The Celebutantes (15 page)

“And what about the chain—the pentacle—that was in your purse?” Madison asked. “How'd that get there?”

Coco sat down again. “Right after I hit him with my purse, he came at me again. I shoved him away, and my fingers caught the chain and I pulled and the chain snapped right off his neck. He screamed and called me a bitch, but by that time, I had already started running for the door. I was totally panicking. I just held on to the chain—I didn't even realize I had it until I got into the elevator.”

“What a little shit!” Madison seethed. “Park was right—it
was
self-defense!”

“It wasn't anything!” Coco cried. “Because I didn't kill him. I left him in that penthouse totally alive! And I was only in there for, like, twenty minutes at the most.”

Lex was scribbling furiously again.

Madison, on the other hand, remained rigid in her chair, taking in both Coco's story and her last claim—that she hadn't killed Elijah Traymore. And of course Madison believed it. She had believed it in her heart from the very start, but there'd been a tiny voice piping up in the back of her brain, saying:
If Coco's side of the story doesn't make sense, you'll have to consider that maybe you don't know your best friend that well after all.
Now that voice was completely gone.

More than anything in the world, Madison wanted to throw her arms around Coco and tell her that everything would be okay. But she couldn't. Not just yet. The equation of Coco's guilt still added up too neatly. Twenty minutes was the time frame Coco had given them, which left a whole lot of other unanswered questions. And now Madison heard Park's voice resounding in her head:
When you question Coco, keep an open mind. You have to doubt a suspect before you can totally believe a suspect. Guilt before innocence. Every cop knows that.

And Madison knew it too. She got up and started pacing. “Okay, then. Explain to us what happened after you left the penthouse,” she said, keeping her tone flat and unemotional.

“I got in the elevator,” Coco answered. “And let me tell you, that damn elevator was nuts! It stalled once on the way down. It shook like an amusement park ride. I started crying because I was so scared! Then all of a sudden the doors opened on the twenty-ninth floor and I jumped right out. I was
freaked.
My heart was racing. I was too scared to get back into another elevator, so I ran into the stairway and started walking down. Not easy in these shoes, okay?”

“And you walked down all those stairs?” Lex asked incredulously. “Drunk and pissed-off and scared?”

“Yes, I did! What other choice did I have? I mean, the adrenaline was pumping through my blood, but I was still a mess. At one point, when I was feeling a little calmer, I tried to get out of the staircase, but the doors on floors twelve and thirteen were totally locked—there was no reentry into the hallways. So I just kept walking.”

“But that couldn't have taken you an hour,” Madison said. “I mean, you could've taken off your shoes and made it down in half an hour.” She kept her tone sounding disappointed, much the way a cop would. Disappointed and a little suspicious. It was a hard role to play—she felt awful doing it—but it had to be done. In the days and weeks to come, Coco would be under intense scrutiny. The public certainly wouldn't have pity, and neither would the district attorney.

“I
could
have,” Coco told her. “But I didn't. And when I got to the seventh floor, I felt sick. Disgustingly sick. I thought I was gonna puke all over the place. So I sat down on the stairs and just put my head in my hands and waited. And cried. I was so embarrassed, so upset. Everything had gone wrong—I was drunk, Elijah had turned out to be a psycho, I'd made a fool of myself, and I looked like hell. I just wanted to sit there and wait for the whole luncheon to be over. I didn't want any of you to see me because I didn't want anyone knowing what had happened. And my feet were killing me.”

“But he practically tried to rape you!” Madison yelled. “Why wouldn't you want to go to the cops and tell them that?”

“Who the hell would've believed me?” Coco yelled back. “I went up there by myself, intending to…I don't know…hook up with Elijah. No one ever believes the girl. And even when I told it all to the cops last night and showed them the bruise on my leg, they didn't believe me.
Obviously.
” She wiped tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. “It's the worst thing in the world to be charged with murder!”

