Reel Murder (23 page)

And Carla Townsend. Adriana was going to coauthor a book with her and then bailed out on the deal. And to add salt to the wound, she wrote her own tell-all book, probably stealing a few of Carla’s ideas along the way. Would that be enough of a motive for murder?

It seemed like a pretty thin motive, but with a woman like Carla Townsend, all bets are off. She seemed like the type of woman who’d carry a grudge into eternity—a dangerous woman to cross.

The failed book deal happened a long time ago, but as they say, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Speaking of cold, I was starting to get brain-freeze, just thinking about all the possibilities. Two more people sprang to mind. One was Sandra Michaels, the “formerly fat actress.” She’d seemed very upset when I asked her about Copper Canyon and couldn’t wait to change the subject. Was she hiding something—and how was it connected with Adriana?

Another “possible” was Marion Summers, Hank’s assistant. She was certainly long-suffering, working like a dog for Hank for a couple of decades, never really getting the recognition she deserved. And she had no job security. If she ever left Hank, or if he ever fired her, what would she do?

Could she have reached the boiling point and killed Adriana? But what would her motive be? Unless she had some sort of major crush on Hank, and saw Adriana as a rival? It seemed pretty far-fetched, but I made a mental note to find out more about their relationship. Marion and Adriana had always disliked each other, and maybe there was some sort of history between them? I wondered if Nick could help me check that out; he had sources everywhere.

But what sort of history? It would have to be something buried deep in the past. A secret? A vendetta? Impossible to say. I needed real insider information, not something I could check out myself on Google.

Pugsley finally finished his endless sniffing and we moved on. A veterinarian once told me never to hurry your dog when he’s sniffing around a tree or a fire hydrant. This is how he gets his daily news; it’s just like you or I sitting down with a cup of coffee and the local paper.

When I think of it as a doggie version of catching the daily news, I know I can’t deprive him of it. The excitement of learning about other dogs in the neighborhood is probably the highlight of his little doggie day. Love, hate, fear, revenge—a myriad of doggie emotions is right there for the taking. Pugsley doesn’t need the afternoon soaps for instant access to high drama; all he has to do is sniff the base of a tree. Just ask him.

It was dusk when we finally reached Sweet Dreams. The shop was almost empty and I managed to resist the platter of half-priced eclairs and the Frisbee-sized oatmeal cookies sitting on the counter. They were calling to me with their little sugary voices, but I managed to stay strong.

Instead, I bought some low-fat spumoni ice cream for myself and a carton of coffee-flavored frozen yogurt for Mom, and the lady behind the counter gave Pugsley his own little doggie treat. A tiny scoop of vanilla Frosty Paws, on the house. Pugsley is a huge fan of the frozen concoction; it’s a dog-healthy substitute for ice cream.

We’d just left the shop when a low voice at my side made me jump.

“I wonder how many calories you have in there?”

The sexy voice, the throaty laugh—it could be only one person. A guy who always seems to turn up when I least expect him to—the one guy in the world who can tug at my heartstrings and turn my life upside down at the same time.

He stepped out of the shadows, chuckling when I tightened my grip on the ice cream bag, as if I was afraid he was going to wrestle it away from me. I’d nearly jumped out of my skin like the heroine in a Freddy Krueger movie, but now I pulled in a slow, deep breath, willing myself to be calm. Had he noticed the effect he had on me? Probably. The guy doesn’t miss a thing.

“Relax, Maggie, I’m not the food police. I won’t ask you to step away from the ice cream, if that’s what you’re worried about.
” Damn it!
He was enjoying this.

“I’m not worried,” I snipped. “Were you doing a drive-by of the neighborhood, or did Lola tell you I was here? Or maybe you’re psychic?”

Freud would say I was overcompensating. Reaction formation, a classic defense. Sounds a little crazy to you? Don’t blame me, blame Sigmund; he’s the one who came up with the idea in the first place.

Rafe nodded, a tiny smile playing along his sensuous lips. “Maybe all of the above. I’ll let you decide; after all, you’re the psychologist. This should be a really easy one for you. What do you think happened?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me, dark eyes flashing, amused as hell. I wanted to reach out and delicately trace that strong jawline with my fingertip, but I restrained myself. It’s one thing to have insane urges, and another to put them into action.

