Nikki opened her eyes. “It’s quite all right. But, how was he a pain, if all you had to do was what you explained to me? You know, to basically just run the bath.”
Charlotte wiped off the oil on Nikki’s face, again with the steamy towel. She dried it and covered Nikki’s eyes with cotton patches and turned on a bright light. Immediately Nikki felt a pinch on her face. Ow. And another one. Ouch. She squirmed on the table. “I’m doing extractions, cleaning out your pores. You have some buildup there.”
Now this part of the treatment was far from relaxing. Nikki had to wonder if Charlotte was actually a sadist and getting a thrill out of torturing her, one pore at a time.
“Once Mr. Debussey was prepared to get into the tub, I of course left the room. However, I don’t know if you’ve had that treatment there or not, but if the client needs the therapist at any time they can buzz us with a dealy-bob thing, you know, like a buzzer on the side of the tub, and the therapist carries around one of those things like you get at a restaurant when it’s your turn to be seated.”
“A remote vibrator?” Nikki asked, sounding strange as Charlotte continued to torture the left side of her nose, making it difficult to breathe.
“Yes.”
Nikki thought her entire face might come through one little pore. How much buildup could there be? Yikes. “Did he buzz you for some reason?”
“He did.”
“What did he want?” Thank God Charlotte moved from her nose on to her chin. At least that was tolerable, and there must not have been the same amount of buildup, because she finished quickly and turned the overhead light on. The next thing she did was put a mask on Nikki’s face. It was cool and smelled a little like bananas.
“First he wanted me to change the candles in the room. He said that he didn’t like lavender, that he wanted vanilla scented candles, so I went to get those for him. Then, he wanted a phone, of all things.”
“Vanilla scented candles? Were the doors to the balcony still open?
“Yep.”>
“Then he wanted a phone?”
“Yeah. He said that his cell phone was back at the restaurant, so I offered him the spa remote phone.”
“Did he say who he was calling?”
“Nope.”
“Did you hear any of the conversation?” Nikki asked.
“He asked me to pour him another glass of wine, and the bottle was out of his reach from the tub, so I did. While I got his wine, he called someone and I heard him tell whoever it was that if it hadn’t been for the moronic agent, the first cookbook deal with the publisher would have been a better one, and that whoever he was talking to needed to do a better job with investments. He didn’t like losing money.”
Rick Moran. He had to have been talking to Moran. “Did you tell the police about this?”
“Of course I did. I got the feeling the detective was looking at me as if I might have been involved, but I took off after the phone thing and the other thing that happened.”
The mask was cool on Nikki’s face, probably refreshing if she could let herself relax, which was not likely going to happen, especially after Charlotte’s pinching fingers from hell. “What other thing that happened?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you this, it’s not like you’re a detective, and you were the man’s friend. You might not like it.”
Nikki removed the cotton patches from her eyes and opened them to look at Charlotte. “Okay, let me level with you. I knew Georges and I liked him, but I have more than gossip-type interest in this thing. I know someone who was close to him who could really be affected by this, and I am really concerned for this person.” Janie’s face flashed through Nikki’s mind as she realized the real reason she wanted to find Georges’ killer. Sure, it did have something to do with showing up Detective Robinson, but more than that, Nikki felt a connection to the young woman. There were similarities between the two of them, both losing parents at a young age, and also the fact that there was this protective instinct that had come over her the night Janie had shown up on her doorstep, her face tear stained.
Charlotte stared back at her as though determining if going on and relating this story to her was truly in her best interest. “I already told the detective, so I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. After I gave Mr. Debussey the phone and wine, and let myself out, he asked if I could find some more candles. I went back into the supply area to see about getting him the candles, and a few minutes later when I came back to his room, I heard some noises through the door coming from in there, like moaning and splashing. I figured he was getting kinky in there and I really didn’t want to be a part of it. I was sort of feeling weird going in and out of his room anyway, and honestly, he wouldn’t be the first client to try and make a move on me.”
“Oh my God! Do you realize that you probably heard the killer in there with him, or maybe you heard him taking his last breaths?” Nikki watched as a horrified expression came over Charlotte’s face.
“I never thought of that! The police didn’t say anything like that to me.”
Nikki felt bad because she could see that what she’d said had really affected Charlotte, but what else could the woman have thought she’d heard, after the fact? “What did you think was going on in there?”
“You know, like I said, something kinky.”
“Oh. But he was the only one in there.”
“You got it, and it freaked me out. Here this big time chef is in the spa tub, well you know, playing . . .”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“I thought maybe he wanted the phone to call one of those places. The sex hotlines.”
Nikki didn’t reply. Charlotte had a point. It could be a possibility, but more likely the killer had either just left and Georges was on his way to the afterlife, or the killer was still in there with him, finishing him off.
“I’m going to leave this mask on for ten minutes and I’ll let you relax. I’ll be back.”
But Nikki knew what she really wanted to do was get this mask off and find out who this agent person was that Georges insisted was a moron. She figured he’d been talking to Moran.
