Chryssinda, being a model, would have known all of that. So why would she allow Joey to capture such an unflattering angle?
Maybe Joey hadn’t been taking their picture. Maybe he had pretended to clown around while really he was interested in what was behind them. The very location where Lydia’s body was found. Could I be looking at Joey Cheeks casing a possible murder site?
Joey had a motive. Lydia was under contract to him, and he made no secret of the fact that he wanted her out. But why was Chryssinda unconscious in his booth? Had she figured something out too and confronted him? Had he been in the process of shutting her up permanently when he was interrupted, thus leaving her still alive?
I set my phone down and picked up the Madonna bra. If I was right, and Chryssinda had been wearing this, then someone wanted me to know. Who?
His manager, Teresa? I’d watched her argue with Joey from my position on the stage, and it was her card stapled to the outside of the bag.
Joey himself? If he was guilty, he’d want to throw suspicion elsewhere, and he knew exactly who this bra would implicate.
Chryssinda? She couldn’t have known I saw her and Joey that very first day, but had she stuffed the bra into this bag in order to dispose of it?
Or was there someone else, someone completely different, who I was overlooking?
I had no idea how long this bag had been waiting for me at Will Call. My appointment with Joey’s had been yesterday morning, the day after Lydia’s body had been found. What if someone had expected me to come across this last night when I left the show? Would I have put two and two together fast enough to keep Chryssinda from getting hurt?
I couldn’t just sit there and think about the implications of not checking Will Call until today. I also couldn’t determine who was behind the gesture. I dropped onto the bed and closed my eyes. Something was off.
Room service arrived just about the same time Nick did, conveniently canceling out my need to explain two empty bowls of mac and gruyere while allowing me to look considerate. I doubted Nick would have bought any explanation I came up with after my confession this morning. Still, it was nice not to worry.
I thanked Fred, signed the room service slip, and moved the cart to the foot of the bed. Nick stood next to it, staring at the assortment of panties strewn across the comforter. Aside from the cone bra, I’d come home with bikinis, briefs, thongs, and G-strings. Nick didn’t speak for a while, and I misunderstood his concern.
“They’re vendor samples,” I said. “I worked today. Like, work-worked. I made a ton of contacts for Tradava, and most of the booths, when they heard I was shopping for new vendors for a department store, sent me off with a gift.”
“Standard trade show behavior,” Nick said.
“Yes.”
“Are you planning on keeping them?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe you should try them on. See which ones you like. I could help you decide.”
I looked from Nick’s face to the panties on the bed and back to Nick’s face. He picked up a black G-string and dangled it from his finger.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like that pair,” I said. I took the sliver of elastic from his hand and balled it up like a cocktail napkin. “I generally like my panties to leave a little something to the imagination.”
He smiled. “Like these?” He held up a pair of white cotton granny panties.
“There’s probably a happy medium.” (If I didn’t stop with the mac and cheese, I’d need a happy large.) “Speaking of mac and cheese, we should eat before the food gets cold.”
“We weren’t speaking of mac and cheese,” he said.
“Oh, I guess that was in my head.”
Nick washed his hands while I swept the mound of panties out of the way. We ate. Between bites, he told me about his day babysitting Marc (seven casinos, two emotional breakdowns, three hundred thousand dollars, zero hookers) and I told him about finding Chryssinda unconscious in Joey’s booth and the cone bra that someone had left at Will Call under my name.
“I can’t help circle back around to Joey. He stands to gain the most from that distasteful photo that was in the paper. So much of what I know points to Joey, but then there’s the pages missing from the wedding guestbook, and that has nothing to do with the lingerie show.” I finished off my last bite and set down my fork. “It doesn’t add up.”
“I hate to say it, but you’re right. If we hadn’t spoken to the chaplain himself, then everything about Lydia’s death would point to the lingerie fair and Joey. That’s the angle that’s being played out in the news. Tragic death of lingerie model during Intimate Mode Week.”
