by Linda Grimes
Sinead and Siobhan, finished storing the leftovers, joined us and started talking excitedly about a shopping expedition they wanted to drag me on.
“We found the best store,” Siobhan said. “Four whole floors of nothing but wedding paraphernalia.”
Gah! Kill me now.
Molly plopped down beside me. “And then we’re going to the comic book store for the new Spider-Man. I brought the rest with me—we can stay up all night reading them again!”
More fun than wedding shower shopping, granted, but all night?
Before I could temper Molly’s enthusiasm, Brian wandered over and plucked a stray seed from my hair. “Hey, you guys almost done talking? The rest of the band will be here to rehearse soon, and I need to move the couch to make room for the drums.”
I felt my eyes widen in horror. Stood up, grabbed Thomas by the hand and said, “Um, yes, of course I’ll meet with Nigel for you. Let’s go!”
“But it’s not until—”
“Now or never, bro,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. He got the message.
Chapter 10
Nigel Overholt was even more impressive in person than he was on TV. His smile was blindingly swoon-worthy. Think a young George Clooney, with a touch of Karl Urban. My first thought after being flashed by those pearly whites was, I’ll bet you don’t have a bit of trouble convincing the ladies to go for a ride on your chair. But I repented immediately.
I’d stayed the night on the love seat in Thomas’s living room. It was comfortable, and I’m short enough that I wasn’t too compressed. But honestly, how can you live in a million-dollar-plus home in D.C. and not have a guest room? I suspect it’s intentional on my brother’s part. I mean, did he really need a library, a study, a music room, and a sitting room, on top of the living room? It was just his fiendish way to avoid playing hotel every time a friend or family member came to town.
Nigel had been waiting for me in Thomas’s study when I finished showering and changing into the clothes I’d hastily packed the day before (good pants, nice shirt, not-sneakers—it was a business meeting of sorts, after all). He’d rolled over to greet me, adjusting the height of his wheelchair so that we were eye level. I thought it was thoughtful of him not to try to intimidate me by towering over me, though he easily could have with the flick of a switch.
“Miss Halligan, so nice to finally meet you. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
I returned his smile, hoping I didn’t have any stray poppy seeds stuck in my teeth from the bagel I’d just devoured in the kitchen. I held out my hand, and was pleased to note he had a firm grip. “Please. It’s Ciel, and I’m happy to help a friend of Thomas’s.”
“If I call you Ciel, I’m afraid you’re stuck with calling me Nigel. Not nearly as pretty.” Again with the smile. Almost made you forget about the wheelchair, because honestly, who wanted to look down when you could stare at that face?
“Coffee?” he asked. “Thomas left the pot.”
So that was where it was—I hadn’t been able to find it when I was scarfing my bagel. “Coffee would be great. Where is my brother, anyway?”
“He had to make a quick visit to his office, but should be back soon,” Nigel said, and handed me a beautifully crafted pottery mug. “What can you tell me about Jackson Gunn? Other than that he’s afraid of snakes.” Guess he didn’t believe in wasting time on chitchat.
“Well…” I said after a fortifying sip of the strong brew, and then paused, considering how best to answer the question. I sipped again. And again, figuring it was probably best for me not to engage fully until I’d been properly caffeinated, or no telling what might spill out of my mouth. Besides, this was the good stuff. French-pressed dark roast, possibly Hawaiian, and smooth as silk.
I put the cup down and pulled myself back to reality before I got lost in the flavor. “Snakes were mainly what I worked on with him. I’m not sure what else I can tell you about him that isn’t general knowledge.”
“Did he talk to you at all about Angelica? Are you aware they were having marital difficulties?” Boy, he really didn’t beat around the bush, did he?
“On the contrary, I was under the impression he was very much in love with his wife,” I said. Which was true—nothing Jack had told me in our prejob interview led me to believe he was anything other than the most adoring of husbands. “Look, my job was to help him get through the snake scene without embarrassing himself in front of all his fans.” Absolutely true, on the face of it. “We really didn’t talk about much other than, um, coping mechanisms.”