She didn’t bother waiting for Charlotte to come back. She was convinced that she had nothing to do with Georges’ death and that her mind was surely made up about not returning to work at Malveaux. It was likely Charlotte had told her everything she knew about what had taken place in the spa yesterday. No more time for masks, relaxation, and extractions; it was time for her to get back on the trail of a killer.
Chapter 12
It was two o’clock before Nikki got back on the road again. So, Georges called someone and they spoke about his moronic agent? Who had he called? Presumably Moran. And what agent? He was a chef. Not a TV personality. She smacked herself on the forehead in disgust. Shoot, had all those pore extractions caused her brain to seep out? Of course, agent—a literary one. Georges had written a couple of cookbooks and had just finished the project with Derek. He would know the name of the literary agent, wouldn’t he? Whoever it was had to have brokered the deal, if that’s what they called it. Now, how to get that information out of Derek, who hated the fact that she enjoyed being a snoop? And, once she got it out of him, what would she or could she do with that information? Was there another way of finding out this stuff?
She smacked herself on the forehead again. Wait. Could it be as easy as looking in the acknowledgement page of one of his cookbooks? Hadn’t she recalled seeing in some of the books she’d read that authors often thanked their agents? It was worth a shot. She drove to the St. Helena library on Library Lane.
She found both of Georges’ cookbooks on the shelves. The most recent one only acknowledged Bernadette—obviously before she’d burned down the guesthouse and he’d sent her packing—and his editor, Renee Rothschild. No “thank you” to his agent. Ah, but in the first book Georges didn’t just thank his agent, a Henry Bloomenfeld, but everyone under the sun as well. Nikki read the list and had no clue who they were, but wa
s thankful that he’d put in there the one name that she needed.
She walked back to the circulation desk and asked the librarian about a book that might include the names and addresses of agents and publishers. The librarian led her to a volume called the LMP, the Literary Marketplace. “You can’t check it out, but you’re welcome to copy any of the addresses in there,” the librarian explained.
Nikki thanked her and started thumbing through it. She found Rothschild Publishers, which she already knew was located in San Francisco. But she did not find Henry Bloomenfeld’s name. She went back to the librarian. “I’m looking for a specific name. Is it possible I might find it elsewhere?”
“You could look at some of the older LMPs.”
Nikki decided to try that and struck pay dirt. She found Henry Bloomenfeld’s name and address in an LMP from a couple of years back. Did that mean he was now out of business? He was also located in San Francisco, but the address given was a post office box. However, there was a phone number listed. From past experience Nikki knew that it was possible to use the Internet to type in the phone number and get an address. Moving to the library’s computer, she entered the phone number—and it worked. Ten minutes later she was out the door, back in the car, and heading toward San Francisco. She really did not want to go back to the vineyard, not yet. She was focused now and a drive to the Bay Area might be exactly what she needed.
Nikki was surprised at Henry Bloomenfeld’s address—really surprised. It was the same building that Moran had gone into the day before and had come out of with the bag. It didn’t make a lot of sense. If this tenement really housed Henry Bloomenfeld’s agency, it didn’t connect for her. Here he was with a famous client like Georges Debussey, but his office was stuck down here on Market Street.
There was no elevator in the building, so Nikki hiked the five flights of stairs. The hall leading to Bloomenfeld’s door stunk like tobacco and age; stains soiled the carpet, which she figured might have at one time been red. Not too sure though, as it looked like mud with bloodstains interspersed throughout. Oh God, hopefully those weren’t real bloodstains. Someone was playing AC/DC behind one of the thin doors. Dust particles hung in the air, sunlight hitting them from a small window at the end of the hall. Nikki’s chest tightened.
She rapped on the office door. Hopefully this was the correct Henry Bloomenfeld. The sign on the door did read “Literary Agent/Publicist.” Nikki rapped again. This time louder. Was “You Shook Me All Night Long” coming from behind Bloomenfeld’s door or the one next to him?
The door swung open. The music accosted her along with a buxom blonde, a cigarette hanging from her mouth, holding a glass of what appeared to be scotch in her left hand. Her blue eyes were heavily made up with false lashes and garish shadow, her lips done in bubble gum pink. A black silk robe was draped over her shoulders, exposing a matching black negligee that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She looked Nikki up and down. Run, run—fast! “Wow, baby, you gotta get a load of this. What agency did you call?”
“Hang on, baby, I’ll turn the stereo down.” Seconds later a man who came up to Nikki’s breasts and then stared at them appeared from around the corner—skinny, curly haired, pale, fiftyish, wearing what Nikki knew had to be a designer suit—maybe even an Armani. “Oh yeah. Classy. Nice. Okay, come on in. Let’s get started. Your wardrobe is in the bathroom and the film crew will be along soon.”
Nikki held up a hand. “Whoa, ho, ho. I think I’m at the wrong place.”
“Oh no, you’re not, baby. You’re exactly what we ordered,” the blonde said.
“No. I’m a writer, a journalist to be exact.” Lying to this element came so much easier, and she didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention Moran yet. “And, I was looking for Georges Debussey’s agent. I think this has to be the wrong place.”
The man cleared his throat. “I worked with Georges.” He stuck out his hand. “Who did you say you were?”
