“What the hell!” Des had evidently just entered the kitchen.
“Well, Billy,” April asked, “is this the way one cooks rat?”
“I’m not exactly an Iron Chef when it comes to preparing rodents,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure that when they cook them in Vietnam and Thailand, they clean out the intestines, then deep-fry them. Whoever did this wasn’t planning dinner, they were sending a message.”
“What feckin’ message might that be, Billy?” Des asked, as if daring me to reply.
I shrugged. “Could be anything from ‘A rat for a rat’ to ‘Nothin’ says lovin’ like roast rat in the oven.’ ”
“Fitz, git yer bloody arse in here,” Des yelled.
The big man entered with a worried look. “Somebody’s been in the game room.”
“Stop eyeballin’ me, you bloody wanker,” Des yelled, “and tell me if ya see anything warped in here.”
Fitz looked from Des to April, then to me. I pointed at the rat.
“Sweet mother of God! A feckin’ rat?” His head turned in Des’s direction fast enough to cause whiplash. “What do you—”
“I’m bolting,” Des said, heading for the door. “I don’t stay in places where anybody can just stroll in and light up a ratter in my stove.”
“Hold on a second,” I said.
When he didn’t, I rushed after him. “I’m pretty sure the message was meant for me,” I said.
He halted and turned. “Okay, Billy, you got my attention.”
I sensed rather than saw the others following us into the room. “As April will tell you, a fellow chef named Roger Charbonnet went a little postal at the party last night and came after me.”
“Charbonnet is a well-known hothead,” April added. “Billy cooled him off by tossing him into the swimming pool.”
Des raised an eyebrow. “Well, Billy. A regular Jackie Feckin’ Chan, are we?”
“All I did was duck.”
“What set the bloke off?”
“A feud from way back,” I said. “I’d hoped it was forgotten, but apparently not.”
“Apparently,” Des repeated. “And he’s that big a nutter he’d bust into a house and cook up a rat?”
Twenty-three years ago he murdered his girlfriend, I thought. What I said was, “Yeah, Des, I think he’s that big a nutter.”
“Amazin’. This really is header heaven out here.”
“How’d he get past the security guys?” Fitz asked.
“He could have been put on the guest list by Stew Gentry’s daughter,” I said. “He’s been seeing her.”
“Gentry’s daughter?” Des asked.
“Yes. She lives with Stew,” I said. “Des, this guy Charbonnet is my problem. I’ll head to a hotel in the morning and make sure he gets word he chased me off. He won’t be bothering you again.”
Des strolled to the bar, poured a couple of inches of Jameson into a tumbler, and shot it. “Fact is, Billy, I was gonna tell Max that this crib wasn’t what I wanted. It’s too damn far from the studio. And my Irish hide takes to the sun like a fish takes to the desert. Next to me, David Caruso looks like bloody George Hamilton. I’d already decided to move inland, to Brentwood or Beverly Hills. This beach-blanket bullshit isn’t for me.”
“Could be a pricey mistake,” April said.
“Not mine. It’s the production company’s responsibility.” Des took another bite of Jameson, then turned to Fitz. “Pack up, bucko, we’re boltin’.” To April, he added, “Find us a fine hotel, will you, luv? Two suites. Tout de suite.”
“What’s the rush, Des?” I asked. “Sleep on it. Tomorrow, I’ll take care of the problem.”
“I’m not waitin’ around to see if the nutter left us something a little more lethal than the rodent dinner. You worry about yourself, old lad. If you think you can keep the bogeyman at bay, the villa’s all yours for the rest of the month. I know Max is on the hook for at least that. I’d rather think a pal was gettin’ some use out of it.”
“I feel terrible—”
“Hey. Get it straight, Billy. I wasn’t gonna stick around here anyway. And it wasn’t you cooked the rat.” He grinned. “If it had been, the damned thing might be worth a taste. All I ask is you keep this episode on the down-low. This is not the kind of publicity I’m lookin’ for. You clear on that, April? This rat thing never happened, right?”
“I’m not a novice at this, Des,” she said.
“In fact, not to put too fine a point to it, let’s make it one of your priorities to keep my off-camera activities out of the bloody tabs.”
“As much as I love you,” she said, “a lot of those cats are already out of the bag. Your East Coast PR reps have done an excellent job of getting you press for the show. And a lot of that, like the piece in GQ that just dropped, focuses on your ‘dark Irish moods’ and ‘fondness for single-malt and married supermodels.’ So … I’ll do what I can. But if you want to keep your private life private, you’ll have to monk up. There are too many paparazzi, professional and amateur, for you to think you can even cop a quick feel in public without it showing up on TMZ in high-def.”
“Point made,” Des said. “But keep my name off the hotel rez, okay?”
“How about … Daniel Knight Lewis,” she said.
He smiled. “That’s brilliant, darlin’.”
With that, he rushed off to put the whip to his packing mule, Fitz.
April brought out her phone but paused before making the reservations. “Billy, how sure are you it was Roger Charbonnet who broke in here?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then since it’s your rat, do you think you could dispose of it?”
I nodded, but I felt a little odd about it, as if I was getting rid of evidence. Of course, the “crime” didn’t seem all that serious.
You’d think, by now, I would know better.