Over Her Dead Body (20 page)

In my bedroom, I turned on the ten o’clock news and laid out an outfit to wear to Dicker’s—little jean skirt, pink flip-flops, white top, and pink beaded belt. I also packed a carryall bag with provisions, including sunscreen, a towel, and a bathing suit, though I had
nada
intention of prancing around in a bikini in front of my co-workers.

I was about to crawl into bed when an idea occurred to me. I padded down to my office and turned on my computer. Then I went to Google.

Slowly, I typed in Beau Regan’s name in the search space. I felt positively sophomoric. Doing a Google search on the guy reminded me of being fifteen and swooning over a boy I’d had a five-minute conversation with on the sidewalks of Provincetown. He’d been from Erie, Pennsylvania, and I’d spent the next month researching everything I could about Erie. I’d even investigated what colleges were there in case I wanted to go to one. In the end I researched the place so thoroughly, I knew how many pike they pulled from Lake Erie each year.

Beau Regan was an unusual name, so I figured I wouldn’t get many hits. There were a bunch of listings in which both the name Beau and Regan turned up, including the open bitch category of the Yankee Golden Retriever Club. Both a Beau Geste and a Regan had walked away with a ribbon. There also turned out to be a Beau Regan on the board of supervisors in Fort Lauderdale who had attended a meeting at the Holiday Inn.

Then I found someone I was sure had to be him. Producer and director of documentary films. He even had a Web site, though when I hit the link, it said it was under construction.

Before crawling into bed, I made one more attempt to contact Jed Crandall. I left a message saying that I was calling on behalf of the magazine and urgently needed to speak to him before the weekend was over.

Jessie was right on time the next day. She looked really cute dressed in burnt orange shorts and a white T, the halter strap of her orange-and-pink bathing suit peeking out. She was carrying both a big straw tote bag and a shopping bag filled with food.

“We weren’t supposed to bring a hostess gift or anything, were we?” I asked as we walked the half block to my garage.

“No, this is for you and me.”

As soon as I’d maneuvered onto the FDR Drive at 23rd Street, she pulled out two large cappuccinos in paper cups and a bag of muffins and bagels.

“I’ve got bran in case you do low-carb.”

“Let me maneuver out of this traffic and then I’ll help myself to something,” I said. “So what do you think the mood is going to be out there?”

“I’d say it’s going to be pretty weird,” she predicted. “I don’t think anyone is bawling their eyes out over Mona, but still it’s freaky—and eating barbecued spareribs isn’t going to make that feeling go away.”

“I see you’re wearing your bathing suit,” I observed. “Are you actually going to let people you work with see you in it?”

“It depends on the weather,” she said, licking some foam from her cappuccino. “It’s supposed to get crappy later, but if it doesn’t rain, I’ll probably succumb. Why—does it wig you out?”

“Sort of. You live day in and day out with people, but there are certain lines you just don’t want to cross. When I worked for this newspaper in Albany, we had an outing on Lake George one day, and one of the guys on staff, somebody you’d never suspect would do it, wore a banana hammock to swim in. You could totally see the outline of his dick—the only thing that was left to the imagination was genital skin tone. God, I couldn’t look him in the eye after that.”

“Of course, the danger works both ways. I’m not what you’d call thrilled about allowing Nash a closer inspection of my body.”

“Oh yeah?” I’d been hoping to find a way to raise this very subject with her without having to reveal what had happened last night. “Have you had problems with him?”

“If I look away when I’m talking to him and then look back, his eyes are
always
glued to my boobs. I feel like I’ve got magnets in my nipples.”

“That time his wife came in and slugged him with her purse. That was about another woman, right?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t a clue who. Apparently, she yelled something about him keeping it in his pants at work, so it might even have been someone at
Buzz.
Do you think he keeps those glasses on when he’s doing the deed?”

“Yup—and I bet he likes it with the lights on, too. Are he and his wife still together?”

