Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  “Anything good?”

  “Actually, yes. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”

  She shoved everything into her bag and tried making a fast, unobtrusive exit, but Marlene saw her walking by and waved her in.

  “How goes it?”

  Sam leaned her head into the office. “The physician was a good suggestion. Right now I’m on information overload. I need to let the mental dust settle then I’ll give you an update tomorrow.” Sam glanced at her watch.

  Marlene peered at Sam over her glasses. “You got a hot date?”

  I wish. “I’m going to a cocktail party at Ellen Konrad’s tonight, and I’m running late.”

  “Leave it to you,” she smiled, then shooed Sam out of the office, “Go, go. And have a couple drinks for me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam parked her Spyder next to the valet umbrella, where a half dozen sweating attendants huddled together. Sam released the trunk and reluctantly tossed in her backpack, Joe insisting she not look like a reporter.

  “I really feel naked,” she complained.

  He was unmoved. “If something comes up, like Lena confessing to murder, you’ve got a near photographic memory. You don’t need to pull out a notebook.”

  “I won’t know what to do with my hands.”

  “Sure you will. Hold a drink.”

  “I meant my other hand. I won’t know where to put it.”

  “Well, you could have carried a tasteful little clutch purse,” he taunted.

  “I’d rather cut my hand off first.” Sam gave her keys to the valet. “You know I’ve never owned a purse, clutch or otherwise.”

  “My point exactly.”

  The valet gave Sam a claim ticket, which she slipped it into her breast pocket. She was wearing lightweight, dark gray Bistro pants and a salmon colored raw silk shirt, the sleeves folded so they hung loosely above her wrists. Joe was decked out in black cargo pants, a sea-foam green shirt, and a gray linen jacket that was miraculously wrinkle-free.

  Guides wearing black T-shirts with Elect Konrad embossed in green on the front directed guests toward the gate leading behind the wooden fence to the right of the house. Sam steered Joe past the crowded check-in table and stepped through the gate into a huge side yard. The centerpiece was a freeform pool, big enough for laps. It was currently filled with bouquets of floating candles. The attached Jacuzzi resembled a small lagoon, a verdant oasis nestled beneath a waterfall. Past the pool was a spacious lawn of lush forest-green waterless grass—artificial grass that looked and felt like so real it was impossible to tell the difference. Sam knew this because there was a display by the gate that told her so. The entire yard was secured by an eight-foot redwood fence that ensured privacy, as did the smattering of small palms and citrus trees planted along the perimeter.

  This side of the house was all French doors, which opened onto a stone patio that ran the length of the yard. Three separate electric awnings shaded the patio, where four tables of food were set up. There were two bars, one in each far corner of the yard. Keeping the food and booze on opposite sides kept people flowing back and forth, preventing human logjams. Sam smiled when she saw a sign next to the closest bar that said Beer & Wine Only Line.

  Redwood patio chairs and lounges were positioned around the near side of the pool and by both bars. The deck on the far side of the pool was covered by a long tent shading a row of bar tables and stools. Strategically positioned around the backyard were six outdoor cooling systems, the kind used by professional and college football teams on the sidelines during games played in August and September. It had to be at least twenty-five degrees cooler back here than out in front. Before moving to Palm Springs, Sam would have never believed ninety degrees could feel so refreshingly cool.

  Joe took in the surroundings with open approval. “She certainly is the hostess with the mostest. Unbelievably classy.”

  “Unbelievably expensive.”

  “But unbelievably tasteful. Let’s hit the bar.”

  Even though it was only a quarter after six the place was already filled with people. She spotted Ellen talking to a group of men in business suits sitting at one of the bar tables under the tent. She wore white jeans over low-heeled boots and a sleeveless, sapphire blouse that showed off gym-toned arms. Wearing no jacket, her figure was fully visible, and the men she talked to were having a hard time keeping their eyes from drifting below her neckline. With her hair down and loose, sunglasses propped on top of her head, she looked just like the movie star she was.

