by Linda Grimes
“I didn’t ask him,” I said, looking away from her. “I mean, this is my mess, mine and Billy’s. Why should Mark have to clean it up for us?” When she still looked skeptical, I added, “It’s different with you—you’re family now. You have to help.”
She nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t push it.
I wanted to spill everything. It would be such a relief to talk to a girlfriend about it, someone who might be able to help me sort it all out in my head. Someone to act as confessor. But I couldn’t expect her to keep it from Thomas, and telling Thomas would not be a good idea at all. I couldn’t put that on Laura.
* * *
Billy, in the guise of the well-known director, had met with Jackson at a hole-in-the-wall dive fifty miles outside Hollywood while Laura and I were talking. When we met him at the impromptu soundstage, he looked supremely satisfied.
“Hook, line, sinker,” he said when he saw us. “Hell, he swallowed the whole pole. Wait … did that sound dirty? I meant it to sound dirty.”
Laura giggled. “You succeeded. And thank you again for doing my job for me. I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the wedding.” She gave him a quick hug.
“Me, too,” he said. “But if one of us had to miss it, I’ll bet Thomas is glad it was me and not you.”
I laughed along with Laura, though I doubted I’d ever find anything about that day particularly funny.
“Okay, what’s next?” I asked. “Everyone else will be here by ten p.m. at the latest, so we can get an early start tomorrow. What can we do now?”
“Laura, I seem to recall you’re a whiz with electronics. I got hold of some cameras I’d like you to double-check for me…” Billy started to lead her to the center of the building.
“And me?” I asked.
He dimpled. “Would you hit me if I asked you make coffee?”
My phone buzzed before I could make a suitable fist. It was Nigel.
“Tell me the cops aren’t there,” I said, visions of being hauled off to jail in Lily’s stead dancing through my head.
“Not quite that bad,” he said. “Her parents are on the way over.”
“What do they want? I thought they disowned her.”
“They want to talk to their only remaining child. They’re hopeful this ‘whole sordid affair,’ as her mother so eloquently phrased it, can be put behind them. They seem certain I’ll be able to spin some sort of self-defense plea. I get the idea that they want to bring her back into the Conrad fold.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
* * *
I arrived only minutes before the Conrads, running to Lily-Ann’s room, Isis in hand, as they pulled into Nigel’s long, circular driveway. While they made their meandering way up the curved walk, I changed hastily into Lily’s aura and clothing, shrinking my foot enough to get the anklet on, in case either one of them had an eye for detail.
I hadn’t spent much time around Lily-Ann, and didn’t have a dossier to work from, as I did with my clients, so this was going to be tricky. I could only hope that between her being alienated from her family, and the general stress that being arrested for murder could be expected to put on a person, her parents might not notice anything too “off” about me.
I got my breathing under control before I met them in the living room. I decided to forgo the embrace—Lily didn’t strike me as a hypocrite—but I wasn’t sure what she called her parents. Mom and Dad? Mommy and Pops? No way.
I avoided Elizabeth’s eyes because I couldn’t look at her without remembering the video in Angelica’s file. Had she wanted a “taste” of what Angelica had, like Jackson had claimed about Lily? More importantly, had she liked what she’d sampled enough to kill her own daughter? Or had she just been another woman taken in by Jackson’s wiles?
Of course, it was also possible she somehow knew Jackson killed her daughter, and had tried to kill him at the funeral in retaliation. Was that the real reason she’d been absent from the service? Seemed an odd thing for a mother to sleep with her daughter’s husband and then kill said husband, but stranger things have happened. Or maybe she’d been aiming for her own husband. Now that Jackson was free, had she been trying to free herself?
Still too damn many questions.
“Mother. Father,” I finally said, figuring the formality wouldn’t be unusual under the awkward circumstances.
Hope lit Mrs. Conrad’s eyes. “It’s nice to hear you call us that again, darling,” she said.
Mr. Conrad hmphed. “Better than ‘Joseph,’ I suppose.”
