Murder on a Silver Platter (A Red Carpet Catering Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter 17

The front doorbell rang just before seven. Penelope’s heart skipped as she put aside her iPad, hopped off the kitchen island stool and headed to the front door. She’d been surfing recipe sites and making notes for menu ideas while she waited for everyone else to get ready for dinner, and for Joey to stop by.

Joey was on the front porch in a blue suit and a long wool coat. “Detective, nice to see you again,” Penelope said, showing him inside.

“Likewise, Penny.”

She led him through the foyer and down the hallway to the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. You look nice.”

Penelope flushed and glanced away, still trying to balance Joey’s formality mixed with familiarity routine. She was dressed for dinner in tight black slacks, black mid-calf leather riding boots and a shimmery beige silk top. She knew she looked good, better than he’d seen her lately.

Sam wandered into the kitchen from the opposite hallway, dressed for dinner in a black suit with a crisp white shirt opened at the collar. He took a beer from the fridge and sat on a stool at the island.

“Detective. Working on Saturday?” Sam said, taking a swig of beer.

“That happens a lot. I’ve got some information and a couple of questions for Arlena.”

“She’ll be out in a minute.”

The back door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a whiff of cigar smoke. Randall and Max came inside, Randall’s arm draped heavily over his son’s shoulders. They were laughing, but when they saw Joey they paused. “Who do we have here?” Randall asked as he eyed Joey up and down, giving Max’s shoulders one more squeeze before releasing him.

“Mr. Madison, I’m Detective Joseph Baglioni. Penelope mentioned on the phone you were in town. I’m investigating the homicide of a young girl in the neighborhood.” He extended his hand for Randall to shake.

“So you’re the detective I’ve been hearing about,” Randall said, shaking Joey’s hand. “This is my son, Max.” He released Joey’s hand and nodded towards Max. “I gather you know Penelope already.”

“Yes, sir. Penelope and I go back a ways. We were friends in grade school.”

“Is that right?” Randall asked. He walked to the refrigerator and grabbed two beers, holding one out for Joey. “Small world.”

“No thank you,” Joey said, waving away the bottle.

Randall handed it to Max, who twisted off the cap. He stood behind Penelope’s, resting his hand on the back of her stool.

Arlena entered the kitchen and, as usual, all attention turned to her. She was dressed in skin tight cream leather pants and a transparent black silk shirt with a sleek black camisole underneath. She had on short cuffed leather boots with toe cut outs, a red toenail showing through on each foot. Her long black hair hung in a shiny wave down her back. Her lips were a deep red, but otherwise she wore minimal makeup and no jewelry.

“Miss Madison, thank you for taking the time to talk with me,” Joey said.

“Oh…hello, Detective,” Arlena said, momentarily startled when she saw Joey standing in the kitchen. Since their big revelation at breakfast, Arlena and Sam had been pretty focused on each other, everything else taking a backseat.

“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” Joey asked, glancing at the others in the room.

Arlena sighed. “That’s not necessary, Detective. This is my family. Go ahead.”

Joey paused for a moment before continuing. “The reason I wanted to talk to you was to let you know that Penelope was right. Someone tampered with your makeup.”

Penelope’s heart sank even though she had suspected as much. “The lip gloss was tainted with something?”

“It appears the tubes were laced with seafood residue. For someone with a severe allergy like yourself, it was enough to make you very ill.”

Sam stepped behind Arlena and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. Arlena remained still and stared at Joey.

“Can you think of any reason someone would do that?” Joey asked.

“Of course not…” she trailed off, her gaze wandering. “I honestly can’t think of anyone who would go out of their way to hurt me.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be someone she knows,” Randall said. “There are lots of crazy people out there. Maybe some nut has become fixated on Arlena.”

“That’s a possibility, Mr. Madison. But we also have to consider that it’s someone close to your daughter, someone holding a grudge against her, for something real or imagined.”

“How am I supposed to know if someone has an imagined grudge against me?” Arlena asked, a touch of impatience in her voice.

“That’s what I’m asking you to think about. An incident that may seem like nothing to you could have upset an unstable acquaintance or fan. If you’ve had any run-ins lately that didn’t feel right or a minor altercation…anything like that would be helpful to remember.”

Penelope glanced at Arlena as she tried to think. Arlena was always professional on the set, and she didn’t remember anything like what Joey was describing. Arlena could be a bit of a diva at times, but nothing over the top. Certainly nothing anyone would want to killer her over.

“What about that Brett asshole?” Randall asked Arlena.

“Brett? Daddy, we had a disagreement about work. I’ve known him for years, filmed three movies with him. He would never try to physically hurt me.”

“His movie tanked without you,” Sam said, rubbing her shoulder. “Maybe he is holding a grudge against you for walking off.”

“It’s true,” she said to Sam, “that things didn’t end well between us. But poisoning me over it? I don’t think he’d do that.”

