You Don't Know Jack (12 page)

And what about my own client, Dinah Edger?

Would her mouth be blue from all the swearing she'd done this morning? Not that I blamed her for being upset. Her life sucked on several fronts: Someone committed murder in her place of business, two of her former performers had perhaps been victims of the same killer, her much younger husband was possibly cheating on her, and, though she'd given me money to, I had yet to come up with anything concrete on that score.

Not to mention, I'd disobeyed her specific order not to go to the nightclub by being there the evening Lars was stabbed to death. I didn't have a license or a contract, but I had a conscience. So, yeah, I was still inclined to cut her a break.

I understood some of what she was dealing with — like the sickening ache of suspecting the man in your life might be cheating, like the devastating thoughts and images those suspicions roused to shatter your spirit, suck away your self-worth and make you wonder why you were unlovable.

It was hard enough to think he would prefer someone else, and humiliating to have to speak these suspicions to a complete stranger. But worst of all were the clawing need to know and the desperate hope to be wrong.

Dinah was as tough as they came, as tough as I'd seen, but she wasn't made of iron. I knew what it had taken for her to seek my help. I touched my wrist tattoo. Her heart could be broken, too. If I could, if it were true and Frankie was cheating, then I had to find out and spare her what had happened to me.

No woman should find out their man preferred someone else's bed by being confronted with the cheater and his paramour doing the nasty. Better to have the awful truth confirmed by someone you've hired. On your terms. Not by the whim of fate or inevitability or the heartless bastard himself.

But don't think I've turned all mushy and soft. I'm not just a fake-P.I. with a skewed sense of right and wrong. I had ulterior motives for wanting to continue my investigation for Dinah. I was meeting her at the scene of the crime. It was a chance to look around — without nerves scrambling my discerning eye. As upset as I was about Lars' death, and stumbling over his corpse, today I would be cool-headed and assessing. I had to find a clue that would help me solve his murder.

"You can, darlin'."

I jumped as Lars' voice filled my head. I would have cursed at him for startling me, but what he'd said took priority. "Is there a clue to be found, Lars?"

"How should I know? I'm dead."

Now I did swear. "If you're not going to help, stop popping into my head."

"Cranky, as usual. You really should work on that, darlin'. Have you considered getting laid?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"I beg your pardon?" Dinah's voice came through the speaker near the front door of Club Jaded Edge. I glanced around, saw the surveillance camera and knew she could see I was standing there. Alone.

"Sorry." I smiled weakly. "I wasn't talking to you." No, I was arguing with a ghost. My cheeks were hot. Not the start I'd wanted for this meeting.

She buzzed, the latch released, and I slipped into the nightclub foyer. Shadows engulfed me and the lock engaged with a nerve jarring click. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noted there was no thumping, luring music today, just an eerie goose-bumpy quiet. My gaze darted across the posters of the current performers and the memorial to Jade Edger.

I wondered if Lars' ghost had followed me inside, or if he'd met with resistance from the spirit of Jade Edger that I felt permeated these premises. Did misery love company in the ghost community? I shivered and scooted into the main audience gallery. So alive the night Lars died, it seemed now as sad and shabby as a downtrodden whore reeking of cheap perfume and debauched nights.

I descended past the empty, half-moon booths. Spooked.
Pop Goes The Weasel
ticked through my mind as though on the last note some psycho was going to pop up from under one of the tables and grab me. So much for cool-headed thinking.

A figure came through the access to the dressing rooms and I froze.

"Ah, there you are," Dinah said as if I were late.

I wasn't. Five minutes early, in fact.

Despite the reproval in her voice, I felt my nerves ratchet down a notch. Even angry, there was nothing frightening about this gorgeous cougar... unless you were young and male. My breath sputtered out. "Hi."

"Let's go to my office." She led the way into the employees only section and down the hall past the dressing rooms. The police tape was gone from the room where I'd found Lars' body. I heard activity inside.

"Who's that?" I asked, my nerves showing.

Dinah glanced over her shoulder. "Cleaning crew. They specialize in crime scene mop ups."

I hesitated, aching to stop them. To force them out of the dressing room so I could search for the clue or clues that would prove Apollo's innocence. Yeah, like
I
would spot that definitive
something
the SPD's investigative team missed.

Dinah looked at me impatiently. "Reopening tomorrow night. Rehearsals tonight."

I got that she was telling me she had little time, which explained why we were meeting here instead of off premises. As though this weren't clear enough, she added, "Frankie is out — doing whatever he's doing with his mornings and afternoons."

It was a jab, pure and simple, about my lack of progress on her case. I dreaded the next few minutes. I had to find a way to win her over again. To help Apollo I needed access to the nightclub, to the performers, and she was my in.

The office, still looking as if her brother Jade had just walked out the door, smelled of Dinah's exotic scent and fresh brewed coffee. She offered me a cup. I declined. More acid in my gut? Bad idea.

I took the chair opposite her desk as lights came on in the gallery and bar below. She explained, "My own cleaning crew. I want the place to sparkle tomorrow night."

I nodded, trying to measure her mood. Less angry. More resolved. But about what? I cleared my throat, but she beat me to the punch. "I hired you because I wanted someone discreet and... unofficial. I heard good things about you, but—"

"If you want your money back..." I reached for my checkbook, surprised to realize that no matter how much I needed access to the nightclub, I wasn't going to kiss her ass. Or beg. "But—" she said more firmly, picking right back up where I'd interrupted. "I asked only questions about you pertinent to my own needs."

I glanced up sharply. Where was this going? I frowned, waiting, as she switched on the desk lamp casting a clearer light over her face. Previously, I'd seen her in dark settings her features somewhat obscured by sunglasses and huge hats. She wore little to no makeup today, her black hair wildly unkempt. The strain around her cat eyes, around her full mouth, was pronounced.

