I looked up, squinting to find the source.
A man standing in the alleyway between the Tipsy Moose and the Moose Outfitters just to its left. He was wearing a vest made of chain mail that looked to be right off the Lord of the Throne set. At first I thought maybe he was one of the actors, but as I looked up and took in his facial features, recognition instantly hit.
I plunged my hand into my bag to pull out the book I'd carried since my arrival in Moose Haven. I flipped it over to the back cover photograph, just to be sure. Same gray hair. Same long, aquiline nose. Same unsmiling, unshaven face. And the same fixed, almost insolent glare. They were one and the same.
J.R. Ravensberg.
CHAPTER NINE
Our eyes locked, and not in a romantic way. More like a Yeti noticing a photographer and deciding whether to attack or flee kind of way.
I took a tentative step toward him. "Mr. Ravensberg, I'm such a big—"
But that was as far as I got before he apparently chose flee. He spun and bolted down the alley.
On pure instinct, I followed, running on my tiptoes in deference to my high heeled boots, as I wondered if Ravensberg had been at the Tipsy Moose to spy on the Lord of the Throne production meeting. It's possible he'd assumed—as most of us had—that with Frost dead, the production would be shut down. Ravensberg had been thrown off the Lord of the Throne set. He'd threatened Frost. And Frost had wound up dead just a week later. In my mind, that at least deserved a conversation. And despite his lead, I liked my chances of catching him. If his grizzled appearance was any indication, his sprinting days were long behind him.
Except, as I tracked him down the alley, and he took the next corner, I could tell they actually weren't. By the time I reached the same corner, he was gone. I stood there, hands on knees, panting, thinking I needed a more demanding workout regimen, when I caught a glimpse of him flitting between two parked cars. I took off after him again, managing to track him as he weaved in and out of sight, ducking down another alleyway a couple doors down. I hadn't realized Moose Haven had so many nooks and crannies to hide in. So far, Dana and I had only spent our time triangulating between the set, the hotel, and the tavern. As I continued following him, Ravensberg led me into uncharted territory.
And sparsely populated territory at that. The buildings gradually grew more decrepit, a few even abandoned, slowly being reclaimed by the forest. I rounded the corner of a boarded up dentist office and realized I'd lost him.
I came to a stop and bent over again, pulling in some deep breaths. To my right we were butting up against forest. Lots of thick, dark trees and brambly looking bushes that I was most definitely not going into. I read fairy tales to my kids. I knew nothing good ever happened to the girl who went into the forest alone. To my left sat a small business complex with a For Lease sign in front that looked older than I was. Apparently it had been a while since any new small business had moved their headquarters to Moose Haven.
No sign of the spry author.
I took a moment to get my breathing under control before admitting defeat and walking back toward the Big Moose Hotel. Slowly, because I just might have tweaked my hamstring in the chase. I had to hand it to him, Ravensberg was in great shape for an older guy. Heck, he was in great shape for a guy my age—30-ish-sorta bordering on 29-again. Though why he'd run in the first place, I didn't know. Was he really that skittish of fans? Or had it been less about an autograph seeking mob and more about guilt…like possibly guilt over having killed Frost? I wondered what his reaction would be when he found out Paddington Productions was going ahead with the Jasper Frost version of the Lord of the Throne after all.
Assuming he hadn't been at the Tipsy Moose eavesdropping and already heard just that.
By the time I made my way back to the center of town, most of the cast and crew had dispersed from the front of the tavern. However, I noticed two new additions to town—news vans parked just in front of the hotel. And these weren't the local variety. I spotted an American network news affiliate logo on one and a huge antenna and satellites atop the other. The murder story was spreading.
I passed through the lobby, taking note of the group at the check-in desk wearing jackets or golf shirts bearing the call letters of their particular station affiliation. I ducked past, hoping to avoid any eyes. Not that I necessarily had anything to hide, but the less Ramirez saw of me on Channel 4, the better.
