Okay, I’ll state it right out. The typical New Year’s Eve celebration is not my thing. Dressing up, going to a crowded place with a bunch of people I don’t know, waiting for an hour that arrives way past my normal bedtime—I don’t do that. Yes, I’m probably the stodgiest thirty-something person you’ve ever met.
The champagne toast and kiss at midnight, well, that can be nice, but Drake and I have our own version. Our ideal New Year’s Eve consists of a nice candlelight dinner at home—he usually grills a couple of filet mignons and I make a salad—then we get a fire going and sit with mugs of Drake’s own special hot chocolate, and we talk. We share the high points of the past year, talk about our hopes for the new one, and at some point we tumble into bed and create some fireworks of our own.
And that was the plan this year, until he called from Double Eagle airport and asked if I would mind if we changed up the routine a little.
“Phil Schuster has invited us up to the Montaña Verde for the weekend, and I know we’d planned on doing our usual quiet celebration … but he is my biggest client.”
Anyone who’s lived in New Mexico any length of time has heard of the Montaña Verde Ranch. It’s a huge, sprawling property up north, semi-mountainous acreage mixed with wide valleys of grassland where, literally, the buffalo roam. Not to mention the deer and the antelope, the wild turkeys, and a variety of other native wildlife. I can’t recite the whole history of the property, but I do know that the term ‘ranch house’ does not do justice to the Spanish Colonial mansion that serves as ranch headquarters. Drake, having flown quite a few jobs for Schuster, has been there. I have not. And he knows I’ve been itching to see the place. So, of course, my answer was, oh yes!
There will be other New Year’s Eves to spend by the fire at home.
“Pack my tux and your fanciest dress,” he was saying. “If even half the guest list Phil rattled off actually shows up, prepare to be wowed. I’ll be home in an hour and we should head right out so we can get there before dark.”
I tucked the filets back into the fridge and called next door to be sure it was all right for our little spaniel, Freckles, to spend a night or two with Gram. That settled, I was staring into my closet when Drake walked in. And true to his word, we were back at Double Eagle, buckling into his JetRanger a little after noon. The flight would take slightly over an hour, and we had a beautiful day for it.
“So, tell me more about this soiree,” I said once we’d cleared Albuquerque airspace and were out over open country.
“You know that new movie they’ve been filming near Pecos? I guess it wrapped up yesterday. It sounds like most of the cast and all the execs are included on the guest list for Phil’s party.”
I tried to remember what I’d heard on the news. I knew our hosts were a big media titan and his actress wife, Felicia Weis. And I seemed to recall she was in the film Drake mentioned, a Western adapted from somebody’s bestselling novel. The young stars were this year’s Hollywood power couple, and the director had some umpty-ump Oscars to his name. Felicia was playing the role of the town’s boss lady—saloon keeper and gambling hall owner, or some such. What I know about current doings in the film world could not quite fill a teacup.
“We’ll have time to settle into our room and relax a bit. The party starts around ten tonight, and I get the impression midnight is just the beginning for this crowd. Phil says everyone will party till dawn and then sleep it off for a day or so before jetting back to California.”
I’m sure my expression conveyed my dismay. It’s a known fact that I turn into a pumpkin, a mushy one, well before midnight.
“Don’t worry. My plan is to try and get Phil-time this afternoon to talk business and line up a bunch of flight hours for the next few months at the ranch, then make enough of an appearance at the party to be sociable. We’ll stay as long or short a time as you like. We get a decent night’s sleep and fly back home before most of them have dragged themselves out of bed.”
I nodded my complete agreement. “Do I at least get a tour of the ranch?”
“Why, yes, ma’am, you do. In fact, if you’ll take note of that line of hills there to the north, that’s one of the property boundaries. We’ll be crossing over the southern boundary in another fifteen minutes or so.”
He pointed out a distinctive peak at roughly our ten o’clock position. “The Montaña Verde property extends just to the foot of McDermott’s Peak on the west. And I’m not entirely sure where the eastern boundary is. Doing some game counts in that area is part of the work I’m hoping to get, along with helping to round up some wayward steers from their herd. The last time I worked up here, Phil’s ranch foreman told me they had nearly three hundred head that had wandered up into the forested part of the property.”
Winter-brown grassland stretched out below, but it soon gave way to gentle foothills and then craggy red-rock bluffs dotted with juniper and dark green pines. Drake altered course slightly, keeping clear of the small regional airport where a couple of private jets sat parked on the tarmac.
I pointed downward at them. “Some of the guests?”
“Most likely. The ranch is only about ten miles away. I assume Phil is sending someone to pick up the new arrivals. It’s a fairly long winding road from town out to his place.”
And here we were, flying right in. I let myself enjoy a moment of snooty pride at arriving by helicopter. Thank goodness I’d thought to dress up my usual jeans and sweatshirt by switching to a cashmere sweater and adding suede boots.
Drake pointed out the road below us, a graveled trail that left the highway and wound its way alongside an arroyo and then into a mass of trees. I could see why the ten mile ride from the ranch into town easily took close to an hour.
We bypassed all that and approached the large Spanish Colonial hacienda. From the air, I spotted a circlet of smaller dwellings, some of them close to the size of our city house, and several outbuildings, including a huge barn with corral and a couple of maintenance sheds. On the east side of the main house stood a sprawling garage with five bays sized for cars and a taller one. An RV the size of a tour bus stood beside it.
“I usually land on that paved spot near the garages,” Drake told me. He pulled a neat left-pedal turn and positioned the aircraft precisely the right distance from the RV.
I stretched and unfastened my harness as he let the turbine engine wind down. A man in jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and a sheepskin jacket came toward us, ducking his head as he passed under our spinning blades and approached the side door.
“Hey, Drake,” he said when my husband opened the door and turned toward him. “Good to see you again. So glad you could make it.”
“Phil, thanks.” Drake turned to introduce me, and I realized this was the obscenely wealthy mogul I’d previously only seen in pictures where he was normally in a tuxedo, standing on a dais or a red carpet.
Schuster’s graying hair was cut short, and his neatly trimmed goatee framed a smile that was more genuine in person than it came across on television.
“Charlie, good to meet you. Drake’s talked a lot about you.”
Really? Luckily, I didn’t blurt it out. A handshake would be awkward across the width of the helicopter, so we exchanged nods and smiles.
“Once you’re shut down, we can use Benny’s little tow gizmo to pull your machine inside,” Phil said, indicating the high garage door that was now rolling upward. “Then come on in the house. Maria’s got some excellent cider that’ll warm you up, and we’ll get you settled.”
He smiled again and turned back toward the mansion.
“Wow, privileged, huh,” I said, staring into the well-lit opening of the garage.
“They treat you right here,” Drake agreed. “Most jobs, I’d be putting covers over the engine cowling and hoping the ship didn’t get battered around in the weather. A quick-moving storm front is coming through tonight. Wind and cold, not much snow. Hope that proves true.” He gave a final tug to the rotor brake and locked it in place. “At least we don’t need a runway to get airborne in the morning.”
“I love you,” I said, meeting his eyes.
