control appetite and increase metabolism,” she said, proving that she could at least learn her lines.
“Put in whatever you like,” I said, giving up. I blamed Starbucks for starting it all by insisting that “tall” meant small, and that a “barista” made the coffee. Now we’d moved on to the stage where you needed a medical degree to get breakfast.
The Angelina-wannabe spent an inordinately long time mixing and stirring, and when I finally took the cup, I tossed a dollar into the tip jar, knowing the bonus she’d really like was Molly Archer’s private email. Back outside, I settled into a café table, flipped through an Architectural Digest , and watched the morning bustle of shoppers. With the sun drenching down and the frothy drink (whatever it was) tickling my tongue, I could almost forget that I had more on my mind than whether crimson or persimmon was the color of the moment. I felt calmer than I had in days. Maybe Angelina had slipped me some Valium instead of the ginseng.
Ready to face my client, I sauntered over to the chic showroom and told the sullen receptionist that Roy Evans would be coming in soon. She brightened at his name, tossed back her curly blond hair as if all of life were an audition, and agreed to send Roy back as soon as he arrived. In the private display area, I milled around, pondering which of the rosewood dining tables newly imported from Milan would be right for Roy. He definitely couldn’t handle what I’d commissioned for a French director’s mansion in Malibu — a gleaming slab of sinuous steel that reflected the sunlight and sea. It got endless ooh s and aah s, but Roy wasn’t secure enough for cutting edge.
I checked my watch, then moved into the next room, which spotlighted chairs so gloriously modern they couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I sat down. Right. Forty-five minutes later, I was considering the comfort level of a suede Armani sectional when my cell phone rang.
“Lacy, can you forgive me?” Roy’s mellifluous voice on the line was sweetly pleading. “I had a long interview with that young singer Abby Jean. What a body.”
“I’m still at the showroom. I can wait for you,” I said.
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “But if you have a second, listen to this song from Abby’s first album. She’s going to be big.” He must have held out the phone to his CD player, because I heard the distant, moaning sounds of a female pop singer.
“Sexy, isn’t she?” he asked, back on the line. “I think she was hot for me. Once I told her she was going to be a big star, she didn’t want to leave.”
So Roy had been trying to score with his interview subject. The man had no shame.
“We should reschedule our appointment,” I said, sticking to decorating.
“Absolutely. By the way, how’s your husband doing?”
“Pretty well, thanks.”
“What’s new with the murder investigation?”
So here we were already. If I were suspicious about Roy Evans, I’d think that was the crux of this conversation. And, okay, I was suspicious of Roy Evans.
“I’ve been getting a lot of information on your friend Tasha,” I said carefully. I wouldn’t lie, but maybe I could get him worried. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the talk about her at the network.”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Roy’s voice suddenly had a slight edge to it, as if some of the polish were being chipped away. “Tell me the gossip.”
“Just the rumors you’d guess,” I said, hoping he’d fill them in for me.
“She slept around?” Roy asked.
“Something like that.”
“Well, she was a cute little piece of pie. Not a surprise if a lot of men wanted her.”
“I guess not,” I said.
Brief silence and then he said, “Is there a list somewhere?”
“Of what?”
“The men. Do you think the police have a list of the people she slept with?”
“Could be, but I really don’t know.”
“Fine,” he said, much too sharply. His voice had gone from edgy to angry, and
“Put in whatever you like,” I said, giving up. I blamed Starbucks for starting it all by insisting that “tall” meant small, and that a “barista” made the coffee. Now we’d moved on to the stage where you needed a medical degree to get breakfast.
The Angelina-wannabe spent an inordinately long time mixing and stirring, and when I finally took the cup, I tossed a dollar into the tip jar, knowing the bonus she’d really like was Molly Archer’s private email. Back outside, I settled into a café table, flipped through an Architectural Digest , and watched the morning bustle of shoppers. With the sun drenching down and the frothy drink (whatever it was) tickling my tongue, I could almost forget that I had more on my mind than whether crimson or persimmon was the color of the moment. I felt calmer than I had in days. Maybe Angelina had slipped me some Valium instead of the ginseng.
Ready to face my client, I sauntered over to the chic showroom and told the sullen receptionist that Roy Evans would be coming in soon. She brightened at his name, tossed back her curly blond hair as if all of life were an audition, and agreed to send Roy back as soon as he arrived. In the private display area, I milled around, pondering which of the rosewood dining tables newly imported from Milan would be right for Roy. He definitely couldn’t handle what I’d commissioned for a French director’s mansion in Malibu — a gleaming slab of sinuous steel that reflected the sunlight and sea. It got endless ooh s and aah s, but Roy wasn’t secure enough for cutting edge.
I checked my watch, then moved into the next room, which spotlighted chairs so gloriously modern they couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I sat down. Right. Forty-five minutes later, I was considering the comfort level of a suede Armani sectional when my cell phone rang.
“Lacy, can you forgive me?” Roy’s mellifluous voice on the line was sweetly pleading. “I had a long interview with that young singer Abby Jean. What a body.”
“I’m still at the showroom. I can wait for you,” I said.
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “But if you have a second, listen to this song from Abby’s first album. She’s going to be big.” He must have held out the phone to his CD player, because I heard the distant, moaning sounds of a female pop singer.
“Sexy, isn’t she?” he asked, back on the line. “I think she was hot for me. Once I told her she was going to be a big star, she didn’t want to leave.”
So Roy had been trying to score with his interview subject. The man had no shame.
“We should reschedule our appointment,” I said, sticking to decorating.
“Absolutely. By the way, how’s your husband doing?”
“Pretty well, thanks.”
“What’s new with the murder investigation?”
So here we were already. If I were suspicious about Roy Evans, I’d think that was the crux of this conversation. And, okay, I was suspicious of Roy Evans.
“I’ve been getting a lot of information on your friend Tasha,” I said carefully. I wouldn’t lie, but maybe I could get him worried. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the talk about her at the network.”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Roy’s voice suddenly had a slight edge to it, as if some of the polish were being chipped away. “Tell me the gossip.”
“Just the rumors you’d guess,” I said, hoping he’d fill them in for me.
“She slept around?” Roy asked.
“Something like that.”
“Well, she was a cute little piece of pie. Not a surprise if a lot of men wanted her.”
“I guess not,” I said.
Brief silence and then he said, “Is there a list somewhere?”
“Of what?”
“The men. Do you think the police have a list of the people she slept with?”
“Could be, but I really don’t know.”
“Fine,” he said, much too sharply. His voice had gone from edgy to angry, and
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