Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4)

by Joanne Pence

  “I understand your worry,” she said, her voice soothing. “I would suggest you double your private security efforts. I can ask that some patrol officers drive by your home as often as possible—and that’ll help as long as you’re home.”

  “What about police protection wherever I go?”

  “Unfortunately, most police work is finding out who committed a crime, and not to prevent a personal attack.”

  “Bull shit! I see police protecting people all the time.”

  “At public events and for public officials, not one-on-one for private citizens. But I’ll see what I can do. I’m only suggesting—”

  “You’re suggesting you sit around and twiddle your thumbs until I’m dead like Tanaka, or have my tour boat torched like Bosque and Amalfi’s businesses were.” He rose to his feet. “Thanks for telling me I just wasted my afternoon here, Officer.”

  “Wait.” She stood and handed him her card. “You’ve been very helpful. I need you to tell me exactly what you find when you check your cruiser. I can send a crime scene team to the boat to look for any clues as to who might have done the tampering.”

  “Fat lot of good that’ll do. Thanks for nothing.”

  He stormed from the station, leaving Lottie looking after him in bewilderment, and Rebecca steamed. Another egotistical “enticing bachelor” had just walked out on her.

  And, adding insult to injury, Logan Travis and Pierre Fontaine still hadn’t bothered to respond to her insistent calls.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rebecca woke up to the insistent ringing of her doorbell. It was already nine o’clock, and the sun was streaming through the window. She sat up, unable to believe how she had slept so late, but working a murder case with only a head was quite labor intensive, especially when she’d stayed at it until after one in the morning.

  The doorbell chimed again. She put on a bathrobe and slippers and went out to the breezeway to see who was bothering her. She pulled open the door and stared in shock. It was her Los Angeles-living, show business-aspiring, impossible-to-understand younger sister. “Courtney! What in the world are you doing here?”

  Rebecca’s younger sister was thirty years old, divorced, with no kids. She was beautiful—most of her good looks came naturally, but she had learned every trick in Hollywood’s book to enhance what she was given. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, and not much in the way of muscle either. Her bust line was as fake as her long, dark eyelashes, and the extensions in her dyed auburn hair.

  She wasn’t a mere Hollywood wannabe, but had acted in a variety of parts over the past eight years. She hadn’t yet, however, “hit it big.” Her role that had the largest audience hadn’t shown off her beauty at all. She’d been a zombie on TV’s The Walking Dead.

  “I was pretty sure you must be home when I saw that behemoth SUV of yours out in the alley.” Courtney wheeled a carry-on bag into the breezeway toward Rebecca’s apartment. “I tell you, the flight was okay, but the coffee was weak and all they gave us to eat was a tiny bag of pretzels. I’m starved and I’m getting a caffeine headache.”

  As they entered the apartment, Spike looked at Courtney and began non-stop barking and hopping from side to side.

  “What in the world is that?” Courtney asked, pointing at the dog.

  “That’s Spike. Come on Spike, calm down. She’s what’s known as a sister.”

  But Spike wouldn’t calm down until Rebecca picked him up. He had had a rough life before Rebecca found him at a crime scene where his owner had been killed, and he remained quite suspicious of strangers. “He doesn’t know you, that’s all.”

  “That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  “He is not!” Rebecca kissed his head.

  “In what world? He’s missing his freaking hair! And, what’s with those awful pink spots? Are you sure it’s even a dog?”

  Courtney put her bag on the sofa and unzipped it.

  “You’re staying here?” Rebecca asked as she put Spike out in the yard—more for his sake than for Courtney’s—and then filled the coffee maker with water. “This place is tiny for just me and Spike. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve stayed before with no problem.” She took out a couple of blouses and a skirt on hangars. She shook them. “I’ll hang them in the bathroom so steam from the shower will take out the wrinkles.”

  She no sooner stepped back into the kitchen area than Rebecca handed her a cup of coffee and proceeded to make a cup for herself.

