I opened the door a crack and eyed the cat, who was sitting in front of the refrigerator. “Nick, that’s just damn spooky. Cut it out.”
Daniel was reading a text message. He shut his phone off, slid it back into his pocket. “I’ve got to go. I was thinking about dinner and a movie this weekend? I’ve got Sunday off. We can stay out late—paint the town.”
“That sounds great.”
“Try to stay out of trouble until then, eh?”
The corners of my lips twitched upward. “I hate to make promises I’m not sure I can keep.”
He gave me a look then leaned over and touched his lips briefly to mine. “Try your best, okay? I kinda like you in one piece.” He motioned toward my back door. “I’ll go out this way. My car’s in the alley.”
I caught his hand, gave it a quick squeeze. “I know you’re trying to keep me safe, Daniel, and you have my best interests at heart, but you know me well enough to know I’m not backing down until I get answers.”
He nodded. “I know.” He started toward the door, then abruptly turned. “I’ll tell you this much. That scale you asked about? For your theory?”
A tingle crept along my spine. “Yeah?”
“Try eleven.”
Wow.
Fifteen
Chantal came at two thirty to take over closing duties, and after leaving her some last-minute instructions on what to do with the few straggling customers who were more interested in watching General Hospital than in ordering more coffee, I attempted a quick goodbye to Nick (who turned his back on me and wiggled under the rear table). After wheedling and coaxing for about five minutes I gave up. “Goodbye, Nick. I’m sure you’ll make certain that I make this up to you.”
“Oh, do not worry about Nicky,” Chantal said and laughed as I started out the door. “I have some new collars to try on him. We will have fun on my break, right, handsome?”
Nick stuck his head out from under the tablecloth, fixed me with a baleful stare, and let out a low grr as I shut the door. Boy, was I gonna pay for this.
I arrived in Saint Leo a few minutes before three thirty. The area was crowded, and I saw a long line of people standing around the entrance to the Book Haven; apparently Scarlett was more of a draw than I’d figured. I ended up having to park on a side street near the St. Leo library, about four blocks away. The good news was, by the time I reached the bookstore, most of the waiting people had disappeared inside. There was a big sign set up right in the entryway:
Appearing today, 4 p.m.
Author of My Ravaged Love
Scarlett Vandevere
Underneath the printed words was a picture of the book’s dust jacket, which depicted a girl with flowing black hair, wearing a white blouse that came all the way off her shoulders, displaying a generous amount of cleavage, swooning in the arms of a muscular man with flowing black hair, his white shirt all the way open, displaying yards and yards of tanned, muscular chest. The man’s hands were locked around the woman’s waist in a death grip; her hand was caressing his cheek. It made me warm just to look at them.
Below the cover art was a headshot of a pretty girl with light colored hair and a wide, even smile. It was impossible to discern her exact hair or eye color because the photograph was black-and-white, but I was guessing Scarlett was the quintessential blonde-haired, blue-eyed maiden. I pushed through the double doors into the store itself and took a deep breath. I’ve always loved bookstores; there’s just something about them, maybe it’s the smell of the books, I don’t know. Nowadays, though, that smell is less and less prevalent, probably due to the popularity of electronic reading devices like the Nook. I noticed practically half of the first floor was devoted to the reader.
Off to my left there were racks of hardcover books marked “Clearance,” a wide table covered with Daily Calendars, and another rack off to the back that boasted a selection of greeting cards and tote bags. More tote bags lined the walkway to the bank of registers lining the far wall—off in the rear of the store was a small section devoted to CDs and DVDs. Right next to that was an escalator leading to the second floor and a large sign: Book Signing Upstairs
There was a small throng of people, both men and women, heading for the escalator, so I joined them. Once upstairs, I followed the crowd past the Mystery and Romance section to a large corner that had been set up with about four dozen folding chairs. Two love seats flanked the chairs, and in the front near the railing was a large podium with another folding table. I saw two teenaged boys pass wheeling a cart laden with boxes and deposit them near the folding table; Scarlett’s books, no doubt. I glanced quickly around the area. It was filling up quickly, but there were still a few seats left. The air was abuzz with the sound of people chattering.
