Femme Faux Fatale

by Susan Laine

  Inside the air was cool and fresh. Scents of flowers floated everywhere. The soles of their shoes clicked against the spotless, reflective marble floors. Chandeliers clinked slightly in the faint cool breeze of the air-conditioning.

  Camille led Cain upstairs and to the right. Judging from the darker, more masculine decor, that wing of the house belonged to Sheridan Astor. The dark blue bedroom confirmed as much. Not that women couldn’t like the darker shades of blue. As conclusions went, though, it seemed a natural one to draw.

  Cain whistled as he stepped in. Piles of dirty clothes appeared in spots around the room, drawers and cabinets hung half-open, and the sheets were rumpled and the bed unmade. For a slob, that was to be expected.

  But then there were the other things. Signs of a disruption. A broken vase on the floor by an open window with dented shutters, the desk with stacks of papers carelessly tossed about, and the cracked mirror in the open bathroom, with splinters in the sink and on the rug in front of it. No blood spatter, though, not so much as a drop.

  It certainly seemed like someone had been looking for something. Had they found it?

  “Does your husband drink? Does he have a temper?”

  Camille stood by the doorway, hugging herself. “No. He’s mild-mannered. He neither drinks nor smokes.”

  Cain did roll his eyes then. Sheridan Astor couldn’t have been born in Tinseltown if he was that virtuous. Everyone here had a vice. Some more of a secret than others. This place had a way of tarnishing even the most glittering things, like innocent souls.

  Then again, it hadn’t been this town that had sullied Cain. Heck, it hadn’t even been this country. Not directly anyway. Foreign soil but familiar domestic leaders with cold-hearted orders.

  So perhaps location, location, location had nothing to do with the process after all.

  “What vices does this saint have, then? And don’t tell me he has none.”

  Camille blew out an impatient breath. “He… gambles. But he almost never loses.”

  That was a boldfaced lie. Everyone lost in the end. The house always won.

  In that sense, casinos, dames, and life were the same. They always got their pound of flesh, and they tested a man’s luck. Not to mention patience, endurance, and ingenuity.

  Not that Cain had a great deal of knowledge of or experience with dames. Mobsters and casinos were a different story. Cain and life had a long-standing history of back-alley brawls, bruises, and broken bones.

  “Could he have gambled the statuette?” Cain stopped in the middle of the room to see how Camille would react.

  She blinked. The expression looked like disbelief. She shook her head, frowning. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He knows what Inamorata in Sepia means to me. He’d never gamble with it or sell it. He’d never knowingly or intentionally part with it.”

  “But he’s the legal owner, right?”

  Camille gritted her teeth and looked away, nodding and scowling. “Yes. But I’m telling you, he wouldn’t do that. Not to me.”

  Cain decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She seemed particularly defensive about the artwork. That didn’t suggest she knew best, only that aggravating her wasn’t the smart course of action. So he moved on.

  “This is a pretty big house. I assume you’ve had the place checked to be sure he’s not hiding or lying in some dark corner, hurt or incapacitated, unable to respond?”

  Camille cocked her delicate head, appearing shocked at the mere insinuation. Had the thought really not occurred to her? Seemed unlikely. “I… I’m sure we—that is to say, I would have noticed.” Then she glanced over her shoulder, concerned.

  So a top-to-bottom search was in order, Cain concluded. “Do you have paid staff?”

  “Yes, we do. A driver, a cook, and a maid. But the night of Sheridan’s disappearance, it was the house staff’s night off. The only one around was Dirk Renner, who drove me to the club and back home later on and stayed at the club bar while I performed. He’s our driver.”

  Cain filed that piece of information into the dark recesses of his mind. The warmth in Camille’s tone was unmistakable. More than employer and employee, then, perhaps even more than casual acquaintances. Another line of inquiry.

  “And the other staff members?”

  “Bianca Banks, the cook, and Mirabel Martinez, the maid. Bianca’s been with us forever, and she’s getting on in years. Mirabel is young, a Cuban immigrant, you understand, and has other career aspirations. This is not her final stop. She has an eye for designing jewelry and makes them in her off-hours. Just cheap pieces, but they mean so much to her.”