As I made my way around them, I spied a group of cast members outside by the pool, including Dana. I pushed through the glass doors to find her and Alia sitting on poolside loungers, each holding a jewel-colored umbrella drink and looking relaxed and happy. Nearby several Bobbits sat in the bubbling hot tub, and I spied a some of the Elves and crew at small tables under umbrellas—sipping drinks and napping in the shade. No one looked to be in mourning. If I hadn't been in Moose Haven, I would have thought it was spring break at a resort.
"Hey, Maddie," Dana said as I approached. "We've been waiting for you."
"Sorry, I got sidetracked," I told her, filling her in on my Ravensberg sighting and impromptu workout.
"What a weirdo," Alia determined when I'd finished, sucking her cocktail through a straw.
While I might not have worded it that way, running from a stranger in the middle of downtown was odd behavior.
"You think he ran because he's got something to hide?" Dana asked, going down the same path I had.
I shrugged. "I don't know. But I wish I'd had a chance to talk to him."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure the police will," Alia said. "I mean, they, like, talk to everyone, right?"
"Right," I agreed, though I wasn't convinced Bartlett didn't have his eyes on someone in particular. About 5'7", blonde, and sipping at her cocktail with gusto.
"Want a margarita?" Dana asked, coming up for air.
"Passionately," I told her. "Where can I get one?"
"Craft services is mixing them up." Alia pointed to a guy with gray hair sitting at a shaded table, a large cooler beside him. "You know, since we're celebrating."
"Celebrating?" I asked.
"That the movie's going ahead!" Alia raised her glass in salute.
"Well, maybe not exactly celebrating," Dana said, looking sheepish. "I mean, a man was killed."
That thought sobered Alia up a bit, her grin dying on her face. "Oh yeah. Right. Bad taste and all."
"But we're grateful we have jobs," Dana finished. "Right?"
Alia nodded, the grin returning. Clearly that sounded more tasteful. "Right! Here's to being grateful." She raised her half-empty glass and sipped.
"I'll get you a drink," Dana told me, stepping away toward the man with the cooler bar.
I sat on the lounger beside Alia, seeing an opportunity as she closed her eyes, clearly enjoying her happy hour buzz. "I saw Selma Frost earlier today," I opened with.
"Oh?" Alia didn't open her eyes, her face still trained up toward the waning sunshine.
"Dana and I went to pay our respects." I left out the interrogating part. "And she told us about the last time she'd seen her husband."
"So sad," Alia said. Though she was still grinning contentedly.
"She said it was at the Tipsy Moose," I added. "And, oddly enough, she said she saw you there too."
"Huh."
"Last night."
"Hmm."
"Which is funny because you said you were in your room running lines all night," I reminded her.
She opened her eyes, turning her face toward me. "I was."
"But Selma said she saw you at the Tipsy Moose."
She frowned, a cute little thing that barely created a wrinkle in her smooth, young skin. "She told you that?"
I nodded. "She did."
She took a beat to digest that, then shrugged. "So?"
"So, why did you lie to us about being in your room all night?" I pressed.
Alia scoffed. "I didn't lie. I was in my room running lines, and I got hungry. It's not like there's room service in this place, so I had
to go to the Tipsy Moose to get something to eat."
"So you weren't in your room all night," I emphasized.
Alia looked at me like I was dumb. "Yeah, I was. I just had to get something to eat."
Cleary she failed to grasp the concept of all.
"Okay, so you went to the Tipsy Moose and grabbed a burger—"
"As if!" she interrupted. "Do you know how many calories are in those things?"
I kinda didn't want to, considering I'd consumed two in as many days.
"I had a salad," she corrected without waiting for an answer. "Caesar—no cheese, no croutons, dressing on the side."
So, basically a plate of lettuce. With a little kale for a kick. I glanced at her slim frame. If that was what it took to look like a movie star, I was doomed.
"Okay, so you went to the Tipsy Moose for a meal. Then what?"
"Then nothing." She shrugged, looking down into her glass. "I ordered it to go and brought it back here. To my room. Like I said."
Actually, that wasn't what she had said. She'd said she had been in her room alone the entire evening. Whether she'd been intentionally lying to us or not, that statement hadn't been true.
