"Really?"
"Sure." Jenna opened her phone, tapping the screen. A moment later, she was talking to the elusive supermodel, then nodding, and hanging up. "She's shooting right now, but she says you can go by her apartment tomorrow and she'd be happy to talk to you. I'll text you her exact address."
"That's amazing!"
"What do you need to ask her?"
"I'll start with if she possibly knows who owns that cufflink. Maybe she will remember. Maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll even get there before Detective Smith."
Jenna shrugged, but her eyes were somber. "I don't care who finds out who killed my brother just so long as someone does."
"I promise you, I'll find out who did it."
"And just like that, I need a cocktail," said Jenna, turning to catch the waitress's eye. "Look, there's a Chucky on the menu; it sounds a lot like a chocolate martini. Let's order two in his honor."
"Perfect."
An hour later, and more cocktails than I could count, my key would not fit in either of the two locks of the building's street door. Miraculously, however, after another stab, the door swung open, and the space was filled by a uniformed man.
"Hi," I said with a wave. "My key doesn't seem to work. And when did we get two locks? Where's the building manager? I want to complain!" I hiccupped.
"Hmm," said the uniform, glancing behind him. I swayed, peering around him, spying another uniform there. A pace behind that one was Mike.
"Hi, Mike," I waved, smiling brightly. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk. I had a really bad day. Let's be friends!"
"Are you drunk?" he inquired.
"Absolutely not! Where's Jacob? My key doesn't work anymore."
Mike stepped around the uniforms, taking my keys from me. "This is for your apartment door," he said, selecting another key. "This is for the street door."
"Which one?"
"There's only one door."
"Which lock?" I persisted, squinting up at him.
"There's only one lock. And if your next question is: do I have a twin? Let me tell you now: there's only one of me."
I hiccupped again. "Oh. Oops."
"We gotta go," said the uniform, opening the door wider. Mike pushed me against the wall as the uniforms stepped through.
"Is that?" I stopped and stared as the covered gurney passed us. I hadn't drunk so much that I couldn't recognize what it was.
"Grandpa," supplied Mike, his fingers winding around mine as he gulped. "He's dead."
Chapter Twenty-One
After such a strange night, I was beyond tired. I drank two espressos by the time I arrived at Marguerite's apartment, only a couple of blocks from where she was seen meeting with Chucky. For some reason, I expected to hear a beautiful foreign accent, and see someone that matched her Spanish-sounding name. When I beheld the thick black, wavy hair, I was surprised to be greeted by an all-American voice as she invited me inside her home.
How she managed to look so flawless despite the early hour must remain one of life's mysteries. Yet, nothing about her made me feel self-conscious. She easily swept ahead of me in gray yoga pants and a tight, white t-shirt. She seemed to be one of those beautiful people with the unique knack of making other people feel comfortable, a kindness that was noted in several of the articles I found when I searched her name online over breakfast.
"What do you want to know about Chucky?" she asked, indicating I should take a seat on the sofa in front of the balcony. She settled in next to me, tucking her feet beneath her. "I told Jenna I wanted to help."
"Were you his girlfriend?" I asked, getting straight to the story. With some interviewees, it was best to save the most difficult questions for last; but I got the impression Marguerite respected a straightforward question.
Marguerite smiled and shook her head. "Yes and no. We were together last year for a short time, but our lives and careers conflicted, so we called it off. Mostly, it was my fault. I was always traveling. Lately, we were more than just old friends."
"Did you remain friends after you split up?"
"Yes. Neither of us really wanted to split up, but I knew I wasn't being fair to him by never being here, and never being with him. He deserved so much better than that. Then Chucky got his hosting job, and I was contracted for a very hush-hush job. During the next six months, I can stay at home. Finally, we could be in the same place at the same time."
"Chucky must have been pleased when you told him that."
"Thrilled. Me, too."
"If you don't mind me asking, Marguerite, what job did you take?"
