If she got here a little later, that would be okay. I wanted to talk to Rosalyn alone.
The one thing I’d never learned about Courtney’s death was why. Why had she been killed? Who had a motive? Robbie had reminded me of that this morning at Holt’s.
I’d found a motive last night—a big one. Valerie Wagner blamed Courtney for her son’s death in Iraq, and she certainly looked angry—and crazy—enough to murder Courtney when Rosalyn and I had seen her in the parking lot.
Rosalyn had known Valerie for a while now, so I wanted to talk to her, get her take on the possibility. I wanted to talk to Danielle about it, too, find out if Valerie had come around their workroom at the industrial complex or her apartment, if she’d threatened Courtney.
I really hoped Danielle had gotten the message I’d left for her yesterday and planned to be here tonight. I needed to ask her about Courtney’s funeral arrangements, too.
I went to the front door and rang the bell. A few minutes passed. No answer. I rang it again. The neighborhood was really quiet. Only a few cars drove through. No kids on bicycles.
Rosalyn still didn’t answer her door, so I got out my cell phone and called the number she’d given me last night. Her voicemail picked up. I left a message. I knocked on the front door again and listened. No sound from inside the house.
It was a nice evening so I figured Rosalyn planned to entertain Danielle and me on her back patio, which was probably why she hadn’t heard her doorbell or phone.
I followed the walkway through the gate and around to the back of the house. A nice patio with comfy-looking chairs and a tile-topped table sat under a covered area, an oasis in a sea of rocks. No sign guests were expected, no drinks or snacks. No Rosalyn.
Huh. Well, maybe she was at the store buying food or something for tonight and was running late. Or maybe something had come up.
Either way, seemed like she would have called me.
Okay, this was disappointing and kind of annoying. I’d really wanted to see some of Courtney and Danielle’s accessory line—and find out something new about Courtney’s murder.
The curtain covering the patio slider was open about a foot. I cupped my hands around my eyes and looked inside. I got a partial view of Rosalyn’s kitchen. No glasses or pitcher sitting on the countertop that I could see. No sign she was preparing for company. I knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. Nothing moved inside the house.
My cell phone rang. I flipped it open and saw that the caller was Danielle.
Finally.
“Are you coming to Rosalyn’s house tonight?” I asked.
“I’m in L.A.,” Danielle said. “I’m getting things arranged for Courtney.”
“Her funeral?” I asked, thinking that was kind of weird after what Robbie had told me this morning. “The cops said nobody had claimed her body yet.”
Static came through the phone and I thought we were going to get cut off, then Danielle said, “I meant I’m making business arrangements. Getting a few things cleared up.”
I wondered if she was seeing Mike Ivan. That whole maybe-he’s-really-in-the-Russian-mob thing worried me.
“Are you going to Rosalyn’s place tonight?” Danielle asked.
“I’m here now. She’s not home,” I told her, and peeked inside the kitchen again. “Listen, Danielle, I need to ask you something about—”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll catch up with you later,” she said and hung up.
Crap.
I closed my phone and headed toward the front of the house again.
So, apparently, Danielle had cancelled for tonight and Rosalyn hadn’t bothered to call and tell me. She didn’t seem the type but, really, I hardly knew her. I still wanted to see the fashion accessories she had, so what could I do but call her again tomorrow?
I got into my car and drove away.
CHAPTER 22
Ihit a McDonald’s drive-through and ate in my Honda as I drove back to the Culver Inn. Since Rosalyn had cancelled and not let me know—which irritated me to no end—my plans for the evening had been blown big time.
Normally, this would have been the perfect opportunity to go shopping. But you can’t shop without money—which also irritated me to no end.
The gamble-or-don’t-gamble-away-my-last-cent scenario flashed in my head again, and that made me think of Madam CeeCee. I pulled out my cell phone as I turned into the Culver Inn parking lot and punched in her number.
