So much for my vow to myself that I wouldn’t reveal anything to Max of what Kyle told me about the investigation. Nope, as soon as I locked the doors to Levitation Latte that afternoon and said goodbye to Deanne, I had my cell phone out and was sending a text.
We need to talk, I wrote. Some new info just surfaced.
At least Max didn’t seem to be one of those people who left his phone in another room and didn’t check it for hours. Almost as soon as I’d sent the message, he wrote back, Come over now?
Be there in 10.
He sent me a simple, “k,” and I hurried into the back room to retrieve my purse and check on Tilly’s food and water. Everything seemed to be ready for her next visit…whenever that turned out to be…and so I let myself out and got behind the wheel of my Subaru.
Before I exited the alley that backed up to the shop, I looked anxiously from side to side, worried that the silver SUV hadn’t really disappeared from the scene but had only retreated to a less obvious location. However, I didn’t spot the vehicle anywhere in the vicinity, and so I pulled into the street and headed east.
During the entire drive, I kept checking the rearview mirror and looking over my shoulder — an activity that almost made me rear-end a Toyota pickup when they stopped suddenly to allow someone to jaywalk across National Avenue — but I still didn’t see the annoying paparazzo. Maybe Kyle really had put the fear of God in him.
Whatever the reason for my stalker’s absence, I was able to make my way to the turn-off for Max’s rented ranch without anyone tailing me or appearing to take any particular interest in where I was going. When I pulled up to the gate, it was to find Lou standing there.
His expression was a little less intimidating than it had been during my first visit, possibly because I was now a known quantity. “You can go right up,” he said. “Mr. Sullivan is waiting for you.”
Pretty much the same exchange as the first time I’d come here, and yet I still found it reassuring that I hadn’t been challenged in any way. I said, “thanks so much,” and then continued along the narrow lane that wound its way through the property. As before, I found myself wondering just how big this place was. A couple hundred acres at least, making it exactly the kind of secluded spot a Hollywood celebrity in hiding might want.
This time, though, Max was standing outside the house. Apparently, Lou hadn’t been joking when he’d said his boss was waiting for me.
I parked in front of the garage and got out of my Subaru. Although I’d been in a hurry to leave the coffee shop and come see Max, that haste hadn’t prevented me from brushing my hair, blotting my nose with a sheet of rice paper from the little packet I kept in my purse, and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss. Whether any of that primping would have any effect on him was debatable, but at least I felt a little more confident as I approached him where he stood under the portico that sheltered the front door.
Being Max, he didn’t seem too concerned that I was in possession of information important enough to come running over here the second I got off work. “How was the drive?” he asked.
“It was fine,” I said. “At least this time, I didn’t have any paparazzi following me.”
His brow furrowed just the tiniest bit. “Excuse me?”
“Long story.”
At once, his expression cleared. “Well, I’ve got some sangria waiting for us. Let’s pour a couple of glasses, and then you can tell me all about it out on the patio.”
Of course he had sangria. Then again, what else did he have to do with his time while he sat here and waited for the trial to roll around?
I told myself he probably had plenty of things to keep him occupied — consults with his attorney, probably some damage-control sessions with his agent and manager and PR person, and whoever else he kept on staff to maintain his squeaky-clean public image.
Not that it was so squeaky at the moment.
A brief detour into the kitchen to pour some glasses of sangria from a gorgeous pitcher that matched our blown-glass goblets from Mexico, and then we headed out to the patio. Just like the last time we’d sat out here, the weather was picture-perfect — the sky blue with just a few clouds floating past, the breeze warm and inviting. It was hard to believe October was now only a few weeks away, although our mild weather often lasted midway into that month.
After we’d both sat down in the outdoor living room, Max on the sofa and me on the love seat, he said, “So, what’s this about the paparazzi?”
Just as I had with Deanne earlier that day, I explained about the guy who’d been camped out in front of my house, and how I’d done my best to ditch him but obviously hadn’t been successful, considering the way he’d shown up at the coffee shop only a few hours later.
“It wasn’t that he did anything exactly threatening,” I concluded. “But just having him around was creeping both Deanne and me out. So, I called the cops on him.”
“Good,” Max observed, and then swallowed some sangria. “I’m sorry about that.”
“‘Sorry’?” I repeated as I gave him a blank look. “Why should you be sorry?”