“Who are you talking about?” Joey asked, flipping his pad open to take notes.

“Brett Ralston. R-A-L-S-T-O-N,” Randall said, punctuating the letters with his pointed finger. “He’s a no-talent director who tried to take advantage of Arlena, and then threatened her when she wouldn’t take her clothes off for his piece of crap movie.”

Joey jotted the name down. When he finished he looked up and said, “Mr. Madison, have you ever heard the name Holly Anderson?”

Randall shook his head and took a swig of beer. “Doesn’t ring a bell, Detective.”

“How about Cheryl or Bradley Anderson?”

“I’ve met a few Cheryls and a lot of Brads in my day. Anything about them that stands out?”

“Their daughter might have been trying to prove she was your daughter. Their names mean anything to you now?” Joey asked.

Max shifted uncomfortably on his feet behind Penelope. Joey looked at Max and Penelope saw the familiar muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Detective, I love my kids.” He spread his arms wide, motioning around the room at the others. “I take care of every single one of them. If she was my daughter, I didn’t know about it.”

Joey pulled some pictures from his inside coat pocket. He sorted through them quickly then held up one of Holly’s headshots for Randall to see. “Recognize her?”

Randall took the picture from Joey and held it at an angle to shine more light on it. “No. Pretty girl, though.” He handed the picture back to Joey.

Joey handed him another photo, this time the family portrait. “How about her?” Joey asked, indicating Cheryl Anderson.

Randall smiled knowingly. “Now her I remember. What did you say her name was?”

“Cheryl,” Joey said.

“I don’t remember her name being Cheryl, but I remember her face,” Randall said. “I worked on a movie, a sci-fi flick called
Outward Invasion
, and I met her,” he tapped the photo, “on the last day. She was working the after party, serving drinks.”

“Daddy,” Arlena said with a heavy sigh.

Randall handed the picture back to Joey. “Look, we hooked up. We were together one time and I never heard from her again. I certainly never heard of Holly or any other child until right this minute. You know if I had I would have told you guys, and I would have taken care of them.”

“You say her name wasn’t Cheryl?” Joey asked.

“It was something else. Rachel, I think,” Randall said. “Look, it was a long time ago. But I never forget a face and that face belonged to Rachel, definitely not Cheryl.”

Max and Arlena remained silent, staring at their father.

Joey cleared his throat, cutting the awkward silence. “If Holly wanted to, how would she go about getting in touch with you, Mr. Madison?”

“One of the assistants in my manager’s office handles my correspondence, emails, calls, that kind of thing. It’s mostly people pitching screenplays or requesting appearances, that kind of thing. They brief me on what comes in, and they keep a file on anything off the wall or threatening. I’m contacted by hundreds of people, but they would know to bring something like a claim about a long lost child to my attention. You can check with them about Holly, see if she tried to contact me.”

“Actually, we determined through her computer search that Holly emailed you last month,” Joey said, flipping again through his leather bound pad. “She didn’t mention her mother or her suspicions about your relationship to her. It looks like she was trying to set up a meeting with you.”

“They must have filed it away as a fan letter,” Randall said, shaking his head. “I never heard about it. If I’d known she was in some kind of danger, maybe I could have done something.”

Joey sighed. “One more thing, I’d like you to agree to provide a DNA sample to help with the investigation into Holly’s death,” Joey said.

Randall waved his hand. “Fine. But what does me meeting her mother all those years ago have to do with her being killed?”

Joey shook his head and gazed at his notepad, and after a moment he looked up. “Mr. Madison, Holly was murdered right outside your daughter’s home. And she thought maybe she was your daughter, too. Do you really have to ask what this has to do with you?”

Chapter 18

The limo skimmed silently over the George Washington Bridge into New York City, the five people inside quietly contemplating Joey’s news. The mood since they’d left the house was subdued, but Randall had been trying to lighten it, reminiscing about the night when he’d met Cheryl Anderson.

“Daddy, please,” Arlena sighed quietly.

“Look, kids.” Randall became serious. “You know who I am. And I don’t apologize for my life. I take responsibility for my actions.”

Penelope was thankful she was sitting next to the door out of his direct line of sight. Sam sipped champagne from a flute, his arm draped over Arlena on the other side of her, and Max sat next to his dad across from them.

“But Daddy,” Arlena said, exasperated. “Holly tried to reach out to you. Someone killed her and that same person might be after me. Don’t you feel like we’re partly to blame for what happened to her?”

Randall sighed and sat back against the leather seat, crossing an ankle over his knee. He put his arm around Max’s shoulders, who stared out the window at the Hudson River. “If anyone decides to come after any of my kids, they’re going to have to go through me first,” he declared. “I still have some connections from the neighborhood. If this Detective Baglioni can’t take care of it, I will.”

