Authors: David James

A Not So Model Home (16 page)

BOOK: A Not So Model Home

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“Oh, him. Yes, yes, I know about him, but I didn't know that was his name. Well, I can tell you one thing, he tolerates the boys that Ian is always letting into his bed. But I think that deep down, he really resents them.”

“Enough to kill them?”

“Definitely. He works all the time. Day and night. Very passive-aggressive.”

“Those are the types who end up killing. All that pent-up frustration. I don't know about you, Aurora, but if I worked that hard to keep a company afloat and I looked up and saw some himbo stepping to the front of Ian's gravy train, I'd be pissed.”

“You'd have to be made of ice to let that go by.”

“So you think Lance could kill just out of frustration? I mean, there's nothing in this whole setup that stands to benefit Lance. He's not even in the show.”

“I think he would resent a possible heir, Amanda. Murder isn't always logical. The very act is illogical. Remember that revenge is a very powerful motive. It's not always about money.”

“True, but money is a much better currency to spend than revenge. I mean, he is the only one who went down to the kitchen that night. Plus, you kill one person like Keith and the rage just pushes everything along by itself. Aleksei would be easy.”

“So that's everyone,” I added dejectedly.

“You didn't mention Ian.”

“Ian?!” I remarked. “Aurora, why would you think Ian would kill his own son, then Aleksei?”

“I don't know, Amanda. I'm a psychologist, not a homicide detective. You've got to consider everybody. Why so glum?” she asked.

“I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere.”

“Yes, you are, Amanda. You've discovered that just about everyone in the castâand at Ian's companyâis capable of having killed Keith.”

“That's getting somewhere?”

“You know more than you did an hour ago.”

“All I know is that someone went into the potting shed, got a container off the shelf, mixed gopher poison in Keith's cranberry juice, and the rest is history.”

Aurora thought a minute. “You're sure of that?”

“Well, that's the theory, anyway.”

“I'd say you're making quite a bit of headway if you came up with all of that yourself.”

“I wish it was all of my idea, but the detective came up with a lot of it.”

“So why is he letting you in on everything that's happening?”

“A guy I'm dating is a detective also, but he's out of town. So I think for Jerry, it's a misplaced camaraderie thing. Any friend of my boyfriend, Ken, is a friend of Jerry's.”

“I see,” she said, getting up to go. “Please keep me in the loop about what's happening and I'll be sure to let you know if I think of anything. And do be careful. There's a madman out there running around.”

“Aurora, I have one last question I have to ask you.” Aurora turned around and came up to me.

“And what is that?” she said, smiling sweetly.

“So who's out in front? Who's going to win?”

She grabbed my hand and squeezed it gently. “I'm not going to tell you that.”

“It's Darryn, isn't it?” I asked, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“Amanda, extraordinary looks and manners don't guarantee someone's going to win. The qualities I'm looking for are those that are a good match for Ian. Darryn's good qualities can get crushed by someone like Ian. After all, you don't throw a lamb into a cage with a lion.”

“So what do you put in there instead?”

“A hyena,” she replied, finally letting go of my hand.

“Oh, so it's back to David, Drake, and maybe Marcus, then?”

C
HAPTER 25

Live Fast, Die Young, and Leave A Fashionably Dressed Corpse

I
went out on the town that night. Again. After all, it was a Wednesday night . . . practically the weekend. I hit the usual places, all dressed up: Gucci two-pocket knit jacket, metallic tissue T-shirt, white linen stovepipe riding pants, and gold platform high-heel sandals. People didn't normally dress like this in Palm Springs since we were officially a resort and dress here was pretty casual. But I didn't want to blend in. I wanted people to see me. Notice me. And that wasn't going to happen with me wearing a T-shirt saying, P
ALM
S
PRINGS
, I
LOVE
Y
OU
; Levi's; and some flip-flops. Plus, the way I was dressed, when people asked me what I did for a living, I could honestly say I was on television and look the part.

At Aqua, I was having a conversation with three men whom I had passionately kissed in front of the other two, and still, they were vying for my affections. I was in the middle of telling a story about my television show when the worst person in the entire world walked into the bar: Jerry Hallander, the Palm Springs Police Detective of Homicide. The man was dangerous for me. I had the hots for him and he had them for meâan incendiary combination. I started wishing I had worn an old sweatshirt, striped jogging pants, and a dirty baseball cap with any shoes from Payless.

“Hi, Jerry!” I tried to exclaim, thinking that my excitement would cover up for my discomfort that of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the deserts, he walks into mine. I wanted him but was wracked with guilt about my feelings for Kenâeven though we were only dating . . . a line I was getting tired of using to justify my dalliances. My three admirers gave up and drifted away, figuring that I had thrown them over.

“Amanda, what a surprise to see you here!”

And that's how it started, with two people acting like there was no attraction between them. We chatted for a while, had a drink or two, tried not to acknowledge the growing heat that was making the cool evening seem stifling.

“So . . . ?” Jerry said in that way that only made things more uncomfortable.

“Yes . . . well . . .” I replied.

Jerry took a deep breath, then spit it all out. “Amanda, you're an unbelievably attractive woman. Sexy, smart, Jesus!” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes, Jerry, I feel the same way,” I said, knowing that it would only be a matter of an hour and I would be in bed with this very attractive, sexy man.

“You're attracted to me, I'm attracted to you. . . .”

“Yes, Jerry. Go on. . . .”

“I think we should . . .”

“Yes?”

