Bahama Mama Page 2

  Stepping out of the shower, Anders wrapped a towel around his waist. He didn’t bother with clothes because they wouldn’t be on for very long if the little minx in the next room had anything to say about it.

  The steam from the shower billowed out ahead of him as he opened the door and came into the living room. Expecting to find Casey still nibbling on her meal, he was grinning with anticipation. Being with heart-stoppingly gorgeous women like Greer and Casey could be a real headache sometimes, but it sure was fun. His smile faded as he stopped short and looked down. Casey was sprawled on the floor in an unnatural position. Her long blonde hair flung forward over her face in a tangled mass. She was as still as the—

  “Casey?”

  She didn’t move. Not a hair. Was this a joke? Or some kind of twisted sex fantasy?

  “Come on now. Quit playing. If you want to tango again before we go out, you’re wasting time.”

  Still nothing. He looked past her to the food cart. The champagne flute had turned over onto her plate. Bubbly liquid pooled around the hamburger, which was missing only one bite. He’d seen Casey eat. She wasn’t shy about pounding down food and she’d been ravenous. She wouldn’t have wasted the meal for a silly game.

  As his mind wrapped itself around the other possibility, something sour curdled in his empty stomach.

  Going to her, he dropped to his knees and pushed aside the wild tangle of hair that shrouded her face. White foam bubbled from her lips. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring unseeingly at nothing.

  “Oh my God.” Hands trembling, Anders gripped her head and shouted, “Casey!”

  CPR. He knew how to do that. Rolling her onto her back, he tilted her chin up and stuck his fingers into her mouth to clear the air passage. Frothy bile leaked down the sides of her bruised face as he pinched her nose and bent to put his mouth to hers. He blew two deep breaths into her lungs and checked for a pulse. Finding none, he compressed her chest fifteen times, being careful to press hard enough but not too hard. She was so small, so delicate. His big hand spanned the width of her torso.

  After the ninth or tenth repetition, he realized he needed to call 911. Not because Casey needed medical attention, but because she was gone. The purple splotches on her face weren’t bruises. it was blood from her brain settling into her face as the process of lividity began. Who knew binging on true crime shows would give him the knowledge to identify something like this in real life? Shit. Lividity meant she’d likely been dead for about 30 minutes when he found her.

  Checking her pulse one more time and finding none, he sat up on his haunches. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and rubbed his face. Still naked as a baboon’s ass, he stood up and went to the phone.

  “Mr. Ostergaard, how may I help you?”

  “Call 911.”

  “Are you unwell, sir?”

  Oh, Jesus, how did he explain this? “Someone is dead. Might have been an allergic reaction to something she ate. I-I don’t know.” Anders looked back at Casey and a wave of intense sadness swept through him.

  Self-preservation born of years of experience in the public eye had prevented him from making the call to 911 himself. The last thing he wanted was a recording of his voice reporting Casey’s death to become fodder for the news media to sensationalize. If she’d had a chance, he would have risked it, but Casey was beyond help now.

  When he hung up the phone, he sat heavily on the sofa and squeezed his eyes closed as he drove his fingers through his wet hair. It was hard to look at Casey like that. Her beauty and vivacity preserved in a queer state of suspended animation. His heart hurt for her, for her family and friends, and for her fans. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her again.

  “God. What happened to you, darlin’?”

  Chapter Two

  “It wasn’t an allergic reaction or a drug overdose unless the drugs were laced with poison,” the police detective said a short while later when he entered the vacant hotel room where Anders had been asked to wait. Soon after the police arrived, a uniformed officer had escorted Anders away from the scene and into the empty suite across the hall. He’d been sitting on the sofa, a duplicate of the one in his room, staring at the floor in shock when Guy Dougherty strolled in and introduced himself. He was a grizzled Colombo type who had seen it all and was surprised by nothing.

  Anders pulled himself out of his daze and looked up in surprise. “Poison? How can you be so sure?”

  “Someone likely tampered with the food,” the detective said, ignoring the question.

  “But how do you know it wasn’t a food allergy?”

  “Trust me, son. I’ve been in this business long enough to know the difference. I’d guess strychnine based on the way her body is contorted. Nasty stuff.”

  What the hell? Anders frowned. “Strychnine? Is it that common?”

  “No, it isn’t. But back in the early days when I was a fledgling detective, I investigated a case where a jealous wife offed her husband by slipping rat poison into his pot roast. The way that poor bastard looked when we found him—” The detective pressed his lips together and shook his head curtly. “It’s not something you forget. I hadn’t seen anything like it until today. Let’s just say there are more humane ways of getting rid of someone.”

  Anders’ gut burned as he wracked his brain trying to figure out how something like this could have happened. A mistake in the kitchen? Meat contaminated at the factory? Or intentional poisoning? He shook his head at the thought. “No. No one murdered Casey with rat poison. She wasn’t a bad person. It had to be an accident.”

  Scratching his whiskered chin, the detective nodded. “You’re right, it probably wasn’t rat poison. Strychnine hasn’t been used in rodenticides since the early nineties. The compound is more difficult to obtain now but not impossible thanks to the internet. Of course, there’ll be no way of knowing for certain if it was strychnine poisoning until the medical examiner does his thing.”

