“You look gorgeous,” she gushes, waving a lip brush at me. “Charlie’s jaw is going to hit the floor when he sees you.”
Yes. And not in a good way.
“Martha, I appreciate your help, but I honestly don’t think I can go out looking like this.”
“You are not getting changed!” she warns, stepping closer with the brush, and I dodge out of the way.
“I have time,” I protest, mentally calculating how long it will take me to wash my face, re-do my hair and change my clothes. Then I remember I don’t have a Plan B outfit. It’s the dress or my jeans. Oh sugar. Still, I could ditch the hitch-up underwear and the heels, wear flat shoes and reduce the make-up, which could work.
Two phones chime out signalling the arrival of a text message for each of us. Martha checks her phone. “It’s Charlie. The guys are ready and waiting in the building’s lobby. We’d better make a move.”
I take one last regretful look in the mirror before Martha links her arm through mine and tugs me towards the door. In the lift, I’m tempted to tug down my hemline but know if I do it will just make things worse in terms of exposure in the neckline region. Beside me, Martha looks sexy and sassy in her little number, perfect hair and make-up.
The lift reaches the foyer, the doors open, Martha steps out in six-inch heels and confidently sways towards a waiting Dan, Jack and Charlie. My legs seem to have gone numb with terror and now refuse to move. The guys are all staring at me, stunned expressions on their faces. Well, on Dan and Charlie’s. Jack doesn’t know that this outfit and look is not my usual way of dressing up for a party. Suddenly, the lift doors start to close and, forcing my legs and feet to move, I lunge forward, trying to push at random buttons in an attempt to keep the doors from sliding shut. But it’s too late. The lift has been summoned to another floor. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment as the doors open three floors up and a teenage boy gets in, all baggy jeans and baseball cap worn backwards. He makes no secret of looking me up and down, then smirks, nods his approval and winks. Oh heavens above. Please just let me crawl back to my apartment and stay there forever. The doors open once more on the ground floor, my cheeks still flaming red with mortification. Martha comes over and helps me negotiate the step from the lift to the lobby in my heels. Or should I say, her borrowed heels. I can’t even look at Dan or Charlie. I feel such an idiot.
“Don’t you just hate it when that happens with the doors?” Martha giggles, leading me towards the underground car park.
Dan appears next to me and flashes me a grin. “You’re worth the wait though. Wow.”
Charlie is striding ahead of us and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t appreciate my new look in the way Martha said he would. He probably thinks I look ridiculous. I certainly feel ridiculous.
The driveway to the waterfront North Shore house is packed with cars and it takes a good ten minutes to get through security and parked up. We let the security team know who we are and are ushered through to a room where William Denver is chatting to a handful of people. A woman I recognise as being the North Shore’s costume designer has her arm draped around his shoulder. Her name, I think, is Lindy. Denver excuses himself and walks over towards us.
“Guys!” Glancing around, he lowers his voice. “Any news on the case?”
“Nothing concrete as yet,” Charlie replies, accepting a glass of what looks like wine from a passing waiter. “But we’re checking out all the possibilities. Jack’s been visiting the victim’s homes and hanging around on set here, trying to get people talking. We have a few leads.”
“Still nothing concrete?” Denver looks distinctly disappointed at this lack of progress.
Charlie shakes his head, looking irritated. “We are investigating Acton, Burrell and Windsor in connection with their attempts to buy this land and the plot it sits on,” he adds, glancing briefly in my direction and then at Dan. “We know they’re definitely involved with a waterfront project and desperate to own this land. And Martha here is checking into all their financials.”
Denver tuts in annoyance. “And what do you expect to find? That they’ve got a paper trail to a paid assassin who killed three of our actors? Come on, guys, I need some answers and fast. My boss, the man who called your agency in, is breathing down my neck. He needs the show’s fans to see the murderer has been caught. We need to have it plastered all over the TV and papers. He wants the show back to filming, business as usual. We all do.”
The wardrobe woman from earlier reappears and rests a hand on Denver’s shoulder, claiming her man. “Calm down, sweetie. Let them do their jobs and stop haranguing them.”