  Cain was remarkably impressed. Most rich folks wouldn’t know their employees’ names if their lives depended on it. But Camille seemed to have taken an interest in her workers. Perhaps she wasn’t an airheaded trophy wife after all.

  Had Sheridan put her on a pedestal? Cain could certainly understand why a man might get the urge to worship this divine being. She had a mystical quality he couldn’t explain and that got under his skin. Not to mention below his belt.

  “Time to do a thorough search of the house and grounds, then.”

  Cain needed to get things back on track. His distracted mind gave new meaning to the term wanderlust. Mapping Camille’s beauty would have made any man a happy explorer.

  “I’d like to help.” Camille’s offer to assist came out of the blue as Cain was passing her in the doorway. He’d not expected her to follow at his heels. Rather, she should have adjourned to the lounge or dining room with a glass of wine in hand, waiting as idle ladies of leisure did while others worked.

  Cain acquiesced with a curt nod. “Sure. But we stick together.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “That is wise, if a bit sad.”

  Camille said nothing else, and Cain wasn’t inclined to hear more. So they headed out.

  The mansion and the grounds were extensive and must have cost ten mil easy. The architecture, both of the exterior and interior, appeared to be custom-made. The house had four bedrooms, six bathrooms, two terraces and an outdoor patio, a hot tub and a pool, a separate pool house as well as a guesthouse, and additional grounds of nearly an acre with immaculate lawns and well-tended flowerbeds. Yeah, the place must have cost a fucking bundle. Maybe Astor was a firstborn son who’d inherited a pile of dough or a robber baron of old who knew whom to off to get stinking rich.

  After rummaging through spacious rooms with glass walls, an underground wine cellar, massive walk-in closets, the maze-like utility tunnels beneath the mansion, and every bush in the garden, Cain was reasonably certain Sheridan Astor wasn’t hiding, incapacitated or otherwise, on the estate.

  Camille walked back into the lounge after freshening up in the downstairs bathroom. “I must admit, Mr. Noble, I am utterly relieved to not find my husband here. The thought of him being here somewhere, hurt or dead, was terribly unnerving.”

  Her British-like speech mannerisms mixed with that smoky voice gave Cain chills and hot waves at once. Yet her accent wasn’t entirely English. Perhaps the Big Easy originally?

  “You never answered me before. Does your husband have enemies?”

  Camille sighed, fixing her hairdo with a few careful touches. “To be honest, Mr. Noble, I have no idea. I may work in his establishment, but I have no intimate knowledge of his business dealings. I do know the club is financially sound and that we have no debt.”

  “Since it’s so successful, has anyone shown any interest in obtaining the club?”

  Camille cocked her head, seemingly puzzled. “If someone has, Sheridan has never seen fit to share that information with me.”

  Cain turned to look out the tall window and stared out at the lush, lavish grounds. Why did Camille Astor’s behavior appear so… inconsistent at times? First she’d been subtly seductive, then concerned, defensive, and now confused. Yet he could sense a keen intellect underneath the cool surface. There was much she wasn’t
telling, Cain concluded, mostly based on a gut feeling.

  “Sheridan does have a business partner in the club, William Woolrich. He stays at the club most nights, working in his office. I see him on occasion, even from stage. The window in his office on the second floor opens to the club’s main room.”

  “Are they friends?”

  Camille shrugged, her expression disinterested. “I’ve never seen them spend time together outside the club, if that’s what you mean. I don’t think they socialize beyond work.”

  Cain had to ask, so he blurted out, “Could your husband have a mistress?”

  The second Camille whirled around, looking away from him, Cain knew he was on the right track. Sheridan, you dog.

  Chapter Three

  “WHO is she?” Cain pressed, less than gently.

  Camille stood in front of the window, backlit as a shadowy silhouette, gorgeous with her curves and grace. She resembled a fine statuette herself. Finally she murmured, “I… I don’t know her name. But I know there was… someone. Call it woman’s intuition.” She turned halfway toward him, granting him a view of a perfect profile. “I think she’s from the club.”

