Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  I decided to take up position at the bar. Situated next to the entrance, it provided a clear view of the entire tent—tables draped in white linen, a parquet floor for dancing, a jazz band setting up in the corner. Soft white lights and ivory candles bathed everyone in a pearly glow. Even the bar gleamed golden, and I couldn’t resist running a finger across the grain.

  The bartender noticed my appreciation. She was short and square, briskly efficient, a russet bun at the nape of her neck. “It’s a reclaimed door from the farmhouse that used to be here. Gorgeous, isn’t it? They sure made them sturdy back in the day. Big too.”

  I knew why—it was a cooling board door. During the days of at-home wakes, it would have been brought down from its hinges, the body laid atop it for the duration of the funeral services, then afterward returned to its everyday position. I decided to keep this tidbit to myself.

  “Lovely,” I said.

  “What can I get you?”

  I started to ask for a beer and then remembered that somebody else was paying. “Maker’s rocks, please.”

  While she fixed my drink, I gave the tent a closer examination, this time for security cameras. I spotted only one, unsubtle as a hay bale. When my whiskey arrived, I waited until the bartender wasn’t looking, then hoisted it in a salute in that direction.

  A familiar voice caught my attention. “You made it.”

  I turned. Portia smiled at me, diamonds dripping from her earlobes, looping like a constellation around her wrist. Even in elegant slacks and a saffron blouse, she looked like Mad Luna. Avaricious, possibly savage, with a charisma so powerful it was practically gravitational.

  She dropped her voice. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Did you find the script?”

  I sipped my whiskey. “You get right to things, don’t you?”

  “I don’t have time for small talk. Did you find it or not?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  She turned her back on the bar and propped her elbows on it. “Have you at least found out who took a shot at Nicky?”

  Damn it, I thought. Portia knows everything. She saw my surprised frustration and laughed.

  “You’re not the only spy on premises.” She put her martini to her lips, but didn’t actually take a drink. “So tell me. Is it true? Did somebody try to kill my brother-in-law?”

  I shrugged. “Confidential. Sorry.”

  She looked across the tent to where Nick and Quint stood side by side. The investors had moved in on them, like a wolf pack closing a circle. Quint stayed silent, jaw clenched, heavily into his drink. Nick smiled, shook hands, his face open and animated, his hair tamed. No drink for him, only a sparkling water still in the bottle, no doubt from Addison’s controlled stock. He bore little resemblance to the frenzied incoherent man he’d been Monday night. In fact, he seemed downright charming, and the investors were hanging on his every word.

  Portia scrutinized him. “I never considered that the rumor might be true. How do you keep track?”

  “Of what?”

  “All the suspects. I bet there’s a dozen people who’d love to see him dead.”

  “Like you, for example?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, then laughed again. “I probably shouldn’t have said that, but sure. I was alone in my trailer that night, so no alibi. Plus we’ve never gotten along. Nicky’s a giant sucking anchor in my life. Quint’s too. Have you checked out Quint?” She pursed her lips, shook her head. “No, Quint’s a terrible shot. But then, the bullet missed, didn’t it? That part sounds just like Quint.”

  “Except that he was in the living room.”

  “His only claim to innocence. No way to get around back and pop off a round at his baby brother. Of course, if he really wanted to kill Nicky, he would have done it during the indictment hearing. That was when the little twit cost us the most money.”

  I let her talk. She acted as if all of this were a movie. As if the plot could be twisted and turned for the maximum bang.

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened, and she put her hand on the inside of my elbow. “Is that why Trey is here? Because someone from the backstory is actually the villain? A long-lost sibling maybe? Assassin on the lam? And of course, there’s the most obvious suspect.”

  I played my part. “Who would that be?”

  “Well, aside from Trey—who I am assuming has an alibi, otherwise that case would be open and shut—don’t cops look to the significant other first?”

  “You think it was Addison?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “How?”

  She swirled her drink. “Let’s ask her. Here she comes now.”

  I turned around and saw Addison making like an express train for our station. She’d pinned her hair up, and her pale skin gleamed against a scarlet slip dress, backless. She looked like a little girl playing dress up, but her face was so stiff with anger that her lips didn’t seem to move

  “That was low even for you,” she hissed.

  Portia regarded her over the martini. “I simply dropped a word to your prospective agent that there was no way you’d be legally allowed to sell that potboiler of yours. Talbot Creative owns your work product.”

  “Not if I wrote it before I signed that contract. Which I did.”

  Portia lowered the glass. “Too bad you don’t have the money to argue that in court.”

  Addison was seething, but there was something else glowing about her besides anger. Something righteous. She wore the confidence of someone with a secret weapon in pocket, and I got a twist of apprehension.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Congratulations on a great season. I hope you got everything out of it you wanted. And more.”

  “Meaning?”

  Addison turned on her heel and left without saying a single word to me. Portia watched her walk over to Nick, who welcomed her with a grin and introduced her around. Quint threw back the rest of his drink, signaled a waiter for another.

  “What was that about?” I said.

