Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “Who?” Tess and Gretchen asked in chorus.

  “Jarret Cooper. You were right about those martinis, Liz.”

  “You were there, too?” Gretchen said to me.

  “For a drink. I left right after I saw Gloria.” I looked up at the clock, acting surprised. “Didn’t realize how late it is. I’ve got to finish my sit-ups, shower, and get out of here. Excuse me.”

  Members performing a variety of sit-ups, push-ups, stretches, and balancing exercises filled the floor of the back studio. I spotted an open space beside Kyle and the middle-aged gent grunting out a round of push-ups at Kyle’s feet. Nodding hello, I rolled out a mat then got on the floor and started my sit-ups.

  “Liz, did you meet up with Jarret yesterday?” Kyle said.

  “I saw him at the hotel. He was in a rush to meet Ira and—” I stopped mid-crunch and wound my hand in a circle. “What’s his lawyer’s name?”

  “You mean Thaddeus Owen the Second?” he said with a bite of contempt. “The guy is more intimidating than my high school math teacher.”

  I nodded knowingly. “Right. Thaddeus Owen. I suppose Jarret spends a lot of time with Thad and Ira.” Scheming to shift more suspicion on me for Laycee’s death.

  “Don’t know. I worked all day.” Kyle helped his client up, then led him to the weight room.

  Tess threw a mat on the floor and plopped down at my side. “Did you notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “Gloria and Gretchen have the hots for your ex,” Tess said. “After you left, they kept talking about how sexy he is. Does that bother you?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m with a man I adore. I wish the girls luck—Jarret can be a lot of fun. Exclusive? Not so much. But definitely fun.”

  After I finished stretching, I collected my things and a clean towel and went into the ladies’ locker room to enjoy a long, hot shower in peace. I dropped my backpack and gym clothes on a bench, turned on the water full blast, and stepped into the stall.

  As I shampooed and conditioned my hair, I pictured Jarret, sloppy drunk at the pool bar. The guy never could bear to be alone, especially in a crisis. Now, thanks to a rash comment, Jarret had made his latest problem mine. I toweled off, then slipped into black yoga pants and a light gray zip-up sweatshirt.

  Earl caught me at the door and we walked outside together. He scanned the parking lot then leaned in, conspiratorial. “I didn’t want to tell you this in front of anyone inside. A woman detective called me yesterday afternoon. She asked me a lot of questions about what time you left here Wednesday.”

  “I apologize for involving you.” I clenched the strap of my backpack. “You and Tess are the two people I know by name who saw me here Wednesday morning, and I don’t know Tess’s last name. Again, I’m sorry. What did you tell the detective?”

  “The truth. That I saw you leave when my eight o’clock client came in.” Earl squinted at me. “Are you mixed up in Laycee Huber’s murder?”

  “Mixed up?”

  “You know, a suspect?”

  I shook my head emphatically. “I’m not. Detective Pratt questioned me because they found Laycee’s body in my ex-husband’s house. I’d be the biggest serial killer in history if I attacked every woman who slept in his bed since I moved out. Did the detective ask you anything else?”

  “Only how well I knew Laycee. I said I only saw her those two times she came here with Kyle.”

  “Two?”

  “Yeah. First on Tuesday morning, and then she and Kyle came here that afternoon for a few minutes. I didn’t talk to her either time. That’s what I told the detective.”

  “Thanks for telling me in private, Earl. I’m trying to avoid the grapevine.”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear from her again,” he said, opening the door. “Good luck.”

  I strolled along the mall past a jewelry store and bakery toward the ATM kiosk at the end of the shops. At the ATM, I unzipped the side pocket of my backpack then gaped at the contents, puzzled. My wallet was opened upside down, my change, driver’s license, and credit cards scattered at the bottom of the pocket. I rifled through and found nothing missing. Maybe the wallet jostled open when I tossed the backpack into the cubbyhole or onto the bench in the ladies’ room? Fear of robbery wasn’t an issue at Game On—members left purses, wallets, and smartphones in full view in the cubbyholes without concern. I shook off my bewilderment, slid my bank card into the slot, and withdrew some money.

