Chapter 14
The first message to pop up when I got my phone working Monday afternoon was from my mom, asking if I was okay since she hadn’t heard from me in a few days and she’d seen some gossip posts and she was hoping I wasn’t involved in another murder.
“Phrasing, Mom, phrasing,” I muttered, giving Charlemagne a distracted scritch as he prowled along the back of the sofa. “Let’s hope no one decides to hack my messages and gets the wrong idea.”
The next several were from Max.
Max: Want to hear something weird? Hightower STFU about the money. Ask me why.
Max: Okay guessing you’re still in the Stone Ages without a phone. He GOT HIS MONEY.
Max: He was drinking his lunch and let slip ‘that bastard finally paid up.’
Max: Which is weird since he was aware Tubbs=dead.
“What the hell?” I muttered.
I called Max. “You’re back in the modern era,” he crowed as soon as he answered. “Now, for my next trick, I’m buying you a steel box for your phone because good god.”
“How about I just stop running into people who want to hurt me?” I asked, stretching out just a little. “I got your texts.”
“Cutting right to the chase,” he teased.
“Nice. Just a sec.” He muffled the phone against his chest, his conversation on the other end a low rumble and a laugh.
When he came back he sighed. “I have to go soon—Hightower’s throwing a dinner party at this little Michelin starred place near the castle we’ve been filming in.
I think he’s got his eye on one of the servers or something because he’s gone there three times this week. ”
I winced at his jaw-cracking yawn and waited for him to finish before speaking again. “Are you sure Hightower said Tubbs paid up? He’s been dead since at least Thursday night.”
“He said that bastard but since Tubbs had been the one he’d been on about owing him money...” Max trailed off. I could practically hear the shrug. “I figured it was his estate or something.”
“I’m not a lawyer but I live with one who just happens to do contract law, which includes wills and probates. If I’ve learned nothing else from that, it’s the fact that estates take forever to process stuff. Whoever paid Hightower wasn’t Tubbs.”
Max made an uncomfortable, uneasy sound in his throat. “Are you sure he’s dead?” he asked finally.
“Super dead. Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?”
“Oh god, is it another video? Because I’ll do it since I love you but it’s super awkward.”
“It’s not that bad. Just ask Hightower in a roundabout way how Tubbs was able to pay him if he’s dead.”
Max was quiet for a long time. I could hear the background noise of his trailer—the hum of the tiny a/c unit going full blast, the shuffle of fabric as he moved on the sofa, the distant call of his PA’s voice reminding him he had to call Kathleen.
Finally, when he spoke, it was on a ragged sigh.
“I don’t even begin to know how to go about that, Damien.
And even if I did, I don’t know how it would affect my career.
You might not have to worry about that right now but—” His teeth clicked audibly over the connection as he bit down on the rest of that sentence.
“Wow.” I barely recognized my own voice, it was so raspy and thin even on just one small word. “Okay then. You’re right. I shouldn’t endanger your career.”
“Damien, that came out wrong. I just mean that right now, you’re not really doing anything and you’re kind of low key...” He hissed another annoyed breath. “Shit. Listen—”
“No, it didn’t come out wrong. It really didn’t. It’s fine. Look, you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you from work. So I’ll just give you a call tomorrow or something, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “Damien...”
“I love you but I’m really hurt right now. You’re not wrong, but my pride is pricked and that’s a me problem. Not you. Tomorrow, okay? I love you.”
Max sighed softly. “Okay. Love you too.”
After we hung up, I sat on the sofa, one shoe off and one still in Neverland with Muffin. Alone.
And wallowing in self-pity which, historically for me, usually led to some pretty bad choices. Dying my hair platinum blond, the weeklong eyebrow piercing, accepting a date with Rory’s friend Lorne who had more ear hair than should be legal.
Signing on to that reality show that got canned after one episode due to the producer snorting all of our paychecks.
“I should go take a nap,” I murmured to Charlemagne, who padded over to the sofa and jumped up beside me to glare.
“Answer Rory’s messages. Make my social media post. I was thinking this time do one about the beach glass or something, you know?
Something light and fun and makes it look like I’m having a good time. ”
Right on cue, my phone buzzed with incoming notifications.
I knew, if I looked, most of them would be about the pap pics or the announcement of Tubbs’ death and my ‘connection.’ Maybe a few would be weirdly parasocial, some would ask about Max.
