by Gina LaManna
“If you’d like to continue a different time—”
“Do you know who she is?” Anne asked.
“The young woman occupying the apartment recently turned eighteen, recently graduated.”
“Graduated…” Anne blinked. “High school?”
He nodded.
She blinked again, then let out a derisive snort.
“Her name is Harmony Feliz.”
Anne took the news with as stoic of an expression as she could muster. When Luke looked at her as if wondering if he should continue, Anne nodded.
“She was raised by her mother and father in Silver Lake. Attended public grade school, high school, and recently graduated.”
“Did you find out how she met my husband?”
“Not yet. I could look into it, but I’ve…” The private investigator studied the back of his hands. “There wasn’t much left of Eliza’s retainer.”
“The money is gone,” Anne puzzled out. “I have a little bit more in my savings, but I’m afraid I don’t know your hourly rate or how much you’d need in order to keep digging on this woman.”
“May I make a recommendation, Mrs. Wilkes?”
Anne tilted her chin upward. “I suppose.”
“This is not my place, and I understand that I am overstepping my bounds in saying so, but it wouldn’t be right for me to accept your money without cautioning you first.” He paused for a breath. “You seem like a nice woman. Obviously, you have a family to care for, and I feel for your situation. But I don’t believe there’s much more I can do for you. The only person who can provide the answers you’re seeking is your husband.”
Anne sat rigid in her seat, waiting a long beat. “Thank you, then. I suppose that’ll be all. Am I supposed to tip you? I don’t understand how this industry works.”
Luke rose, his eyes dimmed with sadness. “We’re all settled, Mrs. Wilkes. Would you like to take the files with you?”
“No,” Anne said. “I’ve heard enough.”
TRANSCRIPT
Prosecution: As a professional publicist, would you say you can put a spin on just about anything?
Eliza Tate: That’s pretty much a requirement in the industry.
Prosecution: Yet you say that you were not responsible for any part of the murder that took place on the evening of February 13?
Eliza Tate: Correct. Which I’ve stated several times.
Prosecution: It’s interesting, then, that the police found your fingerprints on the murder weapon. How would you spin that story?
TWELVE
Six Months Before
August 2018
Eliza checked in with the maître d’ of Beverly Hills’ hottest new restaurant, taking care to select a small table near the window that would fit her prospective client’s taste. This lunch had to be perfect, and Eliza was prepared to cater to every strange whim and quirky desire.
She knew Marguerite Hill hated to sit outside (too sunny) and hated to sit in a booth (too sticky) and hated to sit near the restrooms (for obvious reasons). Finally, Eliza located a table that seemed to fit the bill all around and promptly sat, ordering a bottle of Marguerite’s favorite white wine to be waiting, chilled.
With a minute to spare, Eliza daintily touched up her hair and makeup. She sped through a few emails on her phone, forcing herself to stay busy, busy, busy so her mind didn’t wander to less-than-pleasant topics. Such as the state of her relationship with her husband.
Eliza put her phone down when she caught sight of the familiar, frizzled hairstyle signaling Marguerite Hill’s arrival. Marguerite, bestselling self-help author of the past year, was a hot commodity in the publishing industry. And if Eliza’s luck held, today would be the day she swooped Ms. Hill out from under Harold’s nose and secured her as a client. It would put Eliza Tate PR on the map with a sparkling splash and the pop of a champagne cork.
The server showed Marguerite to her seat. Eliza stood, taking in the woman’s aura—the entire charade that had become famous along with Marguerite herself. The author was young, in her early forties, but she kept up a carefully groomed image that gave her the impression of being much wiser than her years.
Her blond hair was dyed with streaks of silvery-gray—a strange style that interns assured Eliza was completely en vogue. The spiral curls had been teased into a frizzy mane that appeared to bloom from the very roots of Marguerite’s scalp, twisting away like blackberry vines, barely contained with a floral scarf in bright shades of pinks and greens and blues.