Nigel looked at me thoughtfully, and seemed to come to a decision. “I know you’re a busy person, so I’m going to speak plainly to you about some of my client’s private matters. Maybe it will trigger a useful thought or memory. Anything. Of course, I’m hoping what I say won’t go any further.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not even to Thomas?”
“I’ve already discussed it with him. I know he would never be the source of any embarrassing leaks.” There was the slightest emphasis on “he,” which I supposed was his subtle way of letting me know if anything got out, he’d know it was me.
I nodded. “There won’t be any leaks from me either. You might say discretion runs in our family.”
“Ms. Conrad feels there’s a strong possibility that her brother-in-law hired someone to kill her sister, and has set her up to take the fall.”
My heart started beating faster. If Jackson had motive to want his wife dead, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to think maybe he had used me as an alibi. My fix-it-fast instinct revved into high gear. I could not have that on my conscience.
“Why on earth would she think that?” I said, hoping like heck Nigel was grasping at straws.
“Because she was having an affair with him, and he promised her Angelica would be out of the picture ‘soon’—which Lily-Ann assumed meant a divorce was imminent.”
Shit. An affair with his wife’s sister? My idol? That was low. “Even if that’s true, why not a divorce? Why would he have her killed?” I said.
“Angelica found out about the affair and confronted Lily-Ann. There was a huge blowup. Angelica told her sister she’d been collecting information about Gunn since early in their marriage, to use in case of a divorce, as proof he broke their prenuptial agreement. She intended to use it to destroy him. Apparently—again, according to Lily-Ann—Angelica had quite the dossier built up.”
I shook my head and lifted my hands slightly. Put them back on my lap when I saw they were trembling. “I still don’t know how I can help you with your case. It seems to me, if Jack really were having an affair with Lily-Ann, he must care for her. I’d think he’d be the last one to want to set her up for murder.”
“Lily-Ann broke it off with Jackson after Angelica found out about them. He didn’t take it well, told her women did not leave Jackson Gunn, he left them, and only when he was through with them.”
“That doesn’t sound like the man I met,” I said carefully.
Nigel shrugged. “I can only report what Lily-Ann told me. She thinks he might be afraid Angelica showed her the dossier—though Lily-Ann claims she never saw it—and that it has him spooked. She thinks this might be his way of getting rid of them both.”
I thought back to the hipster girl I’d seen yelling and cursing on the TV screen. Somehow, I couldn’t picture her paired up with Jackson in the first place. “And do you believe her?”
Nigel cocked his head. “That’s where I’m hoping you can help me. Lily-Ann is, I believe, innocent. But her public persona is … prickly. Put her up against a likable celebrity like Jackson Gunn, in a he-said she-said situation, and she won’t stand a chance. Especially when my sources at LAPD tell me they haven’t been able to find an iota of evidence to show Gunn, or anyone else, tried to hire a killer.”
Judging by the little I’d seen of Lily-Ann on TV, he was right about her prickly nature, and about the public—from whom the jury would be pulled—being much m
ore likely to sympathize with Jackson.
I screwed up my eyebrows. “This may sound like a silly question, but why doesn’t Lily-Ann just tell the police about the dossier? Wouldn’t that provide motive for Jack and, at the very least, reasonable doubt for Lily-Ann?”
“Frankly, she’s afraid of what the dossier might say about her—that it might appear to give her even more motive for the murder herself, and I have to say I agree. I’d prefer to leave the dossier—which, at this point, is only a matter of hearsay, in any case—out of the equation if at all possible. Any insight you can provide into Jackson Gunn—anything at all—would be very much appreciated.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “The thing is, there’s this small matter of confidentiality. My setup with my clients isn’t all that different from yours—there’s trust involved.”
He nodded, understanding. One look in those expressive eyes and I felt terrible for letting him down.
