Silenced By Syrah (13 page)

“I never thought of that! The police didn’t say anything like that to me.”

Nikki felt bad because she could see that what she’d said had really affected Charlotte, but what else could the woman have thought she’d heard, after the fact? “What did you think was going on in there?”

“You know, like I said, something kinky.”

“Oh. But he was the only one in there.”

“You got it, and it freaked me out. Here this big time chef is in the spa tub, well you know, playing . . .”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I thought maybe he wanted the phone to call one of those places. The sex hotlines.”

Nikki didn’t reply. Charlotte had a point. It could be a possibility, but more likely the killer had either just left and Georges was on his way to the afterlife, or the killer was still in there with him, finishing him off.

“I’m going to leave this mask on for ten minutes and I’ll let you relax. I’ll be back.”

But Nikki knew what she really wanted to do was get this mask off and find out who this agent person was that Georges insisted was a moron. She figured he’d been talking to Moran.

She didn’t bother waiting for Charlotte to come back. She was convinced that she had nothing to do with Georges’ death and that her mind was surely made up about not returning to work at Malveaux. It was likely Charlotte had told her everything she knew about what had taken place in the spa yesterday. No more time for masks, relaxation, and extractions; it was time for her to get back on the trail of a killer.

Chapter 12

It was two o’clock before Nikki got back on the road again. So, Georges called someone and they spoke about his moronic agent? Who had he called? Presumably Moran. And what agent? He
was
a chef. Not a TV personality. She smacked herself on the forehead in disgust. Shoot, had all those pore extractions caused her brain to seep out? Of course,
agent
—a literary one. Georges had written a couple of cookbooks and had just finished the project with Derek. He would know the name of the literary agent, wouldn’t he? Whoever it was had to have brokered the deal, if that’s what they called it. Now, how to get that information out of Derek, who hated the fact that she enjoyed being a snoop? And, once she got it out of him, what would she or could she do with that information? Was there another way of finding out this stuff?

She smacked herself on the forehead again. Wait. Could it be as easy as looking in the acknowledgement page of one of his cookbooks? Hadn’t she recalled seeing in some of the books she’d read that authors often thanked their agents? It was worth a shot. She drove to the St. Helena library on Library Lane.

She found both of Georges’ cookbooks on the shelves. The most recent one only acknowledged Bernadette—obviously before she’d burned down the guesthouse and he’d sent her packing—and his editor, Renee Rothschild. No “thank you” to his agent. Ah, but in the first book Georges didn’t just thank his agent, a Henry Bloomenfeld, but everyone under the sun as well. Nikki read the list and had no clue who they were, but was thankful that he’d put in there the one name that she needed.

She walked back to the circulation desk and asked the librarian about a book that might include the names and addresses of agents and publishers. The librarian led her to a volume called the LMP, the
Literary Marketplace
. “You can’t check it out, but you’re welcome to copy any of the addresses in there,” the librarian explained.

Nikki thanked her and started thumbing through it. She found Rothschild Publishers, which she already knew was located in San Francisco. But she did not find Henry Bloomenfeld’s name. She went back to the librarian. “I’m looking for a specific name. Is it possible I might find it elsewhere?”

“You could look at some of the older LMPs.”

Nikki decided to try that and struck pay dirt. She found Henry Bloomenfeld’s name and address in an LMP from a couple of years back. Did that mean he was now out of business? He was also located in San Francisco, but the address given was a post office box. However, there was a phone number listed. From past experience Nikki knew that it was possible to use the Internet to type in the phone number and get an address. Moving to the library’s computer, she entered the phone number—and it worked. Ten minutes later she was out the door, back in the car, and heading toward San Francisco. She really did not want to go back to the vineyard, not yet. She was focused now and a drive to the Bay Area might be exactly what she needed.

Nikki was surprised at Henry Bloomenfeld’s address—really surprised. It was the same building that Moran had gone into the day before and had come out of with the bag. It didn’t make a lot of sense. If this tenement really housed Henry Bloomenfeld’s agency, it didn’t connect for her. Here he was with a famous client like Georges Debussey, but his office was stuck down here on Market Street.

