Picture Perfect (21 page)

“Yes, of course I still have my clothes on. Do
you
?” I tease.

“For now,” Giles replies in that seductive, coy way that gay men seem to do so much better than women. At least, better than
this
woman.    

Fumie asks me to roll onto my back and begins massaging my head and face. I am truly putty in her hands as Giles pumps me for information on Alan’s murder. Blissed out, I fill him in on my trip to New York, my affair with Jack, and my argument with Alan. Completely ignoring, once again, my lawyer’s advice not to talk to anyone about anything.

Giles is silent as Fumie whispers, “Thank you, Lauren,” and slips away, leaving me alone and fully aware that I have just informed the entire room that I am a murder suspect, that my soon-to-be-ex-husband is dead, and that I am having an affair with an actor whose up-and-coming career will surely plummet faster than Mel Gibson’s once news of this scandal hits the newswires. Shit.

I crawl off the futon, slide my feet into a pair of sandals and cautiously slip through the muslin curtain. The large dimly lit room is empty, all the massage beds unoccupied and neatly made. Even Giles’ station next to mine looks as if no one was ever there. I tiptoe out into the tranquil hallway. The tinkling of a large Buddha fountain is the only sound in the narrow, dark space. The tender lotus flowers floating in the small pool at its base, the only movement.

I make my way to the sauna and change out of my Shiatsu garb and into a towel. Entering the hot, teak-lined room, I half wonder if I imagined spilling my guts to Giles. Surely, he would have said something before stealing away to God knows where. I spread my towel out on the wooden bench and lie down, allowing the warmth to sink into my skin. My head swims from all the events of the past few days, and I ponder how on earth I ended up in this situation. How and who killed Alan. As many times as I’ve thought of doing it myself, I can’t imagine the type of person who could actually kill another living being. Even if he were as vile as Alan is.
Was.
God! Alan is fucking
dead.

I don’t know how many minutes pass before the heat finally becomes too much, and I sit up, pulling my towel around me. I try for a moment to forget the tragic circumstances of my present situation and focus instead on moving forward, on proving my innocence, and somehow resurrecting my corpse of a career.

Corpse.
Alan is a corpse. Fucking hell.

Desperate to escape the heat and the demons in my mind, I exit the room and find a bowl of chilled washcloths and grab one, covering my face with it. The moist cotton instantly cools my hot flesh. I open my eyes beneath the wet cloth, allowing the light to filter in. The chaos erupting within my mind is nearly quelled until the quiet of the room is disturbed as I hear the slapping of flip flops padding across the floor.

“Too hot for ya?” a female voice says.

I lower the cloth to find Jennifer wrapped in a towel before me.

“What are you doing here? Where is Giles?” I say, looking around frantically.

She shrugs. “How should I know where he is? I’m just here for the sauna.”

“Why are you here,
really
?” I demand, all my nerves at attention.

“Honestly, Lauren. Just here for the sauna. Not everything is about you.” With that she drops her towel, revealing a toned and tanned body that could easily be featured in the pages of a
Playboy
. No Photoshopping necessary. She opens the door to the sauna, giving me a smug look, and enters, closing the door behind her. I resist the urge to push a nearby chair under the handle, locking her in.

I race up to the women’s changing room and shove the little key hanging from my wrist into my locker. I reach for my purse and rummage inside for my phone. I need to find Giles. But when I locate it, I see that I have two text messages waiting for me. The first is from Giles.

Had to run. Fashion fiasco on the red carpet. Didn’t want to disturb you. Love, Giles.

My pulse slows just a tad, Giles’ text slightly easing my mind. He has often left me unexpectedly in cases of fashion emergencies. Once, I was in the middle of a hot oil hair treatment at my salon when he suddenly jumped out of his chair, foil still wrapped around his bottle-blond locks, and ran out, blowing kisses to the staff as they chased after him. He’s like a superhero when it comes to style. He goes wherever he’s needed, whenever he’s needed. Even if it means turning his sandy tresses orange in the process.

I click on the message icon again to read the second text awaiting me, hoping it might be Jack clueing me into his whereabouts. But instead, I find that it’s from Tanya.

