by Josh Lanyon
I blinked. “There must be twenty-four doughnuts here.”
“Twenty-eight. You get two free ones with each dozen. Have one. Anyway, they’re not all doughnuts.”
“I see that.” There was quite a nice selection of baked goods. I took a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles. “I thought carbs were out this month?”
“I don’t give a damn about carbs,” Natalie said viciously, and I raised my eyebrows, before returning hastily to counting out the register.
We always do a brisk business on Saturdays, and that day was no exception. In between helping customers -- which she did charmingly -- Natalie brooded and somehow managed to eat four doughnuts, two cheese Danishes, a cinnamon pecan roll, and a bear claw.
“I’d offer to take you to lunch,” I said when twelve o’clock rolled around, “but I’m afraid you’ll explode.”
“We can’t close the store anyway,” she said. She fastened me with a darkling eye -- well, as darkling as a blue-eyed blonde who looks like a Ralph Lauren model can get. “This is why we need some help in here, especially since you’re busy out sleuthing half the time.”
“We’re going to get some help,” I promised. “And it’s not like I’m going to continue sleuthing --”
“So you are on a case!” she said triumphantly. “I knew the minute I heard about that murder at Paul Kane’s mansion. I knew it.”
I’d been so busy brooding over Guy and the situation with Peter Verlane I’d walked right into that one. I said, “You make it sound more organized than it is. I just agreed to ask a few people some questions, that’s all.”
“I’ll tell you right now, the wife did it,” Natalie said.
“That seems to be the consensus of opinion. Why do you think she did it?”
“Well, for starters, did you see him? He was old enough to be her father. And he looked like a frog.”
“Yeah, but love is blind,” I said.
“No, it’s not!” she scoffed. “Not for girls like her.”
Now this was interesting. The feminine perspective. “What do you mean, girls like her?”
She made an exasperated little clucking sound. “Adrien. She is a total bimbo.”
“Hey, bimbos have feelings too,” I said. “Look at Anna Nicole Smith.”
She just shook her head.
“Okay,” I said, “but Anna Nicole Smith didn’t knock her elderly husband off. So why take that risk -- especially when the wife is always the immediate suspect?”
“Maybe she couldn’t wait.”
“Why wouldn’t she be able to wait?”
Natalie shrugged. I thought it was an interesting point, though. What if there was some time factor involved? Like…what if Ally’s lover had given her some kind of ultimatum? Or what if she was pregnant again? Or what if Porter -- as Paul Kane had hinted -- was planning to change his will?
I said, “But why do it in such a public way? Why not just arrange a quiet little accident?”
“Maybe she didn’t know how. Or maybe she thought someone else would be blamed.”
I stared at her. She had something there, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. Would Ally have any reason to believe someone else would be suspected before her in her husband’s death?
Natalie said, “That detective in charge of the case: is he your Jake?”
My mouth dried. The words felt arid and dusty as I forced them out. “Who told you his name?” Like I had to ask.
“Lisa pointed him out on television the other night, and I recognized him as one of the cops who was in here the other day.”
I opened my mouth, and then shut it. Jake had to know he was fighting a rearguard action. And I was through lying to my own friends and family. “Yeah,” I said. “We used to be friends. A long time ago. He’s married now.”
“Bastard,” she said.
I shook my head. “Not really. He never lied to me. I just didn’t ask the questions I didn’t want to know the answers to.”
It wasn’t like I hadn’t always known this was the truth, but as I said it aloud, I absorbed that I was finally able to accept it without being angry at myself or Jake.
Natalie went to lunch, came back, and I spent my break surfing the Web finding out what I could on Langley Hawthorne. It was mostly a tangent. I started out doing some more searching into Nina’s background, but a couple of references to Hawthorne’s accidental death diverted my attention.