Marguerite wore a bright-orange sheer kimono draped over her shoulders. Beneath, a simple white bodysuit disappeared into high-waisted jeans that exposed a trim figure, one kept in great shape thanks to a diet of earthy greens, plant-based proteins, and weeklong fasts. The whole outfit was topped by a pair of god-awful sandals wedged onto bare feet.
Ironically, this version of Marguerite Hill was not the one Eliza had first met several years before. That Marguerite Hill had flaunted her slim figure in tight designer dresses and sky-high heels. Her hair had been dyed jet-black and straightened until it shone like a glittering veil. Her eye makeup had been heavy and dark, her mascara thick and voluminous. She had been picture-perfect.
Then her book had skyrocketed to success. Her Instagram account had gained hundreds of thousands of followers overnight. She’d begun posting inspirational quotes from her first book, Take Charge, followed by images of her new, raw-food diet. She’d steadily begun to post photos of herself and her new look.
Soon enough, she’d secured a slew of sponsors—everyone from natural makeup companies to organic clothing lines to free-range chicken farms wanted to be linked to success. Everyone wanted to hitch their wagon to Marguerite’s. The smell of money burned strong in the air.
Eliza had watched, amused, as the author traded cute pumps for leather sandals and tight dresses for baggy overalls. Her smoky eye shadow had evaporated, only to be replaced by expensive (and invisible) antiaging creams and lotions. Her hair had gone from black to gray in the snap of a finger. Overnight, Marguerite Hill had become the most popular guru in America with the bohemian lifestyle to prove it.
Marguerite’s fans loved her new vibe. A vibe that, as Eliza well knew, was the result of a carefully curated collection of social media photos. It was all bullshit. But to Eliza’s great surprise, Marguerite’s fans gobbled the bullshit out of her (expensively moisturized) palm.
“Hello, darling,” Marguerite said in a slightly clipped, almost-accented voice. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me for tea.”
Eliza didn’t bother to correct her about the fact that this wasn’t a tea party. Marguerite had been born in Louisiana and was about as British as Tony Soprano, but that hadn’t stopped her from perfecting a lilt to her speech that was faintly reminiscent of an obscure European country.
As an immigrant who had spent endless hours trying to eradicate any trace of accent from her speech, Eliza found this practice baffling. Then again, Roman let people think he was as Italian as his name, which was a total fabrication of his true heritage. Apparently, Eliza surrounded herself with people who preferred to be anyone other than themselves.
“Absolutely,” Eliza said. “I hope this restaurant will suffice. They have the sashimi platter that we both adore.”
Marguerite winced. “Actually, dear, I’ve gone vegan.”
“I hadn’t seen the news.”
“I decided to go completely vegan about two hours ago.” Marguerite put a hand over her heart and let out a tinkling laugh. “But as I always say, one must seize the day! Why wait until tomorrow when we can start today?”
“Take charge!” Eliza echoed weakly, wondering why Marguerite couldn’t have waited until tomorrow to go vegan. The sashimi platter at this place was worth breaking a fast over. Wasn’t pescatarian in these days?
“Surely you haven’t given up wine,” Eliza said quickly. “I have a bottle of your favorite chilling.”
Marguerite made a sucking sound through her teeth. “As a mat
ter of fact, I’ve been thinking about it. I sort of like the idea of being a complete teetotaler.”
“I’ve always thought there was something a bit romantic about authors and alcohol,” Eliza said, grasping at straws. “Having a glass of sparkling wine late at night, sitting at the computer, tap-tap-tapping away at your next piece of genius.”
Marguerite rested a pale, manicured fingernail to her lips. “You know, I think you’re right. Fuck, I’m glad I didn’t post that I’d given up alcohol online, or I’d have to turn down this glorious bottle of wine! Screw it. I can always be booze-free tomorrow.”
“Absolutely.” Eliza hurriedly gestured for the server, announcing as he arrived, “We’re ready for the wine. And a bit of the complimentary bread whenever you’re ready.”
“Bread is out,” Marguerite said when the basket arrived on the table. “I’ve always loved a good hunk of warm gluten, but I’m thinking I might have to abstain soon. Gluten-free is big. What a drag.”