Oooh. So, that was how it was. I couldn’t imagine calling my own parents by their first names. I guess Lily didn’t put quite the same stock in the filial relationship as I did. I shrugged, and didn’t try to explain, because, really, what could I say?
“What are you doing here?” I asked bluntly, because the little time I had spent with Lily had shown me that part of her nature.
They didn’t look shocked, so I supposed they were used to it.
Mrs. Conrad spoke first. “Lily … darling … your father and I want you to know … well, even though you’ve been … estranged … from the family, we don’t believe you … I mean, your own sister…”
“You don’t believe I shot my sister in the back? Huh. Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Joe bristled. “Don’t you speak to your mother that way, young lady. We’re here to help you.”
“Your altruism is commendable,” I said. “Oh, wait. You don’t really do altruism, do you? Not unless there’s something in it for you.”
“If you shut up that smart mouth of yours for a minute, you’ll see there’s something in it for you, too,” Daddy Dearest said.
And here come the true colors, I thought. I looked at him as coldly as I imagined Lily-Ann would have. Didn’t faze him. Must be used to that, too.
“The way I read it, right now Nigel here has maybe a forty percent shot at getting you acquitted. But those odds could go up—or down—significantly, depending on how your mother and I choose to testify about Angelica.”
What? They were actually using their murdered daughter as a bargaining chip?
“Care to tell me what you mean by that?” I said.
“Yes, I’m curious, too,” Nigel said sardonically. “Do tell me how you can help my case.”
Mr. Conrad jerked his chin downward in a single, satisfied nod. “Angelica, for all that she chose to marry a celebrity, went to great lengths to keep herself out of the public eye”—he looked at me, disapproval written on every line of his face—“as was appropriate for her position in our company.” Apparently, Daddy Dearest really objected to Lily’s tendency to step up on her soapbox in front of any willing camera. “If it were to come to light that she were prone to irrational outbursts, violence even, in her own home, against family members … well, a jury might find that to be a mitigating circumstance for someone who might have been taken off guard and simply defending herself.”
While he was talking, my whodunnit gears were still spinning. What if Joe had gotten wind of Angelica’s impending release of the file? That could certainly be considered entering the public eye in a spectacular way. Joe could have decided to talk to her about it, and the conversation might have flared into violence if it hadn’t gone to his liking.
“Was Angelica prone to such outbursts?” Nigel said. His face and tone were neutral.
“Possibly,” Conrad said, and shrugged. “Or perhaps she was simply a good-hearted woman, a philanthropist in her own right, trying to reach out to the black sheep of the family. The black sheep who ultimately lashed out against her in a fit of wacko animal-rights rage. Context is everything, isn’t it?”
Whoa. This was one seriously fucked-up family. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying—presumably—that if I’m willing to toe the company line, you’ll testify that Angelica basically got what she deserved?”
Lily’s mother fiddled with the pendant at her neck. “It could have happened that way. If you
say it did, then we’ll back you up in court. Maybe we wouldn’t even have to have a trial. We could all go back to the way it was, and those horrible people would stop following us around with their cameras.”
“But we couldn’t all go back to the way it was, could we, Mother? I mean, Angelica is dead”—she had the humanity to wince, which is more than I could say for her husband—“and I’d have to give up everything I believe in.”
“Naturally, some reciprocity would be expected,” Conrad said. “You would be welcomed back into the family. You could even, one day, after you’re mature enough to handle the responsibility, take over where Angelica left off. I brought these as a show of good faith.”
He handed me a small stack of papers I’d last seen in the French bistro in D.C. I shuffled through them, saw they were what I’d suspected—stock certificates. A great many shares of Conrad Fine Foods, in fact, issued on the date of Angelica’s birth. And, apparently, all legally signed over to Joseph and Elizabeth Conrad a few weeks before Angelica’s death. Yeah, right.
“You want to give these to me?” I asked.
“Yes. We’ll sign them over right now. Nigel can be witness,” Joe said.