Lex chucked the pen and notepad onto the coffee table. “I don't get it,” she said. “Why would you be charged with murder? A manslaughter charge I can understand, but why murder? This wasn't a
premeditated
act.”

“It wasn't any kind of act!” Coco spat. “But according to the cops, I went up to the penthouse with
intent.
Like, I went up there planning to seduce him and kill him from the beginning. How stupid is that?”

“Tallula said that after the luncheon, she and Ina went back up to the penthouse,” Madison said slowly, counting off the points of information on her fingers. “According to how it's all been sketched right now, you would have been there, hiding. Which was why Elijah asked Tallula to go back downstairs and get him a pack of cigarettes. She goes into the elevator and it stalls—almost exactly what happened to you, except that she's trapped in there for more than ten minutes.”

“Right,” Lex said. “And according to the newspapers this morning, that's all been confirmed by the hotel security, so we know Tallula couldn't have killed Elijah.”

“Of course she didn't kill him,” Madison said dismissively. “That doesn't make any sense. The newspapers also claim that Ina took a shower in her bedroom on the other side of the suite, and that when she came out, her hearing aid was broken. She didn't hear a damn thing, the poor girl.”

“Well…” Coco sighed, irritated. “Maybe she didn't
need
to hear anything.”

Madison shook her head. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that she knew she and Elijah were alone in the suite, and that
she
shoved him off that balcony,” Coco stated firmly, vehemently.

“And don't you think the cops would have figured that one out by now?” Madison asked. “I mean…
duh.
”

Coco shot to her feet again. “Well then,
someone
had to be in that penthouse while Tallula was in the elevator and Ina was showering. Someone other than me! Elijah and I didn't even argue near that stupid balcony.”

“But there were signs of a struggle,” Lex said. “Didn't you knock stuff over? Throw things down on the floor? Your cell was found in the living room.”

“No,” Coco replied. “None of that. If the cops found any sign of a struggle—like, broken things on the floor—Elijah must've fought with someone else after I left. It wasn't me!”

Madison was silent.

Lex was silent.

The room itself was too silent, and Coco felt the tension in the air. “Don't you believe me?” she asked, looking at them both.

“Did Elijah mention anything to you about someone named Corky?” Lex tapped the pen against her chin. “Or did he say anything, like, spooky?”

“No,” Coco said. “What the hell is that all about? You believe me, don't you? You believe I didn't kill him, right?”

Madison ran her hands over her face. She couldn't go on acting like the tough cop anymore. It was taking too much out of her. She felt the stress wearing away at her. “Of course
we
believe you,” she said. “But no one else does. Right now it makes more sense for everyone to believe that you killed him in self-defense, and that's the big problem. You were being attacked. Once your side of the story hits the papers, people will see it that way. They'll say it wasn't your fault—”

“Ugh!” Coco grunted. “How could you even say that? How? I'm telling you the truth!” She curled her fingers into fists and batted them against her waist in frustration, and in rage. “Or maybe it's just that you found yourself another best friend!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Madison asked.

“Oh, come on! Face it—I'm not a glamorous, famous artist. I'm not Tallula Kayson.”

“That's ridiculous,” Madison shot back. “And you know it is. So don't even
try
to play that card on me. I've been a good friend to you my whole life.”

Coco stayed quiet. She knew she didn't have much of a rebuttal—Madison
had
been the ultimate best friend. And with nothing to do or say, Coco dropped her head into her hands and started sobbing.

It took Madison less than five seconds to walk across the room and wrap her arms around Coco. “We have to get back into that penthouse,” she whispered. “We
have
to. There are clues that someone's just not seeing.”

“Then we'll get in.” Lex flipped open her cell, scrolled through her address book, and selected her newest—and hottest—entry. When the person on the other end of the line answered, she said, “Hey, Brooklyn? It's Lex Hamilton. You doing anything special tonight?”

12

Clues

“T
hat's a wrap!”

