Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  I swallowed down a shiver of disgust, wondering if Chad knew he was sleeping with a murderer. "I'm guessing Bobby found out?"

  She nodded, an almost sad look on her face. "I guess he wasn't paying as little attention as I thought."

  "And he asked for a divorce?"

  "At first I thought I could put him off. Maybe change his mind. My powers of persuasion aren't totally lacking," she told me. "I used to be an actress, you know."

  "But Bobby wasn't biting."

  She shook her head, that sad look crossing her face again. "I really did love him. It was all his fault. If he'd just spent more time at home, maybe fewer nights at the studio. If he'd just looked at me the way he did when we first married…" She trailed off, lost in her own thoughts for a moment.

  I took the opportunity to take a step closer to the door. And another. I was where I could almost reach the handle, when she seemed to focus back on me, leveling the gun again.

  "But it had to be done," she said, the finality in her voice scary. "Thanks to that stupid prenup, if Bobby went through with the divorce, I'd get nothing. Nothing! Five years of being his arm candy. Do you know how hard it is to look like this?!" She gestured to her perfectly sculpted body. "Hours of Pilates, giving up carbs, laser treatments, Botox, Restylane, hair extensions, gel nails, facials, waxing, seaweed wraps. It's endless! I've worked hard for this money, and there was no way I was going to let some sleazy lawyer take it all away from me."

  I bit my lip, wondering how long it would be before the housekeeper walked by. Would she hear us? Would she realize her employer had gone loco?

  "So you followed Bobby the night he had his meeting with Sal Bukowski, and you killed him," I surmised.

  She shrugged. "Honestly, I had no idea who he was meeting. I just figured it was less messy to kill him while he was out than in the house." She wrinkled up her nose, like killing her husband was no problem, but getting blood stains out of her rug—now that would be icky. "Unfortunately, now I don't have much of a choice with you."

  Uh-oh. I eyed the door again. It was almost within reach, but there was no way I could get it open and get out before she could pop off a single shot.

  "What about your housekeeper?" I asked, hearing desperation in my own voice. "She'll hear the gunshot."

  Marilyn gave me wan smile. "No, dear, she won't. I sent her off to pick up groceries for dinner."

  Well, that was inconvenient. "Chad?" I asked, thinking of the SUV in the driveway.

  Marilyn shook her head. "You know what I love most about Chad? He doesn't ask questions." Her smile dropped, and she took a step forward. "And he knows when to keep his beautiful mouth shut."

  "Sounds like a keeper," I said with levity I certainly didn't feel. I glanced again at the door. If I dove, she'd catch me. I had to distract her somehow.

  "If only I could trust you to do the same," Marilyn said, clearly not meaning it at all. In fact, if I had to guess, there was something akin to excitement in her eyes. She was enjoying this. The woman really had lost it.

  It was obvious there was no reasoning with her. She took a step toward me. I felt my heart leap into my throat. It was now or never.

  I made my eyes go big and round, feigning a look of horror (which wasn't too hard, considering the circumstances) and pointed behind her. "Ohmigod, look out!"

  On pure instinct, Marilyn turned.

  I quickly took a big step toward her, invading her personal space like Ritchie had shown me at the Oceanside Gym. She realized she'd been duped just as my knee came upward, slamming into her groin.

  She made a grunting sound, but considering she had far less "vulnerable" stuff in that area than Ritchie had, it was only a momentary stun. She twisted her hand around, pointing the gun toward me. I grabbed her wrist, trying to point it away. We locked in a tug of war, the gun direction the prize.

  Unfortunately, Marilyn did a lot more Pilates than I did. She was gaining, the gun barrel slowly moving in my direction. I acted quickly, letting go of her arm at the same time I shifted behind her, jumping on her back.

  "What the—?" she said, whipping around.

  I wrapped my legs around her stomach and held on for dear life. She spun around in circles, screaming.

  "Get off of me!"

  Fat chance of that. There was no way I was letting her go. I had a tiger by the tail. I dug my fingernails into her face, hoping the pain and her vanity would convince her to drop her weapon, but she didn't. Instead, she brought the gun up over her head, toward me. I reached out and grabbed her wrist in one hand and struggled to hold myself on her back.

  "I'm going to kill you!" she screeched and with her free hand clawed at my fingers in an attempt to stop my assault on her face.

  Marilyn stood up straight then rammed herself backward toward one of the bookshelves. My body slammed painfully into the shelves, volumes of books toppling down around us. The air left my lungs, and I gasped for breath, but I didn't loosen my grip.

  She stumbled under my added weight but took several steps forward before taking another ram at the bookcase. My head slammed into the shelf, and my vision started to swim.

  Stunned, my arms went weak, and I slid off of her back, falling to the floor on my butt.

  Marilyn spun around and aimed the gun at me. Scratches ran across her face from one side to the other, and blood trickled down her chin. "Time's up, blondie," she growled through clenched teeth. She took a step toward me.

  I felt around on the floor beside me for a weapon, for anything to fight her off with, but all I felt were books.

  Marilyn took a single step toward me. Then another.

  I took a deep breath…and kicked out with one leg, catching her ankles.