I cocked Lily’s head, putting a considering look on her face. “And what, exactly, would keep me from taking the stock, and then, after my acquittal, picking up where I left off? Double jeopardy being what it is and all. Just curious,” I said.
Conrad’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m sure Nigel here could draw up some papers that would prevent that from happening.”
Nigel remained neutral, neither confirming nor denying that he could.
“And if I were to tell both of you to fuck off?” Again, I could see the language coming from their youngest daughter’s mouth didn’t surprise them.
Conrad snatched the certificates from me and took his wife by the elbow. “Come along, Elizabeth. We have an appointment with the district attorney. I expect it’s time we admitted we knew all along about the antipathy between our daughters. I’m sure he’ll be sympathetic to our reluctance to do so before, not wanting to lose both of them. And then there’s the press to consider. We can’t keep avoiding their questions forever.”
Assholes. They’d do it, too.
I looked at Nigel, searching for some clue as to what Lily might say under the circumstances. My gut told me she wouldn’t give in to their blackmail-bribery mashup, but if she really thought her life—or at least her freedom—were on the line, who knew?
Nigel shrugged, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t know either.
“Wait,” I said. I had to stall somehow. “I’ll … consider it.”
“Darling, that’s wonderful. It will be fine, you’ll see,” Elizabeth said. She tried to come to me, but Conrad held tightly to her arm.
“Overholt, you have until the end of business hours tomorrow to bring me the appropriate papers, signed by my daughter. After that, we’ll reconsider transferring the stock. Good day.”
Chapter 23
I raced to the soundstage as fast as my economy rental car and traffic would allow. Which was to say, I was in no danger of getting a speeding ticket. Billy and Laura were hard at work writing. Luckily, we didn’t need a whole script.
I filled them in on what had taken place with Lily-Ann’s dear old mom and dad, explaining our new deadline, and ending with, “Can you believe it? I will never complain about my family again.”
“Best not swear to that,” Billy said.
Laura smiled. “There’s nothing to complain about with your family.”
“Your family, too, now,” I said. “Give it time—you’ll see.”
Billy grinned. “Gee, cuz, that lasted, what? Two seconds?”
“Okay, okay. I know how good I have it. So, what’s going on here?”
“I showed Laura the Harilla costume. She thinks it’ll fit Nils fine.”
Harilla was the name we’d coined for the anthropoid half-hare, half-gorilla who was the antagonist opposite the swashbuckling anthropologist-slash-alien-hunter hero character in our phony production. Broad of chest and long of ear, all the costume needed was the right man to fill it. Nils was large, muscular, and trained in taking down baddies—exactly what we needed if a big guy like Jackson Gunn reacted poorly to our plan.
The costume? Billy found it on eBay, and since time was of the essence … yeah. At first we thought it might be too ridiculous, but then we figured it was exactly what we needed. Even a badass bunny costume is still a bunny, and bound to make Nils seem less intimidating to a skittish Jackson. Also, it was a darn handy place to hide a few weapons.
“Are you sure Nils knows what he’s in for?” Billy asked. “Maybe I should do it.”
“You’re the director—we can’t spare you. If you’re not comfortable with Nils, then I’ll do it,” I said.
“You’re not trained in hand-to-hand combat. Besides, what if we have another ‘being Lily’ emergency call from Nigel while we’re shooting?” he said.
Good point. “It’s settled, then. And don’t worry—I explained it all to Nils clearly. Laura said he’s a professional. I’m sure he can handle it.”
“Nils won’t let us down,” Laura confirmed.
“I sure hope not,” I said, “because if we don’t get a decent vid by the end of the day tomorrow, Lily-Ann is screwed.”
* * *
We were still at the soundstage at midnight. Our intrepid gang of volunteers was with us, all of them either absorbing their assigned auras from Billy and trying on their costumes, or, in the case of the nonadaptors, getting the particulars of their jobs from Laura.
