The Talk Show Murders (24 page)

A Frenchman who prefers email to the sound of his lover’s voice? I wondered if good old Gerard might be working on something in Paris besides his mystery novel. By hooking up with Webber, Madeleine Parnelle had given her husband a reason to romance a younger
woman. But maybe the guy didn’t need a reason. Maybe he was just a self-gratifying son of a bitch who now had found somebody more to his liking than Carrie. I sipped my martini, scanned the crowd, and tried to keep my speculations about Gerard Parnelle to myself.

“I know what’s on your mind,” Carrie said.

“Really?” I said, hoping she was wrong.

“You’re wondering where Adoree is.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“She’s on Derek’s yacht with some of the investors. They’ll be here any minute.”

“That’s what this blowout is all about, right?” I asked. “Feting the moneymen?”

“And the media. There’s a private dining room upstairs where they’ve set up lights and cameras. Before too long, Sandford and I and Austin and Adoree are gonna be escorted up there for interviews. With the usual crowd—
ET, Insider, Extra, Access Hollywood
, E! channel.”

“Anybody from
Wake Up
?”

“You mean besides you?”

Was that why I’d been invited?
Maybe
, I thought.

But roughly ten minutes later, when camera crews appeared and the crowd out on the deck started to gather at the rail to welcome Derek the yachtsman and his passengers, I realized this was merely going to be a social night for me. Sharing the cruise with Cap’n Derek, the lovely Adoree, and an assorted collection of white men with expensive haircuts in business gray suits was the morning show’s willowy flame-tressed conservative entertainment reporter, Karma Singleton.

Karma was draped against Derek close enough to leave an indentation of her right breast on his blazer. Our host seemed to be enjoying himself, in his yachtsman outfit of midnight-blue blazer, white turtleneck, white slacks, and—wait for it—skipper’s cap. Thurston Howell III would’ve approved.

He raised a megaphone to his lips and called out, “Ahoy, Pastiche. We are preparing to come ashore from the good ship
Duchess the Fourth
.”

“Derek has three other yachts?” I asked, as we walked out on the terrace to join the festivities.

“I don’t think so,” Carrie said. “Oh, you mean
Duchess the Fourth
. No, that’s just … Al Capone’s yacht was named
Duchess the Third
. Derek’s a big gangster buff. His pet project, which he’s been working on forever, is a television series about organized crime in Chicago. I guess there was a show like that a long time ago, but he says that one was more about the police.”

As the yacht bumped the dock, Karma and Derek were pushed together even closer.

“Who’s the redhead bimbo doing the vertical grind with Webber?” J.B. asked, as we joined her and Dal.

“Karma Singleton,” I said. “I work with her. She’s the show’s entertainment reporter.”

“Looks to me like the only thing she’s entertaining is a ride on the hobby horse.”

“Doesn’t make her a bad girl,” Dal said.

“Tell that to Lady Parnelle, who’s looking daggers at Webber,” J.B. said. “Speaking of karma.”

Madeleine was at the terrace rail, definitely not in high party spirits.

“Poor Derek,” Carrie said.

“That romance wilting a little?” I asked her.

She sighed. “I think so. And it used to be so happy at the castle.”

As soon as Webber set foot on the terrace, la Parnelle was at his side, saying something to him through clenched teeth. He smiled at her as if she was complimenting him on his cap, a passive-aggressive move that seemed to push her anger past the verbal stage. When her mouth clamped shut, he left her and began pressing the flesh and welcoming his guests.

A tall, handsome gent moved Adoree off to another section of the terrace, where they met with a group of middle-aged couples. I wondered if she knew I was at the dinner. Or if she cared.

“Billy, what are you doing here?”

It was Karma, approaching quickly and with purpose.

“Hi, Ka—”

“This is my beat, Billy,” she hissed. “They shouldn’t have sent you.”

“Nobody sent me,” I said. “I’m here as a guest.”

“Oh.” She stared at me, apparently trying to decide if I was telling her the truth. “Guest of whom?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Derek invited me.”

“Oh,” she said again.

Then, as if the mention of his name had drawn him to us, Derek was there, pumping my hand and saying, “Glad you came, Billy. I see you know Karm—. Of course you do. You guys work together.”

“More or less,” I said.

