"Great. Thank you, Shane." I jumped into my car and pulled out onto the street.
The hotel I'd followed Marilyn Baxter to the day before was about a forty-five-minute drive from the office at this time of day. I pulled into a visitor parking slot again and hurried inside. I wasn't sure how I was going to find Marilyn. The concierge wouldn't just hand out room numbers to whoever asked. I was going to have to think of something else.
I walked through the lobby slowly. Marilyn had looked like the typical trophy wife, and my one brief interaction with her hadn't disproved that theory. Maybe I'd get lucky and she'd be in a public area, showing off her trophiness? She'd already hit the spa. I peeked into the bar off the lobby. All but three of the tables were empty, and two men sat at the bar. None of the people at the tables were Marilyn. I walked through the hotel to the only other place I could think of: the pool.
I stepped just outside the glass door and looked around. Sure enough, I spotted a red-bikini-clad Marilyn in a white lounge chair, soaking up some sun by the pool. Maybe my luck wasn't all bad today. I wasn't exactly dressed for sunbathing, but she already knew who I was, so beating around the bush wasn't an option anyway.
I walked over and took a seat on the lounge chair beside her.
She glanced my way and let out a large sigh. "You again. Didn't I say I wasn't talking to the press right now?"
"So don't talk," I said, stretching out on the chair. "We can just enjoy the sunshine together."
"What do I have to do to get away from all of you vultures?"
I shrugged. "Hey, I'm just enjoying an afternoon at the pool."
She huffed again, shifting in her chair. "I could call security," she threatened.
I glanced over at her. "And tell them what? That I had the nerve to sit next to you?"
I could just barely see the death glare she gave me from behind her huge, dark sunglasses. "Look, you, I don't know who you think you are or what you want from me, but I am very distraught right now. My husband just died." And then she did something totally unexpected. She sobbed. She quickly covered it with a hand to her mouth, but I could see tears leak from beneath the rim of her glasses.
Wow. Who knew the ice queen had a heart. I suddenly felt bad for her. Maybe she wasn't as cold as she was pretending to be.
"I never got to tell you how sorry I am for your loss," I told her.
"Thanks," she said, sniffing.
"I was never formally introduced to Bobby, but he seemed like a…great actor," I finished, fishing for something truthful.
She let out a short laugh. "That's one way to describe him."
"Look, Ms. Baxter, a lot of people are going to be printing stories about Bobby, saying all kinds of things. All I want to do is print the truth."
She sucked in her cheeks as if thinking about it. "I didn't kill my husband, if that's what you're thinking."
That was totally what I was thinking, but I just nodded sympathetically.
She removed her sunglasses and tapped them on her tan thigh. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her expression was so sad that I was almost tempted to believe she really did miss her husband.
However, that didn't mean she hadn't been the one to get rid of him.
She sighed. "I don't know what you think I can tell you."
"Well, for starters, what was your relationship with Bobby like?" I asked gently. At this point, Marilyn was like a baby deer, and I wanted to ease into this line of questioning as gently as I could to avoid spooking her.
She blew out another sigh, this one resigned. "It was all right, I suppose. We were separated, but I'm guessing you know that already."
I nodded. "What happened?" I asked, the housekeeper's line about cheaters ringing in my ears.
She shrugged. "What ever happens in relationships? We got along really well at first. He was fun, interesting, took me out all the time."
"When was this?" I asked, thinking back to the prenup Tina had uncovered. "Before or after Bobby Tells All started airing?"
"After."
"So Bobby was already a celeb."
She shot me a look. "He's got a show on cable. It's not like he's a Kardashian or anything."
While her words belittled his status, my guess was if he'd been a plumber, she wouldn't have given him a second look. Mrs. Baxter looked like the type who enjoyed staying a week at the Grand Hotel and Spa without her bank account blinking an eye.
"So what happened?" I pressed.
"After a while, all we did was go out, you know? He'd take me to clubs or restaurants to be seen with a hot wife. But when we were alone, he started getting distant. Then he was always busy with work and avoided being alone with me at all."
Ouch. I couldn't help but be able to relate to that a teeny bit. "Sounds familiar," I muttered before I could stop myself.
"What?" she asked.
I waved it off. "Nothing. Just this guy I'm seeing. Anyway, so you and Bobby separated?"
She nodded. "I loved him, but I couldn't live like that anymore. As the cliché 'ignored trophy wife.'" She snorted again, though it sort of turned into a sob at the end.
"Do you know who had access to Bobby's gun?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation before she started crying in earnest.
She shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't even know Bobby still had that gun until the police told me about it this morning."
"He didn't keep it in the house?"
"No. He moved into a condo in Culver City after we separated. You could check there."
I nodded, keeping mum about the fact that I already kinda had.
"Bobby met with a man the night he was killed. Older, salt-and-pepper hair, possibly with the initials SB? Any idea who that might have been?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."
It had been worth a shot.
"Do you know where Bobby kept his personal files?" I asked instead. "Like maybe show ideas, notes, that kind of thing?"
"He had a laptop. I think he kept it at work. Henry would know." She paused. "That's his personal assistant. At least I think he still is."