Devon was in heaven. He loved being included at family gatherings, and being on a movie set—even a fake one—was gravy. James was, at best, resigned. The two of them had been drafted as the camera crew, since they couldn’t become the “name” actors we were using to entice Jackson into accepting his role. James would also be standing by with emergency medical equipment, in case Jackson went batshit crazy on us. James wasn’t a doctor, but he had lots of first aid experience. Labs weren’t the safest places in the world to work.
Brian was going to be Charlie Day, one of the actors from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, looking to rack up more big-screen credits. It was one of Bri’s favorite shows, so he could easily play the role.
Auntie Mo would be Rene Russo (she had a fondness for redheads) and Mom would be Sigourney Weaver (she loved to wear tall auras, which probably explained her modeling agency). Dad and Uncle Liam decided on James Marsters (Dad already having his aura at hand from the Spike character) and Liam Neeson (Uncle Liam apparently not wanting to learn a new first name).
Sinead and Siobhan were bickering over who was going to be Scarlett Johansson and who was going to be Zoe Saldana, each actress supposedly reading for one of the leads. I ignored them as best I could.
Molly was staying with friends in Manhattan, and, according to Auntie Mo, she wasn’t at all happy about it. But Uncle Liam and Auntie Mo had put their collective foot down at the prospect of Molly being in close proximity to a suspected killer, especially when they’d be too busy to look after her properly.
When Hugh Jackman tapped me on the shoulder, I nearly dropped my clipboard.
“You don’t happen to have any cheese, do you?” I asked, in case Billy was testing me.
He looked genuinely puzzled. “What are you talking about, Ciel? Billy said you had my script. Laura wants to run lines with me. I still don’t know why you need so many of us. Seems like you and Billy, and maybe Sinead and Siobhan—they actually want to be here—could have handled it. How many human props do you really need?”
Ah. Thomas. I scanned the room, finally locating Billy. He was looking at me with a wicked glint in his eye. I casually flipped him the bird while pretending to scratch my forehead.
“Thomas, I told you how paranoid Jackson has been acting—we have to go all out to make this shoot look authentic. Now, stop whining. And remember, the script isn’t set in stone—it�
�s just a guideline to give you an idea of the situation. Feel free to improvise, as long as you stay in character.”
“I’ll be lucky if Laura ever lets me break this character again,” he said gloomily.
“Aw. Poor baby. Honeymoon over?” I teased. “Don’t worry, Laura told me how much she likes jumping your bones. About made me throw up my mimosa, she was so gushy about loving you.”
Thomas grabbed the bound pages I held out, ignoring me, but I thought I saw a tiny smile on the Hugh mouth as he walked away.
Rene and Sigourney approached me next. “Honey, which one of us is going to read with the killer?” Mom asked. “Mo thinks it should be Rene, but I’m thinking Sigourney is more kick-ass.”
“Actually,” I said, “neither of you will be working with him directly—hey, Nils, come here a second, will you?—because if he tries something crazy, I want Nils close at hand.”
Nils strode over, in full costume, looking every bit the badass Harilla until the last few yards, when he switched to hopping. He was wiggling his highly realistic prosthetic nose when he reached us. I cracked up.
“I know it’s difficult, considering the material, but I hope you’re going to play it straight tomorrow. Jackson has to believe this is real or we’ll spook him.”
Mom and Auntie Mo were eyeing Nils up and down.
“Oh, I have no doubt Mr. Gunn will take him seriously,” Auntie Mo said, giving him a perfect Rene Russo closed-lip smile.
“Heaven knows I will,” Mom said. It appeared she’d shaved a few years off Ms. Weaver as Harilla was hopping over.
Nils gave them a courtly bow, the awe apparent in his eyes. I’d explained to him about adaptors, but he was still getting used to the idea. Mark was probably going to be pissed off at me for telling him, but I considered this “need to know.”
I finished checking his costume, declared it perfect, and told him he could change into his street clothes.
Billy called everyone over to the director’s area. He replaced his aura with an older, balding—but still boyishly handsome—façade. The remaining hair was red, as was the short beard.
