The Dead Girl's Stilettos
Page 7
She was all too aware that her sister’s voicemail box was full, but she dialed her number anyway, just to hear her voice. As the automated voice told her what she already knew, she whispered into the dark, “Where’d you go, sis?”
While she gathered the empty containers and wine bottle from the sand, her phone lit with yet another call from Grayson. He’d left several messages throughout the day, but she was too exhausted to give him any answers. And she wanted to wait until she had proof that the shoes were linked to someone other than Dean.
The condo was even smaller than her loft back in Brooklyn, and the grandmotherly furnishings gave her hives. But the sounds of waves and the welcome scent of saltwater reminded her of happier days and she was asleep in no time.
Late morning, after Bexley spent hours writing detailed notes of everything she’d learned about the murder so far, Dean invited her to his beach house. The night she’d stayed over, she’d seen the master suite and the wall of empty shoe racks in its obscene walk-in closet. But she wanted to witness Dean in his element as he described the stilettos.
A minimalist’s wardrobe that was predominantly monochromatic took up less than half of the space. Every item was meticulously pressed and hung or folded as if on display at a department store. He owned more tennis shoes than loafers, and his only valuable accessories appeared to be a few watches secured on a velvet pillow inside a glass drawer. Despite having an ostentatious home, Dean was a simple man with a certain particularity to his streamlined appearance.
He stood rigid in the center, arms crossed, eyes flickering to the empty shelves. “Temperance had so many goddamn shoes that I created a rule while she was living here—no new shoes unless she donated an old pair to charity. She spent her daddy’s money, so that was never an issue. The fact that her shoes were starting to encroach on my space irritated the hell outta me.”
What else irritates you? Bexley thought. She was beginning to sense he could have anger issues if pushed too hard. “Did you have a chance to come up with that list and schedule of your employees?”
“Yeah…it’s in the other room.” He turned toward the bedroom and Bexley followed. His simplistic style continued throughout the house decor of white walls and black furniture. The master bedroom was open and bright, its only furniture consisting of a king bed with black and gray bedding, white dresser and matching nightstand. A wall of bi-fold doors with billowing white curtains opened to a Juliet balcony overlooking the ocean. There was enough masculinity involved to assume Temperance wasn’t around long enough to make changes. Either that or he had remodeled after their breakup.
“How long were you and your ex together?” Bexley asked.
“I guess it was a little over a year.” Dean plopped down on the edge of his bed, then retrieved a spiral notebook from his nightstand. He stared down at his scrawled notes, suddenly lost in thought. “She was pressuring me to have kids. I want them…eventually. But I was raised with Midwestern values. My dad was in corporate sales, but made a point of being home every night for dinner. He spent his free time teaching me and my brother everything expected of a decent, hardworking man. I sometimes work sixteen-hour days. I don’t want my children to grow up without the kind of experience I had. The way Temperance was raised, our kids would’ve grown up thinking the world owed them a favor. She’s the type that won’t get her hands dirty for any reason.”
Having grown up in Papaya Springs, Bexley was well versed in the type. “So that’s why you two called it quits?”
“That…and a few other things. It was clear from the beginning that she wasn’t the marrying type. My agent encouraged me to stick with her for a while, give my fans what they wanted. It was more about having a good time.” His lips twisted with a sexy grin. “Even with the awkwardness between me and my family, we’re still tight. When I’m ready to settle down, it’ll be with someone I can bring home to meet my brother and old man without worrying they’ll see right through her. She’d have to be someone who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”
He was definitely flirting. The worst part was that he was exactly her type—minus the fact that he was ridiculously famous, and a possible murder suspect.
“How about you?” he asked. “Still close with your family?”
“My mom died, and I don’t have much to do with my father anymore. My sister and I are tight, but I haven’t seen her in a while.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sisterly spat?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“A lot of people tell me I’m an exceptional listener.” He raised one eyebrow. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” Done with the conversation, she quickly crossed the room to perch at his side, eying the notebook. His handwriting was slanted, and nearly as illegible as a doctor’s. “That’s everyone who knows the security codes?”
“I believe so.” He ripped the page out and handed it to Bexley. “I only know the name of my head housekeeper, but she can give you the names of everyone who works under her.”
“This is a solid start. I’ll speak with those here today, and stop back to interview more tomorrow.”
Dean shook his head. “Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve. I gave most of them the day off to spend with their families.”
Bexley suddenly felt disoriented. How had she forgotten it was New Year’s Eve? “Oh, right.”
“I’m going to a buddy’s party tomorrow night. You should come along. A little down time would do you good. Besides, it’d be nice to have someone there that won’t look at me like I’m Jack the Ripper.” When she didn't answer right away, he bumped his leg against hers and grinned. “Come on. Are you allergic to fun?”