  Portia’s voice was laced with satisfaction. “Addison’s shopping a screenplay about Jessica’s murder. A bio-pic. It never got any traction before, but now, if somebody’s trying to kill Nicky, it smells like a potential hit.”

  Across the tent, Addison slipped her arm around Nick’s waist. He turned his face to her, and I was struck by the raw emotion I saw there. As if the two of them were in a room of their own.

  Portia continued. “See, the story didn’t have a proper ending before, but now there’s a twist. Agents love a twist.” She set her drink on the bar and pushed it away, untouched. “So there you go. Why would Addison want to kill Nicky? She wouldn’t. But if somebody else is trying to murder him, that’s a gravy train she can hook her little red wagon to.” She shook her head. “Too bad the killer missed. A hit would have pumped the advance into seven digits.”

  “You said she wouldn’t be able to sell it.”

  “Not outside of Talbot Creative. But Quint would pay her six figures for it, easy.”

  “So he could kill it?”

  Portia gave me an amused simper. “Oh honey, hell no. He’d ride that puppy all the way to Sundance. Don’t buy his act. He loves publicity. Just not the unprofitable kind.” She waved to someone across the tent. “Speaking of acts, I have to go mingle. I suppose you do too, if you’re going to find that script.”

  She waggled her fingers at me and disappeared into the crowd. The hum of conversation had grown louder, a buzz that filled the tent, packed now with bodies. I raised my glass to my lips…

  And then I stopped short.

  Rico sat at a table next to the band. He had a beard now, trimmed sharp as a scimitar, and his waist was smaller than I remembered, though he was still stocky in the chest, big boned and broad shouldered.

  I pushed down a mild panic. Should I duck out? Hide?
Call Trey? Before I could decide, he spotted me. He did a double take. And then he grinned and shoved his chair back. I grabbed my bag and met him halfway.

  The grin widened. “I didn’t expect—”

  “Shhh!” I grabbed his elbow. “Come with me.”

  I dragged him toward the corner, shooting a look at the camera. My phone started buzzing instantly. Trey. I pulled Rico into a quiet spot behind the partition that disguised the sound system.

  “You don’t know me,” I said.

  He arched one magnificently studded eyebrow. “The hell I don’t.”

  “I’m undercover.”

  “As in?”

  “On a case.”

  Rico frowned. “Where’s Trey? Does he know about this latest nonsense?”

  “It’s not nonsense, and yes, he knows. That’s him texting. And he’s listening to every word we say because I am wired, my friend. Like a double D bra.” I moved closer. “Didn’t you see him at the valet station?”

  “We didn’t come in that way. We had to use the employee entrance.”

  “We?”

  “Dante and me. It’s his gig. I’m tagging along.” He pointed toward the band stand, where a slight black guy with a serious face and round glasses sat behind a cello. “I almost didn’t come. I told Dante I wasn’t going to any more weddings, but he said this one paid serious money, so—”

  “Wait, what? Did you say wedding?”

  “Shhh!” He leaned closer. “That part’s confidential. But yeah, a surprise you-know-what. The newest white girl thing. Next he’ll be playing gender reveal parties and flashmob prom-posals—”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  At that moment, Nick went up to the band, hand in hand with Addison. As if on cue, the singer smiled at them and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m gonna turn the mic over to my man Nick here for a second.”

  I felt my stomach drop. Suddenly I knew why Nick had been so insistent on attending this party, why Addison looked like she had a bomb behind her back.

  “Aw hell, they’re getting married!” I said.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Nick’s smile was sheepish, but genuine. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate the first season of Moonshine.”

  The applause that followed was hearty. I snatched up my still-buzzing phone and called Trey. He started talking before I could get a word out.

  “What is Rico doing—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “They’re getting married, so you need to get down here!”

  “Who’s getting married?”

  “Addison and Nick. Right now!”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now! Get down here!”

  Addison took the microphone. She was skittery and jazzed, her smile wide, eyes too bright. “But we have a confession—Nick and I are celebrating something a little more personal tonight.”

  The band struck up a jazzy arrangement of the wedding march as a guy in a white smock and an official-looking leather book came forward. At the other end of the tent, Quint elbowed his way to the edge of the crowd, his face the explosive red of nuclear meltdowns.

  The guy with the book took his turn at the microphone. “Friends and family, as your official celebrant, I am pleased to—”

  “Like hell!” Quint bellowed.

  He threw his napkin on the ground and started pushing through the crowd, straight for Nick and Addison.

  I grabbed Rico’s shoulder. “Tell Dante to kill the mic!”

  Rico didn’t even ask what was going on. He waved a frantic hand at Dante and then drew his finger across his throat. I took off to intercept Quint just as Addison stepped in front of Nick, who then tried to step in front of Addison. They tangled up in their chivalry, which allowed Quint the chance to grab Nick’s arm. Portia remained to the side, her face smooth and alert, a connoisseur of train wrecks. And Bree had her phone in front of her face, filming the unfolding drama with rabid glee.

  Quint got right in Nick’s face. He shoved the microphone away, but his words were loud enough for everyone to hear. “She’s using you, you idiot!”

  Nick didn’t back down. “Shut up!”

