Murder of a Botoxed Blonde (21 page)

“Yeah, I know. Margot closed the big gates by the road and hired security to keep the reporters out, but it feels like we’re under siege. I overheard the cook telling one of the housekeepers that a reporter snuck past the guards and stole the trash bag she put outside the kitchen door.”

“It’ll only get worse,” Wally said. “Tonight one of the
entertainment channels is doing a program called, ‘The Passing of a Fashion Icon.”’

“Great. At least there are no television sets at the spa so people here won’t get stirred up.” Skye wasn’t surprised. She knew Esmé had been a big name in her time. And there was nothing like a dead celebrity to bring out the crocodile tears of an industry that declared women over the hill at thirty. Changing the subject, Skye asked, “Did you get the autopsy results yet?”

“The contractual ME’s swamped. He said the regular ME should get to her on Monday.”

“He gets the weekend off?” Skye knew they were a small county and the medical examiner was also the local pediatrician, but this was ridiculous.

“Our usual ME is away for the holiday, and due to budget constraints, the county only hired this guy for so many hours, which are nearly up.”

“How about the state police’s ME? I thought they were helping out.”

“We have a confession, remember? That means this case goes to the bottom of the priority list.” Wally’s tone was rueful. “That includes our trace evidence, too.”

“Terrific.” Skye frowned. She hadn’t considered the consequences of the false confession. Then she brightened. “Does that mean Special Agent Vail is off the case?”

“I guess you could say that.” Wally’s tone grew sheepish. “When I talked to the state police this morning to check on when I could expect their lab results, I asked if she was still available for assistance, and no one had heard of her.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, they talked to all the supervisors and finally checked the computer. There was never a Special Agent Vail on the state police force.”

“That is so odd.” Skye leaned against the bathroom door. “And she never showed up at the PD today?”

“No, but her Miata is gone, so she must have picked it up sometime last night. I sure wish I would have gotten the license plate number. If she shows up at the spa, try to keep
her there and call me immediately. Impersonating a police officer is against the law.”

“Do you think she had anything to do with the murder?”

“Anything’s possible. She could be a part of the protest group, or one of the treasure hunters. Anyone with a police scanner could have known there was a murder at the spa and that I had asked the state for backup.”

“I thought you kept the murder off the radio to keep the media away for as long as possible.” Skye remembered Wally mentioning that fact when they were at his house.

“Only after we realized we were dealing with a celebrity. The initial call went out over the scanners per our normal procedure.”

“Oh.” Skye’s thoughts went back to Ronnie Vail. “Did you see any identification from her?”

The sheepish note in Wally’s voice intensified. “No. I made a rookie mistake. Because she walked the walk and talked the talk, I never doubted her.”

There was a pause while they both thought of the fake investigator, then Skye said, “Things have been weird around here too.” She gave him a brief rundown of everything that had taken place since she had returned to the spa, including the men trying to make the women leave, Margot and Frisco’s affair, and Frisco’s other dalliance. She ended her report by saying, “Should I stake out the garage, and see who Frisco’s other lady friend is?”

“No, I’ll do it. If this turns out to be Frisco setting up another murder, I don’t want you there armed with only a Taser and pepper spray.”

“Okay.” Skye didn’t want to confront another murderer either. After a slight pause, she said casually, “By the way, one of our suspects is here under a false name. Nancy Kimbrough is really Spike Yamaguchi—yes, it’s her real name, she had it legally changed,
and
she’s Simon’s half sister.” Skye went on to explain Spike’s revelation.

The silence at the other end of the line was deafening. Finally Wally asked, “Does that change anything between you and Reid?”

“No.” Skye hoped she was telling the truth. “But I did
promise to take a ride with him tonight so we could discuss the situation in private. As you know, the walls have ears around here.”

“Yes.” Wally sounded troubled. “Maybe we could get together afterward?”

“I would love that, but Simon’s not coming over until nine. He has a funeral tonight and can’t leave until it’s over. So, by the time we get back, you’ll be staking out the garage.”

Wally grunted his agreement.

“How about I call you tomorrow morning, when I get up?” Skye suggested.

“How about we meet when I get finished with my stakeout?” Wally’s voice was low and purposely seductive. “Have you ever made love in the back seat of a squad car?”

A bright flare of desire ran through her, but Skye realized that after talking to Simon she wouldn’t want to go immediately into Wally’s arms. “Can I have a rain check?”

“Any time, any place.”

“Then I’ll talk to you tomorrow, first thing.”

“Bye, darlin’. You be careful tonight.”

“I’m not the one staking out a possible murderer,” Skye reminded him.

“No, you’re spending time alone with an ex-lover. That’s a hundred times more dangerous.”

Once again, dinner was flavorless and meager. Afterward Margot produced board games and packs of cards and recruited people for various competitions. Trixie and Frannie chose Scrabble, and Bunny and May chose poker.

Bridge attracted Skye. She hadn’t played since breaking up with Simon and missed the competition. Margot had set up a two-table progressive, which meant there would be seven rounds and each person would be partners with and play against all other players during the course of the evening.

For the first round, Skye found herself partnered with Spike, against Whitney and Loretta. Skye knew Loretta played, as bridge had been a popular pastime at their sorority
house, and she was not surprised that Spike played, since Simon was an avid player, but she was taken aback by Whitney’s presence at the table. Bridge took a mathematical and organized mind, not something Whitney had so far displayed.

After the first hand was dealt, the bidding was completed at two no-trump, and Loretta had led a four of spades, Skye asked, “Have you been playing bridge long, Whitney?”

“Since I was twelve.” The girl didn’t look up from her cards.

