CHAPTER FIVE

 

I gunned my little Bug, ignoring the speed limit. I had to catch Mrs. Baxter leaving her home before she got too far ahead of me and I lost her. I'd just rounded the last curve leading to the Baxter estate when a black BMW zoomed past me. I recognized the car as the one that had been sitting in the Baxters' driveway earlier in the day when I'd been talking to Marta. A second later a text pinged in from Shane.

She just left

I turned around in front of the Baxters' house, quickly heading back down the hill after the BMW. As soon as I caught sight of her, I hung back. The last thing I wanted to do was spook her into thinking she was being followed. I let her weave through the turns a few car lengths ahead of me, staying just close enough to keep her in sight.

Once we made it out of the hills, she stayed on Highland, following it all the way to Wilshire. I stayed behind her one lane over and to the right to avoid being spotted. We bobbed and weaved through the evening traffic until she pulled up to the Grand Hotel and Spa.

Checking into a hotel for the night? That might explain the bag Shane had seen her toss onto the backseat of her car.

I pulled around the building and parked in a slot marked Visitor instead of valeting my car. After paying off Shane to spy for me, I was a smidge low on funds. I jogged back around to the front of the building just in time to see a woman I assumed was Marilyn Baxter get out of her car. She was a tall, extremely thin, platinum blonde with high cheekbones and obviously enhanced lips. And boobs. And butt. I wondered if there was anything on her that wasn't man-made. From my vantage point, she appeared to be your typical trophy wife. I silently wondered how long she and Bobby had been together.

I watched her hand a bellboy a black overnight bag and a tip and stroll inside. I followed a step behind, pushing through the revolving door. She was at the check-in desk. I busied myself looking at some magazine racks in the gift shop until she thanked the clerk and made her way down the hall toward the spa.

I waited a two-Mississippi count then followed. She chatted with a short brunette at the spa's front desk for a moment. Then she was led into another room, where I could see pedicure chairs set up in neat little rows. Mrs. Baxter sat and put her feet into one of the tubs before the brunette walked away.

My piggies immediately whimpered with jealousy inside my ballet flats. It had been more than a month since my last pedicure. I wiggled my toes. A pedicure would be a great excuse to strike up a conversation with Marilyn. I mentally calculated just how much room I had left before hitting my credit card limit. I could pay a couple of bills a little late, couldn't I? I mean, who really needed electricity?

Mind made up, I walked into to the spa and up to the reception desk.

The woman manning it smiled at me in greeting. "Welcome to the Grand Hotel Spa. I'm Elizabeth. How may I help you?"

"I'm Allie. I was wondering if you happen to have an opening for a pedicure?"

Without even looking at her book, she beamed at me. "Of course. We have several chairs open at the moment. Are you a guest of the hotel?"

"No, I'm just stopping in," I said and returned her smile.

"No problem. I only ask because hotel guests are automatically given a discount."

She then waved over a woman of average height with brown hair and a pale complexion.

"This is Callie. She'll take good care of you."

"Thanks," I said and followed the young woman to the line of chairs along the back wall. Callie sat me one chair away from Marilyn. I toed off my shoes and placed my feet in the warm bubbly footbath Callie provided.

"Peppermint, lavender, or vanilla?" she asked me and motioned toward a line of scented oils.

"Vanilla please," I answered.

She placed a few drops in the bath. "I'll be back in a few minutes. You just sit here and relax." She smiled and then walked away.

The scent of smooth, creamy vanilla wafted up to meet me, and I had to fight the urge to close my eyes and relax against the soft cushiony seat.

I shook myself out of the little heaven I was enjoying and set my mind firmly back on the reason I was splurging on the little luxury my feet rested in.

I glanced over to Marilyn. She was wearing a short skirt, which was the designer version of a knockoff I had in my own closet, and a red sleeveless blouse. Her hair was piled high atop her head, and white gold and ruby chandelier earrings dangled from her earlobes. She was reading the latest copy of Vogue magazine and completely ignoring the world around her. I made a mental note to see if my copy had come in the mail when I got home. I spotted her shoes, a pair of black Christian Louboutin's, sitting in the chair between us.

"I love your shoes," I said and smiled.

She glanced at me then said in a bored tone, "Thanks. They were a gift from my husband."

"Wow. Lucky girl."

