CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  I functioned on autopilot, finding myself exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. I opened the bedroom entertainment armoire, then peered through the wood blinds to make sure no cameras were aimed my way, then laughed at myself for the paranoia. I lunged onto the empty bed with the TV remote in hand. After mindlessly surfing the channels for a few minutes I settled on the local evening news.

  A bleached-blond bimbo advertised her new line of jewelry. Instantly I felt a pang of guilt. Damn. She reminded me of Sterling. I needed to call her. I promised her I would as soon as I arrived into town. I can’t explain my friendship with Sterling, except that everything outrageously over-glitzed about her seemed to be matched by the songs of heaven’s laughter.

  When I reached for the phone to call her, I spied the three athletic bags the would-be car thieves left behind. The bellhop must have brought them in by mistake. They sat beneath the luggage bench with my half-opened cases on top.

  Chapter Ten

  Stolen Goods

  CURIOSITY KILLS THE CAT. I jumped off the bed, grabbed the bags and zipped open the first one, heavy but also almost empty. Auto parts? The only pieces I could positively identify were a small CD/DVD car component, a GPS, and a couple sets of car keys. One had the familiar Jaguar emblem and another one, Porsche. I presume the thieves had a productive night. And excellent taste.

  Unzipping the second bag, I pulled out two brand new shoeboxes. Running shoes. If I remembered the ads in the newspaper, they ran about three hundred dollars a pair. No receipts, of course.

  Crumpled newspaper filled the inside of the third bag. Reaching deep inside, I pulled out three wallets. The little bandits weren’t just in the auto business.

  It appeared they hadn’t yet rummaged through the wallets. Cash, credit cards and drivers’ licenses all seemed to be intact.

  “Just great,” I mumbled aloud to myself. “I’ve been here less than 48 hours and I’ve witnessed an attempted car heist, engaged in mindless sex, and now I have three stolen wallets in my possession.” Brock was right. The police wouldn’t consider it a high priority. I’d mail the wallets to the addresses listed on the licenses in the morning. I tossed the shoes back in the bag and zipped it closed, wishing I could do the same with Brock Townsend.

  The stresses of the day gnawed at me, and sometime after the early evening news I drifted into a deep sleep. The phone stirred me to consciousness. I couldn’t believe the time. The sunset was casting shadows of orange on the wall; its light show competed with the muted news broadcast still running on the television.

  Leave Brock horny, I thought. He’ll come running back for more, every time.

  “Hey there,” I answered.

  “Hey there to you. Forget about me?” The sharp soprano voice drilled my ears.

  “I’m sorry. Who’s calling?” I mumbled.

  “Jeez, Lauren. It’s Sterling. As in Sterling Falls. Supposed to be a dear friend of yours. At least any time you want to borrow some ten-carat bauble.”

  “Sterling. I meant to call. I just got into town and I’ve been slammed.”

  “That’s not what Brock said. He told me you came in yesterday.”

  “Brock told you that?”

  “We went to the theater tonight, decided we were hungry and grabbed a bite to eat over at Crustacean. Your name came up over dinner.”

  I felt like a coiled serpent, circling and circling with no one near enough to strike with my venom. Crying, screaming, kicking—all viable options. Brock goes to bed with my friend the very next night after having sex with me? Okay. She didn’t say they went home together. But it’s Brock. And Sterling. I don’t think they wrapped up the night chatting over a game of Mahjong.

  “It’s late,” I stammered. “I should get some sleep.”

  “Man, you sound cranky. Get your beauty sleep.”

  “Yeah. I’m tired. Real tired. I’ll call you in a couple days after I get settled.”

  Sleep fought me all the way, refusing to offer sanctuary. When finally I drifted off, the Technicolor nightmare seized control of my night’s slumber, again. The church was the same. My gown turning to paper, and the loud music, and the fire and the man walking me down the aisle—they were all the same. But this time Payton stood in the corner, waving at me. And she and I were the only two not succumbing to the flames and smoke. Payton was very much alive. Resilient to death’s fury.