“You’re the expert,” he added.

Hmmm. The way he’d said “expert” with that little twist of his mouth told me he thought I knew absolutely nothing about the subject at all. This is an argument we’ve had many times in the past. Rafe thinks psychology is on a par with tarot cards and crystal balls and has never believed me when I say my theories are based on solid evidence and years of scientific research.

Whenever I tell him psychology is a science, he tells me it’s a pseudoscience. And a snooze. When I mention criminal profiling, he dismisses it as nothing more than “good police work.”

See what I mean? It’s a zero-sum game with Rafe.

The guy never misses a chance to push my buttons, making it very clear that he thinks shrinks are at the bottom of the food chain. Why do I stand for it? Well, because he’s drop-dead gorgeous, for one thing, and I’m a sucker for great-looking guys. And he’s wildly sexy with dark, soulful eyes; and do I really need a third reason?

I feel a white-hot dash of excitement whenever I’m around him, and in my book, that’s enough.

Okay, time to do a verbal mating dance with Detective Martino. “Well, I don’t see that vintage Crown Vic you drive, so I assume you’re on foot.” Score one for me.

“Very good, Nancy Drew. That must have taken some first-rate powers of deduction. I can see why you’re at the top of your game as a forensic psychologist.”

Score two for Rafe.

I gritted my teeth, biting back a snarky reply.
Rafe.
He was as ruthlessly handsome as ever, and I felt my heartbeat rushing in my ears. It was exciting just standing close to him. Rafe Martino is like catnip to women and as dangerously addictive as—well, as the frozen spumoni I was carrying under my arm. I took a deep breath, willing my pulse to slow down, and tried to arrange my features into a neutral expression.

Was I successful? Probably not. His smile was slow and knowing and made me blink with heat. He was wearing black denim jeans with a black T-shirt, and both were molded to his body in all the right places. His black hair, worn on the longish side, completed the “bad boy” look. It had a tendency to curl up in the back in a very sexy way, like Simon Baker’s on
The Mentalist
. I doubted it was a regulation cop-style haircut, but since he’s a detective, they probably give him more leeway.

“Actually, I did stop by your condo a few minutes ago,” he said easily, falling into step beside me. He bent down to pet Pugsley and give him a soft greeting, earning extra points in my book (as if he needed any!). “Lola said you’d gone out for a walk and suggested I come inside and wait for you. In fact, she even—”

“She even what?” I cut in, immediately suspicious.

“You know what? I probably shouldn’t even go there.” He laughed and scratched his chin. “But I’ve gotta tell you, Maggie, your momma is something else.” His tone was teasing, his eyebrow quirked as if he’d just heard a bawdy joke.

“Go where? What happened?” I demanded. “What did Lola do?” A nervous giggle escaped from my mouth before I could repress it. “Rafe, you’ve got to finish the sentence because whatever Lola did to you”—I took a deep breath—“it’s probably not as bad as what I’m imagining right now.”

Or was it?
My mental Magic 8 Ball would say: “Signs point to yes.”

“Are you sure about that?” His smile was gently teasing.

“Yes. No. Actually, I’m not sure about anything at the moment.”

Pugsley looked up at me and gave a questioning yip as if even he could sense the tension in the air. He knows Lola’s name and was probably reacting to the strong “expressed emotion” under the words. That’s shrink-speak for there’s-some-serious-stuff-going-on-here. Dogs pick up on body language cues very quickly and Pugsley is surprisingly intuitive, sensing my moods before I’ve even identified them myself.

I reached down and tickled Pugsley quickly under his chin to reassure him. He looked up at me with his soulful dark eyes and licked my fingers.

“So I think you probably better tell me exactly what happened back at the condo.” I took a deep breath of the magnolia-scented night air, bracing myself for the worst.

Rafe squinted up at the darkening sky as if he was channeling his thoughts and weighing his words carefully. Uh-oh. Lola must have done something really embarrassing, like changing into a Victoria’s Secret negligee or turning on some salsa music and throwing herself into his arms for a sexy tango. Thank God we were on a dark stretch of sidewalk with no streetlights, because I think I might have been blushing.

