Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  I shook it off. “Now take me by the elbow and march me behind that partition next to the band.”

  Trey did exactly as I asked. I put up a semblance of a protest, and as his fingers gripped my arm, I felt a warm melting at the base of my spine. I let him propel me behind the screen, my back against his chest, as the band moved into a reggae number.

  He released my arm and faced me. “Was that okay?”

  “Oh yeah. That was perfect.”

  “Good. Now what?”

  I steadied myself, though I could still feel heat in my cheeks. “Now we address our next challenge. Because that Bree chick is taking pictures again.”

  Trey raised an eyebrow. “Again?”

  “Yes. Of the fight, of Nick, of you and me. But you know what she hasn’t done, not even once?”

  “What?”

  “Take a selfie.”

  Trey rolled that fact around in his head. “That’s unusual?”

  “For a twenty-something at a celebrity party? Highly unusual.”

  “Do you have a theory?”

  “I do.”

  So I told him. His eyes narrowed.

  “Interesting.”

  “Yep. So go talk to her.”

  “But—”

  “You’re the security guy, not me.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “But you have the better interrogation skills. You ask the right questions. You—”

  “You do fine with a little advance prep.” I chanced a peek around the edge of the screen. Bree was still standing beside the bar, texting her heart out. I ducked back before she spotted me. “So—”

  “Hold on. That’s my phone.” He pulled it out and examined the readout, his expression becoming more concerned by the second. “It’s Price. I have to take this. You go talk to Bree. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Trey—”

  But he took off for the exit before I could say another word.

  Chapter Forty

  I ordered another bourbon and took it over to where Bree stood in the corner, texting. She ignored me until I cleared my throat, then raised her head and gave me a withering look. “Yeah?”

  I gave her one back. “Did you even read those signs?”

  “What signs?”

  “The ones at the gate. At the production company office. At the Kennesaw base camp. They all say the same thing. Unauthorized photography and/or video strictly prohibited and punishable by fine and/or imprisonment.”

  “So?”

  “So the resort security manager is getting ready to haul you down to the police station because the Talbots are going to press charges. He just told me so.”

  She blanched, and her mouth fell open a little. She was desperately holding onto the bravado, but I could see the tiny cracks in the facade.

  “But everybody takes pictures!” she said.

  “Yes, but not everybody posts them to a stalker app.”

  “It’s not for stalkers, it’s for fans!”

  “No, sites that share celebrity locations in public are for fans. Like if you see George Clooney elbow-deep in fried chicken somewhere. Not sites that leak base camp locations. Do you realize how much danger you put everyone in?”

  She paled even more. “Diego wasn’t dangerous! Nick said so himself. And Nick was never in danger, I would never…”

  She caught herself before the words came out, but the blush gave her away. Nick was wrong. She wasn’t after some golden ticket to stardom. She was after him.

  “You saw Diego’s profile in the Nick Talbot group and started sharing confidential info with him, knowing he’d eventually snap.” I shook my head, puzzled. “What I don’t get is why. If you really care about Nick, why would you…?” And then I got it. “You wanted Diego to spill the beans about his relationship with Addison so that Nick would know Addison lied to him. You were trying to break them up.”

  She folded her arms and clammed up. Bull’s eye.

  I shook my head. “Wow. That’s gonna add aiding and abetting to your rap sheet.”

  I saw the first tremble in her lips. She was about to cry. Part of me felt bad for continuing to press, but then I remembered Nick with his head in his hands, and poor dumb Diego, and the part of me that wanted to smack her took the reins again.

  I made my voice stern. “Listen. I don’t care if you leaked locations or took pictures. Talbot Creative might, but I don’t. Lucky for you, I’m not the cops, and I don’t answer to the Talbots.”

  “What about the security guy?”

  I smiled. “He’s not here right this second, now is he?”

  Bree examined me warily. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?”

  “A little inside information, that’s all. And who would you rather take a chance on, me or Mr. Law and Order?”

  She blinked her eyes clear and talked quickly. “Nick told me about Diego a long time ago, so I knew who he was. I also knew he was harmless, just stupid in love with Addison.” She practically spat the name out of her mouth. “I saw his profile on the Star Track app and dropped him a message. He told me the truth about Addison, that they were together—like serious—until she moved to Georgia.”

  “So you hoped that they’d get back together and leave Nick free for the taking?”

  Her eyes flashed. “She doesn’t care about Nick. He’s just an interesting story she’s trying to cash in on.”

  An echo of what Portia had said earlier. It would also explain the whole surprise wedding instead of a quick and tidy visit to the justice of the peace. The former made a better plot twist.

  “How did you find this out?”

  Bree hesitated and glanced toward the exit. Trey had pushed into the tent, his face a mask of consternation. He looked exactly like every TV cop on every network cop show, like he was about to chuck everyone into a police van and sort it all out downtown. He spotted us still talking, but didn’t come over.

  Bree dropped her voice. “I snooped in her trailer. But it wasn’t my idea!”

  “No. It was Portia’s.”

