Death by Diamonds (9 page)

“Didn’t anybody get the memo that this isn’t the Oscars?” I asked Kyle.

“In this circle, any chance to show off is Oscar night.”

“You know what,” I said. “I haven’t met your mother’s leading man, yet.”

“Lance Taggart. I haven’t seen him, tonight, either.”

“Your mother must pay Phoebe well if she can afford designer clothes.”

“No, Phoebe’s mother Quinny pays her well, in clothes,” Kyle said. “But Phoebe would rather live with us. She has an apartment upstairs in the servant’s attic quarters.”

“Any of the other parasites live here?”

“Sure. Mom’s chef, Zander Pollock. He wanted Mom to set him up in business and get him his own TV cooking show.”

I sat straighter. “Was he angry at your mother when she didn’t do what he wanted?”

“Mighty angry. I heard them arguing.”

Feeling like Werner, I made a note of that. “Did he threaten her?”

“No, only her food.”

“That’s significant. Any other suspects in residence?”

“Mom’s makeup artist and hairdresser, Rainbow Joy. Daughter of a flower child. Not fond of what she calls the upper classes. Rainbow Joy likes to read self-help books and dole out the advice, her earth-child version of it, that is, whether you want to hear it or not.”

“Any of the leeches in residence strike you as suspects?”

“All of them, including my ex-father, though he doesn’t live here. But don’t limit your expectations. You haven’t met all the Parasites, yet.

“Like who?” I asked.

“Like . . . Galina Lockhart,” Kyle said watching Ursula Uxbridge. “Galina was Mom’s biggest rival. She wanted Mom’s part in Diamond Sands, and never forgave Mom for getting it. Hell, Galina’s always wanted anything Mom had.”

“Sounds like a sweetie.”

“I’ll point her out when I see her. She doesn’t seem to be here tonight, but watch the way she and my ex-dad look at each other. There’s chemistry; I just don’t know if they ever made a toxic mix of it. Just watch the people who actually “pose” beside the casket tomorrow. You’ll find Galina, eventually.”

My eyes filled despite myself. Dominique DeLong in a casket.

I thought the guests would never leave, especially Ian, who acted as if he owned the Gothic white-granite showplace and that everyone was there to see him instead of Kyle. Fact was, Dominique got the Fifth Avenue mansion in the divorce settlement. One thing I already knew about Ian is that he never went anywhere without a glass of Scotch in his hand. And when he held a glass, the very crooked baby finger on his right hand became more noticeable. The pinky curved right then back toward the left and pointed to the rest of his hand.

Kyle’s little finger did not resemble his ex-father’s, but one of the Parasites had a little finger that did.

Nineteen

Eventually everything connects—people, ideas, objects. The quality of the connections is the key . . .

—CHARLES EAMES

The genetic crooked baby finger thing didn’t prove that Kyle wasn’t Ian DeLong’s. But it sure made me question the paternity of another member of the Parasites. So . . . had Ian fathered another child? If so, did that speak to motive? Possibly, so I guessed it was worth questioning all three: potential mother, father, and child. Meanwhile, useless speculation had no bearing on the immediate facts surrounding Dom’s death. I’d save my curiosity for opportunities to speak to each of them separately, and by separate, I meant alone and one-on-one, without the others in the vicinity. Still, the coincidence bugged me, and I turned to Kyle. “Who exactly did your dad leave your mother for?”

Kyle shrugged. “You know, we never found out. He’s such a player, it could have been a number of women, and he never married after the divorce.”

Note to me. Find out who Ian DeLong fooled around with. Oh, yeah, I already knew: anyone who wore a skirt.

I needed to mingle, but I was too tired for intelligent speech. I longed to discuss my ideas about Dominique’s death with someone, preferably Nick. My head was spinning and I knew talking would help me clarify my thoughts. Nick had texted me that he’d returned to FBI headquarters after the “kneeing” incident, and he still hadn’t returned by the time the household retired.

That’s when I learned that they put Nick and me in separate bedrooms on different floors. Great. I wanted to talk to him and to make sure he wasn’t permanently disabled. Kyle had given me Dom’s room, so I could look around, and frankly, I avoided the closet. That’s how tired I was. I was avoiding clothes altogether.

