“Isn’t there always,” Serena said, her tone wry.
Dee extracted her cell phone from her pocket. She thumbed a search, then turned the phone toward Serena, displaying photos of Callan trying to break up the fight. “There. You see?”
Serena, her fears allayed, released a breath. “I had no idea. Thank you.”
“Glad I could help.”
Dee put the phone back in her pocket. She found it curious and a little poignant that Serena didn’t know her own husband’s schedule. He hadn’t bothered to tell her, and she hadn’t bothered to ask. Or perhaps Serena had given up asking, which Dee suspected was the case. It provided her with a clearer understanding of Serena’s drive to forge a path separate from Callan’s and be more than arm candy for an agent. Dee’s respect for the charcuterie artist increased multifold.
Serena began peeling back the plastic protecting the delicacies on the wine-and-cheese board. “That husband of mine never misses a photo op,” she said with a rueful shake of her head.
Dee snuck a slice of prosciutto, which almost melted in her mouth. “I read he signed the housewife who started the fight with his client.”
“I’m sure he did. I know his game plan by heart. He signed a new client, made a grand gesture of a huge donation to whatever org sponsored the event, and cut out of the place.”
Dee stopped chewing the second slice of prosciutto she’d snitched. Serena had just inadvertently cut the legs out from under her husband’s alibi. Or was it an accident? Callan seemed to lead a second life that barely included his wife, if at all. Maybe putting a lie to his alibi was Serena’s passive-aggressive way of enacting revenge. Or if Serena had snapped and killed Michael, maybe she realized that alibiing her husband put more of a light on her as a suspect? Which scenario was it? Serena’s insouciant personality made all of them conceivable.
A thought suddenly occurred to Dee. She resumed chewing and assumed a casual air.
“Were you ever an actress?”
“Yes.” Serena appeared thrown by the capricious question. “That’s how Callan and I met.”
Of course, Dee thought. In Hollywood, being an agent beat dating apps by miles. But Serena’s previous career made everything she said regarding Michael’s murder suspect, in Dee’s opinion. She had no way of knowing whether the former performer was acting or not.
She tried another tack. “It must be hard being here alone while Callan’s down in L.A. at parties. I mean, I assume you were alone here that night. Of the event. And Michael’s murder.”
Serena froze. She stared at Dee, the expression on her face reflecting anger and hurt. “Oh, my goddess. You think I killed Michael.”
“No! No, no, no.” Dee cursed herself for once again underestimating Serena.
Serena didn’t respond. She rewrapped the wine-and-cheese board, then did the same with the breakfast platter. She faced Dee. “I think you should go.”
Dee hefted herself from the kitchen stool, feeling terrible. “I don’t know what to say except that I’m really sorry, Serena. Having our very first guest murdered”—she held up her hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I’m not myself.”
Serena pursed her lips and gave a slight nod, which Dee hoped indicated forgiveness.
“I’ll head out. I can take the samples for Jeff.”
Serena pulled open the refrigerator door. She placed the platter and board inside the fridge, closed the door, and turned to Dee. “Just go.”
Chastened, Dee found her way out of the house. There was no offer of using the elevator for her departure. As she climbed the endless stairs to ground level, she brooded about ruining one of the few potential friendships she might make in tiny Foundgold. But as she drove out of the cul-de-sac, she vowed to trade her personal feelings for an objective take on what she’d learned about Serena Finlay-Katz and Callan Katz. Both had reason to hate Michael. And both had weak alibis.
Meaning both were strong suspects in Michael Adam Baker’s murder.
CHAPTER 12
By the time Dee returned to the Golden, night had fallen. Still, she managed to text Deputy Sheriff Aguilar as she strode to her apartment, guided by the light her phone shed.
She was almost at her front door when a shadowy figure in a hoodie suddenly appeared out of nowhere and blocked her path.
Dee froze, too scared to even scream. She held up her hands like someone being robbed at gunpoint. The light from her phone revealed the mysterious figure to be Jeff.
Dee dropped her arms. Furious, she yelled, “What are you doing, scaring me like that?! You look like the Unabomber.”
She swatted at him. Jeff hopped back and forth to avoid her. “I look like every techie in the Bay Area. But my bad. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Dee stopped swatting him. “I should have figured it was you. But I’m scared of everything these days. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”
Jeff grimaced. “That was the original plan. But Ranger O’Bryant wants to talk to me again in the morning. Like most Americans, I’ve learned everything about law enforcement from what I’ve seen on TV, and if there’s one thing I learned from all the Law and Order reruns I watched on my computer last night, no good comes from a second interview with the police.”
Any annoyance Dee felt toward her friend melted away. “Come inside,” she said with sympathy. “I’ll nuke us dinner.”
The friends entered Dee’s place, pushing aside the clutter from a trunk she was going through and avoiding the stack of motel room artwork she’d yet to clean. Dee removed a low-cal frozen fettuccine alfredo from the freezer. While she heated it up in the microwave, she filled Jeff in on her ill-fated visit to Serena.
“Thoughts?” she asked, handing him the now-unfrozen meal.
He studied the pasta. “This needs something. Can you nuke some broccoli to add to it?”
“I was talking about Serena and Callan. But yes.” She extracted a bag of frozen broccoli from the freezer and held it up to Jeff. “Self-steaming.” She put it in the microwave and tapped the required two minutes. “The Katzes. What do think of them as suspects? Him? Her? Together?”
The microwave beeped. She used a hand towel to remove the steaming broccoli, replacing it with another frozen fettuccine dinner. Jeff reached over the kitchen bar to retrieve the broccoli. He blew on it to cool it, then opened the bag and dumped half of it on his fettuccine. “I still can’t see either of them pulling a solo act to kill Baker. But together is interesting. Something cold and Macbethian about it, which fits right in with a Hollywood marriage, from everything you’ve told me.”
Dee dumped the rest of the broccoli onto her own fettuccine and mixed it in with the pasta. Still unsettled by her set-to with Serena, she stood to eat rather than take a seat at the kitchen bar. “What’s sad is if they were in on it together, I think it may be the only bond they share. The couple that kills together . . .”
“That’s not where I thought you were going when you said the word ‘sad.’ But speaking of bad Hollywood marriages, I took a break from cop shows last night to watch the new episode of Vengeance: Year 3004 and your ex has revealed that your alter ego, Lee Flern, is the actual devil.”
Dee let out a groan. She pushed away her meal, no longer hungry. “That’s even more motivation to find Michael’s killer. I refuse to give Ian the satisfaction of my motelier career going in the dumper. Knowing him, I’m sure he’ll add a futuristic motel to the series, run by Lee Flern, that’s really a portal to hell.” She paused. “Which would make a great spin-off series.”