“As far as I know, but I hear she’s trying to keep him on a very short leash. She apparently calls about five times a day. Please, don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for him?”

“God, no. Can I pick your brain on something?”

“Of course.”

“Mary Kay told me that paparazzi traffic in information as well as photos. Is that true?”

“Yeah, definitely. We’ve got a million stringers out there and their job is to provide tips, but we also receive them from stalkerazzi.”

“Stuff they hear when they’re waiting around?”

“Absolutely. Those guys stalk stars and go to events primarily to take pictures, but they pick up stuff, too—things stars say, tips from the valet parking guys, you name it. What I hate is that part of the time they
make
things happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re agents provocateurs. They’re always trying to get a rise out of celebrities so they end up with the best picture possible. I mean, these dudes lie on surfboards in the ocean just to zero in on a chick’s cellulite when she’s on the beach, so they’re capable of
anything.
They’ll shove a camera in someone’s face, for instance. Or they make a provocative remark. I have a friend who was at a movie premiere a few years ago. Ben Affleck was there. A few days before, he’d been at an awards ceremony with his mother, and one of the stalkerazzi yells out, ‘Hey, Ben, your mother looked like a whore the other night.’ Just to make him pissed. That’s what I mean.”

“But what about the info they overhear? They sell it?”

“Sometimes. Or they may barter with it. Use it to help them get assignments. Why the sudden interest in them?”

“I’ve just always wondered how it works.”

Jessie and I let go of the conversation while I maneuvered my way onto the Triboro Bridge and then picked it up again once I’d merged onto the Long Island Expressway. That was the rhythm we established for the rest of the trip. We’d talk for a while—about Mona and work and even a little about our personal lives—then fall into a comfortable silence as we listened to CDs. I drank the offered cappuccino and devoured a blueberry muffin. Being with Jessie felt a little like road-tripping with a pal in college, and I sensed some of my anxiety dissipate. When we finally drove into East Hampton, it was hard to believe we’d been on the road for over two hours.

We knew Dicker’s digs would be impressive, but we both went bug-eyed as I drove down the lane leading to his beachfront house. We spotted a tennis court through the hedges, as well as several outbuildings, and finally pulled up to a circular gravel area, where four or five cars were parked. The house was a big shingled rectangular box up on top of the dune.

“God, I’ve gotta pee so bad,” Jessie said as we pulled our bags out of the car. “I think I’ll go up to the house and find the bathroom.”

“Okay, why don’t I meet you down here?” I said, pointing to a large wooden gate in the hedge. Behind it was the sound of water gushing, like a waterfall. “I don’t think the bus has arrived yet because it sounds too quiet.”

As Jessie hurried up the wooden stairs to the house, I lifted the black latch on the gate.

It felt as if I had just stepped inside a secret garden. There was a swimming pool that looked more like a pond, dark bottomed rather than turquoise and with a waterfall cascading over large boulders. There were flowers everywhere—in purple, pinks, reds, and yellows. A cluster of fir trees stood off to the far side of the perfectly manicured lawn. They seemed improbable here, right by the ocean, yet they made the place all the more enchanting. No one was about, though there was a huge rectangular black grill and a table lined with bottles of booze and soda. I took a step in that direction.

To my left I heard footsteps. I turned toward them.

Beau Regan was walking in my direction.

CHAPTER 11

“H
ello again,” he said, though I could tell it had taken him a few seconds to realize that it was me, the girl who had mentally stripped his pants off in Dicker’s reception area. “Still searching for Mr. Dicker?”

“Actually, no,” I said, flustered. “I’m looking for some people I work with.”

He was wearing stone-colored pants today and a black linen jacket. On the left side, his brown hair was tucked behind his ear, but on the other side it fell forward, over his eye. Now that I was closer to him, I could see that his eyes were not as dark as they’d seemed from a short distance yesterday but more of a chocolate brown. My heart was thumping ridiculously hard, as if this guy were my long-lost love whom I hadn’t seen since he’d left for an RAF bombing mission over northern Germany one night.

