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  I whipped under a portico the size of a basketball court and held aloft by flat, stacked fieldstone columns and slowed at the sight of a resort security guard. I stopped and wound down my window and flashed my badge.

  I recognized Suze Eggers right off. She was the best friend of my next door neighbor, Dottie Harper. Suze strutted up to my car, all proud of the sharp black-and-tan uniform, which accentuated her lean, athletic body. I knew she worked security for Black, but to me, she had a gargantuan attitude problem. I sometimes wondered about her sexual orientation, although Dottie assured me she was as straight as the proverbial arrow.

  “Well, well, Detective Claire Morgan, up with the birds and lookin’ fine.”

  See what I mean? Maybe Dot was kidding herself about the gay thing.

  “Hi, Suze, what’s going on? Dispatch said there’s been a murder.”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, you got yourself a murder, all right. All cooked up for breakfast.”

  Huh?

  Suze grinned, made a deal out of pulling off her fancy tan hat with the Cedar Bend logo. She propped her palm on the roof of my car and leaned into the window. She smelled strongly of a unisex Calvin Klein cologne; I forget which one. I had to resist the urge to roll up the window and talk to her through the glass. She said, “Lady got whacked out at one of them fancy gated bungalows. You know the ones I mean? Out on the point goin’ for a coupla grand a week.” Suze seemed pleased about the murder. Not a healthy sign.

  She stopped talking and ogled me a minute. It must’ve taken her a good long time to get her white-blond hair up into those stylish spikes that fell over just a little on the ends. She had thick, straight eyebrows over dark, nervous eyes. Maybe she was just excited. Uh-oh, not good.

  “Fact is,” Suze lowered her voice, and I guess she thought we were real cop cohorts now, “weird ain’t near bad enough to describe this perp. He whacked her good, then came back for seconds.”

  Gangster speak was flowing now. A regular female Tony Soprano. I pictured her in front of a mirror, plastic water gun in hand, muttering things like “Fuhgeddabout it, or You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to ME?”

  “Did you find the body, Suze?”

  Her eyes darted around some more. “Old lady found the body, one of the guests.”

  I said, “What about the victim?”

  “She’s a big-time VIP, just like the chick that found her. All them out there are loaded. They had condos next door to each other. The old lady says she gets up early and takes a swim out to that big floatin’ dock Black’s got out off the point, said she does the same thing every day. Anyways, minute she saw the dead girl, she went all hysterical and nearly drowned herself before she made it back to her place. She punched the panic button and held it down till I got there. Took me four minutes to get out there, and she was still screamin’ her friggin’ head off. I called in you guys right off. I did it by the book, Detective. I know procedures. I’ve been studying to be a cop.”

  Great. “Did you touch anything at the scene?”

  Suze frowned and ran her fingers through her gelled hairdo. We both looked to see how much goop she’d raked out. She wiped the stuff on her pants. “I told you, I know procedure. I ain’t touched nothin’. I went over and checked out the body to make sure the old broad wasn’t seein’ things.”

  “And you secured the perimeter after you called dispatch?”

  “You bet. Guarded the road myself right here till the first uniform showed up. Name’s O’Hara, I think. She got here in less than ten. She’s that hot new chick that Charlie hired on.”

  I rest my case. I pulled the gearshift back. “Okay, Suze, where do I go?”

  “Take the main road down ’bout a mile, I reckon. It dead-ends at Doctor Black’s private gate, and that’s something you can’t miss, trust me. It’s gotta big brass B on it. Hang a left there, and follow that road down to the water. It’s got its own security gate, but your partner said to leave it open until you showed up.”

  So Bud beat me to the scene. That would cost me a dozen Krispy Kremes. “Listen, Suze, nobody goes down this road except for officers and the crime-scene team, got it?”

  “Yeah, sure. Guests out here don’t drag outta bed till noon, anyways. Wild parties go on all night; then everybody sleeps in till their appointment with the doc.”

