Lethally Blond (17 page)

There was only one possible clue left for me to work with—the line Tom had spoken from
Taming of the Shrew
. I needed to find out more about when and where he’d performed the play and what meaning it held for him. Chris didn’t know who Tom used as a freelance agent, but Barish might. I phoned him.

“Actually, I do have a name in my file,” he said after I was put through. I could hear a drawer slide open. “Okay, here it is—Buddy Hess.” He ran off the number.

“Thanks, I’ll follow up. I spoke to the sheriff’s office today. I hear you passed on the information about the unpaid loan.”

“Yes, I’m glad you reminded me of it. It’s definitely a motive, and I want them looking into this Deke fellow.”

“I saw him today on set, and he told me that he repaid the loan the week before Tom died. Could you check and see if there’s any record of Tom depositing that money in his bank account?”

“Let me see what I can find out, but he may have just decided to use it as a cash reserve.”

I also realized that Tom could have used the cash as part of the fund he was pulling together for Barry, the guy doing work on the house in Andes—though I highly doubted the loan had ever actually been repaid.

“Well, thank you for keeping me in the loop,” Barish added. “I have a client waiting, so I need to sign off.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I said before he cut me off, “was Tom trying to mount a play he’d written?”

“Who told you that?”

“A few people mentioned it to me.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he was. We’re not talking Broadway, of course. He would have gone the off off Broadway route.”

“I hear part of his motivation in selling the house was to obtain money to finance the play.”

“I believe that was his intention, yes.”

“But it seems like he already had money at his disposal. Why couldn’t he have simply withdrawn money from his bank account for the play?”

“Because it was going to cost more than he had in his day-to-day reserves. Putting on even a minor production is fairly expensive.”

“Could he have taken money from his trust fund?”

Barish sighed as if I’d just suggested the earth was flat. “The house was a white elephant, and Tom wanted to unload it anyway. And besides, I’d be derelict in my duty letting Tom dip into his capital. His parents’ intentions were for the trust to last Tom for a lifetime. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

I looked up Buddy Hess’s number and phoned his office. Rather than identify myself as a reporter from
Buzz
, which would guarantee that Hess
wouldn’t
pick up, I told the arrogant-sounding woman who answered that I was calling with important information about the murder of Tom Fain. Hess picked up a minute later.

“Who is this, anyway?” he said curtly.

I explained my involvement in looking for Tom and how I was now trying to figure out who had killed him.

“What a damn shame this all is,” he said, softening. “Tom was a real sweetheart, and you don’t find many of those in this business. So what’s this news you want to share with me?”

“Actually,” I said, “I was hoping to get a bit of info from
you
. I’m following a few leads related to Tom’s death, and I really need your help.”

“Isn’t that a job for the cops?” he said.

“Yes, but they’re upstate and they may not have the resources to devote to this. As you say, Tom was a real sweetheart, and I hate the idea that his killer might not be apprehended.”

“Okay, so what can I do for you?”

“Tom was in a production of
Taming of the Shrew
here in New York. Do you know when and where?”

“
Taming of the Shrew
? Sounds vaguely familiar. Maddy, get me a copy of Tom Fain’s résumé, will you? You have to understand that I only represented Tom on a freelance basis, so I can’t tell you off the top of my head.”

“How does that differ from having him as an actual client?”

“A client is under contract. But you don’t sign anyone until you’re reasonably sure it’s going to be good for both of you. There’s a big pool of actors I keep head shots on, and when I hear of something they might be right for, I submit their shots to casting agents on a freelance basis. I sent Tom out for a small part on
Morgue,
and they liked him so much they tested him for the bigger role, too. He was
this
close to nailing it, but they pulled out at the last minute, and ironically he ended up with the part he’d first auditioned for.”

“I hear he was pretty bummed.”

“Yeah, but like I told him, it was still a nice break. He’s—he
was
a good actor and a great-looking guy, and I think it was only a matter of time before something else turned up for him. I offered to sign him at that point, but he was suddenly gun-shy. I think he suspected I was partly responsible for him not getting the bigger role. . . . Okay, here we go. He did
Shrew
last February. It was at the Chaps Theatre on West Thirteeenth Street.”

“That’s the theater where he was a member of the company?”

“Yeah, it’s an off off Broadway theater, small, but I do some scouting there. It’s a pretty decent group.”

“Thanks. By the way, is it true that Tom didn’t get the part of Jared because the producers found out he’d been in rehab?”

“How’d you hear that?”

“It turned up in my inquiries.”