  “Yes! She wants that script, bad. But I couldn’t find it. I found sample pages from Addison’s bio-pic, though. And a card from Hammershein Media.”

  “Who?”

  She nodded toward a table in the corner. A man sat there, elegant and self-possessed. I recognized his wavy steel-gray hair and square chin—he was the man in the clandestine restaurant photos with Portia.

  “Winston Hammershein. He’s Portia’s new agent. Nobody knows that yet, though, especially not her old agent. Especially not Addison.” Bree looked left and right, so close now I could smell the gin on her breath. “I told Portia about the bio-pic, and she convinced Hammershein he should get Addison to submit it so that she could get a look at it. But she knows Addison can’t sell it, not as long as she works for Talbot Creative. And she knows Quint can sue if she tries.”

  Pieces were starting to click into place. Vengeance moved in cycles as precise and orderly as a solar system. And at the center of those orbits, there was always a massive black hole of thwarted ego.

  Bree wore a sheen of sweat across her forehead. “Look, I know this makes me look bad, but I’ve been trying to catch a break for years. Then one day Portia asked for me personally, to deliver her protein shakes. That’s a big deal, you know. To get a personal request. Eventually she asked me if I’d…you know.”

  “Spy?”

  “Yeah.”

  So it had been simple as that. Quid pro quo of the most rudimentary level.

  “That’s how you move up? By becoming somebody’s favorite gofer?”

  “It’s one way.” Bree was so close her chin almost touched mine. “Whatever the talent wants, we runners deliver. Vegan, gluten-free, low-carb. Portia wants her shakes with almond milk, no dairy, done up with some herbal concoctio
n she gets from a doctor in China. Or India. I can’t remember.”

  I got a prickle. “Kava perhaps?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. She has bottles and bottles of the stuff in her trailer.” She looked left and right, dropped her voice. “And sometimes I get her some special herbs, if you know what I mean.”

  She placed two fingers against her lips and mimicked a long deep inhale. I didn’t need an explanation.

  “That could get you in serious trouble.”

  “I told you, that’s how it’s done. I get her whatever she wants, she makes sure I keep a job.” Bree shook her head, and her cinnamon hair swished. “You gotta understand, nobody sees people like me. We’re equipment, like the dollies and the light boards. To get ahead, we gotta give the Portias what they want.”

  “What about Nick?”

  Her eyes softened. “Nick’s not like that. He pays attention to people.”

  So that was it. A crumb of human connection, and she’d decided she was in love.

  “Have you ever told Nick how you feel?”

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course not! Why would I do that?” Her face scrunched up pitifully. “Can I go now, before the security guy comes over here? Please? I told you everything I know.”

  “You can go. But keep this conversation to yourself. You don’t want a conspiracy charge on top of everything else.”

  She scurried away. I watched to make sure she’d left, then ordered another bourbon. I took it outside. I waited for Trey behind the ruins, white Christmas lights illuminating the ruddy brick and twining ivy. The sun had fully set now, and the tent glowed ivory against a sky like wet indigo velvet.

  Trey appeared out of the shadows and stood beside me. “They’re shutting down the party early.”

  “Not the press Talbot Creative hoped to get?”

  “Not at all. What happened with Bree?”

  I filled him in. A crew of workers tied back the canvas panels at the entrance, and I could see inside the tent as the party broke up. Dante stepped from behind his cello. Rico tossed down the last of his drink. Portia took the arm of a strapping guy in a fitted black tee shirt and skinny jeans. She laughed, but her eyes searched the room. Quint was still nowhere to be seen.

  “So to sum up,” I said, “I told her not to leave the resort or you’d arrest her for conspiracy.”

  Trey looked aghast. “I can’t do that.”

  “I know. But she needed some incentive to keep her mouth shut. That did it.” I sipped the bourbon, let it warm my tongue and throat. “What did Keesha want?”

  “Oh.” He stopped assessing the tent and looked my way. “She said the Buckhead Burglar is in custody.”

  I almost spilled my drink. “What?”

  “He was arrested in Tallahassee. A detective in major crimes spotted the LINX profile and called Price.”

  “Damn. Bad day to be him.”

  “Yes. But he swears he didn’t kill Jessica Talbot.”

  “That surprises you?”

  “No. What surprises me is that he has an alibi.”

  “God, doesn’t everybody?”

  “His alibi is backed up by a judge.” He showed me an image on his phone, an official summons of some sort. “When Jessica Talbot was killed, he was contesting a speeding ticket in Waldo, Georgia.”

  “So he definitely didn’t do it.”

  “He did not.” Trey put his phone away. “Price is on her way there as we speak. She wants to interview him in person.”

  Of course she did. This was further fuel for the fire she’d built under Joe Macklin. And I understood. She needed an answer. Answers weren’t closure, but they were something. Trey had looked Nick in the eye and seen one true thing—that he had not killed his wife. And now he needed to protect him, especially since Finn was perfectly happy to use Nick as bait. Trey may have been the only thing standing between Nick and the celebrity suite at the morgue.

  “All right,” I said. “What’s next?”

