they were guest or pool houses. We turned down Hacienda Avenue and made a right on Las Palmas Street, where Walker lived. Bernie pulled into the decorative paver driveway, which seemed to be a quarter-mile drive to the house. It arched into a semi-circle, curving near Walker’s front door. We parked and climbed out of the car. An orange tree, half the height of the house and heavy with ripened fruit, stood in a corner of the side yard.

  Bernie rang the doorbell, and we waited. The door opened.

  I stepped ahead, raising my ID. “Mr. Walker—”

  He glared at us and shot out a long, slender finger with a manicured nail, pointing to the Bluetooth headset shoved in his ear. He waved us inside.

  Bernie looked at me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged with my palms up.

  Walker was a tall, lanky man with a long, narrow face. He strutted through his house with a loose-limbed gait, like the Pink Panther. He was bald and sported a brown goatee with a blond strip down the center. I’d never seen that before.

  He jabbed a finger toward two pale-green upholstered chairs facing a cream-colored sofa in the same style. He sat on the sofa and removed his black suede slippers with some type of family crest embroidered
on the top. With a surprising show of flexibility, he brought both bare and bony feet up under him, tucking them in with a push. I’d rarely seen tall men sit cross-legged. Bernie set the recorder on the glass coffee table with a wooden wagon wheel embedded inside. A small bowl with a whole peeled orange and sections of another orange sat on the table. I assumed a “Sunkist” stamp wouldn’t exist on the discarded peel. I mentally added an orange tree to the list of things I wanted when I had a house of my own.

  Walker placed a finger over the Bluetooth in his ear as if he were concentrating. “No! You need to rewrite it!” He paused, listening. “Because she needs to come off as unsympathetic. She doesn’t.” He looked at the ceiling for several moments. “No, no, no, no. Fix it.” He sighed, looked at his black velour warm-up suit, and brushed something off his thigh. “By tonight. I want it by eight o’clock.” He disconnected, probably while the unfortunate writer was still speaking. He removed the device from his ear and set it on the end table. “Now, Detectives, what can I do for you?” He eyed Bernie then me.

  Bernie leaned toward the recorder and flipped the switch. Walker narrowed his eyes at the little machine and licked his lips. Was he nervous?

  “I’m Detective Valentine, and this is Detective Bernard.” I pulled out my notebook. “We’re here about Teena Travis, one of your judges on Mega Star.”

  He frowned. “I know who she is, Detective.” He flashed a broad, bright, white-capped smile. “I know she’s been found murdered in her home.” His gaze shifted between us. “Anything else?” This man was cold. Perhaps he should be added to the suspect list with Jen. He glanced at the Bluetooth. “As you can see, I’m quite busy at the moment.” He chuckled. “I’m busy every moment, really. I can’t even afford to sleep.” He eyed Bernie. “How much do you sleep each night, Detective? Eight hours? Seven? If I sleep more than three or four, I won’t accomplish my daily goals. Thus, I don’t feel productive.” He picked up an expensive-looking, sleek silver pen and scribbled something on a sheet of paper on the table.

  “Did you speak to Ms. Travis this morning?” I asked.

  He stared at me. “What happened to your lip?”

  Bernie chuckled then tried to hide it with a cough. I scowled at him.

  “An accident. Please answer the question. Did you speak to Ms. Travis this morning?”

  “I did not. I spoke to her personal assistant, Billi, though. She said she’d talked to a couple of detectives.” He stole another glance at the Bluetooth.

  He’d have it surgically implanted if he could. Perhaps I could be of assistance and jam it in there for him before I left his house.

  I recalled Billi’s comment indicating Walker had an appointment with Teena at seven thirty the night before. “When did you last see Ms. Travis?”

  He tapped his chin with the pen. “I saw her yesterday morning.” He sighed, peeking at his watch. “I’ll have to check my calendar for the time.”

  “You do that.” I leaned back in my chair and glanced at my watch. “We’ll wait.” I tapped my pen on my notebook.

  Walker unfolded his legs and put his feet on the floor, pushing them into his slippers. “Excuse me, then. I’ll be a minute.” He stood and left the room, heading toward a hallway.

  Bernie glanced at me, smirking. “I guess you told him,” he whispered.

  “Did his pompous attitude not bother you?” I whispered as I leaned toward him.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Not really.”

  A door closed from the direction Walker had gone. He appeared moments later, carrying a thick leather-bound day planner. He reclaimed his spot on the sofa and opened the day planner, which was twice as thick as the one Billi had used.

  He regarded us. “I saw Teena at ten a.m. yesterday. I had planned to meet with her last night, but she called and postponed it until this evening. She called me again later, but I missed that call.”

  “What time were you supposed to see her?” I asked.

  “Seven thirty. She told me she was running late, and rather than rush, she asked if we could try again tonight.”

  “What time did she call?”

  “I was running a little late myself. It could’ve been about seven. I can check my cell phone and give you the exact time.”