“Yeah, that was lousy. I tried to make the producer see that it was extenuating circumstances—his parents dying and all that. I could see absolutely no reason for it to become a problem for him again. But they didn’t want to take the chance of getting burned.”

“Did they do an investigation—is that how they found out?”

“They do conduct background checks, but I had the feeling in this case that someone tipped them off.”

I felt goose bumps rise on my arms. “You mean squealed on him?”

“Yup. No one said this was a pretty business. You ever see
Rosemary’s Baby
? Her husband makes a pact with the devil so he can land a part. That’s tame compared to some of the stuff I’ve experienced.”

After I signed off, I headed for the kitchenette in search of more coffee and then, with my Styrofoam cup in hand, stole into one of the small conference rooms at the far end of the floor. I closed the door and fell into a chair, finally removed from the cacophony of closing day. I felt really weird, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe the events of the past few days were finally catching up with me. Maybe, too, I realized, the more I learned about Tom, the more heartbreaking his whole story became. It seemed as if the poor guy really
had
been cursed: First he loses his parents, then the role of his dreams, and finally his life. Yet his own personality may have contributed in part to his death. Tom was a good guy, kind and generous, yet also somewhat of a pushover—and that trait had on certain occasions conspired against him. He had a tough time saying no to guys like Deke who wanted cash and to chicks who wanted to bed him—from what I’d discovered, Blythe, Harper, and Locket had all been the aggressors.

After chilling for a while, I went back out to the zoo. People were charging around the cube farm, barking into phones, and shouting to one another across workstations. As far as I knew, Tom Cruise had just run off with Paris Hilton, and that was the new cover story Nash was crashing. But I couldn’t have cared less.

Just after the first proof of my piece surfaced, Harper called.

“So now you’re Miss
Buzz
Reporter, is that it?” she said. Her tone was as testy as her words.

“I’ve always been a reporter for
Buzz—
you knew that.”

“But I didn’t know you were covering this story. You were just helping Chris.”

“Look, Harper,” I said, trying to keep any edge out of my own voice, “I swear I never misrepresented the situation. We’re doing a very small story on Tom. Can you give me a quote I can use—just something nice about Tom from the cast and producers.”

“‘We are deeply saddened by the death of Tom Fain. He was a wonderful actor and a terrific asset to the show, and we will all miss him.’ There—is that it?”

“Actually, no. I want to talk to you about your relationship with Tom—totally off the record. I was trying to do that all weekend.”

“I really have nothing to say to you. What went on between me and Tom is private.”

“Well, my question isn’t about the private aspects of your relationship. I’m curious why you implied to me that you returned Sunday night of the weekend Tom disappeared when you actually took the red-eye back on Friday night.”

“What the hell difference does it make? We finished up early, and I just felt— You’re not trying to imply that
I
killed Tom, are you?”

“Did you know he had a home in Andes?”

“No, though it’s none of your business whether I did or didn’t. I can’t believe what you’re hinting at. What possible motive do you think I had? Tom and I were dating. We cared about each other.”

“And what if you found out Tom was seeing someone else?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s just say you found out Tom was involved with someone else. Like someone on the show. That could make you angry.”

It was like throwing a stink bomb. But goading her might be the only way to trigger a reaction.

“Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“No one in particular. I’m just tossing out a theory.”

“Look, I gave you the quote, now leave me alone. And I don’t want you coming by the set—ever again. Do you hear me?”

“That’s not for you to say, is it?”

“No, you’re right—it’s not for me to say. But Alex doesn’t want to see your face again. And I bet Chris doesn’t, either. You totally humiliated him.”

“I—”

But she had hung up.

Oh jeez, what did she mean by that? I wondered. I had not phoned Chris yet, expecting that I’d be hearing from him, but maybe I needed to do damage control. I called his cell and left a short message, asking him to ring me.

For the next few hours, I hung at my desk sullenly, waiting for my story to clear. I made a call to the Chaps Theatre phone number, but discovered it was only a central box office service. I’d clearly have to stop by. Finally, at seven, I was good to go. Almost everyone else, except for the fashion and beauty writers, was still at their desks, held hostage by Hollywood.

It was dark when I arrived home. After changing out of my work clothes into jeans and a short-sleeved sweater, I headed out for a walk. I wanted to check out the Chaps Theatre, which wasn’t far from me, but mostly I just wanted to give my brain a respite from murder and mayhem. I picked up a slice of pizza on University Place and then zigzagged my way north and west. I could tell half a block from the theater that it was closed—no light fell onto the sidewalk in front of it. When I reached the building, I peered through the glass doors into the small, weary-looking lobby. One light remained on and lit rows of framed memorabilia of old productions. A sign announced that performances for the current production, a new play called
Coeds from Hell
, ran from Wednesday through Sunday.

