Slowly he turned his head and stared at her, as if coming out of a trance. He must have held her gaze for a full minute. Then he shook himself. “Oh, yes. Derrick mentioned that.” He lifted a hand and with a remote control froze the performance on the screen.
The room went silent.
Ambrosia Dawn’s face loomed before them, large and still. Even without sound or movement, she was mesmerizing. She had the kind of charismatic sensuality only top celebrities could pull off.
Forest pressed another button and low lights came up.
He kept his gaze on Ambrosia Dawn’s image.
“May I sit down?”
He turned to her again as if to ask, Are you still here? Then again he shook his head. “Yes, of course. I apologize for my…condition.”
“Perfectly understandable. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Miranda eased into a seat two away from him. It was so cushy and comfortable she thought they might both fall asleep after a minute or two.
Elvis Cameron Forest was looking up at the screen again, as if willing the frozen figure to come to life and step down out of it.
Miranda took in his features. He was a large man, in pretty good shape. Broad shoulders, muscular torso, long legs stretching out into the isle. He had on white designer jeans and a tank top under an open, patterned shirt. Several thick gold chains hung around his neck, embellishing his chest hair and several golden rings adorned his fingers. On his feet he wore sandals. He had hair of pure pitch-black, probably dyed that uncommon color, and styled in an old-fashioned pompadour, albeit a modified one. It was complete with sideburns but it had a rumpled look, and his clothes looked like he had slept in them.
Miranda slipped her notepad out of her pocket. “Mr. Forest, when was the last time you saw your wife?”
“Saw her?”
“Yes.”
“They said I could come and identify the body today. I haven’t gone yet.”
“I meant the last time you saw her alive.”
“Oh.” He turned to Miranda now, as if waking up from a dream. “Um, let me think. Tuesday, that would have been. Tuesday night. We’ve been in town a few weeks and Abbey’s been rehearsing her new show at the casino in the evenings.”
“Abbey?”
“That’s what I call her. Her real name is Abigail.” His voice was low and resonant. Just the right timbre for bellowing out “Blue Suede Shoes” or “Hound Dog” with just a touch of a southern accent.
“I see. So you saw her at the rehearsal, then?”
“Yes. We wrapped up earlier than usual. Around eleven, I think. I had an errand to run, so I told Abbey to have the driver take her home.”
An errand to run at eleven at night? Possible in a 24-7 town. Still, she tucked that little detail away in the back of her mind. “That was the last time you saw her? When she left?”
“Yes.” He touched his cheek. “She kissed me and told me to take care of myself. It was sort of our ritual.” He leaned his forehead in his hand and stared blankly at the floor.
He was getting to her.
As gently as she could, she asked, “So she was in a good frame of mind?”
“Frame of mind?” He stared at the walls as if the question had been in Martian. “Why, yes. She was in a good mood. Happy about the show. Rehearsals were going well. We had the possibility of long-term contract with the casino.”
Ambrosia Dawn sounded ambitious. Or maybe Elvis was the ambitious one. Had he pushed her harder than she wanted? And when she balked…?
She was getting ahead of herself. “What time did you get home?”
“Home? Um…” He rubbed his face. “I think it was about one. Or two. I’d had a few drinks.”
“At a bar?”
“Yes, I stopped in to see a friend at the Blue Palm Lounge. It’s just down the street, right off the Strip.”
“Must have been a good friend to keep you out so late.”
“Reedy Max. Used to be my manager.”
“When you were an Elvis impersonator?”
“Yes. But I quit that when I met Abbey and became her business manager. Sort of ironic. She’s a singer. An artist. She doesn’t have much of a head for contracts and negotiations and such.”
Miranda noted he referred to Ambrosia Dawn in present tense. He was still in shock. It would be a long while before he was normal again. If ever.
She pressed on. “So you got home at one or two and your wife wasn’t here? Even though she came home in the limo?”
“I thought she might have gone to her sister’s. She was nervous about one of the numbers and wanted to go over it again with her.”
“Would that be Blythe Star?”
“Yes. She arranges Abbey’s music.”
Consistent with O’Toole’s notes, at least. “What did you do when you got home?”
“Do? I went to bed.”
“You didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”
He pursed his lips and suddenly looked ashamed. “Sometimes I have trouble sleeping. I took a pill.”
“Was anyone else in the house who might have heard anything?”
“Brandon was in his room, but that’s on the far west end of the third floor.”
“Brandon?”
“My son.”
That detail wasn’t in O’Toole’s report. “You and Ambrosia Dawn had a son?”
“No, we’ve only been married seven years. He’s sixteen. From a previous marriage.”
“Where’s your ex-wife?”
“Julia?” He laughed. “God only knows. She took off with a rich Australian and said they were sailing around the world when we broke up. I heard she’s had several husbands since.”
A jealous ex-wife? Could be another lead but things were too wide open. She had to start narrowing it down. “So only you and Brandon were in the house?”
“The only servants who reside with us are two of the housemaids. Oh, and Suzie.”
“Suzie?”
“Suzie Chan. Abbey’s personal chef. She’s a real wonder. She ran a five-star restaurant in Santa Monica. We were so lucky to get her. Her dishes are beyond amazing. At least Abbey always thinks…I mean…thought so.”
