LeAnna's shoulders sagged.
"What are they looking for anyway?" Britton asked.
I shrugged. "I don't know. But Detective Cocky over there told me they issued the warrant to search through your things because the murder weapon came back with only one set of prints on it." I paused and sent a pointed look toward LeAnna.
"What!" She bolted to a standing position, but Britton quickly yanked her back down. LeAnna leaned toward me, grabbing the front of my blouse, forcing me to sit right in front of her on the coffee table atop a lumpy stack of magazines and God only knew what else.
"They were my cuticle scissors. Of course they had my prints on them," she spat through clenched teeth. "But like I've said a million times, I did not kill my husband." Her voice rose to a squalling shriek toward the end of her statement. Her upper lip quivered with anger, causing her nose to bounce like a rabid bunny. Not her best look. Would it be impolite to snap a pic?
"That's all good and well, but they aren't leaving." I plucked her hand from my blouse, shoving it back into her lap. "Besides you and Gerald, who else had access to your room?"
Her anger faded for a moment as she trained her eyes on mine. "Why do you ask?"
"Well," I said slowly, spelling it out for her, "if you didn't kill Gerald, and he didn't kill himself, someone else must have gotten their hands on your cuticle scissors." I moved an oddly placed TV remote out from under my posterior, shifting in an attempt to level myself.
"Maybe you loaned your cuticle scissors to someone else?" Britton offered.
LeAnna shook her head. "Who loans those?"
"When was the last time you saw them?" I pressed.
LeAnna opened her mouth to respond but seemed to pause midthought. "Well, I don't know! I got a shellac before we left Napa." She held out her hands. Her nails were, indeed, freshly manicured and shellacked. If I had to guess, it would be another week before she even needed her cuticle scissors. "I usually keep them in my makeup case, but it's not like I inventoried everything in there."
By the size of the case I'd seen, I could tell that prospect would take a while.
"Do you think that Gerald would have given his room to key to someone else?" Britton asked.
LeAnna sniffed, wiping at tears that just weren't there. "No, my Gerald never allowed anyone we didn't know into our room."
"Any friends you might have given your key to?" Britton asked.
Shaking her head so hard it loosened the sparkly clip from her bangs, LeAnna pleaded to Britton, "You know I'd never do that. You also know I'd never kill anyone, right?" She gathered her friend's hands in her own, big doe eyes begging along with her words.
Britton nodded, shifting her gaze to mine. "She wouldn't. On both counts. Even if you don't believe her, you can believe me."
I trusted Britton implicitly, knowing her faith was deeply rooted in her friend, misguided as it was. I, however, did not trust LeAnna any farther than I could throw her.
I glanced between the two women a few times but finally stopped on LeAnna. "So, if you didn't use your own scissors to kill your husband, who did?"
Leaning in close again, LeAnna spat, "You tell me." Her voice lowered before she continued. "It had to be one of your employees, Tornado Tessie. Which one of them broke in here and framed me?"
"Wait—what?" I sputtered, her accusation taking me completely by surprise. "My staff would never do anything like this." At least, I hoped they wouldn't. It would be easy enough to check card access and video footage from the hallway to make sure. But I stood my ground (actually, sat my ground), my expression never wavering.
A sound of a throat being cleared loudly behind me pulled me from visions of smacking some sense into the woman. I turned to find Alfie towering over me.
He bobbed his head toward the door. "Can I talk to you in the hall?"
"Sure." I stood, brushing papers and debris from my butt before following him out of the suite.
Alfie pivoted from side to side, staring down the empty hallway in both directions before turning his attention back to me. "My guys just got done with the footage from this morning. We recovered all shots of our fake ski bum."
"Any of them provide an ID?" I held my breath, hanging on his answer, half of me almost hoping to hear LeAnna's name and not that of a certain Hammerhead.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, nothing definite. He came in through the side entrance from the parking garage, sat at the slot machines for a while, where it looks like he was watching for Mr. Taylor." Alfie paused. "You saw what happened when he found him. After that he just walked right out the front doors and got into a cab."