“Love you more.” He bent toward me and gave me a tender kiss. Then things took a turn for the busy, as a man approached. The guys quickly got the JetRanger inside the high ceilinged garage, we pulled our bags from the back seat, and a second man in a quasi uniform of black slacks and white shirt appeared to take charge of them, repeating Phil’s invitation to come inside and warm up.
“You go ahead, hon,” Drake told me.
I knew he had a checklist of post-flight tasks, so I followed the young guy who had our garment bag over one arm and my wheeled suitcase trailing behind. My down jacket was adequate for the twenty yard trip down a bricked path, but the young staffer wore only a suit jacket for warmth and I could tell he was already shivering. When he opened the wide carved front door to the mansion, I insisted he go ahead. He said he would deliver our bags to our room, and he vanished up a curved staircase to my left.
I stepped into a gracious foyer with a high ceiling and a Mexican tin pendant fixture that cast muted golden light over the Saltillo tile flooring. In one corner stood an eighteen foot Christmas tree, covered in handcrafted New Mexican ornaments and strings of traditional blue lights. An ornate table sat on the opposite side of the space, and a punch bowl of Mexican silver was being kept warm by votive candles. A silver tray of sandwiches waited nearby. The scent of apples and cinnamon filled the room.
“Mrs. Langston?” said a soft female voice.
“Just Charlie is fine.” I’d never changed my last name from Parker, but I’m always happy to be associated with Drake’s name in social settings. “You must be Maria?”
She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs, and her soft voice and warm smile reminded me of a dark-haired version of my friend Linda Casper.
“Please, help yourself to refreshments and make yourself at home.” She extended an arm to indicate a spacious living room through a wide, arched doorway.
“Thank you. I’ll wait for my husband and then get something to eat, but I’d love to see the house right away. Can you give me a little tour?”
“I can handle that, Maria,” said a male voice. I turned to see the same young man who’d taken our bags.
“I’m Bobby,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”
I chuckled. “You sort of had your hands full.”
With a wave, he ushered me into the living room Maria had indicated. One end of the long rectangular space held a fireplace large enough that I could have stepped into it. At the other end, a grand piano sat tucked into a corner. Between them were several cozy groupings of couches and chairs, with a potted tree here and there. Next to the piano stood another tall Christmas tree, this one done up in a gold and silver theme.
Through an archway was the dining room. The long table was already set with an array of sparkling dinnerware and glasses.
“The fireplaces are mainly for mood, I think,” Bobby said, pointing to another huge stone one in this room. “The house was built in the early 1920s, and they say it was really modern for the times, with a central heating system. These registers are in all the rooms.”
I hadn’t noticed the metal grillwork, but once he pointed it out I could see that behind the ornate three-foot-square decorative front there stood a cast iron radiator. Glancing back through the arched doorway, I spotted two of them in the living room as well.
“Through that door is the kitchen. Not that you’ll have any need to go there. Any of these bell pulls throughout the house will get someone’s attention and you can have coffee or drinks or snacks brought to your room.”
We walked back into the living room, heading for a staircase near the piano, and I heard Drake’s voice.
“We’re in here,” I called out to him, and he quickly joined us as we climbed to the second floor and started down a wide corridor.
“All the guest rooms are in this wing. You’re in the turquoise suite,” he told us, pausing to open the third door on the left. A brass placard had Turquoise engraved on it, in case all those doorways became too confusing.
The bedroom lived up to its name. Pale aqua walls matched the fabric of the duvet on the king-sized bed, and curtains of heavy silk were patterned in shades of the same aqua, a darker turquoise, and a vivid coral. Small touches—throw pillows, flowers in a Nambé vase, and a luxurious woolen throw—all mirrored the same color scheme. An ensuite bath with charmingly old fixtures followed suit. Our bags sat on a chest at the foot of the bed.
“There’s a printed page … I don’t know if you’d call it a program or something … It tells what time and where everything happens later. Mr. Schuster says you can just settle in and rest a little if you’d like, or you can feel free to explore the rest of the house. The private guest rooms all have these,” he said, pointing to the brass nameplate, “just so no one will accidentally wander in on someone else.”
“Great. Got it.”
“Again, if you need anything, just pull on this.” He stroked an old-fashioned embroidered strip which hung near the door. “And otherwise, we’ll see everyone down in the living room this evening.” He left, pulling our bedroom door closed behind him.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m itching to see more of the property. You know, poke into the corners.”
“I could go for a little something to eat,” he said, reminding me of the spread of sandwiches downstairs.
“We can manage both.” I shed my down jacket and took a minute to hang our dressy outfits in the large armoire opposite the bed.
Instead of returning to the living room the same way we’d come, we took a left out of our room and strolled the long hallway, past other rooms named with colors on those little brass plaques. Nothing was simply red, blue, or green here—we passed doors announcing scarlet, cerulean, and forest. The hall turned to the left again, past a few more closed doors, and we came to the flight of stairs that deposited us back in the foyer where a dozen people all seemed to be talking at once.
Drake’s eyes went immediately to the table with the food; mine scanned the gathering crowd. I spotted familiar faces—Kelly Fontaine and her husband Josh Tracker, the power couple who were the leads in the movie we’d heard about. Her cascade of dark brown curls fell over the collar of a sumptuously thick fur jacket (surely faux, in keeping with her well known beliefs about animals), and her jeans fit as though they’d been custom designed. His boyish grin, which had such an effect on women everywhere that it was probably a source of global warming, was aimed toward our hostess, their recent costar. Both of them turned toward the stairs as we descended, but as soon as they realized we were no one important, the smiles turned distant and they went back to whatever Felicia had been saying.
As far as I could tell, the rest of the crowd was entourage. Several carried tablets, on which they appeared to be studying schedules or whatever else underlings tended to on behalf of their powerhouse bosses. One guy who looked about twenty, with inch-long purple hair that stuck out at all angles, was munching a sandwich while thumbing madly at his phone screen. I noticed that Bobby was standing politely at the base of the stairs, a collection of designer luggage stacked around him. I nudged Drake and we moved aside so he could get past us. We descended into the fray.
Phil Schuster spotted us. He’d been around the other side of the huge Christmas tree and I hadn’t noticed him. He reached out and touched Drake’s elbow.
“Want you to meet someone, Rory,” he said to the fifty-something man who stood beside him. Phil’s voice was pleasant enough but I sensed tension between the two. “This is the helicopter pilot I’ve been telling you about, the guy who does so much here at the ranch. He’s a good man to know, get you some of those tricky camera angles you were talking about.”
Drake turned to Rory Hammersmith, the director who was a household name, and extended his hand. My husband, in turn, introduced me and made a point of letting both men know that I am also a pilot and we frequently work together. Drake, however, is the star of the show whenever we arrive with the aircraft, and I’m used to standing quietly aside while he schmoozes the customers.
So it came as a complete surprise when Hammersmith reached out and placed an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. His cologne smelled expensive and his breath revealed he’d already found a scotch or two.
“With pilots as pretty as this one, then hell yeah, we’ll give your company a call,” he said, more to the room at large than to Drake. To me, he turned and lowered his voice intimately. “You got a business card on you?”