"Please call me Daisy. No one that really knows me calls me Marguerite. It was my first acting job. I can't stay a model forever. Chucky told me I needed to diversify. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have even auditioned. I'm going to play a rookie cop! Can you imagine that?"
I couldn't imagine Marguerite, or Daisy, as a cop but clearly, Hollywood could. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you. But this isn't about me. Jenna said Chucky was murdered."
"We believe so."
"I believe so too. Chucky would never have killed himself. He finally had everything he wanted," she told me, sounding like she didn't have a single doubt about it.
"Including you."
"Including me. Almost, anyway. We weren't officially an item yet, but the last time I saw him, he told me he loved me and wanted us to stay together. He said he couldn't see a future without me." She glanced away and for the first time I noticed her red rimmed eyes. She'd been crying.
"That's very romantic."
"Chucky always was. I said I wanted the same thing, but thought we should get to know each other again slowly, properly, before we went public. I'm not sure he told anyone that we were seeing each other, but we definitely weren't ready to shout it from the rooftops. And you know what he said to me? He said what the hell, one day he'd marry me so we could take all the time we needed."
"Are you upset that he's dead?"
"What kind of question is that?" asked Daisy, her brows contracting into an annoyed frown. "I don't know what to think. One minute, we're holding hands at dinner; the next, he's dead from an overdose. Now he's been murdered. I can't decide whether to fall apart completely, or put a bounty out on his killer. All I do is keep calling his cell just to listen to his voice. Have you ever done that? It's so sad."
"It is sad and completely understandable," I told her, thinking of all the messages I left for Gran long after she couldn't hear them. The familiar pang of hurt struck my heart once again.
"I hope you catch whoever did this. I hope they rot in jail. I loved Chucky and he did not deserve anything like this happening to him."
"I need your help in catching the person who did it," I told her, appealing to the side that was desperately furious to understand why someone would hurt the person she loved.
"Tell me what I can do."
"At the moment, the primary suspect is Jenna. She inherited everything from Chucky, which gives her motive."
"Pffft," said Daisy. "Jenna wouldn't hurt a fly."
"I agree."
"Do you know what Chucky's driving record was like?"
"I don't understand what that has to do with anything, but yeah, Chucky was a terrible driver. I told him to start relying on a car service rather than his inept spatial awareness."
"What do you mean?"
"Last time he came here, he scraped his car against one of the pillars in the basement parking garage. Honestly, he drove worse than my Great Uncle Jorge, who was half blind."
"Is Jenna the same?"
"No. She drives like a normal person. Doesn't crash into things. Why?"
"Just verifying something," I said, mentally ticking off the issue surrounding the cars. "There's one more thing. I've been trying to find the owner of a cufflink that was found in Chucky's bedroom."
"Chucky never wore cufflinks. He didn't like the way they felt on his wrist. I told him he just needed to buy better cufflinks. Wait... why would there be a c
ufflink in Chucky's bedroom if he never wore them?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. I don't want to upset you further..." I hesitated, thinking about the autopsy photos. No one wanted to see their loved one like that, and there was no need for it. Daisy would be spared seeing the final image of the person she loved with an imprint of a cufflink on the skin of his corpse.
"Tell me," she insisted when I hesitated.
There was no easy way to say it, so I launched straight into it. "The autopsy photo showed an impression of the cufflink on Chucky's body. I think it was worn by the killer and must’ve happened when he forced Chucky to take the pills. That was when it broke off in the struggle."
Daisy's hand flew to her mouth, and shock was written across her face. "You want to know if I recognize it?" she said slowly.
"Yes."
"I don't know many of Chucky's friends; and he didn't tell me he was meeting anyone that night," she replied, answering my next question. "Do you have a picture?"
I unlocked my phone, scrolling through the camera gallery until I reached the photo I snapped on Chucky's bedroom floor right before Detective Smith evicted me from the scene. "It was sold by Armande jewelers in Beverly Hills."