“Look,” I said, “if it’s any help at all, I’m not holding anything relevant back. I honestly don’t think there’s a thing I learned about Jack that would be of use to you.”
Now, the fact that what I did for Jack might be extremely relevant was another thing entirely. But not practical, since it wasn’t something Nigel could use in court, not without outing adaptors to the world. And what would be the point of doing that if it turned out Lily-Ann was spinning bullshit in order to save herself from prison?
He shrugged. “You never know what might prove useful. But I understand your reluctance to divulge a client’s secrets. Though, in the case of a murder, one might expect a certain flexibility in such ethical matters would be equally understandable…”
I felt myself getting sucked into Nigel’s imploring gaze. The pull wasn’t in any way sexual—it was more like I suddenly felt compelled to do everything I could to help him. Boy, he was good. Where the hell was Thomas? I could use a little brotherly support.
“Listen,” I said, breaking eye contact, “did you ever consider that Lily-Ann might be playing you? That she’s the one who’s trying to set up Jackson? Who inherits Angelica’s estate if Jackson is convicted of her murder, anyway?”
Nigel shrugged. “It’s possible Lily-Ann is trying to do that, yes, but my instincts tell me otherwise. And my duty is to my client. At the very least, I’d like to get her out of jail until her trial. Jail can be a very unpleasant place for a young woman.”
No shit, I thought, swallowing hard. Especially if she’s innocent.
I’m no idiot. I knew exactly what kind of subtle pressure Nigel was applying, hoping to get me to say more. Engage my sympathy, get me to help him deflect the assumption of guilt from his client to mine. Fortunately, I’m stubborn enough to dig in my heels when someone is trying to get me to do something before I’m good and ready. And I wasn’t ready yet, not before I’d had a chance to talk to Jackson myself.
Besides, I couldn’t fail to notice Nigel hadn’t answered my question. Who would inherit?
* * *
After Nigel left I cornered Thomas in the kitchen, where he was cleaning up after the light lunch of crab salad on toasted croissants he’d prepared for the three of us when he returned from the office. (Thomas loves to feed people. Which is handy, because I love to be fed.) I’d avoided answering any more of Nigel’s questions about Jackson, and he’d been too polite to push it.
“What the hell, Thomas? Do you think my client did it? Do you think I helped somebody commit murder?”
“Jesus, Ciel, of course not. I’m just trying help Nigel with his case. That’s all.”
“Well, who do you think did it, then? You’re always right,” I said, grabbing some plates from him and putting them in the dishwasher. I might not particularly enjoy food preparation, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be helpful in the kitchen.
He hesitated. I could see he didn’t want to answer me. “I’m not always right,” he said eventually, relocating the plates to a better position on the bottom rack.
“Oh, yeah? Name a case you weren’t right about.”
“O. J. I totally thought he did it.”
I rolled my eyes. Big-time.
“Hey, he wasn’t convicted,” Thomas said. “Sis, it doesn’t matter whether Jackson did or didn’t do it. You are not responsible.”
Okay, so he obviously assumed Jackson was guilty. And I hadn’t even told him about finding the gun. Should I mention that? Nah, he’d only worry, and he already had enough on his mind with getting married.
He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for meeting with Nigel anyway. Now, get out of here. I have a hundred and fifty things to take care of at work before the wedding. And you have a shower to orchestrate. If I have to interrupt my schedule to show up for it, it had better be a damn good party.”
* * *
My condo was blissfully empty when I returned home. The Doyle sisters, according to a text from Sinead, had gone to haul a load of party decorations to the restaurant, and Brian, according to the note he’d scrawled on a paper towel (he probably forgot to recharge his phone), had gone to the grocery store to restock my sadly empty larder. Huh. That probably meant I was out of Cheetos.
I was debating whether it was too soon to call Jackson and confront him about the gun and his possible affair with Lily-Ann—after all, if he wasn’t the murderer, he could still be recovering from the shock of his wife’s death—when he decided the issue by calling me.
“Ciel? I need your help,” he said without preamble.