“And who’s this guy?” he said, referencing Dal. “He looks like that Irish actor Donal Logue.”

After I introduced them, Dal told Derek, “Not Irish and not an actor. I’m in security.”

“Oh.” Derek looked from Dal to the bodyguard he’d hired, J.B., then to me. “I get it,” he said. “But I think we’re pretty safe here.”

“Unless you consider all those skyscrapers across the river as potential cover for a sniper,” J.B. said. “With all those windows, they could be looking down at us right now through a scope on an AW-fifty.”

“That’s what I’ve always loved about you, J.B.,” Dal said. “Your positive outlook.”

She turned to me and suddenly stuck her forefinger into my chest. “And whose positive idea was it to put Billy in this lumpy Kevlar vest?”

“Excuse me, kids,” Webber said, “but I’d better get the ball rolling here.”

“Why don’t I join you?” Karma said, grabbing his arm, not waiting for an answer.

“I know Madeleine,” Carrie said. “Your redheaded friend is in more danger than we are.”

I looked at the buildings J.B. had mentioned. And the windows. And I wondered if that was true. The vest offered some comfort, but in every movie I’d ever seen on the subject, a red laser dot appeared on the victim’s forehead just before the sniper invariably went for the head shot.

When Carrie went off to her media interviews, with J.B. hovering after, I suggested to Dal that we move inside the building.

“Don’t let what J.B. said get under your skin, Billy. We’re not exactly in Afghanistan.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just want to get another martini.”

Part of that was the truth. I needed a little liquid fortitude if I was going to be having dinner in the open under God, the stars, and any possible number of snipers.

“If you’re worried,” Dal continued, as we waited for the bartender to do his thing, “we can eat in here.”

I was definitely worried, but not enough to spend the rest of my time in Chicago hiding. Still, when we went back out on the terrace, I suggested we sit at an empty table where a row of imitation ficus trees offered at least a degree of cover.

“If you’re all set here,” Dal said, when I was seated, “I’m gonna go check in with the boss.”

“Go,” I said, and settled back, sipping my martini and watching the lights of the city turn the river into an ever-changing Rorschach.

Partially mesmerized by the shimmering water, I nearly jumped into it when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I whipped my head around to find Adoree standing beside my chair.

“Billy, I startled you,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” I said, getting to my feet awkwardly. “It’s great to see you.”

I leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“Please sit,” I said, pulling out a chair for her.

She didn’t sit. “I believe you know these gentlemen,” she said. Standing just behind her were Charlie Dann the Puff Potato Man and his brother-in-law, Jon Baker. Charlie was dressed casually in a camel hair sport coat, a pale blue shirt, and chocolate trousers. Jon was in another beautifully tailored dark suit, with a white shirt and red power tie.

“Hi, Billy,” Jon said, offering his hand. “This beautiful lady insisted on coming over here, even though we were charming the heck out of her without your help.”

I shook his hand and then Charlie Dann’s.

“Please join me,” I said.

The two men waited for Adoree to sit, but she remained standing. “I have to go meet with the television and news people now.”

“Come back after,” I said.

“Of course. Save a place for me for dinner, please.”

“She’s quite a gal,” Charlie said, taking a seat as we watched her move across the terrace.

“Very savvy about the food business,” Jon said. “Her sister’s partnered in a restaurant in Marseilles. But I guess you knew that.”

As a matter of fact I didn’t know very much about Adoree at all. But I merely smiled.

“Is Jonny here tonight?” I asked.

“No. He, ah … He’s got his TV shows at night. I was hoping
Jonny’s brother, Dickie, might join us, but he’s out at the plant, checking on something or other. The kid’s all business. I sure wasn’t at his age.”

I noticed Dal standing at the entrance to the terrace, surveying the buildings across the river. Trying to ignore the chill on the back of my neck, I asked, “What do you produce at the plant?”

“The one where Dickie is? Farm equipment. He’s checking on overtime production.”

“Jon manufactures all sorts of stuff,” Charlie said. “Cellphones. Semiconductors. The Bakers Best line of cooking products, which you may have heard of. Exercise machines. All this in addition to construction and real estate. Hell, with all the building, he’s changing the face of Chicago.”

