Clutching his prized-camera, Sharky stomped away, snapping rapid-fire shots on his way out, desperately grabbing crumbs from the table.
Sylvie passed the fuming man as she walked toward us, her eagle eyes missing nothing. “He doesn’t look too happy.”
Frannie beamed. “Paisley just chased him off. Threatened him and everything. You would’ve been so proud.”
“Thank you,” Reese said. “That guy’s a total creep, and I can’t imagine what he wants.” She cast a nervous gaze toward the theater. “I really need to get back to Jaz. She’s been texting me for the last fifteen minutes. I’m sure she needs her green juice and her hair fluffed.”
“Not so fast.” I stepped in front of the girl’s path. She wasn’t more than an inch taller than I, but somehow seemed smaller in every way. “Can we talk?”
“I’ve got to get back to work.”
Her short legs worked overtime as she attempted a hasty departure, but my next words stopped her like a bullet.
“How about we discuss the topic of blackmail.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The night air had cooled, and the leaves above us rattled on the branches, providing an ominous rhythm to accompany our conversation with Reese.
“Why don’t you tell us what Sharky has on you.” I gave Reese my best imitation of a police interrogation face. “I’m guessing somehow America knew all about it.”
“What?” Reese’s ever-present topknot bobbled as she shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. I’m an assistant. I’m on the bottom of the celebrity food chain. Why would that photographer or a pop star even know who I am, let alone have dirt on me?”
I ignored the buzzing phone in my pocket. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“I’d only met America a few times. I had nothing to do with her murder.” Reese hugged her iPad to her chest.
“I didn’t say you killed her.” I tried to soften my tone lest I scared her away.
“America was apparently blackmailing a handful of people,” Sylvie said, “and we think you might’ve been one of them.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you. Now I really have to go.”
“You can either talk to us, or you can talk to Detective Ballantine.” I nodded toward the direction Sharky Cooper had departed. “That reporter who’s been giving you trouble? I know him well. And he owes me big time. All I have to do is ask him, and he’ll tell me all about what he has on you.”
Reese didn’t even flinch as a maple leaf fluttered past her face. “Last year, I made a terrible mistake.”
“Ohhh, those are my very favorite kind.” Sylvie led the assistant to the concrete bench a few steps away and guided her to sit down.
Tears clung on Reese’s lashes. “I was at a party for Jaz.” She sniffed. “I have to go to a lot of parties. I hate them. All I want is to be home with a book, some hot chocolate, and my favorite blanket. But I go to these things and stay within earshot of Jaz in case she needs anything.” Her hand shook as she reached for the tassel on her necklace and clutched it in her fingers. “That day I’d begged Jaz to let me have the night off. My boyfriend had broken up with me, and I hadn’t slept in days. The last thing I wanted to do was work more overtime and fetch drinks and snap social media pics. I was miserable. I tried to explain it to Jaz, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said she’d pay me double if I’d go.”
“Is any job worth that?” Frannie asked.
“Los Angeles is an expensive town to live in,” Reese said. “And it might surprise you to know Jaz doesn’t pay well.”
Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “So you go to the party . . .”
She seemed loathed to continue, but took a deep breath and trudged on. “I was in a really bad place over my breakup. It was torture to be out in public, where I kept bursting into tears and binge eating canapés.”
Sylvie patted her hand. “Nothing wrong with over-imbibing on bread products from time to time.”
“Even though the alcohol flows like water at these things, I never drink on the job. But that night, I’d had more than I could take. So I started tossing back champagne.” Her watery eyes found mine. “Like a lot of champagne.”
Frannie settled on the bench on the other side of Reese. “One time Sylvie and I worked a dinner party hosted by the Sultan of Nyrogi. It was right after my second divorce, and I got so trashed I performed a scene from Cats in Italian while doing a dance number from Westside Story.”
“It was a tragic mashup,” Sylvie said. “Lots of meowing. Way too much finger-snapping.”
“So you drank too much, and something happened?” I asked, trying to steer this conversation back to Reese and far away from Broadway.
