I examined my reflection in the mirror. “Wait, you’re not coming to the party?”
“Not unless you need me. I’ve got to manage the exit and entrance protocols until midnight.” A hesitation. “Do you need me?”
I thought about it. I wanted him there, but only because I wanted to see him, talk to him, share what was beginning to feel like an actual investigation. A case. An adventure. I got tingle of excitement, and Finn’s words popped into my head: Girlfriend, this is what you were made for.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Okay. But if you need me…I mean, if you need assistance…or me. Or both. I’m not…” A frustrated exhale. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. And I will. And if you need me, or assistance, or both, you know the drill.”
“I do.” I couldn’t see him, but I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “Seaver out.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
The last glimmer of the setting sun mottled the party tent with a patchwork of light and shadow. No food yet, but the bar looked open, and most importantly, well-stocked—the liquors were top shelf, complemented with enough champagne to float a boat.
As Finn had promised, the other guests did indeed fall all over themselves ignoring me. They sat at their tables or mingled in corners—here a band of culture critics, there a sales team with smiles like sharks. I recognized the men from Monday’s on-set photo shoot, the hotshot investors who’d demanded the ramped-up script schedule. They didn’t mingle, preferring to scope out the crowd with mercenary intent. I felt their collective gaze settle on me. Was I worth knowing, worth courting?
They returned their attention to their drinks. Question answered.
I decided to take up position at the bar. Situated next to the entrance, it provided a clear view of the entire tent—tables draped in white linen, a parquet floor for dancing, a jazz band setting up in the corner. Soft white lights and ivory candles bathed everyone in a pearly glow. Even the bar gleamed golden, and I couldn’t resist running a finger across the grain.
The bartender noticed my appreciation. She was short and square, briskly efficient, a russet bun at the nape of her neck. “It’s a reclaimed door from the farmhouse that used to be here. Gorgeous, isn’t it? They sure made them sturdy back in the day. Big too.”
I knew why—it was a cooling board door. During the days of at-home wakes, it would have been brought down from its hinges, the body laid atop it for the duration of the funeral services, then afterward returned to its everyday position. I decided to keep this tidbit to myself.
“Lovely,” I said.
“What can I get you?”
I started to ask for a beer and then remembered that somebody else was paying. “Maker’s rocks, please.”
While she fixed my drink, I gave the tent a closer examination, this time for security cameras. I spotted only one, unsubtle as a hay bale. When my whiskey arrived, I waited until the bartender wasn’t looking, then hoisted it in a salute in that direction.
A familiar voice caught my attention. “You made it.”
I turned. Portia smiled at me, diamonds dripping from her earlobes, looping like a constellation around her wrist. Even in elegant slacks and a saffron blouse, she looked like Mad Luna. Avaricious, possibly savage, with a charisma so powerful it was practically gravitational.
She dropped her voice. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you find the script?”
I sipped my whiskey. “You get right to things, don’t you?”
“I don’t have time for small talk. Did you find it or not?”
“Sorry, no.”
She turned her back on the bar and propped her elbows on it. “Have you at least found out who took a shot at Nicky?”
Damn it, I thought. Portia knows everything. She saw my surprised frustration and laughed.
“You’re not the only spy on premises.” She put her martini to her lips, but didn’t actually take a drink. “So tell me. Is it true? Did somebody try to kill my brother-in-law?”
I shrugged. “Confidential. Sorry.”
She looked across the tent to where Nick and Quint stood side by side. The investors had moved in on them, like a wolf pack closing a circle. Quint stayed silent, jaw clenched, heavily into his drink. Nick smiled, shook hands, his face open and animated, his hair tamed. No drink for him, only a sparkling water still in the bottle, no doubt from Addison’s controlled stock. He bore little resemblance to the frenzied incoherent man he’d been Monday night. In fact, he seemed downright charming, and the investors were hanging on his every word.
Portia scrutinized him. “I never considered that the rumor might be true. How do you keep track?”
“Of what?”
“All the suspects. I bet there’s a dozen people who’d love to see him dead.”
“Like you, for example?”
“Yes,” she agreed, then laughed again. “I probably shouldn’t have said that, but sure. I was alone in my trailer that night, so no alibi. Plus we’ve never gotten along. Nicky’s a giant sucking anchor in my life. Quint’s too. Have you checked out Quint?” She pursed her lips, shook her head. “No, Quint’s a terrible shot. But then, the bullet missed, didn’t it? That part sounds just like Quint.”
“Except that he was in the living room.”
“His only claim to innocence. No way to get around back and pop off a round at his baby brother. Of course, if he really wanted to kill Nicky, he would have done it during the indictment hearing. That was when the little twit cost us the most money.”
I let her talk. She acted as if all of this were a movie. As if the plot could be twisted and turned for the maximum bang.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened, and she put her hand on the inside of my elbow. “Is that why Trey is here? Because someone from the backstory is actually the villain? A long-lost sibling maybe? Assassin on the lam? And of course, there’s the most obvious suspect.”
I played my part. “Who would that be?”
“Well, aside from Trey—who I
