Milkshakes, Mermaids, and Murder

by Sara Rosett

  “Did you get anything?” I asked. “They moved so fast.”

  “Of course I got something,” she said, as if I’d questioned her ability to do something as simple as add two plus two. She tilted the screen on the camera toward me and flicked through the pictures. The first one was a little blurry, but the next one jumped into focus. It captured Nick reaching for Suzie’s hand. Like stop-action animation, the next photos showed Suzie stepping out of the car, all with clear shots of her face.

  “Impressive.”

  “It’s what I do. I’m good at it,” she said with a tiny shrug.

  While Monica examined the photos on her camera, I went back to the photos on the laptop. The same faces showed up again and again, hovering around Suzie and Nick. “Who are all these people who are always around Suzie and Nick? Don’t they go anywhere by themselves?”

  “That, my dear, is their entourage. If you’re an A-list celebrity like Nick, you don’t do anything alone. I doubt some celebrities can even pee by themselves.”

  “That’s absurd,” I said.

  “You’d think so, but I’ve heard stories about stars asking their assistants to come in the bathroom and take down e-mails or make phone calls for them.”

  “Gross. And weird.”

  “Yep, celebrities are strange birds. No matter how many pictures there are of them buying groceries or working out at the gym, they’re not like us. Suzie has learned quickly the ways of the star. I went on Suzie Watch right after the Olympics. She only had her mom and her coach with her then, but within two weeks she had the whole complement of attendants. It’s like a royal court. Here, I’ll show you.” She pulled the laptop toward her. “Okay, this is Hobbs,” she said, tapping a burly guy with a shaved head and dark glasses in a black suit. “He’s head of Nick’s security.”

  “Nick needs security?”

  “Sure. He had that crazy stalker girl following him around L.A. last year with his name tattooed on the back of her neck under a barcode. She tried to break into his house. She wanted to take a bath in his tub,” Monica said with a one-shoulder shrug as if the scenario was weird, but not the craziest thing she’d heard of. “So he’s got Hobbs and a few other guys. I know them all,” she said. “Of course, Suzie needs security, too. Big athlete like that, she hasn’t totally ruled out going to the next Olympics, and she doesn’t want someone going all Tonya Harding on her, so she’s got Jerry and his retinue.” Monica tapped another burly, dark-suited guy in shades, this one with a full head of curly brown hair.

  She took a deep breath. “Then, you have the managers.” Her finger traced back and forth in the air over the photo. “There’s Dwight,” she said, pointing to a tall man with a wrinkled face wearing a white shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. “He’s with Suzie. There’s Nick’s manager, the bald guy who’s sweating so much. That’s Suzie’s stylist, Marie.” She pointed out a woman with spiked purple hair. “And her publicist,” she added. The publicist looked especially harried, her short brown hair hanging limp against her damp forehead, her bangs dipping over the frames of her glasses. “Then you’ve got the PA,” she said, tapping the head of a skinny girl with long blond hair who looked scared. “Poor Nell, she spends her whole day halfway to a heart attack.”

  “PA?”

  “Personal assistant. Basically a gofer, the lowest strata of the entourage. Anything the celeb wants done, they do it—e-mail, grocery shopping, cleaning out the litter box, you name it. Nothing is too menial. People will do anything to get and stay close to a star.”

  “How do you know all these people?”

  “Oh, the big ones with the official positions are easy to keep straight. I see them all the time. Going back to the royal court analogy, they’re the star’s ministers or cabinet. They are officially connected to the celebrity, and I have to know who they are. They’re my ‘in.’ They either keep me informed or try to keep information from me, depending on what it is. It’s the other people who are harder to keep track of. There is always a group of hangers-on around a star, like minor celebrities or old school chums. It’s like an ecosystem, actually. All these people circulate around the star, living off of them in many cases. The hanger-on people get quite paranoid and protective of their position.”

  “Hey, who’s this?” I asked sharply, spotting a guy in a blue Hawaiian shirt, turned away from the camera. He stood slightly apart from the group around Suzie and Nick. “Is he part of the entourage?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him before. I think I’d remember someone who wears shirts like that. He might be a new PA, or he might be someone who was on the sidewalk at that moment.”

  “Hmm,” I said, going back to the photos and looking specifically for that Hawaiian shirt. Could the guy who snatched Ben work for Suzie or Nick? I found two more pictures with the guy, but one only showed his sleeve, and, in the other, he stood in the shade, his face obscured by the change in the light. I couldn’t tell if he was part of the group around Suzie and Nick, a careful fan, or a possible stalker. The security guys didn’t seem worried about him, though. Interestingly, he didn’t show up in any photos after about noon. Had Suzie or Nick sent one of their minions to obtain the memory card with its compromising pictures? It seemed possible. Had he snatched Ben, then made the scratchy-voiced threatening phone call when he didn’t get the photos?

  Monica’s voice cut into my thoughts. “I’ll be back. There’s my source,” Monica said as she spotted a guy in a white shirt and black pants stepping out of the back door of the restaurant.