“Tell me about it,” Eliza said, grabbing her newly filled glass of wine and taking a swig, forcing herself not to touch the delicious, steaming basket of bread on the table or the artisan garlic butter. “Speaking of, I have some ideas that I think could be fabulous for your image.”
“Is that so?”
“I have an entire proposal if you’d like to see it.” Eliza removed a binder, placed it tantalizingly on the table. “But I think we should order first. If, of course, there’s something here that works for you?”
Marguerite crooked her eyebrow, leaned forward. “Let’s cut to the chase, Eliza. You and I both know I’d really love to have the rack of ribs, but just in case someone’s watching, I’ve got to stick to my vegan shtick.” She flicked the menu open and scanned it with a frown. “Which of these would look best in a photo?”
Eliza forced a smile, then perused the menu. She pointed out some sort of eggplant parmesan dish that the server assured them was served on a beautiful platter.
“Why don’t I get the zucchini blossom?” Eliza said. “Then you can take a picture with whichever looks better.”
“I like the way you think,” Marguerite said. “Do you like zucchini?”
“Does anyone?”
A gleam entered Marguerite’s eyes. “Color me interested. You know, I was quite shocked when I got the email that you and Harold were parting ways. The rumors are that you were let go.”
“I’m going the road alone.” Eliza dodged the question.
“How does Roman feel about that?”
“He’s supportive.”
“Is he, then?” Marguerite’s eye flicked over to Eliza’s with a deliberate pause. “That’s good.”
“It’s not exactly his choice, seeing as it’s my career.”
“I agree it shouldn’t be his choice. I just wondered how he took the news.”
“I don’t really understand why you seem to dislike Roman so much.”
Eliza’s bluntness surprised even her, but it was a thought that had pricked at her mind for months. Ever since the author had started infusing little comments about Roman into the conversation every chance she could get. While she was embarrassed for blurting it out, Eliza wanted to hear the answer.
“I don’t trust him,” Marguerite said. “I think he’s holding you back.”
“Holding me back from what?”
“Are you happy in your relationship?” Marguerite’s cool blue eyes met Eliza’s. “Is Roman everything to you? Because that’s what you deserve. If he’s not, you have options.”
“Options,” Eliza echoed.
“I can help,” Marguerite said. “After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do in return.”
“No, I—” Eliza shook her head, but her nerves were jangling. What had Marguerite seen in Roman to set her so off-kilter around Eliza’s husband? “Let’s forget about Roman for now.”
“Doll—”
“He’s not my biggest concern—that’s you. I’m opening the doors to Eliza Tate PR, and I’d like you to be my first client. I can assure you that with your next book, we can shoot you higher in ranks than ever before. The New York Times list. The Wall Street Journal.”
“Can you get Be Free on Oprah’s book club?”
“Better,” Eliza gushed, leaning forward. “Reese Witherspoon is in.”
“Tell me more about your proposal. And take the book off the table. Reading makes my eyes ache.”
Eliza removed the binder and stashed it in her bag. “Let me start by saying that you’ve got a great platform, and I’m going to make it better. You’ve roped in the mommy crowd, but I think we can do more. Let’s focus on the younger readers—those twenty-somethings who are perpetually scrolling through Instagram, sharing posts, shouting about their favorite authors, taking pretty photos of books and socks and—”
“Yes.” Marguerite pointed a finger at Eliza. “I love it. You understand me. And I understand you, Eliza. Better than you know.”
“I think I do,” Eliza said diplomatically. “And I’m ready to get started now. Let’s kick off your next project with a launch party.”
As she spoke, Eliza kept a constant watch on Marguerite’s wineglass to ensure it never got too empty. She herself hadn’t had more than a sip—she needed to stay sharp—but Marguerite was two and some glasses in and going steady. A greedy gleam had appeared in Marguerite’s eyes.
“A launch party? When?” Marguerite murmured. “Be Free doesn’t come out for another year.”
