The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (12 page)

“It was because of me,” Claire assured me. “I masterminded the whole thing. Jeremy's rise, his expansion to restaurants, his sold-out live tours—both here and abroad. All my ideas.” She winked as she sipped from her cup. “I can do the same for you.”

She was still trying to persuade me to sign with her. I appreciated her interest in me and my phantom book, but I had another agenda, stoked by what Phoebe had said about Jeremy's agent.

She was afraid of losing his income.
But why? Had things gone wrong between Jeremy and Claire? Murderously wrong?

“Gemma Rose should have had
you
for an agent,” I joked.

Claire blinked. “Oh, she did have me. I dropped her.”

I sat up straighter. If Claire had dropped Gemma Rose as a client in favor of building Jeremy, that could have definitely stoked some ill will in the (onetime) domestic doyenne. Although it probably would have led Gemma to want to murder Claire, not Jeremy. On the other hand, Jeremy had taken Gemma's place in the upper echelons of food celebrity. That had to bother her.

“Or maybe not.” Claire frowned tipsily. “I can't quite remember. It's possible Gemma is still on my roster. I'm not sure anymore. She's been in so little demand for anything substantial, ever since Hambleton & Hart switched their sponsorship to Jeremy.”

Hambleton & Hart?
Now I felt really alert. Also, convinced that Claire had drunk far too much whiskey in her Darjeeling. Just as I thought it, Jeremy's former agent took out her phone, snapped a selfie, then fiddled with an app for a few minutes.

Eventually, she noticed me noticing. She gave a careless wave, then set down her phone with a satisfied flourish.

“Just because I'm older doesn't mean I can't use technology, does it? In my business, you've got to keep up.”

Her phone dinged. Her gaze swerved interestedly toward it.

She picked up, obviously compelled. “To Londoners, this tearoom is instantly recognizable. Even if it wasn't, the geotagging on my selfie would let everyone know where I am.”

Claire seemed satisfied to have sent out an agent Bat-Signal. Obviously, she enjoyed the attention, but I felt happier than ever that my (usually secret) job doesn't require a social-media presence. I didn't need to Tweet, Instagram, or Snapchat about my services to get clients. I just needed Travis. And me.

I didn't want to leave a consultation one day only to find myself amid paparazzi and reporters, discussing my findings.

“Hambleton & Hart worked with both Gemma and Jeremy?”

An absentminded nod. Claire typed on her phone, then focused on me again. “Product placement is a tremendous source of income for my clients. Jeremy once used a certain brand of digestive biscuits to make a crumb crust on his show.” She pushed aside the sugar bowl and leaned nearer, fixing me with an intelligent look—and building suspense. “Those biscuits sold out across the entire U.K. within hours of that program airing.”

That was a big accomplishment for a very modest style of cookie. Digestive biscuits were originally called that because they contain baking soda, which was once considered useful for proper digestion. But now their primary claim to fame was having a pleasant wheaty, malty flavor and a dunkable texture in tea.

I sipped my Earl Grey. “That's a lot of biscuits.”

“It is!” Claire nodded. “A particular artisanal butter used in a cooking segment, a specific bottle of wine poured to drink with an on-camera meal, a relatively obscure ingredient added to a dish . . . they all represent pounds and pence to someone.”

“Someone like Hambleton & Hart?” I guessed.

“They're a venerable brand.” Claire broke off a piece of scone, slathered it with cream, then dabbed on some jam. “They've been around since the 1860s. They act that way, too.”

She chuckled. I played along and nibbled a crumpet, wishing it was embellished with a smear of chocolate-hazelnut spread.

“They have trouble keeping up with the times?” I asked.

“Absolutely. They stuck with Gemma Rose much longer than they should have—certainly much longer than
I
advised them to.”

“Well, with
your
experience,” I began, flattering her.

But Claire Evans didn't require my praise. “Hambleton & Hart's core customers are young mums who want to give their children the same treats they once enjoyed. The company deals in nostalgia, low prices, and convenience. They had to be clear about that. Gemma Rose was the wrong spokesperson for them.”