  While she was gone, I scrolled through the pictures on the laptop, thinking of what a strange, altered world Nick and Suzie lived in. Never alone, always surrounded by a court of people who had to be anxious to keep their jobs, and who would probably tell them whatever they wanted to hear.

  I browsed through the pictures with new eyes. After their long lunch, Nick and Suzie had window shopped while eating ice cream cones. Their entourage strayed into the shots occasionally. The time stamps on the pictures indicated they were nowhere near the hotel when the guy in the Hawaiian shirt took the purse and then snatched Ben. I went on to the next set of photos, which were of Suzie’s event at the Y. I focused on the people at the fringes of the photos, looking for anyone who I might have caught a glimpse of at Angela’s apartment complex or in the hotel.

  I went through the next two hundred photos and didn’t see anyone who looked even slightly familiar. I hoped Monica’s contact called back soon because it looked like my photo idea was a bust.

  Monica returned with a bag from Subway. “I got you a ham and cheese on whole wheat. Recognize anyone?”

  “No,” I said, and rubbed my eyes, then put the sandwich on the dashboard.

  “You need to eat,” Monica said, and held out the sandwich. “Now. I live on the fly like this, and you need some food.” She raised her eyebrows, and I took the sandwich from her.

  I unwrapped it and took a bite. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I had food in my hands. I ate several bites, then said, “Yeah, you’re right. I do need to eat.”

  “I can channel my Italian grandmother. No one leaves her presence without eating at least one meal.”

  “What’s going on in there?” I asked, nodding toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Not much. All the other photogs are camped out in the front. They think they can’t get a good shot from the back because of the road,” she said with a little smile. “Of course, with palm trees that’s not a problem.” She set her phone on the dashboard. “I’ve got a busboy who’ll call me when they’re leaving.”

  “Do you have any sources who aren’t guys?” I went back to the beginning of the pictures and began looking at them again. Suzie and Nick were always the centerpiece of the pictures, so the crowds around them tended to be a bit blurry and out of focus.

  She looked at the palm trees. “Um, not really. Women are usually hard to work with. So catty and jealous. I don’t have time for that. They’re not like you. You’r
e cool.”

  I’d been hitting the PAGE DOWN button rhythmically every second as I glanced at the photos, but stopped abruptly and leaned forward to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

  “What is it?” Monica asked, tilting her head to the computer screen.

  “One of the men in this photo—one of the photographers—is wearing a pair of sunglasses that looks like the ones I found under the couch in my hotel room after the memory card was stolen.”

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  Chapter Fifteen

  I found the zoom and enlarged the picture, then quickly rewrapped my sandwich and tossed it on the dashboard before scrambling for my purse. I pulled out the sunglasses. Yes! They had the same unusual silver and green earpieces, which where discernible even in the pixelated blowup of the photo. The zoom made the man’s face even fuzzier, and I couldn’t distinguish much because the video camera he carried on his shoulder obscured half of his face. But I could see that he had a beaky nose and washed-out yellow hair, which was short around his tanned face, but hung long and wavy to his collar in the back.

  “That’s Pete Gutin,” Monica said slowly as if trying out the idea that he might be the thief. “He’s a dinosaur, one of the oldest guys in celebrity news. I call him Gramps. He started on Entertainment Tonight back when it was the only game in town, way back before celebrity news exploded. Little gruff, but he’s a fairly nice guy. I’ve never thought of him as incredibly competitive. He’s on Nick Watch for Exposé,” she said, naming a half-hour entertainment news show that specialized in showing short video clips of celebrities, usually on their way into or out of restaurants or the airport. “He’s always there, gets the shots, but he’s a beach bum, loves surfing and the water. He told me he became a photog because he could live in Southern Cal and go to the beach every day. He does have a pair of sunglasses like that. I remember the frames.”

  I fingered the sunglasses. “I suppose there could be some gift shop on the beach road that sells these, except I’ve never seen sunglasses with a big nosepiece like this,” I said.

  “Let me see,” Monica said, and I handed them over. She ran her finger over the heavy squared-off nosepiece. “Do you know what kind of sunglasses these are?” she asked, her voice quickening. “They’re for surfers. My old boyfriend had some. The nosepiece keeps them from slipping off in the water.”

  “So they could have belonged to Pete. He might have the memory card,” I breathed, feeling a tiny portion of the anxiety that was hanging over me ease. If we’d slightly narrowed the field . . . well, that was progress.

  I went back to the photos with renewed vigor, checking to see if I could find Pete in any of the peripheries of the photos taken earlier today when Angela was killed and when the memory card was stolen. After looking through them, I leaned back. “I found him in a picture outside the restaurant where Suzie and Nick had lunch. I can’t find one picture of him after that. Do you think he got a shot or two of Suzie and Nick at the restaurant, then left?”

  Suzie chewed a bite of her sandwich thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen him this afternoon. He’s not with the pack at the front door of the restaurant right now, either.”

  “Is that like him?”

  “No. I mean, he likes to surf, but he’d never sneak off. Not now, not when the rumors are flying about a secret wedding. If he missed that, he’d be done.”

  “Unless he found something even bigger than a secret wedding,” I said, and Monica groaned.