And I just didn’t want to deal with any of it at the moment.
Maybe Max was right and I did need a PA again.
“I could take out the trash and recycling,” I sighed. “Get stuff done. Act like an adult.”
I sank back against the cushions and closed my eyes. Then opened them again, sitting up so suddenly Charlemagne mrow’d at me. “Recycling! Yes!”
#
CLARENCE WAS STILL behind the desk when I got back to the library, cast itching like crazy thanks to the sweat dripping down my arms and back from my run through town.
"Hey," he said, eyes wide and expression arrested somewhere between excitement and concern.
"Um, did you forget something? Or are you just really desperate for a library card? "
"Forgot," I panted. "Okay, kind of just... an idea."
"Take a breath before Nessie hears you and comes running," he hissed, motioning for me to follow him. "She's already wondering what you were up to earlier. She thinks you’re weird.”
"That's going to make this next part awkward," I chuckled weakly. "Have you emptied out the recycling bin from the copiers since Tubbs was here?"
He shook his head slowly, brow furrowing. "No? Recycling isn't picked up till Thursdays so we usually wait till Wednesday night to take it all out to the green cart but it was Melinda’s turn this week and she forgot. Why?"
"The papers you were doing for Tubbs, you said you had to bin two pages of it."
Clarence's eyes widened. "Yeah... You want me to find them? What is this about?"
"I can't say. It might be a little illegal," I added when his face pinched into a disappointed, hurt frown. "But if this ends up being helpful, you're so going on one of my Insta stories."
That perked him right up. Clarence shoved a library card application and pen at me. "Here, look busy. Nessie is coming off break and it won't look suspicious for you to be standing there."
I'd filled it out, doodled a little in one corner, and let Nessie process the application by the time Clarence returned.
He had a thick book with a clear Mylar library cover in one hand, eyes a little wide.
Work with me his expression said. I gave a tiny nod.
"Here it is! I knew we had it, exactly what you asked for. "
I took the book, The Secret Life of Quahogs: A Deep Dive Into A Vital Part of Maine's Maritime Economy, and smiled. "Perfect!"
Nessie eyed the title. "Seriously? You want to know more about...clams?"
Smiling brightly, I nodded. "They're a vital part of Maine's maritime economy!"
Clarence stifled a snort and busied himself at the returns cart. Nessie just nodded slowly and ran the checkout process for me. "Two weeks. I'll, uh, see if we have any other books about quahogs in this branch if you'd like."
"I'll let you know."
#
THE COPIES HAD ALMOST been too dark. They were crumpled now and one had a mysterious stain on the corner I assumed was coffee, but despite all of that I was able to make out some of the page.
"Elizabeth Marie Ellison," I read to Charlemagne and Muffin, who'd come to keep me company in Ben's office.
It had the best light downstairs and, really, it just felt more official to do this at a desk than hunching over the kitchen table.
And aesthetics are important: between the view of the back yard and the stunning floor to ceiling bookshelves behind Ben's antique oak desk with the leather blotter pad, it was very Poirot vibes.
I even busted out my glasses for the occasion, my contacts making my tired eyes feel gritty and hot.
Under the bright light of Ben's desk lamp with the Tiffany style shade, I read more. "Whole life, twenty million... Jesus, it's alright to be some people, isn't it? Well. Maybe not, considering she's dead..."
The second page was a tiny bit easier to read, but not by much. It took me longer and the addition of two painkillers to figure out what I was seeing. "Oh hey now. This one isn't insurance."
Charlemagne walked over, paws sending papers sliding across the desk as he perched in front of me like he could read the document too.
"Probate Court, County of Los Angeles," I read. Charlemagne's tail whapped side to side, thumping against the old desk phone and a pen cup, rattling both.
"Yeah, you're right. But I don't want to ask him anything. He'll come zooming back from Boston so fast..."
Charlemagne growled.
"I know, I know. Maybe I can just google it."
Despite being of The Internet Generation, as one of those fusty old magazines called people my age, it took me an hour to find the right combination of information to plug in only to find out that yes, the county court did make probate records publicly available but no, I couldn't get them online.
I'd need an in-person visit. "Or for my lawyer to reach out," I muttered, giving Charlemagne a sideways glance. He looked smug, being proven right.
And god, I needed to get out more.