Poor Little Bitch Girl (37 page)

Thursday was the funeral. Friday they’d be on a plane back to New York. And Saturday she’d give her coke-addicted boyfriend the news.

It’s over, Frankie. Have a nice life.

* * *

“Hey,” Bobby said, jumping in the back of the limo and settling himself next to Annabelle.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, thinking how handsome he was, and what a smart decision she was making about her future. “Where’s Frankie?”

“He’s got a bad case of the runs, sitting tight in the bathroom. He’ll meet us at the hotel.”

Annabelle couldn’t believe her luck. Alone with Bobby so soon! It seemed the perfect time to start making her moves.

“Y’know,” she ventured, lowering her voice so the driver couldn’t hear, “Frankie’s coke habit is veering out of control. I’m not sure how much longer I can take it.”

“He seems okay to me,” Bobby said, determined to stay neutral, especially in view of what she was about to discover. Now was not the time for her to start worrying about Frankie’s coke addiction; she had bigger problems ready to slap her in the face.

“
You
don’t have to live with him,” she said bitterly. “
You
don’t have to walk in on him snorting that disgusting white powder up his nose, and then swearing he hardly ever does it when I know it’s a constant thing.”

“Yeah, that must be a drag,” Bobby said, trying to sound sympathetic.

“It’s more than a drag,” she said vehemently. “You know what, Bobby? I can’t deal with it any more. I want out.”

Damn! This was something he didn’t wish to hear right now. Annabelle and Frankie had a shit-storm to face – and the best way to deal with it was to present a united front.

“Have you talked to him, told him it upsets you?” he said.

“Frankie’s not responsible like you, Bobby,” she said, reaching over and covering his hand with hers. “Have
you
ever tried talking sense into him?”

“He’s not
my
boyfriend,” Bobby remarked, wondering how he could get his hand out from under hers without it looking obvious.

“Y’know,” she mused, “Frankie isn’t one of us, he never was. You, me and M.J. – we’ve always been tight. Remember high school? We were like the Three Musketeers – everyone wanted to be part of our group.”

Bobby had no idea what she was talking about. He and M.J. had never hung out with Annabelle – only that one fateful prom night, and after that they’d gone out of their way to avoid her and the group of privileged princesses with whom she spent all her time.

He slipped his hand out from under hers on the pretext of reaching for a bottle of Evian.

“No champagne?” she said coyly, holding up her glass for a refill.

“Can’t drink during the day,” he said, pouring her more champagne. “Gives me a hangover.”

“Poor baby,” she crooned. “You’ll have to catch up tonight. Oh, and by the way, make sure I’m sitting next to you. I might need your moral support.”

Jeez! What was up with Annabelle? Suddenly the prospect of spending the evening with Zeena seemed quite inviting. Anything was better than getting trapped with a needy Annabelle Maestro on the eve of her murdered mother’s funeral. Even another sex romp with the maneater.

W
ow! Ralph Maestro in a fury is a sight to behold. Big movie-star face all red and wrinkled. Eyes flashing venom. Voice a rough, tough growl. Huge frame overpowering and quite threatening.

He was pacing around his living room, and he was not a happy man. His long-time publicist Pip – a small middle-aged man wearing a white suit and a jaunty Fedora – sat silently in an oversized armchair. Everything, except Pip, was oversized in the Maestro mansion, including Ralph.

Ignoring me as usual, he pounced on Felix like a black panther trapping its prey.

“I am outraged and horrified,” he bellowed. “This filth is purely a ploy to embarrass me. What are you doing about it?”

“We’re hitting them with an injunction to stop next week’s issue,” Felix said, calm as usual.

“Next week’s issue!” Ralph roared. “Are you telling me there’s more?” He turned angrily on Pip. “Did you know this?”

Pip shook his head, his expression hang-dog.

“’Fraid so,” Felix said apologetically. “Once these rags get a hold of a story, they hang on until all the blood is drained from the body.”

Even I was surprised that there was more to come. I’d read the offending headline story on the way over, and it was pretty tawdry. How much worse could it get? And why hadn’t Felix mentioned to me that there was more? It pisses me off when he leaves me out of the loop.

“Have you
seen
next week’s story?” I asked.

Ralph’s heavy-lidded movie-star eyes swiveled to take me in. “
You
,” he boomed in his loud voice. “Weren’t you with my daughter in New York? Surely you knew what was going on?”

“I . . . uh . . . merely escorted them back to L.A.,” I explained.

“It’s her goddamn drug-addicted boyfriend,” Ralph thundered. “He’s the one that got her into this. I should put a hit out on the cocky bastard.”

Pip huddled deeper into his chair. Felix and I exchanged shocked glances. Had Ralph really just said that?

Yes. Unfortunately he had.

Pip cleared his throat. “Be careful what you say, Ralph. Walls have ears, and if Annabelle’s boyfriend should end up on a slab in the morgue . . .”

He didn’t have to say any more, the implication was quite clear.

“Where are they?” Ralph yelled. “I called the Beverly Hills Hotel and I was informed that they won’t be back until tomorrow.”