  “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. If Exposé has those photos . . . I’m the one who’s done,” she said.

  I checked my watch. “There’s an easy way to find out.” I tapped at the screen on my phone to bring up the Internet. “Wouldn’t Exposé post the pictures as soon as they had them?”

  “Maybe,” Monica said, her voice small. “They’d have to check them, make sure they weren’t doctored, but if they’ve had them since early afternoon . . . it’s possible they’d be up by now. At Celeb, we’d have to keep everything quiet until the magazine went to print and was shipped, but Exposé could run with them right away online, then put them on their show tonight.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. Nothing on the website,” I said, and Monica sagged against the seat for a second, then snatched up her phone from the dash. She dialed a number. I could hear it ringing in the quiet of the car. After the voice-mail message came on, she said, “Pete, where are you? I haven’t seen you since lunch, and I’m worried about you. You’re not sick, are you? I can bring you some chicken soup, if you need it. Oh, and I heard Nick and Suzie are going to a new club tonight. Call me, so I can gloat.”

  She hit the END button, then stared at the phone. “If his phone is on, he’ll call back. He wouldn’t be able to resist trying to get me to slip up and tell him where Nick and Suzie will go.”

  “But you said they’re going to Club Fifty-two. They’ve been there before. That’s where the photos were taken.”

  Monica gave me a look that I’d already seen on Livvy’s face—the Mom, I can’t believe you’re so clueless look. “I said that to get him to call me back,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not good at subterfuge, are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not comfortable with it.”

  After five minutes, Monica shifted in her seat. “He’s not going to call.”

  “I wonder where he’s staying.”

  “At the Park Palms. If we’re near a beach, he upgrades to stay right on the water and pays the difference himself. I heard him talking the other day, telling two other photogs to meet him at his room before dinner.” She squeezed her eyes shut in thought. “Room five-o-five,” she said, her eyes popping open. “I’m sure that was it,” she said, reaching for the ignition.

  “You can drop me there and probably be back here before Suzie and Nick leave,” I said.

  “Forget about them. I’ve already got exclusive pictures of them tonight. Those pictures on the memory card are worth more than anything else I’ll get tonight tagging along behind the lovey-dovey couple to a restaurant or club.” She pressed the accelerator to the floor. I grabbed the laptop with one hand to keep it from sliding to the floor and braced my other hand on the window as Monica whipped the car around and headed for the hotel.

  “Back again,” I said as we stepped onto the dark wood floor of the Park Palms lobby. “I’m getting a distinct Groundhog Day vibe.”

  “I know the feeling,” Monica said as we walked through the scattered chairs and potted plants. “He’s not in the lobby,” Monica said, giving the room a quick sweep. We knew he wasn’t in his room, either, because I’d called the hotel from the car, which was quite a feat because Monica drove like she was in the Indianapolis 500. It wasn’t easy to surf the Web, find phone numbers, and dial while alternately gripping the dashboard and pressing my foot to the floor, but I’d managed to make the call. It was after eight-thirty by the time we made it to the Park Palms lobby, and I felt as if the minutes were rushing by.

  We paused at the bar’s entrance, and I bounced on my toes. I wanted to hurry through the room, c
hecking each table, but that would cause a scene. It wasn’t the sort of place where you rushed; it was the sort of place where you sipped your drink and chatted while waiting for your table in the very expensive restaurant next door. Dark paneling, gold sconces, and plenty of plush green armchairs gave the place the feel of an exclusive country club. “Is that him at the bar?” I asked, spotting a guy with wavy pale blond hair.

  “That’s Pete,” Monica said. We moved to a table in a back corner. The room was dimly lit, and I hoped that if he turned around, Monica’s disguise would keep him from recognizing her.

  “So he’s not sick or hurt,” I said, then leaned to the side to get a better view, and added, “but he is sipping champagne.”

  “That is not a good sign,” Monica said in a tight voice. “Let me try something.” She quickly pulled out her phone and tapped a text message. “I’ll send him a message, tell him I heard a rumor . . .”

  Pete’s phone was on the bar. After a few seconds, he pulled it to him, read the message, then pushed it away and took another long sip of champagne.

  “Oh, that’s bad,” Monica said, and twisted a strand of her blond wig around her finger. “If he’s not going after a tip about Brangelina suddenly showing up in town, he’s not going anywhere.”

  “You think that means he’s got the memory card?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. I can’t imagine why he’s not with the rest of the photographers unless he’s got something much better.”

  “Well, since it hasn’t shown up on Exposé’s website yet, do you think he has it on him?” I asked doubtfully. I could see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wore a loose linen shirt without pockets. “Are those swim trunks?” I asked, squinting in the low light.

  “I think they are,” Monica said. “He does look like he came from the beach, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s wearing flip-flops.” His feet were propped up on the rung of the bar stool, and I could see the soles. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and made my way through the tables to the bar, where I dropped my purse and picked it up. As I stood up, I jostled Pete’s elbow, which was hooked over the back of the bar stool. “So sorry,” I said, my gaze sweeping over his flushed face to the high counter in front of him.