No sign, however, of the author.
A young girl with long dark hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a name tag pinned above her right breast, passed me, and I reached out and touched her arm. She swung me an inquisitive gaze, and I noted the name on the tag read Bonnie. I gave her a wide smile.
“Hello, Bonnie, is it? I assume you work here.”
She nodded, still regarding me warily. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I was wondering if you could help me. I need to speak to Scarlett Vandevere before the signing starts.”
Her eyes widened slightly, but her expression was one of clear boredom. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No fans are allowed to see Ms. Vandevere before the event. You’ll get a chance to speak with her when she signs your book.” She glanced pointedly down at my empty hands.
I brushed some hair out of my eyes and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “Oh! You think I’m here to have her sign a book? You think I’m a fan?”
The bored look morphed into a puzzled one. “Aren’t you?”
I gave a light laugh and stuck my hand into my tote. I pulled out my old press pass (thank God there was no expiration dates on these babies!) and dangled it under her nose. “Gosh, no! I’m a reporter. I’m here to interview Ms. Vandevere.”
Her well-shaped brows drew together, cutting a deep V in her otherwise smooth forehead. “Interview? Really?” Her lips puckered into an O shape. “Gee, we’ve never had reporters come to a book signing before, at least not as long as I’ve worked here. Three months now.” She said the last with a certain amount of pride.
“No? Well, then.” I widened my smile. “This can be a first.”
She took my pass in her hands and studied it a few seconds before passing it back to me. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to give you permission. I’ll have to run this by Milton,” she said at last. “He’s the store manager and the one in charge of this event. If you’d like to wait here . . .”
“Oh, I have another interview in about a half hour. Would it be all right if I went with you? To save time?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I guess so.”
I followed her down the aisle to a small door behind the Self-Improvement section. She pushed it open and motioned for me to follow her. I did, and found myself in another small room, with two doors branching off from it. In the center of the room was a metal desk. The nameplate on it read M. Fennwick. A navy suit jacket was thrown over the metal chair behind the desk, but there was no one in sight.
Bonnie stood a trifle uncertainly, hands on hips. “Can you just wait here a minute? He’s around somewhere.” She muttered something about taking fifty breaks a day under her breath and disappeared through the door on the left.
Once she’d gone, I immediately crossed to the door on the right and flung it open. A narrow hallway greeted me, with a closed door at the end. I walked boldly over to the door and rapped on it.
“Scarlett? Are you in there?”
No answer. I was just about to retrace my steps when I heard a soft click. I turned around and stared straight into the eyes of the woman on the poster. Her eyes were blue, a real, vivid, sky blue. I noted her hair was a dull ash-blonde, the same color as Desiree’s . . . and the strand of hair I’d given Ollie.
I cleared my throat.
“Scarlett Vandevere?”
She nodded, her hands running down the sides of her lime green linen skirt. “Who are you? Are you with the store? Is it time for the signing?” She held up a bare wrist. “Sorry, I forgot my watch.”
I looked at mine: three forty-five. “You’ve got a little time. My name is Nora Charles, Ms. Vandevere.” I waved my press pass under her nose. “I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes.” I glanced quickly over my shoulder. No sign yet of Bonnie or Milton. “You’ll be done in plenty of time for your signing.”
Her eyes widened a bit as she looked at the pass, and the hard lines around her mouth softened. “You want to do a story on me?” I nodded, and she swung the door wide. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Come on in.”
