Midnight Cravings. Elizabeth Harbison

out of order.”

      “Out of order?” Josie repeated. “When will it be fixed?”

      “Oh, we’ve called the handyman already,” she said, as if that would mean something to Josie. “But since it’s after hours now, he was already in bed. He’s on the way, though.” She looked at Beatrice. “In the meantime, Ms. Beaujold, can I show you to your room?”

      “Well, somebody better,” Beatrice said, with a look that implied Josie had better fix the elevator herself if the handyman didn’t come through.

      Beatrice stopped and turned back. “You the one with my check?” she asked Josie.

      “I’m sorry?” Josie asked, although she knew full well what Beatrice was getting at.

      “The check. My appearance fee for comin’ here. They said you’d have it ready for me.” She held a meaty hand out. “Let’s have it.”

      It took Josie a moment to formulate the words. “I…I don’t have it on me. It’s in my briefcase.” That much was true. “I’ll get it to you later.”

      Beatrice frowned. “I don’t work until I have it in my hand. Make no mistake.”

      It was an interesting choice of words, considering Josie had already made about fifty. “Don’t worry about a thing,” Josie said, as brightly as she could. “You just go on up and get some rest.”

      Beatrice wasn’t so easily distracted. “You’ll have the check for me then?”

      “Absolutely.” Somehow. Even if she had to write it herself. It probably wouldn’t bounce until after Beatrice got home.

      Apparently satisfied, Beatrice gave a nod and dragged Cher and Britney off behind Lily, just as Dan Duvall approached.

      “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

      Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she rubbed her hands across them. “Did you find my briefcase?”

      “Not yet. But—”

      He was interrupted by a small pack of women flouncing by. An impossibly buxom platinum blonde tossed a seductive look over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Dan. Long time. What’s the matter, don’t you like me anymore?”

      “Now, what do you think, Kathy?” He gave a smile that had probably gotten Kathy to agree to any number of unholy things.

      “I think it’s been too long,” she cooed. She didn’t even glance at Josie. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

      “Always nice to be appreciated,” Dan drawled. He would have tipped his cap if he’d been wearing one.

      Josie watched with disgust as the girl blew him a kiss and walked away, swinging her hips enough to shake a martini if she’d had a hip flask.

      “You were saying, Chief?” Josie asked impatiently. Then she noticed he was holding a manilla envelope. “Hey, is that mine?”

      He handed it to her. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

      She took it with eager hands and turned it over. There, in her handwriting, was the name Beatrice Beaujold. “Yes,” she said, hurriedly opening it to see if her papers were inside. Please, she prayed silently, please let them be there. Maybe—just maybe—this weekend would turn out okay, after all.

      Maybe no one would find out what Beatrice was really like.

      Maybe Beatrice wouldn’t find out her editor had told Josie what she was really like.

      Maybe Josie would still have a job when she got back to New York.

      Except that the envelope felt awfully thin. She loosened the brad and looked inside. Her neatly filed papers were gone. There were just a few dirty scraps inside. “What’s this?” she asked, suddenly feeling like crying. No letter from Beatrice’s editor and no check. She was still in huge trouble.

      “I was hoping you’d know. The envelope was empty when we found it. There were just a few papers scattered around it. If there were more, they must have blown away.”

      “Was there no sign of my briefcase? The rest of my things?”

      “Only this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smashed piece of a shiny brass lock. “Look familiar?”

      She took it. It was from her case. “Yes.”

      “That’s what I thought.” He reached for the envelope. “I’m particularly concerned about this.” He took out several of the pieces of paper and started piecing them together.

      “What the…” It was Beatrice’s publicity photos, torn into long, even strips. Josie took them, then took a step backward and sat down on the end of a brocade-covered chaise longue. It squeaked under her weight, emphasizing the silence between herself and Dan. “It looks like there’s some sort of writing on it,” she said, assembling the pieces on her lap.

      It wasn’t writing, at least not all of it. Most of it was drawing, in thick black marker. Someone had adorned Beatrice’s face with horns and a black beard, then put a big X over the whole thing. Across the top, the word whore was scrawled.

      Now, truthfully, bitch Josie might have understood, but whore?

      “Do you have any idea why someone might have done this?” Dan asked, looking at her with sharp eyes.

      “None.”

      “No enemies?” He raised an eyebrow. “No one who might have something against her?”

      Josie had only known Beatrice for a couple of hours, but it was easy to imagine why any number of people might draw horns on her picture. She thought again of the missing letter from Susan Pringle and wondered wildly what it might have said that was “confidential.” What had, just a few hours ago, seemed a cursory caution now took on sinister overtones. Had Beatrice been arrested at some point? Did she have a secret life that no one could know about? Did that have something to do with what was happening now?

      “I don’t know of anyone in particular,” Josie said slowly.

      He cocked his head slightly and looked at her, his blue eyes as coercing as an interrogation lamp. It was a far cry from the languid indifference he’d shown earlier. “You sure?”