  “Already? Ah, you’ve got one of those fancy one-cup-at-a-time coffee thingies.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked over the rest of the apartment. “Oh, my God! Look at that TV set. It’s also new. And it's plasma. And huge.” Her head bobbed back and forth from the TV to the coffee maker. “Are you on the take?”

  “Courtney! I can afford nice things now and then.”

  “After paying rent in San Francisco? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  When Rebecca’s coffee was ready, she sat at the small dinette table across from Courtney. “So, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Courtney put both hands on her coffee cup and waited a long moment before answering. “I’m hoping a story here will help me. A lot.”

  “A story? What do you mean?”

  “I’m hoping to get a good news article on my own.”

  That made no sense to Rebecca. “Why are you doing news? You’re an actress. Aren’t you still with Desperate World?”

  Courtney’s eyes teared up. “No. My character killed herself last week. I’ve been trying to find something else, but everybody in Hollywood seems to want women who are in their early twenties, or even younger. It’s disgusting. Thirty isn’t old, but there aren’t as many soaps as there used to be. I’m in the running for a couple of shows, but they need to wait a while. It’s like, they don’t want the public to say ‘What’s Delilah Morgan doing on this show?’ I mean, Delilah was quite popular, you know. A lot of people told me they watched Desperate World because of me. There was even some hate mail when I killed myself.”

  “I’m sure.” Rebecca tried to sound sympathetic.

  “Anyway,” Courtney said as she blinked away her tears, “there’s going to be an opening coming up on The Real Story. It’s a show that’s dedicated to digging deep into news stories that have captured the public’s imagination.”

  “I believe ‘lurid’ may be the term you’re looking for,” Rebecca said.

  Courtney frowned. “You could say that. Anyway, the current lead has a drinking problem. They’ve kept it from the public, but she’s going to be leaving ‘to spend more time with her family’ as they say.” Courtney leaned forward and her forefinger pounded the table top. “I. Want. That. Job. And the best way I know to get it is to bring them the inside scoop on the murder case you’re working on. Have you found the rest of the body yet?”

  Rebecca just stared at her. “You do not mean that you want to dig into my case.”

  “I do,” Courtney admitted. “I understand there’s arsons, a death in one of those fires, a murder with no body, a missing bachelor, and they’re all part of a juicy tabloid story. I want to call it ‘The Bachelor Meets Survivor.’”

  “Great,” Rebecca muttered.

  “Little Miss Courtney Mays is just sure that this story will lead to her being named as a host on The Real Story. And you need to help her.”

  Rebecca hated it when her sister referred to herself in the third person almost as much as she hated the way Courtney had shortened their last name for “show biz” reasons. “I can’t help you because I don’t know who did it yet. I think you’ve wasted your time coming here. If you want, I’ll let you know when I figure out who did it. Maybe then, you’ll have a story.”

  “I’d like to meet the four bachelors you’re able to find.”

  Rebecca blanched. “You aren’t going to meet them through me!”

  “Why not? You know me, I can usually get men to tell me all kinds of things. Yo
u know I can get hold of press credentials and use them to meet the surviving bachelors, but it’d be much easier if you’d simply introduce me as your sister, the Hollywood TV star. I’ll take it from there. I mean, nobody tells the police anything, do they? I’m sure I’ll find out stuff you could only dream of learning.”

  Rebecca didn’t doubt that. “No.”

  “Damn it, Rebecca! You have all the luck. Can’t you share a little of it with me?”

  “I have luck? Are you kidding me?” Rebecca had never considered herself as being “lucky.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “This is a great story,” Courtney insisted breathlessly. “It’ll make your career, Rebecca. You might be Chief of Police some day. People care about it. If you catch the killer, you’ll have saved all these great, handsome, eligible men. Too bad one was killed, and maybe two since we don’t know why one of them is missing, but you can’t have everything. And without their deaths, there’d be no case.”