  On the way back to my car, I glanced inside the open bakery door. Behind the counter, a girl in oven mitts slid a tray of muffins onto a rack. Mitts plus a hot tray meant muffins fresh out of the oven to me. Not going in would be an insult to the baker. Five minutes later, I exited with a warm carrot-raisin oat-bran muffin and a cappuccino, and sat at a small sidewalk table.

  With the sun beaming overhead and cars buzzing along the boulevard, I ate my muffin and sipped cappuccino, content to enjoy a moment of peace.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I smiled up at Tess. “Please do.”

  “Be right back.” She disappeared into the bakery, returned with an iced coffee, and sat across from me. “So, you don’t believe my plumber theory, huh? Think it over. I told you, I’m pretty good at this stuff. I picked up on a shift in your aura. You’ve got a dark cloud around you.”

  “The last few days have been rough. Laycee and I were friends years ago in Atlanta. Her death was a shock.”

  “Do you know her family?”

  “I ran into her husband yesterday. He’s understandably a wreck. The police haven’t been able to tell him what happened yet.” I finished my muffin and downed the rest of my coffee.

  “I know you think my dream is silly, but—”

  “Not at all, Tess. Dreams are revealing but they’re also very personal. You won’t convince me a dream can solve a murder unless the dreamer had intimate knowledge about the crime.” I sat back and teased, “Anything you want to tell me?”

  She threw her hand to her chest. “Me? No way. I saw Laycee only once. You shouldn’t resist communications from the beyond. They’re all around us if you pay attention. I’m a messenger. My dream stayed with me because I was meant to tell you about it.”

  “Then thank you. I appreciate the thought. I’ll keep the dream in mind.” I stood and tossed my trash. Tess and I walked to our cars parked in front of the gym and wished each other a good weekend before she drove off.

  Earl came out, scowling, and looked up and down the parking lot. “I’m sick of this, damn it. My client is late again. If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m—”

  The rest of his words were drowned out by the rattling tailpipes of a motorcycle blasting into the lot. A biker in fatigues parked the bike in front of the gym, climbed off, shot Earl a dirty look, then entered Game On.

  “Member?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? He’s another one of Kyle’s”—Earl fingered air quotes—“people.”

  Since Stan had taken the day off, I parked in my own driveway at home, a small luxury I would happily trade for completed renovations. I hurried inside to the den, plopping on the sofa eager to hear Oliver’s opinion on Thad Owen.

  Oliver answered on the first ring. “Give me some good news, Liz.”

  “Thaddeus Owen the Second is Jarret’s lawyer. Do you know him?”

  “He’s an asshole,” Oliver said. “You’re sunk.”

  “Please quit saying that. You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “You didn’t hire me to cheer you up. What do you want me to say? Everything is peachy? Owen is a snake. Do you have any other news for me?”

  “Jarret lied to me.”

  “Shocker,” he said dryly. “When?”

  “Tuesday morning, I asked him if he knew Laycee was in town. He said no. But the bartender at the Sportsmen’s Lodge saw her with Jarret on Monday night. The bartender also saw Laycee’s husband at the hotel the night before she died.”

  “Good. Lies are good. Jerome is
hiding something,” Oliver said.

  “Jar—are you testing me again?”

  Oliver chuckled. “You’re wising up. I’ll be in court all day. I’ll get McCormick to check out the victim’s husband. Remember—if Detective Pratt tries to contact you, have her call my office for an appointment on Monday.”

  “Pratt talked to a trainer at Game On yesterday afternoon. She asked him questions about me.”

  “Covering her bases, putting the pressure on us for a meeting, or both. Sit tight. We’ll talk later.”

  Erzulie hopped on my desk for a scratch and some attention as I dialed Mom.

  “I drew the Seven of Swords in my tarot reading this morning, dear,” she said. “Sneaky. Lies. I can’t wait to talk to that lowlife Jarret.”

  “You don’t need to call him anymore. I found out his lawyer’s name this morning.”

  She sighed. I shared her disappointment—Jarret deserved a dose of Mom’s wrath.

  “I left him another message an hour ago,” she said. “I almost hope he doesn’t call me back. I’m too angry to be civil.”

  “I wouldn’t worry but if he does, don’t let him rattle you.”

