MURDER ON A DESIGNER DIET (6 page)

Chapter 12

  

Penelope sat cross legged in one of the club chairs, slowly chewing a piece of bacon and staring out of the hotel window. She thought about the night before and how everything seemed to go from wonderful to so very wrong in such a short amount of time. She and Joey had taken a big step forward in their relationship during dinner at Luna, and then it felt like they took ten steps back in the cab this morning. This was their first fight, and it felt overwhelming when she thought about Max being in trouble too.

Maybe the detective and Officer Gomez were right and she had misinterpreted the message from Max on her phone. But there was no mistaking the panic she heard in Max's voice when she talked to him. She had no idea how to feel or what to do next. Penelope took a sip of lukewarm coffee from the dainty coffee cup and set it back down on its matching saucer, staring at the words
Tribeca Loft
etched in gold on the inner rim. She went to the bedside phone and called the front desk.

“Good morning, how may I help you?” a young woman's chipper voice answered.

“Hi, I was just wondering what time checkout is.”

“Our standard checkout time is one o'clock. Will you be extending your stay past tomorrow?” Penelope could hear her tapping a keyboard over the phone.

“Tomorrow? We have the room for more than one night?” Penelope asked, twisting the phone cord in her fingers.

“Yes, your room is reserved through tonight with a checkout scheduled for Monday at one o'clock. Also, I have a note here from the concierge that your dinner reservations are confirmed for La Modern, and you can pick up your tickets for the show after two this afternoon at the desk.”

“Okay,” Penelope said, more confused than ever.

“May I assist you with anything else?”

“No,” Penelope said, trying to think. “Wait, yes, can you tell me where the nearest Manhattan Cellular is? I have to replace my phone.”

“There are two right near here,” the woman said, quickly rattling off the addresses. “If you need a map of the city or transit information please stop by the front desk.”

Penelope hung up and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling even worse about everything that happened. Joey had planned a romantic weekend in the city for them, complete with dinner and a show, and now it had blown up in spectacular fashion.

  

After taking a hot shower and putting on clean clothes, Penelope felt better, at least physically. When she stepped out the front doors of the hotel, she breathed in the morning air which still smelled fresh from the previous night's rain, and walked in the direction of the nearest phone store. Half an hour later, new phone in hand, she stepped back onto the sidewalk and called Max. The call went straight to voicemail. Penelope sighed. “Max, please call me or Arlena right away. I'm worried about you.”

Penelope hung up and stuck the phone in her back pocket before ducking into a busy French patisserie for a cup of coffee. She wanted to sit and think about her next move and craved more caffeine. As she stood in line, her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her back pocket quickly, hoping to see Max's name there. Instead it was Arlena's picture smiling up at her.

“Hi, Arlena,” Penelope said.

“Penelope! There you are. I've been trying to call,” Arlena said, a note of alarm in her voice.

Penelope stepped out of the coffee line and walked to the front window of the patisserie. “My phone broke last night. I just picked up a new one.”

“I got your messages when I woke up. I couldn't understand what you were talking about, just that you were worried about Max. What's going on?” Penelope could hear Sam's voice in the background but couldn't make out what he was saying.

“I was worried about Max because I got this strange message from him. It sounded like he was in trouble, so I went out to try and find him.”

“Pen, you know how Max is. I'm sure it was nothing. He drunk-dials me all the time. I've learned to turn my phone off when I know he's going to be out clubbing.”

Penelope closed her eyes and perched on one of the tall stools lining the front window, leaning her elbows on the narrow wooden counter. “It's not nothing this time. Arlena, the police found Christian dead in his apartment last night.”

“What happened?” Arlena demanded.

Penelope told her everything she could about the night before, starting with the call from Max and ending with the police finding Christian's body. She kept the part about all of the blood in the apartment to herself, thinking that it wouldn't do any good to send Arlena into a panic.

“And we don't know where Max is,” Arlena said. She pulled the phone away from her ear. Penelope could hear her relating the news to Sam. There was a moment of silence and then she said, “What did the detective say when he heard the message from Max?”

“He never heard it. My phone broke when we were at Christian's apartment and the message was lost. He only has my word that Max is in trouble, and I don't think he's taking it very seriously,” Penelope said.

“Fine. We'll find him ourselves. I'll get in touch with Daddy. He'll know what to do. He didn't come home last night, not that I was expecting him to.”

“I'll try and track Max down from here, check for him at his apartment. Where is it again?”

Arlena gave her an address in the West Village.

“Did you guys go with Max to that club Christian was talking about? Hydra?” Penelope asked.

“No, we gave them a ride in the limo and dropped them off. I don't know, one look at the line outside the door...it didn't seem like our kind of crowd. I hate to sound old, but everyone looked like they were sixteen. Sam and I just came home and went to bed. He's got a flight this afternoon.”

