A Dead Daughter (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery Book 3)

by Anna Burke

  “First things first, I guess. As I said before we sat down, thanks to Mom, I now know who the guy is in that photo taken outside Carr’s office. I’m also sure he’s Libby’s red devil and Carr’s co-conspirator.” With that statement, Jessica passed around her phone. Front and center was a full-color picture of Eric Conroy, pulled off of the web, the goatee and shock of red hair on display. Murmurs and gasps circled the table as they passed the photo around. Jessica explained how her mother had found that black and white photo of Eric Conroy on her phone and recognized him immediately.

  “Eric Conroy has deep pockets, about to get even deeper if all goes as planned.” There were more gasps as Jessica filled them in on the man’s connection to Pinnacle, the IPO set to launch, and the amount of money at stake. All eyes were on her, too, when she revealed that Ned Donnelly was on the board at Pinnacle.

  “That’s a lot of money, Jessica,” Tommy said.

  “He must be under pressure with that timeline hanging over him,” Peter added.

  “Yeah, all he needs is some yahoo, like Libby or Shannon, stirring up trouble with the deal of a lifetime in progress. Guys like him don’t want to take any chances with mouthy young women.” Kim looked angry as she said those words. A moment of silence passed as Kelly’s presence seemed to hover over them. Appetizers, and another bottle of champagne, broke the spell.

  “I’ve already shared this information with Detective Hernandez who will have another conversation with Ned Donnelly. Here’s the best I can do, for now, to connect the dots. I have a hunch that Shannon Donnelly was giving her parents the same grief Libby’s been doling out—allegations made about her father, or another family member. Ned Donnelly looks grim months before his daughter disappears. He is one of several unhappy campers in the background at Pinnacle board meetings where Eric Conroy is basking in the limelight.” Jessica nibbled on a bread stick to ease a mild sensation of nausea brought on by stress, hunger, and lowlifes.

  “Maybe Shannon was after money, or Carr’s love, but extortion can pressure people into doing many things—like get you to vote a certain way at board meetings. Or, it might be enough to get you to resign, if you’re unwilling to cast your vote his way. What has helped me get this far along in my thinking is another bit of information from Mom. She called me while we were in Tiffany’s and again when we were tied up, afterward. When I called her back a few minutes ago she said she remembered where she met Conroy. He was involved with Dorothy Winchester's daughter, Sally. Surprise, surprise, Dottie Winchester, served on the board of directors at Pinnacle for years, resigning not long before that IPO vote took place. Fortunate for Conroy since Mom says Dottie did not approve of the man—not in a leadership role at Pinnacle and not as a prospective son-in-law. My mother suggested I speak to Sally Winchester, if I had concerns about him. That won't happen, though, will it Laura?” Jessica glanced at Laura, uneasy to hear what Laura had to say about another dead daughter.

  “No, it won’t,” Laura replied. “Jessica, in the hospital you mentioned, in passing, that there might be more women. That got me thinking. Carr spent a lot of time out in the desert with troubled young women in tow. Given his medical credentials, I wondered if he had ever admitted patients to the hospital. So I checked with a friend in medical records and asked her to look into it. Kim, when you said that with men like Carr there are always more women, I decided to call my friend and see if she had found anything. Libby Van Der Woert was admitted to the hospital weeks ago when she accidentally took more medication than prescribed. Carr was the admitting physician. They pumped Libby’s stomach, kept her around until the next morning, and then released her into his care.”

  “Okay, that’s news—not the least bit un-Libby-like, however,” Jessica said.

  “True, but before that, there was another, similar situation—an accidental overdose. Unlike Libby, at the time of her admission, Sally Winchester was unconscious. She never recovered consciousness, and died the next morning. It was Carr who had called an ambulance and asked to have her admitted. He claimed Sally had called him, complaining she didn’t feel well, and concerned that she might have taken too many pills or something like that. My friend remembers the incident well because there was an inquest to determine if the death was as an accidental overdose or a suicide. Sally Winchester had a lot of drugs in her system at the time of her death. Besides the ones prescribed for her by Carr, she took medication for congestive heart failure. Her weakened heart, the overdose, drug interactions, or all of the above, contributed to a radical drop in blood pressure. That triggered a massive stroke that killed her. So, officially, stroke was ruled the cause of death, and an accidental overdose the manner of death. Sally Winchester was young, just thirty-three years old, another reason my friend remembers the incident so well.” They all lapsed into silence once again. Tired and hungry, they spent the next few minutes finishing their appetizers. They must have looked glum, because several of their servers stopped to ask if everything was okay, and could they get them anything else before their main courses arrived. Brien asked for more bread, but the others only did what they could to be polite and smile in response to the servers’ inquiries. Once their meals arrived, a few minutes later, Jessica could finally speak again.

