A small frown marred Angela's features. "My state?"
"Mourning," I explained. "You are grieving the death of Dog, aren't you?"
She blinked at me, as if not sure how to properly answer that question. "I-I…no. I mean, I told you, whatever relationship we had, it was over long ago. Long, long ago."
"Well, that's odd," I said, frowning. "Why would he leave you four million dollars in his will, then?"
The smile froze on her features, her skin going slightly pale beneath her artfully applied bronzer. "Excuse me?"
"I guess you haven't seen the Informer this afternoon."
Angela let out a couple of four-letter words that would make Gordon Ramsay blush. "Tabloids! Why can't they just mind their own business?"
I was right there with her on that one. "But it is true, isn't it? You are the beneficiary of the G-Money Trust Fund?"
Angela sucked in her cheeks, narrowing her eyes at me. But, since it was already out there, she must have realized there was no use in denying it. "Fine. Yes, I am. So what?"
"So, that's a heck of a lot of money for Dog to leave someone who is long gone from their lives."
"Dog owed me that money," she fumed.
"What do you mean, he owed it to you?" I asked.
"Ever heard of palimony?"
"Palimony? Are you saying Dog was sending you monthly payments too?" At the rate he paid off ex-lovers, Dog would have been broke in no time.
But Angela shook her head. "No. See, that's just it! He promised to take care of me. I put my career on hold for him. I stopped doing videos, stopped going on auditions. I was Dog's arm candy 24/7. He promised he was going to marry me."
"But he didn't," I pointed out.
"That doesn't matter. That promise to take care of me was a binding legal contract. So, when we broke up, I filed paperwork to sue him for palimony."
"But you said you didn't get it," I pointed out.
"No. Look, Dog's career was stalling then. Album sales were down. He was barely making ends meet. It was Dog's lawyer who came up with the compromise. He said he'd set up the trust and I'd be a beneficiary of Dog's estate when he passed away. It was a gamble, but I thought I could possibly end up with a lot more that way than haggling over some small monthly sum."
"And you were okay with waiting for that payday?"
"With the way Dog partied, I knew I'd be outliving him," Angela reasoned. "I mean, it was only a matter of time before his bad habits caught up with him." She paused, smiling at herself in the mirror. "Turns out I was right, huh?"
"Isn't that convenient," I said.
Her gaze shifted to mine. "Now, hold on a minute. I had nothing to do with Dog's death."
"Well, if I were a tabloid reporter, I'd point out that you certainly had motive. Four million of them, to be exact."
"So did his ex-wives!" she protested hotly.
"And you had the opportunity," I noted. "You could have easily slipped a little something into Dog's energy drink."
"But I didn't," she said, her voice rising, a note of fear edging out her previous smugness.
"That wouldn't be the first lie you've told me."
Angela shook her head. "Look, I didn't even know what Dog was worth before he died. I told you, seeing him at the taping was the first time I'd even had any contact with him in forever."
"And it was coincidentally the day he died."
Angela's dark eyes turned cat-like as she glared at me. "I don't have to explain anything to you. Besides, cheating runs in your family. Look at your stepfather."
A knock on the door interrupted my sarcastic reply. The stage manager stuck his head in the doorway. "Miss Gold, there's only five minutes until taping starts. They need you to get into position."
Angela rose from her chair. "Coming." She reached the door and turned around to face me with a satisfied smirk. "The producers may be letting Fernando compete tonight, but he's going to wish they hadn't when I beat him. Then he'll be exposed as the old fool he is."
She closed the door before I could say anything, but I composed several angry replies in my head as I quickly hurried back toward the studio audience.
I scanned the crowd and spotted Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt in the third row, waving at me. I made my way over to them and quickly settled into my seat, which was on the aisle. They were already engrossed in a conversation about Pippi's outfit—a leather crop top and hot pants that were barely holding her parts in. She was mugging it for the camera, sticking her tongue out and flashing a rock and roll sign with her hands.