There wasn’t as much information as I would have expected. Despite his wealth and his interest in movies and moviemaking, Hawthorne had kept a low profile. His relationship with his daughter was apparently always a stormy one, but he had doted on her. When he died, she inherited the bulk of his fortune.
That wasn’t particularly noteworthy; what caught my attention was the manner of his death. He’d fallen off his yacht and drowned off Catalina Island. Hawthorne and a handful of close friends had been drinking heavily that evening -- which was apparently not unusual -- and the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office had ruled the death an accident.
Even more intriguing was the lineup of guests on that fateful night. In addition to Al January and Paul Kane, Porter Jones and the first Mrs. Jones had been present -- as had Nina. This would have been after Nina’s affair with Porter had ended. Or, more exactly, after her father had insisted Porter break it off with her. To my way of thinking, at best that would have been one very awkward get-together.
I considered it for a bit, then I phoned Lisa.
After we got past the pleasantries and unpleasantries -- Darling, I didn’t realize it was still a secret -- I said, “Lisa, at lunch the other day, you said something about hiring a caterer for this SPCA banquet. Have you already done that?”
“You mean at the lunch we didn’t have the other day?”
“That’s the one. Have you already hired a caterer?”
“We’re moving the venue to the Bonaventure.”
I said, “Would you do me a favor and see if you can set up an interview with Nina Hawthorne? She owns Truly Scrumptious Catering.”
“But we don’t need a caterer, Adrien. The hotel will take care of all that.”
“I know, but could you pretend that you’re still holding it wherever you talked about before?”
“I suppose so. Why?” She sounded mildly suspicious.
“I’d like to sit in on the interview.”
Silence.
“Why?” she said, and it was her no-fooling voice.
“I’d like to see what she’s like.”
She said tentatively, “Are you thinking of hiring her for some event?”
Oh God. Did she think Guy and I were about to tie the knot?
I said, “Sort of. I’d just like to get a feel for her and her company.”
“All right, darling,” Lisa said, highly amused. “I’ll set something up, and you can tell me what it’s all about later.”
I hung up, and Natalie tapped on my office door.
“Paul Kane called while you were on the phone.”
I sighed. “Thanks.”
I called Kane back and got his PA. After a brief wait, she put me through to Kane.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were ducking my calls,” he greeted me in that mellifluous voice.
I remembered that he had called the previous afternoon, and I’d never got back to him. Granted, I’d been a little preoccupied with the detonation of my personal life, but it did seem a little blasé now that I thought about it -- especially when I still believed it possible he was the intended victim of last weekend’s poisoning. Was I unconsciously hoping someone would take Paul out?
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been a little busy. In fact, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”
Amused, he said, “This sounds ominous.”
I said, “Has it crossed your mind that you might have been the target last Sunday?”
It was so abruptly quiet, I wondered if we had lost the connection. He burst out laughing, and I had to hold
the handset away from my ear.
“Bloody brilliant! You truly had me for half a mo.”
“Yeah, but I’m not kidding,” I persisted. “I’ve been doing some digging, and I couldn’t help but notice Nina Hawthorne catered your party.”
“Lose a lot of clients to poison, does she?” He was still finding it all terribly humorous, pip-pip.
“I don’t suppose all her clients share the history with her you do,” I said.
He stopped laughing. In fact, he was silent for a few seconds. He said, “I gather from your tone you’re aware that Nina and I have had a somewhat tumultuous past.”
“I know you had a child together, and that --”
“Yes,” he broke in crisply. “Quite. Well, you are thorough. I give you credit for that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not trying to open old wounds, but it occurred to me that the drink you handed me for Porter might easily have been mistaken for your own.”
After a moment he said, “She wasn’t there. At least --”
“At least what?”
“No. It’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
“Nothing. I appreciate your concern. Truly. But…not necessary, I assure you.” Before I could respond, he went on, “Look, the reason I’m giving you a tinkle is I’m having a little get-together at the marina tomorrow. Valarie will be there, and it would give you a chance to speak with her.”