  Cain needed to learn much more about club Iris than what he had so far with a past Google search and a vague awareness of the place’s existence. If the club employed beautiful women like Camille, however, her guess might not be too far off the mark. Most men were horndogs, especially around beautiful women.

  “I’ll take the case.” Cain had already done so in deeds but now did so in words. “I’ll need some start-up money.”

  She sighed again, as if bored by him already, and faced away. “Yes, of course. I’ll send you a cashier’s check by tomorrow morning. Good evening, Mr. Noble.”

  Guess the meeting was over. The queen of the night had dismissed her shady servant. With a silent scoff, Cain left.

  Driving down from the Hills, Cain went over what he had, which wasn’t much.

  One, not only was there a missing husband but also a missing statuette. Of course, the two things might not necessarily be related.

  Two, Sheridan and Camille had… an unconventional marriage? She’d hinted at something unorthodox, perhaps sexual fetishes or Dom/sub play? But this was Los Angeles. Everyone did something weird in the bedroom; oddities had become the new norm.

  Three, there was no direct evidence to support Camille’s assertion of Sheridan having been abducted for ransom. The Astors and their club seemed to be on solid ground financially, but Cain didn’t yet have all the facts. And though no ransom demand had arrived, one might still surface. But if so, why the delay? With the passage of time and growing uncertainty, the likelihood of the authorities becoming involved increased.

  Four, Sheridan apparently had a silent business partner, Woolrich, whose true relationship with Sheridan was a big question mark. Though it might have nothing to do with his disappearance. In any case, Cain needed to learn more about Sheridan’s businesses and contacts.

  Five, the husband might have had an adulterous affair with an unknown mistress. Had the lovebirds run off? Surely not without a sizable nest egg…. Was that where the statue came in? Of course, a number stated in an insurance document might not depict the true monetary value of an item, for example, to a private collector.

  Which led to option six. Could this have been an elaborate insurance scam?

  Cain grunted, growing crankier by the minute. His blood sugar had to be low. He fished out a hard candy from his pocket, unwrapped it carefully with one hand still on the wheel, and then popped the yummy piece into his mouth. As the sugar melted into his bloodstream, his surly mood eased and his headache waned to a dull throbbing.

  For the time being, all he had were disparate tidbits of unsubstantiated information. Not a single part had so far been corroborated. But he knew exactly whom to set on the trail, whether hot or cold.

  He punched the number 2 on his phone, and a preset phone call was made. There were only two beeps before a woman’s perky voice answered, “What do you want?”

  Cain smiled lopsidedly. “Got some fact-checking for you, Tess.”

  She snorted. “She hired you, then?”

  “Was there ever any doubt? Here’s the info.” Cain relayed the data he’d gathered and relegated to her the task of finding out who everyone was in this Hollywood drama. “I’m going to check out the club, Iris.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Tess’s acrylic gel nails clicked fast on the keyboard; Cain heard the sound even through the line. “I can tell you a few things now.”

  “Shoot.”

  “That Astor woman performs at the club under the stage name Glam Vamp. The shows are burlesque, since it’s a burlesque club, and the clientele is wealthy and as depraved as one might expect. Camille Astor sings and dances, but she’s not the headline act.”

  Cain quirked an eyebrow in surprise and whistled. “Who is?”

  “A woman with the stage name Dark Lily. Apparently she’s the star of the show, with a dedicated following of burlesque aficionados.”

  It’d be nightfall by the time Cain made it to Santa Monica Boulevard and the club, so he might get a chance to assess the joint and the leading lady in what he hoped wouldn’t become either a thriller or a tragedy.

  In any case, considering Camille was married to the club owner, it was curious she was not the star of the show. Could the more popular, talented woman have caught Sheridan’s eye and the two of them begun an affair? Camille believed there was another woman in the picture. Perhaps this Dark Lily was that other woman.

  “Are the two ladies performing tonight?”