My stomach gave a small lurch. “Hey, Jack. Do we need to schedule a repeat performance with the snakes?”
“What? No. Maybe. But not now. Listen, I can’t even think about that now—the movie’s on hold, with Angeli—” His voice broke.
There was an excruciatingly long pause, during which my mind raced to find the right thing to say, finally stumbling upon, “Jack, I’m so sorry.”
Which, I suppose, beat other relevant options like “Did you kill your wife?” or “Were you screwing Lily-Ann and are you setting her up now?” Still, it felt inadequate to the emotion flowing through the phone.
“Thanks,” he said after taking a deep breath. “I appreciate it.”
I cleared my throat. “So, then…”
He took another deep breath. I hoped he wouldn’t hyperventilate, because I had no idea how to handle that long-distance. “Listen, Ciel, I need a favor. Two, actually, and not really favors—I’d pay you for your time. More like an extension of our business arrangement.”
“Shoot,” I said, and immediately winced. Had that really come out of my mouth? “I mean, go ahead. What do you need?”
“I need you to go to Angelica’s funeral for me. I just don’t think I can face”—it sounded like he swallowed another sob—“face the public yet.”
Crap. Crappity, crappity, crap-crap-crap. If there’s one thing I hate more than weddings, it’s funerals. “Ummm … well, you see, Jack, my brother’s wedding is coming up in a little over a week, and I’m in the wedding party, and there’s so much I have—”
“That’s okay—I don’t know when the coroner will release the body, anyway. I can make sure the service is planned around your schedule.”
“But—”
“Please, Ciel. I need you,” he said, his voice gravelly with suppressed emotion. How could I ignore an appeal like that?
I sighed. “As long as it’s after the wedding, I suppose I could—”
“Thank you, Ciel. You don’t know what this means to me. Angelica’s parents are insisting on making a huge production of it, and I’d never be able to keep up a strong appearance. The fucking paparazzi would have a field day.”
“I understand,” I said. And I did. It must be horrible to have your every public move under such intense scrutiny. “What was the other thing?”
“The Conrads are on their way to D.C. Joe—that’s Joseph Conrad, Angelica’s father—told me it was for a business meeting, but I’m pretty sure it concerns her sister, Lily-Ann. I
’m hoping they’re making arrangements to transfer the capital to bail her out of jail, but maybe not. She’s been estranged from her parents for years, and I’m starting to think they might really believe this nonsense about Lily-Ann murdering Angelica.”
My ears perked up at once. “And you don’t?”
“Of course not. Angelica and Lily-Ann were very close, in spite of Lily-Ann’s falling out with their parents. But the Conrads don’t know Angelica kept in contact with her sister—it would have made the family board meetings awkward. Anyway, I’m hoping you might be willing to watch the Conrads and tell me where they go—which banks or lawyers they visit, stuff like that—and most importantly, who they have lunch or dinner with. If they see who I’m hoping they will, I can relax about Lily-Ann.”
He paused, clearing his throat, and sounded less agitated when he began again. “Angelica wouldn’t want her sister sitting in jail. I’d hire a private detective, but frankly I don’t know one I can trust. Too many people are willing to let things leak when celebrities are involved.”
Okay, this was getting weird. Did Jackson have no clue that Lily-Ann suspected him? Why was he trying to protect her when she was ready to throw him to the wolves?
I made an executive decision to cut through the bullshit. I couldn’t tell Jackson anything Nigel had told me in confidence, but that didn’t mean I had to keep him in the dark about everything. “Jack, there’s something you should know. I found the gun.”
There was a longish pause. “What gun?” he said. I couldn’t decide if he sounded guarded or genuinely clueless.
“The one you left at my ranch. The one that happens to be the same caliber as the murder weapon.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re implying”—indignation now; not tough to recognize that—“but there’s no way that could possibly be my gun.”
“I don’t know how else it could have found its way to my ranch,” I said. “It’s not like I have a lot of guests there.”