"Any chance you could track down the taxi driver?"
"We're working on it, but with the amount of traffic we had coming in and out of the casino last night, is unlikely anyone's going to remember any particular skier. Especially if our guy was taking steps to not be recognized. Wherever he had the driver drop him off, chances are it wasn't his final destination anyway."
I huffed out an exasperated sigh. "So, basically were back at square one."
"Pretty much. I'll let you know if my guys find anything else."
"Thanks, Alfie. Can you also have them track anyone who may have come and gone from this room over the last few days?"
His lip twitched, and his jaw tightened. "Feds already have that in the works."
"Thanks," I said, truly meaning it. I turned to go back into LeAnna's suite. She and Britton were waiting right inside the door, an officer blocking their exit. LeAnna crossed her arms tightly across her chest and ground her teeth. "Can we leave now?"
"I'm sure they'll be done soon," I assured.
"Whatever. I just want to go get settled in my new room."
"New room?" I asked, casting a glance in Britton's direction.
Britton smiled sheepishly and dropped her gaze to her bedazzled feet. "I sort of invited LeAnna to stay with us in the penthouse. Just until this killer is caught. It just seems safer. You don't mind, right?"
It was my turn to grind my teeth. Great, now I'd be sleeping with the enemy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sun streamed through my window shades, casting striped sunbeams across my bed. Captain Jack was curled in a tight black-and-white ball next to me, purring up a storm as the warmth permeated us both. As I scratched his ears, he stretched out long and lean. He opened an eye and did a cute little purr/meow. Mornings just didn't get much better.
Unless Bradley Cooper was free.
A blood-curdling scream sounded from the living room, quickly taking me out of a happy cocoon and bringing back the nightmares from the previous evening. The LeAnna invasion was real. I groaned. I'd made a point last night of checking for any other available suites we could off-load LeAnna into, but thanks to Battle Buffet, we were fully booked until the weekend. I tried to think happy thoughts about the revenue that would generate and not about how hard it would be to keep from killing LeAnna between now and Monday.
I grabbed my robe, and Jack crept under the bed. He was probably the smarter of the two of us. I smoothed my hair as I turned out of the hall into the living room. LeAnna was wearing Britton's black yoga pants and matching sports top and was holding her palms out in front of her, disgust etched on her face.
"Is everything okay?" I regretted the words even before she snarled at me.
"Can you not see all of the cat hair? This is disgusting." She swatted at maybe three hairs on her thigh.
I crossed the room to Britton's antique writing desk and tossed a lint roller on the mattress of the hide-a-bed. "That's what these are for."
Jack trotted into the living room, making a figure eight around my ankles.
"You just need to drop that thing off at the pound."
"He's not going anywhere, but I'll drop you off there if you need a lift." I gave her my biggest fake smile.
"This is just gross," she said, rolling her thigh like a maniac. "If it were up to me, all animals would live outside. In cages."
Jack hissed at LeAnna, and she lunged toward him.
I scooped the poor kitty into my arms just in time. "I swear, LeAnna, if you touch one hair on this cat's head…"
"Don't worry," she cut me off. "All of his hair is on me right now."
Britton chose that moment to prance around the corner in another neon spandex outfit and matching shoes, this time in florescent yellow. "What's the problem, girls?"
LeAnna and I shared a scowl before I mumbled, "Just setting a few ground rules."
My phone chirped from my room, calling me away from the stare-down. I grabbed a bagel from the basket on the kitchen counter and headed back to my room to check my phone. Jack followed on my heels.
It was a text from Alfie. Battle Buffet set ASAP.
Oh, goodie. Probably another French fit, toddler-style.
* * *
After rushing through my morning routine, I arrived on the show set, dressed in a new dark-blue pencil skirt and matching 3/4-sleeve short jacket. I was fully caffeinated and ready for any insults the cranky celebrity chef could throw my way. I was not, however, prepared for Rafe. He was dressed in khakis and an emerald-green sweater that matched his eyes, momentarily throwing me off my game and tossing me into teen-crush mode.
