Charlotte cleared her throat. “Now, before you say no, please hear me out. I need some information concerning the fingerprints on the murder weapon that killed Nick Franklin.”
Judith groaned. “Now, why in hell would you—”
“Judith Monroe! You know I don’t like that kind of language.”
“Sorry.” Judith sighed. “But why would you need to know something like that?”
“It’s a long story—”
“That I don’t have time to listen to,” Judith interrupted. “Besides, it’s not my case.”
“But you could find out.”
“No, Auntie, I couldn’t, not without raising a few eyebrows around here. Besides, my own caseload is heavy enough without snooping into other cases.”
Getting more frustrated with each passing moment, Charlotte blurted out, “I need to know if the fingerprints were smeared. Angel is a small woman and plunging a letter opener into Nick would not only take a lot of strength, but I’m sure her grip would slip, therefore smearing some of her prints. If her prints aren’t smeared, then that would help prove that she was set up, wouldn’t it?”
Judith didn’t bother to answer. “Can’t do it,” she shot back. “Look, I don’t know why you’ve gotten yourself involved in this, and I don’t care, but I’m telling you here and now to butt out. Leave it alone. Let the police handle it.”
Disappointment washed through Charlotte. “Should have known,” she grumbled.
“I’m not kidding, Auntie. You know that I love you, and I don’t mean to be rude, but for Pete’s sake, please mind your own business. I have to go back to work now, but we’ll talk some more about this later.”
Without warning or even so much as a good-bye, Judith disconnected the call.
For several moments, Charlotte simply sat there and stared into space. Then, finally, she replaced the phone receiver.
“…I’m telling you here and now to butt out. Leave it alone. Let the police handle it.”
“Easier said than done,” Charlotte muttered to the empty room.
Early on Saturday morning, Charlotte accompanied Angel’s lawyer, Barry James, inside the building where Angel was being held. According to what Benny had told her, James was supposed to be some hotshot criminal attorney out of Hollywood. He certainly looked the part. Though she figured he was probably in his early forties, his evenly tanned face was free of wrinkles, and his dark hair was perfectly styled—not one hair out of place. He was fit, probably worked out in some high-class gym every day, and the suit he wore looked expensive and custom made. No department store sales racks for Mr. GQ.
Come to think of it, now that she’d met the lawyer in person, she was pretty sure that she’d seen him before on TV; if she remembered right, he’d represented a whole bunch of big-name stars. Not that she made a habit of keeping up with such things, but there was no way a person could totally ignore stuff like that, especially with the media spreading every tidbit of news from here to kingdom come, over and over, ad nauseam.
So why didn’t Benny trust Barry James? She never had come right out and asked him. Later, she’d have to ask him, she decided, but for now, first things first.
Charlotte glanced around and shuddered. Just walking down the hallway of the jail made her claustrophobic. Right then and there, she decided that being incarcerated in jail was something she hoped she never had to experience.
Inside the bare, tiny room where they waited for Angel, the only furniture were a table and three chairs—two chairs on one side of the small table that was bolted to the floor and the other chair on the opposite side. Charlotte seated herself and stared at the door leading into the room.
Barry James chose to pace the length of the room. “This is highly irregular, you know,” he told her. “And a waste of time.”
It was the same thing he’d said when they’d met just outside the entry to the jail. And he’d said nothing else since. Besides, why on earth would he care about wasting time? He was probably making more money per hour than she made in an entire week or even a month. Tempted to say so, she bit her bottom lip instead.
Just remember that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Yeah, yeah, whatever.
But she had to say something, if for no other reason than to shut him up. Taking a deep breath and trying not to choke on the words, she said, “Irregular or not, I really appreciate you doing this.” No sooner had she uttered the words than the door opened and Angel, shackled in handcuffs and chains and accompanied by a guard, entered the room.
Charlotte noted that Angel’s face was bare of makeup. Tresses of her signature long blond hair hung as limply around her pale face as the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit that she wore. Orange was definitely not a good color for the starlet, Charlotte decided. It made her skin look kind of sallow. Of course the poor lighting in the room could be to blame as well, but all of it combined made Angel look more like a sick, homeless orphan than like a woman who was admired by millions of movie fans.
As Angel shuffled across the room and was directed to sit in the one chair opposite Charlotte, what really got to Charlotte the most were her eyes. Her beautiful emerald-green eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. From lack of sleep? Or from crying? Probably from a bit of both, she decided, as something deep within tugged at her heartstrings. In spite of her misgivings about Angel and about getting involved, unbidden sympathy for the young woman washed through her.
Yes, Angel came across as a spoiled brat, a diva, but Charlotte reminded herself that, according to Benny, Angel had also worked hard to get to the top of the entertainment heap. If there was one thing Charlotte understood and respected, it was hard work. And if there was one thing she detested, it was someone being wrongly accused of anything, especially murder.
Charlotte smiled encouragingly at the young woman. “How you doing, hon?”
“Just how do you think I’m doing?” Angel shot back. But the instant the harsh retort left her mouth, a glazed look of remorse spread over her face. “Sorry about that,” she said, her voice low and subdued. “Sorry,” she repeated. “That’s no way to treat someone who’s trying to help you.”