  The sweat soaked my pillowcase. Tears, as well. I sat up and took a sip of water from the nightstand. I don’t know what was worse. The nightmare or the remnants of my true history creeping back into my mind.

  There had been no wedding for me. On the eve of the marriage, a knock on my hotel door interrupted the celebration with my bridesmaids. The uniformed officers informed me that a freak storm had taken down the Visconti family jet. On board: the pilot, copilot, my beloved father, my fiancé, plus a couple of his groomsmen. No one survived impact.

  From a second room in the suite, Sterling had heard my wails and rushed in beside me wearing nothing but a green thong and a T-shirt. A damn Dodgers T-shirt.

  Memories. Nightmares. Reality. I understand sadness. I even understand fear. But jealousy is an odd emotion, isn’t it? I closed my eyes and shut out any last bit of feeling I might have left residing in my heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Easy Money

  GABRIELLA HUNG UP the phone after ordering Sterling Falls a set of August Horn bed linens. A lavish gift for the lavish Visconti referral. She knew the gesture reflected the slight insiders’ joke that Gabri lived vicariously through Sterling’s stories of sexual indiscretions.

  Carly Posh bolted past Gabri’s receptionist and burst into the private office. Gabri didn’t know Carly very well. She did remember the property she had sold her in Bel Air, rumored to be haunted. Haunted house legends meant big sales in L.A. and Gabri knew she could sell it again with a couple of fast phone calls. Oh yes, Gabri remembered, the woman had an interior design business, Posh Possessions. That was her name, she thought. Etiquette equals sales.

  “Ms. Posh, what brings you by?” Gabri asked, ignoring the brazen interruption in hopes it would pay off. She was not to be disappointed.

  “I’ve found a house I want to buy. I need you to handle the paperwork for me,” Carly said.

  Gabri felt her toes tingle. This little piggy wasn’t having roast beef. It squirmed with delight for a juicy and rare filet mignon. Still, she was surprised. She’d attended a Fourth of July party at Carly’s home that summer. The designer had just furnished it with custom-made pieces and antiques from all over the world.

  “I can sell your home, given some time and working my connections,” Gabri fudged, not wanting her job to sound too easy. “When do you want to close on the new house?”

  “We can close next week. It doesn’t really matter. And I’m keeping the Bel Air house.”

  “Oh, I see. Buying a second home? Maybe Big Bear?”

  “Nothing like that. I’ve found a place near the Hollywood Hills.”

  “But you’re staying in Bel Air?”

  “Using it as more of a rental. It’s taken care of.”

  Gabri gasped, but before she could say anything Carly said, “I think you’ll find all the information you need here.” She tossed a thick manila folder onto Gabri’s mahogany desk. “I just need you to look the title work over. Stuff like that.”

  “Who’s the listing agent?”

  “It’s between me and the seller. I just thought it prudent of me to involve you. Right? I’ll pay you, of course.”

  And Gabri agreed. For a fee. She reached her chubby hand over her desk and shook hands with Carly.

  I’m going to owe Sterling Falls more than bed linens, Gabri thought, if her rich friends keep buying all this real estate.

  Gabri decided it was time to host one of her legendary dinner parties for Sterling and her circle of affluent friends. She penciled in some names on a legal pad.

  The list amused her. Sterling proved to be something of
a Jekyll and Hyde. A daddy’s girl, for sure, and daddy thought she was a virgin.

  “In truth angelic Sterling is a virgin, nine hundred times removed,” Gabri said aloud to herself while wondering who might be her newest escort.

  Lauren Visconti had big bucks. More than she figured her for. Old money, Gabri thought.

  Then there was Carly Posh to add to the guest list. Odd name. Choppy sounding. But who cares? Sterling Falls’ referrals, and Gabri’s ability to keep them loyal were making Gabriella Criscione a very rich woman.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s Just a Glass of Wine

  TWO WEEKS PASSED. It was a stroke of luck that the fifth floor of the office building I bought sat empty. The executive offices of CoverBoy were available for me to lease until the close of escrow.

