Death by Sarcasm - By Dani Amore Page 0,32

a community that keeps growing, every day. Easy to get into, very difficult to get out.”

Mary nodded. Of course. He went where it seemed like every lead in the case of her uncle’s murder had gone: nowhere.

Her glass looked empty so she held it out to Braggs again. He refilled hers and his own, then came back.

“I thought I heard some rumors about him getting a job in Las Vegas or something,” Braggs said. “Managing some female comedian, but that was it. He fell off of everyone’s radar.”

Mary nodded. Her head felt like it had put on ten pounds.

“There’s a million guys like Noah Baxter,” Braggs said. “A little flash of success, then a disappearing act when they realize the big payday is never going to come. Most of them don’t even realize it’s over. Can’t admit it to themselves. It’s really kind of sad. Of course, I can’t speak from experience. It’s just that I’m very sympathetic-”

Mary stretched out and put her head on a pillow. She drank awkwardly from her glass, but she got the Jack down. Drinking Jack made her think of Jake. Jake the Jerk. She giggled.

“I might know someone who could tell us more about Noah,” Braggs said.

“Oh, yeah?” Mary said. Her voice was thick with sleepiness.

“Margaret Stewart.”

“Martha Stewart? The domestic goddess?”

“No, Margaret Stewart,” Braggs said.

“Who the hell is that?” Mary slurred.

“She used to be my agent. And Brent’s agent. And Noah’s agent.”

“Lady gets around.”

“In fact, she was everybody’s agent back then. A powerhouse.”

Mary closed her eyes and the first faint stirrings of sleep, like the start of the incoming tide, slowly slept across her forehead.

“I think I’m going to fall asleep,” she said, a sound suspiciously similar to snoring began to come from mouth. “You can let yourself out-” she started to say, but never finished the sentence.

“She knew everyone,” Braggs said. “But most of all, she knew where all the skeletons were. That’s more valuable than anything for sale on Rodeo Drive, that’s for sure.”

Mary fell asleep then saw an image of the old man she’d shot as a skeleton, dancing around in the dark.

Eighteen

Her eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.

Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.

10 A.M. Margaret Stewart.

It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.

She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress and get out to Beverly Hills.

Great.

Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.

She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying through nearly drove her to her knees.

Had she put them on herself?

Or had Braggs?

Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.

Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache? It gave Mary a headache just looking at her, which was laid on top of the one she already had from last night’s fling with Jack Daniels.

“That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.

“Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmarks of a good time.”

They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.

“They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a big party.”

“In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.

“Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I’m sure at some point, animals were involved.”

“Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”

Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”

Braggs shook his