“Your mother’s full of surprises.”

“Give me specifics. Hold nothing back.”

I shook my head in despair. Nothing Lola does should shock me anymore. The truth is, she’s a hopeless flirt and she’s certainly not immune to Rafe’s charms. She’s made that very clear to me the first time she met him. He’d stopped by the condo on police business; very routine. She tried to monopolize the conversation until I’d finally sent her scurrying to the kitchen with one of my famous death glares.

“All right,” Rafe said, spreading his hands. “Here’s the honest-to-god truth, and you’ll never guess it. She offered to make me a Kir Royale.” He looked up at me expectantly and I swear he looked a little flushed.

“What?” This is the last thing in the world I expected.

He rubbed his jaw and gave me a sheepish grin. “And she invited me to watch a movie with her.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair and locked eyes with me. “I’m still not sure what that was all about. I wonder what a shrink would make of that?” He gave me the full eye-roll and slapped his head in mock surprise. “Oh wait a minute;
you’r
e a shrink. How could I have forgotten that?”

I ignored the jibe, my mind racing like a squirrel. “A Kir Royale?” I was baffled. “I don’t even think she knows what it is. I wonder why that popped into her head?” I sighed. Just when I think I’ve got her all figured out, she does something outrageous. “Oh, wait a minute. The movie—what movie are we talking about?”

“She was watching
Pulp Fiction
on TNT.”

“
Pulp Fiction
? Now I get it,” I said wryly. “There’s that scene when Samuel Jackson and John Travolta are talking about a Kir Royale. Do you know the one I’m talking about?”

“Sure, I remember that scene,” he said slowly, “but I’m not sure I get the connection with your mother.” His dark eyes turned thoughtful, as if he wanted to say more, but was holding back.

Here’s something you have to understand about Lola. It’s just a crazy little personality quirk, but if she sees food in a movie, she suddenly gets a craving for whatever the character is eating. She simply has to have it. Cherry cheesecake, lobster bisque, or pineapple pizza. It doesn’t matter; she has this irresistible urge to have some. I’ve seen her pick up the phone and order fish tacos at midnight, and believe me, those are an acquired taste.

Remember
When Harry Met Sally
? She’s still trying to figure out what Meg Ryan was eating in the restaurant orgasm scene with Billy Crystal. I thought of renting the movie again and telling her, but why spoil the suspense.

“So you really did turn her down when she invited you inside?”
Ouch; that must have stung.
My mind was reeling, trying to take it all in. I pictured Rafe standing at the condo door, and Mom giving him a big welcoming smile, maybe a little flustered but managing to be as flirtatious as hell at the same time. Maybe even leaning forward slightly, pushing the girls out as far as they would go (Mom’s a big fan of low-cut tops) or maybe giving a sexy twitch to her hips and—

Stop it, stop it!
I gave myself a mental head-slap and stopped in mid-thought, wincing at the visual.

“I told her that I was there on official police business but that I’d be happy to take a rain check.”

“You
told
her that? Oh God, that would just encourage her. If you told her you were taking a rain check, that means you’ll be back. Don’t you get that?” For a guy who seems to know a lot about women, Rafe can be amazingly obtuse about my mom.

“What did you want me to say?”

“Nothing, I mean . . . it was very gentlemanly of you. I guess.” I glanced at him and we fell into step together with Pugsley trotting happily between us, very “and doggie made three.” I waited a beat. “So are you really here on official business? Or was that just a story you invented for my mother?”

“No, it’s true. I’d never joke about police work.” Rafe frowned, and I felt a little ping of guilt. Even though Rafe is drop-dead sexy with movie-star good looks, he’s a cop through and through. He’s as straight arrow as they come. “I heard about what happened on the set today,” he said quietly,” so I thought maybe I should stop by and check on you.”

“You heard,” I said softly. “News travels fast in our little town.”

His tone had suddenly turned serious, and his eyes were dark and intense, the shadows playing across his finely chiseled features. “The Klieg light.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe it happened. You could have been killed.”