With her bottom lip quivering and the tears flowing in earnest, Reese nodded. “I didn’t even like him.”
I handed her a tissue from my purse. “Who?”
Reese took a moment, blowing her nose and looking three kinds of pitiful. “Jaz’s husband. Apollo Fox.”
Oh.
Frannie covered her gaping mouth with a hand and Sylvie’s eyebrows raised toward her hairline.
My aunt whistled low. “That beats my musical theater offense.”
“I didn’t mean to.” The words came out like a geyser from Reese’s lips. “It was just a kiss.” She gave a little shrug. “Okay, lots of kissing, but that was it! I promise. I’d gone to the bathroom, and when I came out, he was there in the hallway, handing me another drink. We talked for a bit. He asked about my breakup, and he was so nice. One thing led to another, and next thing I knew . . .”
“You found yourself in the walk-in pantry of the kitchen, sandwiched between the mac-n-cheese and off-brand Mountain Dew?” Frannie paused, catching our frowns. “Sorry. The story seemed familiar. Carry on.”
“The next thing I knew there was a big flash of light, and that horrible reporter was right there, snapping photos. He caught it all.”
“So you panicked,” I said. “Because if you lost your job, you not only lost your income, but you were contractually obligated to pay Jaz for your student loan.”
Reese wadded up her tissue. “Plus an insane amount of interest.”
“Where does America fit into this?” I asked. “Did she somehow get the photos?”
“She was also at the party,” Reese said. “America saw everything and stepped in. She offered Sharky Cooper a ton of money and a blind-item gossip tip on a boy band in exchange for the pics and his promise he wouldn’t print them. I was so relieved and grateful.”
“But then she used the photos against you,” Sylvie guessed.
Reese took a quick survey of her surroundings, making sure her story was still protected from unwanted listeners. “About a month later, America asked me to lunch.” The young assistant laughed bitterly. “I thought she might offer me a job or want to actually be my friend. But instead, she told me that she was going to go public with the photos.”
I could already see where this was headed. “Unless . . .”
“Unless I acted as a spy and reported every move Jaz made.”
“So you did,” Frannie said.
“I didn’t want to! What choice did I have? Either way, I was in a mess. At first, I let as much time pass as possible in between each time I talked to America, but she caught on. If I went too long without reporting in, she’d taunt me until I coughed something up."
What a terror America had turned out to be. “Taunt you how?”
“Different ways,” Reese said. “She might show up at places where I was on my day off, or sometimes I’d find pictures of Apollo taped to my iPad or suitcase. Once America was added to the tour, she’d do things like take something of mine and hold it hostage until I gave her some dirt. Once she took my glasses, and you can bet I had info for her within the hour.”
“America sounds viscious.” Sylvie shook her head. “We could’ve used her in the CIA.”
Reese took a gulping breath blinked away tears. “I tried to be selective in what I told her. I k
new Jaz suspected, but she has so many people in her camp, I thought it might take a while for her to be certain and maybe I could have my contract fulfilled by then.”
“And then the bus fiasco happened, and America showed up at the mansion,” I said, wondering how far Reese Riggins would’ve gone to get out of a hopeless situation.
“I didn’t know America would show up here.” Red splotches dotted Reese’s pale face. “Honestly, I had no idea.”
“Then I’m sure it was a shock to see her.” I watched Reese closely, scrutinizing her every blink and breath. “And maybe when you saw her, it was the last straw?”
“No.”
“You had to know you couldn’t keep up your duplicity,” Sylvie said. “Jaz was suspicious, and America was making threats. That could cause anyone to buckle under the pressure.”
Reese stood, her skirt swishing against her legs. “I would never kill anyone. Where would I even get fentanyl? I don’t have access to that kind of stuff.”
“For the right price, you can have access to any drug you want,” I said. “Especially in the entertainment business.”
“I have no idea where to buy it. I can get Jaz a corner table in the most exclusive restaurants and her designer coffee in any town, but drugs are way out of my skill set.”