“Because if it weren’t for me, that guy would never have been following you around in the first place.” He paused there, his expression irritated. “One of the things they do is try to prey on the people around a celebrity, follow them around in case they can dig up something interesting. I probably should have warned you.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not as though you haven’t had a lot on your mind.”
“Still.”
If we’d had a different kind of relationship, I might have reached over and given him a reassuring pat on the knee or something. As it was, I had to settle for shrugging before I sipped some of my own sangria. It was excellent, full of fresh fruit flavors, but with a definite kick that told me he’d poured some brandy in there in addition to the red wine.
I’d have to make sure I only had this one glass. It definitely wouldn’t do for me to be even a little off balance as I left the property, just in case any more intrepid photographers were lying in wait, trying to see if they could get their own photos of the mysterious woman who kept coming and going from Max Sullivan’s rented ranch with such regularity.
Too bad for them that the reality was a whole lot less salacious than what they were probably thinking.
There wasn’t any easy way to ask, and so I just blurted, “Did you know that Perry Lockhart was thinking of firing you?”
Max stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “What?”
I supposed I could forgive him for looking so shocked. Speaking quickly, I replied, “My contact on the police force told me their investigators found evidence on Perry Lockhart’s laptop indicating he wanted you off the movie.”
Still looking as though someone had smacked him upside the head with a wet fish, Max waggled his jaw for a second, and then said, “Your ‘contact’? What is this, the CIA?”
Despite the circumstances, I had to smile a little. “I’m not going to tell you their name because I don’t want them to get in any trouble for telling me this stuff. And I don’t have a lot of details, so I can’t tell you what exactly was found. But my contact seemed to think the evidence was pretty incriminating.”
“It would provide a motive…I guess,” Max responded. He drank some sangria, a bigger swallow than the last one. “On the other hand, losing a role generally isn’t the sort of thing that leads to homicide.”
“Have you ever been let go from a movie job?” I asked then. I didn’t think so, but I also hadn’t memorized every single detail of his career. It was entirely possible he’d been hired during the pre-production stage of a film and then had been quietly dismissed when the director realized he wouldn’t be a good fit.
“Never,” he said without hesitation. “And I don’t know why Perry wouldn’t have talked to me if he wasn’t feeling the vibe. We’re all grown-ups, you know.”
Well, Max mostly acted like a grown-up. From what I’d seen of Perry Lockhart, I thought he’d had the petulant child thing pretty well down pat.
“It would also explain why he was being so brutal to you on set, though,” I ventured. “Maybe he wanted to let you go but the producers wouldn’t go along with the plan.”
A few seconds passed as Max absorbed this theory, and then he inclined his head ever so slightly, reluctance clear in the shadow that went over his face. “I suppose I can see that,” he said. “I mean, it was the studios who prevailed on Perry to hire me in the first place. It was pretty obvious they were worried the film would be a flop if they didn’t have some box-office muscle in the person they cast as the lead.”
“And so Perry did whatever he could to make your life hell during filming,” I went on. “He must have been trying to work up a case for getting rid of you by making it seem as though you couldn’t get anything right.”
“Jackass,” Max muttered, and sipped some more sangria.
I couldn’t really argue with that description of his former director. If Perry really hadn’t wanted Max in the lead role, he should have just put his foot down.
But then, it was easy for me to make that kind of judgment about the situation, since I’d never had to operate under that kind of pressure. I wouldn’t pretend to know anything about the machinations behind producing a big-ticket Hollywood movie, but I had to believe it could get pretty cutthroat when millions and millions of dollars were involved.
Because I’d delivered my bad news and now didn’t really know what I should do next, I also drank some sangria. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, and then Max set down his glass and actually smiled.
“Thanks for telling me about this,” he said. “I know it doesn’t look good on the surface, but I’m sure Beverly will know how to handle it.”
“I suppose that’s why you pay her the big bucks,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.
“Exactly. And the thing is, they might have found evidence on Perry’s computer that he was planning to can me, but unless they can produce a letter or an email or a recording of a voicemail or conversation that proves he actually talked to me about it, I don’t see how this evidence is going to help them in the long run.”
Being so optimistic definitely was an impressive skill. But then, Max’s life had always gone the way he wanted it to. Not because he was the sort of person to browbeat or bully people, or to cheat or gaslight or do any of a hundred other kinds of underhanded stuff that was often employed by unscrupulous people, but simply because he just seemed to be blessed, like all the fairies had been able to deliver their gifts of luck and beauty and charisma without getting interrupted by the one bad fairy who would put the kibosh on the whole thing. Quite literally, this was probably the first time in his life when he’d had to confront a situation he couldn’t charm away.