The director's voice boomed across the set, and Park heaved a sigh of relief. It was nearly one o'clock. It was also hot and muggy and terribly sticky. She had been working steadily for five hours under the blazing midday sun and the searing lights that were everywhere on a movie set.
Short Fuse
was a true location shoot, with nearly ninety percent of the movie being shot outdoors, which meant more takes and a greater number of disturbances from people on the street and equipment malfunctioning. Basically, more work.

Thankfully, today had been relatively tame. The cameras had operated perfectly, the sound technicians hadn't experienced any big problems, and the onlookers packing the pavement had stayed behind the blue barricades. All five shots went smoothly. Nonetheless, Park felt totally worn down. Now, as she waited to be lowered back onto the sidewalk, she realized that she hadn't slept well last night. Thinking about Coco and Elijah and Poppy had kept her awake, tossing and turning. And seeing Madison so distraught over the whole mess made matters doubly difficult. They had quite a situation on their hands and very little time to get to the bottom of it.

The last time she, Madison, and Lex found themselves embroiled in a murder scandal, their close friend and fellow St. Cecilia's Prep student Concetta Canoli had been two feet from the slammer. That had been incredibly tough to see. But seeing it happening to Coco hit even closer to home.

The ten-by-twelve-inch steel platform on which Park was standing started to move. She was twenty-four feet aboveground. As she descended ever so slowly, she forced herself to study the busy stretch of First Avenue below. Fans waved. Cabs honked as they zipped by. Being this high up didn't really scare her, but it did make her cognizant of just how dangerous moviemaking could be. One wrong move and she'd strain herself against the harness locking her in place. She was wearing torn jeans, a torn shirt, and high-heeled boots. Not the best outfit in which to roll around and fend off a potential nuclear attack, but the flimsy getup was her official wardrobe.
Short Fuse
was about a young couple hired by the government to basically stop the world from ending. Park's character, Lily Zane, was feminine and smart and high-spirited—a perfect sidekick to Jeremy Bleu's rough-and-tumble action-star persona. Together, they had already dangled from the Williamsburg Bridge and shot down an elevator shaft at breakneck speed. Today's shoot had everything to do with Park trying to scale the side of the United Nations building on Fortieth Street in order to stop a terrorist from killing a diplomat. She—or rather, Lily Zane—had succeeded.

The platform made a grinding sound as it locked into place one foot above the sidewalk, and a production assistant came running over to help Park down. “Thank you,” she said, smiling at the young man who always brought her coffee and water in the morning. She felt a great wave of relief as she stepped onto solid ground. She tore off the harness, then wiped the sweat from her brow. As she did so, a line of crimson droplets gathered on her fingertips. Fake blood. There was a perfect zigzag cut arcing above her left eye, courtesy of the makeup team. The rest of her face was matted with Hollywood dirt and grime. Lily Zane was petite and girlish, but she didn't mind wearing her battle scars, thank you very much.

“Hey, Park!” a young girl screamed from across the street.

“Hi there!” Park waved back. In fact, she stopped walking for a few seconds and waved to just about everyone staring at her. It felt so damn good to see people getting excited about the movie. There were only two weeks left of shooting, but the publicity campaign had already started. Paramount Pictures was rushing
Short Fuse
through its production schedule so that it could land in theaters for the big Thanksgiving Day weekend. Park had already granted Mary Hart an interview on
Entertainment Tonight,
and last week she'd secured a September slot on
Live with Regis and Kelly.
She also knew Diane Sawyer was vying for a pre-release appearance on
Good Morning America.
Park was happy to do all of it. The only problem was school when it started back up again. St. Cecilia's Prep was tough when it came to academics, and Park wouldn't be able to miss too many consecutive days of class at a time.

But she couldn't worry about school right now. It was no use, and she was too tired and too damn hot. She gave a final wave to her fans and jogged to her trailer. What she needed was a cold glass of Pellegrino and a hot kiss from the guy who'd be pouring it. Pulling open the trailer door, she smiled. “Well,” she said, “if I'd known
you
were going to be in here, I'd have tidied myself up a bit.”