  “Yes, Glam Vamp in about an hour, at ten, and Dark Lily at midnight.”

  Enough time to check them both out, Cain figured as he drove toward the club, if not as women, then as performers, to judge their allure. Perhaps one of them would let something slip….

  THE shade of blue of the neon sign above the club’s art deco entrance didn’t immediately make Cain think of irises. He didn’t know what color irises typically were. He wasn’t a botanist or florist. Not once had his career or life depended on his familiarity with flowers.

  Who was Iris? Was there even an Iris? The flashing, humming blue neon sign didn’t reveal its secrets at first or second glance. Two blossoms did flank the name, but at the far edges, as if distanced from the color and any inference to a mysterious lady.

  A long line slithered along the sidewalk, people standing in small groups, talking in eager tones with animated gestures. They were definitely fans. Their clothes, makeup, and hairdos reflected the burlesque style, becoming fashion statements in their own right. Nothing wrong with dressing up for a night on the town, Cain figured with a shrug.

  The bouncer at the door was a bulky dark-skinned man with a shaved head and a suit that ill fitted him. The bulge of a holster at his side was apparent to Cain. He’d parked in the tiny, narrow side alley, but even now he was a few minutes late for the start of Glam Vamp’s show because he’d had to make a pit stop for gas. He weighed his options: wait in line, bribe his way into the club, or sneak in. The glamour of the club suggested money and tight security, so he crossed out the third option.

  The black man saw Cain standing there and waved him closer. Cain approached with caution. The bouncer’s gaze swept over Cain’s long, run-down coat and rumpled clothes, and he quirked an amused eyebrow.

  “Noble?” he asked suddenly, his voice gruff. Cain nodded slowly. The man flashed his pearly whites. “Where y’at? I’m Honoré.” Cain waited for more. This had Tess written all over it. The tall guy confirmed the guess quickly. “Tess told me you’d be coming round.”

  “Ah.” While admiring Honoré’s New Orleans accent, smooth like molasses, Cain fished out a couple of bills to thank the man in the expected manner.

  Honoré chuckled and pushed Cain’s hand aside. “Nah, no need for that, chief. Tess and me, we’ve got an arrangement.”

  Cain suspected their deal had exactly zero to do with sex. Tess h
ad an uncanny ability to discover people’s true desires beyond sex. Like the spunky gal in that old movie, His Girl Friday. “Thanks.” He peered past Honoré’s shoulder at the glass double doors. “Has Glam Vamp’s show started?”

  “Yeah, a while ago. You a fan?”

  Cain shivered. The sensual sight of Camille walking into his office, those magnificent legs encased in black silk stockings, had made his blood boil. “Never seen her act before.”

  Honoré chuckled. “Then you’re in for a treat. Hawt as my mawmaw’s jambalaya.”

  The assessment was probably accurate. “What about Dark Lily?”

  “Her show’s not on until midnight.” Honoré winked at him wickedly. “Chawmuh.”

  His thick accent told Cain he was comfortable, relaxed, and in his element. Cain liked the way the word charmer rolled off his tongue like a melody from a saxophone. And the Cajun man was definitely flirting with Cain, who grinned back, nodded his thanks, and walked past him to get inside.

  As soon as Cain entered, he was greeted by a smoky ambience. Yet the air didn’t reek of tobacco or cigars. He surmised it was either mild incense or fumes from a smoke machine, the latter more likely. The interior was shadowy, details obscured and hidden from sharp-eyed inspection. Cain got a vague sense of high ceilings as well as wide spaces between round tables, each lit by a single ornate candle—all of which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be fake. A piece of plastic resembling an orange flame rocked gently back and forth, lit up by an internal light.

  The semicircular stage spread outward from the back, a vaulted ceiling arching above it, and a dark red curtain separated the backstage from the front. The majority of the tables in the joint were arranged haphazardly on the large open space in front of the raised dais. Armies of waitresses waded through the spaces in between with the natural talent of fish in the water. The spotlights had a creamy, soft glow, and were all aimed toward center stage.

  The show had definitely begun.