i 9fb2c9db4068b52a (36 page)

Bryce Heidt’s wife was standing there, arms folded across her pink and white striped Mary Todd Lincoln gown, looking like a playground monitor about to take on the class bully. Claudia pushed past her, leaving Bryce Heidt to explain what they had been doing beneath the gangway.

Party guests lined both sides of the buffet table. Poached salmon, grilled chicken breasts in cream sauce, steamships of prime rib. A feast of prawns and cracked crab; vegetables sprinkled with pecans and oranges; roasted potatoes. Plates heaped with enough food to feed a third-world country.

After her brush with Heidt, Claudia didn’t have much of an appetite. Even though he hadn’t physically assaulted her, the encounter had shaken her in a way that Charles Bostwick’s attack had not. She now felt unsure of so much that she had come to suspect about Heidt’s involvement in Lindsey’s death and everything else that had happened over the past weeks.

Dishing a few items onto her plate with little enthusiasm, she went to the table where Zebediah was holding court. He rose with a welcoming smile and drew out a chair for her. “There you are, sweetie,” he said, gesturing to a glamorous young woman seated on his left. “Claudia Rose, Jessica St. John.”

Lady Godiva in a flesh-colored bodysuit.

She would have been called a starlet in the days of old Hollywood. Long blonde tresses cascaded over a shapely body; strategically arranged but providing precious little cover.

Claudia got a disinterested nod from the young woman, who immediately resumed bragging about her latest film, a less-than-memorable B flick. She clearly wasn’t interested in wasting a smile on another woman until Zebediah cleverly inserted himself into the conversation. “Claudia’s a famous handwriting expert,” he said.

Claudia kicked him under the table, glad she’d connected with a tender spot when he jumped. Predictably, Jessica St. John’s attitude did a supersonic one-eighty and she immediately began asking around the table for a pen, pouting when no one could produce one.

The last empty seat at the table was filled by a tall, slender Catwoman whose stealthy movements as she slid into the chair were as feline as her slick black outfit.

Appropriate choice of costume,
Claudia thought with a ripple of recognition.

“Good evening, everyone,” Catwoman said, and introduced herself as Lillian Grainger’s assistant, Yolande Palomino.

Zebediah leaned over and whispered in Claudia’s ear. “Maybe you can grill her about Lindsey’s boyfriend.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

The meal dragged for Claudia as the woman to her left chattered endlessly about her five wonderful, talented, beautiful grandchildren. She’d heard Zebediah’s tales of his days as a prison psychologist before. When it was her turn, she fielded all the standard questions about handwriting analysis:
“Does squeezed writing mean he’s a cheapskate?” “What do
i
-dots the shape of hearts mean?” “Can you tell if a guy loves sex?”
That was Jessica, of course.

Only half of Claudia’s attention was focused on the conversation. The other half was divided between her encounter with Senator Heidt, and a longing to know what Jovanic might be learning from Kardosian. He would have had to stop at his apartment to change out of his costume, of course. He wasn’t likely to show up at the LA County Jail clad as Marc Antony.

When the chocolate mousse in pastry cups, and the petits fours and traditional pumpkin pie had come and gone, and the coffee and conversation petered out, the guests began drifting back onto the dance floor. The band cranked up and Jessica St. John took the microphone, singing in a husky voice, slightly off-key, “You’ve got to change your evil ways, baby.”

“That song was popular before she was born,” Claudia said, making a sour face at Zebediah.

He laughed, and threw a meaningful glance at Yolande Palomino, who was preparing to leave the table. Claudia rose from her chair and moved around the table to sit beside her. “You make a fabulous Catwoman, Yolande,” she said.

Behind the black vinyl cat mask, the other woman’s smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. Her mouth had the drawn look of a perpetual worrier—one whom life has dealt so many unkind blows that she’d forgotten how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. She smiled at Claudia. “Thanks. That’s a great look for you, too.”