Charlie nods in acknowledgement of her words then spins round and heads out of the room. We all follow. Charlie hates getting his head chewed off by clients. I get the feeling we’re all about to be told to step the investigation up a gear. Again.
“OK, update,” he says once we’ve opened numerous doors and finally found a lounge area the party hasn’t spread to yet. “Martha, the money angle?”
Perching on the arm of an elegant sofa, she replies, “The property development guys are clean as far as I can tell. Yeah, they’re involved in dodgy planning deals but I don’t think they’re in so deep as to be hiring hitmen to kill North Shores’ actors off. They want this house and the land but there’s nothing linking them to North Shores or assassins. Not yet anyway.”
“Right, thanks. When you’ve got a chance can you turn over the stuff you’ve found out about their dodgy property deals to the appropriate local authorities? It’s not relevant to our case but they’re still breaking the law,” Charlie says.
“Will do,” Martha smiles.
“I’ve been doing some digging on the missing wardrobe fitter, Ronnie Brandon,” Charlie says. “Visited her apartment, no answer. I let myself in and checked it out, nothing out of place, no signs of a struggle. I spoke to her neighbours and they hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious. I’ve left messages on her phone. Next up, tracking down her parents and sister, see if she might be with them,” Charlie explains. “Jack? Got anything for us?”
“Maurice Fabio was a drunk but had been sober for over a year. The guys on the set reckon he was like a father figure to the other victim Cate Villiers. Word around here is that Cate wanted to date Ed Kingston. It would have boosted her street cred and her publicity profile as well. Ed wasn’t interested though. He didn’t need to get involved with a newbie like her, plus he’d actually got a steady girlfriend but his agent had told him to keep quiet about that and ensure she stayed out of the papers. Apparently it could have upset his hordes of female fans if they had known he was taken and in a serious relationship.” Jack pauses for breath.
“So, we have tentative links between Cate and Maurice and Ed, other than the fact they were on the North Shores payroll. Anything else?” Charlie checks.
Jack nods. “Yeah, some of the tech guys said they’d seen Cate and Denver looking cosy behind the scenes.”
“Yuck. He’s about twenty years older than her,” Martha says. “Is she one of his casting couch victims, do we think?”
“Could well be,” I chip in. “I thought he was going to mention Cate’s name when I spoke to him that first time but he ended up talking about Marianne Campbell instead.”
Charlie paces back and forth, deep in thought. Suddenly he stops and faces Jack. “OK, change of direction for this investigation. Let’s put the property development company on the back burner for now and focus on the rival production company. The ones behind this City Wives show. They film in Toronto. Jack, you up for paying them a visit?”
“Sure, boss.”
Oops. Charlie hates being called boss. He’s led numerous investigations for the agency and is one of their top agents, but I doubt even he’s been in charge of a case with three murders to solve. He looks harassed, exhausted and fed up. To my surprise, he doesn’t call Jack on the ‘boss’ dig. I resolve to do everything possible to help him crack this case. Right now, I wish I could do more. Li
ke give him a reassuring kiss and cuddle. Stay up late into the night with him and, over a coffee or glass of wine, bounce around ideas and theories about victims and suspects.
But that’s never going to happen. Not now.
“Thanks. Book yourself a flight ASAP, charged to the agency of course. I’d go with you, but I think we need to keep the main focus on the murder hunt here in Vancouver. If you turn up anything that suggests the City Wives company Acting Up have been getting mob-handed with North Shores, then let me know and, if necessary, we’ll shift the case to Toronto.”
“So, what’s next?” I ask. “Do we have a plan of action for the party?”
“Basically mingle and eavesdrop. Somebody around here has to know more than they’re letting on. I want names before the end of the night,” Charlie says, heading for the door.
OK. Mingle and eavesdrop it is. I tug at the hem of my dress and then haul the neckline back into place. Stupid dress.
“You all right?” Jack asks. We’re the only ones left in the room, everyone else has gone off to mingle in the name of the murder investigation.
