Murder Most Finicky (22 page)

Chapter 44

Stan's hands went up automatically and she froze, a million crazy thoughts racing through her mind and crashing together. The friendly doorman had apparently made them as “fake” cops.

She was dimly aware of Jessie beside her, reaching for her gun for the second—third?—time today. “Are you crazy? I'm a cop,” she yelled.

Gaston let out a plaintive howl. Behind the gun, the face of a woman emerged. Probably Stan's age, a few inches shorter, with brown hair styled in a sleek bob. She had a Madonna mole under one nostril and brown eyes as hard as flint. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a James Bond movie, with her white dress and chunky jewelry.

“You're not an NYPD cop. We have cameras in here, you know. And NYPD cops don't bring their friends and their puppies with them to question people. So who are you and why shouldn't I shoot you?” she said. She didn't sound nervous or scared. Rather, that she could take enjoyment from pulling the trigger.

“Put the gun down,” Jessie said. “I'm a Connecticut state trooper.”

“Honey, you're in New York. Not Connecticut,” Melanie said. She looked like she was about to lean against the door and pull out a cigarette, but her gun remained unflinchingly trained on Stan. “You need directions home?”

Stan finally found her voice and cut in before Jessie could say anything else or one of Melanie's neighbors came out their door. “I'm Stan Connor. I'm a chef working with Sheldon Allyn, just like Pierre LaPorte. Someone murdered him this weekend and I'm trying to figure out who.”

At Pierre's name, Melanie blinked. Her eyes shifted to Jessie, who still had her hand poised over her gun. “You knew Pierre?”

“I hadn't met him. He was . . . dead when I arrived at the house.”

Melanie spent another minute observing them both, then she lowered the gun. “So what do you want from me? And how did you find my apartment?”

“I found you,” Jessie said.

She and Melanie faced off for another few seconds, then Stan said, “Can we come in?”

Melanie looked at the dog and wrinkled her nose. “I'm not really a dog person. Is he going to pee on my carpet?”

“No,” Stan said. “He's Pierre's dog. He's well behaved.”

Melanie didn't look convinced. “I know she has a gun. Do you have any weapons?”

“No weapons.”
Just some pet food treats.

Melanie still hesitated.

“We won't take up a lot of your time,” Stan said.

Another beat, then she swung the door wide. “Kevin—my doorman—knows you're not NYPD. I told him to let you up, but if he doesn't hear from me in fifteen minutes to send help. So that's how long you have.”

Stan and Jessie exchanged looks as they stepped inside. What would drive a public relations person to carry a gun and be so paranoid? Unless she'd had a bad experience that had nothing to do with them.

Melanie, clearly not wanting to turn her back, stood to the side and kept her eye on them. Jessie did the same thing as she walked in. Figuring she'd let them assess whether or not they needed to shoot each other, Stan led Gaston in. Melanie didn't tell them to sit down, so Stan remained standing and checked the place out. Her assessment outside had been right. The apartment's open floor plan gave it an extravagant feel, with gleaming hardwood floors in the living and dining space and a wet bar in a corner of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows made you feel like you were always a part of the city, even while inside. The views were to die for.

Like her name suggested, Melanie Diamond's living space glittered with gold-plated mirrors, elegant glass coffee tables with expensive-looking trinkets strategically placed, and sleek, minimalist furniture. To the left, a modern, spacious kitchen with a small bar in the middle. And a woman, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, sat at it. She wore her blond hair pulled back in a headband and red lipstick that left a kiss on the rim of her white coffee cup. Stan could only see her from the side, but she looked incredibly familiar.

Jessie saw her at the same moment Stan did. Her hand went to her gun again. “Who's that?” she said.

“That's a friend of mine. She doesn't have a gun. On her,” Melanie added, just to be clear.

Stan felt like she'd dropped into a Stephanie Plum novel. She took a few steps further into the apartment. Gaston strained at the leash. Before Stan could get a better grip, he took off into the kitchen and launched himself at the other woman. The woman's eyes widened, then she bent down and hugged him. “Hey, Gaston!”

