Deadline (22 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Deadline
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“A friend of yours was murdered?”
“
Yes ... help.
”
“Who was murdered? Can you tell me the name?
“King ... swing. ”
“King swing? Is that your friend's name?”
Mavis spoke, “I think she means the king of swing. It's common knowledge that she was very close to Maximillian Jorgenson.”
“Are you trying to tell us that Maximillian Jorgenson was murdered?”
“
Yes.
”
“We really stepped in it this time,” Toots said.
Taking advantage of the willing spirit, Sophie asked, “Who killed him? What can we do to help you?”
“
Doctor ... drugged.
”
“His doctor drugged him because he wanted to murder him? That doesn't make sense. Why did the doctor want to kill him?”
“
Money.
”
The speaker in the box crackled with static. A chill swept through the room.
“So let me get this straight. We just talked to the spirit of Evangelista Thackeray, and she told us that one of the biggest celebrities of all time was murdered for his money? Is that what you all just heard?” Ida asked.
Jamie finally joined in the conversation. “Do you realize what that ... that
box
just said?
Ohmygosh!
This is unbelievable!”
“I'm sure he was murdered for his money. That was precisely what I thought when I first learned he'd died,” Toots said, directing her attention to Jamie.
“What do we do now? Aren't the police already investigating his doctor for something connected to his death?” Mavis asked.
“Yes, he was charged with negligent homicide.
The Informer
covered the story. Jorgenson's doctor gave him an intravenous drug, something one would get in the hospital, a knockout drug. I can't recall the name.
“I don't know what this has to do with ...
Bernice.
She doesn't even like Evangelista Thackeray or Maximillian Jorgenson. Sophie, is there a connection, and we're missing it somehow?”
“I don't know. We can try again if you want,” Sophie said.
“I don't know. It's getting late. Bernice will be out of surgery. I plan to be there when she's wheeled into the recovery room. I say we all call it a night. I'm going to the hospital. You all stay here, get some sleep,” Toots said.
“Are you sure?” Mavis asked. “You said yourself there might be something we're missing.”
Toots contemplated Mavis's point. “Sophie, is there a connection? Do you have one of those special feelings about this? Something we can ...
work
with?”
So fast that no one could have seen the change unless they were looking her squarely in the face, Sophie went from being herself, the crass woman they loved, to a pale, trembling version of herself. Her eyes doubled in size, and her hands shook.
“Paper.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper.
Mavis placed a pencil in Sophie's right hand, sliding the notepad beneath it. Sophie's hand moved furiously across the paper, back and forth, as she continued to write one word, over and over. Then, as fast as she began, she stopped, the pencil dropping from her hand. She fell back against the chair, exhausted, as though she'd just completed a marathon.
Toots, Mavis, Ida, and Jamie stared at her, waiting for an explanation, needing to see what she'd written on the paper.
DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL DBL.
Sophie, shaken and pale, stared at the paper. “I'm clueless.”
Toots studied the letters, trying to decipher their meaning. “Yes ... this is ...” Her mouth dropped open and she shook her head from side to side. “
DBL.
”
“Toots, what?” Sophie asked.
“DBL. Dr. Bruce Lowery. He's the connection.”
Chapter 27
C
hris stared at his cell phone as though he expected it to speak to him and explain why Abby had refused a simple dinner request. If she was working, he could understand her reluctance. But she wasn't. She was at the beach house, in bed with two dogs, for crying out loud.
What's with that?
he asked himself.
Exactly where that placed him on her list of priorities was quite clear.
She'd rather spend the evening in bed with her dog and her dog's girlfriend, that little yappy Chihuahua, than with him.
Chris looked around at the condo he called home.
No place like home? What bunk,
he thought. It was so close to his heart that he loaned the place out like an old bicycle he was on the verge of trashing. Hell, he'd had bikes that he'd liked more.
The place wasn't a home. It was where he slept, showered, and ate mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. Where he allowed his friends a place to stay when they were on vacation. He looked around the living room, walked out to the terrace, where, he had to admit, he did have a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. But a home would surely make his heart race just at the mention of going there. A home would have evidence of a life, and pictures on the walls. A favorite afghan, made by someone who loved him and he loved in return, tossed carelessly over the back of a much-loved chair. Magazines and books scattered about. Maybe a dirty glass, a plate with cake crumbs left on the countertop.
Nope, he gazed around the condo many people would give their eyeteeth to own. All he saw was a picture-perfect image suitable for a travel magazine hoping to tempt travelers to spend their money somewhere.
Disgusted with his thoughts, Chris became antsy for reasons only he could fathom—meaning Abby Simpson. He plunged through the condo with a mission.
In the master bedroom, he stripped the sheets off the bed and tossed them into a laundry basket he kept in the closet. Inside the master bathroom, he gathered damp towels and washcloths, tossing them in with the sheets. Beneath the bathroom sink was a plastic caddy filled with cleaning supplies. He sprayed bathroom cleaner inside the shower, the bathtub, and the two sinks. With a terry-cloth rag, he buffed and polished until the place sparkled. Grabbing the laundry basket, he headed to the utility room. He stuffed the washing machine with the sheets and towels—figuring what the hell, it's not as if he were at a Laundromat with a bunch of disapproving housewives watching him—and proceeded to pour a generous amount of liquid detergent in the machine. From there he located the broom and a mop. He scrubbed the bathroom floors until he was out of breath.
Then he polished the furniture in all the rooms, ran the vacuum, and, when all was finished, cleaned the sliding glass doors. Three hours later the condo sparkled, ready for that magazine ad.