I squirmed out of his grasp and gave Drake a rescue-me look. My ever-wonderful husband reached for his back pocket with the hand that would force the obnoxious director to step away from me in order to take the card. I edged my way toward Phil and asked if he would introduce me to his wife.
Felicia flashed her husband a lovely smile as we stepped toward her, the crowd parting as Phil walked through. He reminded her who Drake and I were.
“I see you met Rory,” she said through her teeth, keeping the smile in place while her eyes flitted over the crowd. “Don’t mind him. He’s always like that. Just stay arm’s length away and you’ll be fine.”
Really? Wasn’t his type of behavior finally being outed in the news and was now considered unacceptable? I almost said something but remembered I was an outsider to this group. Evidently, Felicia came from that generation where women dodged grabby hands and didn’t speak up.
Someone stepped up and whispered in Felicia’s ear and she excused herself, saying she needed to check on something in the kitchen. Phil, similarly, had already been sidetracked by another actor whose face I knew but whose name I couldn’t come up with at the moment. I edged my way over to the food table and filled a small plate for Drake.
He still seemed deep in conversation with Rory Hammersmith, so I circled and handed the plate over, making a vague excuse so I didn’t need to stand there. A narrow door to the left of the stairs stood open, and I ducked inside.
The room was a small study with French doors at the far end. One wall was covered in a floor-to-ceiling mural, an elaborate trompe l'oeil depicting a life-sized window with a fountain beyond. An ornately carved desk sat angled in a corner, and there were two wingback chairs covered in an Indian blanket motif. A stained-glass lamp glowed from the desk and the small space exuded coziness, after the clamor of the foyer. I pushed the door halfway closed, determined to find a few minutes of quiet.
It seemed most of the guests were making their way upstairs, although new arrivals continued to come through the front door, and poor Bobby was running up and down the stairs non-stop. Suddenly, I really needed a breath of fresh air.
I made my way to the French doors and looked out into a little enclosed courtyard. Although the vines and plants were winter-dead now, I could tell this would be a secluded spot where a person could grab a book and sit at the outdoor table in the summer months. I debated stepping out there now, but a breeze rattled the doors and I knew I wouldn’t last more than a minute outdoors without my coat.
“Ah, there you are,” said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Rory Hammersmith stepping into the room.
“I was just leaving. You’ve got the room to yourself.” I tried for glib, and I tucked myself on the other side of one of the wingbacks.
I’d just reached the door to the foyer when he made his move, reaching out toward my arm. I flung the door open wide and lucked out. A tall, barrel-chested man who’d been heading toward the stairs noticed the movement.
“Hammersmith. We need to talk.” Tension flowed between them like electricity.
I went into ferret mode and slithered out, practically under the second man’s arm. Drake was standing near the food table, looking as though he couldn’t figure out what to do with his empty plate.
“I need to get outside for a while,” I said.
So far, Drake had not gotten Phil’s attention long enough to pin down more flight hours for our business. But during our own exploratory scouting around the grounds earlier in the afternoon, he did manage to grab a productive half hour with the ranch manager, an old-timer named Wes McFarland. Wes was one of those men, rare these days, who grew up on a ranch in the same county where his father and grandfather had raised cattle. Hard work and long days were in his bloodline. He was respectful toward the Montaña Verde’s current owner but in no way did he consider Schuster a real rancher. Wes was definitely the guy to talk to.
After the interesting tales of Wes’s life and the history of the herds on the property, being seated among the Hollywood crowd during the long dinner was a letdown. There’s only so much name-dropping and self-adulation a girl like me can handle. I stifled more than one yawn as Josh Tracker waxed prolific about his next movie role and Kelly talked about how she had to get pregnant within the next two months so she’d be back in shape for a shoot that would begin next November. I supposed it was a real concern, but I couldn’t get my head into it.
The barrel-chested man I’d seen earlier in the library turned out to be a network executive named Bill Greenway. He was here to ramrod a new project through Schuster’s media company, and, according to Drake who’d witnessed a little exchange between them, Phil wasn’t exactly thrilled to have the man as a guest. My eyes kept switching between the two men, watching for undercurrents, but the person Greenway seemed to have issues with was Rory Hammersmith. Whatever they’d talked about in the library didn’t appear to have been resolved. All in all, the dinner was an interesting one.
Now, we walked into a glittering wonderland of gold and silver in the living room. Chairs and sofas had been pushed into different arrangements to leave space for fifty people to mingle and chat. A DJ had set up his rig on the mezzanine above and heavy-beat music vibrated the walls. The Christmas tree glowed golden, and an actual disco ball hung suspended from the Western wrought-iron chandelier in the center of the room. A dozen or so of the younger guests were dancing, eyes glazed and limbs fluid.
A sunroom provided overflow space. As if we hadn’t just stuffed ourselves with a sumptuous meal, a long table filled with food sat along the far wall. Rory Hammersmith stood near one of the two bars, laughing way too loudly. A slightly pudgy young woman I’d pegged earlier as his assistant stood by, chatting with a skinny girl of about sixteen while keeping her eye on the boss.
“Poor Becca, she looks knackered,” said one of two other personal assistants as they pushed past me, wearing the standard fitted black dresses and hair pulled back into neat chignons. In contrast, the glitterati wore the kind of designer outfits that caused people to ask “who are you wearing?” when they began a conversation.
Drake went to the bar to get a glass of wine for me, and I held my position near the doorway so I could feign an urgent need for the ladies room, just in case Hammersmith headed my way. Luckily for me, he’d directed his attention toward a pair of twenty-somethings who were either twins or copycats, the kind of girls who consulted to be sure they would be wearing nearly the same thing for every social occasion.
“Becca!” Rory’s voice carried far too loudly.
He held out his empty plate and the tired-looking PA stepped over to retrieve it. Some words were exchanged and she crossed the room. Meanwhile, one of the ‘twins’ giggled at something he’d said, while the other shot him a murderous look.
I spotted Phil and Felicia at the top of the stairs. They must have come over from their suite in the other wing of the house, just in time to make an entrance. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored, his ever-graying hair in place, and his goatee freshly trimmed. Her gown was a shade of coral that must have been chosen by a color expert, it so perfectly set off her blond hair and light coloring. It fit her slender frame perfectly and was in much better taste than ninety percent of the others in the room—no cutouts or diaphanous panels to hint at body parts better left unseen in public. I had to admit, the room and the crowd could have easily fit into a seaside Malibu glamour pad rather than a remote ranch in New Mexico.
Drake and I wandered into the sunroom. The bartender was arranging a table full of champagne flutes and pulling bottles of the real French bubbly from huge iced tubs, and people lingered near the food table. As he began to pop the corks and fill glasses, I walked toward the wall of French doors and stared out into the darkness. The wind had picked up, leaking little bursts of cold around the glass, and I could see snow swirling frantically around some concrete tables and benches outside.
“So much for the forecast,” I said, turning to my hubby.