There was no elevator in the building, so Nikki hiked the five flights of stairs. The hall leading to Bloomenfeld’s door stunk like tobacco and age; stains soiled the carpet, which she figured might have at one time been red. Not too sure though, as it looked like mud with bloodstains interspersed throughout. Oh God, hopefully those weren’t
real
bloodstains. Someone was playing AC/DC behind one of the thin doors. Dust particles hung in the air, sunlight hitting them from a small window at the end of the hall. Nikki’s chest tightened.

She rapped on the office door. Hopefully this was the correct Henry Bloomenfeld. The sign on the door
did
read “Literary Agent/Publicist.” Nikki rapped again. This time louder. Was “You Shook Me All Night Long” coming from behind Bloomenfeld’s door or the one next to him?

The door swung open. The music accosted her along with a buxom blonde, a cigarette hanging from her mouth, holding a glass of what appeared to be scotch in her left hand. Her blue eyes were heavily made up with false lashes and garish shadow, her lips done in bubble gum pink. A black silk robe was draped over her shoulders, exposing a matching black negligee that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She looked Nikki up and down. Run, run—fast! “Wow, baby, you gotta get a load of this. What agency did you call?”

“Hang on, baby, I’ll turn the stereo down.” Seconds later a man who came up to Nikki’s breasts and then stared at them appeared from around the corner—skinny, curly haired, pale, fiftyish, wearing what Nikki knew had to be a designer suit—maybe even an Armani. “Oh yeah. Classy. Nice. Okay, come on in. Let’s get started. Your wardrobe is in the bathroom and the film crew will be along soon.”

Nikki held up a hand. “Whoa, ho, ho. I think I’m at the wrong place.”

“Oh no, you’re not, baby. You’re exactly what we ordered,” the blonde said.

“No. I’m a writer, a journalist to be exact.” Lying to this element came so much easier, and she didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention Moran yet. “And, I was looking for Georges Debussey’s agent. I think this has to be the wrong place.”

The man cleared his throat. “I worked with Georges.” He stuck out his hand. “Who did you say you were?”

Nikki crossed her arms in front of her. No way was she shaking his hand. Besides, she still had her doubts about him. Good thing she had some Mace in her purse, and she’d use it, dammit, if she needed to. “I didn’t. My name is Cara Sands.”

“What paper are you with?”

“I’m not.” She looked Blondie and Slimy up and down as they continued to do to her. “I’m writing a book, actually.”

“Hmmm,” he said. He shook a finger at her. “You obviously know that I’m a literary agent. Most people who approach me in this way, I don’t usually help. But you, I might be able to work with. You really didn’t have to come here and use the Georges Debussey story on me.” Bloomenfeld winked at her. “I might also be able to get you work in Hollywood.”

“No thanks.” Been there, done that, and hadn’t quite made the scene like say, oh, Nicole Kidman, for example. “I’m not looking for an agent.”

“You’re not?” he raised the unibrow below his forehead that needed some serious waxing. He had a faint New Yorker accent that hung on the end of his words.

“No. I’m here to talk to you about Mr. Debussey’s life; and now murder, of course.”

Henry took a step back. “Georges was murdered?” He took another step back and reached for a leather sofa that sat in the middle of the office.

Blondie came to his side. “Hanky? Are you okay, baby? What is it?”

“Get me a scotch, Marsha.” Marsha batted her eyelashes at him and looked as stupid as Nikki assumed she was. “Now!” he bellowed.

Marsha scurried away.

“What do you mean, Georges was murdered? When did this happen?” he asked, falling onto the sofa.

Nikki studied him for a moment. Was he for real? Or was this an act? Moran surely must have told him. Or had Moran even known about it? She assumed he did, even assumed he was in on it, but he hadn’t been around that evening after the murder. Maybe the fact that Moran had come to this same building the day before had been mere coincidence. It would be quite a coincidence, though, knowing that both men had an affiliation with Georges. Nonetheless, weirder things had happened. Maybe she was on the wrong track here. Or what about the cops? Detective Robinson had put two and two together by now after talking to Charlotte. If Nikki had figured it out, Mr. Highfalutin Detective from Houston would have buzzed by Bloomenfeld’s already. Unless Nikki had beaten him to the punch. It was still only Monday afternoon, less than forty-eight hours after the killing. Maybe it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind, but news like murder traveled fast, even if it had only occurred less than two days earlier. And with Georges gaining notoriety, Nikki found it fascinating that Henry, the agent, had no clue, even if the police had not paid him a visit. “You hadn’t heard?”