“I wanted to apologize for calling you at work the other day. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The tension went out of Yolande’s shoulders. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You just caught me at a bad moment. One of my kids was home sick and had been calling me all morning. I’m sorry I hung up so abruptly, but it seemed like I was on a personal call every time Mrs. Grainger walked by my desk.” She picked up the leather gauntlets she had left under her chair during dinner and pulled them on. “Would you excuse me? I’m supposed to be making sure everyone’s having a good time. It was nice seeing you again, Ms. Rose. Your work is fascinating.” Claudia reached out a restraining hand. “Please wait a moment, Yolande. I wanted to ask you something. Did Lindsey mention anything to you about having a new boyfriend?”

With a look of surprise, Lillian’s assistant shook her head. “I didn’t really know her all that well. I don’t remember her ever mentioning a boyfriend at all.”

“Do you remember when the last time was that you spoke to her?”

Yolande’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She dabbed carefully at her eyes with the napkin she had left on the table. “As a matter of fact, I do because it was the day she passed away. We’d been talking about
this
party. She was telling me about her costume. She said she was dressing up as a... a dominatrix.”

Talk about life imitating art.

Claudia got the feeling that if she could have seen under her mask, Yolande might be blushing. Lillian’s assistant continued. “If I’d only known... maybe... maybe I could have done something. But I had no clue that she was suicidal.”

Claudia shook her head in understanding. “You couldn’t have known. Besides, there’s a good chance she didn’t kill herself.”

Yolande’s dark eyes grew round and large. “You really think...”

“She may have been murdered by someone she was blackmailing. That’s why it’s so important that you share anything you know that might shed some light.”

“She was a
blackmailer?
”

“She videotaped high-profile men having kinky sex, then threatened to embarrass them if they didn’t pay up.”

Yolande stared down at her gloved hands, clenching and unclenching them as if fighting the urge to say something. Finally, she spoke in a subdued voice. “She sounded fine when we talked on the phone, then...”

“What happened?”

She gusted a resigned sigh and plunged ahead. “A couple of hours after I spoke with her, a letter was hand-delivered from Lindsey addressed to Mrs. Grainger. I knew it was from her because it came in a gas company envelope with a label stuck over the address. You know how she always re-used old envelopes? It was marked
personal,
so I gave it to Mrs. Grainger unopened.”

Yolande stole an anxious glance around, making sure nobody was listening, and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “I... I’m sure this has nothing to do with anything, but a few minutes later, Mrs. Grainger came out to my desk. I’ve never seen her so angry. She said to get Lindsey on the phone. Then she went back into her office and slammed her door. I could hear her yelling.” She stared at her lap, shaking her head a little, as if she couldn’t believe what she was saying. “I’d never heard her like that. She
never
raises her voice.”

“Did you hear what she was saying?”

“No, but after she’d left for the day, I was putting some papers on her desk for her to sign, and I noticed an envelope on the floor. I picked it up.”

“What did it say?” Claudia asked, hardly daring to breathe, for fear that Yolande would bolt like a scared rabbit if she pressed too hard.

“It was Lindsey’s envelope. I shouldn’t have opened it... it wasn’t any of my business.”

“Yolande,
tell me,
what was it?”

“It was just a few printed words. It said
‘IT WAS FUN WHILE IT LASTED.’
”

Claudia stared at her. “Lindsey’s suicide note?”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you know? That’s what her suicide note said.”

Yolande slowly shook her head, looking bewildered, and Claudia remembered that the contents of the note had not been released to the public.

What did Lindsey’s suicide note have to do with Lillian? How did it get to Lindsey’s penthouse?

“I never thought he would do such a thing,” Yolande was saying. “He always seemed so devoted.”

Claudia blinked in confusion, forced her attention back to the other woman. “What? Who seemed devoted?”

“Mr. Grainger... Lindsey...” She trailed off with a helpless shrug.

“You think Lindsey and Martin Grainger were having an affair and that’s what she wrote to Lillian about?” Claudia knew her mouth had dropped open. Such an idea would never have occurred to her, and even now that Yolande was suggesting it, she found it beyond her ability to picture Lindsey Alexander in a personal relationship with Lillian’s husband. As a client, maybe, but as the mysterious boyfriend Bostwick had told her about? That really stretched the limits of her imagination.

“Did you check out what I mentioned to you?” Yolande’s voice had dropped so low that Claudia had to lean in close to hear her.