Arlena sighed and looked at Sam.

“I love you kids. You know that,” Randall said.

“We love you too, Dad,” Max said quietly.

Père was a small French restaurant that Randall frequented in Midtown. Though it had been around for many years, it was still destination dining, unique in that it was popular with both tourists and native New Yorkers. Penelope had seen Père mentioned more than once on Page Six accompanied by blurry pictures of celebrities coming and going. She was more interested in sampling their menu, which had a reputation as innovative and fresh, and always evolving based on the season.

The restaurant was dimly lit and all of the tables were full. The low murmur of conversation paused momentarily as Randall Madison and his party were greeted at the door and escorted immediately to a table in the main room next to the bar. It normally took a few months to get a reservation for eight o’clock on a Saturday night at Père, but Randall had managed it with one phone call that afternoon. Penelope admired the eclectic mix of mismatched dishware and glasses on the white tablecloths, which gave the impression of being in someone’s home rather than an upscale eatery. Adding to the warmth of the room was an open fireplace in a stone hearth that ran along the back wall and the smell of freshly baked bread in the air.

A young waitress in a long white apron appeared at their table as they settled into their seats. Randall ordered a round of dirty martinis to which she nodded pertly and strode over to the bar, her hands clasped behind her back. Penelope noticed that none of the wait staff was writing anything down, most likely trained to memorize their table orders. When their waitress returned with drinks, Randall grabbed one off of her tray and said, “Best martini in town.”

As they drank their cocktails some of the tension from the limo began to ease. The couple at the next table stole a couple of glances at Arlena and Sam, who were sitting close together and discretely linking fingers under the table.

The waitress quietly reappeared at the table along with a well-dressed, compact older gentleman. “So nice to see you again, Randall,” he said, patting Randall on the back.

“Louie!” Randall said. “You’re looking fit.”

“Not as fit as you,” Louie said, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Do you have in mind what you’d like this evening?”

“Bring us
Marche du Chef
,” Randall said. He glanced at Arlena and added, “But no shellfish.”

Penelope searched her culinary school memories for the phrase and remembered it roughly translated into “Chef’s Choice.”

“And we’ll have another round of these.” He tilted his empty martini glass towards the waitress.

“Absolutely. I think you’ll be pleased with what we have tonight,” Louie said, bowing slightly to the group. “Off you go, Brigitte.” Louie shooed the waitress towards the bar and headed off to the kitchen.

“Daddy always knows where to go and what to order,” Arlena said, rubbing her father’s shoulder, letting the last of her frustration towards him fall away. He leaned back and grasped her hand.

Brigitte returned with five martini glasses, each filled to the brim with what looked and tasted like liquid silver. Penelope planned to savor this experience and carry it forward to inspire her own food. She took in her surroundings and thought about her dinner companions, realizing that even though Max and Arlena had grown up separately and away from their father, when they were all together they acted like a very traditional family.

Max draped his arm across the back of Penelope’s chair. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, his fingers tapping lightly on her shoulder.

“Thanks, Max,” she said. She picked up her martini from the table, being careful not to spill any of it, and took a sip. Max continued to gaze at her, taking his own drink in his hand.

Just then Brigitte reappeared at their table, balancing a tray of beautifully arranged dishes. The group fell silent and watched as she placed the plates in the middle of the table. “Please enjoy our baked
Camembert, Boeuf Bourguignonne, Blanquette de Veau, Piperade
, and the chef’s special
Cassoulet
.”

Louie, who had been overseeing from a distance, walked over and poured red wine into their long-stemmed glasses. “A gift from the chef,” he said, showing the label to Randall. “We do hope you enjoy.” Louie and Brigitte made a quick exit and Randall began passing around the plates, marveling at the way everything looked and smelled.

After they’d finished dessert, a selection of
pots de crème
, Penelope excused and headed to the ladies’ room.

“I’ll join you,” Arlena said.

They entered the restaurant’s bathroom and stood next to each other at the mirror.

“Everything was perfect. I wouldn’t mind having that
Cassoulet
at home,” Arlena hinted, eyeing her lipstick in the mirror.

“I’ll have to come up with my own version, Penelope said. “I never knew your dad was so funny.” She turned towards the line of stalls along the wall and entered the closest one.

“Daddy loves making people laugh,” Arlena said distractedly. She rubbed her hands down her flat stomach. “That was a nice splurge but I have to take it easy now. I can’t look like I gained weight from one day to the next.” Penelope emerged and washed her hands at the sink.

The toilet in the far corner of the room flushed and Penelope glanced at Arlena. Brigitte emerged from the stall, tucking a stray strand of hair back into the rubber band of her ponytail with one hand and her phone into her apron pocket with the other. She looked at the floor as she approached the sinks to wash her hands.

“I’m sorry, please excuse me,” Brigitte said, blushing as she lathered her hands at the far end of the counter.

