Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  I didn’t tell her that I had one very promising avenue of investigation, once I remembered where I’d seen the name Jonathon McDonald. Right under my nose, it had been. But until I heard what he had to say, I wouldn’t be sharing those details with anyone, especially not Finn.

  “Your new accoutrements are in the backpack,” she called. “Give them a look-see.”

  I peered inside. “I have a new phone?”

  Finn came back into the shop barefoot, now wearing leggings and a workout tee. “A burner. But it’s got 4G LTE and a five-megapixel camera. Also audio recording capability—tap the microphone icon and whatever conversation you record will be sent wirelessly to a remote data storage center. Same with any photographs.” She came over and rummaged in the handbag. “The wi-fi can be spotty up there, so wear this at all times.”

  She handed me a chunky bangle bracelet, gold plated with black lacquer. I slipped it over my wrist.

  “What is it?”

  “A hot-spot generator. Creates wi-fi wherever you are, which is necessary where we’re going. Lots of dead zones.”

  I whistled. “Damn. That’s James Bond stuff right there.”

  “I just got back from a trade show.” She tossed her kitten heels into the backpack, pulled out a pair of Nikes and ankle socks. “It’s a brave new world for spying, I tell you. No more tape rash or battery packs burning a hole in your bra. Just turn on the app, and everything being said around you will go real-time into the audio surveillance channel.”

  “And right into Trey’s ear.”

  “That’s the only way he’d consent to you two working separately.” She hopped up on my counter and laced her shoes. “He still doesn’t trust me, but that’s okay. He’s much more useful when he’s suspicious.”

  She removed the barrette from her hair, and her bangs fell over her forehead in a stiff wave. She took a towelette from her bag and started wiping away her pastel eyeshadow and pink lipstick.

  “And the end game?” I said.

  “Now that it’s become clear that someone actually is trying to kill Nicholas Talbot, my job is finding out the who and why of it.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “The labs came back positive. He did have an elevated kavalactone level in his blood. The pu-erh tested positive as well, both the leaves and the tea itself.”

  “Which means the kava was added in the trailer.”

  “Yep.”

  “Time to alert the cops?”

  “Not my call. But the lab I use is certified. The results will stand up in court, as will whatever ballistics tests we do on that cactus. I have a lab that can take care of that too.”

  I didn’t tell her she’d have to pry it from Trey’s hands, assuming she managed to infiltrate his den of investigation. I watched her finish her make-up—a slick of mascara, a daub of blush. She looked fresh from a Pilates class.

  I leaned one hip against the counter. “Does Nick know you’re using him as bait?”

  Finn gave me a half-smile. “I wouldn’t put it like that. But yes, he knows that whoever is trying to harm him will see this event as a prime opportunity. He insisted we proceed.”

  “Does Trey know this is the plan?”

  “He knows a trap when he spots one. I’m sure he also knows it’s the best move we have at this point, a move that cops can’t make. Civilians in jeopardy and all that.” She spritzed a cloud of body spray and walked into it. “I answer to the Talbot Creative board, no one else, certainly not the fine men and women of the law, though several have been sharpening their knives for Nick. That’s why I need you.”

  I scoffed. “You mean Trey.”

  “No, I mean you.” She shoved her dress in the backpack. “Look, Trey’s great. He’s a detail man, good with data. Clear-headed and excellent in an emergency. Plus he’s got insider knowledge of the backstory here and quite possibly a vendetta. But he’s a bonus. You’re the one I wanted for this.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because you’re a damn fine investigator.” She finished fluffing her hair. “Selling guns and rebel flags is never gonna satisfy you. But this? Girlfriend, this is what you were made for.”

  She left soon after our conversation, said she’d check in with us later. I finished getting the shop ready for Kenny. I had my S&W secured and my carry bag prepped with extra speedloaders, with a change of clothes ready for pick-up at Gabriella’s shop. I finished packing, locked the door behind myself. My phone rang before I was out of the parking space.