I realized then that Max needed to believe everything was going to be okay, that this was all just a misunderstanding that could be cleared up by a careful application of common sense and belief in the goodness of people. Very likely, he would find it difficult — if not impossible — to believe there were those who would look at the evidence and think he had to be guilty, just because they very well might have been driven to murder under similar circumstances.
Well, I told myself, just make sure this never goes to trial, and then you won’t have to worry about a bunch of jurors taking this so-called “evidence” the wrong way.
Sure. I’d get right on that.
“True, this piece of evidence might not help,” I said diplomatically. “I suppose that’s for your attorney to figure out. But I wanted to make sure you had as much information in hand as possible so you wouldn’t get blindsided.”
“And I appreciate that,” Max replied, now leaning forward a little bit, as though he wanted to make sure I recognized his sincerity. “Honestly, this would have all been a hell of a lot harder to deal with if I didn’t know you were in my corner.”
“I am,” I said, praying I wouldn’t blush at his words. Not for the first time, I wished I’d inherited my mother’s olive complexion rather than the fair skin from my father’s side of the family, which seemed to show everything. “And so are a lot of other people. We’re all rooting for you.” I stopped there, and sent him a quick glance from beneath my eyelashes. “How’re your parents holding up?”
He didn’t quite grimace, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely happy I’d asked the question. “About as well as you might think. I mean, they know I didn’t do it, but they keep having to field questions, and my mom’s having the hardest time of it.”
I could imagine. Tina Sullivan was the assistant principal at West Las Vegas Middle School, and I could only imagine the crap she probably had to deal with on a daily basis. Thirteen-year-olds weren’t exactly known for their tact at the best of times, and for one of their school’s authority figures to have a son accused of murder?
No, thanks. I’d rather be chased by paparazzi until the end of my days.
Ian Sullivan owned a contracting company, so that meant he was his own boss and could shut down any lines of questioning that got too out of hand. At the same time, he might have lost a few contracts over this whole mess. I wouldn’t ask, though; that sort of thing was between Max and his parents. If any kind of work shortfall caused a problem for them, I had to imagine he would step in and help out.
At least being accused of murder hadn’t put a dent in his enormous bank accounts…yet.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. A wholly inadequate comment, but I had to hope he understood. “We’re going to get this all straightened out, and then everything will go back to normal.”
“‘Normal,’” Max repeated in musing tones. “That would be nice.”
Since I wasn’t sure of the best way to respond, I instead lifted my glass of sangria. Just as I was about to take a sip, Max’s phone — which had been sitting on the stone coffee table in front of us — rang. He grimaced and looked down at the phone’s screen.
“My agent,” he said. “I need to take this.”
“No problem,” I told him, and then allowed myself a delayed swallow of sangria.
As I settled against the back of the love seat where I was sitting, Max picked up the phone and held it to his ear. “Hi, Margaret. I — ”
He stopped there, making me think his agent had cut him off before he could go any further. Then his face went curiously blank, the half-smile he’d been wearing disappearing as though someone had just swiped an eraser over his face.
Since I wasn’t sure what else to do, I sipped some more sangria and then made myself gaze out at the dry hillsides around us, the shimmering green leaves of the cottonwood trees lining the creek that cut through the property. I had no idea what Max’s agent was calling about, but I had to believe it wasn’t anything good.
At length he said, “Sure, sure. I understand. No, I’ll be here until after the trial. Thanks.”
And he took the phone away from his ear and set it down on the table before picking up his own glass of sangria and taking a very large swallow.
Uh-oh. Not that I needed to worry about Max drinking — it wasn’t as though he needed to drive anywhere after this — but he was usually more careful than that.
I waited in uneasy silence, knowing I needed to let him speak first.
Another swallow of sangria, and then he took a breath and said, “They just dropped me from my next film.”
Oh, no. I stared at him and replied, “They can do that?”
He sent me a grim smile, but at least he set down his glass rather than fortifying himself with yet another gulp of his high-octane drink. “Sure. We hadn’t started filming yet, and there’s always some kind of escape clause written into a contract. The studio execs just thought it was a good idea to get someone else in the role, considering how up in the air everything is.”
His voice was way too calm. I could tell he was doing everything he could to hold it together rather than vent his anger and frustration in front of me.