  Likewise, Sukie Fields managed to move her photography studio and lab into the basement. The existing tenants didn’t seem to mind at all as they watched the endless stream of gorgeous male models riding the elevators up and down between our two departments.

  Sukie entered into contracts with seven young male models. My own computer geek, Geoff Hayes, would make the debut cover, but only after setting up our online presence. “Geek above gorgeous,” I told him.

  I stepped inside Sukie’s photo lab to see her lift off the last of the 8x10 glossies.

  “Damn, these are good,” I said as I helped her hang the drippy papers. They were the usual shoots. Hunks in jeans, studs in tuxedos, and lots of almost nudes. Sukie had a way with the camera. Every ab glistened, every curve on the thighs fell rich with texture. And then there were the eyes. In truth, Sukie captured far more depth to the eyes than the models exhibited in real life.

  “By the way,” Sukie said, “I grabbed the mail at the PO Box and accidentally opened something personal of yours.” She grinned. “You’ll like it.”

  We both knew nothing was too personal in my life that Sukie couldn’t see it. I succumbed to my own curiosity when I saw the feeble, shaky looking handwriting on the small pale blue envelope. I could barely make out the words in the short note.

  Thank you for returning my wallet. I was beaten up pretty bad by those boys.

  Broke my hip. The receipt ain’t mine.

  Don’t want anything that don’t belong to me. The money is your reward.

  I looked back inside the envelope and pulled out a receipt and the cash. The receipt was actually a claim check from the Tom Bradley International Bag Service at LAX. I slipped the ticket into my purse, along with all the cash. My reward was three worn one-dollar bills.

  I scoured the junk mail. Opened up a few bills. How did they find me so quickly? Another envelope caught my eyes. White. Typed with my old address and forwarded. No return address.

  One piece of paper. Three little words. Sometimes that’s all it takes. The typed message read:

  It wasn’t suicide.

  A LATE LUNCH AT Catrozzi’s was already a single hedonistic ritual that engulfed my soul. I sat there, unaccompanied, after ordering the chef’s daily special.

  The chardonnay smelled of a buttery liquid with a good hint of oak, just the way I liked it. The wine clung to the crystal glass, dribbling down the sides with the thickened leggy brush strokes of a Van Gogh. It reminded me of Pasquale’s, in Chicago, where my family took me for my twenty-first birthday. We had my graduation party in a back banquet room. We held a small wake for my mother in that same room. I flashed my new engagement ring to my father at the bar.

  Catrozzi’s head waiter brought me the delicate abalone and disappeared before I could thank him. Or was the movement even him? I had the distinct feeling someone was watching me. I’d taken my table. A big table with six chairs. Maybe a large party was waiting for it as I sat there alone? Maybe someone was casting pitiful looks my way? Poor little-rich-girl looks.

  I glanced around. The narrow room bustled with power business lunches, a few young mothers enjoying an hour or so away from dirty diapers and drools, and flirtatious conversations. Another loner like me, a man of about sixty-five—maybe seventy, sat sipping an iced tea and reading a newspaper.

  The waiter patiently allowed me my slow degustation, then reappeared with a second glass of wine.

  “From the gentleman over there,” he nodded in the direction of the old man. “It’s from another vineyard, but he insisted you would like it.”

  The chair sat empty with the newspaper catching a wimpy occasional draft from the air-conditioning.

  The waiter followed my gaze. “Strange. He was just there. Let me tell you, he chose a special wine for you. An excellent chardonnay from a small winery. We mostly just serve the California wines here.”

  The small talk was a nice diversion. “Is it French?” The shimmering golden fluid had a strong bouquet of buttery oak.

  “You’d never guess. It comes from Southern Arizona.”

  I had another plane to catch. I would be returning to Tucson. Carly and Sterling were coming with me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An Empty Memory

  FRIDAY MORNING I GRABBED my bags to pack for the short weekend trip to Tucson. The final chore was to switch out purses from a tiny black leather Chanel to a large Hobo. Exchanging contents, the airport claim check fell out from the smaller purse.