“I don’t know.” She scraped her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your agent made a decent point yesterday. We shouldn’t be seen together.”
“The beach will be shut down to the public. The kind of people that’ll be there value their privacy. If anyone tried to take an unauthorized picture, they’d be taken down sumo style by security.” The warmth of his stare scanning across her face sent shivers spiraling through her core. “Besides, I feel like I owe you a good time for your eye.”
The loud trill of her phone startled Bexley awake. She’d stayed for dinner at Dean’s after interviewing his chef and two security guards, and returned to her new place to type out detailed notes. She’d slept so soundly after that it took a full minute to register her whereabouts while answering the call.
“How’s the eye?” Grayson asked.
Glancing at the closet mirror near the bed, she lightly dabbed at the blue and purple bruising with her fingertips. It hadn’t swollen shut, but it was tender. “I won’t be winning any beauty pageants anytime soon.”
“Haven’t you heard? They’ve changed those so they’re more focused on personality and humanity.”
“Darn it. That means I’m still out. Can’t a girl catch a break?”
He replied with a hearty chuckle. “Are you too hideous to take out for dinner?”
Guilt for blowing him off the past couple of days intensified when she realized she’d have to turn him down. “Actually, I’m meeting with Kiersten later.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Her old friend had squealed like a pig at a luau with the invite to Pretty Woman-ize Bexley for the party. “But I could meet you at Sandy’s for an early lunch.”
After they secured plans to meet later, Bexley went for a quick jog down the beach. She missed the ease of running outdoors without the need to wear several layers as much as the refreshing calm of the ocean breeze rustling through her hair. Her memories of California weren’t all bad. Times like this she really missed it, and questioned her true motives for moving away. She only had a handful of friends back in New York, and she didn’t have the kind of bond with a single one of them that she still had with both Kiersten and Grayson. Not a single one had checked in with her since she’d left. No one probably even noticed she was missing aside from Mikey, the checkout guy at her favorite bodega.
To make things worse, he wouldn’t stop staring at her throughout the meal. The rare times he wasn’t examining her, she studied his ink, discovering the drawing of a wolf howling at the moon among a backdrop of mountains.
After taking the last bite of his hamburger, he lifted his chin in her direction. “Most women I’ve come across in my line of work are self-conscious about bruises, and try to hide them with makeup. You wear yours like a champ.”
“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” Bexley quipped.
Grayson lifted a lone eyebrow. “Never knew you were a Mike Tyson fan.”
“Noooo…not me, my old man. I could do a mean Howard Cosell impersonation long before I could recite the alphabet.”
“Did you learn anything from watching all those fights?”
She motioned to her eye. “Apparently not.” Then she pointed at his inked arm. “Never knew you were a masochist.”
“It’s the first thing I did after the divorce. ‘Manda would’ve absolutely hated it.” Laughing, Grayson dropped his napkin on his empty plate. “You ready to tell me the details of those shoes?”
“I’m still looking into it,” she admitted before taking a long drink of her beer.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re being evasive again.”
“Until I know more, you’ll have to trust me.”
With a great sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back. “Have you met with Halliwell yet?”
“Yeah.” Bexley swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to straight up lie to him—at least not about her plans for the night. Not when a guest could sneak a picture of them together. “As a matter of fact, he’s taking me to a party tonight.”
“You’re going to a party with him?” The tone he used was aggressive, tinged with jealousy. A fire brewed in his russet-colored gaze. “Can’t say I’m on board with that idea.”
Bexley broke his probing stare, focusing on her discarded napkin. The teenager in her broke out in cartwheels. Something was brewing between them, but she couldn’t erase the vision of him embracing the scantily-clad woman. She wanted nothing to do with someone who wasn’t morally against prostitution. Especially when his job required him to enforce the law. “Because you’re worried he may have killed that woman, or because you want to be with me instead?”
“A little of both.” A pregnant pause followed his quizzical look. “Does it matter?”
“Are you seeing anyone?” she blurted, looking up.
“I haven’t had the time to date since my divorce. But I’d make time for you.”
Worried his admission meant the woman had been a companion paid by the hour, Bexley let out a tired sigh. “I don’t think we should complicate our friendship. Besides, I don’t have time for that right now.”
“If not now, when? Are you going back to New York once you’re done with this story?”
Frustration nagged at her. A significant part of her wanted to explore the possibility of starting something with her old crush. But once she actively started searching for her sister, her schedule would be full. “I haven't been completely honest with you,” she confessed. With his hurt expression, her heart lodged in her throat. “I’m not just here to write an article about Dean Halliwell. Cineste is missing. No one’s heard from her in two months. I don’t have a lot of details. What I do know, I can’t share with you.”
Annoyance gripped Grayson’s expression. “Have you at least filed a missing person report?”