  “She is an exquisite real woman,” Joe murmured.

  “As opposed to what? A drag queen?”

  “I mean she’s not a skinny stick like so many actresses I’ve met. She’s hot and healthy. To have that face and body plus talent seems patently unfair to the rest of us mere mortals.”

  Sam put her hand on his back. “Oh, I always thought of you more as a demigod.”

  “Well, yes, but bragging is so gauche.”

  They made their way to the bar in the corner furthest from the front gate because it was the best vantage point to people-watch. She propped against an unoccupied patio chair and scanned the crowd while Joe got their drinks. Other than supporting Konrad for mayor and wanting a piece of her time and attention, the only thing the disparate guest list seemed to have in common was a hearty appetite and a thirst for booze, leaving the caterers and bartenders mobbed and sweating profusely.

  Considering the line, Joe was back in a relatively quick ten minutes and handed her two drinks.

  “These are both for me?”

  Before he could answer, Phil Atkins appeared beside them radiating naked aggression. Feeling like a bit of a freeloader, Sam lowered her drink-filled hands, holding the rims by her fingertips. “Hello Mr. Atkins,” she said genially.

  He did not return the pleasantry. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

  Sam nodded toward the nearby air conditioning unit. “Enjoying the breeze?”

  He stepped closer. “This is an important gathering tonight. The last thing we need is some reporter sniffing around here disturbing our guests.”

  “Well, I haven’t pushed anyone in the pool yet although the night is young.”

  He pointed his finger at her. “Your being here is inappropriate.”

  Sam remained amiable but didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. “You need to brush up on your vocabulary skills, Phil. Pulling out my murder mystery party game would be inappropriate; me just standing here is simply innocuous.”

  Sam sensed someone move behind her. She caught a scent of perfume in the fan-stirred air and knew who it was without having to look.

  “Is there a problem here?” Ellen asked lightly, directing the question at Atkins.

  “It’s under control. I was just about to escort these people out.”

  She put her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “These are my guests. They’re not going anywhere.”

  Atkins’ surprise quickly morphed into resentment. “I don’t remember seeing her name on my list.”

  Sam suspected this tension had deeper roots than a just cocktail party guest list. Ellen gave her shoulder a quick squeeze then led Phil several steps away. Sam could still hear them clearly and wondered if that was the point.

  “I would have never approved this,” he complained.

  “I don’t need your permission,” she reminded him calmly.

  “I’m your campaign manager. This is what I get paid to do.”

  “You get paid to help run my campaign, Phil, but not to make my decisions or run my personal life.”

  “Your personal life? I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake.”

  “And I’m telling you, this is my house.” She never raised her voice but the words were suddenly razor sharp. “Your opinion is noted and appreciated but I will invite whoever I want into my home whenever I want. And they will be made welcome. I hope that’s understood.” Ellen did not wait for him to respond. She walked back, stood next
to Sam, and exhaled softly. “I am so sorry about that.”

  “Not a problem.” She watched Atkins stomped off. “Is it just me or doesn’t he seriously look like Mr. Spacely?”

  Joe snorted. Ellen folded her arms, one hand covering her eyes, laughing softly. The more she thought about it, the harder she laughed until she was practically doubled-over. She finally composed herself and straightened up, wiping tears from her eyes. “You are very bad.”

  “I do my best.” Sam gestured toward Ellen. “Joe, this is Ellen Konrad. Ellen, my friend Joe Sapone.”

  They shook hands, and Joe pointed at her watch. “The Tangara is one of my favorite Piaget designs.”

  “Thank you. Are you a jeweler?”

  “No, he’s just a snob,” Sam joked, sipping from one of the glasses.

  Ellen glanced at the drinks in her hands and raised an eyebrow. “Two-fisted, huh?” she teased. “You weren’t kidding. You really do go for the open bar.”