Charlotte sighed. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. Considering the circumstances, that was a pretty stupid question. I do have a not-so-stupid question for you, though.”
Angel frowned. “Yeah, well, Benny said that you could help, but—” She shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone can help me.” Tears filled her eyes. “One thing I want you to know, though.” She blinked back the tears. “I did not kill Nick.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure what she had expected from Angel’s attorney, but sitting like a bump on a log and saying nothing encouraging to his client was just not right. With a glancing glare at the lawyer, Charlotte said, “And one thing I want you to know. I believe you. But whether you killed Nick or not wasn’t my question. Like I told Benny, I’m no professional by any stretch of the imagination, but I will do what I can.” Ignoring the rude snort from Barry James, Charlotte said, “So, back to my question. Was Nick blackmailing you, and if so, why?”
That Angel shifted her gaze downward to stare at the tabletop was telling, but Charlotte couldn’t help but note that her question had captured Barry James’s interest. The lawyer suddenly sat up straight and stared at Angel.
Guess that got his attention, Charlotte thought. But when Angel finally responded, she said, “No, he wasn’t blackmailing me.” She lifted her gaze and stared hard into Charlotte’s eyes. “But even if he was, why would I admit such a thing? Admitting it would give the police even more ammunition against me.”
“I’m not the police,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Anything you tell me goes no further.”
Angel gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Look, Ms. LaRue, no offense. I know that Benny trusts you and I respect that, but right now, I don’t trust anyone.”
“Except me, of course,” her lawyer quickly injected.
Angel snapped her h
ead around and glared at him. “Yeah, well, the jury is still out on you, so to speak,” she retorted. “And, unfortunately, it’s still out on me as well.”
Back at home, Charlotte sat down at the kitchen table and looked over the notes she’d taken down from her conversation with Benny. Though she had been disappointed that Angel wasn’t more forthcoming, the visit wasn’t a total bust. Now, more than before, she was convinced that Nick Franklin had been blackmailing Angel.
At the bottom of the page of notes she wrote the word blackmail and added several question marks behind it. Then after the question marks, she wrote, Angel is lying, but why?
Whatever the reason for the blackmail, Charlotte understood the starlet’s reluctance to admit such a thing. Even so, she had to wonder what in Angel’s background could be so terrible that she could be blackmailed to begin with.
“O-kay,” she murmured, drawing the word out after staring at the notes for several minutes. Charlotte had always held the theory that there was more than one way to get past an obstacle in her path. If she couldn’t go through it, then there had to be a way of going around it or over it.
She tapped her pen against the pad of paper. So, besides Angel, who was the most likely suspect?
Bruce King’s name immediately popped into her head. The man’s whole mission in life seemed to be digging up dirt on people, especially Angel. Since he’d been barred from the set and couldn’t get near her because of her bodyguard…“And couldn’t bribe the maid to cooperate,” she muttered. Maybe, like she’d told Benny, he’d decided to create his own dirt. What better dirt or scandal was there than for Angel to be accused of killing her boyfriend?
Maybe it was time for her to find out more about Mr. Bruce “Tabloid Journalist” King. Charlotte shuddered at the thought of having to even come near the sleazy man again. But there were other ways without actually confronting him.
Charlotte stood and walked to the telephone. After punching in a phone number she waited. On the fourth ring, the phone was answered.
“Maddie, it’s me,” she said into the receiver. “Are you busy right now?”
“No, just trying to decide what I’m going to fix for tomorrow’s lunch after church.”
For years it had been a family tradition that Charlotte and Madeline alternated hosting a lunch for their combined families after church services. With everything that had happened that week, Charlotte was grateful that this Sunday was Maddie’s turn to furnish lunch.
“I can’t decide whether to fix a roast or gumbo,” Madeline continued. “I’m leaning heavily toward a chicken-andouille gumbo, though, since gumbo is much better cooked ahead of time than a roast.”
Charlotte didn’t want to hurt her sister’s feelings, but Maddie’s gumbo left a lot to be desired. “Gumbo is always good,” she said diplomatically, “but you do fix a mean roast.”
“Hmm, yeah, well, we’ll see. So, what’s going on with you?”
Charlotte felt like telling her, Nothing much, just a murder that needs solving, but figured it would be best to explain in person. “I need some help with a little project I’ve taken on.”
“O-kay, what kind of help?”
At her sister’s reluctant tone, Charlotte felt a smile tugging at her lips, and just to aggravate her, she said, “I’ll tell you when I get there. Be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“What kind of project?” Maddie demanded.
Charlotte’s lips curved into a full-blown smile. “See you in fifteen,” she said, and quickly hung up the receiver.
Chapter 8
“So, what did you decide about lunch tomorrow?” Charlotte asked her sister fifteen minutes later when she entered Madeline’s living room.
Madeline narrowed her eyes, then closed the door. Ignoring the question, she said, “Right after you hung up on me, I suddenly remembered that you’re supposed to be working at Bitsy’s house this week while that movie is being shot. Your so-called project wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the murder of that movie star’s boyfriend, would it?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t her boyfriend—not exactly.”