She knew the dog? Stan moved closer to get a better look at her. She still couldn't see her whole face.

“Do you always answer the door with a gun?” Jessie asked Melanie.

Melanie turned those hard eyes on her. “Ever since people started showing up at my door with them. Gotta keep up with the Joneses.”

“Someone came here with a gun?”

“A couple of someones, actually. And I think your friend Sheldon Allyn had something to do with it.”

“Sheldon? Why would Sheldon—” Stan stopped. Kind of a silly question, given the rants Sheldon had indulged in the past couple of days. “Do you know who it was?” she asked instead.

“A couple of goons. This mob thing is really passé. Someone should tell them.”

“What did they want?”

“To threaten me,” Melanie said. “About my lowlife clients and the things they're having me do for them.” She rolled her eyes. “It's tedious, really. They weren't very good at their job, but I never appreciate having a gun put in my face when I open my door.”

“Same here,” Stan said.

“Well, that couldn't be helped.”

“What did these guys look like?”

Melanie made a face. “Like Scalia's guys. They all kind of look the same.”

Scalia again. Was Maria's family just looking to mess with Pierre because of Maria's goal to be Sheldon's favorite? Or did this have to do with Pierre's drug habit?

“Have you done anything about the threats?” Jessie asked.

“I've reported them to the police.” She shrugged. “Unless they catch them in the act, not much they can do.”

The other woman finished petting Gaston and sat up, turning more fully toward Stan so she was able to catch a glimpse of her face.

Stan felt the shock of recognition at the pouty lips from her recent Google search, devoid of lipstick but still unmistakeable. “You're . . . you're Vaughn Dawes,” she said, moving into the kitchen.

Vaughn smiled. She didn't have the flinty eyes Melanie had, but she did have an air of
Don't mess with me
about her. “Busted,” she said. “But you can't tell anyone, or we'll have to kill you.”

Stan looked nervously over her shoulder. Melanie smiled, still holding her gun. Stan had a sneaking suspicion they weren't kidding.

“Clock's ticking,” Melanie said, tapping a diamond-encrusted watch. “Why are you trying to solve Pierre's murder? Don't they have police in Rhode Island?”

“They do,” Jessie said. “They even managed to snag a detective or two. But my colleague misspoke,” she said, with a
stay shut
look at Stan. “We're not actively working on the Pierre LaPorte homicide. I have no jurisdiction there. But we are looking for someone else at that cooking event who vanished after the murder. That search led us here.”

Vaughn pouted a little. “What, you weren't looking for me?”

“That too,” Stan said.

Melanie motioned them all into the living room. Once Stan and Jessie sat, Gaston at Stan's feet, Melanie chose a chair opposite them and laid her gun on the coffee table within easy reach. Stan breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This trip had turned out to be a lot more life-threatening than she'd suspected during the planning phase, between Fat Bladder and this crazy chick.

“Vaughn, come in here,” Melanie said.

With a sigh, Vaughn obeyed. Unlike Melanie, she'd dressed down in leggings and a beaded tunic. She took the chair opposite Melanie and sipped her coffee.

“So you're looking for Kyle McLeod,” Melanie said. “I've been watching the news.”

Please don't let her be sleeping with him, too,
Stan thought.

“We are,” Jessie said.

“Isn't that the police's job?”

Jessie shrugged. “They're not finding him fast enough and we worried that he was in trouble. But then again, we worried that
you
were in trouble,” she said, looking at Vaughan.

“You'll pardon me asking,” Stan said, “but why haven't you let anyone know you're safe? Is this really a PR stunt to make Sheldon look bad?”

Melanie and Vaughn looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Is that what he said? He's too much.” Melanie shook her head almost fondly.

“Then what's the story?”

“I'm not sure why I have to tell you that,” Vaughn said. “I don't even know you.”

“True. Did you know Pierre?”

