“She’s talking to a lamp.”
I pursed my lips together. “Okay, she’s a little nearsighted. But she’s got a mind like a steel trap.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
I followed his gaze, watching as Aunt Millie navigated around the lamp and bent down to pet one of Aunt Sue’s fuzzy slippers, murmuring, “Nice kitty.”
“I
“Hey, you said yourself, it was probably just someone trying to scare me. What are the chances I’ll get scared twice?”
Cal didn’t look entirely convinced. Especially as he watched Aunt Millie greet her sister.
“Sue, darling, when did you get a cat?”
Aunt Sue cocked her head to the side. “What?”
“The cat. When did you get the cat?”
“Speak up.”
“Cat! I like your cat!”
“Oh. Why, yes, I did notice your hat.”
Cal shot me a look. Then shook his head, mumbling, “God help the guy who tries to break in here.”
“So, what’s the plan today?” Cal asked, once we’d left the gruesome twosome happily chatting about Sudoku and blood pressure medication.
“Well, Blain Hall’s next on our list,” I replied.
“Blain Hall,” he rolled the name over his tongue. “Where’s he drying out?”
“Sunset Shores. It’s a chi-chi place in Malibu.”
“You think they’ll let us in to see him?”
I scoffed. “Not a chance. But if he’s our guy, he had to have hired someone else to make that first call. The PW number was a landline and, I already checked, it’s not associated with Sunset Shores.”
“That’s pretty risky. Hiring someone to do your dirty work in a town where everyone squeals to the press eventually.”
“Yeah, well, Blain isn’t exactly known for his brilliant decisions. Hence the rehab.”
“You think he called this accomplice and told him what to say?”
I shook my head. “No, all calls coming in or going out are monitored. It would have had to be someone who visited Blain in person. We need to get a look at his guest log.”
“They’ll let you do that?”
I gave him a wink. “Oh, I have my ways.”
Chapter Eight
Malibu is about thirty-five miles north of L.A. proper, along the historic Pacific Coast Highway, which hugs the California coastline in single lanes. And which between the hours of three and eight resembles a parking lot. Thankfully, at ten in the morning, things were relatively free of traffic heading north. Relatively. We were still stuck behind a slow Mercedes (hybrid of course-this was, after all, L.A.) the entire way. Though, in the towering oil hog, we were a good three feet above the car, a completely unobstructed view of the morning sun glinting off the ocean as we snaked past crab shacks, brightly colored sushi joints, and towering glass-walled mansions.
Half an hour later we rolled up to the Sunset Shores rehabilitation clinic. Of course, the term clinic was completely misleading. This was nothing like the crowded waiting room of the place that gave out free condoms in Burbank. This looked like something out of a Club Med brochure. Only nicer.
Huge glass windows spanned the front of the building, capitalizing on the natural California sunshine. Dark woods framed the structure, punctuated by palm trees and flowering agapanthus circling the perfectly manicured lawn. A small slate fountain with three coy fish circling in the pond at its base sat off to one side of the ornately carved front doors.
Cal did a low whistle. “Nice place.”
“No kidding. It has a nice price tag, too. Rumor has it, two weeks here is more than my yearly salary.”
“I’m in the wrong business.”
Cal pulled up the circular drive and handed his keys to the valet before we pushed inside the impressive mahogany doors.
The interior smelled faintly of lavender and Pine Sol as we made our way across the expanse of marble floor to the large granite counter spanning reception. A young woman dressed more like a cruise director than a nurse sat behind it, typing away at a computer. She looked up as we approached, a name tag reading “Sandy” visible on her lapel.
“May I help you?” she inquired in a soft, evenly modulated voice that I’m sure the patients found very soothing.
“I hope so,” I answered. “My name is…Laura. Laura Petrie. This is my associate, Rob,” I said, gesturing to Cal. “We work with Blain Hall’s publicist.”
The receptionist nodded. “How can I help you, Laura?”
“Well, we’re trying to head off a little potential trouble before the media gets wind of it. We’d be extremely grateful if you could help us, Sandy.”
Her brows furrowed, creating teeny lines on her forehead that suggested she’d yet to hit that thirty-year mark when, in Hollywood, Botox became as necessary as flossing. “What sort of trouble?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, straightening my spine. “We’re not at liberty to discuss that.”
Sandy looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure how I could help.”
“We need to know if Blain has had any visitors recently. Say, in the past three days? You do keep logs?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, we do,” she agreed hesitantly. “But they’re private.”
“I understand, I really do. But this could mean the end of his career if this got out. It could be, well, tabloid suicide. And, I’m sure you can agree, that’s the last thing he needs right now when he should be focusing on his recovery.”
She nodded. “I understand. But the records are private and…”
“Let me level with you, Sandy,” I said, leaning both elbows on the desk. Instinctively she leaned back a fraction. “If I have your word that you won’t tell a soul-I mean a single solitary soul-I’ll tell you what we’re dealing with here.”
Sandy immediately perked up, nodding vigorously. “I swear.” She leaned in close. “What is it?”
“Okay.” I made a big show of looking over both shoulders, then leaned in again. “A woman has come forward claiming that she’s pregnant with Blain Hall’s baby.”
“No!” Though I could see her eyes light up like Christmas.
No one is immune to the power of good gossip.
I nodded. “Yes! This certain woman claims she’s been seeing Blain for the past year, that they’re currently an item. Well, I tell you this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Who is she?” Sandy asked.
I shook my head. “I can’t say.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.
“But I will tell you…”
She leaned in again.
“…she
Sandy gave me a blank stare.
“And she’s like a
Again with the blank stare.
I mentally threw my hands up in surrender. “It’s Cherry Chase. The Dirty Dog’s bassist?”
Sandy gasped. “No!”
I nodded. “Yes.” Okay, a total fabrication. As far as I knew Cherry and Blain were the proverbial “just friends.”
