The Last Cheerleader. Meg O'Brien
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handy with piecrust.”
He looked at me intently and I had to look away.
“Okay,” I said, flushing. “I got them at the store. You think I really had time to cook?”
He smiled. “But you heated them up so well.”
“I did, didn’t I? It’s a talent I have…heating things up.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” he said, grinning.
“Why, Detective, are you flirting with me?”
“You’re the one who made the comment,” he countered. “What else did you have in mind?”
“I, uh…nothing, really. And by the way, you’re moving awfully fast.”
“I don’t mean to. I’d just like to get the sex stuff out of the way so we can get down to business.”
I felt my face grow hot. “Sex stuff? Detective Rucker, wherever is your mind? And what do you mean by business?”
“I mean the real reason you invited me here,” he said.
“You suspect me of having a secret agenda?”
“I suspect you of just about everything right now, Mary Beth Conahan.”
He said it easily, as if he were merely commenting on the weather.
“The key word is suspect,” I replied. “You have absolutely no evidence that I had anything to do with any of those murders. You can’t possibly have, because I didn’t commit them.”
He shrugged and took a long swallow of the wine. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. I just figured if I came here tonight you might feel more comfortable about telling the truth.”
“Then you’ve wasted your time,” I said, “because I already have.” I took a sip of the Chardonnay. “I honestly don’t know who killed Tony and Arnold. Or Craig.”
“But you know something you aren’t saying. I’d bet my badge on it.”
“Then I hope your badge doesn’t mean too much to you.”
“It means everything. I wouldn’t bet it if I weren’t sure.”
“I think dinner’s just about ready,” I said, looking at my watch and changing the subject. “I don’t cook much, so I hope you like Poor Man’s Lasagna.”
He smiled. “Poor Man’s Lasagna? What’s that?”
“You cook some pasta, then layer it in a casserole dish with tomato sauce, garlic, sour cream, cream cheese and Monterey Jack. Takes about twenty minutes to pull it all together.”
“Sounds absolutely wonderful. A sure way to harden the arteries.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Not at all. It’s my favorite kind of food.”
A man after my own heart—if only he weren’t here to tear it out and roast it on a spit. I’d have to tread carefully with Detective Dan Rucker.
We were having after-dinner coffee, on the deck with Bailey’s Irish Cream, my excuse for an easy dessert. It had grown dark, and I’d plugged in the little fairy lights around the railing. The night air was warm, even balmy, and the ocean waves were soft and muted. Thanks to the Santa Ana winds, the sky was clear now, and the moon illuminated the shoreline all the way down to Palos Verdes.
“There was a small piece on the evening news about Craig Dinsmore,” Dan said, leaning back lazily in his chair, his feet on the middle railing. “They said he’d once been on the track to stardom, but he’d fallen off track along the way. A ‘friend’ they interviewed said it was alcoholism, but that Dinsmore had recently cleaned up and was fighting his way back. The anchor ended up by saying in somber tones, ‘…only to end up dead in a seedy motel room.”’
“They’d make the most of that, of course. It’s a great story for the media.”
“Is any of it true?” he asked.
“Most of it, more or less. He did clean up and I’ve been negotiating a good contract for his current book. I’m not so sure about the next one. I saw a manuscript at Craig’s motel room, just before the El Segundo police came crashing in. It wasn’t the kind of book he told me he was writing.”
“What kind was it?”
“One of those Hollywood tell-alls,” I said. “Nothing especially new or original.” I remembered that the manuscript had seemed familiar to me, and suddenly I thought I knew why. Not for certain, but I had my suspicions. I’d have to go online and see if I was right.
“What about Tony Price?” Dan asked. “He was a best-seller, right?”
“Not if you want to be grammatical. A best-seller is a book. An author is a ‘best-selling author.’ Or to be even more grammatical, a ‘writer of best-selling books.”’
“I stand corrected,” he said, smiling. “Does it make a real difference?”
“Not unless you’ve got a tiny little editor sitting on your shoulder and you get bugged by those things.”
He shook his head. “Living with you must be a challenge.”
“Well, no one’s ever had to come up to that challenge,” I said, smiling sweetly, “so no problem.” Then, sobering, I added, “Except, of course, poor Arnold.”
Rucker was silent a moment. Then he said, “To get back to Tony Price, I would imagine that losing him will put a dent in your income.”
“Eventually,” I said casually, with more bravado than honesty. “There are still royalties to come in on his last book, and option money if a movie is made from it.” I took a sip of my coffee and shrugged.
“And Craig Dinsmore?” he asked. “He wasn’t making any money for you at all?”
I shook my head. “Not much lately. A few royalties from his older best-selling books. Some from foreign sales. The book that’s at the publisher’s should do quite well, though. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.”
“Okay. But while you’re wondering about that, enlighten me, please, about the Chinese dildos.”
He seemed surprised. “You recognized them as that?”
“Sure. I have a couple of gay authors and they’re a hot item in West Hollywood right now. Word goes around at parties, so yes, I’ve heard about them. Ancient Chinese sex artifacts, quite expensive. They were the murder weapons, right?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” he answered, looking away.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You may take it as that, but like I said—”
“You’re not at liberty to say. But you know, I’ve been thinking. It’d take a lot of strength to bash someone in the forehead with one of those. Hard enough to kill them, anyway. And here we’ve got three someones. It would almost have to be a man.”
“Or a very strong woman,” he said, looking at me. “Someone who works out a lot, for instance.”
“Ah…so you are here on a fishing expedition. You think I killed them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not saying much of anything. So what can you tell me? This little ête-à-tête has to be mutual, or I’m clamming up.”
“You’ve already clammed up,” he said. “You haven’t told me a thing I can use to find the killer.”
“Well, that shouldn’t bother you too much, since you half suspect that I’m it.”
“You