  “Your father and I are going downtown to talk to the people in the coroner’s office then have lunch at the Pacific Dining Car.”

  I pictured Mom decked out in one of her pink suits and designer handbags, hanging out at the morgue. “Why is Dad taking you to the coroner’s?”

  “I didn’t give him much of a choice,” she said. “Either take me along or let me go to the hotel to confront Jarret. He decided on my company. But I’m worried about you, dear. What are you doing today?”

  “Nick and I are meeting with the devil worshiper.”

  “You’re going along?”

  “Nick didn’t have a choice either.”

  Bustling to the kitchen fueled by nervous energy, I took my backpack to the laundry room, put my dirty gym clothes on top of the washing machine, and cleaned out Erzulie’s litter box. Then I puttered in the kitchen until I ran out of counters to wipe and dishes to wash. I was unpacking a box of winter sweaters upstairs in the guest bedroom when Nick texted he would pick me up at noon to meet Horus. Get ready in ninety minutes? Gee, I could try.

  What would one wear to meet a devil worshiper? Red? Nick came with a colorful and unusual array of associates and I had to admit, the few I met fascinated me. The voodoo priest and Santeria santera I befriended through him turned out to be lovely people.

  Robin called while I stood at the dusty mirror in my bathroom, adding a second layer of mascara to the slowest makeup job on record.

  “You’re going to love this,” she said. “The gal I called at Atlanta Wife Life told me your Billy Miles is a fake.”

  I put the mascara down. “A fake what?”

  “Producer. William H. Miles, the producer of Atlanta Wife Life, is fifty and lives in Bel-Air with his second wife and their daughter, a freshman at USC Film School.”

  Her description didn’t fit the Billy Miles I talked to at the gym earlier. “Then who—?”

  “Billy Miles is William’s nephew and a professional slacker. Billy had one shot at a production and failed miserably. Uncle William demoted him to a useless job at the network to keep him out of trouble. Now Billy is little more than a gopher riding the nepotism train.”

  “I spoke to Billy. He acts and talks like he’s connected.”

  “Oh, he’s connected. Billy can speed-dial every maître d’, car service, and florist in town.”

  “He told me he spends half of his time on the set in Atlanta,” I said.

  “Right. With William. Billy tags along to drive the uncle around, scout restaurants, get the laundry done. He’s sort of like his uncle’s road manager.”

  “What about the party Billy threw at Dodger Stadium? Kyle was there.”

  “The ATTAGIRL sales staff threw the party for advertisers. Billy has access to tickets to the ATTAGIRL suite at every sporting event,” Robin said.

  “I can buy a pretense of importance. Billy Miles isn’t the first person in Hollywood claiming to be something he’s not. Can he audition actors for the ATTAGIRL shows?”

  “They won’t let him near the cast,” Robin said. “Everything you heard about Billy Miles is a lie.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nick stopped his SUV at my curb at noon and I climbed in, neck damp from waiting in the sun, my jeans already sticking to my thighs. Cool and relaxed in a gray NoHo T-shirt, he leaned over and kissed me. “What happened to your eyes?”

  I flipped down the visor mirror. Yikes. My over-mascaraed lashes framed my big browns like black centipedes. “Nothing. What time is our meeting?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  Twirling my hair into a knot at the back of my neck, I grabbed Herrick Schelz’s pamphlet off the console and fanned my face. “I thought you gave this to Eagleton.”

  “I included photos of the cover and the page with the symbol in an e-mail to him with my report. He still hasn’t replied yet.” Nick made a U-turn in the middle of my block and drove toward Moorpark Street. “I want Horus to check out the actual pamphlet. Either Pratt and Eagleton don’t consider it relevant or they pulled me out of the loop because of you.” He patted my thigh affectionately. “Pratt knows I’m in your gang.”

  “You’re always my first choice as an accomplice,” I said. As we traveled east on Moorpark to Vineland, then north to Riverside Drive and the entrance to the 134 East, I told him what I learned from and about Billy Miles.

  “Billy Miles can describe his job any way he wants to. He’s a fraud, but does that connect him to the crime?”