  Marilyn's feet flew out from underneath her. She fell onto her back, her head hit the hardwood floor with a sickening thud, and the gun went off. Plaster fell from the ceiling into my face. I jumped up and pounced on her, going for the gun.

  But even stunned, Marilyn was way stronger than I was. She easily rolled me over, straddling me. She wrapped her slender hands around my neck and squeezed slowly. Firmly.

  I couldn't breathe. My lungs felt like they would explode at any minute. I tried to pry her hands from around my neck, but she held firm. Her face snarling down at me started to waver and then blur.

  "You should've left me alone. You should've stayed out of my business. You should've dropped the story when you had the chance," she said through clenched teeth as she squeezed tighter.

  I stopped trying to pry her fingers from around my throat and felt around on the floor beside me. My vision was going dark, and my lungs burned. My fingers flailed, reaching for anything. Finally they brushed something hard and curved. I didn't know what it was that I'd found, but it was better than nothing, so grasped it and swung with all of my might.

  Potting soil and green leaves exploded all around us. I'd hit her with a potted plant. As cheesy action flick-esque as it was, it actually worked. Marilyn's expression morphed from full of hatred to suddenly slack. Then she fell to the side and hit the floor. She was out cold.

  I got to my hands and knees, scooted the gun across the floor far away from Marilyn's body, and took in huge gulps of air until my vision cleared.

  Then I called 9-1-1.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marta, the housekeeper, came home to find that paramedics and half a dozen police officers had converged on the Baxter residence. After having a mild freak out, followed by a string of Spanish curses, she'd cooperated fully, saying she'd always thought there was something a little off about her employer. Poor Chad had been clueless the entire time, waiting by the pool for Marilyn to reappear, with a pair of earbuds in his ears blasting death metal. He'd only realized it wasn't a typical lounge day when an officer had burst through the patio door with gun drawn. As it turned out, Marilyn really had kept her boy toy in the dark, and Chad had no knowledge of her murderous tendencies. She'd simply told him that they were taking a long vacation to New Zealand, and he
'd been happy to tag along with the free ticket.

  After coming to, Marilyn was cuffed and hauled out to a waiting police car, all the while screaming and shouting for her lawyer. Though, after the police took my statement, it was clear even the best lawyer wasn't going to get her off. The officer assured me that her confession coupled with the missing gun was more than enough evidence to get an indictment.

  The paramedics looked me over on site and determined that I was going to have some (more) bruises and be sore for a few days, but other than that I was okay and cleared to go home. Which, with a promise to the officer in charge to come into the station to give a more formal statement the next day, I did.

  The first thing I did was take a long, hot shower that eased some of the soreness from my muscles. Everything hurt from the tips of my hair to the ends of my pedicured toes. But I couldn't deal with pain right now—I had a story to turn in. I dressed in a pair of comfy purple sweats and pulled out my phone. Next, I sent a batch of pictures that I'd taken of Marilyn unconscious next to the missing gun to Cam. Hey, I'd had to do something while I'd waited for the police to arrive. It might as well be to the Informer's benefit. Then I quickly pulled out my laptop and typed out the real story of Bobby Baxter's death. I'd just put the finishing touches on it and emailed it off to Felix, when a knock sounded at my door.

  I got up from my sofa with a groan, feeling those bruises set in already. I was so taking a sick day tomorrow. I peeked through the peephole and saw Felix standing on my front step, running a hand through his permanently disheveled hair.

  I frowned and opened the door. "What are you doing here? I just sent you my story," I told him.

  "I know. I just got it." He held up his phone as evidence the email had gone through. He paused, eyes assessing my face and neck. "Why is it every time I see you, you have new bruises?" While the words were an attempt at light and conversational, his tone was thick with something that in any other man I might have said was emotion. But I knew stoic, British Felix didn't do emotion.

  I shrugged, going for light and breezy right back at him. "What can I say? I guess I'm just a tough chick."

  He cocked his head at me, more emotion in his eyes. "Are you?"

  The concern had tears I'd yet to shed at being almost killed backing up in my throat. I shook them off, clearing it loudly. "Did you want to come in?" I asked, pulling the door wider and stepping back to allow him entry.

  He did, closing the door behind him as his eyes swept my apartment and immediately settled on the giant pink teddy bear sitting in the corner. In his defense, it was hard to miss. "Your, uh, sidekick isn't here?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Shane's retired. He's just gonna be a kid for a while."

  Felix nodded. "Smart move."

  "So why are you here?" I asked. I know, I was being cool. But I was tired of playing the guessing game about where I stood with Felix.

  He ran a hand through his hair again and paced to the other side of the room, like the direct question made him uncomfortable. "I heard about what happened at Marilyn Baxter's place." He paused. "I had to hear about it through the tip line. Why didn't you call me?"

  That was a loaded question. "I…" I decided to go with the truth. "I thought you'd care more about me getting my story in quickly than a personal call."

  His sandy eyebrows drew together. "Allie, there's nothing in this world I care about more than you. Don't you know that?"

  The air whooshed out of me in a rush, my heart beating fast. "No," I said honestly.

  His frown deepened, and he took a step toward me.