Nikki crossed her arms in front of her. No way was she shaking his hand. Besides, she still had her doubts about him. Good thing she had some Mace in her purse, and she’d use it, dammit, if she needed to. “I didn’t. My name is Cara Sands.”
“What paper are you with?”
“I’m not.” She looked Blondie and Slimy up and down as they continued to do to her. “I’m writing a book, actually.”
“Hmmm,” he said. He shook a finger at her. “You obviously know that I’m a literary agent. Most people who approach me in this way, I don’t usually help. But you, I might be able to work with. You really didn’t have to come here and use the Georges Debussey story on me.” Bloomenfeld winked at her. “I might also be able to get you work in Hollywood.”
“No thanks.” Been there, done that, and hadn’t quite made the scene like say, oh, Nicole Kidman, for example. “I’m not looking for an agent.”
“You’re not?” he raised the unibrow below his forehead that needed some serious waxing. He had a faint New Yorker accent that hung on the end of his words.
“No. I’m here to talk to you about Mr. Debussey’s life; and now murder, of course.”
Henry took a step back. “Georges was murdered?” He took another step back and reached for a leather sofa that sat in the middle of the office.
Blondie came to his side. “Hanky? Are you okay, baby? What is it?”
“Get me a scotch, Marsha.” Marsha batted her eyelashes at him and looked as stupid as Nikki assumed she was. “Now!” he bellowed.
Marsha scurried away.
“What do you mean, Georges was murdered? When did this happen?” he asked, falling onto the sofa.
Nikki studied him for a moment. Was he for real? Or was this an act? Moran surely must have told him. Or had Moran even known about it? She assumed he did, even assumed he was in on it, but he hadn’t been around that evening after the murder. Maybe the fact that Moran had come to this same building the day before had been mere coincidence. It would be quite a coincidence, though, knowing that both men had an affiliation with Georges. Nonetheless, weirder things had happened. Maybe she was on the wrong track here. Or what about the cops? Detective Robinson had put two and two together by now after talking to Charlotte. If Nikki had figured it out, Mr. Highfalutin Detective from Houston would have buzzed by Bloomenfeld’s already. Unless Nikki had beaten him to the punch. It was still only Monday afternoon, less than forty-eight hours after the killing. Maybe it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind, but news like murder traveled fast, even if it had only occurred less than two days earlier. And with Georges gaining notoriety, Nikki found it fascinating that Henry, the agent, had no clue, even if the police had not paid him a visit. “You hadn’t heard?”
He shook his head. “No. When did this happen?”
“Saturday.”
He looked up at her and now he was the one studying her. “Saturday? And now you’re in my office claiming to be writing a book about him? What gives? What’s your real deal, Ms. Sands?”
Nikki bit her lower lip. Marsha brought the scotch to Henry, who took a major gulp and then went back to staring hard at Nikki after shooing Marsha away.
“My initial plan for the book had nothing to do with Georges being murdered. It was all about his life and how he pursued the dream of becoming a world class chef and becoming owner and operator of gourmet restaurants here in the city and out in Napa. I happened to be in the city and traced your address, taking a chance you might be here.” Nikki got the feeling that Henry didn’t only do his business out of the dump, but also lived there.
Henry took another large swallow of the amber-colored contents in his glass. “Uh-huh.”
“He didn’t tell you about this? With the new book coming out, we thought it would be a good idea to do another book in conjunction, something like a ‘here’s your life’ type thing. You know, a biography.”
“Uh-huh.” He continued with the scrutiny. “And how did you meet Georges?”
“At the vineyard, actually. At Malveaux Estate.”
Now that was the honest-to-God truth. “I work there, and we got to be friends and talked about this idea. I was kind of ghosting it for him, that’s why I figured he would’ve talked to you about it, because he talked about you all the time. You know he liked doing the cookbook thing, but sitting down and doing a huge manuscript, you know, that wasn’t his thing.”
“He talked about me all the time, huh?”
She nodded. This statement bugged him. She could see it all over his face. Why? Had she said something to tip him off that she was pretty much full of it?
“Where was he murdered?” Henry asked.
“At the vineyard. At the new spa there.” She knew that he would read it in the paper or hear it on the news, because if he truly hadn’t heard about Georges’ death yet, he would now go looking to follow up on her story.
“Let me get this straight then. Now you want to play detective and write a book about his life and murder and you’re looking for answers?”
Now we’re talking. Okay, it was easy to stay closer to the truth when the guy had just basically spelled it out for her. “Exactly.”
“Don’t you think you might want to let the cops do that job? Write the book later.”
Why, oh why, did every man she talked to tell her the same thing? Let the cops do the job. She smiled sheepishly. “Listen, you know, being an agent and all . . .” Which she still couldn’t wrap her brain around, looking at his place; regardless of his expensive suit and the decadent furniture inside, something did not ring kosher with Henry Bloomenfeld. “I don’t want to sound callous here, but I do have ambition and I could use a buck or two, and since I was already working with Georges and got to know him, I’d like to strike while the iron is hot. See what I can find out.”
“Fancy yourself as quite the sleuth, huh?”
She shrugged.
Silenced By Syrah Page 10