The room was little bigger than a broom closet. There was a tiny table in one corner, makeup strewn over its top, flanked by a large mirror and a chair, and another small wooden chair folded up in the far corner. Scarlett went over, unfolded the wooden chair, and motioned for me to sit. She eased her slender frame into the other chair, her back facing the mirror. She crossed her legs and laced her hands over her knee. “So? What do you want to know? The usual? How I got my start? What advice I have for aspiring writers? What my next project is?”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d answer a few questions about your relationship with Marlene McCambridge.”
The light faded from her eyes and her jaw thrust forward aggressively. “Marlene and I don’t have a relationship. She’s dead, in case you haven’t heard—although if you haven’t, then you must live under a rock. That’s all they’ve talked about on the TV all day.”
“I was told that you were a sort of protégée of hers.”
She laughed, a short bitter sound. “Cripes, who told you that? Sable St. John?” She rose and gestured toward the door. “If that’s the story you’re after, you can forget it. I’ve got nothing to say about Marlene, or at least nothing you’d want to print, believe me.”
“Not even about that tell-all book she was writing, and your chapter in it?”
Her eyes narrowed into mere slits, and her nails, painted the same lime green as her skirt, fiddled with its hem. “You’re not really a reporter, are you?”
As her gaze narrowed, I tapped the pass and said, “As you can see, my name is Nora Charles. I covered the true crime beat in Chicago, but I moved back here to take over the family business.”
“Family business?”
“I run a specialty sandwich shop in Cruz. Hot Bread. Feel free to Google me.”
She cocked her head, studying me. “So let me get this straight. You said you’re a reporter but you’re not, not anymore. Yet you’re asking me all these questions about Marlene. If you’re not with the police, then you’re a PI, and I don’t have to answer anything without a lawyer.”
“That’s true, you don’t.” I set down the pad and pen. “I’ll be straight with you, Scarlett. I’m not with the police and I’m not a PI, but I have an interest in this case. My mother was friends with Desiree Sanders, Marlene’s writing partner. The way things stand now, it looks as if someone’s framing her for Marlene’s murder.”
“Ah, so you’re trying to find someone else to pin it on.” She jumped up. “Well, look somewhere else. I didn’t kill her.”
“I’m not here to judge, Ms. Vandevere. I’m just trying to cover all the bases, get all the facts. Marlene told Desiree she was writing a tell-all, and your name was in her appointment book. You met with her the day of her death.”
“I see.”
“Was that why she called the meeting? To tell you that she was publishing the secret you’d told her in confidence in her tell-all?”
Scarlett blew out a breath. “Well, I don’t know what Desiree told you about Marlene, but she wasn’t a nice person, not at all. There are plenty of people who are glad she’s dead, trust me.”
“Including you.”
“I won’t deny that.” She was silent for several minutes, and I saw her bottom lip tremble. At last she met my gaze. “Have you ever done something you’ve regretted, Ms. Charles? Something so supremely stupid, but it didn’t seem so at the time? And have you ever made the mistake of confiding in the wrong person about it?”
Oh yeah, I could identify. Before I could say a word though, she rose, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “When I met Marlene I already had a book contract in hand. I was young and foolish and I was impressed with her fame, you know, the Tiffany Blake books and all that. How was I supposed to know her partner was the one really writing them? Anyway, I guess you could say I was a bit starstruck? When Marlene offered to introduce me to the right people, of course I was flattered.”
“And did she? Introduce you to the right people?”
“For her purposes, yes.” She tugged at a loose curl. “What I’m going to say next is off the record, okay?” I nodded and she went on, “When I first started out, I admit it, I was a spoiled rich kid. In lots of ways, I still am. My parents were wealthy—not Bill Gates wealthy, but pretty close—and as their only child, I never wanted for anything. As a result, I garnered the reputation of ‘empty-headed playgirl’ around our Pebble Beach neighbors for years. And then, two weeks after I turned eighteen, my parents died in a car crash. It was a tragic time in my life, and a wake-up call. I started thinking I should do something with my life, you know? Because if I died tomorrow, what would people remember me for? The way I polished my nails? The fact I could wear a different outfit every day of the year? I started dabbling in a few things, and lo and behold—I discovered not only did I like to write, I had a distinct talent for it. I got myself a private tutor, and took a couple of courses in creative writing at USC. Then one day I got my courage up and sent one of my manuscripts off to a New York agent. Imagine my surprise when he not only liked it, he signed me right up. Two months later I had my first publishing contract. Then I went to a RomCon and met . . . her.