I continued to ramble, stopping at one point for a double chocolate ice-cream cone—because I damn well felt like it—and when I left the shop I headed north. I had walked for about ten more minutes, thinking about trips I’d taken and stories I’d written, anything to keep my mind temporarily off Chris and Tom and Locket and Harper, before it hit me: I was making a beeline for Beau Regan’s building.

CHAPTER 14

D
on’t be an idiot,
a little voice in me commanded. I felt as if I were watching a horror movie in which the heroine is spending the night in a sagging old house about six miles from the main road and has decided to investigate a tapping sound she’s heard in the attic or basement, despite the fact that it’s thundering and lightning and the power is promising to go out at any second.

But I couldn’t stop myself. What I realized, however, was that I wasn’t heading to Beau’s in order to try out Landon’s or Jessie’s tactics for winning him back. He wasn’t interested, and nothing I did would change that. The reason for my trip was that I had unfinished business with Beau. On Saturday night, I’d relished delivering my zinger about the postcard, but that hadn’t really conveyed how disappointed I was by his behavior. So I would ring his bell, and if he was home, I would apologize for being snippy. And then I would use up five minutes of his precious time to tell him how I really felt. Weren’t articles in magazines like
Gloss
always suggesting the importance of closure?

It was eight-thirty when I reached his neighborhood. There was only a decent chance that he was home. For instance, he might have stopped by his apartment for a shower or change of clothes or to pick up a jumbo box of Trojans before heading out for the night.
Or
he might even be there with a chick. Oh God, was it really smart to be doing this? But I just couldn’t stop my little legs in their quest. They were like a pair of Disney movie dogs that had been separated from their owner and were crossing the Rockies in order to make it home.

I reached his building and opened the door into the empty foyer. Taking a breath, I pushed the buzzer. Excruciating seconds passed without a response, and I tried again, just for the sheer torture of it. Still no response. With a surprising surge of relief, I turned to go. And then, just as I reached the door, Beau’s voice came over the intercom, jerking my body like I’d just stuck a fork down a toaster.

“Yes?” he asked. He sounded sleepy.

“Um, hi, Beau, it’s Bailey. I’m down here in your foyer”—
obviously
—“and I was wondering if you might want to grab some coffee—or like a glass of wine.”

There was the longest pause, and then it hit me. He
was
with a woman. He’d probably just finished having a
predinner
sack session and had padded down the hall to the intercom, leaving her flushed beneath his pale gray comforter while he determined who had rudely interrupted their carnal bliss.

“Oh, hi. Sure. But why don’t you come up first. I need to put some clothes on.”

Fucking great, I thought. He’s going to
introduce
me to her.

“I don’t want to interrupt anything. I was nearby and—”

“It’s not a problem. I was taking a nap, but I’m up now.”

He hit the buzzer, and I pushed open the door. My legs felt wobbly suddenly, not the brave doggies they’d been only minutes before.

Beau had thrown on some clothes by the time I got up there—a pair of blue jeans and a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt, with just one side tucked in. His hair was tousled, and his eyes had that dreamy quality I’d noticed in the few mornings I’d awoken next to him.

“Sorry to wake you,” I said, staving off the awkward shift my body was dying to make.

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I’ve had a little jet lag since I got back. Come on in. Would you just like to have a drink here?”

“No, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” I would have liked to stay, to be in that serene space again,
his
space, but it didn’t seem like the smartest idea. “I was thinking we could just go in the neighborhood someplace—you know, like a coffee place.”

“Okay. Just let me get my shoes.”

He wandered off to the bedroom, and I let my eyes dart around his living room like bumblebees. There were piles of papers on the ottoman, as if he’d been going through the mail that had accumulated when he’d been in Turkey. An exotic, musky scent hung in the room, just a slight undertone, and I panicked until I remembered that it was
Beau
who smelled that way.

He came back in less than a minute, wearing a pair of flip-flops. I knew he had to be curious about why I was here, but in that Zen way of his, he gave nothing away.

We walked up toward the avenue, him leading. As we maneuvered around pedestrians and baby strollers, we didn’t talk much. I asked if he generally suffered from jet lag.

“No, not usually,” he said.