Of course, I didn’t really have the money to pay her fee now—maybe she knew that and that’s the reason she never returned my call—but I had to try again. Maybe she’d do a phone consultation. It’s not like I needed a full psychic reading or anything. I only wanted one question answered.
I swung into a parking space and listened as Madam CeeCee’s voicemail picked up. Damn. I left another message.
I gathered my trash and was about to get out of my car when Bradley walked out of the Culver Inn, crossed the parking lot, and got into a black Lexus.
I hate him.
And seeing him driving that expensive car made me hate him even more.
What a little weasel. Firing employees for no reason. Throwing his weight around. Being a jackass, just because he could.
If it weren’t for his family money, I doubted he’d own that Lexus or manage the Culver Inn. He sure didn’t deserve either one.
Bradley backed the Lexus out of the parking spot and pulled away, and because I was irritated with just about everything and everybody at the moment, I started my Honda and followed him. I don’t know what I expected to find out about Bradley that I didn’t already know, but still.
I followed him onto St. Rose Parkway and my spirits lifted.
Oh, wow, this was so cool. I was tailing a guy just like those hot private detectives do on TV. I wished Marcie was here with me.
I hung back about three car lengths and followed Bradley onto the 215. Lots of traffic was on the freeway, so I was sure he didn’t notice me. We transitioned north onto the 15. The Mandalay Bay, the black Luxor Pyramid, New York-New York, and the other casinos on The Strip were on my right, and in the distance to the left rose the Palms and the Rio.
Bradley didn’t seem to notice me behind him. No quick lane changes, no evasive maneuvers, no one-finger salutes.
Hey, I’m liking this private detective stuff.
Bradley took the Sahara Avenue exit, so I figured he was headed for The Strip, but he turned left instead of right, headed away from the glitz and glamour of the casinos.
Maybe I could start my own detective agency. Wow, that would be so cool. I could wear great clothes and carry fabulous handbags and hire hot, muscular, good-looking detectives who’d have to do whatever I said.
At Decatur, Bradley turned right. Since we were on the surface streets, I held back a little more.
Did you need a license to be a private detective? A certificate? A degree of some sort? Jeez, I hoped not. That would take all the fun out of it.
Eventually Bradley turned onto Charleston Boulevard and I immediately began to rethink my private detective career.
What the heck was Bradley—and now me—doing in this section of Vegas?
The area wasn’t bad, but not the kind of place you’d host a rehearsal dinner, either. Certainly not a location you’d expect someone from the prominent, wealthy, well-to-do Pennington family to frequent.
Mom-and-pop restaurants, bars, gas stations, tire stores. Everything was old, slightly worn, kind of shabby, definitely showing its age. You wouldn’t find any of the Vegas high rollers in this neighborhood, unless they were slumming.
Maybe that’s what Bradley was doing here, I realized, when I saw him whip into the parking lot of the Shamrock Pub.
No way was I following him in there. I drove past, did a U-turn—which was illegal, but, oh well—and pulled into the parking lot of a laundromat across the street.
The Shamrock Pub was a gentlemen’s club, according to the big green sign on its roof, but I doubt
ed anything gentlemanly went on inside. More like pole dancers and topless waitresses.
I didn’t want to think about what—ugh, gross—Bradley might do in there.
I guess he was thinking it over, too, because he got out of his car, closed the door, and stood there, looking more than a little out of place in his white shirt and necktie. He gazed around the parking lot, then up and down and across the street.
Yikes! Bradley looked right at me.
I was tempted to duck down but thought that might attract more attention—and, besides, it’s not something we cool private detectives would do—and forced myself to sit still.
I never realized this private detective stuff was so nerve-wracking.
Bradley must not have noticed me sitting in the car, because he pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call. I figured he was just meeting up with some of his buddies—hard to believe somebody like Bradley would actually have friends—and they were late or something. After only a few minutes, two biker dudes dressed in leather, sporting tattoos and piercings, approached Bradley.