I wasn’t sure I believed that. And from the look Sylvie shot me, I could tell she wasn’t too convinced either. All Reese had to do was mention the name Jaz, and anything was hers.
More tears splashed on Reese’s cheeks. “Are you going to tell Jaz?” She pushed up her glasses as we hesitated. “I’d like to talk to her myself, but I need a few days. Let me get through this fan fest then I’ll tell her everything.” Her chest shuddered as she exhaled. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. It’s all such a mess.”
Sylvie slipped an arm around the willowy young woman. “We’ll make you a deal. You arrange a conversation with Officer Matt Quincy, and we’ll let that suffice. Our concern is with the case—not with whether Jaz knows the truth about her ex-husband.”
“She’s gonna fire me,” Reese whispered.
“Maybe not,” Frannie said. “She might surprise you and understand.”
Reese’s phone loudly rang. “I really do have to get back to work.” She slipped past us and made her escape, running back into the Sugar Creek Cinema.
I eyeballed my aunt. “You don’t think for a second Jaz is going to show that girl mercy.”
“Of course not.” Frannie frowned. “Jaz’ll have her taken to the curb like day-old trash.”
“Do you believe her?” Sylvie asked me.
“I don’t know. Reese has motive.”
“Lots of it,” Sylvie agreed. “In killing America, she killed two secrets.”
“And if Jaz were to be convicted of the murder,” Frannie said, “Reese wouldn’t have to worry about the contract that binds her to Jaz.”
“But is motive enough?” I asked. “Reese nearly passes out anytime someone so much as speaks to her. Do we honestly think she’s a cold-blooded killer?”
Sylvie ran her pink nails through her hair, her gold bangles jangling like a chime. “I’ve decided the music business is a lot like the CIA.”
Frannie swatted a mosquito on her arm. “Lots of torture and bad coffee?”
“No one’s quite who you think they are,” Sylvie said. “Everyone’s playing a part.”
“She’s got a point.” Frannie waved her hand against the oppressive evening air. “But I just gotta know one thing, girls.”
“Spit it out,” Sylvie said.
“Can I interest anyone in a glow-in-the-dark Jaz koozie?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I’m not finding anything on Reese.” Frannie shut the lid on her laptop and took a sip of coffee.
I’d only been home from Jaz’s movie event ten minutes—barely out of my bra—when a ring of my doorbell announced Sylvie and Frannie, armed with baked goods and a yen for snooping. We now sat in my living room, shoes off and Wi-Fi overloaded.
“Why does this room smell like paint?” Sylvie sniffed and looked suspiciously at my walls that had been magically returned to their previous beautiful color.
“No reason.” I yawned and opened a new browser window on my own MacBook. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
Frannie consulted her screen again. “One speeding ticket and three parking violations in the last five years. That’s it. She graduated at the top of her class from an artsy charter school in Maine, then went to the Berkshire College of Music for a couple of years before dropping out and moving to Los Angeles.”
Sylvie picked up a chocolate chip cookie from the plate on my antique steamer trunk that posed as a coffee table. “I found a few YouTube videos of Reese in some high school musical productions. She was a heck of a Pink Lady in Grease. Looks surprisingly in her element—confident even.”
I hadn’t found anything more than an old newspaper mention of her sixth-grade spelling bee win. “But no skeletons.”
“Not one bone out of place,” Frannie said.
I’d yet to have dinner, and my stomach wasn’t letting me forget it. “I have half a pan of low-carb lasagna from the Bayonet in the fridge.”
Frannie shot up like a firecracker. “I have a loaf of sourdough in my purse.”
I didn’t even wonder at these things anymore. Frannie’s bag could put Mary Poppins to shame.
We’d barely sat down at the island with our plates when a knock came at my back door.
Through the glass, Beau offered a one-handed wave.
“I saw your light on,” he said as he joined us, his two new dogs running circles around his feet. “Got any more of that?” He pointed to the lasagna.
“Grab a plate.” I gave him a polite, we-are-in-the-company-of-busybodies hug, but Beau sidestepped the German Shepherd, pulled me into his arms, and laid a big, hold-onto-your-heart smooch right on my mouth.