I began, “I thought you said filming doesn’t start until January — ”
Still in that preternaturally calm tone, he broke in, “It doesn’t. But they’re already in pre-production, and they just don’t want the movie associated with someone who’s accused of murder.”
“We’re going to clear your name,” I protested, and he only gave a weary lift of his shoulders.
“Maybe,” he said. “But the studio needed to make a decision now, and so I’m out.” He released a breath, and his mouth tightened. “Seriously, I’m starting to think I’m cursed.”
“Sounds more like bad luck to me,” I commented, and he raised an eyebrow, looking a little more like himself.
“You don’t believe in curses?” he asked. His tone was serious enough that I could tell he expected an equally serious response. “Even though you can read the future in tea leaves?”
“It’s not exactly reading the future,” I responded. “Like I said, it’s more like getting hints. Anyway, that’s a far cry from making a voodoo doll and sticking pins in it, or whatever.”
Now he actually smiled. “I suppose that makes sense. Still, I think I’d rather believe someone back in Hollywood decided to take the wind of out my sails by casting a curse on me than think my luck has suddenly taken a sharp turn into the crapper.”
Considering he’d been surrounded by a halo of good luck pretty much his entire life, I could see why he might think that. And while I honestly didn’t know whether curses or hexes or whatever you wanted to call them were a real thing, what I did know was that my best and oldest friend definitely hadn’t been able to catch a break lately.
I needed to change that…as soon as humanly possible.
Before I could respond, Max’s phone rang again. His mouth twisted, and I could tell he didn’t want to look down at the screen.
Habit won out, though, and he glanced at his phone. “Oh, hell. It’s my lawyer. I really need to take this.”
“It’s fine,” I said. No way in the world would I tell him to blow off a call from his attorney.
He picked up the phone and said, “Hi, Beverly.” A pause while he listened, and then he replied, “No, that’s okay. I actually have some new information I need to talk to you about. Just a sec.” He put his hand over the microphone and looked at me, his expression apologetic. “Sorry, Skye. Beverly wants to come over and talk strategy, so — ”
“It’s fine,” I said at once, and set down my glass of sangria. “You can tell her about what they found on Perry’s laptop.”
A grin. “That’s the plan.”
His moment of melancholy appeared to have departed as quickly as it had come, and that made me feel a little better. This was the Max I knew and loved, the guy who always needed to be acting, needed to be moving forward.
“I’ll let myself out,” I said, and he gave me a grateful nod as he moved his hand from the phone and spoke again.
“Sure, Beverly. Come on over.”
I slung my purse over my shoulder and waved, then made my way through the house and out to the spot where I’d parked my car. The whole way, I fought my disappointment, telling myself I’d delivered the information about Perry’s laptop to Max and that it was clear he now had more important claims on his time.
And I couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty for sharing that information at all, even though I’d done my best to conceal exactly who my informant was. If Kyle had known I was going to run off to Max at the first opportunity and spill the beans, he probably wouldn’t have said anything at all.
But I tried to console myself that all this would come out in discovery anyway, so the most I’d done was give Max a jump on things. For all I knew, his lawyer was calling because she’d just gotten those same facts from the Las Vegas P.D.
Lou was still standing guard as I left — no big surprise, since I’d only been at the ranch for about forty-five minutes at the most — and I waved to him as I drove past. No hint of surprise on his broad features at my early departure, but I supposed someone who worked security for the rich and famous was probably used to keeping his thoughts to himself.
No sign of the paparazzo, either. My drive back to the house was uneventful, and I pulled into the driveway and went into the house via the back porch without having to worry about getting tackled.
In fact, the whole episode felt oddly anticlimactic. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but whatever it was, it sure hadn’t happened.
Usually when I got home from work, I’d put my feet up for a while and let myself relax into watching something mindless on TV. Right then, however, I knew I was in no mood for such a time-wasting activity. I hated the thought of Max losing work over this awful misunderstanding.
I needed to do something.
And all right, I guessed that a lot of people would argue he wasn’t exactly in danger of ending up on the street, considering he’d earned close to a hundred million dollars over the past eight or nine years, but still. If one studio bailed out, then I had to believe others would follow soon enough.
The bleeding needed to be stanched ASAP.
Easy for me to say. I wasn’t his lawyer, or a cop, or anyone who could be remotely useful in this kind of situation.
No, but I was someone with an odd little gift…and now was the time to use it.
Mouth set, I headed into the kitchen.
Time for tea.