The Audrey Hepburn Heist, page 1
The Audrey Hepburn Heist
A Charlotte Donovan Mystery
Mollie Cox Bryan
Copyright © 2022 by Mollie Cox Bryan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Mollie Cox Bryan
Chapter 1
How the hell did I get here? Here I am throwing a party, surrounded by Hollywood folks, which I never would have believed a year ago, heck, even six months ago. And throwing a party like this? Not my cup of tea, at all. But then again, Justine Turner’s will obligated me to do certain things. Throwing a huge party was one. At first, I chaffed. Here Justine was, wanting to leave me her money, but it had strings attached. I should have known. I was still in the clutches of my famous dead boss.
The saxophone’s sound reached into my chest and curled around in a deep vibration as the jazz band played a 1940’s smoking tune in what was once Justine’s living room. The trio played in a corner of the apartment with a makeshift stage plopped down on the black-and-white marble floor. Heavy crimson-velvet drape-covered windows provided the backdrop. Funny how easily the room became a stage—or at least a corner of it did. Bronze sconces, dimly lit, sliced the light and shadow against the walls. I drew in a breath: Hard to believe this apartment was mine now.
Clutches of people scattered about the place. This apartment was made for parties. The L’Ombrage was one of the oldest and grandest Art-Deco apartment buildings in the city; it spoke of elegance and graciousness.
I gazed around at the party-goers, not recognizing many of them. I wiped my sweaty palms on my fancy dress and lowered my eyes to the floor. I felt like I was inside someone else’s life. The agency had taken control of the guest list, insisting security would be top-notch. But—how did some of these people get in?
A man wearing white pants, a glitter shirt, with pink hair swung his hips to the beat. A tiny frumpy woman circled him as if getting ready to pounce. A woman’s horsey laughter broke out over the music. A ridiculously handsome man draped his arm across her shoulders. A group of men huddled on the couch. They were probably making some kind of multi-million dollar deal. I recalled the words of my agent, Natalie, a few minutes ago. “Everybody in this room has deep ties with Hollywood, Audrey Hepburn, and Broadway.”
“Someone ought to give that woman laugh lessons,” Kate, my best friend, said with a flat note.
Gemma Hollins, an actress up for the role of Holly Golightly in Golightly Travels, a new production, leaned closer. “It kind of ruined the song, didn’t it?”
Kate cackled. “If you weren’t from London, I’d swear you could be from Cloister Island.”
Big compliment coming from Kate. She was right—Gemma fit right in with the two of us Cloister Islanders masquerading as Manhattanites.
Den’s wide shoulders and narrow waist captured my gaze. I couldn’t look away, picturing the sculpted muscles and contours under the fabric. He winked. Caught. I grinned. Rented tux or not, I was ripping that off later tonight. “Hey there, the party is going well.”
“So far so good.” I kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“You were right. This place is full of beautiful people. Just caught one a little lost coming out of Justine’s bedroom. Lots of plastic in here if I’m not mistaken.” He laughed and rolled his eyes.
Gemma laughed a sparkling tingling sound, as she wrapped her arm around me. The woman glowed. She had the air of a young Audrey Hepburn. She was definitely the favored actress on the audition reality show. Just being close to her made me feel like anything was possible. “How are you holding up, friend? This is so not your scene.”
“You know me so well.” I smiled and wrapped my arm around her. “I’m fine. For now.”
She rubbed my back and pulled me in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
My heart fluttered. If I had a “type” of friend, Gemma would not be it. Yet, I adored her. Her with her plastic surgeries and constant diets. Exactly the kind of woman Kate and I loved to hate. But Gemma was genuine.
She was open about her surgeries—lips and nose done like Audrey’s and a breast reduction. She wanted this role, lived to play the part of Holly in the new mini-series, focused on what happened to Holly after Breakfast at Tiffany’s—the movie, not the book.
She wore a little black dress similar to the one Audrey wore in the movie and she also sported the long gloves. I lent them to her from Justine’s private collection. If you allowed yourself, you could imagine it was 1961 and you were in the company of Holly Golightly.
Justine would have loved her, too.
The other two actresses up for the role had yet to show, even though they were invited.
A server came along with a tray of drinks. We each took one.
“Where is the restroom?” Gemma asked.
“I’ll show you,” I said. I needed to head that way, too. She followed me back the long tiled hallway, past the life-size painting of Greta Garbo, Justine’s favorite. (“A lesbian icon, kinda like me,” she’d say and laugh.) Her heels clicked on the tile, echoing. We sat our drinks on the table outside of the restroom.