"She doesn't look anything like little Pippi," Mom said sadly.
"That's the point. She's trying to look grown-up now. She's rebranding. She's Pip," Mrs. Rosenblatt declared.
"What kind of name is Pip?" Mom scoffed. "I liked her better when she was in pigtails."
Mrs. R shrugged. "She wore pigtails in her last music video. Didn't wear anything else, but the pigtails were there."
The contestants began filing out onto the stage amidst applause from the audience. Faux Dad took a position behind the podium nearest to the host, with Pippi in the middle and Angela to the one at my far right. Faux Dad stared straight ahead into the audience. His eyes looked glassy, and his makeup was fading fast.
"Is he okay?" I asked Mom.
She twisted her hands in her lap. "I hope so. He's nervous, Maddie. Even more so than the last time. Hopefully he'll snap out of it once the categories are announced."
The lights blinked, and then the familiar music started to play. Johnny's booming voice sounded over the speakers, announcing, "This is Celebrity Jeopardy! Let's meet today's finalists!"
We all applauded as the camera shifted from Pippi and her radiant smile to Angela and her plastic one then finally to Faux Dad, who looked like he might faint at any moment. Alex Trebek was introduced, and everyone clapped and cheered again.
Mrs. R let out a whistle between her teeth that sent half the second row covering their ears.
"Please, please, let there be questions about hair," Mom whispered.
We held our breath as Trebek announced the categories. Famous Leaders, 1970s Television, Historic Places, Shakespeare, Eleven Letter Words, and Wall Street.
Mrs. Rosenblatt gasped. "Oh no. None of these are his strong suit."
The competition began, and Faux Dad seemed to be having trouble with his buzzer that was reminiscent of Dog's issues in the first round. Angela got the Daily Double, located in the middle of the 1970s Television category.
She gave a sacchariney smile. "Let's make it a true daily double, Alex!"
"Please let her miss," my mother prayed. "She wasn't around in the 70s, was she?"
"She might have been," Mrs. Rosenblatt noted. "All actresses have plastic surgery these days. It's a good thing I've never needed it. I'm betting that she's even older than me."
"Shush!" a woman behind us said.
"This actress is best known for her portrayal of Erica Kane," Trebek read.
Angela practically jumped up and down. "Who is my favorite daytime actress, Susan Lucci!"
Mrs. Rosenblatt groaned. "Typical. From one soap opera queen to another."
When the show went to its first commercial break, Angela was leading with a score of $3,000. Pippi had $2,000, and Faux Dad had a measly $700. Mom was starting to have a panic attack.
"He's so much better than this," she panted loudly. "It's not fair. That Angela Gold must have an extra buzzer or something."
"Put your head between your knees before you hyperventilate," Mrs. Rosenblatt advised. "Your husband has enough to deal with right now besides worrying about you."
"It's still early," Mom's muffled voice came from her lap.
"It is. He has plenty of time to catch up, Mom," I added.
Mrs. Rosenblatt shook her head ruefully. "No. It's over."
My phone vibrated with another text message. I drew it out of my pocket.
And narrowed my eyes as I saw Tina Bender's name show up.
I almo
st ignored it, but at the risk of another surprise article being printed that day, I swiped to read it.
I have urgent news. Come to Aunty Mae's set. ASAP.
I bit my lower lip. Knowing Tina, this was some sort of trick. After a quick glance at the stage where we were still at a commercial break, I typed a response.
What news? I already read your article…thanks for not sharing
I shoved my phone into my pocket, trying to ignore the niggle of curiosity at what, exactly, Tina might think she knew. And wondering why she didn't just publish it for the entire world to see before telling me.
Then again…maybe she'd found something really big. Like definitive proof of Dog's killer, big. It's possible she was looking to do the right thing. Share with me, and maybe Ramirez and the police, before tipping the killer off in the media.
Or maybe she was just baiting me into saying something stupid to quote in tomorrow's edition.
