Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  This little meeting in the master’s office was a power play. Chase owed Gig no explanation. It was Gig who should explain why he was keeping his pregnant wife a prisoner in a gilded cage. As the situation at the estate had become more bizarre and unpalatable, Chase had considered revealing the truth behind the Le Towne facade. What could Gig and his attorneys do to him? He didn’t own anything except debt. The Le Towne secrets would be worth a lot of money. But before he went down that path, he needed to gather irrefutable evidence, photos and videos, about Le Towne’s sordid underbelly. He also needed to make sure that Sinclair was protected, that she wasn’t smeared with Gig Towne’s mud.

  “I’ve run into Sinclair while doing my rounds in that part of the house. We’ve chatted. There’s nothing secret about it.”

  “You seem to care for Sinclair.”

  “Who doesn’t? She’s called America’s Sweetheart for a reason.”

  He gestured as if the point was well-taken.

  “Gig, just come out and tell me what you’re getting at.”

  Gig drummed his fingernails against the wooden paws and exhaled noisily as if searching for the right way to begin. After a few seconds, he sat straighter, showing that he’d come to a decision. “Sinclair is a beautiful person, inside and out. The public loves her because they sense her pure and kind spirit. Her essential joie de vivre. Women feel that they could be her friend. Men…Well, she’s attractive to men. She can be a lady in the street and there’s an understated sexiness about her that suggests that she can be a whore in the bedroom.” He leered at Chase. “I’ll only say this about that…It’s true.”

  Chase could have slugged him.

  Gig picked up on his anger and his eyes sparkled. “John, here’s something else you don’t know about my wife. That same duality carries through Sinclair’s personality.” He stroked one of the paws. “How do I say this…?”

  He looked at Chase apologetically, as if there was no good way. “Sinclair is not emotionally stable. I don’t know what she’s told you about having the baby at home. Anyone can see that everything has been put in place with the utmost care and concern for both baby and mother. Sinclair and I would like to follow The Berryhill Method of childbirth, but that is not the primary reason I’ve set things up the way they are. I did it to protect Sinclair. She’s never been…” Gig clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Mentally fit, to put it gently. She’s been diagnosed as bipolar.”

  Chase knew he couldn’t hide his surprise about that revelation. He found it hard to believe. He’d thought that Sinclair’s fragile, bruised-lily persona was part of Le Towne’s carefully crafted image. Even with the flights of emotions he’d witnessed in Sinclair lately, he sensed a core of iron running through her.

  “We’ve managed her disease naturally and holistically. She’s responded beautifully. But the stress of the pregnancy has taken a mental toll. That’s why her doctor and Sinclair and I decided that given all the risks, it was best to have the baby here, in a controlled environment and out of the public eye.

  “I’m confiding in you, laying my heart on the table.” Gig pantomimed throwing down his heart. “You deserve to know the whole picture. Yes, we’re adhering to The Berryhill Method of childbirth, but the reasons for it go deeper than some fanatical attachment to a fad, like the media accuses us. Sinclair and our baby are my primary concerns. Sinclair is my life.”

  Chase couldn’t dispute that. Gig’s marriage to Sinclair had quieted rumors that he was a nutcase. He nodded.

  “John, I have something else I want to talk to you about.” Gig again paused as if gathering his thoughts. “I’m concerned about you. Lately, you seem to be in physical pain. You spoke of a headache. What’s going on?”

  “It’s just a small headache, like everyone gets. It’s not impacting my ability to do my job.”

  “Is everything okay between you and your girlfriend? What did you say her name was?”

  “Alison.” Chase thought it was none of Gig’s damn business how things were going and hadn’t told him that they’d broken up, but were still friendly. “Things are great.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Gig said with excessive enthusiasm. “It’s so important to have someone in life you can count on, who you can reach out to in the middle of the night. I’d like to invite her over for dinner with Sinclair and me.”

  “That would be great. She’d enjoy that.”

  “I’ll have Paula set it up.”

  “Terrific.”

  “So your headaches aren’t being caused by what my father used to call terriblelackanookie.”

  Chase smiled at the thin joke because that’s what Gig expected. He thought about Gig’s pointed references to sex. Gig’s hints of prowess were probably covering for a lack of it. He’d love to ask Sinclair about that, but while her husband wasn’t a gentleman, Chase prided himself on being one. He wondered when Gig was going to let him get the hell out of the room.

  “John, I highly recommend my chiropractor or my acupuncturist. They can do miracles.”

  “I’ve seen my own doctor, thanks.”

  “Did he give you pharmaceuticals?”

  “All due respect, Gig, but that’s between me and my doctor.”

  With a smug expression, Gig pushed away from the table and went across the room to a cabinet that was crammed with the familiar white-and-raspberry containers of Berryhill brand supplements. He fished around, moving bottles, finding what he wanted in the back. He approached Chase, holding out the bottle.

  Chase had no choice but to accept it. The label said Headache Handler.

  “Take one of those three times a day. You’ll see relief in two days, or your money back.”

  Chase again managed a limp laugh. “Thanks, Gig.”

  “Georgia Berryhill didn’t build an empire on BS. She and Stefan know their stuff. Even if you don’t subscribe to the complete Method, their products have helped millions around the world.”