I paused at her wording. "Still? Was Henry planning to quit?" He hadn't mentioned anything like that to me.
She laughed. "As if. No, Henry was way too much of a brownnoser for that."
"So…Bobby was going to fire him?" Hello, motive.
Marilyn shrugged. "Henry had some idea for a show of his own. It was like the exposé thing Bobby did, but I guess it focused on historical events. Uncovering what really happened versus what the history books say. Like, where is Black Beard's treasure and who really shot Lincoln. That kind of thing."
I had to admit, it sounded interesting. "Was Henry pitching to Bobby's network?"
She nodded. "Actually, Bobby was supposed to be helping him get the green light on production."
"Any idea if he did?"
She shrugged again. "Like I said, Bobby and I haven't been all that close lately."
Henry hadn't mentioned anything about a new show. Though, in all fairness, I hadn't exactly asked either.
"Aren't you going to ask me again?" she asked.
"Huh?" I'd admit, I was a little lost in my own thoughts.
She sent a wry smile in my direction. "Where was I when my husband was killed."
I suddenly felt a little sheepish. But honestly? Yeah, I totally wanted to know.
"Okay, where were you?"
"I was out. Driving."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I know. It's a lousy alibi. But when I can't sleep, I like to go for a drive. It clears my head. That night, I was out driving around for an hour or so."
She was right. That was a totally lousy alibi. And my face must have shown my apprehension, as she added, "Look, if I had killed my husband, don't you think I would have come up with something better than that to account for my time?"
She had me there. With her money, she could have easily paid someone off to vouch for her.
"Oh, and by the w
ay," she said, putting her sunglasses back on, "stay the hell away from my housekeeper, okay?"
And just like that, frosty Mrs. Baxter was back.
I pulled a card out of my purse and handed it to her. "If you can think of anything else, please call me."
She took the card and nodded. Though I was pretty sure she'd be tossing it as soon as she got back up to her room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The drive back to the Informer was at a snail's pace. There was an accident blocking all eastbound lanes on the 2, and I probably could have walked back to the office faster. I cranked up the radio, pointed every AC vent in my car at my face, and contemplated what Mrs. Baxter had told me. Her alibi was pretty nonexistent. Granted, the police were probably checking into it—looking at her odometer readings or at traffic cams or something that might prove she was telling the truth. But against my better judgment I was almost inclined to believe Marilyn. Those tears had seemed real enough. Either that, or she was a top-notch actress. On the other hand, the fact that Marilyn had married Bobby, and signed a prenup, after he'd already hit celebrity status, likely meant Bobby'd be keeping the bulk of his estate in a divorce. All of which added up to Marilyn still having the best motive, in my book, to want Bobby out of the picture. Especially if her being the "ignored trophy wife" had resulted in her husband's attentions going elsewhere.
Though the news that Henry was looking to jump ship from Bobby Tells All was interesting. I wondered why Bobby was helping him. Henry had made it clear that they weren't close. And Bobby didn't seem like the type of guy who did a lot of charity from the goodness of his heart. Had he and Henry been business partners in the venture? Had something gone wrong and Henry offed him?
I realized as I finally pulled up to the Informer's offices that I had a crap ton of theories but nothing based on any evidence that I could go to print with. I could only hope Tina was having the same kind of luck.
When I got back to my desk, I called Henry but got his voicemail. I left a message for him to call me and hung up. I tried looking online for any connections between Henry and Bobby as business partners—like partnership notices, copyright filings, or any scripts for the new show that might have been registered with the Writer's Guild. No luck. If the new show had gotten a green light, it was being kept under supersecret wraps.
I glanced up at the time and realized it was almost five. And I was out of leads to follow. I shut down my computer and gathered my things, wondering if I had time to go home and shower before drinks with Felix. I glanced up at his office. He was talking to his computer, probably deep in the middle of a Skype conference with someone.
I was just pulling out my phone to text him, when I noticed a delivery person step off the elevator, a bouquet of red roses in his arms.
I grinned. Lucky Cam. Trace was always doing stuff like that.
But as I watched, he walked right past Cam and approached me.
"I'm looking for Allie Quick?" he asked.
I blinked. "Are you serious?"
"Um, yes," he said, rechecking the card.
"Yeah, that's me," I answered, suddenly wary of who'd be sending me flowers. The obvious answer should have been Felix, but I knew he was way too cheap to spring for delivery.
"These are for you. Please sign here." He handed me a small clipboard. I signed my name, grabbed a few dollars from my purse and handed them to him for a tip, and then took the flowers.
"Have a nice day." He turned and walked away.
I blinked as I watched his retreating back, still thinking he must have made a mistake. I looked up to find Felix watching me through the glass wall of his office. He raised one finely arched eyebrow at me in question.
I shrugged and smiled.
The eyebrow pulled back down in a frown.
I quickly pulled the card from the bouquet and read what it said.
To Allie, the hottest babe I've ever seen.
Love, Shane
The skateboarder kid? I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. Apparently young Shane had developed a slight crush on me. It was a sweet gesture really. Too bad it hadn't come from the grown man I was seeing.