I held on to that thought as the stage manager signaled that we were almost back. Just as the theme music swelled again, my phone buzzed in with a response.
This is important. Meet me ASAP. I know who killed Dog.
I sucked in a breath. It was possible she was bluffing. But it was also possible she actually did know something. I glanced at the stage, where the contestants were making small talk with the host, giving their short, humorous quips about their lives.
I slung my purse over my shoulder. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," I whispered to my mother.
"Where are you going?" she whispered back, panic in her voice.
But I didn't stop to answer, quickly ducking through the dark stage to a side door marked with a glowing exit sign. I quickly slipped outside, the sunlight momentarily blinding me. I glanced around, trying to get my bearings, and realized Aunty Mae's Studio 8B was just down on the left. As I made quick tracks toward it, I wondered what Tina could have possibly found there. Had she broken in with her trusty lockpick set again? Had she found something there to incriminate Mae…something we'd missed the other day? Maybe even something she'd seen at the memorial that had clued her in.
The main door to 8B was still unlocked, probably awaiting the janitorial crew to come clean up after the memorial service. I pushed through the door and entered the large room, dark now with all the mourners and attention seekers gone. I could still smell the lingering aroma of appetizers and wine, though the room had the same air of abandonment I'd felt on our first visit to the set.
"Hello?" I called, hearing my voice echo eerily back at me. "Tina?"
The extra chairs and tables that had been set up for the memorial were gone now, leaving a cavernous shell of a room. The bright lights had been turned off, and I pulled my phone out, sweeping the flashlight beam across the room. Only dark shadows and the skeleton of Aunty Mae's kitchen stared back at me.
"Tina?" I called again. "Are you here?"
There was no answer. Now I was really getting annoyed. Whatever game she was playing, this wasn't the time for it. Faux Dad needed all the moral support he could get back at the taping. I decided I'd take a quick look down the hallway, in case she was in one of the dressing rooms, but if she didn't show her face by then, I was out of there.
I took a step toward the back rooms.
But a muffled sound stopped me.
I froze, listening in the dark.
I thought I heard it again. A soft scuffle that seemed to be coming from the kitchen. I flashed my beam over the wood cabinets, long counters topped with cooking utensils, and pots and pans hanging from the rafters. Nothing.
"Tina? Is that you?" I called out.
This time I definitely heard something. It was coming from the other side of the kitchen island. I slowly stepped around the long counter onto the set, my phone held out in front of me like a beacon.
I looked down at the floor.
And froze.
Sitting in a heap on the wood planks was Tina—hands tied behind her back, feet bound with electrical tape, and one of Aunty Mae's signature pink gingham potholders stuck in her mouth with electrical tape.
"Ohmigosh, Tina!" I yelled.
Her eyes were wide, muffled sounds coming from her throat. I took a step toward her, my mind reeling.
But I didn't get a chance to help her.
Just as I bent down to rip the tape from her mouth, something heavy connected with the back of my head. The pain was blinding, and I fell to my knees, hearing a groan escape from my lips. The last thing I remembered seeing was a look of sheer terror in Tina's eyes.
Before everything went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I awoke to darkness. I blinked my eyes, at first not sure I had even opened them. But wherever I was, it was dark. And musty. My nose tickled as I breathed in dust and stale air. Pain throbbed in my head, and I struggled to remember what had happened and where I was.
I'd been on the In the Kitchen set. I'd been looking for Tina.
Tina!
I tried to turn my head to look for her, but the pain that greeted me stilled me instantly. I only dared to breathe for the next couple of minutes. Finally I tried moving again, realizing I was lying on something cold and hard. I tried to move my hands out from under me, only to find that they had been tied behind me.
Panic surged in my chest as I realized that whatever had happened to Tina had now happened to me too. Someone had hit me over the head. Someone had tied me up. That someone was bound to come back.