Even when he smiled at me with dimples popping at only medium depth, I couldn't help the girly sigh that escaped. I tried to cover it with a forced cough. "What are you doing here?"
He flipped a hand over his shoulder toward Chef Dubois. "Alfie asked for my help installing the new faucet. The plumber couldn't make it in until this afternoon. Dubois was about to bust something." He looked over his shoulder. "As a matter of fact, he may have actually busted a few set props."
I shook my head in frustration. "I know he's bringing in some big revenue, but is it even worth it?"
Rafe leaned an elbow against one of the contestant's counters. "Yes, it's worth it. And I had to call in a favor to even make it happen."
I raised an eyebrow his way. "I didn't know that."
He shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal. Your father and James Sicianni go way back. He was happy to consider our venue when I mentioned your father's name." He flashed his dimples again.
Sicianni, who was funded by the Gambia family, and my dad went way back? That sinking feeling from the day before returned to my stomach, mixing with my bagel in a nauseating brew. I stared up at Rafe. Surely I could trust him. I grabbed his arm and tugged him over to the VIP section, out of earshot of anyone on the set.
"Whoa, Tessie, what's going on?" he asked, concern replacing his delicious dimples.
I wanted to be tactful, but the words just poured out. "Is Battle Buffet mobbed up?"
Rafe's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean mobbed up?"
"I mean, who are these VIPs that Sicianni invited?"
He leaned back in his chair, dropping his hands into his lap. "I heard you went to Weston, asking about the show."
"Tiffany," I mumbled, more like it was a bad word than a question.
"Yes, Tiffany." He paused. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like her."
"Ha!" I blurted out before I could stop myself. I quickly pulled my professional face back out. "Sorry. It's none of my business who you date."
His eyes suddenly twinkled with a mischievous glimmer through his thick, dark lashes. "Who says I'm dating her?"
I quirked an eyebrow his way. "So, you're just taking her out to dinner, dancing, and nightclubs?" I asked, ticking off the places that my sources (a.k.a. Tate) had seen the two together in the last few days.
He shrugged. "We may have been to those places together. Doesn't mean we're together." He winked at me.
Was he flirting? I cleared my throat, feeling my cheeks go warm. "Are you avoiding the question?"
"What question? Am I dating Tiffany Weston?"
As much as I was suddenly interested in that answer… "No. Did I invite the cast of The Godfather to my casino?"
He shook his head. "Mr. Sicianni has invited a group of—"
"Foodies. I know," I said, waving the cover story off.
"And food critics and restaurateurs. VIPs in the culinary industry."
"But why would the FBI be here?"
Rafe's easy smile faltered for a moment. "FBI? You mean Agent Ryder?"
Was that jealousy I detected? Wow, flirting and jealousy all in one convo. Teen-me was kinda not hating this.
"They're looking into Mr. Taylor's death. They think maybe, possibly, the Mafia, Mr. Taylor, Battle Buffet, and the Gambias are all connected somehow."
"Gambias?"
"And other families. They're all coming for a big all-hands mob meeting."
Rafe's smile fell lopsided, his eyes clearly laughing at me. "Weston told you all of this?"
I swallowed. "Well, yeah."
"And you believed him?"
"Well, sorta…"
Rafe grabbed both of my hands, pulling me toward him. Our noses almost touched. Teen-me's heart skipped a beat and honed in on his lips. Adult-me couldn't help but look too.
"Look, we start taping later today," he said, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumbs. I may have stopped breathing, but I was okay with it. "Let's just take a moment to pause here, okay? I mean, what motive would anyone connected with the show possibly have for wanting Mr. Taylor dead?"
He was right. So far the only person who had motive was sitting in my penthouse, lint-rolling herself into a frenzy.
Clanging pots and a string of thunderous French words grabbed our attention. Teen-me was still captivated, but adult-me sprang into action and made my way to Chef Dubois's kitchen stage.
