Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,38

playing a game of Twister by himself. I think he probably overdosed.”

“Why would you think that, David?” Ian asked with more than a little irritation showing.

“Because he’s a dealer.”

“He is not!” Ian struck back. “My son is not a dealer.”

“Yes, he is, Ian—or was! I’m sorry to break the news to you, but Keith is a dealer . . . and not a very good one either. Bad drugs. The shitty stuff. Ian, his clubs haven’t been doing so well, so he’s been supplementing his income by selling drugs in his clubs. He’s been supplying a lot of models too. Female and MALE!”

Several sets of eyes hit the floor or wandered off into space, trying to look as innocent as possible.

“Uh, guys,” I said, butting in. “We seem to be forgetting that someone is dead upstairs. Maybe. Probably.”

I got up and was followed by everyone else in the room—except David. I guess he had made up his mind, had seen enough, and seemed more interested in a spread in a French women’s fashion magazine than confirming whether Keith was taking a long nap or ready to push up a whole lot of daisies. When we got to Keith’s room, I was shocked by what I saw. I expected to see Keith sitting as if he had fallen asleep in a comfy chair on a snowy afternoon. This was not the case. Keith’s body was lying on the floor, bent back in a painful arch like some kind of sadistic Pilates exercise. We’re talking painful. Even worse was the expression on his face. He looked like he had died crying, no, bawling his eyes out, his mouth in a downturned scowl. This was not a quiet death.

Ian rushed around me and tried to pick Keith up and cradle him, but Keith was stiffer than an Episcopalian singing a black spiritual.

“My son, my son!” Ian wailed, holding Keith for the appropriate amount of time, then letting him drop to the floor. “I just can’t take it. Why is it that I always have to bear so much sorrow? I am retiring to my room now and taking another sleeping pill. No one is to disturb me until lunch.”

Ian left and the rest of us huddled around the doorway, not sure of what to do. Jeremy’s assistant, Tony, called out from downstairs: “I’ve called 911 and they’re on their way.”

Having experience with several bodies in my listings or at my own house, I stepped in and decided to take charge.

“Okay, we’ve disturbed the crime scene enough. We need to leave the area and go downstairs.”

No one moved an inch.

“What’s the matter, guys?” I pleaded.

“We’re scared,” Aleksei reported, taking a quick consensus from the crowd.

“Why?”

“Because Keith was murdered. The killer may be still in the house.”

“How do you know he was murdered?” I asked, lying to myself when I knew full well that Keith was put out of action for his ties to Ian.

Gilles, oddly—and thankfully—silent for the longest time, spoke up, “Someone want to get Keith out of the contest. So, pop!” he said, pointing his finger like a gun, then shooting it.

“Let’s all go down together; then we’ll all be safe.”

Gilles, not known for having tremendous insights into life—or anything, for that matter—had made an astute observation. “The killer, he ees one of us, perhaps?”

I hated to agree with anything that Gilles said, but in this case, I had to admit to myself that he was probably right.

Several police cars arrived within minutes, probably owing to the fact that the dispatcher recognized Ian’s address from the 911 call. Ian was a constant irritant in Palm Springs due to his caustic nature, but he was also a big contributor to police charities. Mostly as a payoff to keep his partiers from being arrested for drugs or explicit public sexual acts.

Several uniformed policemen entered, followed by a plainclothes detective. Dating a homicide detective gives you a little insight into how the police operate. Plus, this one recognized me.

“Amanda! Fancy meeting you here!”

I fished around in my memory and hoped I got the name right. “Jerry? Jerry Hallander?”

I got a great big hug from the detective.

“I haven’t seen you since you were brought into the police station for breaking and entering.”

“The charges were dropped, Jerry.”

“That’s right. You and your gay ex. You were trying to find out if that Realtor, Mary Dodge, killed Doc Winters. Wow! It seems like ages. So, what’s going on here?”

I took him into the kitchen, sat him down, and proceeded