"If you say so," she said with a slight shrug and continued perusing her magazine.

I could see that she wasn't going to be an easy nut to crack. Just my luck. So I decided to just play it straight.

"You're Marilyn Baxter, aren't you?"

This time, she looked at me fully. "Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Allie Quick. I'm a reporter for the L.A. Informer. I had an interview with your husband set up for yesterday, but he rescheduled, and then he was killed last night."

"And you think I can tell you something about that?" She pursed her blood red lips and narrowed her eyes at me.

"Your husband wanted to tell me his side of the story. About this altercation with that fan at Beverly's. I was hoping maybe you could help fill in the blanks."

She snorted. "You were, huh?"

"For example, where were you last night when he was killed?"

At that moment, her nail technician came over and shut off Marilyn's footbath, drying her feet in a large, fluffy towel.

"Listen, Abby," Marilyn said.

"Allie," I corrected her.

"Whatever." She waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I don't know how you got in here, but I'm not talking to the press. Least of all the tabloids." She said the last word as if it had a foul odor.

I let it roll off of me. This wasn't the first time I'd been subjected to rude comments concerning my career, and if I was doing my job right, it wouldn't be the last.

"I hear he was cheating on you," I said, almost offhandedly.

She froze. "Who told you that?"

I shrugged. "A source."

She shook her head, her eyes spitting fire at me. "You people are relentless. This is why I checked in here for the week in the first place. To get away from the likes of you!"

With that, she stood, grabbed her shoes out of the chair, and followed her tech to another area of the spa before I could say a single word in response.

So much for questioning her about her whereabouts. But at least I knew where she would be for the next week. I guess some women figured a spa week could fix anything, even their husband's murder.

Since I was already there, and probably already obligated to pay, I let Callie finish my pedi. An hour later I was back at home with a fresh coat of perfectly pink polish on my toes. I reheated my enchiladas, which were the consistency of cardboard at that point, then tossed those and microwaved the mac 'n cheese instead. It wasn't bad, especially when paired with a glass of chardonnay that I felt I had so earned after the day I'd had.

Once I'd drained my glass, I grabbed a quick shower and slid into a pair of pajamas with little purple pigs on them then pulled my laptop out.

Felix was online. Most likely working late. He was a bit of a workaholic, although he'd never admit it. I PMed him.

How was your day?

Busy, he responded.

Want to come over and relax a little? I can make some popcorn, and we can watch a movie? I asked. I knew chances were slim, but a girl had to try when she could.

Rain check? Got work to do still tonight.

Gee, he was really racking up those rain checks. At this point, he was close to a monsoon.

I was about to type back when he shot off, I'll talk to you tomorrow, and then a second later he signed off without awaiting a response.

I stared at the computer screen for another minute longer then closed it and set it on the nightstand. I tried to shut down the niggling worry that Felix was blowing me off. Could it be he didn't want to see me anymore? I realized that we hadn't actually said a word to each other all day at work. Granted, we'd both been busy. But it still felt odd.

Was this what it was like breaking up with someone you worked with? Would he be awkward and silent around me at work? Then blow me off in private? Oh God, would I need to find a new job? I'd barely gotten the one at the Informer. Would Felix even give me a reference? How did that work with ex-girlfriends?

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I counted to ten.

Get a grip, girl. Felix was not breaking it off with me. I was being melodramatic. Probably.

I switched off the bedside lamp, snuggled my cat, and closed my eyes, trying not to think about it.

 

*   *   *

 

The next morning I was moving at a surprisingly decent pace through traffic on the 5, when I decided to take a quick detour to check out Bobby's apartment in Culver City before hitting the office. While I was sure the police had been all over it already, I figured it was at least worth a stop. They'd been looking for evidence of a crime, not necessarily the makings of a great story. Granted, solving the crime would make for the best story, but I was in take what you can get mode.

Culver City sat just west of the city of Los Angeles, nestled conveniently between the two main arteries of the region, the 405 and the 10 freeways. While the landscape wasn't much to write home about—mostly filled with tall concrete and glass buildings—it was prime real estate for studios, mega-agencies, and network headquarters. Bobby's condo was just off Jefferson, near the park—one of the rare units in town with a view of something green.