I remembered the text I’d received from Annabelle saying they were off to Vegas to see Zeena’s one-night show and would be back in time for the funeral. Annabelle had added a cryptic P.S. stating that she expected me to accompany them to the funeral. Seems I’m a popular funeral date. First Felix wanted me to accompany him, and now Annabelle is insisting that I go with her and Frankie.

I relayed the information about Vegas to Ralph.

“Vegas!” he steamed. “For what? To pick up more dirty little tramps for their degrading business? How do you think this garbage reflects on
me
? I’m a big star, not the father of some goddamn whore. This could ruin my career.”

Talk about exaggeration! Ralph was obviously a master.

“They’ll be back early tomorrow,” I offered, hoping to diffuse the situation.

“That’s not soon enough,” Ralph announced ominously. Once again he turned to Pip. “Get me a plane,” he commanded, as if he was requesting a cup of coffee. “We’re going to Vegas.”

* * *

One private plane later and we’re all on our way to Vegas. No time to go home and change. No time to do anything except call my neighbor – a martial arts expert – and ask him to walk Amy.

Felix wasn’t pleased. I had a strong suspicion he too would’ve appreciated changing clothes – maybe put on a less colorful pair of shoes.

Pip had arranged for Ralph to have use of a studio plane, but once Ralph was aboard he acted as if he owned it.

As soon as we were airborne, Felix brought up the subject of George Henderson.

“Of course I knew she was seeing him,” Ralph said, loud and abrasive.

“You mean you were aware it was him in the tabloid photos?” Felix asked, quite put out. “Why didn’t you tell the police? Or at least you should’ve mentioned it to me. I
am
your lawyer.”

“Gemma cherished her privacy,” Ralph replied, lighting up a foul-smelling cigar. “She didn’t want anyone knowing that she might be considering a few nips and tucks.”

So
that’s
how she’d explained the intimate photos to her husband. Very clever.

“The detectives need to know,” Felix said, a tad sharply. He was a stickler for always doing the correct thing.

“They’re detectives, let them find out for themselves,” Ralph said, puffing on his cigar and blowing noxious fumes throughout the cabin before downing two large Scotches in a row.

Both men decided it should be my job to discover where Annabelle and Frankie were staying in Vegas.

Who’s the detective now?

As soon as we landed I called Annabelle’s cell. No answer. Next I tried Frankie. He picked up immediately, as if he was expecting my call.

“Frankie?” I questioned.

“Who is this?” he asked, fully suspicious.

“It’s Denver.”

“What do you want?”

Charming! Such a lovely greeting.

I decided not to mention the tabloid. Too risky. He might lose it – that’s if he even knew about it.

“Just checking in about tomorrow,” I said casually. “Annabelle told me you’re in Vegas for the night. What time will you be returning to L.A.?”

“Dunno,” he said. “You’ll havta ask Bobby, we’re flying back on his plane.”

So Bobby had a plane. What was
that
about?

“Where can I find Bobby?” I asked, keeping it light.

“At The Keys.”

“Are you all staying there?”

“Gotta go,” Frankie said abruptly.

I had my answer.

Yes, I think I would’ve made an excellent detective.

* * *

On the way from the airport in a white ultra stretch limousine which could’ve comfortably accommodated fifteen people, I checked my texts and voicemails, while Pip called The Keys and instructed them to have a suite available for Ralph Maestro’s use.

There were still no texts from Carolyn, and I was starting to feel a little bit worried about not hearing from her. Taking off without a word to anyone was not Carolyn’s style, so why wasn’t she answering me? How often did I say urgent in a text?

I made up my mind that once we reached the hotel I would find a quiet corner and call her office again. If she was away, surely they’d know where she’d gone?

In the meantime I sent her another text.

I had several voicemails to get through, most of them business-related, plus two calls from Mario asking if I got his flowers and when could we get together again.

Uh, how about never?

Then came the surprise – a call from Carolyn’s dad, George. Wow! Had he somehow or other found out that I knew he was the man in the photo with Gemma? This was crazy. I quickly listened to his message.

“Denver. It’s George Henderson. I’m sorry to bother you, but Clare and I received a very disturbing call from the Washington police. Apparently Carolyn’s car, which is registered in my name, has been found abandoned. I can’t seem to reach her, and since I know you two are close, I wondered if you have any idea where she is. Please call us as soon as you get this message.”

My heart did a skip and a jump. Intuition told me that this was not good news. I slid along the endless leather side seat and finally got near enough to the driver to ask how long it would be before we reached the hotel.

“Five minutes or fifty,” the driver announced, flashing me an annoying smirk. “It all depends on our Vegas traffic.”

“See if you can make the five work,” I said, curt and to the point. “Mr Maestro is in a hurry.”

“Sure thing, Miss.”

Did I look like a Miss? Shouldn’t I be addressed as a Ms. Or at least a Ma’am?

My mind was wandering, it always does that when I’m stressed. I needed to call Carolyn’s dad back, and I didn’t want to do it from the limo, therefore I’d just have to wait – frustrating as that was.

I attempted to think about other things. Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos drifted into my head. So . . . he had his own plane. How did
that
happen?

Then I remembered, not only was he the infamous Lucky Santangelo’s son, but apparently the word around school had been that his father was some kind of billionaire Greek shipping tycoon who’d died when Bobby was young, and that Bobby and his niece were destined to inherit everything when they reached a certain age.