“The tour bus hasn’t arrived yet, apparently,” he said. “But there are a few people who came by car. I believe they’re up at the house having mimosas.”

“Well, I’m not a big fan of those, so maybe I’ll just check out the scenery—if that’s allowed.”

“Of which ones?”

“Excuse me?” I said, puzzled.

“Which ones aren’t you a fan of—mimosas or the people who came by car?”

“Possibly both,” I replied, smiling in spite of myself. “I’m Bailey Weggins, by the way.”

“Beau Regan,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. Though the day was warm, his hand was dry and slightly rough to the touch.

“I thought this event was just for people from
Buzz,
” I said.

“I believe you’re right, overall. I may be collaborating with Mr. Dicker on a project, and when I mentioned I’d be out this way this weekend, he suggested I stop by for the barbecue and check out his digs.”

“It looks amazing here,” I said. “I can’t believe he’s got a waterfall in his pool.”

“You can have one, too, you know,” Beau said. “It’ll cost you a hundred grand, though—at least that’s what he told me. I’m surprised he doesn’t have the soundtrack of
Last of the Mohicans
piped in. Here, would you like a seat? I was just about to sit down and enjoy the scenery.”

He gestured toward one of the patio tables near the pool, a green wrought-iron one with a mosaic top. Without waiting for my reply, he took several steps toward it and pulled out a chair for me. As I sat down, I stole a glance back toward the gate, thinking of Jessie. She might not be able to contain her laughter when she discovered that in the two minutes she’d left me alone, I’d managed to pick up a guy.

“So you like sitting and gazing at waterfalls?” I said. “That’s kind of a Zen-like activity, isn’t it?”

He laughed over the sound of the splashing water. “Yes, I suppose so. I spent three years in Asia, and I developed an appreciation for that sort of thing.”

“What took you to Asia for so long?” I asked.

“I made a couple of movies over there—I do documentary films. I studied Japanese in college and I thought I’d tried to marry both interests. I didn’t plan to stay nearly so long, but I couldn’t seem to drag myself away.

“And what about you?” he added. “Are you one of those journalists who delves into the secret sex lives of the stars?”

Just hearing him say the word
sex
made my tongue feel numb.

“No, I’m a crime writer and I was brought in to handle celebrity crime stories.”

“And does that include covering your boss’s murder?” He raised one eyebrow as he asked the question, a trick I’d never been able to master.

“Yes, that’s certainly the crime of the week.”

He bent slightly at the waist and pulled off his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a black polo shirt, and the muscles on his arms were tanned and well-defined. For a second I imagined peeling off all my clothes and diving into the pool, then beckoning Beau Regan to follow me.

“So what project are you doing with Dicker? A
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
featuring media warriors instead?”

He laughed. “We haven’t nailed anything down yet. It was supposed to be a longer meeting the other day, but because of the murder it was cut short.”

“It’s been a pretty crazy time for everyone.”

“Actually, an odd thing happened to
me
there,” he said. “Or rather, it occurred not long after I left.”

“Really?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

“I got a call from Dicker’s assistant several hours after my appointment saying that she hadn’t been able to locate my cell phone. A young woman had called earlier in the day saying I may have left if behind. But I didn’t lose my cell phone. And my assistant is a twenty-two-year-old guy.”

Thank God my cheeks already were flushed from the heat because I could feel a surge of blood heading in their direction, like a crowd crashing the stage at a rock concert. I had to do everything in my power to fake a look of genuine surprise on my face.

“How absolutely bizarre,” I said. “You should report it to the police. Maybe it’s connected to the murder.”

“I’ll have to do that,” Beau said, his mouth turned up on one side in a half smile. “Thanks for the tip.”

Over the sound of the waterfall, we suddenly heard the crunch of gravel and the chugging of a big engine.

“That,” said Beau, “must be your merry band of co-workers.”