Eliza watched with pleasure as Marguerite reached for a hunk of warm bread and buttered it up, popping a slice in her mouth, too distracted by the images of success and fame to care about calories from gluten.
“Eliza Tate PR doesn’t do things like everyone else. We’ll have the social sites buzzing early,” Eliza said. “That’s one of the perks of signing with me. As my first client, you’ll be my absolute top priority. I am throwing all my eggs in your basket, Marguerite.”
“Go on.”
“I believe in you so much that I’m willing to gamble my career on it. I want to help you further your dreams of helping others.”
“How do you plan on helping me help others?”
Eliza cleared her throat, took a delicate sip of wine. Then looked Marguerite in the eye. “By selling a shitload of your books.”
Marguerite sat back in her seat and raised her glass. “Show me where to sign.”
Eliza grinned.
Marguerite tipped her wineglass toward Eliza. “No time to waste. Get out that binder, will you? Take notes. I want to get started. This launch party must be the place to be. I want paparazzi. Influencers. Can we get Reese there? Maybe one of her producers?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Eliza pulled out her binder as instructed, brazenly opening the cover to reveal a sheaf of blank pages three-hole punched and shoved inside. She watched with pleasure as understanding clicked in Marguerite’s eyes.
“Oh, you cocky little bitch.” Marguerite drained her glass. “You didn’t have a plan at all.”
“No, but I have this.” Eliza slipped a single-page document from the back folder of the binder. She slid it over, waiting while Marguerite skimmed the contract that would exclusively hitch Marguerite’s wagon to Eliza’s for the next year. Unabashed, Eliza slid a pen across the table.
Marguerite reached for it. Toying with the pen, she took the cover off and, with a faint click, clipped it on the back end. She eyed Eliza carefully.
“We’re going to do great things together, you and I,” Eliza said. “I can promise—nobody can stop us.”
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: Detective Wilkes, how well do you know Penny Sands?
Mark Wilkes: Well enough, I suppose. She babysat the kids for a while. She got to be good friends with Anne through the babysitting gig. They hung around these last few months. Sometimes Penny would have dinner at our house or whatever.
Defense: Do you have Ms. Sands’s number on your phone?
; Mark Wilkes: I do.
Defense: Have you ever texted her?
Mark Wilkes: Sure. To set up babysitting times, check in on the kids when we were out, that sort of thing. She’d send pictures when Anne and I were at dinner of the kids in their jammies. Cute stuff like that.
Defense: What about texting conversations that weren’t about the children?
Mark Wilkes: I was only friends with Penny through Anne. We never hung out without my wife. Unless I drove her home or something.
Defense: But did you ever send a text message that wasn’t a logistical babysitting question?
Mark Wilkes: I guess, maybe a few times.
Defense: What sorts of things would you text about?
Mark Wilkes: I don’t know. We weren’t… It wasn’t inappropriate if that’s what you’re asking. You can check my phone records. I’m sure you have already, so you should know.
Defense: Did you ever discuss your wife in these messages?
Mark Wilkes: Sure, but just to check on her.
Defense: Were you concerned about Mrs. Wilkes?
Mark Wilkes: Look, I know what you’re getting at, and it’s not like that. Anne’s not the one on trial here. My wife is in a different place than she was three years ago.
Defense: She was diagnosed with postpartum depression after Samuel, yes? She started drinking to cope, according to medical records. Then she left the kids with the babysitter, without notice, and didn’t turn up for three days?
Mark Wilkes: I told you, she was going through a hard time. She wasn’t sleeping and was barely eating. She’d sometimes have a bit too much wine. She’d get a little paranoid, a little nervous that she wasn’t a good mother. When she left, she was trying to do what was best for the kids. She’s not the first woman to go through something like this.
Defense: I understand. Was your wife diagnosed with postpartum depression after the twins’ birth?
Mark Wilkes: Not yet. Er—no. I mean no.
Defense: But you said specifically “not yet.” Is it possible your wife’s symptoms are returning? Is that why you’ve been checking in with Ms. Sands? Is that why your wife fired Ms. Moore, because the babysitter saw too much?