He shook his head again vigorously, then was quiet for a minute. “Amanda, I can't do this. Ken is a good friend, a colleague. And you're dating him. If he ever found out that things got this farâeven though we didn't do anythingâit would destroy my friendship with him. And I don't think you want to betray him either. But you and I getting involved will not solve anything. In fact, it will only cloud the issue. I think the thing to do is for both of us to think again about what we're after, and to consider those around us who might be affected by actions we choose. I have to go now.”

He took hold of my hand ever so gently and planted the tenderest kiss on my cheek, then walked out of the bar.

I wanted to cry. Was it because I was rejected? No, because I was acting like an asshole and it finally dawned on me as I saw my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. What had I become? I looked like a bimbo. A well-dressed one, but a horny woman craving attention from any male on two legs. Just then, my cell phone rang and I looked down at the caller's name: Ken Becker. I wanted to answer, but I was too ashamed of myself, so I pocketed my phone, paid for my last drink, and walked to my car alone.

I drove home in silence, turning off the radio when Patsy Cline's “Your Cheatin' Heart” started playing. I don't think I could have felt any lower than I did right then. I turned down my street, swung my car into my driveway and up into my mid-century carport, and turned off the ignition. It was late. I looked at my watch: 12:05
A.M.
God, I couldn't take these long days anymore. I needed to get some rest and just wanted to undress, burn my clothes, scrub my soul, and go to bed, but I remembered that there were some house brochures in the trunk that I needed to take inside. I went and unlocked the kitchen door so I could carry the heavy box. Knucklehead was usually at the door, but he was probably sulking in my TV room, a result of my long days away from him. He had his doggie door in case he needed to go out and do his business, but when he was disappointed in me, he took his good ol' time coming to greet me, sniffing me casually, then looking at me as if I had hit him with a rolled-up newspaper. I waited a second. No Knucklehead.

I went back to the car. God, the brochures weighed a ton. I teetered back and forth with the heavy box on my towering heels. I know I should've taken them off when I unlocked the house, but I was so tired I only wanted to make one trip. As I neared the house, I could hear the tape on the bottom of the box ripping, sending 500 brochures cascading onto the dirty pavement. Great.

As I was about to let out a great sigh, I saw someone race up behind me, and the next thing I knew, that someone had something around my neck. I was being strangled. It happened so quickly I could hardly believe it was happening.

Next, I did what any red-blooded American female trained in karate would do: I forgot everything I ever learned. Almost. Instead of wasting time trying to get the rope off my neck (which is never any use since your attacker always has the element of surprise and the advantage of being behind you), I went right for his eyes. My assailant was wearing a ski mask or some sort of head covering, but I took my best guess and hit with my thumbs and index fingers, trying to gouge the eyes. I knew I only had ten to twenty seconds before I passed out, so I had to work fast and make my strikes count while I stabbed at my assailant's instep with my shoe's heels. We struggled back and forth, knocking over garbage cans, yard rakes, and pool floats as we smashed into just about everything in my carport. A second later, there was the sound of furious barking, growling, something ripping, and the rope around my neck fell away as I was shoved forward violently, falling over a garbage can and coming to rest lying on my back, staring at the ceiling of my carport while Knucklehead licked my face. A second later, I heard what sounded like gunshots going off, followed by silence. I checked myself for bullet holes but found nothing. I wasn't shot. My assailant was gone into the night. No sense chasing him now. Plus, I didn't want to mess up my Guccis any more than they were already.

A second later, Regina appeared standing over me, a gun in her hand.

“Amanda, I swear you have the lousiest dates of anyone I know.”

It took me a few minutes to regain my composure. As I sat up amongst my smelly garbage, trash cans, garden tools, and gardening pots, I tried to piece together what just happened.

“You okay, honey?” Regina said, squatting down to talk to me at my level. “You had a close call.”

“All those years of training in karate, and I couldn't think of a thing. I didn't even throw him over my shoulder, which I could've easily done. Damnit!”

“There's a big difference between a karate tournament and real life, sweetie. I remember when I was working on a picture with Richard Burton. He was so hammered, all those years of training and perfecting his craft didn't do him a lick of good in remembering his lines. They just wouldn't come to him.”

“Regina, you do realize that you shoehorned that story into my comment about karate?”

“I think there's a great segue from your story to mine.”

“Barely, Regina. As my nicer Lithuanian grandmother used to say, you can't put a Polish foot into a French shoe.”

“I think I've just been insulted. But I don't speak Polish. Or French. Well, a little French . . . just the filthy words.”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “So what happened here?”

“You tell me, Amanda.”

“Well, I was taking this box of brochures into the house, when a guy in a ski mask ran up behind me and threw a rope around my neck and started strangling me.”

“How did you know it was a guy?”

“I heard his voice, well, his grunting as he was trying to choke me. So you fired off a couple of shots at him?”

“Damn right!”

“You didn't hit him by any chance, did you?”

“They're blanks.”

“They're loud enough. It's a wonder that the police haven't . . .” I tried to say, but was cut off by the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance, coming closer.

“Blanks or not, Regina, I'd put that gun away just for now. I don't think the cops would look too kindly on you firing that thing off in a city neighborhood.”

“They do it all the time in Desert Hot Springs.”

“That's because they kill people there. It's called drug gangs, Regina.”

“Fine, have it your way.”

Regina turned and tossed the handgun over the fence into her backyard, where it went off again with an impressively loud bang.

“Remind me not to do that again,” she said.

“No argument there,” I replied.

BOOK: A Not So Model Home

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