I rose from the table and turned in the direction of the gate. Above the fence, I could see the very top of a dark green coach bus as it lumbered up the gravel drive. It ground to a halt outside the gate, and seconds later there was a
whoosh
from the pneumatic release of the door. Any second now a couple dozen people would come through the gate, and that would put an end to my interlude with Beau Regan. Would he be here all afternoon? How could I make sure I talked to him again? He’d clearly brought up the cell phone hoax because he knew that I was the culprit and my stunt had amused or intrigued him.

“Bailey,” a voice called behind me, and both Beau and I glanced back over our shoulders. Jessie, two glasses in hand, was descending a tree-lined set of flagstone steps that obviously led from the house to the pool area.

Before I had a chance to respond, I heard someone come up behind Beau and me from the direction of the tennis court and outbuildings. I turned to see a tall blonde in dangerously high-heeled sandals wobbling across the lawn.

“
There
you are,” she called out, making no attempt to disguise her annoyance.

She seemed to be looking straight at me. I stared back, perplexed. Then, to my complete chagrin, I realized it was Beau she was addressing. Great—he had a date.

“Well,” I said to Beau, “it sounds as if you’re being summoned.” It was bitchy to say, but I was ticked at the unfairness of it all. He’d been busy making my pulse pound when all along he’d been in the company of this bleached blond fashionista.

Before he could respond to me, I strode across the lawn to the steps where Jessie stood.

“How about checking out the beach,” she asked as she handed me a sparkling water.

“The bus just pulled up, but I’m game for a short walk,” I told her. My main mission today was going to be snooping and observing, but at this moment I was happy to remove myself from the presence of Beau and his date. I could sense the chick’s eyes on my back as Jessie and I bounded up the steps.

After reaching the top of the stairs, we walked along the side of the house toward the patio, and then descended another set of steps—weathered gray wood ones—that led down a large sand dune. The sun, though not overhead yet, was hot and the sky nearly cloudless. Rain was supposedly in the offing today, but there wasn’t even a hint of it now.

“God, that sun feels good,” Jessie said, peeling off her shirt and stuffing it into her big straw bag. “I suppose there are worse ways to spend a Saturday.”

“Oh yeah, what are they?” I asked.

“You’ll warm up to it when you see the spread Dicker’s putting out for lunch. I know you love to eat.”

“Really? I’d heard he’s such a famous tightwad, I thought he might serve us hot dogs and beans.”

“No way. I peeked in the kitchen and saw all this great food, including a huge platter of bruschetta, my absolute favorite. There’s a whole team of waiters getting ready to serve it.”

“Was Nash there yet?”

“Uh-huh. Mary Kay had him in a corner of the living room, and there was no sign she was ever going to let him go.”

“So
Mary Kay
is here?”

“You bet. She’s not going to miss something like this. Wait till you check out her getup. She’s dressed head to toe in pink and yellow, and she’s got this silk paisley scarf tied around her head like a pirate.”

“What about Ryan? Do you think he’ll come today?”

“Ryan? Why would you care about him?”

“I’ve been curious about him lately. He’s been acting very aloof towards me, almost sullen—and last night he nearly bit my head off. Is he usually so difficult?”

“He always struck me as someone with more than his share of demons. But, yeah, lately I guess I’d say he seems even
more
bothered than usual.”

“What do you know about him personally?”

“Not much. From what I hear, there are some dead spots on his résumé. He worked for
People
a few years ago and supposedly was on the fast track there. Then he left to write a book, but the book has never come out as far as I know. He was apparently freelancing before he came here. Mona always seemed to like his writing—though I noticed some copy on his desk last week with a lot of ugly Mona scratch marks on it. I guess no one was totally immune to that.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Don’t think so. He gets personal calls, occasionally, but they seem to be mostly friends, not dates. He’s really a loner.”

“So maybe he wouldn’t want to be packed on a bus with the rest of the staff today.”