  Trey checked his watch. “I need to get back to the station. Nick has asked to speak to you before you go back to your cabin. He and Addison are in 1650. Once you’re back inside your room, lock up and stay there.”

  “Are you sure? I—”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And don’t forget—”

  “The security code. I won’t.”

  There was electricity to him. I wanted to kiss him, good and thoroughly, but we weren’t supposed to be fraternizing. He still hadn’t looked in his pocket.

  I hoisted my bag on my shoulder, reassured to feel the weight of my weapon in there. As I walked past Trey, I stopped shoulder to shoulder, our biceps barely touching. He was warm from his recent sprint, and I caught his scent, a potent mixture of starched cotton and evergreen aftershave and skin.

  I dropped my voice to a whisper. “This is me not kissing you good-bye.”

  He leaned his head infinitesimally closer. “I know.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  I didn’t call for a club cart. Instead, I walked the winding path that led around the edge of the property, the pines slender and black against the sky. The woods thinned as I approached the back of the cabins, and the night opened up above me, wide and spangled with stars. It was cool here, fragrant with late honeysuckle and hay from the barn. I could smell the lake even if I couldn’t see it, clean and mossy.

  The break in the clearing led to a simple wrought iron gate, and beyond that, a cemetery. It was very small, with rows of granite markers that glowed in the moonlight. Modest as cemeteries went, it was nonetheless immaculately groomed. I didn’t remember seeing it on the map.

  My phone buzzed, and I put it to my ear. “Hey, partner.”

  “How did you find out?”

  I laughed. “You finally looked in your pocket.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “You have to.”

  “No, I don’t. That wasn’t part of the deal. Camping was, though, so start deciding where you want to go. I heard Cloudland Canyon is nice this time of year. Well, except for the scorpions.” I tested the latch, and the gate swung open noiselessly. “Hey, did you know there’s a graveyard behind the ruins?”

  “What are you doing out there?”

  “It’s on the way to Nick’s.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s in the woods. There are things in the woods.”

  I laughed. “Now you sound like yourself again.”

  He was silent for a second. I waited for him to argue some more, but he didn’t.

  “This place isn’t on the map,” I said.

  “Not the guest map. It is on the security map, however.”

  I knelt beside one monument, plain as such went, memorializing the family and the slaves who built and tended the plantation, all of them buried together, owner and property. I looked at the gathered dead and felt the familiar punch in my gut. I knew this land had once belonged to the Cherokee, before their treaty was violated and they were driven down the Trail of Tears. And I knew that each lovely brick of the villa had been laid by dark, enslaved hands, every single one. No wonder they lit up the ruins with year-round Christmas lights, desperate attempts to drive out the shadows.

  I heard the crunch of footsteps and froze. A familiar smell wafted my way. Tobacco smoke. I turned slowly and saw a figure at the gate, illuminated by the burning tip of a cigarette. I lowered my voice and switched my phone to my left hand, dipped my right into my bag. I closed my fingers around the butt of the revolver.

  “Trey?” I whispered. “There’s someone here.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  The figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. A man, short and stocky. He raised the hand with the cigarette. “Sorry to startle you. I didn’t realize I had company.”

 
The Talbots’ accountant, Oliver James. I removed my hand from the bag and walked over. “Hello again, Mr. James. We’ve met.”

  He peered closer. “Oh yes. Ms. Randolph. I’m sorry I was the bearer of bad tidings that day. Care for a smoke?”

  He held out the pack of cigarettes to me. I took one, and he lit it with gentlemanly grace. I took a long, deep drag. Menthols, not my favorite, but that didn’t matter. I could feel Trey’s disapproval emanating from the phone.

  I sighed. “My boyfriend detests cigarettes.”

  “Addison does not approve of them either,” Oliver said. “She’s designated every single square foot of this place a tobacco-free zone.”

  “But not the secret graveyard?”

  He shrugged. “It’s the safest spot for transgression. Nobody comes back here. One must actually ambulate and that’s beyond the ken of these guests. They prefer the fake cemetery anyway, the stage-built one out behind the barn. This one here isn’t grave-yardy enough.”

  I sucked up the sweet minty smoke. Typical Hollywood, and typical Atlanta. I’d gotten used to having the dead underfoot in Savannah—that entire city was built on graves. But Atlanta did not love its real ghosts, only its imaginary ones.

  “You used to do cemetery tours, didn’t you?” Oliver said.

  I examined him through the haze of moonlight-laced smoke. His softness disguised a sharp cleverness.

  He chuckled. “You can drop the pretense. Quint told me who you are and why you’re here.”

  “I thought he wanted to keep this under wraps.”

  “Quint tells me everything. He takes care of the big picture necessities, and I grind out the details.”

  “Are you friends?”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Friends? No, not friends.”

  “You must be very talented then. You were an accountant one year, CFO the next. That’s some career track you found. Lucrative enough to follow all the way to Atlanta.”

  He blew a stream of smoke over his shoulder. “My, you have done your homework. To no avail, unfortunately, because you’re on a fool’s errand.”