  “This is crazy.” Anders stood up. He was starting to get angry at the skeptical way the detective kept eyeballing him as if maybe Casey was murdered and he had something to do with it. “Casey Conway was not poisoned. At least not intentionally, like you’re suggesting.”

  Dougherty ignored him, muttering to himself as he jotted down some notes in a little spiral notebook. “The poison was added somewhere between the kitchen and the penthouse. Did you happen to see the server who delivered the food, Mr. Ostergaard?”

  Anders drove his fingers through his still-damp hair and glanced at the uniformed officer who had quietly entered the suite while the Dougherty was talking. “Yeah, I saw him. He was a chubby guy. About 5’6”, brown hair and blue eyes. His uniform was way too tight.”

  “Doesn’t sound like any of the employees we’ve questioned so far, Detective,” the officer said. He was a young guy. Looked barely old enough to shave. Like a kid playing cop. His nametag said D. Ramirez. “They’re all impeccably dressed. One of them mentioned having to pass a strict inspection before they’re let out on the floor.”

  Anders was only half listening to the cop. He was wracking his brain for any other details that stood out to him about the server. Anything that seemed off. “His name was Kwame,” Anders remembered suddenly.

  The detective turned around.

  “He didn’t exactly look like a Kwame, but you never know. Still, it’s possible he could have been impersonating a hotel employee.”

  “Anything is possible. We’ll look into it.” Dougherty tucked the notepad into the inside pocket of his faded corduroy sports jacket and turned to Ramirez. “I’d like to take a look at the surveillance cameras. Ask the security guys to cue up the timeframe of Miss Conway’s death, and I’ll be down to look at the tapes as soon as I finish up here with Mr. Ostergaard.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” The officer nodded, but hesitated, fidgeting as if there was something more he wanted to say.

  “You got a personal problem there, Ramirez?”

  Color reddened
the kid’s cheeks. He gestured toward Anders. “I just wanted to say, I’m a big fan, Mr. Ostergaard. I grew up listening to your music. My mama just adores you.”

  Too many years of fan encounters in odd and sometimes embarrassing places made Anders oblivious to Ramirez’s inappropriate timing. Anders smiled automatically and thanked him for the compliment. “Would you like an autograph?”

  Ramirez’s face lit up, and he started to reach for the notepad in his utility belt.

  “Put it away, officer.” Dougherty groused. “You have work to do and Mr. Ostergaard is grieving.” He said the last as if he didn’t really believe it, raising Anders’ hackles again.

  Waiting as the dejected Ramirez left the room, Anders crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the detective. “Mr. Dougherty, should I call my attorney?”

  The detective looked mildly surprised. “Why? Do you have something to hide?” The two men stared for a moment sizing each other up. Finally, Dougherty relented. “You aren’t under arrest here, Mr. Ostergaard. I just have a few more questions for you.”

  “Fine. Ask them.” He dropped his arms and took a seat on the couch again.

  “Is there any particular reason you didn’t order anything, Mr. Ostergaard?”

  Anders frowned and started telling him to stick his questions up his ass, but the detective raised a hand, interrupting him. “Just a routine question. I’m trying to paint the scene.”

  Anders snorted and glared at him. The muscles in his shoulder blades were tight as rocks, and he was losing his legendary cool. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled before answering. “Casey ordered room service without my knowledge and didn’t order anything for me. She offered me half her burger, but I turned it down.”

  “And why was that? Not hungry?”

  Anders shrugged. “I don’t eat red meat.”

  “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Ostergaard?”

  “Me?” The question stunned him. His momma always used to say you get more bees with honey, so he’d adapted that belief to his career and that was one of the reasons he’d made it as far as he did. People liked him. Some said it was his charisma. Some said he had star quality. Some credited his talent. But his success all came down to him being a hell of a nice guy to everyone. Even the people who didn’t deserve it.

  Dougherty tilted his head to the side and cocked a thick gray eyebrow. “The food was delivered to your hotel suite. It’s logical to suspect you may have been the intended target.”

  Anders shook his head. “No, it’s a widely known fact I’m pescetarian.”

  “Yet, Miss Conway didn’t know this?”

  Anders’ eyes narrowed in irritation. “No, I don’t have any enemies that I’m aware of.”

  “Any business deals go south recently? Any jealous ex-girlfriends?”

  He was friends with his ex-girlfriends. He always ended things amicably. Except for Greer, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. Greer was a lot of things. Ambitious. Ruthless. A heartless bitch. But she wasn’t a killer. “No. I can’t think of anyone who would want to do me harm.”

  Dougherty nodded once. “Where were you when the death occurred?”

  “In the shower.” Anders had managed to throw on clothes before the police had arrived.

  “That’s why your hair is wet?”

  He was tempted to compliment the detective on his excellent deduction skills but checked the sarcasm. He just wanted to get this over with. He had calls to make. And he needed more time alone to process what happened.

  “How about Miss Conway? Did she have any enemies? Anyone have it out for her?”