“They still haven’t ruled her death suspicious or come out with a cause of death, have they?”
“No. So far the press is letting it read, unofficially, like a suicide. People move on to new things so quickly, Lydia’s death is already old news.”
“But if the police aren’t releasing a cause of death or a definitive statement of suicide, then they still aren’t sure about what happened.”
“That’s what it looks like.” Nick scooped up the last of the mac and cheese, swallowed, and set down his fork too.
“There’s only one thing to do,” I said.
“I know.”
I studied Nick’s face, not sure how he was going to feel about going to the source. I waited several seconds to give him a chance to speak, just in case his idea was more along the lines of “walk away,” or “leave things to the police” or “trade in our plane tickets and cut our trip short.” When he didn’t speak, I did.
“You know I’m saying we need to talk to Marc, right? Flat-out ask him about the wedding?”
Nick looked surprised. “That’s what you meant?”
“Yes. What did you think I meant?”
“I thought you were going to suggest we order more food.”
***
We stood side by side in front of Marc Rico’s hotel room. Judging from the lack of doors on the left and right side of it, took up more space than four of our Napoleon rooms put together. Marc answered my knock in a paisley silk robe with MR monogrammed on it over a white T-shirt and gray silk pajama bottoms. He held a tumbler of ice and something amber.
“Sammie, Nick. Nice surprise,” he said. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his speech was slow—not quite slurred, but controlled. I glanced at Nick, who seemed unfazed by Marc’s condition. “Come on in. Can I get you something from the bar?”
“Sure,” Nick said. He put his hand on the small of my back and guided me inside.
Marc’s room was posh. Heavy burgundy curtains framed a window that provided a view of the strip. Sheer white fabric diffused the light, casting a filmy glow over the furniture. The bed was unmade, but otherwise, the room was immaculate. I assumed being wealthy and temporarily living in a hotel was a good combination for someone in Marc’s current state.
Which wasn’t a particularly cheerful one, now that I stopped to think about it. No matter what the reality was about Lydia, Marc had been having a hard time of things ever since I’d met him. The tragedy of someone working through this amount of emotional pain and not being able to say or do anything about it crushed me. While Nick poured two glasses of wine, I gave Marc an unexpected hug. He hesitated only a moment before hugging back.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve said that yet. This whole trip, everything, it has to be hard on you.”
Marc slowly pulled away from me. “I need to tell you something. Both of you. Nick, you’re one of my oldest friends. I trust you. I’ve been holding onto a secret that’s tearing me apart.”
“Sit down,” Nick said. He led Marc to the corner of the bed. Nick and I sat across from him on the velvet loveseat. “It’s going to take time, man,” he said. “You can’t rush your emotions.” He glanced at the glass in Marc’s hand. “You can try to forget them for a little bit, but that’s not going t
o help you long term.”
I leaned forward and took Marc’s hand. “Marc, no matter what happened to Lydia, she died knowing you loved her.”
“No, she didn’t,” he said. He stared into his glass.
Nick and I looked at each other. I felt my face draw into a what? expression which Nick met with an I-have-no-idea shrug.
Marc poured the rest of his drink down his throat and looked up at us. “I was never going to marry Lydia. She was a diversion to keep the press from finding out the truth.”
“Which was what?” I asked.
“My fiancée was Chryssinda. All along, it’s been Chryssinda. We’ve gone out of our way to keep it a secret, but somebody knows. Somebody who wants to destroy me killed the wrong woman.”
26
I put my hand on Nick’s arm as a signal not to say anything, and he pressed his thigh sideways in response. I could get used to this non-verbal communication thing.
Marc continued. “Chryssie and I agreed it was best to keep things quiet until it was official. I’ve had—there’s been—I’ve gotten some death threats. The police know about them and they’re working on tracking down the source. I probably wouldn’t have taken them seriously, but with Chryssinda in my life, I didn’t want to take any chances.”