  “Yet another sad story involving Carr. It makes me sick,” Jessica sputtered. “Maybe her daughter’s death is what led to Dottie Winchester’s resignation. That sleaze, Conroy, is mixed up in this, I just know it. I wonder how close that vote was that won Conroy the deal of a lifetime. Sally Winchester might have had plenty to tell us about her ambitious suitor. Too bad she’s dead.”

  “Her mother’s not dead, Jessica,” Bernadette said. “She might have plenty to say about Eric Conroy too—she worked with him, and must know what went on between him and her daughter. Get Alexis to call her and let’s go see her,” Bernadette said. “I’ll drive.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” Peter said. “Not with someone taking pot shots at Jessica. If Dorothy Winchester agrees to speak to you tomorrow, Brien and I will drive. I mean drive, as in you and Bernadette sit in the back seat,” Peter said, trying not to look at the enormous steak Brien was devouring. “Speaking of things that make you sick. What is that, about three pounds of raw beef, Brien?”

  “Two pounds, rare, Man, just the way I like it. Shotgun!” Brien said, to claim his favorite seat, before plunging his knife back into the Porterhouse steak meant for two.

  “Why do you think I said they would be sitting in the back, Brien?” Peter asked, averting his eyes again from the massacre underway on Brien’s plate.

  “Oh, yeah, okay,” he shrugged.

  “It feels like it must be about 2 a.m., but it’s not even ten yet. I'll step out and call Mom. If Mom feels okay about calling Dottie Winchester, I’ll ask her to see if she’s willing to talk to us.” When Jessica returned, her food looked delicious. Her appetite was back. “All set, guys. Mom got Dottie Winchester on the phone and called me back right away. Dottie Winchester is more than willing to have a conversation. She’s been trying to convince people for years that Eric Conroy is no good. We’re all set for tomorrow after lunch—at her place near Pasadena.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. Go Alexis,” Tommy said.

  “Maybe she’ll give you something that will get the police to investigate Conroy,” Jerry added.

  “Maybe, but I have another angle to pursue. I’ve also discovered who the woman is in that photo with Carr and Conroy, taken outside Carr’s office.”

  “You’ve been busy, Jessica,” Kim commented.

  “What can I say? I’m motivated. And, if we figure this out, we won’t have to be dodging bullets from shooters—amateurs or professionals. Here’s the scoop on the blond in that photo with a penchant for Prada,” Jessica said, as she filled them in on her plan to confront Carla Fergusson at Pinnacle on Monday morning.

  “Could you do that, Peter? You know, stick around and play bodyguard on Monday?”

  “Sure I can. It’s good to be the bos
s,” Peter replied, in a better mood now that his roasted vegetables, quinoa, and other well-prepared vegan choices from the menu had put him in a culinary-induced happy place.

  “I’m the boss of my pool business, too, so I’ll have a talk with myself and figure out how to make it work,” Brien said, smiling. They were all giving him the “are you serious” kind of scrutiny. Brien flicked his head so the shock of blond hair, which had fallen into his eyes, moved back into place. The smile he wore was a reminder that Brien was a good-looking guy. Jessica caught Kim lingering on that smile before she shook her head and went back to eating.

  “Uh, just in case you were wondering, that was a joke. I have to call a friend of mine to sub for me, but I don’t have to talk to myself before I do that.”

  “So what can the rest of us do while you’re meeting with the little old lady in Pasadena and trying to corner the woman in Prada?” Tommy asked. “Jerry and I have already fixed our schedules, so Monday’s clear.”