She slipped inside and shut the door and I hurried into my private bathroom.
Private bathroom. The words rolled around in my head. Me. Charlotte Donovan, a Cloister Island girl, living in a swank apartment in the Upper East Side, partying with folks from Hollywood. It was a cool twist in my life.
I walked back out into the hallway and grabbed my drink from the table. Gemma had already taken hers. I found my way back into the crowd where Kate was holding a group rapt with one of her stories. I waited for the end. Cue: laughter. I stepped into the loose circle, realizing more guests had arrived since I’d left. More people I didn’t know. The room filled with chatter and music, glasses brimming with champagne.
Not too bad, I told myself. I tried not to look at my sparkling new watch. Only a few hours left. One server brought over a tray of tiny slices of bread, spread with glistening caviar. I reached for one, just as Gemma squeezed between Kate and her date—a dashing wealthy gentleman, Roger, who adored her. But then again, how could you not adore Kate?
Kate wore a sky-blue sleeveless cocktail dress, which brought out the blue in her eyes. Sparkling necklaces draped her neck. She dazzled.
She had stuffed me into a cocoa and pale pink floral original Vera Wang, which she said suited my small curvy frame and brought out my brown eyes. I was prepared to feel uncomfortable, but my feet throbbed, and I felt as if a boob might pop out of my dress at any moment, so I moved around stiffly, which added to my discomfort. I took in Kate and her relaxed, elegant self, and then glanced over at Gemma, also a fashion inspiration—beautifully put together and comfortable in her skin.
But something was wrong. I squinted at her. Gemma’s complexion had taken on a sickly pallor. She wobbled and Kate held onto her.
I stepped forward. “Are you okay?”
Kate grabbed her by the elbow and tried to steady her. But Gemma collapsed. Some drama queen’s scream pierced the room. “What is that?” Gemma muttered, attempting to point.
I crouched down beside her. “What is what?” She wasn’t making any sense.
Den took over. “Okay everybody back up, give her some room.”
“Can we take her into a bedroom?” I stuttered.
“It’s best we don’t move her until we see what’s going on.” Den’s voice held authority and experience.
“She passed out,” Kate said. “That’s what’s going on.”
Den held her wrist. “I said to stand back!” Curious onlo
He started CPR.
My focus zoomed in and out from the scene in front of me to the other guests gathered around. Zach, the director of the reality show the three wannabe Holly Golightly’s were in, edged his way to the scene. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
“She passed out. Maybe she needs to eat,” I said, ignoring that Den said she had no pulse. That couldn’t be right. She didn’t eat enough. I told her that all the time. Of course she never listened to me. Now, look at what she’s done to herself. Passed out from a lack of eating. “Do you know if she has any health issues?”
He shrugged. “None.”
Den continued the CPR. Everything else around me faded out. Time moved in drips and waves.
Finally, a man came over to Den and stopped him. Den’s rhythm stopped as the other man took over. He sat up, sweating, flushed. He stood and put his arm around me and whispered. “There’s nothing I can do.”
My mouth felt like sandpaper as I tried to form words. My throat stuck and itched. I coughed and sucked in a breath, “Den? What do you mean?” Trembly. Hushed. But I pushed the words out.
Blood drained from his face and his eyes caught mine. “She’s gone.”
Air whooshed out of my chest. “What do you mean?” I stammered, gripping my chest. “She’s not—”
Stern-faced Den nodded at me and eyeballed Kate. “Secure the doorway. Don’t let anybody out. Do ya hear?”
Kate nodded and dragged Roger with her to man the door.
My heart thudded against my ribcage. A stone-cold chill swept through me. Leaving me shivering, teeth chattering. Someone draped a blanket over me. Rubbed my shoulder. Kate, who must’ve left Roger alone at the door. Ever by my side. “Are you cold? Let’s get you some whiskey and take you out of here.” She attempted to lead me, but my legs were frozen to the floor.
“Charlotte, look at me.” She held my face. I blinked. And blinked again. “Let’s go in the next room.” Her voice sounded as if she were in a tunnel. “Can you hear me?”
I nodded as best I could and let her lead me, one step after the other.
A young and healthy woman had just collapsed and died at my party. A woman I adored. An actress, a friend, a bright spark in this dark, dark world. A welling sprang up inside of me when I reached the chair in the next room, a welling rising through my guts, burning through my chest and throat, exiting as a wail. I collapsed into the chair and sobbed.
Three shots later of the best gold-label bourbon I ever tasted and I found my sea legs and talked myself into going back into the party room.