Ignoring my throbbing head, I moved my arms, testing the bonds. Unfortunately, they were holding tight. I was able to use my legs to push to a sitting position. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized I was still in Aunty Mae's kitchen, the wood floor beneath me and tall whitewashed cabinets looming all around. On the floor beside me sat a heavy cast iron skillet. I winced, wondering if that had been the cause of my temporary unconsciousness.
"Tina?" I whispered. I couldn't see her, but considering I could barely see my own feet, that didn't mean she wasn't there. Wherever my phone was now, the flashlight was dimmed. "Tina, are you there?"
A muffled moan to my right told me she was. I tried to scoot toward the sound, moving until my leg connected with hers. But with my hands bound, that was about all I could do.
A faint glimmer of light shone from across the set, and I realized that the someone who had done this to us was already here. A lump of fear lodged itself in my throat, and I instinctively scooted closer to Tina until the two of us were huddling together against the faux farmhouse cabinets, watching the light move closer and closer as our captor approached.
It wasn't until they were standing right over us that I was able to make out their features in the dim lighting.
"John," I breathed, confusion overtaking the dull ache in my head.
He stared down at me with the same stoic, grim expression on his face that I'd seen on previous occasions. Though, this time there was a hint of something else behind his eyes as they flashed at us.
"You say that as if you're surprised," he said.
I'll admit, I was. Though fear was probably higher on my list of emotions as I glanced up and saw a small black pistol in his right hand.
"Wh-what are you doing here?" I asked.
He cocked his head to the side. "I'm here to tie up loose ends."
Oh, how I hated being a loose end. I heard Tina whimper beside me through her pink potholder gag.
I licked my lips. "You killed Dog?" I asked. My mind was slow to put it all together, possibly due to the skillet to the head.
John nodded slowly. "I did. He had to be stopped."
"Stopped?" I asked, not quite understanding. "From what?"
"All those years of playing right into a stereotype. The rough Scottish hooligan. The egotistical rapper, throwing money around for show. Degrading women, using them, greedily gobbling up everything they have to offer and leaving them empty, broken shells."
"You're talking about your mother?" I asked softly.
"I'm talking about eve
ry woman he ever met!" John shot back, the emotion in his eyes flashing again, his fist clenching, the hand holding the gun shaking with anger.
I bit my lip, trying to think of calming words to soothe him. And steady that gun. "It wasn't fair what he did to your mother," I agreed.
"She did it to herself," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "She let him use her. Kept begging for more. Every time I tried to point out the man's obvious flaws, she wouldn't hear it. They were all like that. Blind to what he really was, only seeing the celebrity, the money, the stupid, ridiculous image!" His free hand thrashed out, connecting with a container of cooking utensils on the countertop, sending them crashing to the floor. Wood spoons, metal ladles, spatulas, and other utensils rained down with a clatter just inches from Tina and me.
I instinctively pulled my legs in closer as John breathed deeply, obviously trying to rein in his anger.
"My father was worthless," he said. "He only existed because the women threw themselves at him. And for what? To be used and discarded."
"So you poisoned Dog's energy drink?" I asked.
He leveled me with a hard stare. "Yes." The one word sent a chill up my spine.
"Backstage, when you and Chloe visited him before the taping. Is that when you did it?" I asked.
He nodded. "I doctored the drink ahead of time. I knew he was as addicted to those things as he was to weed. It was simply a matter of swapping the bottles out at the taping. I figured, with his reputation for drugs, someone would find him hours later and just assume it was an overdose."
Which is what the police had initially thought. If the ME hadn't been familiar with this particular type of poisoning, it's quite possible John's plan would have worked perfectly.
"Only, the police realized it was intentional," I said, hoping that the longer I kept him talking, the better the chance that someone would discover Tina and I were missing and send a SWAT team to find us. At the very least, maybe Aunty Mae would come back looking for a refill on her vodka water bottle.
"Yes." John's grim expression returned, a deep frown marring his young features. "As soon as you showed up asking questions about the police visiting, I knew someone suspected the truth. Especially when the detective showed up, asking about my father's enemies."
Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12) Page 21
