Encore in Death, page 3
“Anyone else with a grudge?”
“Probably.” Coming back to sit, Eliza dropped her head into her hands. “I’m pushy, I’m exacting, and I don’t consider either of those flaws. Onstage, on-screen, I’m going to give you my very best, each time, every time. And I damn well expect anyone on that stage or screen with me, or behind them, to do the same.”
“Employees? Anyone unhappy with the exacting push, anyone you’ve let go?”
“More than one, but not recently. Cela—she handles the professional end of things—media, meetings. She’s held that position for four—no, five years now. And Dolby, my personal assistant who handles everything, has only been with me for three, but if I didn’t have Brant and Dolby wasn’t gay, we’d build ourselves a love nest. He’s another soul mate.”
“Domestic help?”
“Wayne and Cara Rowan—he’s our cook, she runs the house. Seven years now, and they’re like family. Then there’s Lin, Brant’s right hand—much more than a personal assistant. Lin’s been with Brant for at least fifteen years—I think more—and travels with him. There’s Marta, Lin’s assistant for the last—I’m not sure—four or five years, I think.”
“All of them here tonight?”
“Dolby and Cela, Wayne and Cara, Lin, all of them, certainly. I believe Marta—she’d have been expected, but I don’t know if I saw her. So much is a blur now. No, wait! God!” She covered her face with her hands, breathed through them before she dropped them. “Marta’s already in New Zealand. She left yesterday or maybe the day before.”
“You’d have had a caterer tonight, and that staff.”
“Yes, I’ve used All Elegance for, God, it must be a dozen years. Georgia—the owner—and I worked on all the details. Food, drink, staffing, serving dishes, and so on, and with In Bloom florists for the flowers.”
“You have a guest list?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Dolby can get that for you. Lieutenant, they took Brant away. I know they’ve taken him, but I need to see him. I need to—to say goodbye.”
“I can arrange for that tomorrow, and I’ll contact you. Who would benefit from your death, Ms. Lane?”
“Brant. Of course Brant.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, closed her eyes briefly. “There are other beneficiaries. If you’d ask Cela to give you the information for my estate handlers. They’d have all of that.”
“And Mr. Fitzhugh? Who would benefit?”
“Financially, I would. And the same. Lin would have the information you need. I know he intended to leave a large monetary gift to Home Front, as we discussed it. In solidarity, I also have them as beneficiaries. Lieutenant, both Brant and I have had very long, successful careers. Money wasn’t an issue.”
Money, Eve thought, was always an issue.
But she rose. “Thank you. I know this is difficult. Is there somewhere you can stay until we clear your apartment?”
“I have to leave?”
“I’m sure that’s best, sweetie. We’ll pack what you need, and you’ll stay with me for a while. My apartment’s just two floors down,” Sylvie told Eve.
“That’s helpful. You can contact me at any time if you think of something, any detail that may help. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“You’ll tell me when I can see him? When I can see Brant? Please.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. Meanwhile, Dr. Morris will look after him.”
“Thank you. Thank you for that. They took him from me, Lieutenant. I know they took him from the world, too, but I don’t care about that right now. I don’t care if they wanted to take me, because they took him from me. You have to find them, find them so I can look them in the eye and wish them to hell.”
Eve started downstairs and met Peabody on her way up.
“Oh, you’re finished with her?” Longing eyes scanned over Eve’s shoulder. “I was hoping to meet her.”
“You’ll have that opportunity before we’re finished. You got statements from the staff?”
“Began with the catering staff.” They started down where the sweepers in their white protective gear spread out over the living area, out on the terrace. “The owner always works Lane’s parties and was in the catering kitchen—they have a freaking second kitchen just for that—when Fitzhugh collapsed. Five wits in there with her who all confirm she’d never left the kitchen since the party started. Started running through the rest of the catering staff and hit on the one who made the cocktail—but not for Fitzhugh, she claims. He told her, specifically, it was for Lane. Champagne cocktail, twist of lemon.”