“Wow, you were young.” Skye as dummy laid down her hand. “I didn’t learn until I went to college.”

Spike played the six of spades from the board.

Whitney frowned and laid down her nine. “My dad needed a partner for duplicate, and none of his women were smart enough, so he taught me.” She dug in her purse, producing a wallet, and flipped it open. “See, this is my dad and me at a tournament.”

They all murmured appropriate words of appreciation, then Spike took the hand with a queen and led a seven of clubs.

She looked at Whitney and said, “I thought you told me that your mom and dad divorced only a year ago.”

Loretta played her king, and Spike overcame it with the ace from the board.

Whitney threw in a three, her nostrils flaring. “True, but Mom refused to play with Dad because he gets mad when he doesn’t win, and, as I said, his girlfriends du jour were too dumb.”

Skye made a mental note—Esmé’s new husband had a temper and had played around throughout his marriage—then asked, “Did your stepmother play?”

After Spike won another hand with the queen of clubs from the board, and led a seven of diamonds, Whitney answered, “She claimed she did.”

Loretta took that hand with her ace and led a two of spades before saying, “Did Esmé play in the duplicate tournaments with your dad?”

Whitney glared at Loretta as Spike won the hand with the
jack from the board. “That was a dumb move. You should have known the queen had already been played.”

Loretta shrugged, not responding to the dig.

Skye examined Whitney. She had underestimated the girl. Whitney was either a savant bridge player or a lot smarter than she let the world see.

Spike led a two of clubs from the board and Whitney took the hand with an eight. For the first time, the girl smiled and answered Loretta’s previous question. “Esmé was an awful bridge player. My dad wouldn’t have gotten any masters points with her.” She led the ten of diamonds.

Spike took the hand with the jack, led the king taking another hand, then led a nine of hearts taking a third hand. She needed one more to make the bid. “So, your dad didn’t play with her in the tournaments?” she asked before leading a four of clubs from the board.

Whitney shook her head, then smiled triumphantly and took the hand with her jack, then led her king and queen of hearts in quick succession. She paused before laying down her last card, a queen of diamonds. If Spike took the hand she would make her bid; if Whitney and Loretta took it, they would set her.

Grimly Spike threw in her ace of spades and the ten of clubs from the board. Loretta put down her king of spades and Whitney jubilantly pulled in the winning hand.

Skye refused to think of this as a date. She and Simon were just getting together to discuss recent developments. Still, she wanted to look nice, and she had pretty much run out of wardrobe options. Her choices were the jeans she had worn to the spa, a dinner dress, or exercise clothes. A dress might suggest mat she considered their get-together more than just a chat, but she had no intention of meeting him in a sweat suit either.

At eight thirty, she asked one of the Scumble River women to sit in for her during the rest of the bridge game, and went upstairs to get ready. After several minutes of agonizing, Skye finally shimmied into the jeans and pulled on a marmalade wrap sweater intended to be paired with a skirt.

After spritzing her hair with water, she used the hot air brush to tame the curls into a smooth curtain. Although she wanted to make sure she was on time for Simon—she had told him to meet her around the side and not to come into the lobby where they might be ambushed by friends and relatives—she took a few minutes to reapply her bronzer and mascara and put on dangling topaz earrings. Marmalade slides with kitten heels added just the right touch of sophistication without looking like she had fussed.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she made it down the stairs and out the side door without being seen. This exit led to the gym and other new additions. Most of the recently constructed buildings were private cottages for those guests who didn’t want to mingle with the hoi polloi. The bungalows were scattered along a heavily landscaped pathway, trees and trellises strategically placed to maintain utmost privacy.

As Skye made her way down the path she noticed several recently dug holes—clearly the murder and the security guards had not stopped the treasure hunter. The dense landscaping blocked out the moon, and the small lights edging the concrete sidewalk illuminated only to knee level.

Suddenly Skye felt as if she were being followed. Reaching into her tote bag, she drew out the tiny can of pepper spray attached to her key chain, and whirled around. A small man was jogging toward her.

His gaze fastened on the canister of pepper spray, and he threw his hands in the air. “I’m Jack Novak from
Entertainment
, what can you tell me about Esmé’s murder?”

“No comment.” Skye aimed the pepper spray at the reporter’s eyes. “This is private property. Either leave or I’ll spray you.”

“All I want to know is how she looked.” Novak took a step backward. “Did you see her?”

“I’m spraying on three.” Skye followed him. “One.”

“Is it true her eyes were gouged out of their sockets?”

“Two.”

“She was naked, right? Were her boobs fake?”

“Three.”

Skye pressed the button and Novak took off like a rabbit being chased by a greyhound. She nodded in satisfaction, and decided on their way out, she’d ask Simon to stop at the gate so she could tell the guard about the reporter.

Speaking of Simon, where was he? She pressed the stem of her watch and the dial lit up. It was already ten after nine. The wake must have run long. Frowning, she took a few more steps down the path then stopped.

Two of the VIP cottages had lights showing through their windows. They were supposed to be unoccupied during this trial weekend. Who was in them?

All the guests, plus Margot and Dr. Burnett, were playing games, which left the staff. Could Frisco be seeing yet another woman before his eleven o’clock date? Was this where Ustelle went when she disappeared? Maybe it was another reporter or the spa vandal/treasure hunter.

Or was it the murderer?

S
hit! Shit! Shit! What should she do? It would be stupid to approach whoever was in the cottage by herself, not to mention it would be extremely difficult to check out both cottages without being discovered. She had not brought her emergency-equipped fanny pack, and she had emptied her tiny pepper spray on the reporter. But if she left to get help, there was nothing to prevent the people in the cottages from also leaving.