“Yeah, the twenty percent chance of snow is now eighty percent,” he said, consulting the app on his phone. “Still looks like it’ll blow through by daybreak.”
“Think we can quietly sneak away anytime soon?” I was completely bored with the personalities and my head was beginning to pound from the relentless music.
“Let’s escape right after the toast at midnight.” He sent me the smile that always makes my heart flutter.
I sneaked a glance at my watch and saw we had seventeen minutes to go.
“Anyone else here that you want to talk business with?” I asked. I know. We shouldn’t be talking business at a party and on New Year’s Eve. I simply had nothing else in common with this crowd.
He appeared to be considering the question when a loud shriek pierced the air. Both of our heads whipped around to look behind us. Near the food table, the group parted, several women held their hands to their faces. The men looked stunned. All stood frozen, staring at someone lying facedown on the floor.
Bless him, Drake was the only person to go into action. He set his drink down and rushed to the man’s side, and I quickly followed. He rolled the body over. It was Rory Hammersmith.
The music wound down to a halt, as though the DJ had turned off the power without raising the needle off the record. Hammersmith’s face was red and contorted and he didn’t appear to be breathing.
“Oh my gosh, he looks like he was poisoned.” I kept my voice low, thinking Drake might need the information, but Phil Schuster was at his side a moment later.
“Poisoned? Someone call for an ambulance,” he shouted.
Drake shook his head, removing his fingers from the victim’s pulse points. “Too late for that. We’d better get law enforcement out here.” He already had his phone out of his pocket and was dialing 911.
There were gasps and quiet groans from the crowd as it sunk in that the famous director was dead. The word ‘poisoned’ ran through the crowd.
I turned to Phil. “We need to keep everyone close. The police will want to ask what we all saw.”
Drake had stepped aside and kept his voice quiet. Now he motioned Phil and me over. “The sheriff’s office took my call, but they say there’s no way they can get out here anytime soon. The storm is worse than anyone predicted, and they’ve got their hands full with traffic incidents. I guess I-25 is a mess.”
I could picture it—bad weather and drunk drivers are not a good combination. “So, what do we do?”
“I spoke to the sheriff himself,” he said quietly. “He says he’ll need a list of everyone at the party. Once we’ve got their names, they can go back to their rooms or whatever. The immediate area should be closed off, and all food and drink is off limits in case something was poisoned.”
“My god,” Phil said. “So we just have to leave a body lying right here in our sunroom?”
“We can at least cover him up, can’t we?” I suggested.
Drake nodded. “I think that would be okay. Hon, can you find something to write with and start taking names? Phil, you should say something, try to reassure people. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone snap pictures and post them anywhere.”
“You’re so right.” Phil, for once, looked shaken. He took a deep breath and turned to gather his guests. How was he going to spin this?
I spotted an inventory sheet at the bar and asked for a pen, then positioned myself near the archway to the foyer. Drake had found a tablecloth and, mercifully, covered the body. He pulled two straight-backed chairs over to the staircase, blocking it as an exit. Anyone leaving the room would need to pass by me and give their name for the sheriff’s list.
While Phil begged everyone’s cooperation in not releasing the news on social media—a real feat if he could accomplish it—I began listing the names I already knew. Felicia, in a complete fluster, stepped over to me. I put her to work, telling me who was who.
“Can’t we at least get that out of the room,” she practically wailed, unable to take her eyes off the cloth-covered form on the floor.
“I’ll ask. For now, help me focus on this list.” I realized it was probably the first time in her life she’d had a party go bust. Well, there was not much to be done about that right now.
Within minutes I felt I had a complete list of the guests, so I made my way around to the staff and extras—the bartenders, DJ, and caterers. Hopefully that would satisfy the sheriff when he arrived. Drake and I ended up near the food table, and I helped him drape extra tablecloths over the food. Some of the guests were fairly wasted by now and we couldn’t take the chance that anyone would ignore the warning about not picking up something.
“Was Hammersmith eating or drinking anything at the moment he collapsed?” I asked.
His assistant, Becca, was still standing nearby. She nodded silently and pointed to a broken glass and shattered plate near the body. I requested some plastic bags from Maria and gathered the items, tucking them under the body cover.
Phil stepped over, clearly thinking in terms of damage control. “Why did I invite that guy from the Hollywood Reporter? He’s already been on the phone to his boss. It’s no secret that I had my differences with Rory Hammersmith. They’ll have me tried and convicted in the press.”
Drake turned to him. “The news is bound to get out, and there’s not a lot you can do about that. The sheriff may not get out here until morning. I suggest we find someplace to take the body, maybe one of the maintenance sheds? The cold will help preserve evidence, and the guests will be less stressed once he’s out of their sight.”
Felicia had drifted toward us and she took her husband’s arm. “Maybe we can still serve the champagne?”
All three of us gave her a look.
“I’m afraid that moment has passed,” Phil said gently.
Just then, the clock struck midnight.
“My wife is a partner in a private investigation firm,” Drake told them. “I’d suggest you allow her to ask questions, try to establish what happened and who might have had an even stronger motive than you.”
Phil looked at me. “Yes, excellent idea. You can prove I had nothing to do with this.”
I sputtered a little. “I don’t know … I’m not sure this is a good idea at all.” I’d never stepped into a murder investigation before the police had been there. And what about the resentment that would come my way if local law enforcement believed I’d been meddling?
“People’s memories are always fresher at the beginning,” Drake said. “You’ve told me how frustrating it is to try and get answers after time has passed and they’ve forgotten details.”
Phil and Felicia both jumped on the bandwagon. “Yes, yes, this is much better than having a dozen cops in uniform showing up and bullying our guests.”
Phil turned to the crowd, most of whom were standing around in small groups, whispering madly to each other. “Attention, everyone. Charlie Parker, a private investigator from Albuquerque, has offered to take all your statements. Just tell her what you witnessed. She can even come around to your rooms so you aren’t inconvenienced. Cooperating will get everyone out of here that much quicker.”
Sheesh. There was so much wrong with that statement. I’m not licensed, I have no pull whatsoever with law enforcement, and I certainly couldn’t clear the witnesses to leave. What was he thinking?
But all eyes were on me and I had to do something. “I’d like to speak with each of you privately, so I’d recommend that you go to your rooms and I’ll come around. Anyone who would prefer to stay downstairs can, um …” I turned toward Phil and quietly asked for use of the study. “Yes, that works. Come and meet me in the study, just off the main foyer. I’ll be there in, let’s say, ten minutes.”
“Meanwhile,” Phil announced, “the bars are still open, and I’d say this is as good a time as any to indulge in a little relaxer.”
I turned to Drake. “Since I can’t quite imagine questioning potential suspects in an evening gown, I’m running up to our room to change.”
He handed me the key. “Good. I’ll get a couple of the staff to help move the body out to one of the sheds and we’ll lock the evidence safely away.”
Precisely ten minutes later I arrived back in the small study, much more comfortable in my jeans and sweater, and rummaged the desk for a notebook and pen. The whole time I was upstairs, my mind had been whirring back over the scene at the time Rory collapsed, trying to remember who was nearby, thinking back over the conversations of the afternoon and coming up with the names of those who would become my main suspects.