  Chase nodded. “Great. Thank you. I’ll try it.”

  Gig slapped him on the arm. “You’re a good man, John.”

  “Thanks. Just doing my job.”

  “Take it easy and remember what I said.” Gig returned to his throne and touched the laptop’s keyboard, waking it up. He began typing and didn’t look up when Chase left. “Close the door on your way out.”

  Chase returned to his room. He was about to throw away the Headache Handler, but thought he should wait until he was off the property. He thought of Sinclair, wondering where she was, wanting to see her, but he didn’t dare. Not now. He opened the Headache Handler. The protective liner over the cap had been removed. He tapped out a gel capsule that was full of a brownish material. He smelled it. It smelled like dirt. He dropped the capsule back into the bottle and set it inside the medicine cabinet.

  He again looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and thought about Gig’s revelation concerning Sinclair’s mental health. Things at this place kept getting stranger. Maybe he should walk away. As much as he’d grown obsessed with Sinclair, he had to admit that he was flattered by her attention. He knew that Gig was a manipulative megalomaniac, but what were Sinclair’s motives? She’d been an unknown starlet before she’d latched onto Gig Towne. Gig had launched her into superstardom, and she’d given him the aura of normalcy that his public persona had needed.

  They had a sort of unholy alliance, Gig and Sinclair. She wasn’t a naïve victim in all this. Yet, Chase knew she hadn’t expected the situation she found herself in now. Her fears were valid, and he knew she wasn’t playing him. She truly was depending on him to help her.

  He felt bad about quitting his job here, but he had a sense of foreboding that if he didn’t get out now, something terrible would happen to him, and then where would Sinclair be? Their plan was in place. He’d designed it so that she could execute it on her own, as there was no guarantee that he could be there when the time came. She’d be fine. He had to reassure her of that.

  He got his duffel and began scooping in
the contents of the medicine cabinet and the toiletry items on the sink. He packed his few garments from the dresser and closet. Tossing key cards and keys for the Le Towne estate onto the bed, he slung the duffel over his shoulder. After he was off the property, he’d call Gig and tell him he’d quit.

  He put his things into his truck. He had to let Sinclair know what was going on, but couldn’t risk seeing her. The safest way to communicate was to send a text message to her cell phone. He kept it cryptic: All OK. All in place. No worries.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’m glad that Princess Cheyenne conceded to meet us at her attorney’s office, but why does it have to be at eight tonight?” Vining was driving Kissick, making slow progress on the hour-long trip from Pasadena to the Berryhill compound in Malibu Canyon. “The mother of Emily’s friend will pick up the girls after rehearsals for the school musical and take them out for dinner. I owe her big-time.”

  “Em is singing and dancing?”

  “High School Musical. She has a small role, but she has a solo. She’s actually good.”

  “I have no doubt. I’m just surprised that she’s putting herself out there like that.”

  “Transferring to this arts magnet school has been great for her. It keeps her busy. It’s a good thing.”

  “Her romance with that boy is no more.”

  “Yes, thank goodness. They’re ‘just friends,’ she says. He’s graduating in two months and headed to Stanford. Can’t happen too soon for me.”

  “What did you find out today after the bug sweep?”

  Vining took a breath before filling him in on what she’d learned from searching her mom’s home. She also told him about her conversation with Vicki and how Patsy was about to become wealthy.

  “Vicki said she doesn’t think my mother knows about Tink leaving her jewelry to her. My mom can’t keep a secret. Certainly not one as big as becoming rich overnight.”

  “But you told me that at the girlfriends’ party at Granny’s house, your mom was hinting about a secret life. She’s flush with cash from somewhere. Madrigal would want to keep Patsy happy if he was in fact using her to get to Tink. But after he’d had his bugs in place, why would he need your mom? Unless he prompted her to ask Tink questions about her will.”

  Vining shook her head. “When Tink drowned, my mom would have blubbered everything to me. Maybe Madrigal found out about Tink’s bequest and was laying the groundwork to later rob my mother of the jewelry, maybe convince her to put it into a shady investment. My mom would be an easier mark to steal from than Tink. But Madrigal was murdered hours before Tink died.”

  “King Getty and Cheyenne are still our best suspects,” Kissick said. “They were close to Tink, and may have found out about her leaving her jewelry to Patsy and hired Madrigal to do his usual dirty P.I. work and plant the bugs. He could have made a move on your mother, just as she described. Maybe he gave her a couple hundred bucks as a gift, because that’s the kind of guy he was. And Patsy’s not guilty of anything other than being Patsy.”

  “That’s a scenario I can believe. She hasn’t flashed that much cash or bought a new car or something. In the emotional state she was in when we talked to her, she probably forgot some of what she and Madrigal talked about. You need to interview her.”

  “Yes, I do. Without you there.”

  “I know,” Vining said. “That LAPD detective, Peck, told me that Madrigal’s office was ransacked around the time he was murdered. All his recordings and computers were stolen. He had information that someone didn’t want getting out.”

  “That was worth killing for.”

