Bright and beautiful, p.12
Bright & Beautiful, page 12
When we pulled into the San Francisco Zoo’s driveway and queued up for the valet, I broke the silence. “This is the plan. Damien, Kat and I will go straight in while Brent and Naomi figure out how to get a fifth person inside.”
She raised her pointer finger. “But I...”
“Hush.” I pushed her hand down. “You talked yourself into the Gough’s house today, you can weasel your way into this gala. I will go straight for Shortwall. Everyone else hold back.”
The car rolled to a stop before anyone could argue, and I hopped out, clicking on Dara’s toothpick-like stilettos toward the entrance. Unsurprisingly, the long-legged Damien and Kat caught up with me in just a few strides. But I’d made my point that I was the leader of the pack.
Damien presented three tickets, and docents waved us along a lighted path past the flamingos and the carousel, to a giant, white marquee in the center of a lawn. The event tent was lit up with twinkling lights and full of standing propane heaters to keep the donors cozy despite the always frigid ocean breeze.
“Where’s Shortwall?” I asked the pair. “Can you see him anywhere?” After all, they both had a foot on me.
“No,” Damien replied.
Kat looked around. “Me either. But it’s so pretty in here. Oooh, look.” She reached for a glass of champagne being passed on a tray, and perhaps because of her height, the waiter didn’t stop her.
“Not on your life, Kit Kat,” Damien hissed cheerfully.
“Ugh. Fine. But, you’re so boring, Uncle Da... Hey, wait, isn’t that him?” She pointed like she was giving directions to the BART Station, not stealthily indicating a murder suspect. I pressed her arm down. Suffice it to say, Kat was not in the running to be Watson #3. She lacked a certain subtlety.
The man was taller than me, but not nearly the height of a Gough. He'd styled his thinning, ginger hair with a side part and enough product to guarantee it stayed in place, even when the icy wind blew off the ocean only a quarter-mile away. From halfway across the marquee, he looked faded, his smile smarmy as he greeted people and shook hands. Just watching made me want to wash my own mitts.
“That man is a piece of work,” Damien muttered.
“You’ve met him?” I asked.
“No, but I heard from Dara that he’d stick his dick in anything and not even bother to shower before getting into bed with her.”
“Eew,” Kat said.
Involuntarily, I shuddered, my body’s way of agreeing with her. It seemed a strange thing for Dara to have shared with her future brother-in-law, although the pair had obviously enjoyed a warm rapport, from the smile they were sharing in the family photo in Brent’s office. Good thing she’d confessed the detail, because it made my next steps clear. I pushed up my nonexistent cleavage. “I guess that’s my ticket.”
“Gross. No way, Alma.” Kat tried to grab me, but I ducked around a waiter with a full tray of champagne, downed a flute of the bubbly in one gulp, and beelined for the baronet. I sidled up as unobtrusively as possible hoping to look like I wasn’t listening to his every word, pretending to gawk at a giant ice sculpture of a lemur. Which—side note—qualified as a tasteless decor choice at a conservation event, its melting reminiscent of retreating glaciers and a thawing Antarctica. But, in the colder-than-a-penguin’s-prick weather, the frozen lemur was faring pretty well.
With my back to Shortwall, I heard him describe (in a posh-but-nasal accent) a recent fishing expedition, his new race car, how much he loves wagyu beef, and his upcoming world tour to campaign for lemurs. Clearly, he wasn’t fretting over his carbon footprint.
He went silent, and I turned around, confirming that for the moment, he was alone. I approached the stocky man who had the first signs of drooping jowls. I’d guess his age at about forty-five. He ceased frowning into his highball glass to look me over. Until I saw the look on his face, I’d only read about lascivious grins.
“Well, hello, there. I’m Peter Shortwall. Technically, people call me Sir, but for you, I’ll be just Peter.” He said with his Downtown Abbey accent.
“I’m Allison Lemon.” I’d invented the undercover persona on my last case—brash local celebrity foodie and mixologist. She’d gotten me in a smidge of trouble with a mega rich, OCD landlord, but she ought to serve just fine with Shortwall. “Perhaps you saw the feature about my seasonal cocktails in the last SF Magazine?”