A glance through the open doorway showed only three people waiting. Of course. Who among this bunch was going to willingly come in for questioning?
I called in the first, Maria, the household cook who had greeted us when we arrived. She edged her way into the room and I closed the door. Her face was puffy, eyes red, and her hands wouldn’t stop moving.
“Miss Charlie, I am so afraid. People are saying I poisoned the important director. I know nothing—” Her voice broke and the tears began again.
I showed her to a wingback chair and picked up a box of tissues from the corner of the desk.
“Why do they think that?” I asked, once her sobs subsided. “Did you know him personally? Had he harmed you?”
“No! I never saw him before this day. I never spoke a word to him.”
No motive as far as I could tell.
“And the food—I prepare some, but most was brought by the caterer. So, how do these people think I poisoned this man?”
“Did someone specifically blame you, Maria? Or were they only commenting on the food that might have been the source of the poison?”
She blinked twice and shrugged. “Maybe only that.”
“What about the catering staff? Were any of them talking about Mr. Hammersmith?”
“No, I heard nothing like that. Only the usual talk about getting the cold foods out at a certain time, the hot foods out at once, the type of thing kitchen people talk about.”
I’d caught Trudy, head of UpClass Catering, and gotten names of all her people. I could talk to them later.
“They’re packing now,” Maria said. “Caterer. Picking up their dishes and pans, loading it in the vehicle.”
“It’s okay, I suppose. No one can leave. Mr. Schuster already called Wes McFarland and told him to block the driveway. The sheriff said the roads aren’t safe anyway.”
“Finish whatever you need to do in the kitchen, Maria, and then go to your room and try to rest. With this many people stranded here, there will be meals to prepare tomorrow. You might as well get a good night’s sleep.”
Her expression told me that was going to be impossible.
The other two witnesses waiting outside the study gave much the same story. One was a bartender who said he’d been so busy mixing drinks all evening that he’d barely looked up. “That many people in a room, and with the music pounding like it was, you tune it all out. Aside from getting a guest’s drink order, I don’t really pay any attention. The man who died—he did snag a bottle of champagne for himself. Kind of hinted at some romantic rendezvous, but I only saw him drinking it.”
The other young man was a local from town, hired for the party to clear plates and carry dirty glassware to the kitchen. He seemed most worried about getting home. I told him I felt sure Wes would make arrangements. There had to be a bunkhouse or some kind of sleeping quarters for the ranch hands, and surely, they could fit in a few extras.
When he left, I spotted Hammersmith’s assistant, Becca, heading for the stairs. I beckoned her over.
“I know this is a terrible time for you,” I began. “Can I just have a minute or two?”
She followed me into the study, looking white as a marshmallow and thoroughly shaken. I eased into the questions, but she took a while to put her thoughts together.
“I was right there, beside him, like, a minute before. I thought he looked sleepy or maybe just drunk … I don’t know … He always wanted me nearby so he could get my attention. I mean, that’s what the normal day was like. But this being a party, he was all into the other guests. You know, most of them had been working together on the set every day for a couple months.” She straightened her shoulders. “Anyway, he didn’t seem to need me and I was thinking I might find a quiet spot for a few minutes.”
“Was there anyone from the film with whom he’d had a fight or a grudge or anything like that?”
Something flickered across her face but it was gone in an instant. “Well, he and Josh got into it a couple of times, over some of the more difficult scenes in the script.”
“Anyone else?”
She shrugged. Something told me there was more, but she just shook her head. I let her go. I could always find her later if I needed to.
I made notes about what each of the witnesses had told me, then stepped back into the foyer. Since no one was waiting for me, I would have to seek them out. With more than fifty people to talk to, if I only spent ten minutes with each, it was going to be a very, very long night. I needed help.
I spotted Drake, still looking remarkably gorgeous in his tux, entering the dining room through the kitchen door.
“Everything going okay outside?” I asked.
He nodded. “How about in here?”
“Slow. No one wants to answer questions, so I’m faced with tracking them down.” I pulled out a fresh yellow writing pad and handed it over. “So, consider yourself conscripted. These are the main questions we need to ask. If you’ll visit with the staff and household help, I’ll try to get the guests to talk. Just make a page for each person you talk to and jot down their answers. At least it will give the sheriff a starting point once he gets out here.”
He glanced over the list. “This looks pretty basic. Where were you up to the time the victim collapsed? Did you have any interaction with Hammersmith before this? Do you know anyone here who disliked him?”
“I know. It seems kind of lame, doesn’t it? I can’t think what else to ask, unless something they reveal leads to more questions. Feel free to follow those threads.”
With that, Drake turned back into the kitchen and I headed toward the living room where some of the Hollywood bunch sat in the upholstered chairs, which they’d gathered into small groupings again. Most held drinks. Few looked sad. Stunned, maybe, but not grief stricken.
I walked over and joined a group that included Josh Tracker and Kelly Fontaine, perching myself on the edge of a heavy cocktail table.
“I guess you know I need to ask all of you some questions.” I tried my best to look apologetic while watching their reactions.
“Sure, fire away,” Josh said, setting an I-don’t-mind tone.
Okay, I might as well lead with my best ammo. “I understand you and Rory had some clashes on the set.”
Kelly Fontaine piped up. “Everyone had clashes with Rory on the set, so don’t start getting ideas about Josh wanting to kill him.”
I sat back, holding up one hand in a stop motion. “Hey, no fingers are being pointed by me. Just trying to get a feel for anyone’s motivation. The sheriff is going to come along and ask these things, so maybe we can shorten his visit by making some notes. That’s all.”
“Okay,” Kelly said. “Just so you understand, Rory was not the type of director who offered his actors positive suggestions, who worked with you to get the scene just the way he wanted it. We were all supposed to be mind readers and get it right the first time.”
“Yeah, budget was a big pressure on this one,” said Freddy K. (Taking my original list, I’d learned his real name was Fredrick Kaye.) “We were reminded daily that we didn’t have unlimited time. Running through a scene a few times before the camera rolled was not an option. Pissed us all off.”
I took a deep breath, letting emotions settle. “So, help me out here because I don’t know this stuff … who was putting pressure on Rory to be this way? I mean, if budget was the issue, who was—?”
“Executive producer. That’d be Bill Greenway. With him, it’s money, money, money.” Josh slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other each time he repeated the word.
“Okay. So those two clashed a bit too?”
“Oh yeah, like all the time,” Kelly said.
Looked like Greenway could move up my list.
“What about with Felicia? She’s a Hollywood legend. Did Rory push her around too?”
Freddy lowered his voice. “Not quite as much. There would be Phil to answer to, if he did that.”
So, Phil and Felicia were definitely on the list, too.
“Anyone else? Can you think of anything that’s happened within the last day or two that would have been serious enough to kill for?”
All three shook their heads. Josh finally put it into words. “It was no one incident, just a build-up of tension. Everyone felt it. Would anyone act on it? I don’t honestly know.”
