Innocent Little Crimes

Praise for
Innocent Little Crimes

Top 100 Finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough
Novel Contest

“Revenge is indeed a dish best served
cold in this fast-paced, thrilling story. Lila Carmichael is the
Queen of Comedy, a wealthy TV actress with legions of adoring fans,
who capitalizes on her less-than-gorgeous looks and snarky sense of
humor. When she invites the former fellow members of her Evergreen
State College theater group, the Thespians, to her private island
off the coast of Seattle for a mini-reunion, initially they’re all
thrilled. They all need something from their old friend, whether it
be connections or cold hard cash: Della Roman needs money and a
Hollywood connection; Dick Ferrol needs a cash bailout to get him
out of a shady business deal; his kind, overweight wife Millie
needs some excitement; Jonathan Levin needs Lila’s influence to
save his directing career, and Davis Gregory needs a reminder that
he was once a hot actor, not just a dull businessman. At first
Lila’s guests try to ignore her barbed, acerbic humor, and
reminisce over beach volleyball and drinks. But Lila hasn’t
forgotten how cruel they were to her when she was a heavy, unhappy
preacher’s daughter too naive to know they were using her. And now
she’s got them trapped right where she wants them, and she turns
them on each other, bringing to light their greed and the dark
secrets they’ve been keeping all these years. Before the weekend is
over, one of them will end up dead. . . . This is a
page-turning thrill-ride that will have readers holding their
breaths the whole way through.”

—
Publishers
Weekly

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 C. S. Lakin

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Prologue

With the motor at a putter, Mac Dobson
steered his trawler through the clammy fog, stretching his neck to
spot jutting rocks before they punched holes in his hull. Even
though he’d maneuvered through this maze of islands for over thirty
years, he knew to keep his confidence in check. Forceful waves
slapped the bow, splashing salt water into his beard. Tree branches
tumbled and bobbed in the churning water, debris from the weekend
storm littering the narrow channel. Sherpa whined, pressing against
Mac’s legs.

“We’ll be there soon, ol’ boy. Then a bowl of
hot soup for the both of us.” Mac pulled the yellow rain slicker
tighter to stave off the wind, then dodged a hefty limb with the
jerk of the wheel. He gave Sherpa a brusque pat on the head as the
dog sought purchase with his paws on the slick deck. “Folks must be
crazy to be vacationing this time of year.”

Through the drifts of gray, he could make out
the island a dozen yards to starboard. The soughing of the surf as
it pounded the beach rolled toward him, growing in pitch. As in a
dream, the pier and moorings materialized, then the flag pole
jutting from the sand.

A shiver raced across the back of his neck at
the sight.

Someone had raised the signal flag; it
flapped in the wind, smacking the pole. The pulley clanged against
metal, tolling like a bell in a churchyard. As the boat nosed to
shore, Mac made out a small group on the beach standing solemn and
still, a curious contrast to their excited manner two days ago when
he dropped them off.

But dream turned nightmare when his gaze
followed theirs to the ground. A bulky shape lay at their feet,
wrapped in a gray canvas tarp. Mac tossed the line over the post at
the dock and whistled under his breath as the prow nudged the
pilings. He didn’t need to take a mental count to know someone was
missing—and just where that someone happened to be.

Chapter 1

January
1
^st

Bel Air, California

Lila Carmichael’s massive face, frozen in
Living Technicolor, bore down on them from the eight-foot-wide
plasma TV mounted on the wall.

“Ugh—I’ve got a voice that grates
cheese.”

Lila tossed sandwich crusts into her mouth as
she half-heartedly trotted on the treadmill. “I’m not that funny,
you know. People think a fat broad with a big mouth is an easy
target.”

She narrowed her eyes at the screen. Her
short, thick, carrot-red hair flared out around her face—a
pretty-enough face, but overpowered by bulging cheeks and a double
chin. Her beady brown eyes resembled raisins pushed into a blob of
dough.

She turned to Peter, her lithe assistant.
“Here’s what I think. They laugh at me because no matter how rotten
their life is, they can look in the mirror and say, ‘I may be a
loser, but thank God I don’t look like Lila Carmichael.’ She looked
again at her image. “Sheesh, what an ugly mug.”

“A face the whole world loves, sweets.” Peter
helped her climb off the treadmill. “And pays plenty to watch.”

Lila stepped onto the scale and squinted at
numbers that flashed her weight in both pounds and kilos. Neither
number flattered her. With a disgusted grunt, she pasted a piece of
lettuce over the digital readout.

Her head throbbed from last night’s New
Year’s bash, an event she barely remembered attending. She surveyed
the room she liked to call her “fat farm.” Garish-green walls with
floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected back her sizable body from the
ceilings and domed archways. More like a fun house sideshow than a
fancy French chateau sequestered in Beverly Hills. Just who was she
fooling with all this exercise equipment and indoor lap pool? She
was never going to get in shape unless that shape was round. Her
sixteen-million-dollar estate—her little “tear-down”—boasted
spacious rose gardens, closed-circuit security cameras, and privet
hedges galore. All designed to induce peace of mind. But Lila felt
constrained, like a restless lion in a tight cage.

She fell back into an overstuffed chair with
a sigh and wiggled a finger at the screen. “Play the DVD
again.”

“Darling, it’s great. You’ve watched it a
thousand times. Why torture yourself? You got rave reviews. You
always do.”

“Shut up, Peter, please, and obey.” She shot
him a saccharine-sweet smile.