"I know the jeweler, but I don't think I recognize this."
"Do you know anyone familiar enough with Chucky whom he might have invited into his bedroom?"
"Anyone of his guy friends, but would you invite someone in if you knew they intended to kill you?"
"I doubt Chucky knew that was their intention."
"I hope not, for his sake, and also wish he had, for his sake. Maybe he could have fought back. Maybe if..."
"Don't torture yourself," I warned her. "There is no 'what if,’ only what happened."
"I know, but it's hard not to wonder. What if he didn't know that person was there? Maybe they broke in, or maybe he didn't even know the killer at all?"
"There was no sign of a break-in, but it's also a possibility he didn't know his assailant. However, I'm working on the theory that he did."
"I have some photos of Chucky and his friends. They were taken from a party last year that was formal dress. I also have the occasional photo he added to a text message or email to me. I don't mind if you look at them, if it helps at all?"
"It might help a lot. Thank you."
"Okay. I'll get my laptop."
I waited for Daisy, scanning her open plan living space. The journalist in me wanted to poke through everything, just in case there was a story waiting to be discovered. The average person in me wanted to squeal that I was sitting on Marguerite Casta's sofa, like we were old friends. The idiot in me wanted to take a selfie that I could send to all my friends back home. But the professional reporter in me made all the other voices shut up. I waited patiently, glad that Daisy was determined to help me despite her obvious grief.
When she returned, she held a glossy white laptop and her cell phone. She handed me the cell phone first. "This folder has all the photos Chucky sent to me. I don't know exactly what you'll find."
"Okay." I took the phone, also uncertain what I'd find, if anything at all. Truthfully, I felt like I might be looking into the wrong lead, but Daisy wanted to contribute in some way, so it would have been wrong to ignore her. Foolhardy, too. Sometimes, the best leads turned up in the strangest of places. So I scrolled one photo after another: Chucky shirtless at the beach. Chucky and friends playing volleyball. Chucky and Richard at brunch, the two of them smiling at the camera that Chucky clearly held in his right arm. Several photos of Chucky and Daisy hiking, both of them in sportswear, their faces hidden behind sunglasses and ballcaps, interspersed with vivid shots of the sun rising. The first formal photo I found showed Chucky from the waist up, dressed in a suit and tie. "Where was this taken?" I asked, pushing the screen towards her.
Daisy leaned in, frowning at the photo. "That was a wedding earlier this year. Las Vegas I think. I didn't attend."
"Why not?"
"That was when we were just friends. Plus, I didn't know either the bride or the groom."
I scrolled to the next photo, a panned-out shot of the groomsmen. "That's the groom," Daisy said, pointing to the man in the center. "I'm not sure who he is," she added, moving her finger to tap the face of the man on the far left, then again to the right, "and that's Richard."
The four men wore the same dark gray suits, crisp, white shirts and blue-striped ties, designed to match the groom's. With their arms around each other, their white teeth flashing, they appeared to be having a great time, but it wasn't their expressions that attracted my attention. No, it was the dot of silver on their shirt cuffs. I zoomed in as far as I could, barely making out the raised detail of the matching cufflinks each man wore. I was sure they were the same cufflinks as the one Jenna found.
"Do you know if Chucky still has these cufflinks?" I asked.
"I don't know. Maybe. I think he said they were a gift from the groom."
That would explain why all four pairs appeared to match. It was deflating though. If the cufflinks proved to be a match to Chucky's, perhaps it was his broken cufflink at the scene. In that case, my best lead was dead. Unless... there were three other pairs of cufflinks also unaccounted for, and I knew one of the men wearing them.
"Where does the groom live?" I asked. "Is it in Vegas? Or did he just have the wedding there?"
"He lives in Hollywood Hills," she said. "I think his name is Jim. That’s right. Jim Terrance."
"And the other guy?"