I didn't want her appearance, her personal stress to affect me, but the urge to tell her to stuff it shriveled and something soft took its place. "It's been a tough week."

"You're right. It has. Not only for me, I think. I just found out that you were once married to Lars," she said with genuine sympathy. "I've been told you didn't part as friends and, God knows, I had little use for that bastard myself, but still, I'm sure his... loss... has impacted you."

"He was going to help me edit my manuscript," I blurted as though that alone was the impact of his loss or had any relevance to this conversation, but my mind was stumbling over the surprising compassion, even as I realized her sudden kindheartedness likely related to her ongoing grief over the death of her beloved brother. But it was the mention of how she hated Lars that set my pulse racing. Why? How much? Murder much? I could hardly ask.

Or find a suitable response. "Thank you" seemed highly inappropriate. I opted for professionalism. "All the same, I would understand if you want to fire me."

"I want results," she said, her attention locking on a desk calendar. "Do you think you'd feel up to working again in... say... another week or two?"

"Actually, the sooner, the better."

She glanced up, eyebrows lifted, but there was understanding in her eyes. "Tomorrow, then?"

"I was thinking today, if you would allow me to interview some of your performers." It occurred to me that somebody might have seen or heard something the night of the murder that might be significant, and that they might not have told the police.

Dinah scowled, looking as though she were rethinking her opinion of me yet again. Not good. She shook her head. "I don't want any of them to even suspect I'm having Frankie investigated."

"Oh, I won't ask them anything about Frankie, not directly anyway. I thought I'd ask about the murder investigation. Since I found the body, I'm sure they'll want my take on it."

"Gossip, you mean?"

"Gossip is a two way street. I'll tell them something and..."

She considered this, not totally on board from the doubt wrinkling her brow.

I plunged ahead. "You have to know that employees gossip about employers... it would be the perfect ruse."

Dinah sighed. "I suppose then it would be okay. For today. As long as you're gone before Frankie returns."

"Agreed." But her concern about Frankie noticing me in the nightclub brought up my one reservation about continuing to investigate him. A big reservation. If he was going off every day for sexual trysts with another woman, I had yet to discover it. I might have to follow him for a few more weeks. If that turned out to be the case, he was likely to start wondering why he was seeing me everywhere. I told this to Dinah now.

She said, "I've also worried about that, but something you said a minute ago has given me an idea that might work as a solution. Perhaps it will serve your purposes as well."

I sat straighter. "I'm listening."

"You said Lars was going to help edit your manuscript. Are you an aspiring writer?"

I liked to think of myself as pre-published, but supposed that was too obscure of a term for the layperson. "Yes. Lars was going to help me with revisions."

"Well, how perfect then. Frankie's sister used to be an editor for Random House Publishing in New York. She works from her home on Bainbridge Island now, still doing some editing for Random House."

And this helped me how? The question must have shown on my face. Dinah added, "Oh, she also free lances as an editor for aspiring writers."

I recalled the redhead I'd photographed hanging all over Frankie. She was also a book doctor? "I thought she owned a flower shop."

"That's his bitch sister, Eve. He has two sisters. This is Teri's name, address and phone number." She wrote on a slip of paper and handed it to me.

Teri Steele? I'd heard that name somewhere. Where? Oh, my God. This was the same book doctor Apollo suggested I contact right after my last manuscript was rejected and right before I accepted Lars' offer. Whatever misgivings I might have, hiring this woman would solve, for a while longer anyway, my biggest hesitation about following Frankie.

Dinah's phone rang, the bleat urgent and jarring. She stood, dismissing me. "Remember, results."

I descended the stairs to the backstage area, checking my watch. If he kept to his schedule Frankie would return in half an hour. Not much time for gossip, but better than nothing.

I paused at the murder room, glanced up the stairs to make sure Dinah's office door was still closed, and peeked inside the dressing room. A woman in overalls with stains I didn't want to know the origin of, stopped mopping to stare at me.

I said, "Find anything interesting?" Like clues.

"Fucking ghouls!" The wind from the slammed door smacked my face. I blinked, gathered my poise and moved on.

The door to the middle dressing room was shut. I knocked lightly. No answer. I opened the door. Dark inside. No one there. Great. Probably too early for any of the performers to come in for tonight's rehearsal.

What was I going to do?

Go home. Regroup. Find Apollo.

As I passed the star's dressing room voices from within pulled me up short. Not just voices. Angry voices. One belonged to Bruce.

Surprise held me in place. Dinah had been sympathetic to my grief, surely she was more so to her main attraction. Surely she'd given her headliner some time off to deal with his life partner's death? On the other hand, would anyone else be as big a draw?

Of course. Dinah was a savvy business woman. She was into
results.
She was counting on Lars' spouse to pack the nightclub to the rafters tomorrow night. Bring on the gawkers! The gossip mongers! The fucking ghouls!

The voices rose again and I caught the words: Lars. Manuscript.

Where were my X-ray eyes when I needed them? Where was my recording device? I could only answer one of those. Evidence in a murder case. I wasn't getting it back any time soon. Meanwhile, I needed to know now who Bruce was arguing with. And why they were arguing about a manuscript. What manuscript?

I stole into the middle dressing room, shutting the door behind me. I stood in the darkness, stared at the light coming through the small holes in the wall that abutted Bruce's dressing room. I wore no butterfly sized fake lashes to impede my vision today, but my stilettoes wanted to click against the concrete flooring like happy little castanets. I slipped out of my shoes, held them to my thundering chest, and tiptoed toward the light. Caution and my bare feet on the cold floor made me hypersensitive to unseen obstacles.