The Dangerous Edge of Things

CHAPTER 30

Gabriella’s Day Spa and Boutique lay behind Lenox Square Mall, not three blocks from Trey’s condo and within walking distance of the Ritz. It was hardly impressive from the parking lot, especially in the monochromatic gray drizzle, and there was a closed sign on the door. Trey ignored it. I followed suit.

Inside was a surprise. Small but lavish, it smelled of sandalwood incense and beeswax candles. We stood in the boutique area, surrounded by tiny cocktail dresses and pointy-toed heels on marble columns. The spa area lay to the right, through an arched doorway. I heard female voices beyond it, saw some votives shimmering around a soft gold loveseat.

A woman stuck her head around the corner. Her red hair was piled on her head in careless ringlets, and she had enormous green eyes, round like a cat’s.

“Trey!” she exclaimed.

She hurried over, and I noticed that even though she wore white pants and a matching baby tee, her feet were bare. She took his hands in hers, and he let her do it, even let her press a kiss to his cheek, but his face registered no emotion at the contact. She, however, looked positively enraptured.

“You must be Gabriella,” I said.

“And you must be Tai. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her voice carried the vowels of someplace European. France, I decided. I slid a look at Trey, but he was examining this red dress, running one finger along the beaded neckline.

“I need a tuxedo for Friday night,” he said.

“So I’ll see you at the reception after all.” She took his arm. “Don’t pout. Come on back and we’ll double-check your measurements. It looks like you’ve been overworking your deltoids again.”

“It’s the Krav.”

Then they disappeared behind this burgundy curtain, leaving me alone. I examined the red dress that had caught Trey’s eye. It was gorgeous, all right, a glittering length of red beading and tiny sequins with a thigh-high slit like a bolt of lightning. I fingered the price tag, whistled under my breath.

I could hear the two of them talking behind the curtain, but I couldn’t catch what they were saying, so I moved closer. It wasn’t eavesdropping, per se, just paying attention to a conversation of which I wasn’t a part. I heard her laugh, softly, heard his monosyllabic reply. I took another step toward the curtain.

That’s when I saw the photograph.

It was just lying there behind the counter, half covered with other mail. I reached over—casually, like I was looking for a pen or something—and brushed the envelope aside so I could get a better look.

It was the exact same shot that Mark had brought to Trey, the one Charley had confiscated. Lying next to it was the envelope from Snoopshots. Apparently Mark Beaumont wasn’t the only one who’d gotten Dylan’s sales pitch—he’d obviously sent the same shots to Gabriella, hoping to impress her with his photographic genius.

And then I noticed something else, something I’d missed the first time.

I snatched up the photos and marched the whole lot right into the dressing room. Trey was standing very still while Gabriella ran a tape measure across the back of his shoulders.

I shoved the photo at him. “That’s her, standing outside of the frame.”

“Who?”

“Eliza.” I tapped the image. “See? That hand there, on Charley’s waist?”

Trey looked where I was pointing. “How do you know that’s Eliza?”

“The silver cuff bracelet. She was wearing it when she died. I remember it vividly.”

“Let me see.” Gabriella stood, peered over his shoulder. “That’s a bracelet from my silverwork collection.”

“So you knew her?”

“The girl who was killed? Eliza? Not very well. She came in here sometimes, but she rarely bought anything.”

“Except this bracelet.”

Gabriella looked at me pointedly. “It’s from my more accessible line.”

“You mean it’s the only thing somebody like Eliza could afford?”

“Yes. She seemed to enjoy looking, though, and she asked a lot of questions about my clients, especially Charley.”

“That didn’t seem odd to you?”

She shrugged. “People ask about Charley all the time.”

“But you remember this girl in particular. Why?”

“Because this girl asked very personal questions. Other people bring in magazines and say, I want this, or, do you have shoes like that? But this girl wanted to know about Charley, not the clothes. And for a while she showed up right after Charley did, within minutes.”

“Did you tell Charley any of this?”