“Yeah, maybe not. Though some people besides us were planning to drive. Maybe that’s what he’ll do. Oh, you know who drove out? Hilary. I saw
her
up at the house. Maybe she wants to get her claws into Dicker.”

“Dicker and the Cock Nazi. Now that’s a match made in hell.”

“Speaking of matches, who was that hottie biscotti you were talking to by the pool?”

“His name is Beau Regan. He says he’s working on some project for Dicker. Unfortunately, it looks like he brought a date with him.”

“You mean that stick chick that was staggering across the lawn as if she’d never been in grass before? Well, he appeared totally gaga when he was talking to you, so I wouldn’t let her get in your way. You’re not seeing anyone these days, are you?”

“No. I broke up with someone a few months ago and I’m sort of taking a sabbatical from any kind of serious relationship.”

“I bet this Beau guy could change your mind.”

“Not if he’s going steady with that blonde in the fuck-me sandals,” I said.

“Didn’t you hear that naggy voice she used with him? He’s not going to put up with that for very long.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m in between guys myself right now. Though I’d love to find someone who wants nothing more than to worship me.”

The beach had started to fill up with sunbathers and their paraphernalia. A few people had decided to brave the water, though the waves were high and rough today. Watching them peak and then spew their foam into the sand was mesmerizing. High above us, a formation of tiny silver planes began to write a message with their contrails. Jessie and I walked for a few more minutes and then, almost in unison, stopped in our tracks and turned around. Dicker’s brown-shingled house had disappeared into the haze.

“Do you mind heading back?” I asked. I was anxious to observe the dynamics today and see if any revelations unfolded.

“No, that’s fine,” she said. “Just promise that you’ll eat lunch with me. Otherwise this day has the potential of being a real cluster fuck.”

We walked back in that easy silence we’d established in the car. Every few minutes my thoughts fought their way back to Beau Regan. His date might have been egregiously naggy, but it had sounded like the brand of nagginess that comes only with familiarity—and full possession. Despite what Jessie had said, the odds might definitely be against me. Yet I also knew we had clicked in those brief moments we’d spoken.

The house came into view. From below we could see that there were now around two dozen people mingling on the patio that ran along the front. We mounted the weathered steps and came face-to-face with Dicker and Nash.

“Well, look what the waves washed in,” said Nash, smiling. “Been enjoying the sand and surf?”

“Yes, it’s gorgeous down there,” Jessie told him.

“Tom, I believe you’ve met Bailey Weggins,” Nash said. “This is Jessie Pendergrass, one of our writer/editors. Tom Dicker.”

“So nice to meet you,” Jessie said, extending her hand to Dicker. He was dressed in khaki-colored stay-pressed pants and a navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt. In the harsh sunlight his fake tan looked even orangier today, as though he’d been dipped in a glass of Tang.

“Hello, Mr. Dicker,” I said. “I’d like to apologize about ambushing you the other day.”

“Not a problem. Why don’t you ladies get yourselves a drink,” he added, as if he’d already spoken far longer than he’d like.

“What were you talking about?” Jessie asked after Dicker had moved off.

“I better tell you later,” I said.

We drifted over to the bar. The entire front wall of the house was nothing but windows and doors, though because of the glare, all you could see was the reflection of the people on the patio. In addition to the booze and wine being offered at the bar, there were large frosty pitchers of iced tea and lemonade. We both asked for lemonade. It was absolutely delicious, just the right combination of tangy and sweet. As I sipped it, I surveyed the patio. Though there were a bunch of
Buzz
staffers mingling up here, at least eight to ten people appeared to be corporate types from the eighteenth floor—reinforcements for Dicker probably. The vast majority of my co-workers were probably on the beach or by the pool.

As my eyes reached the end of the patio, I spotted Beau and his date chatting with two guys in sports jackets. Beau saw me as well and, squinting from the sun, smiled at me across the patio. I smiled back pleasantly. That was all he was going to get while he had a date.