Her eyes flashed. “She doesn’t care about Nick. He’s just an interesting story she’s trying to cash in on.”
An echo of what Portia had said earlier. It would also explain the whole surprise wedding instead of a quick and tidy visit to the justice of the peace. The former made a better plot twist.
“How did you find this out?”
Bree hesitated and glanced toward the exit. Trey had pushed into the tent, his face a mask of consternation. He looked exactly like every TV cop on every network cop show, like he was about to chuck everyone into a police van and sort it all out downtown. He spotted us still talking, but didn’t come over.
Bree dropped her voice. “I snooped in her trailer. But it wasn’t my idea!”
“No. It was Portia’s.”
“Yes! She wants that script, bad. But I couldn’t find it. I found sample pages from Addison’s bio-pic, though. And a card from Hammershein Media.”
“Who?”
She nodded toward a table in the corner. A man sat there, elegant and self-possessed. I recognized his wavy steel-gray hair and square chin—he was the man in the clandestine restaurant photos with Portia.
“Winston Hammershein. He’s Portia’s new agent. Nobody knows that yet, though, especially not her old agent. Especially not Addison.” Bree looked left and right, so close now I could smell the gin on her breath. “I told Portia about the bio-pic, and she convinced Hammershein he should get Addison to submit it so that she could get a look at it. But she knows Addison can’t sell it, not as long as she works for Talbot Creative. And she knows Quint can sue if she tries.”
Pieces were starting to click into place. Vengeance moved in cycles as precise and orderly as a solar system. And at the center of those orbits, there was always a massive black hole of thwarted ego.
Bree wore a sheen of sweat across her forehead. “Look, I know this makes me look bad, but I’ve been trying to catch a break for years. Then one day Portia asked for me personally, to deliver her protein shakes. That’s a big deal, you know. To get a personal request. Eventually she asked me if I’d…you know.”
“Spy?”
“Yeah.”
So it had been simple as that. Quid pro quo of the most rudimentary level.
“That’s how you move up? By becoming somebody’s favorite gofer?”
“It’s one way.” Bree was so close her chin almost touched mine. “Whatever the talent wants, we runners deliver. Vegan, gluten-free, low-carb. Portia wants her shakes with almond milk, no dairy, done up with some herbal concoction she gets from a doctor in China. Or India. I can’t remember.”
I got a prickle. “Kava perhaps?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. She has bottles and bottles of the stuff in her trailer.” She looked left and right, dropped her voice. “And sometimes I get her some special herbs, if you know what I mean.”
She placed two fingers against her lips and mimicked a long deep inhale. I didn’t need an explanation.
“That could get you in serious trouble.”
“I told you, that’s how it’s done. I get her whatever she wants, she makes sure I keep a job.” Bree shook her head, and her cinnamon hair swished. “You gotta understand, nobody sees people like me. We’re equipment, like the dollies and the light boards. To get ahead, we gotta give the Portias what they want.”
“What about Nick?”
Her eyes softened. “Nick’s not like that. He pays attention to people.”
So that was it. A crumb of human connection, and she’d decided she was in love.
“Have you ever told Nick how you feel?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course not! Why would I do that?” Her face scrunched up pitifully. “Can I go now, before the security guy comes over here? Please? I told you everything I know.”
“You can go. But keep this conversation to yourself. You don’t want a conspiracy charge on top of everything else.”
She scurried away. I watched to make sure she’d left, then ordered another bourbon. I took it outside. I waited for Trey behind the ruins, white Christmas lights illuminating the ruddy brick and twining ivy. The sun had fully set now, and the tent glowed ivory against a sky like wet indigo velvet.
Trey appeared out of the shadows and stood beside me. “They’re shutting down the party early.”
“Not the press Talbot Creative hoped to get?”
“Not at all. What happened with Bree?”
I filled him in. A crew of workers tied back the canvas panels at the entrance, and I could see inside the tent as the party broke up. Dante stepped from behind his cello. Rico tossed down the last of his drink. Portia took the arm of a strapping guy in a fitted black tee shirt and skinny jeans. She laughed, but her eyes searched the room. Quint was still nowhere to be seen.
“So to sum up,” I said, “I told her not to leave the resort or you’d arrest her for conspiracy.”
Trey looked aghast. “I can’t do that.”
“I know. But she needed some incentive to keep her mouth shut. That did it.” I sipped the bourbon, let it warm my tongue and throat. “What did Keesha want?”
“Oh.” He stopped assessing the tent and looked my way. “She said the Buckhead Burglar is in custody.”
I almost spilled my drink. “What?”
“He was arrested in Tallahassee. A detective in major crimes spotted the LINX profile and called Price.”
“Damn. Bad day to be him.”
“Yes. But he swears he didn’t kill Jessica Talbot.”
“That surprises you?”
“No. What surprises me is that he has an alibi.”
“God, doesn’t everybody?”
“His alibi is backed up by a judge.” He showed me an image on his phone, an official summons of some sort. “When Jessica Talbot was killed, he was contesting a speeding ticket in Waldo, Georgia.”
“So he definitely didn’t do it.”
“He did not.” Trey put his phone away. “Price is on her way there as we speak. She wants to interview him in person.”
Of course she did. This was further fuel for the fire she’d built