  “I honestly don’t know her all that well.” The words left a guilty aftertaste in his mouth, but they were the truth. For the first time in a long time, he regretted the philandering lifestyle he’d chosen.

  A smirk tugged at the corner of Dougherty’s mouth. “The rumpled sheets on the bed in the next room suggest otherwise.”

  As if he’d never heard of two strangers sleeping together in Vegas. Anders didn’t like the salacious gleam in the detective’s eyes, but he ignored it and pressed on. Exhaling, he laced his fingers and leaned forward resting his arms on his thighs. “We were just having some fun. I met her in the hotel lobby five days ago. She came here with friends. Two women. We met up with them for drinks last night.”

  Dougherty scratched his whisker-covered jaw. “The women. Did they join you in your hotel suite last night for the, uh, fun?”

  Anders gritted his teeth but spoke calmly. “No.”

  “That’ll be all for now, Mr. Ostergaard. You’ll need to move to another room. The other is a crime scene and is closed pending the investigation. Oh, and don’t leave town.”

  Anders’ head snapped up. “For how long? I thought I wasn’t a suspect.”

  Dougherty paused by the door. “In a homicide investigation, everyone is a suspect.” His wiry brows furrowed over shrewd brown eyes that missed nothing. “You were the last person to see Casey Conway alive and for that reason alone you’re a key factor in solving her murder. Don’t go anywhere until we tell you you’re free to go.”

  Anders’ jaw tightened as he maintained eye contact with Dougherty. “You have my full cooperation, Detective.”

  Anders had just settled into his new room, a regular suite on an upper floor, when his publicist called. He wasn’t going to answer, but he knew Selena Fry wouldn’t quit calling until he picked up the phone. He wasn’t ready to make a statement to the press. Not yet. It was too soon. Only two hours had passed since he’d discovered Casey Conway’s lifeless body. They should have been getting spruced up for the red carpet at that club Casey was so hot to make an appearance at. He’d agreed to go because he had nothing better to do with his time and had difficultly saying no to beautiful women. And Casey was one of the prettiest he’d ever seen.

  What a waste.

  He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and put the phone to his ear. The only person he’d spoken to in the outside world so far had been his manager. Apparently, Tuck had wasted no time passing the news along “Yeah?”

  “Did she OD?”

  “Hello to you too, Fry.”

  “If there were drugs involved, I need to know so I can be ready for questions from the media. How did she acquire them?”

  “Slow down. There were no drugs.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The police think she was poisoned.”

  “The police know the cause of death already?”

  “The detective was just guessing, but he said he’d seen deaths by poison before. He thinks I was the intended target.” That still rattled him. If he was the intended target, did that mean he was still in danger? He shook off the chilling thought. He really didn’t want to hire a bodyguard. He only used them when he was out on tour. But maybe if he had employed one— He didn’t finish the thought. He could still see Casey’s beautiful, twisted body on the floor as clear as if she was right there in front of him. The sorrow and regret were still too raw for him to travel down the road of what-ifs.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Fry snorted in his ear. “Wait. Do you think someone is trying to kill you?”

  Anders shook his head and stared at the wall. The gaudy gold and black brocade wallpaper came into focus and the sight of it made him nauseous. He stood up quickly, suddenly feeling trapped and anxious to be anywhere but Vegas. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Where are you? Are you in danger?”

  Anders paced the floor, traveling to the window and back again. “No. I’m fine. I mean the hotel. I just need some air, but the damn press is already flooding the lobby.”

  “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” Rustling in the background made it sound as if she was already packing.

  “You don’t need to fly to Vegas, Fry.”

  “I insist. We’re going to need a game plan, especially if the police make you their number one suspect. Bad press is good press, but bad press in relation to a murder charge is OJ territory. Peop
le are quick to be judge, jury, and executioner. When word of this spreads, there’s going to be a full-on media frenzy.”

  A knock came at the door. Anders stood and headed toward it. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Look. You’ve just been through a traumatic experience. You need someone to shield you from what’s coming. I don’t need to tell you there will be fallout. You know this has the potential to destroy your reputation and ruin your career.”

  Anders looked through the peephole and saw the last person he would have ever expected to find standing on the other side of the door. “Holy shit,” he murmured as his shoulder blades tightened and started to itch.

  “Exactly. I’m coming to Vegas.” Fry hung up the phone.

  Once she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. That was one of the reasons he liked her so much.

  But Anders had bigger problems at the moment. Stuffing the cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans, he opened the door and stared at the deceptively frail woman standing in the hall. She looked exactly as she had the last time he’d accidentally crossed paths with her in Santa Monica nearly four years ago, with a tight, smooth face courtesy of Botox, silver-blonde hair swept up in a fancy bun, and expressive deep-set blue eyes that seemed to glare perpetually with disdain. At least at him anyhow.

  “Martha Mell. This is a surprise.”

  That was the understatement of the year. What the hell was his ex-mother-in-law doing in Vegas?

  “I was directed to your penthouse suite by mistake. Can’t say I was all that surprised to find two strapping young gentlemen from the coroner’s office zipping up a body bag containing a dead stripper.”