  “This wasn’t my doing.” She looked pointedly at Joe.

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who said you didn’t know what to do with your hand. Or where to put it.”

  Ellen laughed softly. “Sorry I missed out on that conversation. I could offer a suggestion,” she waited a beat then flashed a wicked smile, “or two.”

  Sam shook her head. “I give up.”

  Ellen gestured toward Sam’s blushing cheeks with a mischievous grin. “Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

  “Too bad I can’t say the same about my dignity,” Sam sighed, making her laugh. She drained the glass and set it on the accent table next to the pool lounge chair. “One down…”

  “What do you drink?” Ellen asked.

  “Jack and Diet.”

  “Good choice.” She looked past Sam and waved at someone. Emerging through the crowd was her son Luke. She grabbed his arm and held it close to her side. “I want to properly introduce you. Luke, this is Joe Sapone.”

  “Nice meeting you,” he said, flashing Joe a Hollywood politician’s son’s smile.

  “And this is Sam Perry.”

  “Actually, we’ve already met,” Sam said as they shook hands.

  “That’s right.” Luke’s smile dimmed as though suffering a power outage. “You’re the reporter.”

  Ellen watched their interaction closely, her son’s discomfort obvious. “Is everything okay with Phil?” she asked.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” His eyes darted nervously towards Sam.

  “He’s seems a bit edgy lately,” Ellen pushed.

  “You know Phil. He gets that way.” He patted her hand and disengaged his arm. “I need to go in and check on some things, Mom.”

  “Has your sister shown up?”

  “Not that I know of. I’ll see you later.”

  Ellen watched Luke hurry away. “I wish I knew what’s gotten up everyone’s ass around here lately.”

  “You mean besides me?” Sam asked, adding dryly, “metaphorically speaking.” Ellen smiled and gave her a friendly nudge. Looking past Ellen Sam noticed a dark-haired woman standing near the pool was watching them. She was dressed in a conservative business suit, wore her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and looked to be in her forties. She might have been very pretty once but permanent frown lines and tension now etched her face. She walked up to Ellen, giving Sam and Joe a perfunctory, and subtly dismissive, nod.

  She pointed in the direction of the tables. “The head of the Chamber of Commerce is here waiting to talk to you.”

  “Okay, just a second. Sam, Joe, I’d like you to meet my assistant Lena Riley.”

  It took all Sam’s will power not to grill her on the spot. “Hi, I’m Sam Perry.”

  Lena shook hands briefly and regarded her coolly. “I’m aware who you are.”

  “A Weekender fan?”

  “Hardly. I have to tell you, I don’t think your presence is appropriate tonight.”

  “Is that why you removed Sam’s name from the final guest list?” Ellen asked with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Lena didn’t flinch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She turned back to Sam. “I just hope you won’t involve our guests in the story Ellen tells me you’re working on.”

  Sam bristled at her officious manner but smiled cordially. “For as etiquette-challenged as I may be, Ms. Riley, since I’m here socially and not professionally, the other guests can breathe easy. Unless of course I spot someone wearing an I murdered Jeff Rydell T-shirt; then all bets are off.”

  Lena recoiled away from Sam. “That’s offensive.”

  “So is assuming I’d be disrespectful of Ellen’s hospitality.”

  Lena chose not to respond. “We really need to go,” she said again and walked away expecting Ellen to follow. She stopped and turned around when she realized Ellen hadn’t moved.

  Joe leaned close to Sam. “You really do have a unique way with people.”

  “You’ve noticed?”

  Lena came back and grabbed Ellen’s arm. “You really shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  “I said I’ll be right there,” Ellen pulled her arm free. “You can talk to him until then.”

  Sam waited until the assistant was safely out of earshot. “You know I’m on a roll when people I’ve never even met before already dislike me.”

  Ellen placed her hand over her heart in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” Joe stopped her. “Sam delights in getting under people’s skin.”