“I just arrived in the city, but I’ll be sure to look it up.” Again his gaze dipped to my modest décolletage. “What a lovely dress. The beadwork is so intricate.” He frowned. “I knew a woman with one just like it.”
Damn. I hadn’t even considered he might recognize Dara’s clothing. I scrambled for an excuse, but the pop of a flying champagne cork sounded, sparing me. Shortwall’s gaze darted.
His brows drew together. “What the hell is he doing here?”
I turned and followed his stare straight to Brent Gough on the far side of the tent. Before I’d even considered my next step, Shortwall was marching a bow-legged, head-forward, bulldog walk towards his ex-wife’s betrothed.
Whoops. So much for me leading the pack.
I pulled my phone from my borrowed coat’s pocket and texted Brent. Incoming.
Then I watched him read the text, nudge Naomi behind him, and assume a broad stance, as if a battle was about to commence. I scurried on the stupid heels to catch up with Shortwall.
When the baronet reached Brent, he lunged for the taller man, grabbing his lapels. “You monster. How could you let this happen? I never should have let her go.”
Brent stepped back and placed two long arms on Shortwall’s shoulders. The man peddled his legs, trying to find enough leverage to propel himself forward. He pumped his arms, but Brent’s torso was just out of reach.
The altercation had the absurd air of a scene from a cartoon, except that Brent’s face was growing red from exhaustion. If Shortwall didn’t let up, Naomi and I might have to use our Krav Maga to stop a fight. But a crowd gathered, and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt in the fray.
Just then, Damien pushed through. “Oh, drop it, Shortwall. You couldn’t have kept her if you’d offered her five million pounds.” It was sweet the way he defended his brother and Dara’s relationship, although with news of her infidelity, the defense was perhaps misplaced.
The baronet let his arms fall. Though Brent held him still, he rotated his neck toward the source of the insight like a predatory reptile. “Fuck off, Gough.” The words were especially jarring in that accent every American is conditioned to think of as the height of sophistication, and they directed icy anger at Damien, rather than the hot aggression he’d aimed at Brent.
Two security guards appeared, and behind them a woman in a floor-length, long-sleeved sequined gown. She probably meant its horizontal black and white bands of sequins to evoke a lemur’s ringtail, but to me she looked like a fancy Alcatraz inmate. Was it warm inside that thing, like being wrapped in one of those shiny emergency blankets? “Sir Peter,” she said. “Can I offer you a private place to speak to your...” She looked from his red face to Brent’s. “Friends?”
The man gave a bulldog shrug, and Brent let go of his shoulders.
Brent considered Kat for a moment, as if he might order her to stay put, then turned, giving up on the idea. Smart choice, given the trays of champagne and the fact that no one imagined someone her height might be fourteen. And, she’d have probably argued with the command anyway.
So we all followed the striped sequins lady into the back of the reptile house, a warm and tidy space with fluorescent lighting and a faint animal odor—maybe that’s what reptiles smell like. Kat at once began to poke around, examining the reptile tanks and shelves of food, although I’d have put a teen’s ransom on the fact she listened closely. The security guards stood, arms crossed, just behind Shortwall, like they were his designated bodyguards.
Naomi entered last, then the woman in sequins shut us in, closing the door hard and fast, nearly clipping her. Damien and I shifted to make room for her at my right.
Brent spoke. “Listen, Shortwall. We’re all broken up about Dara. There’s no need to go around blaming each other.”
“Unless the blame is deserved.” The baronet lifted his barrel chest. “Christ, man, she was murdered and laid out on display. Why weren’t you there to protect her? I never let her leave my side.”
“Jealous, obsessive stalker,” Damien muttered quietly enough that only I heard. Well, possibly Naomi did too from my other side, because she shot him an envious look over my head. Rightly so—insider knowledge made him a more valuable Watson. As if to compensate, she stepped an inch closer to me, and I thrilled, fool that I am.