Kate helped me stand. “You don’t have to go back out there. There’s nothing for you to do.”
“It’s my party.” Surreal. Tragic. But still, my party. I had to at least show my face. And I couldn’t leave it all up to Den and god-knows-who else.
* * *
I was trying to keep it together, now, back in the main room. My throat burned as I tried to swallow back the sorrow. I blew my nose on a linen handkerchief.
“Someone poisoned her,” Den said into my ear. “I smelled and almost tasted something on her.” He turned to the party crowd. “Get comfortable folks. It’s going to be a long night. Uniformed officers will take your names and numbers, along with statements about where you were in the place when this happened.”
I stifled a groan.
“This is a hell of a party,” Natalie whispered into my ear. “People will remember this.”
“Yes, I suppose they will.”
“But you’ve filled your obligations. Killed two birds with one stone, so to speak. And now you’re off the hook.”
So says Natalie.
Kate came up to us now. “There’s a so-called actress at the door. Holly number two.” Kate smirked. “As if.”
It must be Jazz Wilson, who the viewers (and Kate), loved to hate. I tried not to waste too much energy hating her, but she was obnoxious.
“Tell her she can’t come in,” Den said.
The party crowd parted, as Jazz entered the room A stunning blonde, with an Audrey-Hepburn neck and doe-like brown eyes, she stood with her hands on her round, lush, hips.
“You tell her,” Kate said and flung her silky cobalt-blue scarf over her shoulder.
“Who says I can’t come to the party of the century?” She opened her arms as if to display her perfect figure—more Marilyn Monroe than Audrey Hepburn. In truth, Capote’s choice first to play Holly was Marilyn, which I never understood. “Since you’re inside, please take a seat and wait for my uniformed officers,” Den said.
As if she just noticed the paramedics, her eyebrows shot up. “What’s going on?”’
I sniffed. “It’s Gemma. She’s dead.”
The actress’s face fell and drooped, before she picked it up, while everybody looked on. “What? What? How could she be dead? I don’t understand.” She leaned in. “I just spoke with her. She was fine.”
It was as I suspected. The two of them were friends. Their rivalry was a part of the Hollywood smokescreen. The spin.
Jazz wobbled, but tried to compose herself. As hard as she seemed to fight it, she hit my marble floor with a sickening thud.
As I rushed to her, a dark presence loomed behind me, which I couldn’t deal with now. Now, I focused on Jazz. Patted her perfect face. “Jazz, come on, get up.”
I cranked my head around as some of the partiers gathered. There stood actress number three—she was the looming darkness I’d felt, no doubt. Arms crossed. Hip extended. “Such a drama queen.” Was she trying to be funny? Nobody laughed. Tone deaf didn’t begin to describe her statement.
Jazz moaned and tried to open her eyes, as I held her head up, I spotted the one last acting rival—Zoe Noss. She blinked away a cold glare when my eyes caught hers. The depth of it made me shiver.
Perhaps I was still paranoid over the ordeal of Justine’s death. But I had gazed into the eyes of the man who killed her, and Zoe’s eyes, in that brief moment, held that same cold, empty guise.
Chapter 2
Would an actor kill because of the role of a lifetime? It seemed absurd to me, like much of Hollywood, but the mini-series would be a career maker.
Gemma had once told me she became an actress because of her passion for Audrey Hepburn. Gemma and Audrey shared common traits, starting with their birthdays. Same day and time, right down to the minute. Weird.
I stepped off to the side, choking back a sob, as the paramedics carried her off in a milky-gray body bag.
Kate came closer. “Are you okay?”
“Depends on what you mean.” Sometimes Kate could be a mother hen. My chronic Lyme Disease hadn’t flared in ages—and she always watched out for it. No. My Lyme seemed so far away as I held back the tears threatening. My throat burned. Oh Gemma.
Kate flung her hair over her shoulder. “Poor Gemma. I wonder what happened?”
I swallowed hard, balled my sweaty hands into a fist. “Den suspects someone poisoned her.”
“As in on purpose? So, that’s why they’re questioning people.” She snapped her fingers.
Jazz, recovered and sitting on a chair across the room from us, laughed with a tall woman standing next to her.
Kate raised her chin in Jazz’s direction. “My money’s on that bitch.”
I wanted to agree. I wished it were as simple as Kate suggested. I eyeballed Jazz, confused as to who she really was beneath her carefully tended facade. “She wasn’t here yet. Besides, she and Gemma might have been friends.”
