Chapter Twenty-Nine
Juliette stood in front of her closet, contemplating her options.
She had plenty of date-night outfits and an entire wardrobe of appropriate boss-bitch armor.
But this was a special circumstance. What kind of outfit said I’m just here because you’re cute and I’m available and not because you’re a potential murder suspect that I’m grilling for information.
Sequins? Miniskirt? Jacket with a built-in hidden camera?
Juliette settled on a bright red micro dress with spaghetti straps and a deep cut in the front that showed off her modest cleavage.
Maybe the hint of boob would distract him enough to let the truth slip, whatever truth that might be.
She’d updated Kate’s evidence chart with what she’d learned from the Piedmonts’ confession: They’d been the ones to dose the whiskey bottle with digitalis, which was how it ended up in Warren’s system.
Brad and Brigitte Ellingham had possibly seen them dose the bottle, and Brigitte had refused to drink it.
She wasn’t sure how or if Clayton could have known about the bottle, unless he’d been working with Brad or Brigitte.
But Clayton had been the last person to touch the microphone before it shorted out, and he’d disappeared to check on new batteries when the AED was discharged.
He’d also been fighting with Brad the day that Brad was killed.
What Juliette couldn’t figure out was motive—what did Clayton stand to gain from Warren’s death? And why kill Brad?
That’s what she and her cleavage planned to figure out.
Clayton had texted her the location of a new restaurant she’d never heard of but had apparently been getting some real buzz online based on the brief internet search she did on her way out the door.
It was centrally located on a well-lit street, at least, so she didn’t have to worry about Clayton luring her into a trap.
Although with how much work it had taken to nail down a time and date for dinner, Juliette had felt like she’d done more of the trapping than anyone.
She wasn’t used to having to work so hard to get a man’s attention.
Honestly, he was lucky she suspected him of murder, because at this point she wouldn’t have given him the time of day.
Speaking of people who wouldn’t give her the time of day, her phone had been suspiciously quiet on the Charlie Hawkins front.
None of his earnest concern for her health and safety, none of his ill-fitting suit jackets for her to make fun of, none of his obsessive rule abiding.
Just … nothing. Meanwhile, she couldn’t brush her freaking teeth without the vibration of her electric toothbrush setting her lips tingling in memory of their incredible kiss.
She found herself daydreaming about it at work, on the train home, while eating spicy wontons at Thai Me Up.
It was all she could think about, and it infuriated her that Charlie didn’t seem to share the obsession.
He’d probably gone home and forgotten all about it, sliced into a heart the next day that was as cold and emotionless as his own.
She’d been out–Ice Queen’d by the unlikeliest of sources, and she spent half of those daydream fantasies turning him down instead.
Juliette took a rideshare to the restaurant, the line to get in greeting her a good block and a half before the driver actually dropped her off.
The sign was in a cool lavender, a discreet glow that announced the place as Chiêu.
Downbeat techno-pop played on speakers around the small front patio with stone tables and personal firepits, and the inside was an intriguing mixture of nature and modernity.
They even had a green wall of living plants complete with a tiny waterfall.
It was the kind of place that looked like you would drop a month’s paycheck on the tab only to swing by Burger King for a large fries on your way home.
She hoped Clayton understood he was paying.
“Welcome to Chiêu,” said a woman in a formfitting black dress and dramatic eye makeup. “Do you have a reservation? We have a walk-in list but I’m afraid the wait is four hours.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Juliette muttered. “I’m meeting Clayton Westminster?”
“Ah, Mr. Westminster,” the woman said without even consulting her tablet. “Of course, wonderful, Ms. Winters. He hasn’t arrived yet, but you’re welcome to wait for him at the bar. I recommend our gin fizz. We steep the orange flower simple syrup in-house.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Juliette said, giving the long line of standby patrons a wry salute before entering.
The bar was situated in the middle of the restaurant, a blown-glass installation hanging overhead that twirled and spun slowly in time to the drowsy music.
It looked impressively expensive, and needlessly precarious.