  “I am worried about my mother’s safety. She doesn’t seem to be, though.” Vining slapped the steering wheel. “There are so many pieces to this that make no sense. Even what Vicki told me about my father makes no sense. If he was a marine officer who was MIA in Vietnam, why would my mother keep it a secret and tell me he was a rat?”

  Her voice grew loud. “I’m probably the product of a one-night stand with some Joe Blow she met somewhere, conceived in the backseat of my grandfather’s Chevy Malibu at a drive-in movie. My mother told me she used to go to double features at the drive-in. She made up a war hero for the benefit of her friends.”

  “The finger bowl.” He grinned at her.

  “The finger bowl?”

  “The drive-in. That’s what my father used to call it.” He playfully pinched her arm. “Come on, Nan. Sure, you want to know the truth about your father, but it doesn’t impact your life now. Your mom did the best she could with what she had. Patsy is Patsy. She raised you and fed you, and kept you clean and in clothes and shoes, and kept you safe, and made sure you went to school.”

  “You’re right.”

  “She didn’t hit you or abandon you or let harm come to you.”

  “I know. I remember that there was one guy she dated who seemed a little too interested in me and my sister and she got rid of him right away.”

  “See? Whose childhood is perfect?”

  “Yours?”

  He smiled. “Well…Other than mine.”

  She made a face at him.

  They drove in silence for a while, then he said, “This is way too close to home for you.”

  “I’m surprised Sarge hasn’t taken me off the case already. On or off the case, I can and will get to the bottom of what my mother’s up to.”

  She got off the freeway and started the winding ascent through the Santa Monica Mountains that would come out onto Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean on the other side. The hillsides were covered with poppies, lupines, and wild mustard. Impulsively, Vining pulled into one of the lookout points along the road. The sky was clear, as the storm clouds had blown east from the coast and were now moving across Pasadena and the San Gabriel Valley.

  Kissick looked at her with surprise.

  “It’s just so beautiful today.”

  He joined her at the railing along the edge of the cliff.

  She spread both arms open. “Look at this view. The sky is so blue. The ocean too. And the air…” She inhaled deeply.

  “It is a gorgeous day.”

  “I just had a thought about Gig Towne.”

  “Oh, no…”

  “Not him actually, but his vintage box of sixty-four Crayola crayons.”

  “With sharpener.”

  “I remember a crayon color called Sky Blue. It’s that color.” She pointed at the sky. “That color is so special there’s a crayon named for it. Through the decades, children have used that color to depict the clear skies of their imaginations.”

  “That’s beautiful, Nan. Very poetic.” Standing behind her, he slipped his arms around her waist and kissed the tip of her left ear, which was peeking through her hair. “A day like this makes me want to just take off and drive up the coast. Stop in Morro Bay or Cayucos. Spend the night. Have drinks and fried calamari at Schooner’s Wharf.”

  She leaned back, enjoying his solidness as she let him support her. He responded by cinching his arms more tightly around her. She put her hands on top of his. “That sounds nice.”

  “Really?”

  She turned in his arms to face him. “Why are you surprised?”

  “Do you realize we’ve never gone away together?”

  She thought about that. “There was that time we worked that case by the Salton Sea.”

  “Yeah, and some nut was shooting at us. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “You’re right. A few days away would be nice. But we can’t request vacation at the same time.”

  “We could do a long weekend. Go someplace close. San Diego.”

  She reached to take his face between her hands. She loved feeling his square jaw and the planes beneath his cheekbones. She ran her fingernails against his stubble.

  “I should have run a razor across my face before heading out here.”

  “Makes you look rugged. Bet it will turn on Georgia Berryhill. She likes younger men.”

  He pulled her closer, wi
dening his stance so that his face was even with hers. “What about you?”

  “I like you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She slid her hands into his hair and pulled his face toward hers. The spring breeze rustled their hair while they kissed. With her eyes closed, the cars passing on the highway sounded like waves crashing on the beach. Sometimes when she kissed him like this, spontaneously and deeply, she tried to pretend it was their third kiss. Not the first one with its hyperexcitement and newness. Not the second, which was still tentative, searching for the right groove. But the third one, fresh enough to be enthralling yet she could set aside her mind and let the sensations move through her, carrying her away while at the same time roiling the depths of her core.

  She was able to recapture that now. Their breathing grew more intense and the cool breeze did little to dissipate the heat rising from their bodies. They knew there was no time or place for anything more than a kiss right now, so they gave it everything, their belts, badges, and guns digging into each other.

  Someone in a passing car leaned on the horn and whooped from an open window. It was like an alarm clock, waking them from their dream.

  He looked at her with his hands laced behind the small of her back and sighed.

  She taunted him, and herself, by reaching down across the front of his slacks and giving his erection a squeeze.

  “I just had a thought.”

  “You mean there’s still blood in your brain?” she teased.

  “This meeting with Berryhill will take less than an hour. We’re meeting Cheyenne and her attorney in Century City. No point in going all the way back to Pasadena.”

  “A motel?” Her eyes widened. “I’ve never had a tryst in a motel. Have you?”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She held up her palm. “Sorry I asked.”

  “What do you think? Or we could just grab dinner at this little seafood joint I know on PCH.”