I slid the note back into the bouquet and chanced another glance in Felix's direction. He was still staring my way, his expression stony and unreadable. I took a small step toward his office, but he quickly spun his chair around so his back faced me.
Huh. Maybe now was not a good time. Instead, I slung my purse onto my shoulder and took my roses home with me. Hey, not a terrible end to the day. I had an admirer. Granted, he was likely still in high school and had a medicine cabinet full of Proactive, but at least someone appreciated me.
I parked my car in my assigned parking spot and headed up the stairs. There was some leftover pizza in the refrigerator with my name on it and a fluffy cat ripe for some snuggling.
I stepped into my apartment and locked the door behind me before looking around.
"Mr. Fluffykins?" I called out. I tossed my purse on the sofa, laid the flowers on the table, and then went in search of my little buddy. It wasn't often that he missed greeting me two days in a row.
On my way to the bedroom, I heard something that sounded like scratching, then a little banging, then a little growling, and scratching again. I slowed down and crept the remaining three steps to my room, peeked around the doorway, and suddenly wanted to scream.
Sweet little Mr. Fluffykins was rolling around the middle of the bedroom floor with what was left of my favorite pair of black satin sling-back heels. His claws were dug into the shoe he was kneading and biting. I scanned the room for the other shoe and spotted it sticking halfway under the foot of the bed. It too had been shredded by his sharp little kitty claws.
"Have you lost your mind?" I shrieked and struggled to remember why I loved him so much.
The Evil Fluffykins, who was on his back clutching the shoe to his squishy belly, twisted his head up and gave me his best where the heck have you been look then had the nerve to start purring and return to shredding my shoe.
"Bad kitty. Very bad kitty!" I pinched the bridge of my nose, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. It had taken me three months to save enough money to buy those shoes, and now they were completely ruined.
"Look, I know I haven't been around much lately," I said as calmly as I could, "but did you have to take it out on my shoes? My favorite shoes!"
Mr. Fluffykins dropped the shoe, sat up, and started cleaning his paws, completely ignoring me and my obvious distress. He looked way too pleased with himself. I blew out a frustrated breath.
You love him, Allie. He's your best buddy, I reminded myself.
I let out a weary sigh and gathered the shoes then tossed them in my polka-dotted trash can on my way back to the kitchen.
I grabbed the pizza box from the fridge and shoved a cold bite into my mouth. I washed it down with a swig of chardonnay, right from the bottle. And another. And maybe one more. Then I paused, wondering if I should be swigging quite so much if I was going out for a drink with Felix later. That was, if I was still going out with Felix.
I plopped down on the sofa, pulled my phone out of my purse, and dialed his number. After the fourth ring, Felix picked up.
"Allie," he answered.
"Hey. We still on for drinks tonight?" I asked, trying to do light and casual and not desperate and needy.
"Tonight's not a good night for me after all. Things got busy." His tone was flat. As unreadable as his look had been earlier.
I blew out a sigh. "You're not upset about the roses, are you? Because they were—"
"None of my business," he finished for me.
"Don't tell me you're jealous?" I teased, trying to lighten the tone.
"I've got to go." He did not sound amused.
"Come on, Felix. You're not seriously going to—"
"I'll see you at the office in the morning." Then he hung up.
I stared at the phone. Seriously? What was he, twelve? He didn't even give me a chance to e
xplain. Boy, was he gonna feel stupid when he found out they were from a kid. Though, at the moment, that thought gave me little comfort, as I was the one feeling stupid…stupid for falling for a guy who was clearly not that into me. I wondered if Felix really was jealous or if the roses had just been another great excuse to blow me off again.
I grabbed my chardonnay and took another swig. No reason to slow down now. Apparently Mr. Fluffykins was my only date for the evening. I had a sudden vision of myself as an old spinster with eighty cats and a big gray perm. I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to wipe away the depressing image.
I went into the kitchen for the rest of the pizza and settled back in on the sofa for a night of mindless television. I was finished with the pizza and halfway through a DVRed episode of The Bachelor when there was a knock at my door.
I checked the clock and frowned. It was after nine. Who would be at my door this late? Surely it wasn't Felix. Not after the way he'd sounded on the phone. I tossed my pizza crust on a paper plate on the table, wiped off my hands, and peeked out the peephole.
"What in the—"
I opened the door and frowned. "Shane? What in the world are you doing here?"
My not-so-secret admirer grinned and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slouchy jeans. "I just wanted to see if you got the flowers I sent you."
"Yes, I did. That was very thoughtful. How'd you find out where I live?" I asked. I couldn't help but to look around for any other surprise visitors who might be lurking in the shadows.
"I have my ways, babe." He shrugged and grinned.
I wasn't sure what was more unnerving—the fact that even a teen could find out where I lived and just show up at my doorstep, or that he'd called me babe.
"Well, do you want to tell me your 'ways,' or should I just assume that you're some creepy stalker?" I asked.
His grin quickly fled, and he shook his head and held up his hands. "No, no, that's not it at all. I'd never hurt you. Geez. Paranoid much?"
"I am now!" I sighed. "Fine. Come on in." I stepped aside and waved him in.
"Nice place." He looked around.
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