I cleared my throat, calling his attention away from the female contestant he had cornered. "Chef Dubois, is there a problem?" I bit back the word again. "That extra centimeter really does make a difference," I said with a modicum of sarcasm, waving toward his faucet.
He turned to me. "Ah, Meese King. My apologies for my conduite the last time we met. I had no idea you were the, how you say? Transient owner?"
"I'm the owner, yes." Not a homeless owner, just a regular one. "How is the new faucet? Up to your standards, I presume?"
"Oh, Meese King, one must never presume. That was our problème last time. Today est bonne." He motioned toward his sink. "Is very good. My contestants? Pas si bon, not so good." He glared at a woman who had escaped back to her own kitchenette. She was busily chopping greens, muttering under her breath.
"Is there a problem with a contestant?" I asked. I had to admit, that seemed like more of an issue for the show's producer than the hotel staff. We'd had nothing to do with the selection of the contestants.
"Oui!" he yelled. "She is ten minutes late this morning. Ten!"
I looked back at the woman. She was slim, young, and had a tattoo of a whisk on her forearm. She also looked like she was chopping the life out of those greens. If I had to guess, I'd say she was picturing one French chef as she mutilated them into a pulp.
"Uh, I'm very sorry that she was late," I said.
"And do you know why she was tardy?"
I shook my head.
"Because your breakfast service was late to her room!"
I mentally rolled my eyes but was proud to say I kept the smile pasted on my face.
"These amateurs need all the rehearsal time they can get. I cannot function where precision and adherence to schedules does not exist!"
"I am very sorry. I will do all I can to ensure that does not happen to any of your talent for the rest of the stay," I promised.
His eyes narrowed at me, and his nostrils flared. "I am the talent on this show. Everyone would be smart to remember that." He grabbed a meat cleaver, wielded it high over his head, the metal singing as it whipped through the air before slamming into the chopping block in front of him.
I backed away to a safe distance. "Well, if there's anything you need, just let us know."
He yanked the cleaver out and waved it in my direction. "You will let Alfie know I'm grateful for th
e faucet, no?"
I nodded, hoping I had kept the look of terror from my face. "Of course." Spinning on my heels, I all but jogged from the stage, dodging the setup crew with the bleachers as they brought them down the hall, and headed toward the front desk. Rafe was nowhere in sight. Ryder, however, was near the elevators, chatting with two uniformed policemen. I just barely kept my stomach from doing a little flip at the sight of his perfectly tailored suit hugging his frame. How the guy managed to have sexy five o'clock shadow even before noon was beyond me. I gave my traitorous hormones a down, girl and made my way toward him.
I stood a few feet away from him, waiting for them to wrap up their conversation.
Ryder kept looking over at me, a slight smile tilting his lips. Finally, he patted the guy closest to him on the shoulder. "I'll meet you guys there."
He wound past a few people and made his way to me. This time, a real smile graced his adorable features. He was dressed in his signature dark suit and white dress shirt, his tie the only splash of color in his ensemble. This time it was in a striped pattern. It was slightly uneven, and my fingers itched to fix it.
"Agent Ryder," I greeted him, going for the formal feel again. "I trust your crime scene crew is done going through LeAnna's suite?" I was proud of myself that I'd kept most of my snarky comments to myself last night, but I couldn't make any promises about the future if she continued to stay in my penthouse.
"They're not my crew," he answered, the smile never leaving his face as his eyes gave me an up and down that raised goose bumps. Traitorous skin. "They're local PD."
"Whoever they are, I'd like my guest to be able to return to her suite."
My chilly tone did nothing to wipe the grin off his face.
"How about I buy you a cup of coffee, and we can discuss it?"
As much as I didn't trust my body not to react around him, I was all for any discussion that led to getting LeAnna out of my hair. Plus, my morning so far was screaming for caffeine. I motioned toward the front of the building to the Java Joust. "I can get us a couple of cups for free. I have connections." Dang, even my own mouth was betraying me now. Bad mouth. No flirting.
Hey Big Spender Page 7