Madeline groaned and shook her head. “I should have known. Now I’ll end up having to play peacemaker between you and Judith again.”
Less than a year earlier, there had been another murder that Charlotte was involved in solving, and Madeline had the unfortunate experience of being present when she and Judith had a heated conversation over Charlotte’s involvement.
Charlotte shook her head. “No, I promise you won’t end up in the middle this time. I’ll make sure of it. Besides, I’ve already talked to Judith.”
With a suspicious look on her face, Madeline crossed her arms over her breasts. “Yeah, and I’ll bet she told you to mind your own business.”
Charlotte shrugged. “And your point?”
Madeline groaned. “Never mind. I give up. You always have been one stubborn woman.”
“Again, and your point?”
“Grrr—stop that!”
Charlotte snickered. “Okay. I’ll stop if you will. Truce?”
“Truce,” Madeline answered. “Now, about this project.”
“What I need is your computer expertise,” Charlotte told her.
“For what?”
While Charlotte explained about Bruce King, Madeline led the way back to the bedroom that served as her home office. “I need you to do one of those search thingies—”
“It’s called Googling,” Madeline explained with a roll of her eyes as she sat down in front of her computer and powered it up.
Charlotte waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever—anyway, Google everything you can about Bruce King, especially any articles that he’s already written about Angel.”
“You know that Hank would set you up with a computer if you asked.”
“Yeah, he’s mentioned it a time or two.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Part of me really wants to learn how to operate one, but another part of me balks at even the thought.”
“Old age,” Madeline quipped. “The older some people get, the less they want to learn.”
“I am not old,” Charlotte insisted. “Not that old anyway.”
“Okay, sister dear, then drag up that chair over there and pay attention.”
“Aw, come on, Maddie, do I have to? Can’t you just do it for me, then show me the results?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Oh, okay,” Charlotte grumbled. Over the next half hour her sister gave her a crash course on how to turn on the computer, what a mouse was and how to use it, how to access Google, and what to do once Google popped onto the screen.
“I’ll never remember all of that,” Charlotte complained. “And what if I mess it up or something?”
“Yes, you will remember it,” Madeline insisted. It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you’ve learned it, you’ll always know it. As for messing something up, you won’t. That little back arrow in the upper-right-hand corner is the key and will take you back to the last thing you looked at. Now—” Maddie stood and indicated that Charlotte should sit in her chair. “I want you to try it. And stop looking like you just sucked a lemon.”
Knowing that Madeline wouldn’t give up until she did it, Charlotte, with a sigh of resignation, stood and they exchanged chairs.
Two hours later, after scrolling through page after page of articles written by King, Charlotte was almost ready to give up when the word murder jumped out at her. She quickly placed the cursor on the link like Maddie had showed her, and clicked on it. After a moment, the Web site of a tabloid called the Hollywood Tattletale popped up.
“Now, that’s strange,” she murmured as she noted that the date of the article was the same day that Angel had been arrested. At first she skimmed the article; then she started over and read it more slowly. When she had finished, she stared at the computer monitor. How could he have gotten the article out so fast? Not only that, but wher
e had he gotten his information, details that she was fairly certain that only the police would know? King was either a really fast writer or he was psychic.
“Or he’s as guilty as sin and wrote the article ahead of the actual murder and arrest,” she whispered. Since she didn’t figure anyone could be that fast of a writer and didn’t believe in psychic mumbo jumbo, that left guilty.
Her thoughts racing, after a moment she finally decided that there might be another explanation. If King hadn’t set up the whole thing and done the murderous deed himself, what if he’d made a deal with the devil, so to speak? What if he knew who the real killer was and had prior knowledge of what was about to happen?
Only one way to know for sure, she decided. Find Bruce King, find the answers.
After Charlotte left her sister’s apartment, she decided that the best place to start was Bitsy’s house, just on the off chance that Bruce King might be hanging out with the rest of the media. She figured that by now, most of the media had probably left, but there might still be a few still hanging around, hoping that they could get an exclusive from someone.
Once she’d turned down Bitsy’s street, though, she wished she hadn’t. What if she did see him? What would she do then? Question him? And if she questioned him, what on earth would she ask him? There was no way she could just come right out and ask if he’d killed Nick and set Angel up to take the fall.
Worrying about an encounter with Bruce King turned out to be unwarranted. As she drove slowly by Bitsy’s house, as far as she could tell, Bruce King was nowhere to be seen. Bitsy’s front entrance door was still sealed off with crime scene tape. The only people there were a couple of policemen patrolling the perimeters of the property and what appeared to be a few gawkers.
“Makes sense,” she decided. Either way—whether he’d actually committed the murder or knew who had—he wouldn’t want to hang around.
A few minutes later, the first thing that Charlotte noted when she pulled into her driveway was that Louis’s car was still gone. With everything that had happened over the past few days, she hadn’t really had time to dwell on Louis or the mysterious discussion he wanted to have with her.
Dusted to Death Page 10