For a minute I wondered if those guys might beat the crap out of Bradley—which was bad of me, I know—so I pulled out my cell phone ready to call 9-1-1. Even the hottest private investigators need backup from time to time.
But they just started talking to Bradley. Not a get-your-punk-ass-off-of-our-lot kind of thing. Not a hey-let’s-party sort of conversation. Just talking. They had the same sort of expressions on their faces that I often saw on Ty’s when we were at dinner and somebody from Holt’s called him with yet another emergency that would apparently cause the national atomic clock to skip a millisecond and bring on worldwide tsunamis that would wipe out all of mankind if he didn’t address it before dessert.
I hate when that happens.
Anyway, Bradley and the bikers talked and nodded, everyone in agreement over something, apparently. Then Bradley got back into his Lexus and drove away. I sat there for a bit watching the biker guys, but they just ambled back into the Shamrock Pub.
Obviously, I’d witnessed nothing that would give me the material for the revenge I desperately wanted and allow me to ruin Bradley’s life.
I hate it when that happens, too.
I pulled out onto Charleston Boulevard and spotted Bradley’s Lexus two blocks ahead. I followed. The traffic light at the next intersection turned yellow and I could have made it through, but the guy in front of me stopped for no good reason except that the light had turned yellow. I mean, come on, the yellow light just meant get ready to stop—not stop. That’s what the red light was for.
Am I the only one who understands this?
By the time I got going again, Bradley had disappeared. I drove around for a while, thinking I might stumble onto him, but no such luck.
So much for my career as a private investigator.
I desperately needed a mocha frappuccino. Yeah, okay, money was tight—really, almost nonexistent—but basic survival needs had to be met. I drove around until I spotted a Starbucks and pulled in.
Inside, I got my frappuccino and, just as I sat down at a table near the window, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the I.D. screen expecting to see Rosalyn’s name or maybe even Madam CeeCee’s. But it was Ty.
Oh my God. Ty was calling.
My stomach got all warm and gooey just seeing his name.
“I miss you,” he said when I answered.
His voice sounded mellow. I imagined myself leaning against his hard chest, resting my head on his shoulder.
Nice.
“I miss you, too,” I said.
“I was thinking you needed something to go with the new beach house,” Ty said.
My thoughts jumped to light speed. I’d already bought new bathing suits, coverups, totes, and sandals. Provided I didn’t have to return them to keep from starving to death, I couldn’t think of anything else I’d need to live at the beach.
“How about a new Mercedes SLK350?” Ty suggested.
My jaw dropped.
“Your choice of colors,” he added.
I couldn’t think of a single word to say.
“Convertible, of course,” Ty said.
Even if I could have thought of something to say, I don’t think I could have actually spoken it aloud.
“Haley? Are you there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I managed to say. “I’m just . . . well, I’m overwhelmed.”
Ty chuckled softly. “I think you’d look really hot cruising Pacific Coast Highway in a ride like that.”
Oh, yeah. I definitely would.
“You know, Haley,” Ty said, his voice more serious now, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Maybe this would be a good time to ask if he’d spot me a hundred bucks.
I didn’t have a chance, though. I heard voices in the background, then Ty said, “Haley, I’ve got to go. We’ll look at cars when you get back. I promise.”
“Great. I’d love—”
Ty had already hung up.
I closed my phone and pulled in a big breath to steady myself.
Wow, a new Mercedes to go with a new beach house.
The image flashed in my mind. Me in a white—no, black—convertible, top down, wind in my hair—but not so much it gets tangled and I look like a rolling haystack when I stop—wearing a fantastic Stella McCartney sundress—oh my God, I have to shop for sundresses—the gorgeous Pacific Ocean at my fingertips, the hills above Malibu rising beside the highway—everyone who passes me is jealous, of course—and beside me in my black—no, blue—Mercedes is—
Wait a minute. Ty never said he’d be in the convertible with me.
But surely he would.
Wouldn’t he?