I’ve located Jack. In Mexico. Keep a low profile. We’ll talk in the morning.  

And suddenly my pulse is racing again.

Jack is in Mexico?

Chapter 16

The glow from the TV is the only light inside my million dollar condo. A corner unit on the 23
^rd
floor with both city and ocean views. A luxury Art Deco building with a roof deck pool and twenty-four hour doorman. Three finely appointed bedrooms, the master with an en suite bathroom reminiscent of Venetian opulence. A chef’s kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances and a formal dining room drenched in the warm colors of a Tuscan sunset.  I imagine it will go fast once it hits the market. Despite the housing slump, surely there will be some macabre buyer who will plunk down a cool million to live in the home owned by the alleged Malibu Murderess,
moi.
 

As images of me leaving the spa flicker across my television, I calculate my escalating legal fees. I already shelled out a fifty-thousand dollar retainer to Tanya. I can only imagine how much it will cost to defend me at trial. The woman makes eight-hundred dollars an hour. Clearly, I should have gone to law school.

Finally, the news switches to a story on rising gas prices, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I pull my knees to my chest and wrap the chenille throw tighter around my frozen feet, sinking further into my cushy sofa. The top story at six and again at eleven o’clock was all about me. About my divorce. About my affair with a younger actor. About Alan’s murder. About my lack of alibi. About my motive. About my suspicious and callous behavior after being questioned by the police, my trip to the spa having been captured on cell phone video and leaked to every local TV station within a fifty mile radius. Tomorrow, I will be headline news across the nation. Tomorrow, zillions of morning show viewers will brand me a black widow. A homicidal philanderer. The Malibu Murderess. That’s what they’ll call me. And I’ll have nothing but my own stupidity to blame for it.

I was stupid to get involved with Jack. I was stupid to think Alan would honor our contract. I was stupid to hire Jennifer. I was stupid to go to the spa with Giles. I was stupid, stupid, stupid. And even my own lawyer agrees.

“What were you thinking?” she barked at me over the phone several hours ago, before the story hit the airwaves. “I told you not to speak to anyone, so you go to a spa and announce to the entire staff that you’re suspected of murdering your husband?”

“I wasn’t thinking. It was Giles. He was trying to help me,” I begged, desperate for her understanding. “I was freaking out. I just needed to relax.”

“You are not to leave your apartment. We have an appointment with Detective Fallbrook tomorrow morning at nine. I will pick you up. Talk to no one. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling as though my life were taking a sharp turn down a dangerous road.

“Listen, they have no case. This won’t go to trial. I’m sure of it. But just keep your mouth shut. And don’t do anything that will reflect negatively on you. I have a publicist who will spin this in your favor. But until I can prep you, do not take any calls or step one foot outside your building. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, sulking.

Since then, I haven’t answered my home phone or my cell phone, both of which have been ringing nonstop. I even had to mute them after their incessant chiming became too much to bear. Occasionally, I check my iPhone to see if Jack has texted me. He hasn’t. Tanya had no other information for me beside the fact that her private investigator had tracked the GPS on his phone to a small seaside town in Mexico. I can’t imagine what he’s possibly doing there, aside from the obvious and terrible notion that he is hiding from the police. Hiding because he murdered Alan. But he just can’t have done it. Not Jack. Not him.

It can’t be him.

My chest feels hollow, and a sharp pain radiates from my heart. I switch off the TV and sit in the dark, tears forming at the corners of my eyes as the gravity of my situation slowly registers. Twenty-four hours ago, I thought things were a disaster. Now, I’d happily sign those divorce papers if only that could bring Alan back. But until someone invents a reliable form of time travel, there’s no changing the past. What’s done is done. And as far as the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Office is concerned, I’m the prime suspect. And unfortunately, now that the news has broken, the whole world will assume so as well.

But as worried as I am about proving my innocence, I’m also haunted by the mere facts of the case. Tanya told me Alan had been bludgeoned to death. She didn’t reveal all the details of the investigation, but just the idea that someone literally beat him to a pulp sends shivers down my spine. I’ve thought about murdering Alan plenty of times, especially over the past week, but I can’t even imagine the kind of person who could actually take a life.