"I don't remember. Is any of this helpful?"
"Very," I told her. "Can I send this to my phone? I'll delete your number afterwards."
"Sure, and don't worry about deleting it. You can call me again if you need to ask me anything else. Someone hurt Chucky and I want to make sure whoever did it gets caught."
I had cufflinks on my mind when Daisy showed me to the door. I was so absorbed in my thoughts as I exited the elevator and made for the building's entry door that I barely noticed the woman in a chic, navy pantsuit walking towards me. Only when she barked, "You!" did I even look up.
"Hi, Detective." I smiled, which was better than flinching. How did she manage to turn up every time I chased a lead? Was it coincidence? Or was she having me followed? I wasn't sure how I felt about either option. "What brings you here?"
"The same reason you're here, I expect," she said, sighing and crossing her arms while blocking my path. "You might as well share."
"That's very public-spirited of you."
"Hardly. Did you just speak with Chucky's girlfriend?"
"Yes, and she was very helpful. Bye now!"
"Not so fast." Detective Smith's hand shot out, catching me by the wrist. "I know you have something. It's written all over your face."
"I'm just thrilled to meet a real supermodel."
"Very funny. You have another lead. Tell me what it is, and I won't arrest you for obstructing justice."
I pretended to look outraged to hide my actual indignation. "You wouldn't!"
"Try me."
"I helped you at the cafe!"
"Not particularly, but you can redeem yourself now."
"Fine, but only because I admire your fashion sense. Here," I pulled out my cell phone, calling up the photo I sent to myself from Daisy's phone. Was I wrong to be thrilled at having a genuine supermodel's number in my phone book? I wasn't sure I cared. It was awesome. Maybe, just maybe, we'd end up friends? But with Detective Smith bearing down on me, I had to shake off my momentary fantasy and concentrate on our conversation.
"I see Chucky and Richard Adamson. Who're the other two guys?" she asked.
"More importantly, what are they wearing on their wrists?" I asked, zooming in and pointing with my finger. "Four sets of cufflinks that match the same one that was found under Chucky's bed and which also left an indentation on his body."
"How do you know it left an indentation on his body?" she asked.
"Um..." I scrambled for a lie, but failed.
"Maybe."
"You know someone might get fired for that?"
"How about neither of us saying anything and nobody gets fired?" I tried, looking hopeful.
"Ugh," said Smith, unconvinced. "Do not print anything that hasn't already been released to the public. I don't want you blowing my case."
"I promise not to print anything until you make an arrest; and I'll leave out a couple of key details that only the killer would know. How's that?"
"Remarkably unreporterlike, but I'll take it."
"And I'll quote you as an anonymous source."
"Don't push it."
"Fine. I'm thinking if Chucky kept his cufflinks, they must be somewhere in his house. Apparently, they were a gift from the groom and also an expensive souvenir of the day, so I figure he still has them."
"It's a dead end if the broken cufflink belonged to Chucky."
"Unless there's a fingerprint?"
"Only a partial, and we didn't get a match in the system."
"But you can also find out where the other three sets are," I suggested, since Smith seemed to be in a sharing mood. "If one of theirs is missing, perhaps we have our killer? For extra credit, the groom is Jim Terrance and he lives in Hollywood Hills. We already know Richard, but the third guy remains a mystery. Marguerite doesn't know who he is either."
"So long as it isn't Chucky's cufflink, we have three more suspects."
"I agree." Even as I spoke, I felt bad about pointing the finger at Richard. Yes, he'd been a jerk lately, but he was also Chucky's best friend. Grief could make people act in stupid ways. That, and the awful nickname still being shouted at him. Not that I was defending his actions, but I wanted to investigate the other two men badly.
"Don't even think about running these guys down. One of them could be our killer."
"It's the best lead I have."
"Now it's my lead. Thanks for your help, but it's time to leave this to the professionals."
"I am a professional!"
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