  Tom Bradley Terminal. The receipt the old man with the stolen wallet had mistakenly returned to me.

  I would check it out on my return.

  I didn’t give Carly or Sterling a choice. Neither of them held down jobs where they couldn’t take a quick weekend excursion to Tucson.

  Sterling had called it a ‘Big Chill’ thing, sans any sexy male companions and long after any funeral. I had a different itinerary in mind. We wouldn’t be lounging around the pool immersing ourselves in idle chat about the good old days.

  Carly loved a bargain. She was in charge of lodging. We took potluck in finding a good hotel in Tucson, in late August, and she managed to snag a five-star suite at half the price of their winter rates.

  While Carly wore a grin gained from her success at haggling over the cost of the room, it quickly faded when she, Sterling, and I folded our exhausted bodies against the silky Stroheim and Romann fabric of the suite’s living room loveseats.

  “It doesn’t feel right, does it?” Carly asked.

  “Christ,” Sterling said, “maybe because last time we were here it was to say goodbye to Payton.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Carly said. She was fondling a bottle of cold water, pursing her lips to it without sipping, and then rolling it against her forehead. “You don’t think she did it, do you, Lauren?”

  “Payton did a lot of dumb-ass things, but not this. She wouldn’t take her own life.”

  Sterling looked up from the room service menu. “Yeah. The cat, Teddy. She wouldn’t leave her cat. Not ever.”

  THE NEXT DAY CARLY and I returned from a continental breakfast and jarred Sterling awake. As she finished applying makeup with the use of the car visor mirror, we approached the Pima County Sheriff’s Office at ten o’clock.

  The detective greeted us with a quick glance at his watch. The prepared speech was succinct. “Our department did a thorough investigation, just like we do with any suicide. Any death of a young person requires an autopsy. The coroner confirmed our findings. I’m sorry. The case is closed.”

  “Did Payton have a will?” Carly asked.

  He looked at her with an almost humorous sneer. “That’s the family’s business. Again, it’s not unusual for a young person not to have a suicide note, or a will.”

  Sterling considered the facts that weren’t sitting well with her. “But her cat. She had her cat groomed right before she died. Her mother found it with a fresh bow around her neck.”

  I could see the grimace erupting from the otherwise reposed face of the detective. He answered, “Ma’am, maybe she wanted to make sure the cat had a good home. Made it presentable, you know? It’s nothing else, I assure you.”

  “But she didn’t sign he
r email to me,” I said.

  “Ma’am. I get that it troubles you. But give me some credit. I know a thing or two about these things. Your friend was about to commit suicide. She wasn’t thinking about email etiquette. You need to get that.”

  His voice and a second glance at his watch signaled the end to our brief meeting.

  “THE ONLY THING I KNOW is that we need to get inside Payton’s house,” I said, as we made the turn on Speedway heading west of town.

  “Indulge me. Tell me why, again?” Sterling hiked up her skirt and placed her bare feet on the dashboard above the passenger seat.

  “I don’t know why, but I called both her parents. Her dad never returned my calls, but her mom said someone would meet us with a key.”

  Carly crouched forward from the backseat. “Someone?”

  “A friend, I guess. You have to remember their son disappeared a couple of years ago. This must be too much for her, losing her last child. She said she walked through Payton’s house once, right after they removed her body. She took the cat and a few framed photographs and said she doesn’t plan on ever returning,” Sterling said.

  I slowed the car down, looking for the turn. Carly and Sterling sat in silence. A funereal aftermath seemed to consume the air in the rented SUV.

  “Her mom told us to take anything that may be special to us. She said she didn’t know what that may be but—”

  “All very sad,” Carly said. “I feel sick we don’t know her mom better, after all these years.”

  I’d only been to Payton’s house a few times, but I was still in awe as we entered Saguaro National Park, greeted by dense towering cacti standing like regal guards. My old idea of a forest populated by pine trees was challenged every time I saw the majesty of these armed and god-like living structures.

  “This looks familiar,” I said as we neared a pocket of homes that were somehow allowed to be built, years ago, in the middle of the national park.