“Not really.” I smile weakly. “I look ridiculous. I’m uncomfortable and I have a pig of a headache.”
Jack plasters what is clearly a false smile on his face. “You don’t look ridiculous. You look…”
“See! You can’t even find the right words to describe this get up, can you? I’ve never worn a dress so short in all my life. In fact, I think it’s probably breaking some trade description law to call this scrap of fabric a dress.” I lift one foot, teeter alarmingly on the other but just manage to stay upright as I rub at a sore heel.
“Is that why the boss is in an even fouler mood tonight than he has been since this investigation started? Because you’re dressed like that?”
Jack doesn’t miss much, does he?
I shrug. “It might have something to do with it. Look, I think we’d best go and get some mingling done, don’t you?”
An hour later, my head is spinning from making small talk with strangers. I don’t think I’ve gained any useful information, but I have overloaded on gossip. Plus, I’ve completed about ten circuits of this place, passed the buffet table more times than I can remember and managed to stay off the wine despite numerous wait staff trying to ply me with glasses of the stuff.
I’m taking a breather outside and mulling over what I have learnt tonight. Nicole Farrah, the show’s assistant director, seemed far too keen to dish the dirt on William Denver. She told me at great length about his extravagant lifestyle, his two ex-wives and four children, and his numerous flings with people on North Shores. The latest of which is the costume designer he was with earlier, Lindy Anderson. Apparently, Lindy’s wardrobe skills have been called into question and there are rumours she only got the job because Denver is dating her. She didn’t even have a background in costume or TV show work and her previous jobs included hairdresser, trainee car mechanic and dog walker. All manual jobs because she’s not the most intelligent woman on the block, as Nicole explained with a bitchy smile. Then she filled me in on Denver’s control freak tendencies where work is concerned, especially the wardrobe department. Which might explain why Lindy is his latest fling of choice. No doubt she’s his window into the wardrobe world, as it were. She looks about twenty years his junior too, so maybe there was some truth to that on-set gossip about him having a thing with Cate before she was murdered. I thought she was too young for him but Denver’s taste in girlfriends obviously leans towards twenty somethings. I shudder, whether it’s at that thought or thanks to a squall of wind from the direction of the harbour, I’m not sure.
“Cold?” I turn to see Charlie standing next to me. Suddenly, the cool night air is forgotten, and I feel heat and embarrassment attack my cheeks. “I’m not surprised in that…” He turns and looks slowly, oh so slowly, from my feet up to my scarlet face.
“I know. I know. You can’t really call it a dress, can you?” I say, horribly embarrassed.
Charlie goes back to looking at the view, which, as it is dark now, consists of twinkling lights on buildings and boats. Obviously, he’d rather look at nothing than at me. “Martha made you buy that, didn’t she?” he says, still not so much as glancing in my direction.
“How did you know?”
“Come on, Amber. I know you.” Now, his gaze flickers briefly across to my face. “And I know you would never voluntarily purchase or wear something so…”
I wait for him to finish his sentence, ready, for some reason, to pounce on what I suspect will be a derogatory comment about the dress. But he leaves the sentence hanging in the air. Why do I want to pick a fight with him? Earlier, I was worried how tired and fed up he looked and wanted to comfort him. My emotions are all over the place at the moment. But one of us needs to be the grown up here, and I’m prepared to rise to the challenge. “Charlie,” I begin. “I’m sorry about France and about Dan.”
“Me too,” is all he says in reply.
Is he now going to apologise for the Diva Delilah incident? Oh, and the stuff with Sarah. Then I remember there was no incident with Sarah. Which means Dan was causing trouble – as he is want to do on many an occasion – and stirring things between Charlie and me. Unless Dan really did believe there was something between Sarah and Charlie that night. Is Dan the one who is telling the truth or is it Charlie? Sugar. There’s that trust issue bubbling to the surface again.
We stand in silence. I rack my brain for something to say which isn’t controversial. I wonder if he’s doing the same. Inspiration strikes when I recall that I’ve managed to squeeze the smallest of the notebooks Charlie purchased for me into my evening bag. Fumbling with the clasp, I open the bag and pull out the cute pink notebook and matching pen. “I’ve got my notebook. Want to brainstorm our latest list of suspects?”