Jeremy Bleu was sitting on one of the plush chairs in a far corner. His hair was longish and tousled, a few wiry strands hanging over his forehead. He was wearing battered blue jeans, scuffed black shoes…and nothing else. Walking around shirtless wasn't a habit, but most of his scenes in
Short Fuse
required him to show off those thick pecs and washboard abs. He stood up, sauntered across the floor, and wrapped his arms around Park's waist. “You're looking plenty fine to me, Lily,” he said, his voice gravelly and deep.

“Yeah, I can say the same about you.”

Jeremy leaned down and planted a kiss on her lips, holding it until he nearly had to gasp for air.

“You're going to zap the rest of my energy,” Park said, pulling away from him reluctantly. She smoothed her hands over the bare pathway of his shoulders. She wanted to smooth them just about everywhere else too, but you never knew when a paparazzo might shove a camera lens through a window. She walked past him and opened the small fridge, grabbed a bottle of Pellegrino, and happily guzzled it down.

“You did great today,” Jeremy said. He bit into an apple and sank back down into the chair. “You totally rocked those stunts. You're getting dangerously good at that.”

“Not as good as you,” Park answered. “I still can't quite make myself dangle from a building ledge twelve stories in the air.”

Jeremy shrugged. “By the time you make your next movie, you'll be diving out of helicopters. And maybe Lex can design some sweet jumpsuits for both of us.”

Park looked at the marble countertop and saw her tattered copy of the
Short Fuse
script. She had earmarked the pages she wanted to rehearse with her acting coach later on today, but something else caught her eye.

The stack of newspapers.

The
New York Times,
the
Daily News,
the
Post.

She felt her stomach drop as she reached for them and scanned the front pages.

Body Plunges from Penthouse, Young Artist Dead
one headline read. And the next:
Killed at the Waldorf.
And the last:
Young Celebutante Charged with Murder.

“Shit,” Park muttered. “I can't stand this.” She flipped open the pages. She saw the garish pictures of Coco being led out of the hotel in handcuffs and of Elijah Traymore's body being wheeled into the medical examiner's van. There was even a shot of Tallula Kayson standing in the lobby of the hotel, her hands covering her face.

“Totally sick about Elijah,” Jeremy said, chomping on the apple. “I mean, talk about
splat.
I can't believe it happened right in front of you, babe.”

“It was pretty gross.” Park picked up the
Post
and walked to the chair opposite him as she read. The article didn't cover any new ground.

“You must be really worried about your friend,” Jeremy said. “I mean, being charged with murdering the guy and all. That's totally twisted.”

“Yeah, but whether or not it's twisted, the evidence happens to point to her.”

“That sucks.”

“It more than sucks, Jeremy. It means we might have to see one of our best friends sent to prison.”

He swiveled around in the chair. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean that Coco is really the only suspect right now. Which is bad. There are a few other questions, a few things I don't understand about this case, but Coco is at the top of the criminal list.”

“But you don't really think she did it, do you? I mean, like, you don't think she up and shoved Elijah over the balcony?”

Park stared at him. She tried to follow the investigatory rules and keep her expression pensive, but the truth burned through the guise. “Of course I don't. But I haven't really had a chance to investigate the way I'd like to,” she said. “Madison and Lex are with Coco now, but I haven't heard from them yet. I know in my heart that Coco's innocent, but I have to keep my mind open to every possibility.”

Jeremy chucked the apple into a nearby garbage can. “What do you think happened?”

The question struck Park as funny—not that Jeremy had asked it, but that she found herself so eager to answer it. She hadn't thought it would happen that way. Confused by the evidence, angered by the circumstances, she had spent most of the night in a state of mental limbo, too scared to truly delve into the heart of the mystery. Now, however, she felt the urge to plunge right in and start hammering away at it. The uncertainty had made her restless.

She met his curious gaze. “Seriously? I think someone else shoved Elijah off that balcony.”