  “Well, since you asked... I can’t believe Conroy hasn’t been in trouble before. So, digging into his background, would be great, if you two will do that while we’re in Pasadena. Kim, I also want anything you can find in the way of financial data about Pinnacle. Like the stuff you dug up about your old boss’s enterprising ways.” They all nodded in agreement.

  “Laura, do you have any connections with staff in medical facilities, here, in L.A., like the hospital at UCLA? It might be worth checking to see if Carr’s been entangled in similar incidents involving distraught young women admitted to ERs for accidental overdoses in Beverly Hills.”

  “I can ask, but it might take me a while to figure it out,” Laura replied.

  “No problem. We could all use some spa time in the morning, don’t you think? So, how does it sound if we spend the morning getting the stress massaged out of us, go to the terrific brunch they serve here, and leave the snooping to the afternoon?” That brought on another round of toasts as they finished their dinners.

  “What’s for dessert?” Brien asked, minutes later, as servers swept in to clean up their plates. Dessert menus appeared.

  “Wow, there are surprises on this—even vegan goodies,” Peter proclaimed, looking almost as eager as Brien.

  “Speaking of surprises,” Tommy said as he handed Jessica his phone.

  Angel Heiress Targeted by Unknown Assailant on Rodeo Drive, the banner headline read, accompanied by a photo of police and rescue vehicles parked outside Tiffany’s.

  “Great, I’m in the news again. Just what I need,” Jessica moaned, handing the phone back to Tommy. “Maybe we should hire paparazzi to find out what this Conroy character is up to. They are on the ball!”

  “Uh, sorry, Jessica, that’s not what I wanted you to see... it’s this.” Tommy handed the phone back to Jessica who read the headline out loud.

  Hollywood’s Blond Bombshell Goes into Labor at Upscale Bistro, Sparks Fly!

  “Yes! Thank you, Cassie. Another diversion from the limelight, courtesy of Jim’s beloved,” Jessica announced, picking up her champagne glass.

  “I have to say, the woman’s timing is impeccable,” Laura added. “No way was she going to let the angel heiress monopolize the headlines.”

  “And talk about an ironclad alibi,” Jerry added. “She couldn’t have been your shooter tonight, that’s for sure.”

  “To life! Even with Cassie-the-worm-hearted as your mother,” Jessica said.

  “To perfect timing, and all the paparazzi and fans she could ever want!” Laura added.

  Dinner, and maybe the champagne, had done wonders for their spirits. Jessica felt back in control, hoping it was more than just the buzz from wielding that black AMEX card as she had been doing the past couple of days. She flashed for a moment on that conversation, earlier in the day, with Bernadette and her mother. Here she was again, masterminding an extravaganza, in the middle of an investigation into muck and mire. All courtesy of well-dressed men cast as winners and milling about in hoity-toity circles. It could not keep that sinking feeling away, completely, but oohs and aahs over desserts kept the volume low on the questions that dogged her.

  29 Kierkegaard Snaps

  “Eric, what can I say? It wasn’t me, I tell you,” Kirk groused.

  “Don’t get annoyed with me, Kierkegaard. I’m the guy who sends you money, remember? When, and if, you do a job the right way, that is,” Eric Conroy said, chomping on a cigar. He had lit it to celebrate the fact that this was the last Sunday he would ever spend as a chump, working for Pinnacle. By next Sunday, L.A. would be a fading memory. Not a pleasant one, at this point.

  “Don’t call me that. Nobody calls me that, Eric,” Kirk snapped.

  “Set off an existential crisis, did I?” Eric laughed, intending to be nasty. “Let me remind you I’m also the guy who can make or break you—not just your reputation, but your legs.” Or your neck, he thought. The man on the other end of the phone took a deep breath, but he sounded no less annoyed when he spoke again.

  “You said keep an eye on her, so that’s what I’ve been doing. If I had shot at her, do you think I would have missed?”

  “So if you didn’t do it, who was it, Kirk?”

  “I don't know. You said keep tabs on her, not babysit. She has a bodyguard of her own to do that. I hear he took a bullet for her. He was wearing a Kevlar undershirt or something so he's okay. Just say the word, I’ll take a shot. Is that what you want?”