I found an empty spot at the curb a couple of blocks up from his building, parked, and adjusted my pencil skirt as I got out. The building looked roughly the same as all of the other ones on the block. Stucco exterior, balconies on the upper floors, underground parking for the residents, and a small lobby in front with mailboxes and an elevator. I took it up to the third floor, where Bobby's address was, but as soon as I approached his unit, I knew something was off.

Yellow crime scene tape fluttered along the sides of the door, which was partly ajar. I bit my lip, looking over both shoulders.

Reporter Me said, Awesome! We can get inside. Just push the door open and let's look around!

Coward Me said, Are you freakin' nuts!? What if whoever broke in is still in there?

I did an "eeny, meeny, miny, moe," and in the end, Reporter Me won out. I'd just do a quick little look around. And I'd leave the door open so I could make a fast escape if needed. And I pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on—no sense in leaving any fingerprints behind in case the police weren't done here. Then I grabbed my phone and let my finger hover over the icon for the Informer's number in case anything went wrong.

I took a deep breath and pushed my way in, my eyes sweeping the place from my spot in the doorway. It looked like your average bachelor pad. A leather couch sat in front of a big screen TV, a small kitchen—looking largely unused—sat to the left, and a hallway led to the right, presumably to bedrooms. A balcony sat off the living room, offering a view of the park and a gas station the next block over. Nothing looked terrifically out of place, but then again, I had no idea what this place had looked like when Bobby had inhabited it.

I took a hesitant step forward, listening for any signs of life. "Hello?" I called out.

The only answer I got was silence.

I let out a little sigh of relief and took a few more steps in, leaving the front door partially open behind me. "Anyone here?" I asked as I moved through the living room toward the hallway. Four doors opened up off the hall. I peeked my head in the first one and found a guest bedroom. Queen bed, chest of drawers, and a chair by the window. Nothing that looked personal. I moved on.

The second doorway led to a guest bath, and the third to what looked like a home office with a desk and a couple of bookcases flanking the high window.

If Bobby had any personal notes or correspondence on the shows he'd been working on, I had a hunch this was where he'd keep it. I quickly moved around the desk. No computer, I noticed. Bummer. But if there had been one here, presumably the police would have taken it with them. They had left a cordless phone, but no lights blinked indicating messages. Not surprising. If Bobby was like most people, anything interesting or personal would be on his cell anyway—which was again likely in the custody of the police.

I randomly pulled out drawers, finding the usual mix of items like pens, rubber bands, stamps, and sticky notepads. Nothing terribly interesting. The first bookcase held mostly nonfiction and a lot of tell-alls. The second was devoted to file folders, notebooks, and what looked like shooting scripts. I pulled one out. Love: Myth or Just Hormones. I grinned, feeling a bit of sad nostalgia that there would never be any more clever revelations from Bobby Baxter. As much as he'd seemed a diva and a jerk in person, I really had been a fan of the show. I set the script back on the shelf.

And that was when I heard it.

A dull thud from the end of the hallway.

I froze, my hand midway from the bookcase, ears straining to hear more. I was not alone in the condo. Damn, why hadn't I listened to Cowardly Me?

I tiptoed to the doorway and gingerly peeked out. The last door off the hallway led to the master bedroom. And someone was in there. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and then took one tentative step into the hallway. If I made a quick sprint of it, I could maybe get to the front door and out of here before whoever had broken in saw me. Maybe. If they didn't have good reflexes. Or a gun.

That last thought shot a new round of adrenaline through me. I took one more step…

"Freeze!"

I screamed as a figure appeared in the master bedroom doorway, brandishing some sort of weapon high above his head.

Or, her head, I noticed as I paused in my banshee screech just long enough to register what I was looking at.

"Tina!" I shouted, taking in the purple hair, the poison green boots, and the retro Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt over trendy black jeans.

She blinked at me, her breath coming fast. "Allie! God, what are you doing here?" she asked. She lowered the weapon to her side. Which I now noticed was not a gun but a hair dryer.

I grinned. "I think the better question is, what are you doing here? Need a little styling before work?" I gestured to the hairdryer.

She frowned and tossed it onto the bed behind her. "It was the closest thing I could grab when I heard you. Cripes, you scared me. I thought you were an intruder."

"Ditto," I admitted. "You the one who broke the crime scene seal?" I asked as I took a step forward, joining her in the master bedroom.