The phrase was far from original, but there was something.…

“My brother-in-law is better than the press agents I hire,” Jon said, with a smile. “The one business I’m not in yet is the one responsible for our dinner tonight.”

“This restaurant?” Charlie asked.

“No. I want a few branches of our host’s money tree. Instapicks. Derek’s a tougher businessman than I am, but I’m persistent. I’ll wear him down. What about you, Billy? You’re not a guy who stands still. An entertainer with your own restaurant, frozen foods, books. That’s nice, but wouldn’t you like a stake in the new gold rush?”

That reminded me of the offer from Restaurants International that could be a game changer, financially speaking. “You offering me a piece of your action, Jon?”

His grin grew wider. “No, sir,” he said. “The only people getting a piece of my action are my boys.”

The conversation went on like that while the terrace became more and more crowded and noisy and the night sky darkened. Carrie and J.B. sat at a table not far from the entrance. Dal eventually joined us, along with two Chicago Cubs teammates and their wives who knew Charlie and were devotees of his establishment.

Dinner was just being served when Adoree returned. I’d reserved
the chair on my left for her. I introduced her to the newcomers to the table and sat back and watched her as she easily became the center of attention, answering their questions with grace and charm.

Yes, she loved America. In fact, her grandfather had been an American, a World War Two GI who’d fallen in love with a Parisienne and decided to return to her after the war. Adoree was diplomatic enough not to mention why he’d chosen to remain an expatriate in Paris with his white wife.

Her father had been something of a rogue, a professional gambler, who, during her and her elder sister’s youth, had settled for a moderate but more secure income by working for casinos in Paris and Monte Carlo. The family had been well off enough for her sister, Jeanne, to attend Ecole de Cordon Bleu and for Adoree to study at the Conservatoire Supérieur d’art Dramatique, where she had been one of only three young women of color.

The dinner was fine, I suppose. But in Adoree’s company, the enjoyment of food took second place, even when the appetizer was crab bisque made with coconut milk and the main course was New York steak with béarnaise sauce.

“The food is delicious, no?” she asked.

My plate was almost clean. Hers looked as if she’d barely touched it. “You should try some,” I said.

“But I’ve tried it all. It is very good.”

“I guess it must be that
French Women Don’t Get Fat
way of eating,” I said.

“Oh, that book? No, no. My habit of eating is more flexible than that. I … have no appetite when I am without a lover.”

I heard Dal make an odd choking sound, which confirmed my suspicion that he was bending an ear our way. Ignoring that, I said, “And when you have a lover?”

“I am ravenous. I am as hungry as a dog.”

“A horse,” I said, without thinking.

She frowned. “You think I resemble a horse?”

“No. Not at all. I … It’s the idiom. ‘Hungry as a horse.’ Or maybe
‘Hungry as a bear.’ I’ve never heard ‘Hungry as a dog.’ But I guess it works.”

She continued to frown.

The young woman who’d greeted us at the door approached our table. She told Adoree that Derek was about to say a few words to the guests and wanted the cast with him.

“Excuse me,” Adoree said brusquely, adding, when I pushed my chair back, “Please do not get up.”

And she was gone.

Dal was shaking his head. “Speaking of horses,” he said. “The ass of a horse, that would be you.”

“Thanks for your support,” I said.

“Lady’s an actress,” he said. “Anything other than a compliment is an insult.”

Had what I said been that terrible? Not even the arrival of dessert—
mousse chocolat caramel
—brought me out of my funk.

With Derek and the cast assembling and several camera crews setting up their special lights, I pushed back my chair and stood.

“Going to apologize?” Dal asked.

“I’m going to the men’s room,” I said. “If it’s all right with you.”

“It’s your bladder,” he said.

Crossing the terrace, I saw Derek make some comment that seemed to amuse the actors around him. Adoree was laughing.

Maybe I was overthinking the whole thing, misreading her reaction. Even if she thought I was calling her a horse, how bad was that? Horses were handsome animals, right? Hadn’t some famous artist called attention to Katharine Hepburn’s equine profile?

I was still focused on my little faux pas when I emerged from the men’s room stall and began washing my hands at the row of basins. It took me a moment to realize something was off in the room. I raised my eyes from my wet but now immaculate hands and, in the mirror, saw two men standing a few feet behind me. Staring at me. My old kidnapping pals—Ace and C-man.