“Sundays are awkward,” I said. “I’m supposed to occasionally give my assistant a day off.”
But Paul persisted -- charming and intractable as ever -- and I finally agreed just to shut him up.
“Marvelous!” he exclaimed after giving me the details. “We’ll see you then.”
“All right,” I said without enthusiasm.
He chuckled at my tone, then said with unexpected seriousness, “Adrien…thank you. I appreciate your concern. I do. But the loss of our child actually brought Nina and me together. Allowed us to be friends again.”
“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”
“How could you?” he said easily. “But I am genuinely grateful for your friendship.”
“No problem,” I said.
With friends like me, who needed enemies?
Chapter Fourteen
The faded marina sign was missing an uppercase O. But Watch for _posing Drivers! seemed pretty good advice given the number of Mercedes driven by guys in yacht caps.
I parked and walked past the clubhouse and Olympic-sized swimming pool. Gaily colored pennants whipped overhead. Gulls mewed, swooping and diving over the bobbing pier. The smell of ocean and diesel permeated the air; sunlight glittered blindingly on the blue water.
It looked like a good day to be out on the high seas. Or the low seas. The harbor was already full of boats heading out toward the breakwater -- and even the vessels still moored at the dock seemed to be crowded with mateys intent on enjoying the sunshine, salt air, and -- in more than a few cases -- the hair of the dog.
I found the slip number Kane had given me without trouble. His luxury yacht, Pirate’s Gambit, was a sleek seventy-eight-footer with a black hull. A pirate flag flapped briskly on the bow.
“Avast ye!”
I looked up and Kane was leaning over the railing, a bottle of champagne -- very expensive champagne at that -- in one hand. He was smiling down at me. Not for the first time I was struck by how really attractive he was. He had it all, really -- well, all that Hollywood cared about: looks, charm, personal magnetism.
And he wasn’t a bad actor, either. I wondered if his bold and unapologetic sexuality had anything to do with the fact that he wasn’t a bigger star.
I walked up the boarding ramp and Kane came agilely down the ladder from the upper deck to greet me.
“Perfect timing,” he said, lightly squeezing my shoulder as he moved past me. “Everyone’s topside. Go say hello.”
I climbed the ladder to the smaller open deck. “Everyone” turned out to be Valarie Rose and Al January comfortably ensconced in lounge chairs. They were drinking champagne and arguing amiably. Valarie wore an emerald green swimsuit, and January wore orange shorts and some kind of Aztec print sports shirt.
“Welcome aboard,” Valarie called. “I hope you brought your swimsuit. I feel a little underdressed.”
I sat down in a blue and white striped deck chair. “Sorry,” I said. The breeze off the water was chilly, but the sun felt good. Not so good that I was tempted to take my clothes off, but pleasant.
“How’s the investigation going?” January asked, pouring a glass of champagne and handing it to me.
I murmured thanks, took a sip, and set the glass next to the railing. “I don’t think the police are ready to make an arrest,” I said. “But it’s not like they’re keeping me up to date.”
Although my Friday night meet with Jake had been surprisingly close to it.
“I can’t imagine what the holdup is,” Valarie said. She was attractive in a no-nonsense way: good figure, good bones, good teeth, good skin. “We all know who did it.”
January gave her a tolerant look. “Then I guess the holdup is, the police don’t have enough evidence to make their case yet.”
I asked, “Are you so sure Ally is guilty?”
“There! You see, I didn’t even need to say her name,” Valarie said. “You know exactly who I mean. We all know she murdered Porter. It’s not socially correct to say so, but we all know it.” She leaned back in her lounge chair, tilting her face up. The sun glanced off her large green sunglasses.
January looked across at me and smiled ruefully.
“You don’t think anyone else had a motive?” I asked Valarie.
She lifted her head. “To commit murder?” Behind the big shades, she looked amazed at the idea.