He was right, though. She
did
torture herself. She
did
get rave reviews. This time.
This week. You could never be sure when your little kingdom would
topple and the crown would be yanked out of your greedy hands.
There were plenty of wolves clawing their way to the top, with the
bodies of half-chewed has-beens littered along the
wayside.

Peter picked up the remote. Garrett came in,
three poodles trailing like coifed models on a runway.

“Meeting’s all set. Three tomorrow. Oh, and
by the way, they’re sweating over at NBC. They’re afraid you might
go to one of the other networks.”

“Make them sweat. Now call them back and
cancel the meeting. Tell them something’s come up and change it to
Monday.”

“They’ll be furious.”

Lila shrugged. “What do I care? It’s just an
act. They know they’ll have to meet my price in the end.”

“Are you really thinking about breaking from
Cable?” Peter asked. “The nets will demand you clean up your
act.”

“When they clean up theirs, I’ll clean up
mine. They should talk. Besides, it’s only money” Lila turned back
to Garrett. “Ring my manicurist, and tell the cook to go easy on
the garlic. My stomach’s been a mess all day.”

Garrett nodded and left the room, with
poodles’ toenails clicking on the pristine marble floor.

Peter pressed the remote and stood off to the
side. Lila watched the screen, then sat up abruptly. “Hey now, what
about those invitations?”

“Sent them all out this morning.”

She clapped her hands. “Ah, the game’s
afoot.”

Peter smirked. “Wait till they open their
mail. The look on their faces. Ooh . . . think they’ll all
come?”

“They wouldn’t dare turn me down. Not a
frigging chance they’d miss a weekend with the rich and famous Lila
Carmichael.”

Peter exaggerated a sigh. “I’d give my right
kidney to be a fly on the wall that weekend.”

“I’ll do you one better. You can be my
‘escort.’ ”

Peter blushed. “Oh, Lila.”

“Cut the crap, Peter. We have a lot of work
to do to get ready. This is not one of your run-of-the-mill,
everyone sit around and gleefully reminisce about the good ol’
days—because they weren’t any. They’re going to wish they never
came.”

Lila grew pensive, and then a smile inched up
her face. “They just don’t know it yet.”

Chapter 2

Brooklyn, New York

Snow pelted the window of Della Roman’s tiny
room in the brownstone apartment on Montague Street. Della looked
out on the neighborhood where snow piled in drifts and wind whipped
the clouds in a frenzy. The street lamps cast an eerie glow onto
the blanketed sidewalks. She squinted to read the illuminated
numbers on her alarm clock. Three fifteen.

Her white cat lay curled in her lap as Della
read and reread the same page over and over. She brushed her cat’s
fur with a small comb and lit another menthol cigarette.

It was no use—she couldn’t concentrate.

She threw down the book,
Meditating with Purpose
, and
stumbled into the bathroom, cringing under the glaring light. Why
did she persist in reading herself to sleep when it never
worked?

She opened the mirrored cabinet to a dozen
bottles of prescription medication, most of them empty. She popped
open the Valium cap and shook out a tablet, then two. As she washed
the pills down, she caught her gaze in the mirror.

Della forced herself to look at her
reflection. Her face was deathly pale, with dark circles under her
eyes from repeated bouts of insomnia. Her skin was taut and dry,
her black hair greasy and unkempt. Mascara smeared her eyelids. Her
looks reflected her life—a total mess.

How had she ended up like this? Living
with her condescending brother and his annoying wife in the
hoity-toity section of Brooklyn. Barbie and Ken, she called them
behind their backs. Ever so right, ever so plastic. They lived by
“the rules,” they liked to say. Della snorted.
Let them drop dead with their rules
. What joy
did they get out of their absolutely eat-off-the-floor spotless
house? They hardly dared sit on a chair for fear of mussing
it.

And her niece and nephew. Sweet kids
but so spoiled. She was sure they’d grow up exactly like their
parents and just as dull. They all treated her like a slave.
Della, be a honey, fix the lunches, pick up the
kids, vacuum the rug.
Her brother Edward encouraged
her when she went on auditions, but she knew he pitied her. He and
his patronizing support—he never believed for a minute she had
talent. Nothing Della did was good enough. She was tolerated
because she was cheap labor.

She went back to her small single bed and
climbed under the patchwork quilt. What humiliation, having to live
in the “maid’s room” littered with the detritus of former
Puerto-Rican live-in help: plaster crucifixes, half-empty purple
nail polish, hairbrushes knotted with hair. She pulled her cat up
to her face and hugged her.

“Oh, Princess,” she cooed, stroking the cat’s
fur, “when am I going to get out of this prison? You’re my only
friend, you know.” She lit another cigarette, dropping ashes on the
bed. “You hate this place too, I know. But tomorrow’s the day. We
finally have our ticket out. I’m going to go into Manhattan real
early for a try-out. This time I know I’ll get the part. Jack
Rolands is casting his soap and I’m sure he’ll remember me. Well,
maybe not with my clothes on.” She giggled and the giggle became a
hiccup.

“Anyway, even if I don’t get the part, I’m
signing up for that class at Actor’s Studio. I mean it this time.
Edward said he’d pay all the expenses. So, let him. He can afford
it.”

Della rocked the cat in her arms and lit
another cigarette off the one she was finishing. “I can’t take care
of his snotty kids forever. Besides, he’ll do anything to get rid
of me. I’m not a good ‘role model’ for his brats. Do you believe he
said that to me? Damn, these pills don’t work. They must be
diluted.”