“Don’t think I haven’t kicked myself over it a million times.” Brent grabbed a fistful of his thick, salt-and-pepper hair. “She wanted to spend the night before our wedding apart, but I should have pushed harder, insisted she stay at home with me. If only I’d known she was in danger...”
Shortwall snorted like a snub-nosed dog. “You know what I think? You were the danger. You knew she was under threat, because you killed her.”
Brent recoiled, turning purple. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never hurt her. We were in love.”
“You’re a goddamn liar,” Shortwall said, shuffling toward Brent.
The two security guards and I stepped forward, and he retreated.
“Hey.” I put my hands on my hips. “There’s no need to take God’s name in vain.” It’s a pet peeve of mine. I have no objection to the occasional four-letter word when it’s called for, but English and every other language I know have plenty of colorful phrases that don’t require needlessly insulting the source of all life and love.
Shortwall looked at me, then at the beaded dress again. He growled. “Who the hell are you?”
“Family friend,” I whispered, stepping back between Naomi and Damien. Not cowed by his aggression as much as by irritation with myself for interrupting. I should have remained an observer, like a cultural anthropologist watching from the sidelines of a newly discovered society to glean whatever I could from the altercation.
However, I needn’t have worried. Shortwall forgot about me to return his attention to Brent. “I know there was trouble in paradise, Gough.”
Meanwhile, I had Damien to announce the play-by-play for me. “Ouch,” he muttered. “And Shortwall lands a blow.”
Brent paled, his eyes tracing an arc on the sidewalk. “What do you mean?”
“I talked to her last week, and afterwards, I put fifty pounds down with a mate on her not going through with the wedding. She figured out you’re broke, and she wanted out, but you just couldn’t let her go.”
“Too bad his insults are all projections,” Damien whispered to me like a sportscaster describing an athlete’s injury. “He was the one who couldn’t let Dara go. Showed up every time she went out. Eventually, she left England to get away from him. Made no public appearances for a year to hide from him while the divorce was underway.”
Ick. I suppressed a shiver. Why are some men so creepy?
“What I want to know...” Brent stepped forward, suddenly menacing. “Is why you’ve been calling her every day for weeks. I saw your number on her phone, heard your hushed conversations, your arguments.” He poked a finger at Shortwall’s chest, his voice twisted in a strained whisper. “Was it your baby?”
Next to me, Damien stiffened like he felt Brent’s pain himself.
The baronet blanched. “Baby? She was...?” His lower lip trembled. “Oh, bloody hell. Poor Dara. I always wanted little girls like her running around. And no, you sorry bastard, the baby wasn’t mine. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to shag me and say it was, the way she was trying to get her claws into my money.”
“Yeah, in his dreams,” Damien grumbled.
“I don’t know. I found papers that said she was suing him for access to his family trust. But presumably a biological child would automatically have it.”
“Christ, Alma, she wasn’t a whore.”
Personally, I don’t judge people for being whores. I know plenty of empowered sex-workers in San Francisco. But in those transactions, the terms are above board, and I wasn’t so sure that was how Dara conducted her business.
Brent held the baronet by a fistful of bowtie. “Take it back, Shortwall.”
I sighed. It was inevitable, there in the reptile house, that the lizard brains would seize control.
“Fine. Fine. I take it back.” Brent released him, and he stumbled backward. “But if you killed her, Gough, I’m coming for you.”
Brent extended one long arm, pointing. “Same, you piece of stuck-up shit.”
Shortwall saluted Brent with his middle finger, then turned toward the door.
Kat snickered at the gesture. “Classy.”
I smiled at the girl who I still really hoped was innocent. “Wait,” I called, “Sir Peter. When did you arrive in California?”
“Yesterday. Straight from Heathrow. And I’m extending my stay to attend the funeral. Governor Newton invited me personally.” Then he slipped out, presumably heading back to the marquee.
Brent faced Damien and Kat. “Come on. This was a big waste of time.”
Damien nodded and followed, then took two steps back and turned toward me. “Coming?”
I shook my head. “No. I want to see if there’s anything else to learn. Stick around?” I glanced at Naomi.