  I told Suze not to talk about the crime scene and then accelerated down the shady blacktop road. Hundreds of red roses festooned the split-rail fences along the way, and I could smell them, sweet and summery and vaguely reminiscent of prom corsages. I only went to a prom once, but I did get a rose corsage. It was a fake one, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

  It was still cool, but by nine o’clock, the sun would broil everyone alive. July was hot as hell in Missouri, unlike California’s paradise weather. I drove past closed private gates guarding luxury condos hidden in woodsy tracts.

  Now I was invading the most exclusive area, where bungalows nestled in jeweled glades and thick woods touched the water. Black must’ve hired a hundred or so ex-Disney World gardeners to landscape the place. Flowering orange trumpet vines decorated security cameras, and there were plenty watching from tall poles. Strangers loitering here would stick out like Michael Jordan on a junior high basketball team. Black’s security, however, obviously had not done the trick. I’d have to interview every staff member to see if anyone had seen any unwelcome lurkers on the grounds.

  Black’s gate loomed up, all ostentatious and gaudy. Somewhere on the other side of that mighty portal worthy of Buckingham Palace, Nicholas Black had magically transplanted a Hollywood-style estate smack dab to the Ozark hills. What I wanted to know was why? I’d actually seen it from the water once when I was fishing with Dottie. The sun reflected off three stories of plate glass windows in a migraine-inspiring glare. The original Cedar Bend was built in 1962, and about five years ago Black had bought it dirt cheap out of bankruptcy and then spent several million remodeling the place. Story was that he saw the view, liked it, and couldn’t rest until he owned it. A real Donald Trump, MD style. A major celebrity, he was always in the news for something and usually sporting a busty blonde on his arm. Another penchant shared with The Donald. Not that he wasn’t devilishly good-looking himself, I had to admit.

  I braked and studied the gate of the victim’s condo. Thrown wide open, no guard in sight. Great police work, that. I turned in and, after thirty yards of steep descent, saw the private bungalow. All logs, fieldstone, and glass, beautifully framed by swaying blue-green cedars and deep green lake water.

  A dark brown sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to Bud’s unmarked white Bronco. Connie O’Hara, pretty, blond, twenty-five, and impossibly skinny in her brown uniform, stood alone in the driveway. Charlie had hired the young woman at my urging, and I was glad another female had cracked the department. Young and untried, O’Hara had potential, number three in the police academy and on the Kansas City force until her highway-patrolmen husband was transferred south. We practiced on the shooting range and sometimes worked out in the weight room together. So far she was doing just fine.

  Then I saw the silver van and the two guys scrambling out of it. Oh, wonderful, Peter Hastings and Jake, his obnoxious cameraman. I killed the engine and got out. Within seconds Hastings had ambushed me with Jake’s camera rolling. I averted my face and kept walking. The brash producer was almost as disgusting as his stupid TV show. Touted as honoring real cops, On The Beat did more sensationalizing of crime scenes than honoring anybody.

  Why Hastings and his crew had trekked down to the hinterland of the Missouri Ozarks to immortalize a backwater sheriff’s department was a more interesting question, and nobody seemed to have a good answer. But watch out now, Hastings had hit the jackpot—a murder to exploit—and he was up for the job.

  I nodded to O’Hara and tried to outstride the reporter, but Pete would not be deterred. Both men scuttled like cockroaches and cut off my path, and the camera was zeroed in close up when I ducked under the yell
ow crime scene tape and headed for the front door of the bungalow.

  “Give us a statement, Detective Morgan? Reliable sources tell us this is a homicide. Can you confirm that for our viewers?”

  Fairly certain he was fishing, I paused, and because Charlie had ordered us all to be polite to the TV crew, I addressed his questions. “I just arrived on scene, Mr. Hastings; any comment at this time would be inappropriate.”

  Hastings stuck a live mike over the yellow tape. “Is it true the victim’s a famous actress here to kick a cocaine habit? Can you confirm that much, Detective? Can you tell us who she is?”