“That tracks. He brought it to her, then the friend who’s up there with her suggested she do a number, so she passed the drink back to Fitzhugh.”
“No way he’d have downed it if he’d known.”
“Unless he wanted to self-terminate at a party.” Eve shrugged. “Can’t get her with it, so fuck it, I’m going out. Not likely, but … Did you run her?”
“Yeah, Monika Kajinski, age twenty-six. No dings on her record. She’s only been with the catering company for about six months. Doubles working as bartender at Du Vin. I think you know that one.”
“Shit. Roarke’s.”
“And she’s been on the bar there a couple years. She came right out with the fact she mixed the drink. No bullshit about it. She said Fitzhugh told her exactly how Ms. Lane liked it, complimented her tat—she has a little sunflower on her left thumb—and was chatting with someone he called Lin.”
“Personal assistant.”
“He thanked her, and he and this Lin walked away together.”
“Where was her station?”
“The terrace. She said she noticed they walked inside together, but that was it. She was busy, at least until Lane started singing. Most everyone drifted inside, or at least to the doors. Then she heard the first scream.”
“Hold it there. You’ve still got her?”
“Yeah. I’m using the butler’s pantry. They’ve got one of those, too. I put a couple chairs in there so I could take people one at a time. She’s in there now. I figured you’d want to know it looks like Lane was the target. But you already did.”
“Lead the way.”
“Okay. This place is enormous,” Peabody told her. “They actually bought two units, combined them. And one would’ve been a hell of a lot of space. Formal dining room,” Peabody pointed out, and Eve judged it would seat at least thirty. “Then there’s another one, I guess for more intimate dinner parties. The cook and housekeeper—a married couple—have their quarters over there, then you’ve got the main kitchen, which even though I’m getting the kitchen of my dreams, I envy. Not the decor—too lab-like and sleek—but the space.”
Eve paused a moment, glanced around. “You could have a freaking rodeo in here.”
“Not my first thought, but sure. Catering kitchen through there—and that’s where we’ve got the rest of the staff. Butler’s pantry.”
Peabody opened a set of white pocket doors.
The woman popped up from a low-backed steel chair between long white counters. She had short black hair with spiky bangs over almond-shaped brown eyes and lips dyed stoplight red that set off creamy light brown skin.
“Monika, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“I know, I know. Jesus. I just made the drink. I swear to God. La Fleur champagne, six dashes of bitters, one white sugar cube—real sugar, not fake. Twist of lemon.”
“Got it. You also work at Du Vin?”
“Oh God, oh God, I wasn’t even there when that gossip reporter was killed. But I’m starting to wonder if I’m bad luck.”
“Relax. Sit down.”
“I can sit, but I don’t know if I’ll ever relax again. I made the drink. But it was just a drink.”
“Then how do you know it was the drink that killed Mr. Fitzhugh?”
“Because people were buzzing around, talking about poison, and the cops. And oh God, when I came inside, I saw him on the floor, and I saw the broken glass. Am I under arrest?”
“No. Who was talking about poison?”
“I don’t know. Wait, um, Jed—one of the servers. He was standing next to me, and he said, like: Holy shit, somebody must’ve poisoned his drink. Something about his face. He came in with me, Jed, I mean. He was serving the terrace.”
“You told Detective Peabody Mr. Fitzhugh was talking to someone while you made the drink.”
“He called him Lin. They were really friendly, laughing. Um, something about heading out of summer into winter.”
“And they walked back into the living room together.”
“That’s right.”
“Did anyone follow them?”
“Not that I noticed. I was pretty busy. I did see Mr. Fitzhugh stop to talk to a couple people. This woman, she had a killer dress. I don’t mean killer!”
“What did she look like?”
“I think she’s somebody—she looked like somebody. Tall, a lot of boobs, blond hair. I mostly noticed the dress. Gold and shiny and cut down to her navel, practically, and to her ass crack in the back, with these glittery crisscrosses holding it together. Anyway, I caught him talking to her for a minute and saw them do one of those kiss-kiss deals, and how she jammed those boobs into him. Then I got busy, and I didn’t notice where he went after.”
