Chapter 7 #3
Spread out on the floor of my turret room, I organized and reorganized the pictures and notes, trying to find some cohesion and only coming up with a headache.
Muffin joined me, climbing his huge body up onto my bed with a heavy sigh so he could droop his head down to stare at me over the edge of the mattress.
“Any ideas, doggo?” I sighed. “Maybe Heath’s right and I’m paranoid and dramatic. ”
Muffin huffed.
“Okay, he didn’t say dramatic. I don’t think.
Did he? But he did really heavily hint at it, at least.” I moved one of the notes (Anmorata tricked by Tubbs.
Casting couch???) earlier in the timeline, to Wednesday night.
The Beth had looked a little lived in, I figured, so Tubbs likely hadn’t just moved his things over right before I got there.
The fight made the most sense for Wednesday night.
I made another note—Tubbs’ pmt rejected from inn and overlaid it with the fight sticky note.
So what did I know... He had money troubles (another note: beat up car, image is everything to Tubbs), he was allegedly getting a movie started, he offered me a role (wait.
.. did he lie about that? Make it up on the fly?
Or did he come here to find me on purpose?) More sticky notes now, these on the bottom half of the board where I was collecting ideas and not-evidence that I didn’t have a place on the timeline for yet.
Things like reminders to call Rory and ask about Tubbs shopping around a movie lately.
Talk to Belinda about Anmorata. Hell, talk to Carmel about her while I was at it.
I eyed the picture from the cocktail party, the one where I could just make out a flash of blue hair and the side of a woman’s face with dark, dark, dark winged eyeliner and a slash of deep purple blush, probably some color called Grieving Widow or Crushed Dreams. She stood out in Lester Cove—I didn’t know her, couldn’t have even told someone her name until earlier today, but I’d seen her around town a few times.
Mostly at the library and sitting in the front row the handful of times I’d given a talk or run a little workshop for the community theatre group.
She’d been attentive, quiet, and a teeny tiny bit weird in a way that had nothing to do with her aesthetic.
She’d stared.
A lot.
Like... an uncomfortable amount.
I texted Max before I could stop myself. If someone doesn’t blink for like ten minutes at a time, that’s weird, right?
I had rearranged some of my sticky notes two or three times before he replied.
Max: Both medically and socially.
I chuffed a quiet laugh at that, sitting back on my heels to admire and despair over my board from a new vantage point. The pink notes about Anmorata were sparse while the yellow ones I’d used for Tubbs were thick enough to be a problem.
After a few minutes’ dithering, I took a picture of the board and sent it to Max, mentally holding my breath and counting until he called.
“That took four minutes,” I said by way of greeting when the phone rang. “Are you slowing down?”
“Are you crazy?” he huffed. The background was quiet and had that muffled quality of hotel room silence. “Again?”
“It’s just a thinking board!”
“Okay,” he muttered. “Thinking about murder!”
“It’s not like that...” I trailed off under his annoyed silence. “Okay it’s a little like that. Like just a tiny bit. A microscopic particle.”
He sighed heavily, the sound on his end of the line changing as he moved from wherever he was with voices in the background to somewhere quiet. The click of a door closing then locking was followed by another sigh. “Video call time.”
A few minutes later, I had my phone propped up against the sofa as I showed him my thinking board, Muffin helpfully standing behind it for size comparison.
Or waiting for treats. Whichever. “So which is it,” Max asked once I’d run him through the entire thing.
“Are you thinking Anmorata had something to do with Tubbs’ death, or that she’s your pap stalker? You can’t have it both ways.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but paused mid hey.
Gingerly, I moved the sticky note with the fight between Anmorata and Tubbs down the line of pictures, placing it just under the image of me taken through the front window of Witte House.
“And she couldn’t take the shot of me and Tubbs talking, because she’s in it,” I muttered, making another note and placing it under that pic.
“I know you were hoping it was something simple,” Max said, “but she can’t be both involved in his death and the stalker pap, not unless she’s got magic powers or somehow became a time traveler.”
“Given how this year’s been going, might not be too far out of the realm of possibility.”
“Show me the pics again.”
I moved my phone closer to the board as we dissected the angles, the lighting, the possibilities. “I can’t shake the idea that Tubbs argument with Anmorata was tied to his accident though.”
Max leaned back—he was in his trailer on set, in the bedroom area, and leaning against the plasticky fake wood of the headboard.
His eyes were dark-bagged and red-shot, but I knew without him telling me he still had several more hours ahead of him.
Movie shoots were a lot of hurry up and wait, but when you were on, it was a slog.
“I love you, Damien. Nothing you can say or do will ever change that.”
My turn to sigh. “But?”
“But... I think maybe Heath is right. You’re seeing ghosts where there’s nothing. He was expecting you so had out two glasses. He was on a boat, slipped, fell, hit his head and that was it. No one pushed him or poisoned him.”
“But... the fight on the boat?”
“You said he had a cat?”
As if summoned, Charlemagne sauntered into the room, holding one of his crinkle toys in his teeth. He wedged himself between me and the phone, staring at Max before dropping the toy and meandering over to give Muffin a death glare that made Muffin roll onto his back and wiggle happily.
Weirdo.
“I’m sorry,” Max said slowly. “What the hell was that?”
“Charlemagne. He’s Tubbs’ cat. He’s naked.”
Charlemagne made a yowly, rumbly sound and batted at Muffin’s ears.
Max winced. “Okay, if the neighbors heard that and maybe Tubbs talking to him? I can totally see how they’d think there was a fight. Especially if they had their own noise going on.”
Charlemagne made another weird sound, this time ending in a sort of prolonged purr-meow as he stretched out beside Muffin and proceeded to lick his own paws.
“It’s just...” I trailed off, a knot of annoyance and embarrassment lodged firmly under my ribs. “It just feels off, you know?”
“Babe, I’m no shrink, but I think what happened over the summer is messing with your head. Was this a weird coincidence? Hell yes. But that doesn’t mean Tubbs was murdered too. He died. He sucked, he was a terrible person, and he died. End of.”
“He was offering me a role in a movie,” I admitted quietly. “And I think I might’ve said yes.”
Max was very quiet for a long time. It was probably just a handful of seconds but it felt eternal. Finally, he blew out a harsh breath and shook his head. “Damien, that would not have been a good idea.”
I didn’t get a chance to dissect that further. Someone knocked on Max’s door, shouting his scene was next and to get a move on. “Shit. Okay, we’ll talk later. Oh! Hey—maybe call Paul again? He knows a ton of those pap types and he might be able to help get a bead on whoever’s selling pics of you.”
Promises to talk later we flung wildly between us and Max disconnected.
Refusing to give myself time to put it off, I pulled up Paul’s number and, going against my natural instincts, called rather than texted.
I was almost relieved when he didn’t answer and it went to voicemail.
I left him an awkward, short message reminding him of who I was and asking him to text me ASAP.
I hesitated, adding, “I have a paid job for you.”