“Marlene was really friendly to me at first, and she seemed like she wanted to be helpful, you know, giving me pointers on my career, things I should do, yada yada. She talked me into dumping my agent and signing with this other guy—what a giant mistake that was! He cost me more deals than he got for me. I finally wised up and sent him packing. Later on I learned Marlene had deliberately referred me to him so he would sabotage my career. I supposed I should be flattered she was that jealous of my ability.
“But that’s not even the worst part. When I was fifteen I had a fling with my history teacher. Stupid, I know. He got me hooked on drugs—the hard stuff. It took my parents’ death to get me clean. Anyway, after my book became a hit I got involved with a guy who was also a supplier. I didn’t write for two years, but good sense eventually kicked in and I got clean again. It bothered me, and I made the mistake of confiding in Marlene. Big mistake. She delighted in holding it over my head. My platform is my squeaky clean image that I was a poor little rich girl and I made it in the industry on hard work and my ability. If the truth about my past ever surfaced, my fans might all turn against me.”
I laid my hand on her arm. “You don’t know that for sure. After all, you’re human. People make mistakes.”
She shook her head. “I can’t afford to take that chance. Not anymore. I recently found out my accountant has been stealing me blind the last few years. Turns out I do need the money I make from my romance series, now more than ever.” She ran a hand through her hair, tugged absently on a curl. “When she set up this meeting, I knew darn well what it was going to be about. Anyway, I called her, offered her a half million dollars if she’d leave me out of the book. It would have left me totally broke, but I felt I had no choice.”
I shifted in my chair. I liked Scarlett, but I couldn’t discount the fact that what she’d just told me was a great motive for murder. “What did Marlene say?”
“She said she’d consider it, and let me know her final answer at our meeting, but”—her slender shoulder
s lifted in a shrug—“that never happened.”
“So you never met with her in person?”
“No. Trust me, I’m not the only one who had issues with Marlene. If you ask me, that smarmy lawyer had problems with her, and Sable St. John couldn’t stand her either. As a matter of fact, I overheard her on the phone one day last month. She was telling someone that St. John and her agent, Anabel Leedson, were conspiring against her, and she wasn’t going to stand for it.” Scarlett sighed. “You know what they say, sometimes having no agent is better than having a bad one. And trust me . . . Marlene was plenty angry at both of ’em.” She frowned. “I told all this to that detective this morning at my hotel.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Do you remember the detective’s name, by chance? There are a few working this.”
“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t paying much attention when he introduced himself. He was darn good-looking though. Very movie star–ish. Black hair and eyes, and he had a nice build.”
Oh, yeah. Samms.
“Anyway, he asked me where I stayed while I’m on tour. I told him I usually just stay at my condo in Pebble Beach, but it’s being renovated, so I’ve been hanging with a friend of mine in Monterey. Then he asked me where I was between midnight and three a.m. night before last, and I told him we were practically up all night in her den, watching a Jimmy Stewart marathon on a cable channel.” She smiled faintly. “The last movie was a good one. Jimmy Stewart broke his leg, and he’s laid up and bored, so he snoops on his neighbors with binoculars and ends up witnessing a murder. I can never remember the name of it though.”
“Rear Window.”
“Oh, right.” She beamed at me. “It’s a classic movie, but it’s just so unbelievable. Who in their right mind would witness a murder and then goad the killer on like Stewart did?” She shook her head. “I mean, no one does that in real life. Hello, it’s like drawing a target right on your back, you know, a real invitation to murder.”
Hiss H for Homicide Page 13