“Yeah. Sure. Free booze and catered food is totally in my budget.”
As we stepped into the cool night, Damien took my elbow. “Be careful, Sherlock. He knows who you are.” Then he handed me a roll of bills. “Cab fare home.”
I could afford it, in a pinch, but I hated paying for a private ride home when the fare could buy a monthly BART pass. That Damien understood made him a prince among men.
Kat gave me a hug. “Hey, I’m sorry for what I did earlier, with the ransom note. It was a dumb idea, but I felt so desperate.”
“I get it.” I squeezed her back, hoping beyond hope that was her only rash act of desperation this week. And then the Goughs were gone, leaving me alone with the woman I was trying so hard not to want.
Chapter Seventeen
NAOMI OFFERED ME HER elbow. "Shall we?"
Dara’s slightly too-small wrap dress showed off her lush curves more than her usual outfits. Memories of her ivory colored skin, the curve of her waist, the firmness of her strong thighs—they surfaced uninvited. I shoved them from my mind and stepped back into the tent. She was here to help me investigate, and I best keep my thoughts on meddling and my heart safe from the longing she stirred.
We people-watched, mingled, and she ate her pricey ticket’s worth of canapés. I abstained from the buffet since few items were vegan but nabbed a glass of champagne.
Shortwall and the lady in sequins gave a presentation about the plight of lemurs in Madagascar and improvements to their habitat at the San Francisco Zoo. The baronet was charming, and I caught no whiff of the hypocrisy Damien had mentioned coming off him. People began making donations via phone, and a total on the screen next to the photo of a small mammal with big-eyes ticked higher and higher until it reached a goal, then higher yet. The amount astounded me. It would pay rent for all the homeless folks I gave groceries to on Sundays for several years. Not that I don’t care about lemurs—I just think it’s sad they have a better quality of life than humans living in the same city.
To a round of applause, the fundraising ended, and Shortwall stepped off the dais. From the high-top table beneath a heater where we sat, Naomi kept her eyes trained on him, narrating his every move. Head lowered, I dug further back on his Instagram account, searching for proof of where he was last Thursday, the night someone had killed Dara.
“Do you think the woman in the jade-colored dress is his date, or his girlfriend?” she asked.
I glanced up to see a petite woman at his side with a swath of black hair. “Who knows?” I hadn’t seen her photo on Instagram at all. Then I went back to scouring his social media accounts. Most of his posts didn’t have location tags, so I had to use my sleuthing skills to examine the photos themselves. And since they largely featured gourmet meals, amber colored liquids in fancy glasses, and the occasional cigar cradled lovingly in his stubby-fingered hand, it wasn’t easy to place them.
“If she is his girlfriend, does that mean he has a thing for Asian women? There’s a name for that, right? Like a fetish.”
“Yellow fever,” I said, swiping to see the previous post.
“Ugh. How creepy. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. People are complicated.” Was she baiting me to see what I’d say, if I’d compare a racial fetish to her desire to date a nice Jewish girl? It was different, obviously, and I didn’t care about Shortwall’s preferences unless it had some bearing on the case. Or did she want me to absolve her, yet again, of being reckless with my heart before she recommitted herself to her life plan: have a big family who kept the traditions she grew up with. Now wasn’t the time, and there was nothing new to say about us or those few weeks we were together, when I’d nurtured an unspoken hope that she’d changed her mind.
Exhaustion slammed into me, and I ached to be home alone in my bed, since the person I wanted there with me most didn’t feel the same way. Yes, Cesar wanted me, but was it fair to him if he was my second choice?
“Hey, scroll back to that one,” she said, gesturing at my phone. I did, and she pointed at one of the baronet’s photos. “Look at that.”
Damn. She spotted the clue I’d been searching for all along. A coaster protruding from beneath a pint glass of beer named Alerush, a small, local brewery in the Dogpatch neighborhood.
“David knows these guys,” she mentioned her bar-owner brother. “They just opened. Way too new to have distribution in London. But look.” The post was dated Wednesday evening, a day before the murder. “He lied.”