Both Kelly and Freddy nodded agreement. I thanked them for their candor and told them I might have a few follow-up questions at some point. By now, the living room had cleared out. It was after one a.m. and with the party a complete fizzle, I imagined most had retired to their rooms.
I wandered to the sunroom and stared out into the darkened patio, watching snow swirl frantically against the walls, creating drifts. Josh and Kelly’s words came back to me. Their remarks reminded me of the atmosphere in the foyer as everyone arrived. Chilly. Kind of like the view out this window.
I took the main staircase up, noticing that the DJ had left his equipment stacked against the railing on the mezzanine, everything packed into cases. He was probably like everyone else here, couldn’t wait to get out in the morning.
Maybe Drake would be tucked away already in our room and we could just snuggle in and put all this out of our minds. And maybe unicorns are real.
On my way to our own Turquoise, I passed rooms labeled Amber, Lapis, and Coral, and it was the fact that the door on the latter was standing slightly open that caught my attention. A male voice came from within and—yeah, I can’t help myself—I paused and pressed my back to the wall, shamelessly eavesdropping.
“… an Oscar? That’s what you’re thinking?” Thirty seconds of silence. “Well, yeah, I suppose that’s true. Posthumous nominations can really help build buzz for the picture. I did my best to keep costs down, but—” Another long pause. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, give it some thought. We can figure out how to put some lipstick on this pig yet.”
I heard a beep as he ended the phone call, so I waited a full minute and then tapped lightly on the door. Heavy footsteps, the door swung open, and Bill Greenway stood there, glaring.
“What? It’s late.” I tried not to let everyone else’s opinion color mine, but I could easily see why Rory Hammersmith didn’t like this man.
“I realize that, but the door was partially open and I saw the lights on. Figured you might spare a few minutes?”
He’d removed his tuxedo jacket and the tie, but otherwise was still dressed as he had been at the party. Clearly I’d not caught him ready to fall asleep. He knew who I was and why I was here, and he didn’t have much choice but to usher me in.
“Ask away,” he muttered, picking up a heavy looking crystal glass with a half-inch of amber liquid in it.
“Shall we sit down? I really will only take a minute.” Without invitation, I headed toward a small round Queen Anne table with two chairs flanking it. I took my time opening my notebook and clicking my pen, ready for notes. I began with the standard questions.
“I’d walked out the front door for a smoke,” Greenway said, “so I didn’t see what the fuss was about until I came back in. Rory was lying on the floor and that pilot guy—oh, I guess that’s your husband—was bending over him. Somebody said something about poisoning. Shocking.”
So, Greenway wouldn’t have had access to put something directly into Rory’s food or drink. But, more horrific, would he have spiked an entire bowl of dip or something?
“I didn’t figure there was anything I could actually do,” he continued, “so I just stepped back and kind of watched the whole thing.”
While making plans to get Rory nominated for an Oscar and capitalize on the tragedy? I studied my notes rather than let him see my face.
“I understand you and Rory clashed a few times on the set, these past couple of months. What was that about?”
“Clashed? Oh, not really. I had to keep costs down. The picture was already over budget. The actors were all hounding for more rehearsal time. Felicia, especially, was ragging on about her costumes. What is it with modern women that you put into a period costume? They want everything tailor made and of the best fabrics. This piece was set in the Old West. Clothes were basic and cheap.”
“So all those subjects came up in conversations with Rory, and the two of you disagreed?”
He shrugged it off. “At times.”
“Can you think of anyone here, anyone at all, who had a motive for killing your director?”
He tipped the crystal glass up and drained it. “Nope. Not at all.”
Closing ranks against the investigator. I could see that this is probably how it would go. This crowd would tattle certain things, but they’d been at the game long enough to know that it never went well when they talked to the press or the law.
I thanked him for the skimpy information (okay, not in those words), and got up to leave. At the door, I turned, putting on my Columbo face. “One more thing …”
He almost smiled.
“Mr. Hammersmith sort of … came on to me, when we first arrived. I got the feeling he maybe had that reputation. Was he like that with the cast or crew?”
“He liked ’em young, slim, and pretty, yes.”
I got the feeling I was supposed to be flattered, but I didn’t take the bait. I sent him a steady stare. “So …?”
“Kelly would totally be his type, but Josh is super protective. Rory knew he wouldn’t get away with anything there. Felicia … well, she’s out of his league in every way—married to Phil, a legend way before Rory came on the scene—and she’s aged off of his radar, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah—someone in her sixties wasn’t qualified. I left and closed his door firmly behind me.
Two doors down, I opened the door to our own Turquoise room and stepped inside. Drake was back already, and he looked comfy in flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved tee I’d given him for Christmas. His tablet of notes lay on the nightstand beside him.
“Any luck with the questions?” he asked, taking my hand and pulling me down beside him on the bed. I tossed my notebook down and snuggled in next to him.
“Some interesting revelations, but I can’t say I have a firm suspect yet. You?”
“The household staff is mostly worried about keeping their jobs. A few seem terrified that the death of a powerful man will get pinned on them.”
“Yeah, Maria was really scared when I talked with her. You don’t think Phil would do that, would he? Fire someone or turn them over to the sheriff?”
“That seems extreme, unless there’s strong evidence.”
“And we don’t even know the exact cause of death. An autopsy will have to be done to determine what the poison was—or maybe it was a drug, or the booze. Until they know that, it would be impossible to figure out who had access. Our little ‘investigation’ is really pretty lame, isn’t it?”
He planted a kiss on top of my head. “It’s not a waste of time, hon. Whoever killed him needs to know that it’s being investigated, especially if it was one of these high-power types who might think that just because we’re far from the city and dealing with a small county sheriff’s department that no one’s checking up. They need to know they won’t get away with it.”
“You’re right.”
“Okay, let’s get some sleep. It’s after three already. We’re both exhausted, and I’m still hoping we can fly out of here at a reasonable hour in the morning. Well, later this morning.”
While I brushed my teeth and washed my face, he filled me in on the weather situation.
According to the weather service, the leading edge of the cold front had moved through. A glance out the window confirmed that the snow was no longer swirling as it had been earlier.
“They say the roads still aren’t great—there are drifts and icy patches—but you and I don’t have to worry about that. We’ll pull the ship out of the garage and be able to get airborne.”
“Do you think the people with private jets will ask you to ferry them out to the county airport? We could get tied up with that.”
“They can ask. I don’t have enough fuel to run a shuttle service.” He seemed to consider the logistics. “Well, we’ll play it by ear.”
I woke before dawn, less than three hours into my sleep, with a thought. I had asked Greenway about Rory’s relationship with the cast and crew. He’d only answered about the main cast members. What about the crew? If an old lecher meant to hit on younger women, it would be crew members, those over whom he had some authority, who would feel the pressure to comply.
Once that thought entered my head, I couldn’t fall back asleep. As pale gray light began to show around the curtains, I slipped out of bed. Picking up my jeans, sweater, and boots I padded to the bathroom where I splashed a little cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and dressed. My notebook was on the nightstand and my down jacket lay draped over a chair, so I grabbed both of those.
