All right. So I don’t like rap music. Sue me.
We both watched as Damien paced the living room, deeply engrossed in thought. From time to time he muttered a few snatches of song, punching the air like a kickboxer, then shook his head and paced some more. He was obviously in the throes of the creative process.
Dooley turned to me. “I don’t think it’s Damien.”
“I think you’re right. A doofus like that can’t be the killer.”
Which left… Boa the bodyguard, Burr the cameraman, Alejandro the director, or the writer. Or any of the other bodyguards. Oh, boy. Sleuthing had never been so hard. “I’ll bet it’s Boa,” I said. “He looks like a butcher.”
“Oh, look,” said Dooley. “Speak of the devil.”
The big bodyguard came lumbering up, the ground practically quaking where he stepped. He was all sweaty and oily, his big muscles flexing and moving beneath his tan skin. Man, the guy was ripped.
“I wonder why they haven’t fired him,” I said. “I mean, Shana was killed on his watch. You’d think they’d get rid of him as soon as possible.”
We watched as Shalonda waved the bodyguard over. He bent over her, placing his hands on either side of her head, and then… kissed her. And I mean really kissed her. Not a brotherly kiss or anything but a no-holds-barred French kiss from what I could tell. He rose up, a giggling Shalonda dangling from his neck, he staggered to the pool, and they both toppled in.
“I think I know why he wasn’t fired,” Dooley said.
The moment they resurfaced, there was more kissing, and before we knew what happened, Boa dispensed with Shalonda’s bathing suit and our world suddenly turned into an X-rated movie. The kind Odelia doesn’t allow us to watch. We both stared at the scene, transfixed, our jaws dropping.
“Um. I think I see what you mean, Dooley,” I said.
I wanted to avert my eyes but I couldn’t. It was like watching a train wreck. You just can’t look away no matter how wrong you know it is.
“Max?”
“Uh-huh?”
“What are they doing?”
“It’s called sex, Dooley. It’s what humans do when they make a baby.”
“Oh. So they’re making a baby?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought they were trying to eat each other.”
“No. I’m pretty sure they’re making a baby.”
“Oh, all right.”
Five minutes later, they were through, and since they were both still alive, it was obvious I was right and Dooley wasn’t. They’d made a Kenspeckle. Shayonne seemed less impressed with her sister’s shenanigans than we were. She was sleeping, her mouth open, snoring softly. Not a pretty sight.
Shalonda emerged from the pool and plunked down on her chaise. She looked exhausted. Apparently making new Kenspeckles was hard work.
I searched around for the cameraman, wondering if he caught all that baby making with his camera, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Apparently making new Kenspeckles wasn’t part of the setup. This wasn’t Big Brother.
Just then, it was as if a bomb went off. Only it wasn’t a bomb but a leggy female with short raven hair and sunglasses covering half the acreage of her face. She strode up like a model on a catwalk, took one look at Shayonne, Shalonda and Boa, and bellowed, “Is this the way to greet your mother?”
Mother? And then I recognized her. Camille Kenspeckle had arrived. The original queen bee. She had a fur coat casually wrapped around her shoulders, and struck a pose, looking like the female version of Xander Cage.
Shayonne awoke with a start. When she caught sight of her mother, she squealed with delight, producing a sound so high only Dooley and I could hear it. And her sister, apparently, for Shalonda tumbled from the lounger, looked around dazedly, and scrambled up the moment she saw Camille. Both girls dashed around the pool and threw themselves into their mother’s arms. Boa, who’d been underwater when all this happened, emerged to the happy prattle of the reunion, and looked less thrilled. He probably feared for his employment. He stepped from the pool and approached the threesome.
“Hi, Camille,” he said.
“Boa. Where are they?”
Boa gestured to the guest house, and I got the impression they were talking about Odelia and Chase.
“Find them,” Camille ordered, “and bring them to me.”
She sounded like a warlord, ordering slaves to be fetched for execution.
Boa nodded curtly and stalked over to the guesthouse. Meanwhile, Dion and Damien had also joined the happy reunion, and even Kane had come running. The bulldog was yapping up a storm, barking at Camille as if he’d never seen her before, jumping up against Dion and Damien’s legs, barking at Shayonne and Shalonda and generally creating a big fuss.
“That dog is such an idiot,” Dooley said.
“He is,” I agreed. Staring at the dog, a thought occurred to me, but when I tried to catch it, it vanished. There was something about Kane. But what?
Oh, well. It probably wasn’t important.
Chapter 21
Laurelle Merritt’s room wasn’t much bigger than Eamonn’s. The door was open so Odelia and Chase announced their presence by giving the doorpost a quick rap. Laurelle was sitting cross-legged on the bed, pictures and fashion magazines spread out all around her. She had a narrow, pale face, framed by a black bob, and was dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless maroon shirt.
“Hampton Cove police,” Chase said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions, Miss Merritt?”
“Oh, of course,” she said. “Um, come in. I’m sorry about the mess.”
Odelia glanced around. The room was barely big enough to contain the bed, a vanity and a desk, and every available surface was crammed with stuff. Clothes, samples, magazines, makeup, wigs, clothes… Everything stuffed into the small space. “If you like we could do the interview outside,” she said.
“Oh, no, that’s fine. It probably won’t take long, right?”
"No, just a few routine questions," Chase said. He was a lot kinder to Laurelle than he'd been to Boa or the others. Her story had touched a chord. "First off, where were you the night Shana Kenspeckle was killed?" he asked as he cleared away a few magazines and took a seat at the foot of the bed.
“I was right here. Asleep.”
Odelia leaned against the desk. “Can anyone vouch for that?”
Laurelle shook her head. “I sleep alone, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment, so…” Her voice trailed off, and Odelia felt genuinely sorry for the young woman. She looked like a scared little mouse.
“We have to ask,” she said softly.
“Of course. No, I get it. Just ask me anything you want.”
This was probably a waste of time. It was obvious Laurelle wasn’t the killer. She could probably hardly lift that cleaver, let alone wield it with such deadly force and precision. Still, they had to interview everyone on their list.
“There is one other thing we need to discuss, Miss Merritt,” Chase said.
“Yes?” she asked, eyes large.
“We’ve been told about the tape.”
“Yes?”
“The sex tape?” Odelia asked.
Shock appeared in the girl’s eyes. “Who-who told you?”
“That’s not important. Is it true?” asked Chase.
Laurelle buried her face in her hands. “Oh, no.”
“I’m sorry to have to bring this up,” said Chase. “But we need to know.”
She nodded, then said, in a choked voice, “I made that tape back when I was still seeing this guy. He worked as a caterer and I thought he was the one.” She shook her head. “So stupid. He convinced me that to make it in this business I should make a sex tape. It would put my name on the map. Give me exposure. I-I wasn’t totally convinced but-but he was adamant.”
Chase’s jaw was working. If this caterer were here right now he’d probably give him a piece of his mind. And his fist.
Laurelle looked up. “So we made the tape and I sent it to Shana, figuring she’d know what to do with it. She’s got all these contacts, so… And she did show it around. To her sisters and all of their friends. To make fun of me. And to give me points for technique. Apparently I was so bad I was funny.”