“No need to be sorry,” Arlena said. “Thanks for taking care of us tonight.”

The limo slipped around the corner of the restaurant right as they stepped outside. They were bundled up in coats and scarves and stood close together to ward off the cold.

“Oh perfect,” Randall said, nodding at a group of paparazzi standing on the opposite corner. Some of them began to move across the street towards the entrance of the restaurant.

“Hey Sam! Sam, over here!” one of them shouted as camera flashes lit up the night. Sam took a step closer to Arlena, turning towards her and shielding her from the approaching crowd. Randall lit a cigarette and raised his arms wide in a “come and get me” gesture.

Penelope, who stood in the middle of the group, took a step behind Max, his tall frame big enough to shield her for the most part. There were probably twenty photographers, all of them yelling and flashing bulbs at them, closing in on them from both sides of the sidewalk. She couldn’t make out any of their faces through the flashes. They all looked alike in their puffy coats and knit hats pulled low against the cold.

A few passing cars slowed to take a look at the paparazzi, their heads swiveling from the crowd to the limo to see who they were targeting. Horns blared and a police siren sounded, and Penelope could hear the jackhammer of a road crew somewhere nearby. She was amazed at how loud the street was compared to the peaceful interior of the restaurant they’d just left.

The limo eased up to the curb in front of them and the driver jumped out to help them inside. The shouting from the photographers became more intense as Sam and Arlena made their move to leave. More horns blared from the blocked traffic and a backfire boomed down the street. Randall waved the driver back inside the limo, opening the passenger door himself and ushering the others into the relative quiet inside. When they were all inside, he stood up and waved one last time at the shouting group of photographers. “That’s it, fellas. Show’s over. Go get warm.”

“Thanks, Randall. Who are you married to now?” one of the photographers shouted back.

“You’ll have to figure that one out for yourself, buddy,” Randall said, smiling widely at the group. Flashes lit up the side of the black limo like lightning in the dark night. Randall climbed inside and slammed the door, tapping on the glass separating the driver compartment from the passenger area to signal to the driver to go.

One of the photographers darted around the limo and knocked on the window right next to Penelope’s head. She shrunk away as he flashed his camera through the dark tinted windows. She was grateful when the limo slid forward into traffic.

“Can you believe these guys?” Randall said. He lowered the separation glass. “Come on, get us out of here.”

The driver nodded and stepped on the gas, then slammed on the brakes suddenly to avoid hitting a photographer who stood in front of the car snapping pictures through the windshield.

They were like a swarm of bees descending on the car, the frantic shouts and sounds of snapping cameras muffled through the thick glass. Penelope shifted closer to Max and away from the window, shielding her eyes from the flashing bulbs at the mob of people surrounding the car.

“Go!” Randall shouted.

The driver floored the gas pedal and the limo jerked forward and to the left, brushing the legs of the photographer in front of them.

“Watch it, asshole,” the man yelled, slapping his hand on Penelope’s window as they passed, leaving a greasy palm print.

Penelope caught a glimpse of a tattoo snaking out from under the photographer’s sleeve. As they raced away, she glanced back at the photographers who had spilled out onto the street, still snapping pictures of the limo, risking getting hit by oncoming traffic. She watched the headlights of the cars dodging them from behind, blaring their horns as they passed, and wondered how much a picture of Arlena and Sam together was worth. Apparently it was enough for them to risk bodily injury.

Penelope leaned back on the seat, relieved they were on their way, another anonymous black limo in New York City.

“You okay?” Max asked her, grasping her hand loosely in his.

“Wow,” Penelope said, laughing a bit. “I was holding my breath back there.”

Max chuckled. “You get the full treatment around Sam, I guess. And Dad. They’re always after Dad.”

Penelope glanced across the way to Sam and Arlena, who were turned towards each other, deep in conversation. Randall was next to them but engrossed in something on his phone, the screen lighting his face.

“I suppose one day they’ll be coming for me,” Max said. “And it will be for the things I’m doing, not only because of my family.”

Penelope turned and looked him in the eyes. “Do you want that?”

“Maybe not the constant harassment, but yeah, I want to get to that level. This is my chosen career. I want the kind of success that attracts their attention.”

“I hope you get what you want,” Penelope said, squeezing his hand back. She flipped open the panel of the cooler that ran along the wall of the limo. It was stocked with bottled water, beer and in another compartment, bottles of wine. She grabbed a bottle of water and a napkin to wipe off the condensation, offering one to Max. He shook his head, selecting a bottle of wine instead. Penelope sighed as he waved it at her in an inviting gesture. Rolling her eyes, she picked up the wine key next to the napkins and handed it to him.

“Not the whole bottle,” she said.

“Of course not,” he said, reaching behind her and pulling two wine glasses from the rack next to the cooler.