Charlie smiles and my heart beats even faster. “I would but we don’t have any definite suspects to put on a list.” He leans forward, resting his hands on the stone wall which edges this section of the garden. He’s wearing his best black suit with a burgundy tie and white shirt. I want to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder but, I remind myself, we’re not on those kinds of terms any longer.
“We’ll get there,” I reassure him. “There’s just a lot of legwork and background checks on this case. Far more than usual, what with the three victims and no definite motivation as yet.”
He shakes his head. “For the first time ever, I’m not so sure. We’re getting nowhere and the agency is pushing for results. I can’t conjure up a motivation and a murderer out of nothing. That’s if we are looking for one killer. There’s nothing to say one person murdered all three of the victims.”
I’ve never heard Charlie talk like this. Usually he’s brimming with determination and confidence. My heart goes out to him. The thought of Charlie failing to solve a case is an impossible one. He always catches the killer. For the first time, seeing him like this, I’m witnessing a very different Charlie. A man riddled with doubts and fears. A man who is in unfamiliar territory and actually contemplating failure.
“We’ll get some decent leads soon and then everything will just fall into place and the murderer will be behind bars before the week is out.”
Straightening up, he nods. “I hope you’re right, Amber.”
“Of course I am.” Attempting to cheer him up I add, “I’m always right, remember?”
It works. For just a little while. A ghost of a grin touches his lips and then swiftly vanishes.
“I was chatting with Nicole, the assistant director, earlier and she was telling me all about Denver and his harem of females.”
“Oh? Tell me more.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket, his shoulders hunched against the world.
“He has two ex-wives and too many flings to list. The costume woman, Lindy Anderson, is his latest flirtation. You know, the woman who was with him when we arrived?”
Charlie nods. “Quite the womaniser, is he? It doesn�
�t make him a murderer though.”
I slump against the low wall, snagging my dress on a bush. Wonderful. “Sorry, I’m not being much use, am I?”
“Don’t talk rubbish. You’re good at this work. I’d never have recommended you to the agency if I’d thought otherwise.”
A bubble of pride fizzes inside me. He thinks I’m a rubbish girlfriend but I’m still good at my job. That’s something, I suppose. I hate this tension between us. I wonder what he’d do if I grabbed him and kissed him, right here and now. Would he kiss me back? Would it be the catalyst to put this mess behind us and start afresh with our relationship?
“Charlie!” Martha’s clear voice wafts towards us from the terrace near the house. “Can you come here a minute?”
“You’d better go,” I say, hating Martha for interrupting at that particular moment. He nods and walks away. Tucking my unused notebook into my bag again, I head indoors, take a deep breath and prepare to start with more mingling. We will catch whoever killed Cate, Ed and Maurice. We just need to find out why they were murdered, then that will set us on the trail to finding who was behind it all. Is it the property company? Martha hasn’t pinned anything on them yet other than some underhand real estate dealings, but can we rule them out for definite? And what about this Acting Up production company Jack will be whizzing off to Toronto tomorrow to check out? Could they be behind it all? Both companies are possibilities. They each have a reason to try to sabotage North Shores. One because they want the house and land, the other because they’re eager to discredit their soap opera rivals. Our investigations into the sacked behind-the-scenes guy Lennie Gordon have come back showing he’s now working happily for a company who make family-friendly romantic comedies here in Vancouver, and he’s dating a wannabe actress who spreads her time between serving lattes and cappuccinos and attending auditions. So, it doesn’t look as though he had anything to do with the murders. No gripe with the show, no motivation. Our only other lead is the runaway wardrobe fitter Ronnie, and Charlie said earlier there was no success with tracking her down yet. I help myself to another alcohol-free drink and hide behind a stone pillar in the entrance hall to think things through in the hope I can piece some bits of this uncooperative puzzle together.
Past Perfect: A Fun and Flirty Romantic Mystery (Amber Reed Mystery Book 4) Page 10