He asked why, since Monday was closing day, I was out of work reasonably early, and I explained that I’d had only a short crime piece to do tonight. Gosh, at the rate our zippy banter was going, people were going to accuse us of trying to top Bogey and Bacall.

When we reached the avenue, I thought he was going to steer me to the little café/bakery where we’d eaten breakfast together once, but instead he nodded toward a storefront restaurant with a dark wood bar and dozens of little votive lights twinkling on every surface.

“We can sit at the bar,” he said. “They’ll even let you have a cappuccino if you want.”

I was dying for a glass of wine, just to take the freakin’ edge off, but I thought it would seem as though I’d duped him into a quasi-date—so I went for the cappuccino. As he asked for a draft beer and shifted his body on the stool, I felt his leg brush up against mine. Those slim but muscular legs underneath had on several occasions been wrapped around me brilliantly in bed.

“So how was Turkey, anyway?” I asked, stalling just a moment before plunging into what I really wanted to say. “How did the film go?”

“I’m just starting the editing now, but I think the shooting went well. Aphrodisius’s pretty awesome. It wasn’t looted by the Europeans the way places like Ephesus were. The days were hot and dusty, so the work was tough, but it was all pretty fascinating.”

And there was a girl, undoubtedly. Some archaeology student working on a master’s degree, brown as a nut from the sun and absolutely gaga, no doubt, when the hunky documentary filmmaker blew onto the site.

“I’m glad it worked out,” I said as the bartender set down his beer. Beau stared at the glass for a second and then looked back at me, his eyes expectant.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

Stalling opportunity over.

“First of all, I wanted to apologize for the nasty comment I made at the party. It wasn’t really what I intended to say.”

“It’s nice to know you don’t actually harbor any evil thoughts about me.”

“I didn’t say
that
,” I corrected, half-joking.

He raised one eyebrow. “Ahhh.”

“Don’t worry—I’m not going to bite your head off. I want to be honest, though. I shouldn’t have been rude the other night, but there’s a reason I acted bitchy. It really bothered me that you just went incommunicado. I would have accepted it if you’d told me before you left that you flat-out couldn’t commit. You’d already been candid about your situation. But you left saying that things were still open for discussion. And then I didn’t hear from you.”

He rubbed at his chin, clearly choosing his words. “I don’t have any excuse you’ll like, Bailey. Like I told you before, you blew me away when I met you. But I was at a weird place in my life, not really feeling ready for anything serious relationshipwise. I thought Turkey would be a time to think it through. But once I got there, New York seemed like another planet, and I just didn’t feel like I was in a spot or a position to make a decision. The longer I waited to try to write you those words, the harder it was to do. I’m sorry that I handled it that way.”

“Okay, well, at least now you’ve explained it, so thanks.” My voice sounded squeaky suddenly, and I realized that I was stinging a little inside, as if I’d been snapped by a big fat rubber band. I’d already accepted the rejection by him, but this was the first time I was hearing it verbalized.

“I hope you’re not always going to view me as some giant rat,” he said.

“No, I don’t think I implied that.” My cappuccino arrived, and I took a sip, then licked the foam off my lips. “I just feel it was unfair of you to make me sit around waiting rather than letting me know where I stood. End of lecture.”

He cocked his right eyebrow again. “Actually, the other night it didn’t look as if you’d waited all that long.”

“Just because I spent time with another man doesn’t mean it hurt any less not to hear from you.”

“What’s his show about again? Hard bodies finding dead bodies?”

“Sort of,” I said, smiling. “It’s about the New York City Morgue.”

“Where does one meet an actor if you’re not in the business? At the gym?”

My, my. He seemed hot and bothered. Was the unflappable Beau Regan actually flapped?

“We met over a year ago,” I said, ignoring the little dig. “And then recently he asked for my help with a friend of his.” I gave him a brief overview of the Tom situation, of finding the body and trying to figure out what in the world had happened.

“That sounds horrible,” he said. “Any leads?”

“A few that I’m checking out.”

I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. It seemed time to hightail it out of there. I’d said what I needed to, and now the last thing I wanted was for the night to dissolve into idle chitchat between us.

“Well, I should go,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do, too.”

“Ready if you are,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

“No, no, I asked you,” I insisted, riffling through my purse.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “We’ll have a drink one day, and you can pick up the tab that time.”

“Oh, is this the ‘Let’s try to be friends at least’ part of the conversation? Why don’t we aim for ‘Let’s be
friendly
’ instead—in case we bump into each other at another Locket Ford party? That seems like a more realistic goal.”

“Okay, if that’s how you’d like it,” he said, and offered what seemed like a rueful smile.