She shrugged. "The crime scene tape had already been cut, and the door was open when I got here."

"Open?"

She shrugged. "Unlocked."

Close enough.

"Well, you scared me half to death," I told her, looking around. Bobby's bedroom was sadly as void of personal effects as the guest room had been. A king-sized bed took up the majority of the room, flanked by two nightstands, and an entryway on the left opened to a master bath. "So, find anything interesting?" I asked.

Tina smirked. "Right. Like I'd share it with you."

That was what I figured. "Tell you what—how about you show me yours, and I'll show you mine?" I offered. Which seemed like a safe enough trade considering I really didn't have much.

She narrowed her eyes at me, seemingly considering this. "I dunno. How do I know that you've got anything useful?"

Dang she was clever. "How do I know you do?" I countered.

She sucked in her cheeks and pursed her lips in thought. "Okay," she said finally. "You first. What's in the office?" she asked, gesturing to the room I'd just exited.

"Scripts, books, a landline."

She nodded. "And?"

"And that's it," I told her truthfully.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, that's not anything!"

"Hey, I didn't say I had anything. I just said I'd share."

Her eyes narrowed again. "Fine. Bobby's got a toilet, a sink, and a shower. Now I've shared."

My turn to roll my eyes. "Okay, this is pointless. The condo is a bust. But surely you've uncovered something about Bobby worth sharing?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head in the negative. "You. First."

I blew out a breath. "Okay, fine. Look, I know Bobby was working on three stories when he died. It's possible one of them might have been connected to his death." Which was true. Anything was possible at this point.

"What were they about?" Tina asked, her stance softening.

"The first was about dental hygiene, the second about laser hair removal, and the last one focused on a recycling plant called Sunshine Sanitation."

Tina nodded, obviously making mental notes. "Any idea which one might have involved something worth killing over?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

She shrugged. "Well, it's a start."

I cleared my throat and shot her an expectant look.

Tina smiled. "Okay, fair is fair. Bobby and his wife had a prenup."

"Oh, really?" This was good news. Well, for me. Maybe not for the wife. "What did it say?"

"Standard," Tina responded. "If she is convicted of a crime, she gets nothing. If she cheats, she gets nothing. If they divorce before their tenth anniversary, she gets nothing."

I thought back to the records I'd seen. They'd only been married a few years at best. "Wow. Nice motive for murder."

"Yeah, you think?" Tina's grin was a mile wide.

"How did you find this out?" I asked.

"His lawyer."

"His lawyer told you?"

Tina turned her head away, averting her eyes. "Not exactly."

I didn't want to know. It was probably illegal. Better to stay nonculpable.

"Anyway, there's really not much here. I did find this." She turned behind her and grabbed a slim tablet from the nightstand on the right of the bed. "But there's not much on it. Some ebooks, Candy Crush, Angry Birds—the usual junk."

I grabbed it and immediately swiped it on. A screen with a bunch of apps and documents came up. Tina was right—the home screen had several books, scripts, and a few games and various apps.

"The police took his computer. I'm surprised they didn't take this," I mused out loud.

"Well, it was kinda hidden."

I raised an eyebrow her way.

"He had it tucked between a couple of magazines in the bathroom. Looks like Bobby liked to read while…you know."

Ew! I looked down at the tablet in my hands, trying to calculate how much hand sanitizer was going to be needed to shake the cooties feel from my fingers.

I was about to drop the offending object like a hot potato, when one of the programs on the main screen caught my eye. A calendar. I quickly clicked it open while Tina grabbed the hair dryer and returned it to the bathroom.

The first page it opened to was this week. I scanned the entries. Several appointments were noted—mostly with his network, agent, and writers for the show. A couple of entries later in the evenings looked like they might be personal, though he'd only noted times and locations that looked like restaurants. I swiped through to the day he'd died, mentally crossing my fingers.

Three entries for that afternoon—all the usual meetings. That evening, however, he'd noted: SB DeVitto's 9pm.

"Anything good?" Tina emerged from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel.

I quickly closed the program. "Not really." My sharing streak only lasted so long.

She shrugged. "I'm gonna check out the kitchen. You wanna tag along?"

I shook my head, setting the germ-infested tablet back on the nightstand. "I'm good. I'll see you back at the office," I called over my shoulder as I hightailed it out of the condo.