“So you took Christian, Max, and Hannah in the limo?”

“Yes, they were very happy and excited to be going out. I'm pretty sure they went right up to the door and went in, skipped the line.”

“And you didn't hear from Max at all after that?”

“I turned my phone off before we went to bed,” Arlena said, regretfully. “But there weren't any messages from him when I woke up. Just from you.”

“He called me around three in the morning,” Penelope said, “and the police discovered Christian's body, because of us, around four. So we have to try and trace his steps around that time. If I don't find him at his apartment, I can try Hannah's place. Do you have her number?”

“No, I barely know the girl,” Arlena said. “But I know the whole cast from Max's show lives together in his building. Maybe they just went home and you'll find them there. Or at least someone who knows where they might be.”

“Good idea,” Penelope said.

“Okay, you and Joey see what you can find out on your end. I'll find Daddy and keep trying Max's phone. If I get him to answer, I'll call you right away.”

“Sounds good,” Penelope said. “But it's just me. Joey had to head back to Jersey for a work thing. He may have gotten into trouble last night when we went out to look for Max.”

“Oh no,” Arlena said. “Are you okay?”

“I'll feel much better when we find Max and make sure he's all right.”

Penelope ended the call with Arlena and swiped her screen until she found Joey's number. After two rings her call abruptly flipped into his voicemail, letting her know he'd declined her call.

Chapter 13

  

Penelope trotted down the steps to the subway station, to-go coffee cup in hand. She heard the train entering the station just as she swiped her MetroCard and ran down to the platform, slipping between the doors of the northbound train right before they closed. The subway lurched forward and Penelope grabbed the grimy silver pole to keep herself from falling. The train was about half full, most of the riders staring at their phones or pretending to sleep as they gained speed and dove into the blackness of the tunnel.

Ten minutes later the train pulled into the Christopher Street station and Penelope stepped quickly through the doors, pushed through the turnstile, and jogged up the concrete steps to the sidewalk. She glanced around for a few seconds to orient herself, then headed west towards Bleecker. The building Max lived in was leased by the production company that filmed Max's reality show, and it was in Max's contract that they would provide his housing as long as he remained on the show. The ratings were good and they'd just been picked up for another season, so Penelope figured Max would have a free apartment in the city for at least another year.

Penelope tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash can on the corner of 11
th
and Bleecker and looked up at the red brick building on the corner. The first floor housed a bookstore, which wasn't yet open for the day. To the left of the store's display window was a black metal doorway with an antique lantern hanging above it and an unmarked brass buzzer panel next to the door. Penelope saw a red indicator light hidden in the entryway, what she assumed was a camera, tiny and round, tucked up in the corner. There was no indication from the outside that this was where the sons and daughters of various celebrities shared a home and filmed a popular reality show.

Penelope pressed the bottom button, hearing a faint buzz past the door in the lobby. She waited a few seconds with no response then pressed the buzzer again. A faint click and pop came through the speaker and a deep male voice said, “Can I help you?”

Penelope pressed the button again. “I'm here to see Max Madison. I'm a friend of his.” She glanced up at the camera, assuming the man on the other end would be able to see her face.

“One moment, please,” he said.

Penelope took a step back and peered through the window of the door into the white marble foyer. She was just able to see the outer edge of a small reception desk. A short, square-shaped man appeared from behind it and made his way toward her, opening the door and leaning out to speak with her. He had on a dark blue blazer that strained against his thick shoulders and a clear plastic earpiece attached to a tiny spiral cord that disappeared under his collar.

“Hi,” Penelope said. “Is Max here?”

The large man looked her up and down, his green eyes set wide apart on his face. “What's your name?”

“Penelope Sutherland. I'm a close friend of the family. We haven't been able to get in touch with Max since last night and we're a little worried about him. Have you seen him this morning?”

The man glanced behind her as someone blared their horn on the street and then back down at Penelope. “Come in,” he said, ushering her into the lobby and pulling the door closed behind them. He motioned her over to the reception desk and stepped back behind it, taking his seat and tapping on a computer keyboard. “Okay, Penelope Sutherland…” He squinted at his computer monitor. “Yep, you're on the list of known contacts for Mr. Max.”

“Known contacts?” Penelope asked.

“Residents provide us a list of family and friends who they allow access to the building. They're allowed five names, and your name checks out. Can I see your ID?” he asked with a small smile.

Penelope dug in her handbag and pulled out her license. The security guard glanced at it and nodded.

“Now let's see, Mr. Max…” He tapped his keyboard again. “I do not have him logged in this morning. He left yesterday afternoon around three, but he has not returned according to our records.” He leaned back in his armless rolling chair, which groaned in protest against his weight.

“He has to check in and out with you?” Penelope asked.