Chris had made a decision while cleaning the lifeless condo. He was going to put the place on the market first thing in the morning. He wanted a home, and someone to share it with. And the only woman who came to mind when his thoughts went in that direction was Abby.
Now all he had to do was convince her to marry him. It would be tough, given the fact that she seemed to prefer spending the evening with her animals.
But I'm a patient man,
he told himself. And if that didn't work, well, he would call in the big guns.
Toots and the godmothers.
The image made him smile. Those old girls would back him one hundred percent. He'd bet his life on it.
 
Abby punched the pillow for the third time. She should take the dogs to her place, where she could sleep in her own bed, but it was already too late, and she was just too tired. She was hungry, too—which reminded her of Chris.
Sitting up in bed, turning the light on, she scooted past the two balls of fur without disturbing them. She went downstairs, turning on the lights as she headed to the kitchen. Surely her mother, the queen of junk food, had something to eat besides fresh fruit and vegetables. Dear Mavis. She'd come so far in the past two years. Abby was extremely proud of her godmother for her weight loss and the dedication it took to stick to a diet and exercise plan. Still, one had to indulge now and again. She opened the refrigerator, searching for something sweet. Nothing there, so she searched the freezer.
“Ice cream. Mom always has ice cream.” Abby moved a box of frozen green beans, and found a carton of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream, her favorite.
“Thank you, Mom,” Abby said out loud. She grabbed a spoon and headed outside to the deck.
The late-night breeze felt cool against her skin. A tinge of salt scented the air. Abby breathed deeply. She loved the smells, the sounds as the ocean's waves gently bathed the shoreline, leaving behind a bubbly white froth.
Plopping down on her favorite deck chair, with the carton of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other, she took several bites of the cold, creamy concoction. She let her mind wander. Thoughts of all the work that awaited her tomorrow didn't cheer her as it normally would.
More than a bit concerned about Bernice, Abby wished she could've made the trip to Charleston, but knew Bernice would understand. She had a major story to write, courtesy of Chris. It should put
The Informer
in the number one slot this week. Unless that rat's ass Laura Leigh had told her story to one of Abby's competitors.
“Damn! Why didn't I think of that?” Abby said to herself. She was definitely slacking off.
Had Chris told Laura to keep the story quiet? Would she even do so if he'd asked her to? Abby needed to know, and she needed to know right away. There was no time to contemplate what the other papers would do. If they had Laura Leigh's story, she had best beat the others to press. The only way she was going to do that was to be one hundred percent certain she was the only tabloid with the story.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, she went inside, put the ice cream away, and ran upstairs for her cell phone. Chester and Coco were still sound asleep, snuggled against each other.
They are so in love,
Abby thought.
If only people could love so freely and without reservation.
Back downstairs, she sat in her mother's chair, wishing Toots was there to advise her. But Abby was a big girl, and she didn't need to ask her mother's permission to run a story or make the call she was doing everything humanly possible to avoid.
She glanced at the clock. It was late, but who cared? “Shit, here goes nothing.” She dialed Chris's cell-phone number
He answered on the second ring. “This better be good.”
“Listen, I hate calling at this hour, but I need to ask you a question; it's kind of important,” Abby said.
“Okay, shoot.”
He wasn't even going to chastise her about the late hour? Abby smiled. The shit. He was awake, too.
“Are you sure you're giving
The Informer
the scoop? I just had a thought; what if Laura Leigh goes to one of my competitors with her story? And if she does, will it match up with yours?” There! She'd done it.
Laughter bubbled across the phone lines. “Abby Simpson, you should be ashamed of yourself. I can't believe you'd question me. What, you don't think I told the whole truth and nothing but?”
“That's what I want to make sure of,” she shot back. “There's no way this will be in another tabloid?”
“You know I can't promise you that, Abby. The tabloids have their sources same as the real papers, do—”
“
Real papers,
Chris? Is that what you think? I don't work for a
real
newspaper?” Abby wanted to choke him for his insensitive remark, but knew it hadn't been intended maliciously.
“Stop, you know exactly what I'm trying to say. Laura Leigh assured me that she wouldn't take her story to the press. That's why I wanted you to be the first to report this. I know you will report exactly what I told you and nothing more. Laura's agent doesn't want her even talking to the press right now. She's already walking on thin ice with World Con. Does that answer your question?”
“Why do you always have to be such a smart-ass, Chris? Why can't you just say, ‘Yes, Abby, that's right, Abby, anytime, Abby' instead of making ... Oh shit, forget it.” Abby could only imagine the look on Chris's face. A broad smile, crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Sandy hair disheveled. Wrinkled jeans. No shoes.
Damn, I've got it bad for him.
“Abby, is there something else? Because if there isn't, it's late, and I am going to bed.”
“No, there isn't anything else, Chris. You have a good night, okay?”
“You know what, Abby? I did not have a good night. I spent the entire evening cleaning this boring condo because I didn't have anything better to do. Because you, Abby dear, would rather spend your evening holed up at your mother's beach house with two dogs than have dinner with me. Just so you know.”
Abby grinned from ear to ear.
Damn, Chris has it bad, too.
Now the question was, who was going to be the first to give in?
“Okay, I appreciate your telling me. And, Chris, thanks for the story. I'll e-mail you a copy of tomorrow's paper.” She clicked off before he had a chance to reply.
Satisfied that
The Informer
had an exclusive on the story, Abby went back upstairs and called it a night.
Sweet dreams, Christopher Clay.

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