  “Hey, Tai. It’s Mac. The desk said you’d called?”

  I could hear the noise of the gym at Mac’s end. It was hard to imagine him as a slightly chubby twenty-something with surfer-blond curls, but then, that photo was fifteen years old. He’d lost the hair and gained some muscle, but he was the same Jonathon McDonald shaking hands with Trey in the Ritz’s newsletter photo.

  “Yeah, I just needed to ask you some questions about your time at the Ritz. Back when you and Trey were valets.”

  Mac didn’t say anything. Lawyers and hotel HR managers were as close-lipped as spies, but Mac? Mac had no such limitations. He was still hesitatant.

  “Man,” he said, “that’s been a while.”

  “You still remember, though, don’t you? Why Trey got fired?”

  No reply. I heard clanging iron, the boom of bass, laughter and conversation.

  “He was railroaded,” Mac said. “You gotta understand that.”

  I smiled. “I’m listening.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The trip from Kennesaw to Adairsville took less than an hour. A railroad terminus during the Civil War, the city had once delivered arms, munitions, and other supplies from the factories in Atlanta to the Confederate front line. Now it was bucolic, with twisty roads and rolling farmland. The Ferrari ate up every curve, and I had to keep a hard check on the throttle. It felt like chaining concrete blocks to a racehorse.

  Beardsley Gardens lay well off the beaten path, past hills specked with solemn cows and fat oblivious sheep. I waited while the attendant checked off my name, then drove into the heart of the property. Instead of one main building, the developers had created a mini-village, with cobblestone streets and climbing rosebushes and English cottages in well-mannered rows. A quarter of the resort had been sectioned off solely for the movie crew, accessible through a second parking gate, this one valet-only.

  I drove up to the gate, pulling to a stop behind a silver Jaguar. Except for the hornet-yellow mechanical arm in front, the security station looked as quaint as the other cottages. Behind it, I saw the parking area, a freshly-mowed square bordered by trees. It was only half-full, but I suspected it would be packed before the evening was over.

  The door of the Jaguar opened, and Quint Talbot stepped out. A valet jogged up to him while another started unloading the trunk. Quint handed over the keys without looking at either of them; he was too busy checking out his reflection in the car window and smoothing down his hair. Portia exited the passenger side, sunglasses on her face, her mouth set in a straight line. They waited at the station until a club car zipped up, got loaded with their luggage, and then zipped them away just as efficiently. The first valet beckoned me forward, then laid a finger on his earpiece and stepped back.

  Trey came out of the station. He said something to the valet, then approached the driver’s side of the Ferrari. I had a sudden flashback to the teenage Trey, working his first job. Nervous. Eager. Nothing like the self-possessed man in front of me, whose suit didn’t fit quite right and whose name tag said “Steve” and who still—still—made my pulse rev.

  Trey opened my door, his expression blank and professional. “Ms. Randolph. Welcome.”

  He extended a hand. I let him pull me upright.

  “Thank you.” I gave him the keys. “I’d appreciate it if you’d see to my car personally. It needs a firm hand.”

&nb
sp; He inclined his head politely. “Of course.”

  He dropped the keys in his pocket—I knew that’s where they would stay, not in the valet stand. I already had the tip folded between my fingers, one of the crisp new hundreds that Nick had given me as a down payment on the turquoise cactus. I held it out, not breaking eye contact.

  “Something for your trouble.”

  Trey automatically slipped the bill into his pocket without looking at it, his Ritz training revealing itself. He’d find it later, and then we’d have a very interesting conversation. Before he could call for a club cart, one pulled up with a squeal and lurch. The cinnamon-haired runner from the Kennesaw set fidgeted behind the wheel.

  “I have this one,” she said. “Nick’s orders.”