Personal chef. Miranda turned the moniker over in her mind. Just the sort of person who could wield a melon baller. Miranda wondered if Parker had gotten to her yet. “I’d like to speak to Ms. Chan.”
“Certainly. Oh, wait. That’s right. She’s not here. She went to visit her sister. She runs the restaurant in Santa Monica now. Abbey was worried Suzie might leave us and go back into business with her.”
“Did Ms. Chan and your wife have a problem?”
“Problem? No. They got along just fine as far as I know.” He gave a little laugh. “I stay out of the kitchen.”
“When did Ms. Chan leave?”
“For her sister’s? Let’s see. Sometime Tuesday? Yes, I remember now. One of the house maids had to bring the food.”
“Food?”
“To the party. Abbey liked to throw backstage parties after a long rehearsal. Just some drinks and finger food. You know, sandwiches, canapés. Oh, and those melon balls. Abbey was very particular about the melon balls.”
Miranda dropped her notepad onto her lap. “Melon balls?”
“A whole tableful of them. Melon balls on toothpicks with turkey slices, in frozen cocktails, with sherbet, a huge melon ball centerpiece. Oh, Suzie can carve the most intricate designs in the rind.”
Miranda drew in a slow, measured breath. Then she forced herself to speak slowly and calmly. “Mr. Forest, did Sergeant O’Toole give you details about your wife’s condition?”
His thick black brows drew together and a deep crease formed over the bridge of his longish nose. “I—do you mean the officer who came here to tell me—? That’s when I knew Abbey wasn’t home. She wasn’t coming home.” He forced down another sob. “That wasn’t a man. It was a woman. Wait. She gave me a card.”
A woman?
He dug in his pocket and pulled out a
wrinkled business card. He had slept in his clothes.
He handed her the card and Miranda read it. Detective Kim Ralston. LVMPD. O’Toole had even sent someone else—a female—to do the dirty work of informing the family. She was developing a real fondness for that guy.
She revised her question. “Did Detective Ralston explain to you how Ambrosia was found?”
Elvis Cameron Forest’s face went pale. He glanced up at the screen, then down at the floor, then over to the corner where there was nothing. He was in serious denial.
After what seemed like a half hour, he closed his eyes and put a hand over his face. He nodded. “Yes. She said—she said someone had taken one of Abbey’s—eyes.” He let out something between a howl and a whimper. “Why would anyone do that to her? Why?”
“I don’t know. But I promise you I’ll find out.” She got to her feet. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you. One last thing. Do you have a way to contact Suzie Chan?”
He looked up at her with glazed eyes as if he didn’t want to think about the implication of her words. As if all he really wanted was to crawl into a hole somewhere and die himself.
But he answered in a half whisper. “Derrick would have that.”
Chapter Nine
Miranda left Elvis Cameron Forest to his films and his grief and zigzagged her way back down the corridor, peeking into rooms as she went. All were empty. None contained any houseplants.
As she reached the stairs and began to descend into the entrance hall, she spotted Parker coming out of a side room and caught his gaze. He had something.
She met him at the foot of the stairs, excitement coursing through her veins. “Are you finished?”
He nodded. “You?”
“Yes.”
Parker turned to Derrick Dane, who had shadowed him as soon as he left the room. “Thank you for your time.”
“As I said, all of us are willing to do anything to help find Ms. Ambrosia’s killer.” He’d recovered his tongue, Miranda noticed.
“We’ll keep you posted on our progress. Oh, I’ll need Suzie Chan’s contact information from you.”
Parker patted his breast pocket. “Mr. Dane had already provided that.”
So Parker had uncovered the same lead she had.
Miranda headed for the door. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Dane.”
Without a word, she and Parker crossed the walkway and headed for the car, neither of them wanting to reveal their findings until they were well away.
When the car rolled out the country club’s iron gate and past the lingering mourners, Miranda turned to Parker. “Spill.”
He smiled for a second then got that intense look he always wore when he was onto something.
“I took a short tour of the grounds and spoke to one of the gardeners.”
“And?”
“No castanospermum australe growing outside.”
Damn. “Okay. What else?”
“The house manager showed me the first floor. There’s an indoor garden.”
She held her breath. “With a lucky bean plant?”
“Mostly palms and ferns along a rock bed waterfall. Nicely designed.”
So he was going to make her pry it out of him. “Keep going.”
“The housemaids gave me the details of their daily routines. Nothing much unusual. Shall I go over them?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Just cut to the chase.”
He glanced at her, anticipation in his eyes. “The personal chef, Suzie Chan, is an expert at making melon balls.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “That’s what the husband said. She made a whole variety of them for after rehearsals. For all the cast and crew.”
Parker nodded. “According to the downstairs maid, Suzie hated making the melon balls all the time. She claimed it was stifling her creativity and giving her carpal tunnel. But her employer seemed to be obsessed with them.”
Miranda’s brows shot up in surprise. “Really? Our Elvis impersonator thought Suzie and Ambrosia got along fine.”
“Not according to the maid. They fought constantly. Ambrosia wanted everything just so. She was very demanding.”