Making myself at home in Dominique’s bedroom made me miss her something fierce. I curled up in her boudoir chair, the stuffed bunny from her bed in my arms, and I had a good cry.

When Nick slipped into my room around midnight I was surprised my inelegant sobs didn’t scare him away. His expression turned to concern when he saw me, then he was there, picking me up and carrying me to the bed.

He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and we sat against the headboard while he held me and let me cry and talk about Dom and my impressions of the Parasites.

“Feel better?” he asked when I went silent.

“I do. Thank you. How about you?”

“Embarrassed as hell. Where’s Eve?” Nick asked. “I was hoping you’d be bunking together so I could beat her.”

“Her room’s on the same floor as Kyle’s, big surprise, but yours is two floors up.”

“Eve’s influence, no doubt. Never mind, I’ll find my room first thing in the morning when I need a change of clothes.”

I wiped my tears, loving the feel of being in Nick’s arms after so long, my big, sturdy fed with the colorful silk boxers hidden beneath the deceptive dignity of his black suit, though that dignity had been impugned tonight, and I should remember to treat him gently and not expect much.

“I know that you’ve talked to the police and the FBI, Nick. What did Dominique die of?”

Nick kissed my brow. “There’s no official medical examiner’s report, yet.”

“Nick,” I begged.

“The forensics investigation being over doesn’t mean the crime’s been solved, ladybug.”

“How did she die, dammit?”

“The police and the Feds combed the dressing rooms and stage last night, checking under every splinter for the diamonds or some kind of murder weapon.”

“Whatever that might be,” I said. “Stop stalling.”

Nick hesitated as if trying to choose his words while he swirled my hair around his finger.

“It appears she died of anaphylactic shock. She had a fatal allergic reaction to something.”

“Peanuts?”

“Yes! They found traces in her bloodstream. I take it that was an issue?”

“God yes. But that’s impossible. Dominique would never go near a peanut. She was so allergic that you couldn’t touch a peanut, then touch her because the imprint of your finger would welt up on her skin.”

“That’s insane.”

“Some people are that allergic. I know because she told me that Kyle did that to her once when he was a kid. He’d had a peanut butter sandwich at nursery school. After he touched her cheek, not only did she welt up, her throat closed and she was rushed to the hospital.”

“So that’s why she had her own cook,” Nick speculated.

It still didn’t make sense. “That doesn’t explain what happened to her face.”

He stood and unbuttoned his shirt. “There were traces of peanut oil in the welts on her face, Mad, hence the swelling. So that’s how the poison entered, through her facial pores.”

“What? She got splashed with peanut soup?”

“I didn’t say it made sense, which is why the case hasn’t been solved. I’m just telling you what the cops got from the preliminary forensics report.”

“And what about the diamonds? Was she killed for them? Are they connected?”

“Nobody’s sure, but we’re keeping a watchful eye on her lover, from a distance for the moment.”

Twenty

There is only one gift you should accept on your first date—diamonds.

—MISS PIGGY

“Dominique had a lover?”

“A young lover.”

I sat forward. “In other words, she paraded him around?”

“Yes, but they kept it cozy and private, and she had nothing to say about him to the press. No one can even find a picture of him facing the camera.”

I chuckled. “He wasn’t her lover. She hired him to bolster her image. Sexy actress flaunts boy toy. It’s called publicity, Jaconetti.”

“Well, her toy’s a suspicious character, who we’re watching. Gregor Zukovski, from a small Slavic country. He’s known to the Bureau and every other intelligence agency. We suspect he might have taken the diamonds for terrorist purposes.”

“Oh, I hope I’m wrong about her hiring him, then. Would he have poisoned Dom to get them?”

“Yes, but one wonders why he would murder her in public.”

“So he was nowhere near her when it happened,” I said, “which pretty much makes the Parasites, and anybody who worked at the theater, suspect.”

“Right. Problem with Zukovski is that he knows every government employee in the tri-state area. So, if he gets on a plane, the Bureau has asked me to get on it with him.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Nothing new, and you know it. That’s my job, ladybug.”

“I didn’t need it confirmed, thanks, today of all days.”

“If I can find the diamonds while we’re still in United States airspace, I can take them and Zukovski back with me.”