Beneath us, the ship’s engines rumbled into life. Paul Kane climbed up to join us, taking a chair next to Valarie.
“What do you think?” he inquired of me, nodding to the cockpit.
“Beautiful,” I said. “How many crew members?”
“Captain and one deckhand this afternoon. I take her out on my own when I’m in the mood.” He grinned, his teeth very white. “I fly my own plane too.”
“Paul’s a full-service action hero,” Valarie purred, and ran a possessive hand down Paul’s tanned arm. He caught her hand and kissed it playfully.
Well, blow me down, me hearties. I’d sort of guessed -- and if you browsed the headlines of the celebrity gossip rags in the supermarket checkout -- or even gave in and read a few pages while waiting for the line to move -- it was common knowledge that Kane was bisexual. Nor would it make any sense for him to sit home nights when Jake was playing Make Room for Daddy with Kate. I’m not sure why I thought he would keep secret the scandalous truth of his appetite for women.
Meeting my gaze, Paul smiled again and said, “Take your shirt off, Adrien. We’ve paid extra for the sunshine.”
I glanced down at my white polo shirt. “Mother Superior warned me about boys like you,” I said.
January laughed, and Paul licked his lips. “She didn’t tell you the half of it.”
That pretty much set the tone for the rest of our voyage. Kane -- to the apparent amusement of my other two companions -- flirted relentlessly with me during the three hours we cruised the open water. It was harmless, but I couldn’t help wondering what lay behind it. I hadn’t previously got the impression that Paul found me irresistible -- and all the winks and little smiles and brushing of feet and hands -- didn’t alter my opinion. Paul was doing his considerable best to charm me, and I wasn’t sure why. Did he think I was considering abandoning my part in the investigation? Could he have placed that much faith in my sleuthing skills?
There was more champagne at lunch, which consisted of Caesar salad, pasta shells stuffed with ricotta cheese and spinach, and chicken Vesuvio in garlic white sauce. It was a lot of food -- rich food -- and I was very glad I wasn’t prone to seasickness.
Oddly, although it was ostensibly the reason for this get-together, we barely talked about Porter’s death. Instead, the three of them discussed various ideas for filming Murder Will Out.
“I sense Jason has a dark past,” Paul said of Jason Leland, the protagonist of the two mysteries I’d written about a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth. “I think his past casts a long shadow.”
“A secret sorrow,” Al January said -- with a straight face, as far as I could tell.
“Uh, sure,” I said. In all honesty I thought Jason was suffering about as much secret sorrow as Jackie Holmes, the Man from C.A.M.P. But I already knew from talking to writer friends that no one was ever happy with the screen adaptation of their work. My main interest was getting money for the bookstore expansion. That’s what I kept telling myself.
“I have some concerns with the London setting,” Valarie said. “What would you think about moving it to The Oregon Shakespeare Festival?”
“Ashland’s beautiful,” Al agreed.
And on they went. After a time they stopped asking for my input, and I stretched out on one of the lounge chairs. I hadn’t had much sleep lately, and the food and drink and flattery -- the warmth of the sun and the lulling motion of the water -- had a soporific effect.
The next time I opened my eyes, we were heading back into the harbor and the three of them were talking quietly about Porter.
“…but if Porter really was dying…” That was Valarie.
January said, “Porter trusted Marla.”
“Why not?” Paul said. “Marla knew where the skeletons were buried.” His voice changed. He said, “Hello, Sleeping Beauty.”
I glanced over and the three of them were watching me. Their expressions were a curious mix. “Sorry,” I said, sitting up. “Too much sun and champagne.”
“Did you have more than a glass?” Paul commented, amused. “Not that I blame you for flaking out. We occasionally put ourselves to sleep.”
After that there was very little conversation. Valarie went below deck and changed into white slacks and a sweater. January and Kane chatted desultorily. It was just after seven o’clock when we put in at the harbor and prepared to disembark.