“I don’t know for certain that she’s missing. My father has reason to believe she ran off with someone…dangerous. I just want to find her, make sure she’s okay. Her voicemail’s full, and she won’t answer my calls.”
“I know a trustworthy PI in the area who charges fair rates and has a knack for that kind of thing. I’ll forward his information.” He retrieved his phone from his pocket, stopping to meet her gaze. “If you want my help, you only have to say the word, Bex. I’d do it as your friend, not a detective.”
She planned to follow up with the PI. Getting Grayson involved, however, was more complicated. With a small smile, she said, “I appreciate the offer.”
In the parking lot, Bexley stood by her rental for a minute and waved, frustrated as Grayson climbed into his orange Bronco. She’d have to wait to check the plates on his work vehicle against the one that had been parked across from her apartment building.
8
She arrived fashionably late to Dean’s beach house in a backless sequined top, skinny jeans, and strappy heels. Kiersten had convinced her to purchase several things that were out of her comfort zone. During their outing, Kiersten had arranged appointments with a pedi/mani salon, a blow-dry bar, and a makeup artist who made Bexley’s eye appear magically healed. Bexley had to admit she found the edgy look she was given highly flattering, and wouldn't mind making an update to her hair and wardrobe once her life wasn’t so chaotic.
When Dean came out to greet her, he seemed visibly wowed. He took a step back, arms held out at his sides, eyes rapidly blinking. “Bexley. You’re…that’s a magnificent look on you.”
Eyes rolling up to the dark sky, she waved a hand through the air. “Don’t get too comfortable with it. This was not my doing.”
“Well whoever’s responsible deserves a raise.”
She eyed his crisp white button down paired with tight blue jeans, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “And you…you put David Beckham to shame.”
“Wasn't my doing either. It's probably the last thing a designer will ever send my way.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They could hear the deep rumble of a heavy base before they even left his house. It intensified ten minutes later when they strolled up to the gated entrance of a secluded property.
One thing was immediately clear after they were ushered through by a security team in tuxedos: Dean’s friend had more money than the entire Kardashian horde thrown together. The beach had been closed off to the public, and the borders were heavily guarded by men who may have literally stepped straight off of a UFC ring. Deluxe tents lining the estate’s backyard were already alive with a large gathering of partygoers. Inside, massive floral arrangements adorned anything and everything. Chocolate fountains stretched to the ceiling. Chandeliers the size of ovens hung from each center point. Twinkling lights lined the walls. More bottles of champagne than Bexley had ever seen in one place stood in pyramids on a wall of service tables among a spread of hors d’oeuvres that could’ve fed thousands. Beautiful women wearing traditional belly dancer costumes sashayed around guests to the shrill voice of a rap artist, while other guests watched in awe as men in coordinating silk costumes shoved torches down their throats.
Bexley could hardly believe her eyes when she noticed a set of barges anchored nearby. The rapper performed live on a stage among state-of-the-art speakers that reached several stories high. Behind him, flames shot up in controlled bursts to the beat of the music. It was so over-the-top Bexley almost burst out laughing.
Dean must’ve noticed her amusement because he nudged her and chuckled deeply. “It’s just another day in my bizarre world.”
For several hours, Dean steered her around, seamlessly mingling with A-List celebrities and chart-topping musicians. It didn’t seem anyone held ill will toward him, but she supposed that could merely be part of show business. She tried to play it cool when she recognized some of her favorites, like the veteran actress who had won four Oscars in a row, or the mastermind known for making billions from producing her favorite movies as a kid. Her inner fangirl didn’t appear until she recognized the voice that complimented her on the small star tattoo she’d gotten on her shoulder blade to honor her mom.
“Oh my god, Dave, it’s an honor to meet you,” she gushed, spinning around to greet the lead singer of her favorite rock band. She had just enough champagne by then to feel a bit light-headed and carefree. “Seriously, you have no idea. I’m like a top-tier fan. Not like on a stalker level or anything, but…if you ever need to consult with someone who knows everything about your band, I’m your dork.”
The musician let out a dark chuckle, flipping a strand of his dark hair behind his ear before shaking her hand. “I’ll keep that in mind when my memory goes to total shit…at the rate I’m going, it won’t be long.” He was taller in person than Bexley would’ve thought, and twice as charismatic. “Wait. Are you from that vampire show? I’m hooked—I mean my daughter’s hooked—and binges like a season in a week. I’m dying to know which guy you choose in season four.”
Bexley couldn’t help herself. One of her idols had mistaken her for a well-known actress. She planned to eat up every minute. “Don’t you mean your daughter’s dying to know?” She twirled a piece of hair, grinning.
Dean appeared out of nowhere and inserted himself between them, giving Dave a teasing scowl. “No using your rock star charm on my date.”
Dave flashed his big signature smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, brother. Happy New Year!” He threw Bexley a wink before sauntering away.