“You mean about Mexico? I found out that Lindsey used to visit a condo in Ixtapa-Zihuatanejo...” Claudia broke off as she felt someone come up behind her. Both she and Yolande turned at the same time.

“What’s going on here?” Lillian Grainger smiled at Claudia, but her voice was cold. “You two look as guilty as sin.”

Yolande leapt out of her chair with a face as shocked if she’d been seated on Old Sparky and someone had flipped on the juice. “Mrs. Grainger! I was just... Ms. Rose was just... she was telling me, uh, about a... a trip she wants to... uh... excuse me... I have to go... to... to the ladies’ room.”

Claudia stared after Yolande, who took off like a rocket, then at Lillian in her elaborate Elizabethan gown. She forced a smile and tried to fill the gap left by Yolande’s hasty departure.

“I was just asking Yolande, have you ever been to Ixtapa-Zihuatanejo?”

Lillian stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues.

“Are you all right, Lillian?” Claudia asked, watching the blood rise in Lillian Grainger’s cheeks. “I feel a little faint.” Lillian picked up the napkin Yolande had dropped, and fanned herself. “It’s the corset under this dress, it’s... it’s a little tight.”

“Sit down, let me get you some water.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll be fine. Marty told me your date had to leave, so I came to offer you a ride home.”

From the upper deck, the harbor lights twinkled in the distance, gradually growing larger as the yacht turned into the breakwater and the engines throttled back to cut the wake. The party was still in full swing, the music louder, the laughter more shrill with every hour the bar remained open.

Few other vessels were out so late in the evening, and the
Lilliana
cruised into Fisherman’s Village around midnight at a leisurely pace, tying up at the dock with a gentle bump against the stanchions.

Along with a handful of other guests, Claudia made her way off the yacht, hurrying past a family of brown pelicans, heads tucked under their wings, brooding on wooden pilings alongside the dock. The air reeked of saltwater and fish.

She hurried past the line of waiting limousines with their dozing drivers, and made a beeline for the south end of Fisherman’s Village, past the strip of stores and restaurants, to the area next to Shanghai Red’s. The restaurant had already shut down for the night; the valets had closed and locked their key cabinet; the kitchen help had cleaned up and gone home an hour earlier.

Liliian’s black Lexus stood alone in a corner of the lot, flanked by oleander bushes on the front and passenger sides. No mistaking who car it was—the vanity plate read
DimndLil.

Most of the party guests had parked their vehicles closer to the gangway. Waiting for Lillian under a street lamp in the moonless night, Claudia was acutely aware of how alone she was at that end of the parking lot. She darted a quick look around, her nerves jumping. Saw no one; heard nothing.

The thin fabric of the linen dress afforded little protection from the sharp nip in the air. Yet, the chill Claudia felt wasn’t entirely due to the weather. She rubbed her arms against the chill, rehashing the conversation with Yolande Palomino.

Yolande’s suspicion of a relationship between Martin Grainger and Lindsey was a stunner. Martin just didn’t seem Lindsey’s type. But then, who knew what Lindsey’s type really was? More to the point, did the information relate to Lindsey’s death?

A movement near the shops caught her attention. Lillian was headed her way at a trot, a small, dark figure in a black nylon Prada slack suit.

“What a relief to get out of that costume,” Lillian said, pointing her alarm key at the Lexus and climbing behind the wheel. “Which way do we turn on Lincoln?”

“Take a right to Jefferson and head west, toward the beach,” Claudia said, getting into the passenger seat. “You can be back in fifteen minutes.”

Lillian threw her a sidelong glance and accelerated out of the lot. “Do you have any booze at home? I have a feeling we’re gonna need it. We’ve got things to talk about, you and I.”

At twelve-thirty AM, Bishop Street was all shadows and silence. The last television had been switched off, books dog-eared and placed on bedside tables; goodnight kisses exchanged; lights out.

Lillian braked in Claudia’s driveway and killed the engine. As they got out of the Lexus, Flare’s bark broke the silence.

Claudia shushed the big Shepherd chained in Marcia Collins’ front yard and led Lillian to the redwood staircase. The dog bounded across the yard toward them, whining until it ran out of chain and was yanked backward by the tether.