  Rebecca looked at Courtney as if she were crazy, which she pretty much was. She was completely Hollywood in thought, word, and deed—in other words, self-centered and willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

  Rebecca’s phone buzzed. It was Sutter, telling her Pierre Fontaine was back in town. He had tried to talk to the guy, but Fontaine said he knew nothing and didn’t want the police or anyone else bothering him. Sutter wanted to know if she wanted to give the arrogant French S.O.B. a try.

  “I’ll take it. He’s at the hotel?” Rebecca asked as she looked at her sister. At the moment, interviewing Lucifer himself would be preferable to staying home arguing with Courtney.

  She ended the call. “I’ve got to go out. You’re wasting your time here. Enjoy the city. We can meet for dinner and catch up, but after that, I suggest you take the next plane home. When I solve this case, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Courtney folded her arms and stared at her hard.

  Rebecca was familiar with that look. It meant war.

  o0o

  La Colombe d’Or was a small, boutique hotel known only to people who could afford its outrageous rates. Its name was scarcely visible on a small brass plaque near the door. Despite all that, the elegant, flower-filled lobby, furnished to look like something from 1890s San Francisco, was buzzing with people.

  Rebecca walked past the line of those waiting to check in. Approaching the harried desk clerk, she asked to speak to Pierre Fontaine. She slid her badge to the clerk rather than flashing it—she didn’t want anyone to notice. The clerk nodded in gratitude at her discretion and rushed off.

  In less than five minutes Pierre Fontaine emerged from the back room. His hazel eyes scanned the crowd and then fixed on her. One look and Rebecca could see why he was included in the magazine article. Like Moss Brannigan and, she had to admit, Richie, Fontaine’s photos didn’t do him justice. Nor was he hurt by the way he smiled at her—a mixture of both friendliness and something more: the look of a man appreciating the woman in front of him. To his credit, it didn’t come across as a leer at all, but his gaze made Rebecca feel flattered, and despite herself, she stood a little straighter. If Fontaine could bottle that ability, he’d be a billionaire.

  And considering the number of people in his lobby, he might be on the road already.

  “I’m Pierre,” he said as he approached. And of course, he had a stomach curling sexy French accent to go along with the name, as well as dark brown wavy hair, captivating eyes, and an olive complexion. He wore a suit, but instead of stiff and businesslike, it looked soft, casual and shrieked “expensive.”

  “Inspector Rebecca Mayfield.” She showed her badge.

  He lifted his eyebrows as if impressed. “Enchanté, Inspector Mayfield. I received your calls, but your friend, Mr. Amalfi, told me how busy you are, and since I had nothing to add, I didn’t want to waste your time. I thought I’d made it clear to your partner, as well. But, ce n'est pas important.You’re here now. Let’s go into my office.”

  “Fine.” Rebecca spoke through clenched teeth at the thought of Richie’s interference.

  But then Fontaine’s gaze shifted to somewhere over her right shoulder, and a bright, appreciative smile spread across his face. Rebecca turned to see what the attraction was. Her heart sank. She should have known.

  “Look who’s here!” Courtney said as she strolled towards them.

  “Why are you here?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’m looking for a room, of course,” Courtney said before she turned her full attention on Fontaine with a dazzling smile.

  His eyebrows were somewhere up near his hairline as he glanced at Rebecca. “So you know this lovely creature?”

  “My sister, Courtney Mays.” By way of warning, Rebecca quickly added, “She’s with the press.”

  Courtney smiled brightly as she reached out her hand. “The LA press. I’m with a TV network.”

  Fontaine gave an appreciative murmur as the two shook hands. “We were just going to my office to discuss this situation très terrible. Won’t you join us?”

  Rebecca caught Courtney’s gaze, letting her eyes narrow as she gave a small shake of the head.

  Courtney faced Pierre. “I’d love to.” She all but cooed the words.

  Rebecca clenched her teeth so tight it caused a shooting pain in her jaw.