Hoping Maria might have some coffee ready, I made my way along the corridor of closed doors. If I got lucky I might carry an insulated mug along and take a little walk outside.
Miraculously, in a way that never happens in ordinary homes, the foyer and living room were immaculate, with no sign of last night’s party other than the cloth-draped table concealing the food. That was another surprise. If a staff member had something to hide, surely the table would have been cleared, evidence destroyed, apologies offered.
I followed my nose to the dining room, where a buffet held a huge coffee urn. At the other end of the long table, Maria was loading stainless steel trays that smelled like bacon and eggs into stands where they would stay warm by means of little Sterno cans. Phil Schuster stood at the coffee urn, turning toward me when I greeted Maria.
“Another early riser,” he said with a smile.
“Yeah, afraid so.” I draped my jacket over the back of a chair to free up my hands.
“Felicia’s the queen of sleeping in, but I’m always up early. I do my best thinking then.”
“I suppose I do, too. And, of course, I woke up thinking about everything last night. I talked to so many people I guess my head was full of conversation. I actually had you and your wife on my list to talk with today. Have you heard any word from the sheriff?”
“He’s fairly sure he can get out here by mid-morning.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to have Mr. Hammersmith’s body taken to the medical investigator’s office, and let the officials take over.”
He set his full mug aside and picked up two sugar packets, giving a noncommittal nod.
“Several people last night mentioned problems between Rory and various cast members,” I said, picking up a mug from the neat rows someone had laid out. “Was your wife one of them?”
Phil paused and turned. He faced me, leaning a hip against the table and crossing his legs at the ankles, the very picture of a relaxed and unconcerned man.
“Charlie, I like you and I literally trust Drake with my life when we fly together. But I’m afraid I can’t say anything more about Rory Hammersmith or the events of last night.”
He’d been talking to his lawyer, I’d bet money on it.
“Okay then.”
He shook the two packets one more time, ripped them open, and dumped the sugar into his coffee. I filled my own mug and took a sip as he started to leave the room.
“I’d still like to speak with a few of the others, some of the personal assistants and crew members. Can you tell me where their rooms are?”
“Sure. Some were given rooms on the first floor, out beyond the kitchen.” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “In the old days, I guess the servants of the guests would sleep in tiny rooms adjoining their employers, but the house was remodeled about thirty years ago, and a lot of those spaces were converted to bathrooms and closets. Rather than needing to shout out for the assistance of an underling, nowadays anyone is only a text message away.” He chuckled, apparently finding humor in the story.
“Those who aren’t here in the main house would have been given a room in one of the guest houses. Those all have a small living area and kitchenette, so they’ll have coffee and rolls or something out there. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”
For a guy who refused to talk about the case he was still very interested.
“No, not really. I’ll see where the questions lead me.”
I finished my coffee and plucked two strips of bacon from the heating tray before donning my jacket, tucking my notebook into one of its roomy pockets, and walking out the front door.
One of the guest houses had smoke coming from the chimney so I headed toward that one first. My tap at the door brought a “come in.” The two young women I’d tagged ‘the twins’ last night were sitting on a pair of overstuffed chairs, cell phones in hand. Now, wearing fuzzy robes, no makeup, and their hair down to their shoulders, they really didn’t look much alike.
I introduced myself and reminded them that I was asking a few questions to save everyone from having to be questioned by the sheriff later. The responses were neutral and both pairs of eyes went back to their phone screens.
“I can leave quicker if we just cover a few basics,” I said, walking over to stand where they couldn’t possibly ignore me.
The guy with the spiky purple hair stepped out of a bedroom just then, curious about the newcomer. He agreed to talk with me, and even reached a toe out to nudge each of the girls. I learned that none of the three had actually been in the same room with Hammersmith when he collapsed. All three claimed to have been dancing. A look passed among them, some little vibe that told me they’d been under the influence of some designer drug and totally blissed out and very much unaware of their surroundings at the time.
“Were all of you out at the location for the filming last week?”
Nods all around. It turned out the two young women were PAs for Kelly Fontaine and John Tracker, so wherever the couple went, they went.
When I asked about possible sexual harassment or unwanted advances from the director, a universal bland look came over their faces. For the sake of keeping their jobs, they weren’t admitting anything.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye and saw another bedroom door slowly closing.
“Who’s staying in this one?” I asked purple-hair.
“Becca and her sister.”
I’d spoken with her last night, one of the first I’d interviewed, and she’d been pretty shaken up. “Think it’s okay if I peek in on her?” I whispered.
Purple-hair shrugged, why not.
I walked toward the bedroom door and tapped lightly. “Becca, it’s Charlie.” The latch hadn’t caught, and the door swung inward. Becca stood in front of a large wooden wardrobe, and she visibly started when she heard my voice. She was dressed already, wearing black slacks, a green bulky sweater, and a long bright pink scarf.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Last night was rough.”
She nodded, and tears pooled in her dark eyes.
“Becca? What is it?”
She shook her head.
“It’s gotta be hard, seeing your boss die like tha—” The obvious answer finally hit me over the head. “Becca, was he making unwanted advances?”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “What, me? I’m twenty pounds over Rory’s ideal.”
“Becca …” I made my voice soft and gentle. “Sweetie, you’ll have to talk with the sheriff when he comes. You can tell me, if you’d rather.”
“No!” Her eyes darted about the room. “I mean, I can’t talk about it. It’s too upsetting. Can you just go now?”
“Okay, okay. No problem.” I held up both hands and backed away. “You’re right. You need some time alone.”
I thanked the others, who all ignored me completely in favor of their phones, and stepped outside. Becca’s reaction troubled me. I wanted to find Drake and talk this over, but I also felt the need to keep an eye on the guest house in case Becca had worked out a way to leave the ranch before the sheriff arrived.
I stepped to the other side of the house, to a spot where no one inside would be able to see me, and I phoned Drake.
“Hey, early bird. What’s up?”
“Have you heard anything from the sheriff’s office this morning?”
“Nothing more than I already mentioned. They’ll try to get out here by mid-morning.”
I looked at my watch and saw it was approaching nine.
“I think I have a strong suspect, but I have no evidence to prove anything.” A plan was taking shape in my head. I went over the details with him.
“Sure, I can do that.”
I waited ten minutes, hoping Becca would come out and head for the big house on her own. She didn’t. I went back to the front door of the guest house and walked in without knocking.
“Hey, everyone, I forgot to mention … Mr. Schuster has a fantastic looking breakfast set out in the dining room at the main house. He asked me to let everyone know to come over.”
The twins looked at me as if I were out of my mind. Big breakfasts didn’t go along with keeping one’s weight at 112. Purple-hair perked up and said he just needed to put on some shoes. He did my job for me, tapping on Becca’s door and ordering her to get a move on and come along with him. She answered something that sounded affirmative. I ducked out before she could see me and waited in my little hiding spot. Within a minute purple-hair came out and turned left toward the mansion. Where was Becca?
I went back inside, ignoring the twins and heading for Becca’s room. A tap brought no response. Okay, I’d just heard her voice. I slowly opened the door. The room appeared empty, as did the adjoining bathroom. Huh. Unless she’d popped over into someone else’s bedroom she had to be in here. She definitely had not left the house with her friend.