“Gemma
was
all about savoring the moment,” I mused. “Young mothers probably don't have time to labor over homemade treats.”

But Claire disagreed, keen to show her expertise. “She was about sex. The
wrong
sex. Those mums didn't want to watch Gemma Rose prancing around with her knockers out, making eyes at the camera. They wanted to watch Jeremy.
His
star was on the rise.”

Claire was really loosening up now. Also, it sounded to me as though Jeremy's star hadn't merely been on the rise. It had completely obscured Gemma's. The domestic diva must have been bitter about that—about falling from public favor so quickly.

I wanted to ask about Gemma Rose personally, to get a sense of her latent violent tendencies—because that's the way I have to think about people (these days) when murder is afoot—but Claire was already moving on. At least she'd quit talking about “knockers.” Her teatime nip had definitely taken effect.

“Which only made it all the more distressing when Jeremy began being difficult too,” Claire moaned, looking distraught.

That was more like it. “Really? What was wrong?”

“What
wasn't
wrong?” his former agent complained loudly, drawing a few more stares from the other tearoom tables. “He demanded more money. He missed deadlines. He balked at including sponsored products in his cookery shows. He'd become intolerable.”

Just as Nicola Mitchell had claimed at the café,
I recalled. “He always seemed like such a friendly guy.”

Claire snorted. “Of course he did. In public! In private, Jeremy was a terror. At the end, he didn't even want to be on camera. He was obsessed with his weight, his hair, his skin. He thought he was getting wrinkly. He knew he was going bald.”

I remembered Jeremy's lush hair. Even in death, it had fallen perfectly around his face. He must have used some very special products to ensure manageability—to hide his bald spot.

Poor Jeremy. The more you had, the more you had to lose.

“But that's life in the public eye,” Claire was saying sanguinely. “The thing is, I don't think his fans would have cared. Look at Prince William! He's certainly not possessed of a leonine mane, is he? But no one minds that. Women are very forgiving. They were attracted to Jeremy's charisma. And his physique, of course. There are Tumblr blogs devoted to his abs.”

I was surprised, again, at her Internet savvy.

“He had his physical trainer to thank for that, though, right?” I suggested, tucking into my own morsel of scone, cream, and jam. It was reminiscent of strawberry shortcake. Delicious, even sans chocolate. “His trainer kept Jeremy in top shape.”

“Liam Taylor?” Claire frowned. “Don't you dare mention that man to me! I doubt he has any idea of the havoc he caused, but—”

“Havoc?” I thought I knew why. I tried to look clueless, to cajole Claire into sharing more information with me. So far, I had almost everything I wanted to know—and more. I wasn't sure how to bring us back around to the subject of Nicola's book, but maybe that would have to wait for another meeting. “How's that?”

“His diet.” Claire sounded disgusted. “That nonsensical ‘clean eating' regimen of Liam's was going to be the death of us both, and I don't mean because I'd drop a few stone, either.”

A stone was a unit of weight—roughly fourteen pounds. My mom, an avowed Anglophile, had taught me that years ago.

“Jeremy didn't look as though he needed to lose weight to me.” I moved up a tier to the macarons. Mmm. “He looked fit.”

“Tell that to the paparazzi. They're pitiless.” Claire followed my lead, biting into a slender petit four while the pianist tinkled her way through another song. “One puffy-faced photo was all that Jeremy required to make him panic. He hired Liam, gave up bacon butties, and almost ruined the pair of us.”

“How's that?” I sipped Earl Grey, still wishing there was a little something chocolaty to nosh while I listened to Claire.

“First, Jeremy refused to fulfill his cookbook contract,” she told me. “He wanted his next work to focus on ‘clean foods,' but his publisher wasn't interested in that foolishness. Then he objected to having sugar on set. He wouldn't allow beer adverts to be aired. Then he reneged on the Hambleton & Hart deal. He wouldn't touch their products. He said they were ‘poison.'”

I widened my eyes. “Wow, that's impressive discipline.”

Having seen Liam, I thought I understood why. Jeremy had probably been trying to save himself from himself—and, by extension, from Liam, Mr. “I don't tolerate doing things halfway.”

