like Nevin. Nevin Riley might be more than a little rough around the edges when it came to personal relationships, but as he’d pointed out the last time we talked, he was a professional. With him, a case was bound to be all about the logic.
I held on tight to the thought and clutched my hands together on my lap. “Of course they called you,” I told Hugh. “You and Kate were working on a movie together, and they’re going to want to understand what Kate was up to in the days before she died. They talked to me, too. They’re putting together a time line. Your work with her and her visit to my shop, that’s all part of that time line.”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” For the space of a few heartbeats, relief swept across his face. Right before he fell to pieces again. “But what if they ask questions I can’t answer?”
“Then you’ll tell them you can’t answer. It’s better than concocting a lie.”
He didn’t respond, so I tipped my head, trying to catch his eye.
“Did you hear me, Hugh? There’s nothing to be gained from lying to the police. They’ll find out eventually. And what . . .” A new and very disturbing thought hit. I sat back and swallowed hard, and when I forced myself to ask the question burning in my brain, my voice was breathy. “What do you . . . Is there something you need to lie about?”
He paced to the bar, poured Scotch into a crystal glass, and slugged it down. “ Charlie , the movie we were shooting. . . Charlie ’s shot to hell,” he grumbled. “A third of the way through, and Kate is in just about every scene. How the hell can anybody expect me to finish a movie about the most famous madam in Victorian-era Chicago when the madam in question has gone and gotten herself killed?”
I laced my fingers together. “You didn’t call me for business advice, Hugh. If I can believe what I’ve been reading in the papers these days, nobody knows the movie business better than you do. Besides, I’m sure this sort of thing has happened before. The production company must have insurance.”
“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He poured another drink and took his time with this one, sipping and studying me over the rim of the glass. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said. His chest rose and fell. “Josie . . . You’re the only one who can help me.”
Maybe.
Before I could point that out, he was pacing again. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he sobbed. “I mean, Kate’s name is synonymous with beauty and youth and glamour and to think about her body stone-cold and dead . . .” When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “People are stunned. They’re holding candlelight vigils outside her homes in Maui and Paris. They’re screening retrospectives of her work. Already, there are rumors that the whole thing is a put-on, that she faked her death to get out of the limelight. Like it was even remotely possible for Kate not to be the center of everyone’s attention!” His laugh teetered on the edge of hysteria. “I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that the whole thing is a hoax. I mean, really, I know in my heart of hearts that she’s dead, but I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking what if . . .” His eyes went glassy, his thoughts no doubt flying a million miles away to some happier place that still had Kate in it. He washed away the fantasy with a drink. “I guess it’s only natural not to believe she’s gone. I mean, how could any of us believe it? Could you? Could you believe it when you heard she was dead?”
I am never surprised to realize Hugh is being insensible. Again.
I am, though, always disappointed.
Disappointed, I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and a funny thing happened. Maybe it was my experience with Kaz (or more specifically, with divorcing Kaz) that had prepared me for this moment. Suddenly, I saw Hugh in a whole, new light.
It was not all that flattering.
“Kate was killed in the Button Box, my
I held on tight to the thought and clutched my hands together on my lap. “Of course they called you,” I told Hugh. “You and Kate were working on a movie together, and they’re going to want to understand what Kate was up to in the days before she died. They talked to me, too. They’re putting together a time line. Your work with her and her visit to my shop, that’s all part of that time line.”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” For the space of a few heartbeats, relief swept across his face. Right before he fell to pieces again. “But what if they ask questions I can’t answer?”
“Then you’ll tell them you can’t answer. It’s better than concocting a lie.”
He didn’t respond, so I tipped my head, trying to catch his eye.
“Did you hear me, Hugh? There’s nothing to be gained from lying to the police. They’ll find out eventually. And what . . .” A new and very disturbing thought hit. I sat back and swallowed hard, and when I forced myself to ask the question burning in my brain, my voice was breathy. “What do you . . . Is there something you need to lie about?”
He paced to the bar, poured Scotch into a crystal glass, and slugged it down. “ Charlie , the movie we were shooting. . . Charlie ’s shot to hell,” he grumbled. “A third of the way through, and Kate is in just about every scene. How the hell can anybody expect me to finish a movie about the most famous madam in Victorian-era Chicago when the madam in question has gone and gotten herself killed?”
I laced my fingers together. “You didn’t call me for business advice, Hugh. If I can believe what I’ve been reading in the papers these days, nobody knows the movie business better than you do. Besides, I’m sure this sort of thing has happened before. The production company must have insurance.”
“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He poured another drink and took his time with this one, sipping and studying me over the rim of the glass. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said. His chest rose and fell. “Josie . . . You’re the only one who can help me.”
Maybe.
Before I could point that out, he was pacing again. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he sobbed. “I mean, Kate’s name is synonymous with beauty and youth and glamour and to think about her body stone-cold and dead . . .” When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “People are stunned. They’re holding candlelight vigils outside her homes in Maui and Paris. They’re screening retrospectives of her work. Already, there are rumors that the whole thing is a put-on, that she faked her death to get out of the limelight. Like it was even remotely possible for Kate not to be the center of everyone’s attention!” His laugh teetered on the edge of hysteria. “I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that the whole thing is a hoax. I mean, really, I know in my heart of hearts that she’s dead, but I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking what if . . .” His eyes went glassy, his thoughts no doubt flying a million miles away to some happier place that still had Kate in it. He washed away the fantasy with a drink. “I guess it’s only natural not to believe she’s gone. I mean, how could any of us believe it? Could you? Could you believe it when you heard she was dead?”
I am never surprised to realize Hugh is being insensible. Again.
I am, though, always disappointed.
Disappointed, I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and a funny thing happened. Maybe it was my experience with Kaz (or more specifically, with divorcing Kaz) that had prepared me for this moment. Suddenly, I saw Hugh in a whole, new light.
It was not all that flattering.
“Kate was killed in the Button Box, my
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