  But I took one back, not quite ready to accept his statement yet. "Then how come you've been so standoffish lately?"

  "Standoffish? I don't understand."

  I rolled my eyes. "Canceling on me for drinks, hardly speaking two words to me all day at work, assigning me a bodyguard instead of staying over yourself," I said, ticking off my list of evidence.

  Felix let out a loud sigh, still looking confused. "If I recall, it was you who turned me down for drinks the last two times. You haven't spoken two words to me at work either. Not to mention the flowers and gifts you've been getting from your…friend."

  I opened my mouth to respond, but quickly shut it with a click. I hadn't thought of it like that. "I told you they were from Shane. He's just a kid."

  Felix nodded. "I know. I get it. It still doesn't feel nice, but I get it."

  I let out a big sigh. "Okay, so all of this is great, but let's be honest. There have been problems between us for a while."

  Felix frowned again. "Problems?"

  Did I really have to spell it out for him? I felt myself blush. "You…never want to stay over. With me. You know, like to sleep. But not sleep. "

  The corner of his mouth hitched up momentarily at my obvious discomfort, but it quickly settled back into the frown. "You're right," he admitted on an exhale.

  There it was. The admission I'd been dreading. He just wasn't that into me.

  "Look," he continued, "things between us started…fast."

  I felt myself blush harder, knowing he was referring to the one-night stand that had started our relationship.

  "I just wanted to slow them down a bit. Especially considering our circumstances."

  "You mean that we work together?"

  "I mean that you're a full decade younger than I am, Allie."

  I bit my lip. So he had been thinking that. I was a kid to him. Usually I loved being right, but this conversation was making me rethink my stance on that. All I felt at the moment was hollow, knowing my worst fears were being confirmed.

  "I know I'm young. And inexperienced. And I'll admit there might be one or two times where I have acted childishly—" I started, angry at how desperately I was trying to make my case for us to stay together.

  But Felix cut me off, holding up a hand. "Let's face it, Allie. I'm old."

  I froze midsentence. "What?"

  "I'm old!" He threw his hands up. "How ridiculous am I going after a beautiful, smart, young girl like you? What men my age do that?"

  "You're not that old. What are you, forty?"

  He shot me a pained look. "Thirty-eight."

  Oops. "I don't understand—" I started, still trying to play catch-up.

  But he didn't let me finish. "I'm old enough that people notice. I notice. Don't you think I see people's reactions when we go out? They're laughing at me, Allie. They're laughing at the poor old guy with the hot girl who's probably going to lose interest in him any second now and move on."

  For some reason I was having a hard time processing what he was saying. "You're worried what people think about you dating a younger woman?"

  He shook his head. "No. I'm worried about what you think." He took a step closer to me. "I'm worried you'll see me as…old. That…that you'll move on and leave me heartbroken."

  I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. I'm pretty sure it wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting, but the absurdity of the situation was too much. All this time I'd been worried that Felix thought I was too young, when he'd been worried that he was too old.

  "Allie?" he asked, that frown reappearing.

  "Oh, kiss me, you old fool!" I told him, not waiting for him to make the move. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close.

  He didn't resist, pressing himself against my chest as he kissed me long and hard. His lips were soft yet firm, and I melted against him as he threaded his fingers into my hair. When we finally came up for air, Felix traced his thumb over my eyebrow, down over my cheekbone to my jawline then cupped my face in the palm of his large hand. It might have been the single most tender gesture I'd ever experienced.

  "I must look a mess," I whispered, feeling his eyes intent on my face.

  He slowly shook his head. "You look amazing."

  If he hadn't been holding me up, I might have melted into a puddle of purple goo right there on my brown renter's carpet.

  "So any chance you'd like to go out with me ton
ight?" I asked. "Maybe make up for those drinks we've been missing?"

  He slowly shook his head, his eyes not leaving mine. "No, I think we should stay right here."

  "I have an extra toothbrush. In case you want to stay over?" I asked, hoping I was catching his meaning right.

  A soft grin spread across his lips. "Where else would I go?"

  A shiver went down my spine. Mr. Fluffykins was definitely sleeping in the living room tonight.

  * * * * *

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  ABOUT GEMMA HALLIDAY

  Gemma Halliday is the New York Times, USA Today & #1 Kindle bestselling author of the High Heels Mysteries, the Hollywood Headlines Mysteries, the Jamie Bond Mysteries, the Tahoe Tessie Mysteries, the Marty Hudson Mysteries, and several other works. Gemma's books have received numerous awards, including a Golden Heart, two National Reader's Choice awards, and three RITA nominations. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her boyfriend, Jackson Stein, who writes vampire thrillers, and their four children, who are adorably distracting on a daily basis.

  To learn more about Gemma, visit her online at http://www.gemmahalliday.com

  BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY

  Hollywood Headlines Mysteries:

  Hollywood Scandals

  Hollywood Secrets

  Hollywood Confessions

  Hollywood Deception

  and coming soon

  Hollywood Homicide

  Hollywood Revenge

  Marty Hudson Mysteries:

  Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Brash Blonde

  High Heels Mysteries:

  Spying in High Heels

  Killer in High Heels