  I hoped to hell it wasn’t true, and I wanted to know who’d tipped off Hastings. Jacqee or Suze? “No comment. Tell you what, sir, it might be better to take that camera and wait at the entrance gate until we’re finished here. Deputy O’Hara, please escort Mr. Hastings and his cameraman to the gate at the top of the hill and keep everybody out until we’re finished with the crime scene.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Trying not to smirk, O’Hara ushered the newsmen away from the bungalow. Hastings muttered under his breath, and what he said was not pretty. I gladly left O’Hara to deal with the media morons and walked over the quaint, humpbacked little bridge that led onto a wraparound porch. Terra-cotta urns over-flowed with brilliant scarlet geraniums along the planked walkway and deck. The house was spacious, built of rustic brown wood, and it jutted out over the water in an impressive feat of engineering. There were a few windows facing the road, but I bet there were plenty more facing the lake.

  The surrounding woods were quiet. Waves gently lapped weathered pilings, and one ecstatic robin warbled his heart out somewhere high atop a tree. I could understand now why celebrities landed out here in the boondocks to screw their heads on straight. Quiet, peaceful, private, no traffic, no sirens, the place could ease the stress, all right. Except that now a murderer had come calling to our little utopia in the woods.

  2

  Bud Davis was standing inside the front door, grinning his big, cheesy grin. He spoke with a Georgia drawl that made the gals go all weak-kneed and faint, except for me, of course; I am immune. But most ladies were not, and he used the Southern charm like a fisherman uses a spinnerbait lure.

  “Maybe you oughta keep a box of Krispy Kremes in your car since I always beat you to the scene.” Thirty-two years old and handsome in a boyish way, Bud had thick auburn hair and a salon haircut that Tom Brokaw would die for. Although he’d had the misfortune to be named after his daddy’s favorite beer, wardrobe wise, Ralph Lauren had nothing on him. How he had ever lowered himself to work vice in Atlanta I couldn’t imagine, though I was glad he’d grown tired of the big city and moved up here, where he could enjoy hiking and hunting. Once I’d made him show me proof that he’d ever in his life had one hair out of place, and he’d come up with a Polaroid of himself undercover in a dirty flannel shirt, with greasy long hair and a nose ring. He must’ve gone through hell actually being grimy, as pathologically fastidious as he was. Point of proof: The guy keeps a couple of freshly starched dress shirts in the car in case of the dreaded sweat stain.

  Bud’s eyes were the color of ashes and lingered in distaste on my wrinkled T-shirt. Okay, so I’d worn it the night before. Hey, this is a homicide; I was in a hurry. So sue me. Bud didn’t care for the way I dressed or for the way I cropped my hair. Last Christmas he’d disappointed me greatly with a year’s gift certificate to Mr. Race’s classy unisex salon called Winning Locks. I’d showed up once for an excruciating hour-long styling session with some guy who kept calling me girlfriend and admiring my high cheekbones and big blue eyes and telling me I ought to be a model ’cause I was so tall and willowy. I left looking like a complete jerk and gratefully forked over the gift certificate to an ecstatic Dottie, who had enough long, silky blond hair to send Mr. Race and his ilk into spasms.

  I said, “Give me a break, Bud. It’s frickin’ 6 A.M. What the hell do you do? Jump up at dawn and primp your heart out in case a call comes in? You’re not human anymore. You’re a closet GQ model.”

  Bud laughed. “Mama always said ladies go for the well-groomed man. All it takes to look this good is a little preparation.”

  “Yeah, right, six to ten hours of it.” I turned and watched the TV van accelerate up the road and out of sight. “How’d you keep Hastings out of the house?”

  “O’Hara might’ve drawn her weapon. I told her to shoot ’em if she wanted.”

  “Hastings just informed me that the victim is a famous actress. Say it ain’t so, Bud, please.”

  Bud grinned. “Well, it ain’t Julia Roberts, but you ever heard the name Sylvie Border?”

  “Soap opera?” The name clicked, but a face didn’t. I wasn’t even sure which soap she was on. I hadn’t watched daytime TV since I went to college at LSU. That oughta tell you something about how interested I was in academics in college. The front door stood wide open, and I studied the entry foyer with its ornate brass chandelier suspended over a whiskey-colored marble floor, which reflected its glow. More down-home perks for Nicholas Black’s two-grand-a-week guests.

  “Black’s assistant said Sylvie Border was here for some private counselin’ with the Man, mixed in with a dose of downtime R & R on the lake.”

  “His assistant? Where’s Black?”