Her spine stiffened as Clayton appeared at the door, giving her a wave.
He looked as dapper as always in a fine dove gray suit with a soft lavender shirt and a muted silver tie, his hair perfectly combed into place.
But for some reason as Juliette wove through the tables spaced like islands in an archipelago, she found herself longing for a boxy, ill-fitting suit jacket.
No, Juliette. Get it together, you stupid bitch. You’ve got a murder to solve.
“Clayton, hi,” Juliette said in her sultriest voice. Might as well start the psychosexual interrogation tactics early.
“Juliette, you’re a vision, as always,” Clayton said, looking her dress up and down appreciatively. “I’m sorry for all the runaround on scheduling, things have been terribly busy.”
“I can only imagine,” Juliette said as the hostess led them to a table on the tail end of the archipelago, tucked away behind a glass screen with water running through it like a waterfall. “I’m glad we could find the time to do this.”
“As am I,” Clayton said, giving her a warm smile as he ordered a bottle of red wine for the two of them. Juliette knew the label, a French number that was classy enough to fool a sophisticated palate while being on the more affordable end of merlots. Clayton knew his wine as well as his art.
“Tell me more about yourself,” Clayton said as the waiter departed, as if this were an ordinary date. Which, she supposed, he thought it was. “Are you from Seattle?”
“Ah, no,” Juliette said. “I’m from New Hampshire. My parents still live there, but I moved out here for college and fell in love with the West Coast.”
She didn’t, actually. She hated how much it rained, and how when the weather was finally nice enough in the summer the whole city seemed overstuffed with tourists, and how she’d spotted what she was positive had been a mountain lion one time on a nature hike and swore off trail walks and hiking dates forevermore.
But every time she answered her mother’s call, her parents asked when she planned to move back home.
So, she stayed. But Clayton didn’t need to know all of that.
“What do your parents do?” Clayton asked.
“My parents are psychologists,” Juliette said.
“That’s … interesting,” Clayton said in surprise. “Both of them? That must have been quite the dissection at home.”
“Oh, not really,” Juliette said breezily, lying through her absolute teeth. “My parents were good about not bringing their work home.”
Which was more than a lie, but again, Clayton didn’t need to know that.
Nobody needed to know that, except apparently Charlie.
She had blamed her honesty and vulnerability on the head wound and possible concussion at the time, but after obsessing over that night for the past few days, she knew it was more than that.
Charlie had made her feel like talking in a way no one had in a long time.
Possibly ever. He was so interested, and calm, and empathetic in a way that didn’t feel performative like it did with her parents.
She’d long suspected both her parents were narcissists operating at a highly manipulative level.
But then again, maybe that was the result of living with two psychologists.
Everyone starts to look a little pathological.
“What about you?” she asked, eager to turn the topic away from her. “Where are your parents? Still in England?”
Clayton gave a look of mock surprise. “How did you know I was English?”
“The English accent was a big clue,” Juliette said dryly.
Clayton gave her a wry smile. “Do you know, I’ve been in America longer than I ever was in England, except for school. I tried so hard for so long to assimilate my accent. The blokes at school used to tease me mercilessly for being a fussy priss.”
“Probably because you used words like blokes to describe them,” Juliette teased as their waiter brought out the first course.
Something about the plating of the single scallop with a paper-thin slice of preserved lemon on top tugged at Juliette’s memory, but it was possible she’d just spent too much time on Instagram hate-scrolling Juniper’s feed after she got some kind of stupid humanitarian award.
“In hindsight, not the best vocabulary choice,” Clayton admitted.
“My father was a landless aristocrat, rich in titles and not much else. My mother was a debauched daughter of a wealthy New Englander who made his money in franchising mattress stores. They were a match made in hell. He needed her money, she needed his reputability, and neither of them ever needed to be parents. Yet here I am.”
Juliette winced. “Are they still together, your parents?”
“Ah, yes,” Clayton said, his gaze growing distant. “Side by side in the family mausoleum back in Staffordshire.”
Juliette blinked in surprise. “Your parents are dead? I’m so sorry.”