Again my mind turns to Jack. The thought of him killing Alan sickens me, and I refuse to believe it. At least, I don’t
want
to believe it. But his sudden disappearance without so much as a single text in twenty-four hours? It
is
suspicious.

My iPhone illuminates in the darkness and I pick it up to see if it is yet another reporter or if it’s finally Jack. Instead, it’s Justine. I answer immediately.

“Justine?” I question, partially wondering if some clever tabloid journalist cloned her phone.

“Lauren, I’m downstairs.”

“What?”

“You haven’t been answering your phone and this bulldog in a security uniform won’t let me up. There’s a fucking mob on the street out front. You’d think Justin Bieber was holed up in here.”

“Give the phone to Chuck!” I screech.

“Who?”

“The security guard.”

“Miss Tate?” Chuck asks. “Is she good?”

“Yes, yes! Let her up. But no one else!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, after which I hear Justine come back on the line.

“Jesus, what the hell is going on? I called you five times.”

“What are you doing here?”

“After you hung up on me this afternoon, I booked the earliest flight I could to LAX. I even had to take a middle seat. A
middle
seat, Lauren.”

Justine likes to think she’s claustrophobic. She isn’t. She just doesn’t want to sit next to strangers in tight spaces. But who does? Still, I am warmed by how much she believes she suffered to be with me in my hour of need.

“You didn’t have to come to Los Angeles. I’m fine. Really.”

“The hell you are. You called me from a grocery store. Probably the snack aisle, right?”

“Um,” I mutter, unable to think of a good reason for calling her from a supermarket. She’s more than familiar with my sugar addiction and fully aware that I turn to sweets in times of stress. Well, to be honest, I turn to sweets in times of happiness, too. But she’s no fool.

“Uh huh. I figured you’d be stuffing your face with garbage. That’s why I brought truffles.”

“Truffles!” I shout. “From Kee’s?”

“Of course. Nothing but the best for my alleged murderer.”

Kee’s Chocolates in SoHo has long been one of our favorite indulgences ever since Justine and I first happened upon the tiny shop on Thompson Street years ago. Nearly every trip I’ve made to Manhattan since has included a stop at the chocolaterie. We were drooling over her handmade and utterly divine confections before they were ever featured in the
New York Times
and countless other foodie journals, luring hipsters and CEOs alike.

“What kind did you bring?” I ask, already salivating.

“An assortment. Champagne, salted caramel, balsamic, black sesame, blood orange…”

I leap from the couch and head for the front entry, eager to get my hands on Kee’s creations. I fling open the door and peer down the empty hallway. “Where are you already?” I demand.

“I’m in the damn elevator. This thing is so slow I’d think it was climbing to the top of the Empire State Building at this rate.”

I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the familiar
ding
marking Justine’s arrival, and when it finally announces her presence, I practically sprint down the hall to greet her. The doors part, and instantly a flood of tears I didn’t know I’d been holding back erupts.

Justine pouts, dropping her bags at my bare feet and enveloping me in a hug, her grey wool coat still cool from the chilly night air. “It’ll be okay,” she says softly into my ear, and I sincerely hope she’s right. Because if she isn’t, no amount of chocolate will ever be able to cheer me.

***

“Heaven!” I say, biting into the light, silky champagne-flavored chocolate truffle Justine brought. The creamy confection glides down my throat, and I reach for another, an earl grey infusion. “Mmm. This is almost good enough to make me forget I’m at the very center of Hollywood’s hottest homicide investigation.”

“And how fitting, too,” Justine says, leaning back on the bed and kicking off her shoes. “Only a Hollywood diva would spend the night before her impending arrest eating bon bons and drinking organic wine.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. You’re the one who supplied them, after all.”

“I know. But just imagine what the press would think if they saw the two of us sitting here atop your designer linens eating truffles and drinking imported syrah. They’d think we were toasting your situation, not swallowing our fears.”