Damn. Seducing Nick to keep him safe wouldn’t work. He’d recently had a run-in with a live nutcracker. “I might need you here,” I whispered. “This is difficult for me.”

“Yes, you’ve lost your friend, but you’re the most independent and least needy person I know. Don’t try to give me the guilts. It won’t work. Besides, I’m here now.” Nick’s eyes smoldered and he leaned my way.

“Don’t let those bedroom eyes of yours make any promises the big boy can’t keep,” I whispered against his lips.

He frowned and his cell phone rang before his lips met mine.

“Tucking A!” I snapped, as he sat up to answer it.

“I’m on my way,” he said a minute later. “Airport, ladybug.” He slipped on his shoes.

“Gregor Zukovski’s on the run. Looks like he’s taking the next plane to Slovenia.”

“And that’s where?”

“In a galaxy far away.”

“You’re going after the man who might have killed Dom, alone? You’re chasing a possible diamond thief on his own turf?”

“I won’t be alone. Your brother’s waiting for me at the airport.” He kissed her nose. “You didn’t hear that from me, and you’re not to tell a soul.”

“I know the drill, you rat. You knew this was going down, or Alex wouldn’t already be here.”

Nick sighed, leaned over the bed, and consoled me with a practiced kiss filled with yearning. He pulled away but came back for more. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for at least an hour.”

“Fat lot of good that would have done us.” I walked him upstairs to his bedroom for his packed bag, then to the curb. His final kiss held a passion that would only grow with distance.

I couldn’t admit that I missed him already. We didn’t say such things out loud. It would be like admitting we were in a relationship. “Guess we’re off again,” I said. He winked. “Until I get back.”

I crossed my arms. “We’ll see.”

Twenty-one

Clothes are . . . nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.

—JAMES LAVER

Instead of sleeping, I dared to open Dom’s closet and study the contents from a distance with no intention of touching anything wearable.

Unfortunately, the minute I did, I thought I heard footsteps above me. But that would be somebody’s bedroom, not the attic. Whew.

Just in case, though, I opened the cream, pink, and mint green curtains and looked outside to see if those bruised vines Nick pointed out were at this end of the house. Oh scrap, they were right here, one floor down, several curls of ivy having reached this very window. Why couldn’t I have noticed that before Nick left?

I stepped back to look for some kind of weapon to keep near me and focused on the matching mosaic tables that Dom used for nightstands. They were round and unusual in antique white, inlaid with bits of Italian stained glass and old rose chinaware, with triple drawers, small, medium, and deep, and topped with small priceless mementos. Nothing I’d want to break over somebody’s head in case of an emergency.

Was I letting my imagination run away with me? Did the wind offer a warning as it rattled the windows?

Now looking for clues and a weapon of sorts, I pulled down boxes from the closet shelves and looked through them.

I found love letters from several men, but one stack, clearly newer than the rest, had a note dated as recently as three weeks before and started with: “If you’re nervous, dearest, please, go to the police.” This guy spent a lot of time telling Dom why and how much he loved and adored her. The letter ended: “I can’t wait to tell the world.”

Tell the world about what?

The wind answered with a winter wail.

I looked for a return address on the torn envelope, but found none. Maybe they saw each other regularly. He signed his letters with an ornate V.

V. Victor? Pierce Pierpont’s father was the only Victor, or V name, I’d heard since I got here. I hoped it was Victor Pierpont and wondered if Pierce, who didn’t seem fond of Dom, knew. Gregor Zukovski was flaunted as Dominique’s young lover to the world while she might have had a more mature lover tucked away somewhere. Dom, you cheeky thing. But Dom having Victor Pierpont as a lover was an assumption on my part. This V person, except for calling her “dearest” in the letter, could have been Dom’s smitten paperboy for all I knew.

Right, and I was Nick’s old prom date.

What exactly did this Victor know? I threw the letters on the bed, intending to read them in chronological order after I finished ransacking my friend’s bedroom. Nosing into her personal affairs was killing me. The need for a weapon was nearly as unnerving.

I looked out the window, again, this time toward the starry winter sky. “My apologies, my sweet friend. But you tagged me, and now I have to get nosy to follow through.”

My cell phone rang. “Dolly, hello. Why are you up so late?”

“You know me,” Dolly said. “I never sleep, and I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out who murdered your movie star friend.”