Jeremy thought about that for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “I don't get it.”

“I'm not sure I get it either,” she murmured. “But I know I'm on the right track.” An image of Poppy van Lulu popped into Park's mind, and the image was as intriguing as it was incongruous. An old little toothpick of a woman like Poppy shoving Elijah off that balcony? Park couldn't picture it, but stranger crimes had certainly been committed.

“Wasn't Tallula's assistant—what's her name, Dina?—in the suite when it happened?” Jeremy asked.

“
Ina.
Yeah, but she was taking a shower, and she's deaf and wasn't wearing her hearing aid. And the cops believe her.”

A sly smile spread across Jeremy's face. He had caught the familiar glint of suspicion in his girlfriend's eyes. “Aha!” he said. “But
you
don't believe her, right?”

Park considered the question. “It's more like I don't want to believe her, but the crappy thing is that I don't really have a concrete reason to think she's lying.”
And that's because I haven't had the chance to interrogate her yet.

Jeremy squinted and stroked the sides of his mouth, trying to look like a detective in one of those old black-and-white movies. “You want to know what I don't get? I don't get how a girl who's, like, five foot one and weighs a hundred and ten pounds pushes a six-foot guy who probably weighs one-sixty off a terrace.”

“Those aren't exactly the right weight and height measurements.”

“Whatever. But you get what I'm saying, don't you? I just don't think it makes sense.”

It didn't make sense to Park either—not from the outset. But she knew of cases in the annals of criminal justice where the strange combination of adrenaline and alcohol had created superhuman strength in people. The mind stayed foggy but the body reacted. And that was the theory the cops were going with right now. They needed at least that much to turn Coco into a killer. Park took another chug of the Pellegrino, then decided to change the subject. “Do you know anything about skeleton keys?”

“Skeleton keys?”

“Yeah.” Park reached for her purse and pulled out the key she had found close to Elijah's body yesterday afternoon. She held it up. “Like this one.”

Jeremy stared at it. “My mom still has doors in her house in Iowa that you need those kinds of keys for. They're in, like, old houses.”

“That's it?”

“Does it say
locksmith
on my forehead?” He smirked. “Why the sudden interest in skeleton keys?”

I have no idea,
Park thought. She put the key away and shrugged. “It's nothing,” she said offhandedly. “You never met Elijah or Tallula, right?”

“Never.” Jeremy put his feet up on the counter. “But I hear she's totally talented. And that he was a great sculptor. Shame he's dead.”

“You know what's crazy about the art world?” Park said. “Now that Elijah's dead, his sculptures will be worth double what they were when he was alive.”

“That's kinda creepy, when you think about it.” He reached for the bottle of Pellegrino and took a sip. He stifled a yawn. A look of disinterest melted onto his face. “Anyway, babe, what are we doing tonight? Hayden called me this morning—she's in town and wants to have dinner. Or maybe we can swing by Cleopatra and hit the dance floor?”

“No,” Park said with a brusque shake of her head. “Tonight, we're going to a séance.”

Jeremy's response to the completely strange news was typical of him: he shrugged, nodded, and smiled. “Cool.”

Park dropped her attention back to the newspaper.
Damn,
she thought,
there has to be something I'm not seeing, something that nobody's caught yet.
She stopped reading and simply stared at the grainy pictures. One in particular caught her eye: it was the one of Coco being hauled out of the hotel in handcuffs, her face a mask of mascara-laden tears. Park ran her finger over the image. Coco really was tiny—petite to a fault, in fact; she must have been possessed of superhuman strength when she gave Elijah that final, fatal shove off the balcony. Park tried to reconstruct those dark moments in her mind's eye again, sensing the panic, hearing the cries, feeling the weight of Elijah's body against the palms of her hands—

She gasped out loud. Her heart racing, she lifted the newspaper as close to her face as possible and stared at the grainy image of Coco, giving special attention to the shoes she'd worn yesterday. The shoes that were very obviously in the picture.