He shook his head. “No. When did this happen?”

“Saturday.”

He looked up at her and now he was the one studying
her.
“Saturday? And now you’re in my office claiming to be writing a book about him? What gives? What’s your real deal, Ms. Sands?”

Nikki bit her lower lip. Marsha brought the scotch to Henry, who took a major gulp and then went back to staring hard at Nikki after shooing Marsha away.

“My initial plan for the book had nothing to do with Georges being murdered. It was all about his life and how he pursued the dream of becoming a world class chef and becoming owner and operator of gourmet restaurants here in the city and out in Napa. I happened to be in the city and traced your address, taking a chance you might be here.” Nikki got the feeling that Henry didn’t only do his business out of the dump, but also lived there.

Henry took another large swallow of the amber-colored contents in his glass. “Uh-huh.”

“He didn’t tell you about this? With the new book coming out, we thought it would be a good idea to do another book in conjunction, something like a ‘here’s your life’ type thing. You know, a biography.”

“Uh-huh.” He continued with the scrutiny. “And how did you meet Georges?”

“At the vineyard, actually. At Malveaux Estate.” Now that was the honest-to-God truth. “I work there, and we got to be friends and talked about this idea. I was kind of ghosting it for him, that’s why I figured he would’ve talked to you about it, because he talked about you all the time. You know he liked doing the cookbook thing, but sitting down and doing a huge manuscript, you know, that wasn’t his thing.”

“He talked about me all the time, huh?”

She nodded. This statement bugged him. She could see it all over his face. Why? Had she said something to tip him off that she was pretty much full of it?

“Where was he murdered?” Henry asked.

“At the vineyard. At the new spa there.” She knew that he would read it in the paper or hear it on the news, because if he truly hadn’t heard about Georges’ death yet, he would now go looking to follow up on her story.

“Let me get this straight then. Now you want to play detective and write a book about his life and murder and you’re looking for answers?”

Now we’re talking. Okay, it was easy to stay closer to the truth when the guy had just basically spelled it out for her. “Exactly.”

“Don’t you think you might want to let the cops do that job? Write the book later.”

Why, oh why, did every man she talked to tell her the same thing?
Let the cops do the job
. She smiled sheepishly. “Listen, you know, being an agent and all . . .” Which she still couldn’t wrap her brain around, looking at his place; regardless of his expensive suit and the decadent furniture inside, something did not ring kosher with Henry Bloomenfeld. “I don’t want to sound callous here, but I do have ambition and I could use a buck or two, and since I was already working with Georges and got to know him, I’d like to strike while the iron is hot. See what I can find out.”

“Fancy yourself as quite the sleuth, huh?”

She shrugged.

He patted the seat on the sofa next to him. “Sit down, Ms. Sands. I won’t bite. Let’s talk. Maybe I can give you some answers. Maybe not, and maybe I could represent you, if the story winds up being any good.”

She pegged him—total slimeball. “I think I’ll stand. Thanks. I think better that way.”

Blondie called out from another room. The place was spacious. “Baby, are we gonna do this thing, or what?”

“Not now, Marsha. Go relax.”

He held a finger up to Nikki. “I’ve got to make a call.” He walked out of the front reception area and back into another room. Nikki could make out only a few words and they were muffled at that. “Believe. No. Not now. Later. Meet me, five thirty.” Nikki didn’t catch who he was calling or where they would meet, but she thought that it had something to do with Georges’ murder and she had the growing feeling that she should get the hell out of there, because until she looked a little further into Henry Bloomenfeld’s past, she didn’t know whether or not she was waiting inside the office of a killer. When she heard him yell for Marsha to make him another drink, she slipped out. She’d started walking quickly down the hall when he opened his door and yelled, “Wait, Ms. Sands. We need to talk. Wait.” Nikki turned back to see him stepping into the hallway. She’d started to pick up speed when she ran into a full-figured redhead.