I braked and studied the gate of the victim’s condo. Thrown wide open, no guard in sight. Great police work, that. I turned in and, after thirty yards of steep descent, saw the private bungalow. All logs, fieldstone, and glass, beautifully framed by swaying blue-green cedars and deep green lake water.
A dark brown sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to Bud’s unmarked white Bronco. Connie O’Hara, pretty, blond, twenty-five, and impossibly skinny in her brown uniform, stood alone in the driveway. Charlie had hired the young woman at my urging, and I was glad another female had cracked the department. Young and untried, O’Hara had potential, number three in the police academy and on the Kansas City force until her highway-patrolmen husband was transferred south. We practiced on the shooting range and sometimes worked out in the weight room together. So far she was doing just fine.
Then I saw the silver van and the two guys scrambling out of it. Oh, wonderful, Peter Hastings and Jake, his obnoxious cameraman. I killed the engine and got out. Within seconds Hastings had ambushed me with Jake’s camera rolling. I averted my face and kept walking. The brash producer was almost as disgusting as his stupid TV show. Touted as honoring real cops, On The Beat did more sensationalizing of crime scenes than honoring anybody.
Why Hastings and his crew had trekked down to the hinterland of the Missouri Ozarks to immortalize a backwater sheriff’s department was a more interesting question, and nobody seemed to have a good answer. But watch out now, Hastings had hit the jackpot—a murder to exploit—and he was up for the job.
I nodded to O’Hara and tried to outstride the reporter, but Pete would not be deterred. Both men scuttled like cockroaches and cut off my path, and the camera was zeroed in close up when I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and headed for the front door of the bungalow.
“Give us a statement, Detective Morgan? Reliable sources tell us this is a homicide. Can you confirm that for our viewers?”
Fairly certain he was fishing, I paused, and because Charlie had ordered us all to be polite to the TV crew, I addressed his questions. “I just arrived on scene, Mr. Hastings; any comment at this time would be inappropriate.”
Hastings stuck a live mike over the yellow tape. “Is it true the victim’s a famous actress here to kick a cocaine habit? Can you confirm that much, Detective? Can you tell us who she is?”
I hoped to hell it wasn’t true, and I wanted to know who’d tipped off Hastings. Jacqee or Suze? “No comment. Tell you what, sir, it might be better to take that camera and wait at the entrance gate until we’re finished here. Deputy O’Hara, please escort Mr. Hastings and his cameraman to the gate at the top of the hill and keep everybody out until we’re finished with the crime scene.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Trying not to smirk, O’Hara ushered the newsmen away from the bungalow. Hastings muttered under his breath, and what he said was not pretty. I gladly left O’Hara to deal with the media morons and walked over the quaint, humpbacked little bridge that led onto a wraparound porch. Terra-cotta urns over-flowed with brilliant scarlet geraniums along the planked walkway and deck. The house was spacious, built of rustic brown wood, and it jutted out over the water in an impressive feat of engineering. There were a few windows facing the road, but I bet there were plenty more facing the lake.
The surrounding woods were quiet. Waves gently lapped weathered pilings, and one ecstatic robin warbled his heart out somewhere high atop a tree. I could understand now why celebrities landed out here in the boondocks to screw their heads on straight. Quiet, peaceful, private, no traffic, no sirens, the place could ease the stress, all right. Except that now a murderer had come calling to our little utopia in the woods.
2
Bud Davis was standing inside the front door, grinning his big, cheesy grin. He spoke with a Georgia drawl that made the gals go all weak-kneed and faint, except for me, of course; I am immune. But most ladies were not, and he used the Southern charm like a fisherman uses a spinnerbait lure.
“Maybe you oughta keep a box of Krispy Kremes in your car since I always beat you to the scene.” Thirty-two years old and handsome in a boyish way, Bud had thick auburn hair and a salon haircut that Tom Brokaw would die for. Although he’d had the misfortune to be named after his daddy’s favorite beer, wardrobe wise, Ralph Lauren had nothing on him. How he had ever lowered himself to work vice in Atlanta I couldn’t imagine, though I was glad he’d grown tired of the big city and moved up here, where he could enjoy hiking and hunting. Once I’d made him show me proof that he’d ever in his life had one hair out of place, and he’d come up with a Polaroid of himself undercover in a dirty flannel shirt, with greasy long hair and a nose ring. He must’ve gone through hell actually being grimy, as pathologically fastidious as he was. Point of proof: The guy keeps a couple of freshly starched dress shirts in the car in case of the dreaded sweat stain.
Bud’s eyes were the color of ashes and lingered in distaste on my wrinkled T-shirt. Okay, so I’d worn it the night before. Hey, this is a homicide; I was in a hurry. So sue me. Bud didn’t care for the way I dressed or for the way I cropped my hair. Last Christmas he’d disappointed me greatly with a year’s gift certificate to Mr. Race’s classy unisex salon called Winning Locks. I’d showed up once for an excruciating hour-long styling session with some guy who kept calling me girlfriend and admiring my high cheekbones and big blue eyes and telling me I ought to be a model ’cause I was so tall and willowy. I left looking like a complete jerk and gratefully forked over the gift certificate to an ecstatic Dottie, who had enough long, silky blond hair to send Mr. Race and his ilk into spasms.
I said, “Give me a break, Bud. It’s frickin’ 6 A.M. What the hell do you do? Jump up at dawn and primp your heart out in case a call comes in? You’re not human anymore. You’re a closet GQ model.”
Bud laughed. “Mama always said ladies go for the well-groomed man. All it takes to look this good is a little preparation.”
“Yeah, right, six to ten hours of it.” I turned and watched the TV van accelerate up the road and out of sight. “How’d you keep Hastings out of the house?”
“O’Hara might’ve drawn her weapon. I told her to shoot ’em if she wanted.”
“Hastings just informed me that the victim is a famous actress. Say it ain’t so, Bud, please.”
Bud grinned. “Well, it ain’t Julia Roberts, but you ever heard the name Sylvie Border?”
“Soap opera?” The name clicked, but a face didn’t. I wasn’t even sure which soap she was on. I hadn’t watched daytime TV since I went to college at LSU. That oughta tell you something about how interested I was in academics in college. The front door stood wide open, and I studied the entry foyer with its ornate brass chandelier suspended over a whiskey-colored marble floor, which reflected its glow. More down-home perks for Nicholas Black’s two-grand-a-week guests.
“Black’s assistant said Sylvie Border was here for some private counselin’ with the Man, mixed in with a dose of downtime R & R on the lake.”
“His assistant? Where’s Black?”
“He’s not here at the moment. Her name’s Michelle Tudor, but she wants us to call her Miki. Ain’t that cute? Miki with one k and two I’s. I hit her with the murder before she was completely awake this morning, but she got her act together real quick and informed me that His Highness flew to New York on his private Lear jet last night for, get this, Claire, an interview on this morning’s Today Show.”
“So Black’s got an alibi? Well, we’ll check that out before we cross him off our list. What about Miki with one k? Where was she?” What was it with these silly names? Whatever happened to Mary and Jane and Cathy? Didn’t people know how to spell anymore?
“Said she spent the entire weekend at her kid’s soccer tournament in Lenexa, Kansas; that’s just outside Kansas City. Said her husband was there and fifty other people who could verify her whereabouts. Offered to come in for an interview the minute she gets back.”
“When’s