  “That would be helpful,” Bernie said.

  He showed us the display. Teena Travis had called at 7:10 p.m., and again at a quarter after eight. He returned to his seat and set the phone next to the Bluetooth.

  I wrote the time of her call in my notebook. “Do you know why she was running late?”

  “No. She didn’t share that with me, but I was under the impression that she wasn’t alone. She seemed to be in a hurry. Rushed. She also spoke quietly.” He laughed. “Teena was not a quiet person.”

  “Besides yourself, who worked closely with her?” Bernie asked.

  He stroked his goatee. “Jen did. In fact, she worked more closely with her than anyone.”

  “Billi mentioned the show was going in a different direction. Can you tell us about that?” I asked.

  He hesitated, licking his lips.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, perhaps. I don’t like to talk about future plans with outsiders.” He examined his nails.

  I would get back to the question. “Mr. Walker, where were you from seven thirty last night until we arrived?” I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I was here. I’ve been working.” He glanced at his Bluetooth.

  “Can anyone corroborate that?”

  “About a dozen people. I was on two conference calls with our writers and producers.” He crossed his legs and tugged on an ear.

  “Being on the phone wouldn’t necessarily mean you were here,” I said. “You can do that anywhere as long as there was service in the area.”

  He was frowning. “Are you implying I killed Teena?”

  “May I see your phone again, please?” I asked.

  “I just showed it to you.”

  I held out my hand. “Hence the word again.”

  He picked up the phone and slid it across the coffee table toward me. I found the calls from Teena and checked the phone number to see if it matched the one I had for her. It did. I slid the phone back to him, and he picked it up.

  His mouth had formed a thin line, and his back had stiffened. “Is there anything else?”

  “We need the contact information of the people you spoke to last night. While you’re at it, give us the contact information of everyone who worked on or auditioned for your show. Would that cover those participating in the conference call too?”

  “Yes.” Walker flipped his wrist and looked at his Rolex. He sighed. “I’ll have someone put something together for you.”

  “We’d also like copies of the auditions and show episodes, uncut, please,” Bernie said.

  That got a heavy sigh. “Why?”

  “We realize what the viewers see isn’t necessarily all that was recorded,” Bernie said.

  “All right. I’ll make sure you have it by sometime tomorrow at the latest. Are we done?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “You haven’t answered the question about the direction the show was headed.”

  Walker shook his head. “I need to talk to some people before I can answer that.”

  “Why? I thought you were in charge.” The corner of my mouth lifted, but I held back a smile.

  “I have investors who have a lot at stake. I’m sure you understand.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s all I can say for now. I have business issues to resolve, so…” He stood and headed to the door.

  Bernie and I got up and followed. Walker opened the door and stepped back as we went outside. I turned to thank him, but he’d already pushed the door closed. It clicked shut.

  I looked at Bernie. “I didn’t like him.”

  He grinned as he ambled to the car. “No? I couldn’t tell.”

  I climbed into the passenger seat. “I found him rude and obnoxious.”

&n
bsp; Bernie got behind the wheel and buckled up. “You’re still angry about Theresa getting in a so-called lucky punch.”

  “I’m not angry.” I looked at my watch. “Hey, we can stop by the home of the other judge, Jen Conrad, since her address is on the way back to the station. I’d like to know why she didn’t show for her meeting with Teena this morning.”

  “I want to hear about the fight between her and Teena.” Bernie slid a few business cards from the console into his pocket before starting the car, and we were on our way.

  Chapter Five

  We arrived at Ms. Conrad’s address in Redlands in fifteen minutes. She lived in a much smaller house than Teena. It was a one-story home on a tiny lot. Plantation shutters on the windows were closed. The lawn was well cared for, and multi-colored river rocks bordered the area around the house. A few small palm trees dotted the yard, and river rocks surrounded them.

  We stood at the front door, and Bernie rang the doorbell. I studied an elderly couple walking a small chubby white dog. The dog strutted ahead of them with its tail in the air, as if it owned the street and everything on it. The man leaned on a metal cane, and the couple seemed to slow their gait as they whispered to one another. The woman shook her head and pointed at us. The man turned our way, shuffling toward the walkway. I headed him off.

  “May I help you, sir?” I asked.

  He aimed the cane at the woman. “My wife, Estelle, told me she saw the woman who lives here leave a little while ago.”

  I headed over to Estelle. My phone buzzed, and I stopped walking. “This is Detective Valentine.”

  “Detective Valentine, this is Billi. Billi Jones. We spoke earlier?”

  I watched Bernie amble toward Estelle. “Yes, I remember. Do you have more information for me?”

  “Actually, I was on my way to the police department to drop off the fan mail you asked for. Are you there now?”

  “We’re in Redlands. Are you near here? We could meet you. It would save you the drive to San Sansolita.”

  We arranged to meet at a nearby post office, and she disconnected.