As Marc spoke, my mind raced. Now I understood why Marc had jumped the gun and paid off another couple to take their spot—because keeping his engagement secret was driving him crazy. Or perhaps it was Chryssinda who’d suggested they bump up the timetable. It explained the tension I’d gleaned from Chaplain Rick. There had been trouble surrounding Marc and his bride—she just wasn’t the bride I’d thought her to be.
The torn pages from the wedding guestbook? Still working that out.
“What kind of threats are we talking about?” I asked. I felt Nick’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look at him.
“They started out as phone calls. ‘I’m going to destroy you,’ and ‘you’ll pay for what you did.’ Never a message. Only when I was physically on the call. Never my cell, so there was no way to see which cell towers were pinged or isolate the physical location of the caller. There’s a certain amount of BS you have to accept when you get to my level. I ignored it as long as I could.”
“Someone called you and said they were going to destroy you and you ignored it?” I asked.
“As far as threats go, these were relatively vague. Who can destroy me? One phone call and a helicopter of security agents lands on the roof. I’ve got loyal and highly paid experts on my payroll monitoring my money and investments. I make my own business decisions, green light or red light, and I stand by them. I’ve always lived a public life, and that’s how I want it.”
“But all that changed when you met Chryssinda.”
He nodded. “Chryssie was different. She was a smart, confident woman. She never asked me for anything. She insisted on a prenup, not the other way around. She had her own money.”
“If she had money, why did she work as an escort?”
Marc didn’t flinch at my slightly-inappropriate question. “She enjoyed a certain lifestyle, and the service put her in the company of men who enjoyed those things too.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that she was with—you know—others?”
“Chryssinda is twenty-three. I’m forty. I’ve probably had more action than she has. That’s reality. She’s uninhibited and loves her body. I won’t pretend the sex isn’t great, but what I love is that she understands the pressures that come with my life and expects nothing. I never felt like she was a gold digger.”
I glanced at Nick to see what he was thinking. He hadn’t said anything since Marc’s big confession, and while Nick’s silence allowed me the freedom to ask questions that could be perceived as innocent, I couldn’t ignore the tension coming from him. He kept his eyes on Marc and his thigh pressed against mine. Enough to tell me to keep going.
At least I was pretty sure that’s what his thigh pressure meant. Maybe he was doing isometric exercises to work off the mac and cheese.
“Marc, everything you told us about Lydia, about how you met her, were you talking about Chryssinda?”
Marc’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We had to keep our relationship quiet. Lydia and Chryssie were friends from modeling, so when Chryssie and I wanted to make things official, we came up with the plan to have Lydia pose as the beard. Lydia’s career started to take off, and all sorts of rumors come with that. I figured we could leak the fake story and let the tabloids run with it. In time, I’d let one of my media channels do some fact checking and expose the gossip rags for what they are.”
“And make money off your cover story with your own companies,” I added.
“Kidd!” Nick exclaimed.
“She’s right,” Marc countered.
“See?” That was me.
Marc continued. “I have to play that way, Nick. Especially when I have people coming after me. It’s eat or be eaten.” He stood up and refilled his glass. “It’s why Chryssie kept her hotel reservation at Flush even though she mostly stays here with me. If someone’s watching her, I want to know. That’s why security escorted us out of The Heart Club when we got drunk. They were paid to protect Chryssie and Lydia, and our actions put the women at risk. I handle my own problems. I thought I could smoke out whoever is coming after me. I was wrong. Lydia’s dead and Chryssie won’t even return my calls.”
He didn’t know. Marc and Chryssinda had kept their relationship so quiet that he didn’t even know she was at the local hospital after being found unconscious. Detective Marbury had left with Joey Cheeks. He probably didn’t know to notify Marc and it twisted my gut to have to cause him additional pain.
“Marc, Chryssinda isn’t avoiding you. She’s in the hospital. I went to the lingerie show early today and I found her. Unconscious. She was taken away for emergency treatment. I don’t know which hospital, but it should be easy enough to find out. Detective Marbury was there.”