  They no sooner entered Fontaine’s office than a woman entered with a silver tray holding a coffee service and a platter of cream puffs and éclairs. Since Courtney had eaten only toast, and Rebecca nothing, the two couldn’t turn down the pastries. Rebecca didn’t know if it was because she was hungry or what, but she thought the éclair she was now eating was the most delicious she’d ever had. Courtney said so out loud.

  “Thank you, ladies,” Fontaine said. “My chef makes them fresh each morning for our guests. Maintenant, Inspector, what do you wish to know from me?”

  Rebecca talked briefly about the murder, arsons, Bosque’s disappearance, and Moss Brannigan’s allegation of someone tampering with the fuel line on his cruiser. She admitted that she had not yet found any link between the incidents beyond the magazine article.

  “That magazine article!” Fontaine exclaimed. “Mon Dieu! I thought it would cause trouble, but I never dreamed anyone would die because of it.”

  His words were almost exactly the same as Richie’s. Rebecca wondered exactly how much the two had talked about all this.

  “What connection do you have to any of the men in the article?” she asked.

  “I’ve known Richie and Shig for years, Moss Brannigan slightly, but I have no connection to the others. And fortunately, no one has bothered me or my hotel.”

  Courtney suddenly spoke up. “I’m really interested in how you became a hotel owner. I mean, running a hotel is usually kind of dull and staid. But from what I’ve read, you’re none of those things.”

  He chuckled. “Actually, it’s not so interesting. I come from a long line of hoteliers. My father put up the money for this one. He knew San Francisco would be a good investment.”

  “How fascinating,” Courtney gushed.

  Really? Rebecca thought.

  But Pierre obviously liked Courtney’s reaction. “Tell you what, since you are looking for a room, why don’t you enjoy the comforts of La Colombe d’Or tonight as my guest?”

  “Oh!” Courtney all but squealed. “I’d love—”

  “She’s staying at my place,” Rebecca said. “She was only joking about the room. But it was very nice of you to offer. We should be going now. I may have more questions, but if you can think of anything that might help, please don’t hesitate to call.” She handed Fontaine her card.

  “And here’s mine,” Courtney gave him a knowing smile. “As my sister said, please don’t hesitate to call. Anytime.”

  “Of course,” Pierre murmured.

  Rebecca was mesmerized by the eye contact going on between the two. Fontaine looked at Courtney as if he was a cat and she was a canary. Little did he know that Courtney was much
more of a hawk than a canary when prey was in sight. And he was definitely in her sights.

  She hooked her arm in Courtney’s and turned towards the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Fontaine. Good-bye.”

  “Call me Pierre, please. Until we’ll meet again, ladies. Au revoir.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rebecca was fit to be tied. Last evening, she had hurried home from work to go to dinner with her sister and then see her off at the airport, only to find that Courtney had gotten a call from “Pierre” and had gone to dinner with him. And of course, she never did get home last night.

  Was her sister really that naïve? Did she truly not know that anyone of the bachelors in the article, except Shig Tanaka, was not only a potential victim but also a suspect? Courtney might end up, not with a story, but dead.

  The more Rebecca thought about it, the more worried she became and finally phoned her sister around ten last night. Courtney told her to stop being “an old nag” and then hung up on her! Old? Is that what she was? And a nag?

  Rebecca was tempted to call Richie to find out more about Pierre Fontaine’s character, but had to admit that she was, very likely, overreacting. The two men were supposedly friends. And although Richie did seem to know some strange people, murderers didn’t seem to be among them.

  As she tried to fall asleep last night, she realized that while patricide was the word for murdering one’s father, and matricide was murdering one’s mother, she didn’t know the term for murdering one’s sister. She probably should learn it; she could imagine it turning up in her future.

  And then, all day today, while her sister was being wined, dined, and probably much more by Mr. Frenchie Extraordinaire, Rebecca had spent her time canvassing neighborhoods in search of a date with a headless corpse.