“Sadly, yes,” Vaughn said.

“Why sadly?”

“Because he really was a jerk.”

“Didn't you date him?” Stan asked. “Your pictures are all over the Internet.”

Vaughn shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“And you were his public relations person?” Stan asked Melanie.

“For a short time, yes.”

“So is it true that Sheldon and Pierre were not getting along and Pierre hired you because he was jumping ship and needed his own brand?”

“To a degree,” Melanie said. “I'm not sure he was ever going to jump off Sheldon's ship. But he did want to branch out.”

“How'd he find you?”

Melanie smiled again. “My reputation precedes me.”

“I introduced them,” Vaughn said. “Which I immediately felt badly about.”

Stan turned to Vaughn. “Didn't you tip off Sheldon that Pierre was using Melanie?”

“I told Sheldon in passing. I didn't realize it was such a crazy subject for him. But I thought he could work with Melanie if he needed to. His person is pretty new.”

“Why was Pierre such a jerk?” Stan asked. She was starting to wonder if Vaughn had been in New York the whole time, not LA. Maybe she had killed him.

“He's not a nice person,” she said. “Mainly I wanted him to stop stalking me.”

Great. Add
stalker
to Pierre's list of attributes.
“Were you in LA Thursday?” Stan asked casually.

Vaughn looked amused. “You think I did it? It's not that crazy,” she said. “I could see it happening eventually. But it didn't happen yet. I didn't even know he was dead when I agreed to come.”

Melanie sent her a warning glance. “Pierre had some issues. He was in competition all the time, even when there was nothing to compete for. He and Sheldon were having problems. Said that Sheldon used Pierre's expertise, which had now surpassed his own.” Melanie shrugged. “I don't know what was true and what was false. I just tried to get him in the headlines for positive things. Then he tried to get Vaughn to go into business with him, but it was mostly for her money. He pulled the we-used-to-be-a-couple-card.”

“All the more reason not to do it,” Jessie said.

“Exactly,” Melanie said with an approving nod. “But Pierre wouldn't let it go. He kept harassing her. You would think he knew how it felt, after he had a similar experience. I was close to terminating him as a client when I found out.”

Stan's blood thrummed. “What do you mean, a similar experience?”

Melanie hesitated.

Vaughn answered instead. “Pierre had his own stalker a few years ago,” she said. “Someone who would bother him on and off. Do creepy things like leave baked goods made out of something rotten near his apartment door. Phone calls. Usual stalker stuff.”

She said it in such a blasé tone that Stan wondered if all famous chefs had stalkers. Yet another reason to stay under the radar.

“And he never figured out who it was?”

Vaughn shook her head. “Eventually, it died off. But it creeped him out for awhile. I'd never seen him rattled by anything, but this rattled him. It's actually why he decided to get Jaws here.” She smiled. “I wanted to name him Monty. Gaston is so predictable for a chef.”

“Did he ever report it?”

“No. It never got that bad that he felt justified. Most of the time he blew it off as some random crazy.”

“Did Pierre still bother you?” Stan asked.

Vaughn shrugged. “Not so much lately.”

Stan looked at Melanie. “So why didn't you terminate him?”

“I didn't terminate him because he stopped bothering her, like she just said. He got involved with a new business associate and focused on squeezing money out of him. And he finally thought he had a recipe that would make him famous. Assured me that I'd be revealing a fabulous milestone for him in the near future.”

That prize recipe again. “Frederick Peterfreund. The motorcycle chef?” Stan asked. “Is that whom he was squeezing money from?”

“Yep.”

“Was he getting it?”

Melanie laughed. “Frederick is ambitious, not stupid.”

“You think there was some issue between Frederick and Pierre about this recipe?” Jessie asked.

“He didn't need Pierre's secret recipe, trust me. I work for Frederick, too. He has an impeccable reputation and a unique twist to his work,” Melanie said. “He's extremely well known.”

Stan turned back to Vaughn. “Did Sheldon call you to go to Rhode Island?”