Miranda sat back in the passenger seat. Could Cameron Forest not have known there was tension between his wife and her personal chef? He did seem out of it.
“Both Derrick and the maid confirmed Suzie was planning to leave Tuesday night to visit her sister in Santa Monica, though no one else was home when she left the house.”
“Forest mentioned she was going to Santa Monica. And I-15 would be the route she’d take.”
Parker nodded. “It would. Ambrosia Dawn seems to have been a creature of habit. The maid said she had a ritual of drinking tea every night. She had Suzie prepare a special blend of mint and ginger and raspberry leaf.”
“And Tuesday night, abrin.”
“Tuesday night Suzie left her employer a pot of tea on the warmer before she went to California. The maid found it the next morning.”
Miranda’s breath caught. “Did she save it?”
Parker shook his head. “She poured it out and washed the pot by hand.”
“Damn.” Miranda was wondering if they could find something in the pipes when a thought hit her. “Wait a minute. The ME said the abrin would induce vomiting. Sounded like severe vomiting. Did you see the kitchen?”
He nodded. “Derrick showed me that room last.”
“Did you see…or smell any trace of…” She waved a hand. “You know?”
“Not a whiff. The kitchen looked spotless. There was a downstairs bathroom nearby.”
“Which means…”
“Exactly. Someone cleaned up. And rather thoroughly.”
Just what a chef who was trying to cover the evidence would do. “Tell me more about the kitchen.”
“It was well done. Spacious, modern equipment, well lit. My father would have loved it.” Parker’s father was a wealthy real estate developer in Atlanta.
She drummed her fingers on her lap. “Get to the point.”
“Despite the good design, it seems the owners wanted more. You know how the wealthy are.” He shot her a wry grin.
“Out with it.”
“They’re building a space onto the kitchen for additional dining. A side room with a bay window overlooking the golf course.”
Miranda could feel her pulse in her neck. “Nice.”
“Yes, it will be. Construction is about half done. There was a large opening in a wall at the far end of the kitchen. It’s going to be an open archway to the dining area.”
Her heart started to race. She couldn’t take anymore. She was about to give Parker a punch when he stopped the car at a light and turned to her.
“For two weeks the opening was covered with polyethylene.”
“And now?”
“Neither Derrick nor the maids know what happened, but the plastic is gone.”
Chapter Ten
On West Flamingo, they headed east toward the city. Deep in thought, Miranda stared out the window at the now moderate traffic and the more moderate homes.
A tan young woman in shorts and tank top was walking a white miniature bulldog in front of a house painted all pink. The building was too small for a star. Must be a local eccentric.
By now it was after one and Parker decided it was time to eat. Miranda was glad when he turned into a fast food place and ordered hamburgers. He pulled into a vacant spot and they watched the traffic as they munched.
Miranda swallowed a sip of her soda and decided to state the obvious. “Suzie Chan didn’t leave for Santa Monica before the rehearsal.”
Parker peeled back the wrapper of his burger with the same classy air he displayed in a five-star restaurant. He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t appear she did.”
Miranda ate some burger and talked while she chewed. “She made the tea and waited around for her employer to get back. According to Cameron Forest, that would have been shortly after eleven. Ambrosia wasn’t there when he got ho
me after one a.m.”
“That would give Chan just enough time.” Parker took a bite of his burger.
“She stayed out of sight or maybe she told Ambrosia she’d changed her mind about the trip and poured the tea for her.”
“To make sure she drank it.”
Miranda reached for a napkin and wiped her mouth. “And Ambrosia drank it all right. A nice big dose. Enough to act fast.”
“Within an hour.”
“And in that time the victim would have started barfing, having seizures. Then she’d pass out.”
Parker’s face was granite. “Chan would have to clean up the mess, take down the plastic enclosure and wrap the body in it.”
“Then carry it out to her car—which would already be packed—put Ambrosia in the trunk, and head for I-15. Half an hour later, Chan dumps her on the side of the highway and heads for Santa Monica.”
“Hmm.” Parker was thinking the same thing she was.
“Timing is awfully tight. And how did Chan lift the body?”
Parker reached for his soda. “Perhaps she had help. I don’t think the maids or Derrick Dane were involved. It would be unlikely for several members of the staff to murder their employer together.”
“Yeah, if they all hated working for her, they’d just get other jobs.”
He sipped thoughtfully. “Dane seems very loyal to the family.”
“Maybe Forest got home earlier than he said.” She shook her head. “No, he couldn’t be involved. He was too pathetic.” No way they could figure out what happened without more evidence. Miranda let out a long breath. What did they do now?
She took another bite of burger and let her gaze run absently over the muted charcoal interior of the car. It was a plain sedan. Nothing like Parker’s Lamborghini or the speedy red Corvette ZR1 he’d given her on their wedding day or even the BMW convertible he’d rented on their honeymoon. It was more like the working vehicles the Agency owned.
Cool air was pouring out of the AC vents. She glanced up at the mirror where the direction and temperature were display. Ninety-nine degrees. “How come it’s so darn hot here?”
“We are in the Mojave Desert. At the hottest time of the year.”
All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1) Page 5