  “I do not,” she demurred, without much conviction.

  “Samantha O’Shea Perry, of course you do. Because people who are agitated are more apt to say or reveal things they might not otherwise.”

  A look of understanding crossed Ellen’s face. “I was wondering why you didn’t just tell Phil I invited you.”

  “I would have. Eventually. But it was entertaining to let him think I was a crasher. He was so angry his comb-over was standing on end.”

  Ellen laughed, “You really are bad.”

  Sam glanced up and saw Lena staring at them, her expression a mask of umbrage.

  Ellen followed Sam’s gaze and said quietly, “Thank you for putting up with my complicated life.” She gave Sam a brief, friendly hug then straightened her shirt and took a steadying breath. “I better not keep Mr. Chamber of Commerce waiting.”

  After Ellen left, Joe took his jacket off and draped it over the back of the nearest lounge chair. “Lena sure doesn’t look like a lesbian, wild-child lady killer.”

  “Apparently she underwent a personality transplant.”

  “Removal seems more like it. I’m going to grab us some food. Do you want to get us another round?”

  “Sure.” Sam put her still half-full glass on the accent table next to the chair with a napkin over it, hoping an overzealous caterer wouldn’t take it away. As she stood in line for the bar, Sam studied Lena, who hovered around Ellen. Joe was right. She looked like a prim, proper, asexual bookkeeper. And every fiber of her being screamed discontentment. Sam wondered why nobody in Ellen Konrad’s inner circle seemed very happy. It certainly helped explain why she seemed desperate for outside company.

  While Sam waited for the bartender to fill her order, she watched Ellen say goodbye to the Chamber head. Before Lena could pull her away, two women approached carrying babies. One handed her child to Ellen and pulled out her iPhone to take a picture. Ellen turned around briefly, made eye contact with Sam, and mouthed Help me. Sam laughed out loud.

  “Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  She turned around and saw Detective Larson, casually dressed in a polo shirt with a PSPA logo.

  “What a surprise,” she smiled, picking up the drinks. Larson motioned for her to wait while he got a beer then followed as she navigated back to the lounge chair.

  “Why a surprise?” he asked.

  “I gu
ess I wasn’t expecting to see a local cop at a political meet-and-greet.”

  “Cops vote, too.”

  Sam leaned against the chair. “So you’re here in a personal capacity?”

  “Not really. I’m the head of the local Police Association. We’ve officially endorsed Ellen for mayor. But what brings you here?”

  “Ellen invited me. And after meeting some of the people she works with, I suspect it’s primarily for comic relief. They’re a tense bunch.”

  “Well, you can’t blame them, especially with someone like you poking around. And I mean that as a compliment.”

  “Thanks, but shouldn’t they be more worried about someone like you, as in the police, poking around?”

  “Only if one of them committed a crime, and there’s nothing to indicate they have. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  “Actually, I was going to call you tomorrow.” Sam knew she should have brought her backpack in. “I have some things you ought to see.”

  Larson moved a step closer and asked quietly, “Such as?”

  “The name and phone number of Rydell’s girlfriend and some other background material. Bottom line is his parents are both dead. He was an only child and adopted, so as far as I can tell the girlfriend is the only next of kin left.”

  By Larson’s expression, all this was news to him. After a brief internal debate, she added. “I’m looking into whether he came to California in search of his birth mother and just who that might be. So, how’s your investigation coming along?”

  He took another swallow of beer. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me how you tracked all this down?”

  “Detective, you know I can’t reveal my sources,” she said, hoping she sounded appropriately apologetic.

  Larson was disgruntled, but Sam did not take it personally. While cops had better resources and the power of authority behind them, it was easier for journalists to establish personal relationships with hesitant sources. People who helped the cops might find themselves called as witnesses, and the average person shied away from that kind of involvement.

  “I’ll drop the package off to you tomorrow morning. Or I can email it.”