“Of course. She didn’t seem concerned. In the end, the girl stopped coming here, and I stopped worrying.”

While she spoke, she continued to take Trey’s measurements, running her pink tape measure around his waist, across his chest. There was familiarity in her touch.

“And now the girl’s dead,” I said.

Gabriella tucked the tape in her pocket. “Yes. But what does that have to do with Charley?”

“It has everything to do with Charley! Eliza was obsessed with her in way that goes far beyond some celebrity crush! She’s got her hand on Charley’s waist, for crying out loud!” I turned to Trey. “Now will you believe me when I say there’s something fishy going on with the Beaumonts?”

He handed the photo back to me. “There’s a logical reason—”

“Of course there is! Charley took this picture from your office because she’s trying to cover up a link between her and Mark and this girl. I can’t believe you don’t see it!”

“Hundreds of people are linked to the Beaumonts.”

“But why her, why here, why at this party? She was a receptionist, how could she afford a Mardi Gras party that cost two hundred bucks a ticket?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she bring a date?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were there! Didn’t you see her?”

“There were 587 people at that event.”

I started to argue, but then I remembered the other photographs in my hand. I took them over to a cushioned bench and dumped them out. If Gabriella was annoyed that I’d been going through her stuff, she didn’t say anything—she just joined me as I sifted through them.

“You got these from Dylan Flint,” I said.

“Yes. I wasn’t the only one. Several of my friends who were at the Mardi Gras ball got the same package.”

“Didn’t you think that was strange?”

“I’ve seen much stranger promotions than dropping off samples of one’s work.”

The photos looked identical to the ones Dylan had sent Mark Beaumont. They contained Mark and Charley and Senator Adams, my brother and the mayor. And then, in the background, another familiar face, only this time he wasn’t holding a toilet brush.

“Jake Whitaker,” I said.

Gabriella twisted her mouth in a tight knot. “Him.”

“You know him?”

She examined her fingernails like Rico did, fingers curled in a loose fist. “That night at the ball, he wouldn’t leave me alone. And then he showed up here the next morning.”

Trey’s head snapped back. “You didn’t tell me this.”

She waved him quiet. “It was only once, and I made it clear this was a place of business, and that if he had none, he needed to leave. He hasn’t returned.” She switched her cat-eyes back to me again. “Why all the questions?”

“Yes,” Trey echoed, “why all the questions?”

I tapped the next photograph. “This is why.”

It showed Eliza, her face half-turned away from the camera, her eyes bright and cunning. She had on a shiny purple dress, and standing right at her elbow…

Nikki. She wore a black cocktail dress and looked directly at the camera, but Eliza’s gaze was fastened elsewhere, on someone not in frame. I would have bet my emergency cigarette that it was one of the damn Beaumonts, uncaptured by the lens, visible only in Eliza’s hungry, fascinated eyes.

Trey tilted his head to examine it. “Who is that?”

“It’s Nikki, this stripper friend Janie keeps talking about, from Beau Elan.”

“Why is she important?”

“Do you remember those rumors Marisa mentioned, about Mark and Eliza? I was blaming Dylan and his stupid blog, but what if Nikki started them? Or Jake Whitaker. He was there, she was there, they were there. Maybe this didn’t start at Mardi Gras—maybe it started at Beau Elan.”

Trey’s expression switched to mildly interested. “Go on.”

“So maybe Mark and Eliza really were having an affair. Maybe Jake really does know something. After all, you said he was lying about her being nice.”

“But Marisa says—”

“Like Marisa knows everything. The point is, this is something we need to pursue. And I know exactly where to start.”

“I don’t think—”

I held out my hand. “Rock, scissors, paper.”

He frowned. “Again?”

I stuck my hand out. He did the same. And on three, I laid my flat palm over his closed fist.

“Paper covers rock,” I said. “Again.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at the photographs in my hand, then addressed Gabriella. “Do you mind if we keep those?”

She shook her pretty head. “Of course not. If it will help.”

“It will.” He checked his watch, then looked at me. “We leave in eight minutes. Get your questions ready.”