I’d last seen her standing in front of the big carved wardrobe. Maybe she was hiding in there. But wait—someone had mentioned Becca’s sister, and I’d seen her talking with a teenage girl last night. Maybe the sister was hiding out. But why? She had no reason to think I would come back looking for her. Still … I opened the double doors and took a look. Empty.
Except for one thing … All the clothing was pushed to one side except for a slip of bright pink fabric. It looked like the scarf she’d been wearing just now. So, why was it on the floor of the closet and why could I only see a six-inch square of it?
I bent down and gave the pink fabric a tug. It got longer and longer as it pulled out from beneath … a door? There was a door at the back of the wardrobe?
I took a step back and examined the thing. It sat flush against the wall, without even a hint of light passing behind it. The cabinet had been built right onto the wall. And so where was the scarf coming from?
Running my hands over the sides and back of the wardrobe’s interior, I finally felt a small dimple, the size of a shirt button. And when I pressed it, the back of the cupboard slid aside, soundlessly, on a smooth track.
Beyond, a concrete platform, about two feet square, dropped away to a flight of stairs going downward. A secret staircase. A bare bulb lit the way, probably switched on by the same button that caused the hidden door to open.
Okay, suddenly I felt like Nancy Drew.
Where did this go? No matter. It seemed pretty obvious that Becca had fled this way. I pulled out my phone, in case I needed a flashlight, and started downward. Fourteen steps later I came out in a skinny corridor, lit by three more lightbulbs, evenly spaced. After about twenty feet, there was a bend, and an open door stood before me. I peered into the dark. Beyond the blackness I caught the faint glow of more light, similar to what I’d just come through.
With my phone’s flashlight, I checked out the vast-feeling interior of the dark space and I think my mouth dropped open. I was standing in the doorway of an old-time speakeasy with wood-paneled walls, art deco chandeliers, and plush carpeting. In a room that must surely be forty or fifty feet square, there were three poker tables, a roulette wheel, and a craps table. At the far end was a bar with a brass rail along the bottom and leather-seated barstools. Dusty bottles of liquor lined glass shelves behind the bar, and if I’d put my imagination to it, I could have conjured a bartender and a crowd of flappers and mustached men in pinstripes.
I aimed my light at the other end of the room, where a raised platform would have hosted a jazz band. In fact, a small drum set still sat there. A string of tiny lights was suspended above the small parquet dance floor.
“Holy cow!” My whisper echoed through the room.
I wondered if Phil knew about this. How well had he explored the property when he bought it? I could have stayed and examined the details for another hour, but I remembered why I was here in the first place. Following Becca.
I saw no sign of her, so I wended my way between tables, heading toward that other faintly glowing light. It had to be where she’d gone, unless the place had some other hidden room or an exit. No, I was at least a dozen feet underground. There wouldn’t be a simple door leading out.
The dim light revealed another skinny corridor and another flight of stairs, leading upward. And that’s when I heard the faint scratching noise. I quickly switched off my phone light and followed the overhead bulbs, taking the stairs quietly. As I rounded the bend at the landing I could see Becca at the top, fiddling with a closed door, obviously trying to find out how to open it.
“Shit, crap, damn!” Her voice was shaky, almost crying.
“Becca,” I called softly. “Becca, let me help you.”
She spun, shock registering on her face. “What— How did you—?”
“Never mind. Let me help.”
“You can’t … No one can help now. I’ve screwed up so royally.” The tears came in a flood now.
I kept taking one step at a time until I was four steps below her, close enough to converse but not so close that she could kick my teeth out if she should decide to.
“Why don’t you tell me about it? What’s the thing you screwed up so royally?” I held out her pink scarf. “He went after your little sister, didn’t he?”
“Shelly came out for Christmas and visited the set. After the movie wrapped, we just wanted to go home, to spend New Year’s Eve in Indiana with our folks, but then he wouldn’t let me.”
“Wouldn’t let you? How’s that?”
“Well, not let me, so much as he got all charming again and really pushed for me and Shelly to come with the whole crew and spend the weekend here. I knew he’d try something with her, and it’s just so—ugh—creepy, him being as old as my dad and everything.”
“So, what did you do …?”
“I didn’t mean it. I swear. I only meant to give him enough of the pills that he’d pass out. You know, like drunk or something. He’d sleep it off and then it’d be morning and we’d get on the plane and leave …”
“You slipped him a sedative.”
“Right. But I guess it was too much. I think I was angrier than I meant to be, you know.”
This poor girl. I could only imagine her mindset. No, check that—I couldn’t really imagine. Shelly falling under the power of such a man, especially in a culture where his behavior seemed semi-acceptable. The medication was probably something Hammersmith took anyway, and Becca thought she would just slip a little extra into his food or his glass, and he’d fall asleep early and just leave them blessedly alone.
But maybe she’d given too much. Or, quite likely, the amount of booze he’d consumed all day had reacted with it.
“Do you have to tell the sheriff, Charlie? I’m so scared.”
“Let’s get out of here, find Shelly, and then we’ll talk about that.” I turned to retrace my steps back the way we’d come, but all at once I heard a faint whirring noise.
The door at the top of the steps was sliding open.
“I don’t know what I did but I must have touched something,” Becca said.
We found ourselves in the study, the very room where I’d sat and questioned witnesses. The door to the stairs was part of the painted window on the wall mural. I stared at Becca and she stared at me, our eyes equally wide.
“What do we do?” she asked.
I had my hands on the painting, feeling for a button similar to the one in the guesthouse. When my fingertips found it, the window in the mural slid quietly back into place.
Out in the foyer, I could hear the voices of new arrivals. The sheriff and his men.
Becca began to crumple. “What should I do?”
My moral compass swung wildly before I answered. “If I were a lawyer, I’d advise you to not say anything. Let them draw their own conclusions.”
The next hour was a flurry of activity as Hammersmith’s body was loaded into a van, the sheriff talked quietly with Phil, and I handed over Drake’s and my notes from the witnesses. I hadn’t had a chance to add anything from Becca’s and my final conversation, but that was okay. I did mention to the sheriff that I’d heard that Rory Hammersmith took some prescription medications and that he’d had quite a lot to drink that night, including an entire bottle of champagne he’d conned out of the bartender before midnight.
I didn’t say anything to Phil about the secret staircases or the casino that surely dated back to the heyday of the property during Prohibition. It had nothing to do with the death, and he could discover that little hidden gem for himself.
It was a little before noon when we finally wheeled the helicopter out of its snug little nest and loaded our bags. While we packed, I’d asked Drake if we could give Becca and Shelly a lift to the airport, send them on their way to Indiana. He agreed, and we were soon airborne, happy to leave the Hollywood crowd behind.
By mid-afternoon we’d completed our mission, and were safely tucked in at home with our pup at our side well before dark. The steaks came out of the fridge, a warm fire glowed in the fireplace, we raised our glasses to each other, and then we proceeded with our own New Year’s fireworks, just like always.