  Her name came to me in a rush. Bree. I eased into the seat, shot a look at Trey over my shoulder. He nodded, though his brow furrowed. His first test—letting me out of his sight. While he watched, Bree grabbed my overnight bag from the valet and tossed it into the cart. I barely had time to get my feet inside before she tore down the path at bat-out-of-hell speed.

  She consulted a clipboard but didn’t slow down. “You’re in 1540? That’s right around the corner.”

  “Is it?”

  “You could’ve walked.”

  I clutched the seat. “I still can.”

  “Nope. Nick said you were to be personally delivered. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  We rumbled past the ruins of the old manor house, moss-covered and twined with ivy. I knew it had been an Italianate villa from the early nineteenth-century, roofless now, a labyrinth of bricks maintained by the resort. Its saga was a particularly Gothic tale of the antebellum South, featuring war, murder, hauntings, cotton money, yellow fever, tornadoes, and curses, the perfect setting for a story like Moonshine. There was no filming going on this afternoon, though. Instead, a party team hauled tables and chairs under a cavernous white tent set up next to the crumbling villa.

  “Those are the ruins of Luna’s family home,” I said.

  Bree popped her gum. “Spoiler alert. It’s not really in Ireland.”

  I remembered the episode, a dive into the past to explain the complicated backstory that brought Portia’s grandmother from the mountains of Connemara to the Blue Ridge foothills of Atlanta. The ruins resembled images I’d seen of that raw country, the same place where Trey’s ancestry ran.

  “So I guess Luna makes it to next season?”

  Bree popped her gum, jerked the wheel to avoid a chipmunk.

  I lurched and grabbed the support bar. “Come on, surely you know if she lives or dies.”

  “Even if I did, I’d never tell.” She slammed to a stop. “We’re here.”

  My cottage nestled against the edge of the trees, a stone’s throw from the security station. Like the others I’d passed on my way in, it was painted periwinkle blue and landscaped within an inch of its life. My map rendered the forest beyond my patio as a series of vague triangle shapes, pathless and devoid of amenities. The rest of the guest cottages lay like a necklace around a kidney-shaped lake that curved into the golf course.

  Bree delivered her recitation in a bored voice. “The press party starts at eight. Breakfast begins at seven. You’ll find your farm menu in your reservation packet.”

  “Farm menu?”

  She didn’t literally roll her eyes, but her contempt was clear. “Talk to Gabe at the barn. He’s the animal wrangler. He can set you up with the chore of your choice in the morning.”

  In other words, work. Feeding pigs and mucking out stalls and wiping down sweaty horses. I shook my head. Rich people. So disconnected from normal life they thought chores were recreational.

  “Well,” I said. “Won’t be doing that.”

  Bree did roll her eyes then. “I know, right? It was Addison’s idea. And the guests are eating it up.”

  I could see said barn in the distance. It was red, of course, with a tin roof. Engineered quaint to be sure, but wholesome enough.

  Bree started to grab my bag, but I waved her off. “I can get it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She barely waited for me to get out before she kicked the club cart into gear and sped down the lane. I unlocked my door using an old-fashioned metal key and surveyed my one-room surroundings—walnut writing desk, massive wrought-iron bed, dark green drapes. No animal heads or horn chandeliers, just an oil painting of an English fox hunt with galloping horses and baying hounds. Hunting lodge lite.

  I inspected behind the curtains. No interlopers. I’d just knelt beside the bed and peeked underneath when Trey called.

  “Do you find the cameras?” he said.

  Right to business he went. Which meant he hadn’t looked in his pocket.

  I stood up and checked the bathroom. “You mean inside?”

  “Yes.”

  I surveyed the bathroom. Double sinks, jetted tub, plush bathrobes. No lurkers.

  I pulled aside the shower curtain. “Is that how you spent your last two hours, turning my quarters into the Big Brother special?”

  “It took me forty-five minutes. Do you see them?”

  The bathroom cleared, I did a slow three-sixty in the bedroom area. “There’s the obvious one in the corner above the chest of drawers.”

  “And the covert?”