“Okay, Monika, we appreciate it. If you think of anything else, please contact us.”
“That’s it? I can go home? You’re not going to arrest me?”
“For mixing a drink and cooperating with the police? I don’t think so.”
Monika let out a shaky breath, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Okay. Okay. Thanks.” She got up. “I want to say, he was really nice. Mr. Fitzhugh. He looks at you. I don’t mean like coming-on-to-you look. Just that a lot of people don’t look at you when you’re making a drink or serving. And he did. I’m really sorry about what happened.”
When she left, Eve turned to Peabody. “See if the killer dress is still here, Peabody, and send this Lin in.”
“Got it.”
He got the drink on the terrace, Eve thought, letting herself see it in her head as she wandered the area, opened what turned out to be a liquor cabinet—freaking alphabetized, she noted.
He tells the bartender it’s for his wife, and how she likes it. Anyone could overhear, she decided, and found a cabinet filled with glassware—sparkling and arranged by size and use.
Or, according to the wife, many would know it was for her. He’s with his assistant. So opportunity there. Stops to talk to Killer Dress, another opportunity. Makes his way through the crowd, and very likely stops here and there to mingle. More opportunities.
She continued to imagine it as she found serving dishes, bar tools.
A hand on his arm. “Hey, Brant, great party.” Kiss-kiss, handshake, guy hug. Easy enough to drop a little poison in the glass heading for Eliza Lane.
But she doesn’t drink it. The good friend suggests she perform. Coincidence—which is bollocks. Or just twist of fate, bad timing, both of which could happen.
But damn conveniently.
Then again.
Lane hands the glass back and goes to the piano. Fitzhugh moves into the crowd. More, plenty more opportunities to doctor the drink. Not his usual drink, but instead of just holding it, he toasts his wife and seals the toast by drinking.
Did the killer expect that, or not?
Which one was the intended victim?
As she leaned back against one of the long white counters, Peabody stepped in with a man, about five-eight, with a tough, muscular build filling out a suit the color of crushed raspberries. His eyes, lion tawny, showed signs of weeping. He sported a ruler-straight, narrow scruff along his jawline and a thick mane of brown hair.
“Lieutenant, Mr. Linwood Jacoby, Mr. Fitzhugh’s personal assistant.”
“And friend.” He spoke in a voice thick with tears. “Brant was my friend.”
“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Jacoby.”
“I lost my brother to addiction five years ago. I thought I’d never know a loss that deep. I was wrong. What the hell happened?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Please, sit down.”
“I need to do something. Anything.”
“You will be. How long have you known Mr. Fitzhugh?”
“Ah, seventeen years, I guess it is. They hired me to beef him up. I was a personal trainer, and the studio wanted Brant to put on more muscle, and to sharpen up his martial arts skills. I’d worked with other actors, built a good rep there, so I worked with Brant for ten weeks before they started shooting Warrior King. We hit it off, and he asked me to work with him through the production.”
“And you became his assistant.”
“Trainer, assistant, friend. I stood up for him when he married Eliza. When my brother died, he was with me for the memorial.”
“You were with him shortly before he collapsed.”
“We were on the terrace, at the bar. He wanted to take Eliza a drink. We talked a few minutes, then I walked inside with him. I peeled off to mingle, and Vera cornered him.”
“That’s Vera Harrow?”
“Yeah, and I don’t mean corner like that.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Vera and I aren’t especially friendly.”
“But she and Fitzhugh were?”
“They had a history—and I mean history. They had a thing for a few months, but that was a decade ago. Then Brant met Eliza, and, well, stars burst, angels sang.” He smiled a little.
“She and Brant get along fine. Brant has a way of getting along. But me? I’m the hired help as she sees it, and she makes sure I know it. So I steer clear if we’re in the same space.”