“No,” the man said, still smiling and shaking his head. “They're free to come and go, they don't have to sign out. The security team just makes a notation when the actors pass through the lobby. All guests of the residents have to sign in, of course.”

“Do they have a curfew?” Penelope asked, a bit confused by the security procedures. It sounded less like a luxury building and more like a penitentiary.

“No, ma'am. We keep just keep track of them as a safety precaution. The company asks us to.” His voice took on a placating tone. “Some of our tenants are young, on their own for the first time in the city. Their parents and the producers like us to keep an eye on them, discreetly, know their whereabouts. They're like employees, insured by the producers.”

Penelope pushed her judgmental feelings aside for the moment. “Can you do me a favor and check if Hannah Devore came home last night?”

The man shook his head. “It's okay for me to check on Max for you since he gave his permission for the people on his list. But I have to protect Miss Devore's privacy.”

“Oh, okay,” Penelope said, unable to hide her disappointment. She also thought for a company that was acting like Big Brother in these young people's lives, it was ironic he was being so secretive now.

“I will tell you,” the man said, lowering his voice, “those two do spend a good amount of time together.”

Penelope looked at him hopefully. “She's probably not here either, then?”

The man smiled at her and splayed his fingers in a “who knows” gesture.

“Can I take a look at Max's apartment?” Penelope asked.

The man hesitated a moment and narrowed his eyes at Penelope.

“I wouldn't ask, but it's an emergency. There was an incident last night and Max might be in danger.”

Concern clouded his features. “You're on Max's list, and he's given everyone on it permission to enter. Take the elevator up to the third floor. He's in 3C. You have a key?”

When Penelope shook her head, he pulled open a drawer below his desk and opened a lockbox, taking a key from it and handing it to her.

“I really appreciate your help,” Penelope said.

“You're welcome. Just sign the logbook before you go,” he said, flipping open a leather-bound binder on the countertop. Penelope signed in and went to the elevator, throwing a grateful smile at him over her shoulder as the doors slid open.

Max's apartment was at the end of the hall on the third floor. Penelope turned the key in the lock and the door glided open silently on its hinges.

“Max?” Penelope called from the doorway.

Penelope stepped inside the main living area and saw three of Randall's movie posters framed behind the overstuffed black leather couch. The dark wood coffee table was covered with magazines, books, and remote controls and sat low over a white faux-fur throw rug. Penelope sorted through the magazines, most of them about entertainment or men's health. He had quite a collection of tabloids and he was reading a couple of different books. A paperback mystery lay open upside down on the coffee table and a bookmark was stuck in the middle of a large book titled
The Tragedies: Sixteen Greek Plays
.

Penelope went to Max's small kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were various takeout containers inside and a bottle of white wine chilling on the door, but not much else. She glanced into the trash bin and saw it was lined with a clean white bag, with just a few discarded menus and some junk mail tossed in.

Max's bed was made and the bathroom sink and tub were dry. She opened a few drawers in the vanity but didn't see anything out of the ordinary, just Max's shaving kit and the usual toiletries. A collection of pricy aftershaves were lined up at the edge of the counter in front of the mirror. It definitely didn't look like Max had been home recently.

“Where are you?” Penelope whispered, closing a bathroom drawer.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and Penelope jumped, the sound highlighting the absolute silence of the apartment. She looked at the screen and saw an unknown New York number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Penelope Sutherland? Red Carpet Catering?” the man's hurried voice said.

“Yes,” Penelope answered.

“Great. This is Gary from production. Call time is five p.m. tomorrow, fifty-two people reporting to set.”

Penelope put her hand to her forehead and looked in the bathroom mirror. “Right. We'll be there. How long is the day going to be?”

“Current plan is to film until morning, through the night. Twelve hours. We'll break for dinner around midnight, one o'clock.”

“That late? Are you shooting exterior scenes?” Penelope asked, already doing the math in her head about how many dishes they'd need to make, when to start cooking, and how much sleep she was going to miss.

“Exterior, on the balcony, location is still The Crawford. You're in the basement.” Penelope could tell he was anxious to get off the phone. He probably had several more calls to make.

“Okay, see you tomorrow night.” He clicked off without saying goodbye. She was beginning to regret agreeing to this project. So far everything seemed loose and unprofessional, definitely not how she was used to working.

Irritated and distracted by the phone call, she sat down on the lid of the toilet and put her head in her hands. Underneath the counter was a small silver trash can with a few tissues inside, the corner of a pink box sticking out from underneath. She leaned over to get a closer look and her heart did a quick series of beats against her ribcage.

Penelope recognized the logo, a blue circle with the letters RPT in script, right away. Grabbing a piece of toilet paper, she reached down and gently eased the box out of the trash can, hearing the plastic wand rattle around inside. Penelope tilted the box and slid the wand out onto the countertop, watching the bright pink plus sign spin around twice before coming to a stop.