Suddenly we were out on the street. I felt a weird sinking sensation as I realized that it was definitely over, that
this
was the last time I’d ever be with Beau.

“I don’t know what good it will do for me to say this, but I hope you’ll be careful on this story,” Beau said. “It sounds pretty scary.” He didn’t know the half of it—I hadn’t told him about the drugging or the phone calls.

“Of course, yes. I’ll be careful. Well, good-bye. Take care.”

“Good-bye, Bailey.” He leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I caught the full force of the musky scent he wore. I turned quickly and strode off, wondering if he stood on the sidewalk watching me or if he was already hurrying home, glad to have his closure-over-cocktails experience with me behind him.

By the time I was two blocks away, I felt close to blubbering. But I didn’t let myself. If Beau couldn’t recognize the brilliant connection he had with me, then I couldn’t help him. And I had Chris—Chris, who made me laugh and seemed so caring and protective and wasn’t some freakin’ mystery man.

I fished my cell phone out of my purse, wondering if I’d missed a call from him. There wasn’t any word. “Chris,” I said, leaving another message, “I’d love to catch up with you. Please give me a call.”

Back at my place, I poured a glass of wine and took it over to the couch, where I leafed through a stack of magazines and newspapers that had accumulated on my coffee table over the past couple of days. There was a hurricane watch along the coast of Florida that I’d been completely oblivious to.

At ten-thirty, when I was on my second glass of red wine and gnawing at a block of cheddar like a rodent, Chris finally phoned. I felt a rush of relief when I heard his voice.

“Sorry not to call earlier,” he said, sounding less than his usual delighted-to-talk-to-me self. “I worked a lot later than I expected. I don’t think we can get together.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering still why he hadn’t let me know, at least. “About this morning. I really feel awful about that whole incident. I hope it didn’t embarrass you—or throw you off your game with the scene you were doing.”

“God, what was that all about, Bailey?” he asked, his voice rife with irritation. “I told you that you needed to keep a low profile.”

“What was that all
about
?” I said. “A huge snake shot across my foot, and as far as I knew, it was poisonous.”

“Deke said what you saw was a cable.”

“Deke is an asshole, and I’m surprised you’d believe anything he said.” I took a breath, telling myself to take my annoyance down a notch. “I looked the snake up, and it was a common king snake. I’m wondering if they might be planning to use it in an episode.”

“No, there aren’t any episodes that involve a snake.”

“Well, there’s got to be an explanation. I am absolutely positive it wasn’t a cable.”

“Sorry to sound so testy. Locket was jittery to begin with this morning, but once you yelled that thing about the snake, she could barely focus—and then Alex turned into a real tyrant after you left.”

“Okay, well, I just wanted to check in. Try to explain what had happened.”

“Did you accomplish anything while you were there? I mean, I know it wasn’t long, but—”

“I spoke to Deke again. He claims he repaid Tom the money the week before he died, but I seriously doubt it. Anything new on your end?”

“Not really. Everything just felt kind of off today.” There was a pause, as if he were taking a slug of a beer. “Look, I better hit the sack. I’ve got a six a.m. call tomorrow.”

God, this was amazing. At the rate I was going, there was a chance I’d set a land record for being rejected by the most hunky guys in one twenty-four-hour period.

“Good night, then,” I said.

“It’s gonna be a pretty crazy week for me, but maybe we could get together Wednesday or Thursday. How’s your schedule look?”

“I’m fairly open this week.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”

He had sounded more like his normal self toward the end of the conversation, but not a hundred percent. Was his coolness all due to what had happened this morning?

Feeling glum, I crawled into bed and plotted out the next day. I would check up on Locket to make sure she’d made contact with the police. I’d try to determine if there was any way that Deke had indeed repaid the loan and that Tom had planned to use it in his down payment to Barry, the contractor. The Chaps Theatre wouldn’t be open until Wednesday, so I would have to wait until then to pursue the
Taming of the Shrew
lead. I still had several suspects, glaring brightly, but no way to learn if one of them really
was
the killer. I’d done my best to provoke them, but the only one that had coughed up anything worthwhile was Locket—and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure she’d spoken the truth about every aspect of her visit to Tom. If I were a cop, I’d be able to check on key info—Harper’s whereabouts on Saturday, for instance, after she’d taken the red-eye back from L.A.; Deke’s bank account, to see if there was any record of him withdrawing cash to repay the loan. But I didn’t have those options. I was running out of stones to overturn, and I had no idea what to do next.