“Where were you when Mr. Fitzhugh collapsed?”
“I was in the main dining room, talking to Dolby—that’s Eliza’s assistant. I was actually getting ready to slip out. Great party, but I had a lot to do tomorrow before we left for location. And then Eliza and Samantha started the duet. I sort of hung back, figuring I’d wait until they finished, then ease my way out. Then…”
He closed his eyes. “Okay, then somebody screamed, and people either pushed back or rushed forward. I didn’t see Brant at first, but I started to go over, see what was wrong, how I could help. People were shouting and scrambling around, and somebody yelled out to call for a medical team. And that’s when I saw him, on the floor.”
He paused, looked away as tears swirled into his eyes again. “Eliza was down with him, and a man I heard after was a doctor. And Brant’s face was red, and he was shaking—seizing. I shoved my way through. It was all so fast, so insane.
“I watched him die, right there on the floor. I watched the light go out of his eyes. I watched him stop fighting to breathe. He was just gone, and Eliza was pulling him into her arms and rocking and wailing.”
He knuckled away tears.
“I had to pull her away from him when the MTs got here. She fought me, but they needed to work on him. If there was a chance—I knew there wasn’t, but if I was wrong … I held on to her, and Dolby helped, tried to calm her down, but she was crying so hard. And one of the MTs gave her a sedative. Sylvie—Sylvie Bowen and the doctor … I’m sorry, I never got his name—took Eliza upstairs. We tried to keep everyone calm until the police got here. Somebody called for the police.
“People were saying heart attack, stroke, but I thought, no, no. He was in perfect shape. He’d had a complete physical just last week—studio policy—since he’d start shooting in New Zealand in a few days. And I heard somebody say poison, say cyanide. I thought, ridiculous, dramatic, but when the police got here, I started to wonder, so I looked it up on my ’link. Was he really poisoned?”
“The medical examiner will determine cause of death. As his assistant, his longtime friend, you’d know if anyone held a grudge against him, if he’d received any threats.”
“I can honestly say Brant is—was—one of the best-liked people in the business. He never threw his weight around, and he could have. He took his work seriously, and was always, always prepared. But he also found the fun in it and never took himself too seriously. Now, he would, occasionally, get a letter—the you sucked in whatever vid—and some were on the ugly side, but nothing like a credible threat. Certainly some in the business might have envied him, but he just had a way of defusing resentments and charming people. He avoided conflict and controversy.”
“Former employees, former relationships.”
“He’s had the same agent and the same manager throughout his career. His assistant before me? He helped her land a bit but meaty part in one of his vids—that’s what she wanted, and he helped her. She’s had a low-key but solid career ever since. His ex-wife? They parted as amicably as you can, and he ended up introducing her to her current husband. They just had their second kid.”
Lin shrugged. “That’s Brant. Give me something to do, Lieutenant. I need to do something, anything that can help.”
“Mr. Fitzhugh had a home office?”
“Yes, second floor.”
“Did he have an office outside the home?”
“No, we worked here. Dolby, Cela, Marta, and I have office space on the third floor.”
“We’re going to need to go through those spaces, and the electronics. Detective Peabody can take you to Detective McNab—he’s with EDD. If you can give him any passcodes, provide any personal devices other than what Mr. Fitzhugh had on him at the time of his death.”
“Yes, yes, I can do that. I’d be happy to do that. Eliza. Is there anything I can do for her?”
“She’ll stay with her friend Ms. Bowen for a few days.”
“Oh. That’s good. But … will I be able to take her, to go with her when … She’ll want to see Brant. She’ll need to.”
“We’ll contact you. Peabody, take Mr. Jacoby to McNab, and bring in Dolby Kessler.”
“If you’d come with me, Mr. Jacoby.”
He rose.
“I know this isn’t really relevant, but I saw The Icove Agenda. Twice. Brant worked with Marlo once—one of her first vids—and he’d worked with Julian. After it came out that Julian was nearly killed, and his personal issues became public, Brant reached out to him.”