  “I’m grasping for leads, Nick, so far we’re getting a lot of information about nothing.”

  “We’ve been at this less than twenty-four hours. Maybe Dave came up with something.” Nick autodialed the hands-free phone on the dashboard. On Dave’s answer, Nick said, “Any luck getting Herrick Schelz’s visitor list from the Indiana State Prison?”

  “Waiting for a fax,” Dave said over the speaker. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get it. But I was about to call both of you. Seven years ago, Kyle Stanger was arrested and charged with misdemeanor assault in Georgia.”

  “Kyle and Jarret were in a bar brawl with a man in Atlanta,” I said as we curved onto the Golden State turnoff heading south. “Jarret wasn’t charged. Kyle took all of the blame.”

  “There’s more,” Dave said. “Three years ago, Stanger got arrested in Atlanta again, that time for possession and intent to sell Schedule II and III drugs—cocaine and steroids.”

  “Did he serve jail time?” I said.

  “His lawyer convinced the judge to suppress the evidence and the charges were dropped. Stanger moved to Los Angeles two years ago and applied for a business license.”

  “And opened Game On with Jarret,” I said.

  Nick glanced at me. “Do you think Jarret knew about the drug arrest?”

  “I doubt it. Jarret is protective of his image. I doubt he’d risk going into business with a known drug dealer. Then again, he always felt guilty for letting Kyle take the assault rap for him.”

  “How about this—Forrest Huber was Stanger’s lawyer in the drug case,” Dave said.

  I tapped my lip. “I knew Kyle got chummy with the Hubers at my parties in Atlanta. I was curious why he and Laycee stayed in touch. If she threatened to tell Jarret that Kyle was dealing drugs again in L.A.—”

  “Kyle wouldn’t have taken her to the bar to meet Jarret or let her leave with him,” Nick said.

  “True,” I said, then added into the speaker before we hung up, “Good work, Dave.”

  “I know. You’re welcome.”

  I stared at the passing roadside, puzzled by Kyle’s relationship with the Hubers. Something didn’t fit. “Nick, I’d bet anything Forrest had no idea that Laycee and Kyle were close. He wouldn’t like it.”

  “Why?” He changed lanes and took the exit through a canopy of trees bordering the edge of Gri
ffith Park toward Los Feliz Boulevard. “How jealous was he?”

  “Edging toward morbid—the extreme version that can lead to stalking and violence. Although I’ve seen Laycee play on his jealousy and provoke him. I remember how she flaunted their age difference to make him crazy, making jokes about their sex life and wearing revealing clothing. Forrest fumed over her flirtatious behavior at our parties. If Laycee and I went out together, he called every ten minutes asking when she’d be home. It wasn’t much of a surprise when he phoned me Wednesday morning looking for her.”

  “Did he abuse her?”

  “I can’t say for certain. I didn’t see visible bruises, but there were signs. After their arguments, she’d lock herself inside for days. Then a new car, new clothes, new vacation, or new pet would appear.”

  “Could be Forrest discovered her lie about the trip and used the call to you Wednesday morning as a cover.” Nick turned south on Griffith Park Boulevard. “The question is, how would Forrest track his wife to Jarret’s, and who let him in? Laycee?”

  “Forrest and Laycee both knew our garage code in Atlanta, and Jarret still uses the same code. As Dave implied at dinner last night, tracking her movements would be tough, though not impossible. Laycee was a talker. Even if the bartender at the hotel didn’t know where she went with Kyle Tuesday night, she might have told someone else she was going to the game—the bell captain, the desk clerk. Forrest would take extreme lengths to find her. Violence wouldn’t shock me, especially if he caught her cheating. I can envision him parked on the street all night waiting for Laycee to come out.”

  “He sees Jarret leave in the morning, goes in the house, and finds Laycee in bed—his worst fears confirmed.”

  Nick turned right on Hyperion into the Silver Lake business district, cruising by a tattoo parlor, a dance studio, three auto repair centers, and a string of hipster restaurants. He parked in front of a one-story black building with a spectacular art deco starburst etched on the stainless-steel door in the center.

  I picked up the pamphlet and got out of the car, approaching the building with curiosity. No windows. No address. “Horus works here?”