  “I get to say whatever the—”

  “I said, shut up! I have had it with you!”

  I shoved myself between the two men. “And that is enough of that.”

  Quint made a fist. I pressed my hand flat against the center of his chest.

  “There are over a hundred cameras on you right now,” I said. “So unless you want this to be how your name gets in the news this week, you need to calm your ass down.”

  Nick’s voice rose. “Go ahead! Put it in the news! I don’t care! I’m sick of you, sick of your rules, and sick of this fucking show!”

  Addison took his arm. “Baby—”

  “No!” He shook free. “I am goddamn tired of his shit!”

  Quint’s face was purple. “I don’t care what you’re tired of! I have hauled your ass out of jail, out of drunk tanks, out of whorehouses! I have paid for rehab after rehab after rehab, paid for doctors and more doctors and lawyers, so many fucking lawyers!”

  “I never asked—”

  “—so, no, you don’t get to get married without my permission!”

  Addison shouldered into the melee. “He doesn’t need your permission because the judge granted me full conservatorship this morning!” She whipped out a piece of paper and waved it in his face. “Check your mailbox.”

  Quint put a finger in Nick’s face. “I dragged myself all the way to the other goddamn side of the country for you!”

  “The judge—”

  “Fuck the judge! You ruined us once already with your astoundingly bad choice of a wife, and I’m not—”

  Nick launched himself at Quint, who swung for him. I ducked as Addison yanked Nick back, but Quint kept on coming. He managed to get a blow to Nick’s chin before I grabbed his arm and snatched it behind him.

  He tried to twist out of my grip. “Let me go! I—”

  I adjusted the angle of Quint’s arm, and his knees almost gave out. His face squeezed, and he froze, panting in fury. I moved close behind him so that the audience couldn’t see what was going on, so that only he could hear me.

  “You struggle. You hurt. You decide.”

  Quint snapped his head around. “Let me go right now, or I will—”

  I pulled his elbow up, and he cursed. I put my mouth right next to his ear. “You either calm down, or all of these people get to watch me calm you down. Your choice.”

  Quint relented. He nodded once, and I released him. I didn’t move, though, stayed right on his ass in case he pulled some new nonsense. He didn’t, but he remained red-cheeked and smoldering, pure volcano-about-to-spew furious.

  “You will regret that,” he said, and jerked his jacket straight.

  He stomped out of the tent. Nobody moved, but I could still hear the clickety whirr of cell phone cameras. The room was a stew of confusion…except for the bartender. She’d come from around the bar and was standing in neutral position, her hands open, shoulders dropped.

  Addison took off at a run, Nick right behind. They vanished through the tent flap into the night. Portia hoisted her second untouched martini in my direction, as if the scene were a private staging just for her entertainment. Rico motioned to Dante, who took up his cello. One quick confab with his group later, and some nerve-smoothing jazz filled the tent.

  I heard footsteps coming fast, and Trey appeared in the doorway. He surveyed the tent, breathing hard, looking confused and alert and totally thwarted.

  I jogged over to him. “Hey. Show’s over. Did you hear everything?”

  “I did. What did you do to Quint?”

  “Rear wrist lock.”

  “Well done.” He was breathing
more regularly now. “Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know. Quint stomped off thataway, Nick and Addison the other way, and Portia’s still here.”

  Trey pulled out his radio. When the station answered, he delivered a series of ten-code orders. Around us, the gathering moved back into drinking and gossiping mode.

  “A wedding.” He shook his head some more. “I did not predict that.”

  “I didn’t either. But it explains why Nick wanted to be here—he wanted to get the deed done before Quint could wreck it.”

  “Then why not have it done civilly, at the courthouse. Why here? Why now?”

  “Good questions.”

  Trey was still watching. He and the bartender exchanged a look of complicit understanding. She nodded toward one of the waiters, who put down his tray of champagne flutes and followed briskly behind Nick and Addison. I noticed the telltale bulge at his ribcage as he slipped out the side door. The bartender moved back behind the bar, eyes sharp for further disturbance.

  “So now we know two of Finn’s covert team.”

  “We do.” Trey tilted his head, listening through the earpiece. “Nick and Addison have a man on them. The secondary operative says Quint is headed for the bar at the main resort. He’ll stay under surveillance there.”

  A single couple moved to the middle of the dance floor, and that popped loose the awkwardness. A woman in a bronze halter dress started undulating, sequins catching the light. Bree the surly assistant still had her phone out, and she was staring with curiosity at Trey and me.

  “Uh oh,” I said. “We’re getting looks. Quick, act like you’re interrogating me.”

  Trey’s forehead creased. “What?”

  “Hands on hips. Frown meanly.”

  He did as I asked, although he looked more confused than mean. I flung my hands in the air and widened my eyes, tried to look like I was arguing.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “This is me telling you I didn’t see anything, but you don’t believe me, so shake your head.”

  He did. He also moved closer, right into my personal space. Suddenly, even in his discount suit, he exuded authority, and I fought the urge to take a step back. Or take a step forward. Command presence—it ratcheted his sex appeal into the stratosphere.