The billionaire jumped up from the bed and stalked to the hotel phone. “Get me the police,” he said to whoever answered. He kept his back to us while he waited to be connected.
I turned to Nick. “He couldn’t know,” I said. “Nobody would have known to tell him. The only other people who know the truth are Chaplain Rick, Irene, and Chryssinda.”
“And the couple who he paid off to take their place,” Nick said.
“But do they know who he is? Or did they just accept cash from a rich stranger who made it worth their while to wait a day?” I thought for a second. “Marc’s rich but it’s not like he’s a Kardashian. Nobody knows who he is. You two were pretty toasted on Saturday night and nobody treated him like a celebrity. You both said you don’t remember a lot of what happened. Add in Marc and Chryssinda’s spontaneous wedding, and his guard was probably down. If someone was following him, they could very easily have gotten to him—or gotten to her to get to him.”
“If someone has it in for Marc, they’re not going to stop at Lydia and Chryssinda,” he said. “Marc needs a friend right now, and I’m all he has. I don’t want to see him dive into a bottle that he can’t climb out of.” He cupped the side of my face and gave me a tender kiss. “Leaving you alone is the last thing I want right now, but I don’t think I should leave Marc alone tonight either.”
For all the times I’d put friendship before my job, my safety, and my common sense, it warmed my heart to see Nick do it, too. I put my hand on top of his. “I understand. I’ll be here when you need me.”
Marc got off the phone. “She’s at the Las Vegas Memorial Hospital,” he said.
Nick stood up. “Come on. I’ll go with you.”
Marc turned to me. “Sammie, will you—can you stay at the hotel?” he asked. “I’ll tell the front desk to direct my calls to your room. In case there’s news, I want someone to be here to answer the phone.”
“Sure. Go. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
It was clos
ing in on eight o’clock and visiting hours at the hospital ended at nine. Marc left us in the living room portion of his massive hotel suite while he changed into a less Hugh Hefner outfit. I said goodnight to Nick and sent the two men on their way.
Whether it was Nick’s act of friendship toward Marc, or the annoying fact that the closest friend I had in Las Vegas was Amanda Ries, I was homesick. I’d been out of Ribbon for four days, and I missed my friends, my cat, and my routine. I missed hoagies and pizza and pretzels. There was nothing wrong with a menu that featured twenty-two versions of mac and cheese, but sometimes you want the blue box of Kraft with the electric yellow powder.
I flopped on the bed and called Eddie.
“Hey, Dude,” I said when he answered.
“Hey.” There was a pause. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not right now.”
“Are you about to get married?”
“Not right now,” I repeated.
“Okay, good. I’m on my way out. Logan’s fine, and your tomato plant hasn’t died yet. Tell me again why you have a tomato plant?”
“It’s the one vegetable that goes in everything I like: pizza, spaghetti sauce, meatball sandwiches, and hoagies.”
“You get your hoagies without tomatoes. Something about the bread getting soggy.”
“Whatever,” I said.
“Listen, can I call you tomorrow? I’m on my way to a fundraiser at the skateboard park.”
“Sure,” I said, though it was obvious I was lying.
He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not being held at gunpoint by a murderer?”
“I’m sure. Go have fun.” I paused, then added, “That skateboard park holds a lot of memories. I’ll donate fifty dollars to the cause.”
***
If I were at home, I’d probably be hanging out with Nick and his dad, who had moved in with him after breaking his hip last year. If I weren’t with Nick, I’d be with Eddie. If I weren’t with Eddie, I’d be with Logan. And if Logan was in one of his moods where he’d rather spend time with the catnip mouse, then I’d do my laundry. Nobody likes dirty laundry but calling hotel services to do the job for me lacked the satisfaction of doing a couple of loads myself. Even the thought of mac and cheese didn’t perk me up. I ordered ice cream instead.
Panty Raid Page 12
