How long had Marcus been using? I thought back to our last meeting, to his flushed face and the sweat on his brow. Had his eyes looked glassy? I should’ve known or at least asked more questions. I wasn’t naïve. In Hollywood, people regularly used and often abused drugs. However, I’d never witnessed Marcus indulging.
Was this why he died? The drug business, from what little I knew, was dangerous. If news reports were to be believed, people were regularly killed for as little as a dime bag of weed.
But here in Gett? It didn’t make much sense. Or it wouldn’t have, except someone had smashed Marcus in the head with a lamp. My eyes flew to the lamp on the nightstand, or rather to the vacant space where a heavy brass lamp had sat only days before. I let out a groan.
“What?” Brodie tilted his head, and then rushed forward with his hands outstretched. “Charms! Are you all right? You look like you’re about to faint.”
For a moment, I felt like it too. My head swam and my stomach danced. Bending over, I gulped in a breath and let it out. When that failed to work I repeated the action. Brodie stood by my side looking both uncomfortable and concerned. His concern likely came from the very real fear I would puke on his boots and the crime scene. “Breath. Slow and easy,” he said, his hand hovering an inch from my back.
Had I not just realized my fingerprints and DNA were likely all over the lamp, I might’ve found Brodie’s concern humorous. But seeing as Danny’s best physical evidence might be my own DNA, I didn’t find much to laugh about. “Gee, thanks for the encouragement,” I snapped, and then winced. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “Are you feeling better?”
I straightened. When I didn’t throw up, I nodded in response.
“What happened? One minute you were fine, and then all the color left your face.”
I debated the wisdom of admitting the truth. It wasn’t like Brodie could do anything about my fingerprints and DNA on the lamp. And even I had to confess that if the situation was reversed, and it was his DNA on the murder weapon, I’d consider him my top suspect. It was better to keep this revelation to myself, for the moment. Hopefully we’d find Marcus’s drug-dealing killer long before Danny arrested me. “I . . . ah . . . Everything is just hitting me all at once.” He nodded as if he understood, but his eyes burned with what looked like distrust. A look I instantly took offense to. “If you’re done interrogating me, is there anything else you see that we can use to find Marcus’s dealer?”
“Only one guy in Gett handles the harder stuff. And you aren’t going to like it.”
At the same time, with equal expressions of disgust, we said, “Boone Daniels.”
• • •
It took some convincing, on Brodie’s part, before I conceded that rushing to confront Boone about his drug business and possibly the cold-blooded killing of my accidental fiancé wasn’t the smartest of ideas, especially after the last time we’d stopped by his trailer for a similar visit and ended up ducking buckshot.
Instead we decided on a less-violent approach.
Brodie called in an anonymous tip about illegal drug sales to the sheriff’s office.
In a matter of hours, Danny would have Boone locked away in a jail cell, unable to shoot at us for simply asking if he had committed a recent murder. “So what now?” I asked as Brodie poked his head from the motel room door to check if the coast was clear for us to leave.
“I’d like to have a chat with that paparazzo,” he said, cracking his knuckles with slow, menacing precision. Pop. Pop. Pop.
“You need to brush up on your acting skills.”
He laughed. “Too much?”
I nodded.
Shrugging, he motioned for me to exit the room. I paused on the balcony that could only be seen from the small parking lot below. A memory flickered through my head. Marcus, standing at this very rail, a wide smile on his handsome face as the night sky sparkled brighter than the ring he’d mistakenly placed on my finger hours before.
Though it wasn’t me he was smiling at.
Like much of our time together, he smiled at the camera instead. A selfie taken for his fans posted on Instagram on the night of Jack’s birthday, after the disastrous party. He’d captioned the picture with a clichéd quote, Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars #blessed.
I shook off the memory to focus on Brodie, who had stepped from the motel room behind me. “If the paparazzo sees us together . . .”
“I know.” He started for the steps. “But he might have some information we need to know, like who told him Savage would be here in the first place. That person could very well be the killer, if this drug angle doesn’t pan out.”
“I doubt it.” I gave him a small smile to soften my words. “I’d bet a bottle of Lucky that it was Marcus, or maybe one of his PR people, who leaked his trip to Gett.”
He stopped at the top step, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Happens all the time in LA.” I shot him a superior smile. “You don’t honestly think actresses jog along the beach in full makeup? Or that big stars just happen to eat at Roscoe’s House of Chicken & Waffles on the same night as the paparazzi?” My stomach grumbled. “Though the Obama Special is to die for.”
A snort escaped his lips. “You’re always thinking about food.”
“I spent the last five years on a diet. Yes, I am always thinking about food.”
His brow wrinkled. “Why? You look . . . um, slim.”
Men. They could never quite describe a woman’s body without stuttering like idiots. “The camera adds ten pounds. And too many directors like their actresses half starved.”
He shook his head. “So what you’re telling me is, you chose to live in a place where people purposely give away their privacy and women don’t eat anything but salads, rather than sticking around in Gett.”
I guess I had.
He stepped forward, so close to me I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Charms, I—”
“Oh,” a voice said from behind me, “sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I spun toward the woman who’d spoken, nearly knocking Brodie down the stairs in the process. He recovered quickly, placing his hand on my back to steady us both. My cheeks heated. “You aren’t interrupting. We were just . . .”
“Grace,” Brodie said pointedly. “How are you holding up?”
The widow gave us a watery smile. “It’s so hard. Everything reminds me of Jonas.”
The truth of her words was written on her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d cried herself to sleep. She wore no makeup and her hair looked unkempt. A complete reversal from the woman I’d met a few days before. Gone was the sparkle, the spark, in her eyes.
“I couldn’t stand to stay at our house without him,” she said as she swiped a tear off her cheek. She wobbled on her feet, and for a second I worried she’d collapse. I reached out to steady her. The scent of alcohol clung to her. “Are you on your way somewhere?” I motioned to the parking lot and a bright red BMW below. The kind of car one expected a banker’s wife to drive.
She nodded, again staggering. “I need to talk with Pastor Matt about the service. Jonas deserves the best.”
“Why don’t you let me drive you?” I said. No way was I allowing Grace to get behind the wheel. Not in her current condition. Grief and alcohol often mixed way too well.
She frowned, as if confused by my offer.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I said, “I need to speak with the pastor too.”
“Why . . . Oh, yes, about the death of your fiancé.” She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “I was so sorry to hear about his passing. You must be devastated.” A hiccup escaped her lips. “Jonas and I knew our time together was short, but to lose the man you love right after you get engaged . . .”
Brodie released a quiet snort. Luckily Grace wasn’t paying him any attention. Her eyes were on mine, filling with sympatric tears. Sympathy I didn’t want, nor deserve. “Brodie,” I said and turned to him, “I’m going to drive Grace to the church, and then walk home. We should catch up later to . . .” I let my voice trail off, hoping he’d understand. We still needed to talk to Boone, and the paparazzo.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll hang out a bit, see if I can have a chat with our friend in room three.”
I took Grace’s hand, helping her down the steep stairs and into the passenger seat of her car. I moved to the driver’s side, pausing before joining her. My eyes scanned the rooms above.
Both looked so similar, the only difference being a single black unit number on the door. Could Marcus’s death be as tragic as a wrong room number?
Brodie raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Text me if you find out anything useful from our friend.”
“Will do,” he said. “Better ask Grace if she heard anything that night before she tears up again.”
“Will do,” I echoed.
And with that, I dropped into the sleek leather seats of Grace’s BMW.