“It was destructiveness,” Claire disagreed, “especially given the timing. We were in the middle of filming an advert for Hambleton & Hart when Jeremy discovered his conscience. I would have had to drop him as a client if things had continued.”

She gave me a self-justifying look while I digested that information. Jeremy doing an advert (a “commercial” to you and me) was news to me. “So that's what Jeremy was doing when he . . .”

Was killed?
lingered between us. I couldn't say it, but I surmised that's why the guesthouse had been full of A/V equipment—equipment that was still (chillingly) in place.

“You don't have any objections to making money, do you?” Claire startled me from reliving my discovery of Jeremy's body. Evidently, she didn't want to dwell on Jeremy's death, either. “You're not secretly a Buddhist? A technophobe? A skinflint?”

“No, of course not!” I laughed, knowing I wouldn't be making any money from my fictitious tell-all book. I felt bad about deceiving Claire, but my loyalties lay with Jeremy—and with uncovering his murderer. “That would be crazy of me.”

A sigh. “If only Jeremy had had half your common sense.”

Agents are paid a percentage of their clients' earnings, I knew. If Jeremy had backed out of his endorsement deal with Hambleton & Hart, it would have cost his agent a significant amount of money. Enough money to provoke an impulsive murder?

Maybe . . . if the contract had been in force when Jeremy had died
and
Hambleton & Hart had still been obligated to pay. I made a note to ask Travis to find out those details, wishing I could remember if Claire had eaten her tea sandwiches with her left hand or with her right. The killer was supposed to be left-handed, according to the police. Belatedly remembering to check, I studied her. But her hands were folded atop the table, serenely resting there, giving me no clues about her handedness.

I wished I'd checked earlier. But it's a pretty bizarre thing to do, inspecting someone to see if they're left-handed. Without that extemporaneous tip from DC Mishra's colleague, George, I wouldn't have known to look for that detail at all.

Claire didn't notice my tardy scrutiny. “So, Hayden. What are you willing to do to promote your book? I have excellent media connections. We could arrange a worldwide media tour.”

That sounded horrendous to me. I smiled anyway. “I think it's too soon to discuss particulars.” I finished my macaron and dabbed my mouth with my napkin, preparing to bring our meeting to a close. I didn't want to take up all of Claire's time on false pretenses. “I'll think about this and be in touch later.”

I was being absolutely honest about thinking things over. Jeremy's erstwhile agent had given me a lot of food for thought.

Claire frowned. I felt momentarily alarmed. Even after more than a few whiskey-laced cups of tea, she appeared
. . .
formidable.

I wouldn't have wanted to cross her is what I'm saying.

But then a stir at the tearoom's entrance diverted us both.

“Darling!” A curvaceous blonde sashayed toward our table, clad in a cleavage-enhancing red jersey wrap dress with an entourage of hotel employees trailing her. “Claire, darling!”

I didn't think anyone said “darling!” Not outside of classic movies. But this woman did. It was Gemma Rose, diva extraordinaire. I was immediately struck by her magnetism.

She arrived at our table and leaned closer to greet Claire. I heard two loud, lipsticky
smacks
, then a seductive chuckle.

“Same old Claire,” Gemma teased. “Whiskey at tea, love?”

Immediately, I reconsidered my limited, TV-centric notions of Gemma Rose. She might be down—and, at forty-plus, headed in the wrong direction for popular culture—but she wasn't out.

“Gemma, this is Hayden Mundy Moore, a potential client. Hayden, this is Gemma Rose.” As Gemma swooped in to air-kiss me too, Claire continued. “How did you know I was here, Gemma?”

“Oh, we're friends on Nearby, darling.” Gemma raised her cell phone, indicating a social networking app. “Did you forget? I was in the neighborhood. But I'm
concerned
about you, Claire. Shouldn't you ask your doctor about those memory lapses?”

With an air of fretful inclusion, Gemma turned to me. “My grandfather had the same problem. A month later, he was living in an elder-care facility.” She raised her voice toward Claire. “It was a very nice place!” Gemma shouted kindly. “Very pastel!”