I didn’t want to ruin this fabulous dreamlike scenario with actual facts, so I didn’t call Ty back and ask. I decided to put my time to better use.
Sipping my frappuccino, I logged onto the Internet with my cell phone. I didn’t use it much for Internet access, except to occasionally check my e-mail or take a quick look at a Web site, because I preferred my laptop. But my laptop was in my room at the Culver Inn and I couldn’t quite face that place yet.
I typed Bradley Pennington’s name into a search engine and got all sorts of hits. Not on Bradley, but on his family.
Lots had been written about the Pennington family, I discovered as I scrolled through and read newspaper reports and magazine stories. Helen Pennington was the matriarch of the clan, it seemed. I checked out her picture. She looked great. If she’d made it to sixty, I’d be surprised. Dark hair, trim figure, perfect makeup, fabulous suit.
I’d bet she owned a staggering collection of designer handbags.
The most recent magazine article included yet another photo, this one showing her at her massive desk in her opulent Las Vegas office atop the family-owned Corona high-rise office building. This was the nerve center of the Pennington empire, according to the article, which included everything from real estate to manufacturing to mining to restaurants to motel chains.
I read through more articles. No mention of a Mr. Pennington. Guess Helen ran the show.
But she had some family help, another article revealed. Daughter Kaitlin, an attorney; sons Daniel and Conner, both in upper management. Just one big, happy, ultra-smart, mega-successful family.
I finished off my frappuccino as I scrolled to another article, this one heralding Helen Pennington’s penchant for seemingly lost causes. She’d donated funds to keep a skating rink open in a not-so-hot section of Vegas. The article also noted her previous contributions to animal preserves, the children’s symphony, and youth camps. She was a big supporter of local law enforcement, each year sponsoring a fund-raiser for the police widow’s fund.
I kept digging and finally found a small online story reporting the acquisition of the Culver Inns, a generously termed family chain of motels in the Las Vegas area. Bradley Pennington, the article noted, had been appointed to manage the St. Rose Parkway motel.
&nb
sp; My brain buzzed, coming down from my chocolate caffeine high, and I felt panicky. I needed to figure out what all this information about the Pennington family meant. This was no time to let a frappuccino-free brain cause a lapse in concentration.
Of course, I didn’t really need another shot of chocolate or caffeine to figure this out. Nor did I need Madam CeeCee—not that she’d ever call me back, it seemed.
Obviously, Bradley was the screw-up of the Pennington family. If he’d had a college degree, drive, ambition, and good leadership skills, he would have been ensconced in a corner office of the prestigious Corona office building with his brothers and sisters—not running a fleabag motel out in Henderson.
Yet Helen hadn’t given up on him. She’d probably encouraged him and cheered him on all his life, and in an ultimate only-a-mom-would-go-this-far moment, she’d purchased an entire chain of motels just so Bradley could manage one. She’d probably convinced herself that if she could just find the right spot for him, not only could Bradley hold his head up at the Thanksgiving dinner table, he could actually succeed just like all her other children.
You’ve got to love a mom like that.
I logged off the Internet and shoved my cell phone into my purse.
Hopeless. That’s how I felt at the moment. Revenge against Bradley was completely out of my grasp. No way would Helen Pennington let anything happen to her little darling. She surely had a regimen of attorneys standing at attention, ready, willing, and able to fend off any lawsuit brought against Bradley. No matter what anyone at the motel said about him, how much the employees and guests complained, how many people he fired, and how often he had to hire new ones, Helen would stand by her son.
The rest of us were just screwed.
Motel employees would keep being intimidated by Bradley. He’d keep treating everyone like crap. Maya would lose her breakfast buffet contract. She wouldn’t get referred to the other Culver Inns in Vegas. Bradley’s rein of terror would continue indefinitely.
Why couldn’t I have a mom like that?
I got into my car and headed back to the Culver Inn. Honestly, I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, and I didn’t feel like being ordered around by my GPS, so I headed toward the bright lights of The Strip.
Clutches and Curses Page 19