Frannie clapped her hands like she was front row at a Lakers game. “Now that’s a kiss!”
“Stop hogging the boy, Paisley!” Sylvie called.
Beau pulled back and rubbed his thumb over my cheek. “You look tired, Pop Princess.”
I kept thinking, “the next time I see him, my feelings will have dimmed.” But they hadn’t. It was still there—that dangerous wanting. That feeling that sure resembled love. “It’s been a long day. Seeing you and the demon pups helps.”
Frannie now sat on the floor, both dogs in her lap. She cooed at Dinky like he was an angel on loan from heaven.
Beau placed a chaste kiss on my forehead before making the rounds to Sylvie and Frannie, loaning out those lips to give each waiting lady a peck on the cheek. If Beau and I ever broke up, I would be devastated—wrecked like a ship tossed in a hurricane. But Sylvie and Frannie? They’d never survive.
“What has you ladies up so late?” Beau took the spatula from my hands and served himself some lasagna. He glanced at my plate, then gave me an additional slice with the broiled edges, which he knew was my favorite.
“We were just discussing last week’s church sermon,” Sylvie said. “Frannie was about to give us some Hebrew background, while Paisley wanted to pull up some parallels from the New Testament.”
Beau eased his body onto a barstool. “In other words, you’re discussing the murder case and don’t want me to tell you to back off again.”
Sylvie swallowed her bite of lasagna. “Pretty much.”
Beau slid me a look. “Is there anything I can say to stop you?”
“Can you stop time?” Frannie scratched Ginger’s chin. “Can you make the Earth cease its spinning? Can you halt the President of the United States from secretly moonlighting as a Vegas showgirl at Caesars Palace?”
Beau lifted an eyebrow, but I just shrugged and handed him a napkin.
He chewed in silence for a few moments before finally looking up. “Lay it all out for me. You know you want to.”
As water glasses were filled and cookies and pasta were passed around,
the details came out, gooier than the mozzarella.
“First, we have Jaz.” Beau knew much of this, but it was important to start at the beginning for maximum effect. “She hated America, saw her as competition. Johnny Pikes had all but pushed Jaz aside to focus on the newer, younger pop phenome.”
“And the crime scene is taken directly from Jaz’s song ‘You Ain’t the Other For Long,’” Sylvie said.
“But doesn’t that make it too obvious to be Jaz?” Beau asked. “If I’m going to kill someone, I’m not going to duplicate a murder from one of my songs.”
“Unless you’re a narcissistic jerk who’s never accepted blame or consequences.” I lifted my water glass to my lips. “You can’t tell me that Louboutin doesn’t fit.”
“It does,” Frannie said, “but Jaz isn’t stupid.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Sylvie held up a hand. “Admit it—she’s not.”
“Fine,” I said. “It’s unlikely Jaz killed America. So that leaves us to ask who would want to see Jaz take the fall. The sheer volume of answers to this question challenges my math abilities.”
“But realistically, it’s those in America’s circle, someone who knew her,” Beau said.
“Johnny Pikes has motive.” Sylvie bit into a cookie and dabbed at the crumbs that fell to the granite counter. “His son tried to force himself on America, and America held it over Johnny’s head. That’s when she graduated to the top of her manager’s priority list.”
“But it came at a cost,” I added. “He was putting the top-grossing pop star on the back burner. If Jaz fired him, that would’ve rocked his world. The only way to truly shut America up was to make sure she never spoke again.”
Frannie giggled as Ginger plopped into her lap and gave her a slobbery kiss. “Then we have Trina. Don’t we, sweet baby? Oh, yes, we do.”
Sylvie smiled as she served Beau a second helping. “Pawnshop Sarge would give his entire arsenal of weapons and SPAM to trade places with that dog.”
“Trina lost her job on Pop Sensation to America.” Frannie pulled a growling Dinky to her and gave him equal attention. “She’s basically a single mom to her sister, and her music career’s dried up. With America out of the way, the show has little time to find a replacement.”
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