I watched her sip her cocktail, eyes avoiding mine. I had the distinct impression she was holding something back. Was she now creating another lie to cover the first one? Had she, for example, left her room again that night…possibly to visit Frost alone on the film set? She'd been at the Tipsy Moose that evening. She'd even briefly talked to Frost, according to his wife. It was quite possible he'd mentioned to her going back to the set to watch the dailies.
She crossed one of her long, slim legs over the other—either oblivious to my thoughts or just acting oblivious—and adjusted her bikini top over a pair of generous C cups that were way perkier than any mom who had breastfed twins. And it occurred to me, maybe Frost hadn't gone back to set to work that evening at all. Maybe it had been for an entirely different reason…one that had more to do with the long legs and pert C cups sitting beside me. Tarrin said Frost had propositioned his actresses in the past. He'd struck out with Dana. Maybe he'd decided to try his hand at Alia.
I was about to ask her just what her history with the director had been, when the ringing of a phone pulled me out of my reverie.
Mine.
I fished in my purse for it, seeing the name of my other BFF, Marco, light up the screen. I swiped it on.
"Maddie, dahling!" came Marco's voice. I couldn't help a grin. If Lady Gaga and Ricky Martin had a love child, it would be Marco. He was flashy, fabulous, and always fun. He worked part-time at my stepfather's salon in Beverly Hills and part-time as a party planner to the stars, where his over-the-top bar mitzvahs were setting a new standard among tinsel town's elite. "Ohmigod, girlfriend, what's going on out there? We're so worried about you! The murder in Mooseville is all over the news?"
I got up and stepped a few paces away for some privacy. "Moose Haven," I corrected him. "And you heard right, unfortunately." I hesitated. "Who's we?"
He lowered his voice. "Your mother's here with me."
"Don't forget me!" another voice sang out, which I immediately recognized as Mrs. Rosenblatt's. Mrs. Rosenblatt was my mother's best friend, and when she had spare time between husbands, she spoke to the dead. She also spoke to the living. Mrs. Rosenblatt spoke to everyone. A lot.
"Your mom waves hello," Marco said. "She's got another ten minutes under the dryer. We're doing makeovers."
"Maddie!" Mrs. Rosenblatt bellowed in the background, as if she didn't grasp the concept of a telephone. "Ramirez said you have to stay in Canada. What's going on?"
"It's just a formality," I said.
"What'd she say?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked.
"She said it's just a formality," Marco told her.
"It's a silly formality," she shouted. "No one in their right mind would suspect you of killing a flea."
"No one suspects me," I assured her.
"No one suspects her," Marco told her.
"Then you should be able to come home!" she yelled. "Your babies need you. Your husband needs you."
My heart softened at the thought of Max and Livvie. And then it went into overdrive at the thought of Ramirez. So much so that I nearly missed what came next.
"—could be there by the morning!" Mrs. Rosenblatt yelled again.
I took a stranglehold on the phone. "Excuse me? What was that?"
"Hold on, dahling. I'm putting you on speaker."
A second later, Mrs. Rosenblatt shouted, "Hello? Maddie? Bubbee, are you there?"
"I'm here," I said. "Hello, Mrs. Rosenblatt. Mom."
"She can't hear you," Marco said. "She's still under the dryer."
"Listen, Maddie," Mrs. Rosenblatt said, "your mother and I are worried about you. We don't think you should be alone."
"I'm not alone. Dana's here," I protested.
But Mrs. Rosenblatt plowed on. "We should be there with you. Who knows, Albert and I might even be able to connect with this Frost fella if we can get some proper séance materials." Albert was a New York Times fact checker who'd died in 1953. He was also allegedly Mrs. Rosenblatt's spirit guide from the other side. "We could find out who did him in. He might want to tell someone. I know I would. As long as he still has a head, of course. But that's just common sense."
"Wow, what a generous offer," I managed to get out with a straight face. Okay, semi-straight, but luckily she couldn't see me. "But honestly, I don't expect to be here that long. It just wouldn't be worth the time and expense for you to come out."