  “No, no, don’t do that. What I want is to slide into Friday, nice and quiet. I guess whoever took that shot at her did us a favor, eh Kirk? That ought to get Jessica Huntington to cool it. Good grief, it’s only been a week since Libby Van Der Woert shoved her off a mountaintop. What is she doing here, in L.A., anyway?”

  “From what I can tell, partying with friends. They all checked in for the weekend at the Beverly Wilshire and hit Tiffany’s tonight. Some reporter said the visit to Tiffany’s had something to do with an engagement ring. Huntington and her friend, a family housekeeper or something like that, visited a clinic in Malibu this afternoon before she met up with friends at Tiffany’s,” Kirk replied.

  “A Malibu clinic—as in rehab? Is she looking to check herself in?” Eric asked.

  “Yes, as in rehab. Transformations, a high-end place that caters to celebrities. I’m sure you must have heard of it. I can find out why she made that visit if you want me to. Does it matter?”

  “No, I guess not. I still want you to keep an eye on her, Kirk.”

  “Will do, Eric,” Kirk said before ending the call. Eric was taken aback.

  “You are pushing it, my friend,” he muttered, staring at the blank cell phone screen. “No more business from me, that’s for sure.” He relit his cigar and took a few puffs. It didn’t matter. Soon, he wouldn’t ever need to work with Kierkegaard Kunzel, or anyone like him, ever again. That thought lifted his mood. Friday loomed; the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. So what if he had to put up with a few more dustups.

  “Who names a kid Kierkegaard, anyway? No wonder he ended up as a cranky gun for hire,” Eric snorted, in between puffs on that cigar.

  Still, it nagged at him that the Huntington woman was in L.A., had dodged a bullet from an unknown assailant, and had garnered more news coverage. Who else had the busy-body in their scope? Was she involved in some drug-related case? Could be she had picked up the wrong client at that cushy rehab resort or stepped over the line trying to be helpful. “It would be just like her. She comes from a long line of snooty do-gooders. Not my problem. Hope she gets what she deserves.” Eric took a big swig of the cognac he had poured for himself.

  The previous night, both the current and former Mrs. Harpers had been on screen, side-by-side, on every site that catered to the entertainment industry. They had rebroadcast the story this morning of the Tiffany’s incident, but it was already yesterday’s news. Cassie Carlysle Harper, or whatever her name was, sure was a looker: tall, blond and built. At least until she blew up like a blimp. She had stolen
the headlines.

  Eric had to hand it to the Hollywood star. The woman knew how to draw attention. Not all of it good, but then, “there’s no such thing as bad publicity, is there?” Eric asked, speaking aloud in his empty office. “No one could afford the kind of coverage she’s getting from this. Well, maybe I could, once those Pinnacle shares are sold on Friday,” he chortled. He poured himself more cognac, and sat down to finish his cigar, watching the footage being rebroadcast.

  The latest scene featuring the tantrum-prone star relegated the trouble at Tiffany's to page two. Just like that! A proclamation had gone out, through all of La-La land: Cassie Carlysle had gone into labor. Diva-style, at a trendy restaurant where she, and the buffoon she wed in the past year, had gone for a late dinner. “With Huntington and Carlysle as notches on his belt, that guy must have something. I don’t see it,” Eric muttered as he stared at a reporter interviewing restaurant staff. He didn’t need to hear it all again, even though parts of it were funny.

  Less than an hour after that scene on Rodeo Drive featuring the previous Mrs. Harper, the new Mrs. Harper countered with that photo op of her own. The pregnant woman had been ornery since her arrival at the restaurant. She ordered items and then sent them back when they didn’t meet with her approval. Known to have a temper and already facing assault charges, she hadn't struck anyone or raised her voice. But when her water broke, she panicked. Panicky wasn’t much better, or very different, from angry, apparently. There weren’t any cameras in the house, at that point, but diners whipped out smart phones. Jumpy images had made their way to television screens, everywhere. Eric chuckled as those clips reappeared.

  Cassie Carlysle was holding her belly, howling like a werewolf or something. The “suit” she had married, James Harper, tried to calm her down when the cheeky broad hauled off and slapped him—right in the face. Eric guffawed out loud. He would not have laughed if a woman hit him, or shrieked at him, like that. No matter how blond and well-endowed, he would have put her in her place.