  I did a quick assessment of the room’s layout. “There’s a blind spot next to the desk, which means the camera has to be…aha. Right above the TV. Nicely disguised by a grapevine trellis.”

  “There are also two outside, one at the back entrance on the patio and one on the front. The video feeds go to my phone, not the main security system.”

  “For your eyes only, huh?”

  “Yes, assuming you’ve granted access. Just like in the shop. Of course you can access them as well, with your phone. Use the same log-in.”

  I pushed open the patio door and was greeted by the smell of pine. The sun set in a melt of blood orange and crimson, an autumn sunset despite the temperature. I couldn’t hear even a hint of traffic, only the distant hum of a club cart, the delicate rubbing of leaf against leaf. I looked under the eaves and spotted the state-of-the art surveillance camera mounted in the corner.

  “Also,” Trey continued, “I’ve set up breach alarms on the doors and windows. I’m texting you the code so that you can use your phone as the keypad. I’m enabling that now.”

  My phone beeped with the incoming text. When I opened it, a link appeared. When I clicked it, a new app bloomed on the screen.

  I went back inside. “Do I have any further instructions for tonight?”

  “Nothing beyond the original plans. Did you get the clothes from Gabriella?”

  “I did.”

  I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear and unzipped my suitcase. I rummaged around until I found the tee shirt. I held it up for the camera. “See this? Two hundred and fifty dollars. For a plain white tee. She loaned me a suede vest too. Six hundred for that.” I held up a necklace. “This is a rock on a skinny leather thong. A designer rock, though, so a thousand bucks. Hang on a second, I’m putting you on speaker.”

  I tossed the phone on the bed, pulled my old shirt over my head and slipped my arms into the new one. I had to admit, the fabric was lush and lovely, gliding like a whisper. I slipped on the vest, turned in the mirror. Trey still hadn’t said anything.

  “You there?”

  “What?”

  I grinned up at the camera. “I’m not distracting you, am I?”

  A soft exhale at his end. “I have to get back out front. Check your mic before I go.”

  I pulled up the app on my phone. “One two, one two.”

  “Copy that. Let me make sure it recorded.”

  Another few seconds passed. A clock on the wall chimed eight. I turned my new bracelet in the light, admiring the w
ay it shimmered.

  Trey’s voice again. “Everything worked at this end. As long as you have the bracelet, all you have to do is turn on the app, and the system will start recording and transmitting.”

  “And you can listen while it’s doing that?”

  “I can.”

  “From anywhere on the resort?”

  “Correct. We can meet after the party and compare information.”

  I examined my reflection in the mirror. “Wait, you’re not coming to the party?”

  “Not unless you need me. I’ve got to manage the exit and entrance protocols until midnight.” A hesitation. “Do you need me?”

  I thought about it. I wanted him there, but only because I wanted to see him, talk to him, share what was beginning to feel like an actual investigation. A case. An adventure. I got tingle of excitement, and Finn’s words popped into my head: Girlfriend, this is what you were made for.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Okay. But if you need me…I mean, if you need assistance…or me. Or both. I’m not…” A frustrated exhale. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. And I will. And if you need me, or assistance, or both, you know the drill.”

  “I do.” I couldn’t see him, but I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “Seaver out.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The last glimmer of the setting sun mottled the party tent with a patchwork of light and shadow. No food yet, but the bar looked open, and most importantly, well-stocked—the liquors were top shelf, complemented with enough champagne to float a boat.

  As Finn had promised, the other guests did indeed fall all over themselves ignoring me. They sat at their tables or mingled in corners—here a band of culture critics, there a sales team with smiles like sharks. I recognized the men from Monday’s on-set photo shoot, the hotshot investors who’d demanded the ramped-up script schedule. They didn’t mingle, preferring to scope out the crowd with mercenary intent. I felt their collective gaze settle on me. Was I worth knowing, worth courting?

  They returned their attention to their drinks. Question answered.