"Don't be silly," she said. "I'm sure the dearly departed hasn't left his transition place yet. The timing is perfect. It should be as easy as calling Domino's for takeout."
I hesitated to ask… "Transition place?"
"You know when you go to the doctor's," she said, "and they take you to a room and have you put on that awful paper gown, and then you sit there and cool your heels for fifteen minutes before the doctor comes in?"
My eyes drifted closed. "I guess so."
"Transition place," she said. "Only in the afterlife, it takes longer than fifteen minutes. Some people, it can take years. Of course, some people are hopelessly dense. I've met a few of those, let me tell you. Oh, wait, your mom wants to talk to you."
My eyes shot open. "I thought she was—"
I heard Marco screech, "Wait, your hair's still wet!"
"You should see me, Maddie," Mom said. "Marco convinced me to take a chance. I'm a redhead, just like…who's that actress?"
"Julianne Moore," Marco said.
"That's her," my mother said. "I look just like Julianne Moore."
I'd have to have a word with Marco.
"She's fierce!" Marco agreed. "But she should be under the dryer for another five minutes."
She ignored him, yelling into the phone. "Maddie, we've been watching that horrible story about the director. It's all they're talking about here."
If here meant the salon, I wasn't surprised. That place was a breathing edition of the National Enquirer.
"Do you need your mother out there with you?" she asked.
"I appreciate the offer," I said, "but I'm really fine. Promise."
"How's Dana?" she asked. "Were they close…her and this Frost fellow?"
"They were…" I pictured Dana storming out of Frost's trailer. "…on strictly professional terms." Well, at least one of them had acted like a professional.
"I told her I could get the director to name his killer," Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up. "I have a gift."
"That's true," Mom agreed. "She does have a gift, Maddie."
"Oh, gee, I don't know—"
"You know what I think?" Mrs. Rosenblatt cut me off. "I think you need to keep an eye on them Bobbits. Bobbits are notoriously bad-tempered, and who can blame them? I'd be in a bad mood, too, if I was three feet tall and looked like a troll."
"You know they're not real, right?" I asked her.
"What? I can't hear you. My left ear is bad!"
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"You know they're—"
"I bet you it was a Bobbit that killed Mr. Frost," she went on. "Boy, I'd sure like to see a Bobbit," she plowed on. "Even better, a whole family of Bobbits. How many people can say they've seen that in their lifetimes?"
"None," I told her. "Because Bobbits don't exist. They're fictional. They're just characters, being played by actors." I glanced toward the hot tub, where three of them were currently sucking down margaritas and taking selfies.
"Maybe I should book a flight," my mother said.
"No, I don't think that's a good idea," I told her.
"They've got to be cheap this time of year. Is it the off season in Saskatchewan?"
Oh boy.
"What's that?" I asked. "I'm having a hard time hearing you."
Hey, if Mrs. Rosenblatt could fake poor hearing when it suited her, so could I.
"I said I should—"
"What? I'm sorry I can't hear you. Must be a bad connection. I'll call you later!"
"Maddie, I really think—"
I stabbed my phone off, feeling just the slightest bit guilty at hanging up on my own mother. In my defense, it was a lot kinder than the words I might not have been able to bite back had Mrs. R insisted on coming to Canada for a séance and a Bobbit witch hunt.
* * *
By the time I'd enjoyed a poolside margarita and Dana and I had made the nightly trek to the Tipsy Moose for dinner, I was beat. The day felt like it had lasted as long as ten regular ones, and the shock, uncertainty, and suspicion that had been running through me all day had left me mentally and physically drained. I left Dana enjoying a moose-tini nightcap and a long story from Brock about the difference between wool flannel and cotton flannel, and retired to my room at the Big Moose for an early evening.
I indulged in a very long, very hot shower, letting the warm water wash away my day. Then I gave my hair a quick towel dry and slipped into a pair of comfy sweats to sleep in. I grabbed my reading light and my copy of Ravensberg's Lord of the Throne: The Final Throne and prepared to settle into bed for a quiet night.
Peril in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 11) Page 8