  “He’s not here at the moment. Her name’s Michelle Tudor, but she wants us to call her Miki. Ain’t that cute? Miki with one k and two I’s. I hit her with the murder before she was completely awake this morning, but she got her act together real quick and informed me that His Highness flew to New York on his private Lear jet last night for, get this, Claire, an interview on this morning’s Today Show.”

  “So Black’s got an alibi? Well, we’ll check that out before we cross him off our list. What about Miki with one k? Where was she?” What was it with these silly names? Whatever happened to Mary and Jane and Cathy? Didn’t people know how to spell anymore?

  “Said she spent the entire weekend at her kid’s soccer tournament in Lenexa, Kansas; that’s just outside Kansas City. Said her husband was there and fifty other people who could verify her whereabouts. Offered to come in for an interview the minute she gets back.”

  “When’s that?”

  “They’re charterin’ a flight. Should be about an hour from now.”

  “Suze Eggers said a neighbor found the body.”

  “Yeah, lady next bungalow over was swimming along the shoreline and came upon the vic before she realized what it was.”

  I looked at him. “What it was?”

  Bud handed me a pair of protective gloves and paper booties. “You are not gonna believe the trouble this guy went to.”

  I snapped on the white latex gloves, then leaned against the deck railing and pulled the paper booties over my high-tops. Bud stood back and let me precede him into the foyer. Ever the gentleman. I stopped just inside the door and eyeballed the room. The chandelier was turned on, blazing down on a large, round oak table with a white marble top. Long-stemmed pink roses were just beginning to wilt in a fan-shaped crystal vase that looked like Lalique. A sickly scent that reminded me of mortuaries filled the air. A white card lay on the table. I bent and read it without picking it up. Welcome to Cedar Bend, sweetheart. Relax, enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you soon was written neatly in small, back-slanted handwriting. It was signed Nick.

  I walked through a curved archway into a long living room, which faced the lake. The day had finally dawned outside, and three large skylights threw oblong patches of sunlight over oak hardwood floors. Everything was spotless, pristine-looking, the carpet snow-white and plush under the couch. Half a dozen French doors brought in a spectacular view of the glistening lake.

  On the back deck, lots of white wrought-iron furniture padded with thick blue-and-white-striped cushions were arranged in conversation nooks. Chaise lounges were lined up facing the water, among giant terra-cotta pots full of geraniums and marigolds. Now that she was out of prison, Martha Stewart would nod her ap
proval and say, “It’s a good thing, this place on the lake.”

  “Okay, enough with the suspense, Bud. Where is she?”

  “Out here.” I followed him across the glossy floor to a French door standing ajar. “No telling when somebody would’ve discovered the body if the neighbor lady hadn’t gone in for a dip.”

  The back deck stretched about twenty feet out over the lake. There were steps leading down to a lower-level boat dock. I braced myself mentally. I’d had enough experience with spattered blood and brain matter in L.A., as well as various other gore, not to get sick at crime scenes, and I was well used to the incomparable stench of decaying corpses and the way it infiltrated my hair and skin until I could barely scrub it out. Unlike some officers and medical examiners, I couldn’t look at dead bodies as hunks of red meat or evidence depositories; I saw them as wives, mothers, daughters, family members.

  Homicide victims suffered terrible pain and unimaginable fear in their last moments on earth. Nobody deserved that, and now Bud and I, and other hard-eyed investigators like us, would prod and probe and invade Sylvie Border’s body, dissect her life to find out who and what and why.

  A water rescue boat sliced through the still waters, with a roaring engine, and headed straight at us. Twenty yards from the deck, the driver killed the motor, and silence dropped like a rock. There was only the gurgle and splash of water breaking on the pilings under the deck. One of the men was a state patrol diver who’d gone in after a bridge suicide last month. I didn’t recognize the others. “I take it they’re here for retrieval?”

  Bud slid off expensive mirrored shades, folded them, and stowed them in his breast pocket as the rescue team donned scuba gear. “Take a peek over that rail and tell me what kind of psycho did her.”

  I leaned over the waist-high railing and peered into the water beside the lower-level boat dock. The lake looked about ten feet deep there, a little turbulent from the rescue boat’s wake, but not enough to obstruct my view.