He Will be My Ruin
Page 20

“Hot dog?” she asks, handing the vendor a twenty and collecting her lunch, dumping streams of condiments on it like a pro.
“No, thanks. And you can let Natasha know that her boss is not my type, so she has nothing to worry about.” As appealing as he may look, I’m not attracted to arrogant men. I just want to know how he knew Celine and move on.
Dani takes a giant bite and then dabs at the mayo on her lip with a napkin. When she pulls her hand away, there’s a secretive smile there. I see a decision made in her twinkling eyes. “You sure? Because you might be interested after you see this.” Punching her password into her phone, her crimson-painted thumb scrolls through her pictures. “You can’t ever let anyone know that I have this,” she cautions, hiding the screen, completely serious. Only when I nod does she hand me her phone. “It was a big work party. Celebrating someone’s retirement, or something. They got loaded and went back to his place. She took this the next morning. Before he woke up, realized that he had banged his assistant, and kicked her out.”
My jaw drops open when I see the picture on the screen. Jace Everett, sleeping peacefully on his back, tangled in white sheets that don’t quite cover his nakedness.
“How’d you get this?”
“Natasha sent it to Marnie and, well . . .” Dani rolls her eyes. “Marnie thought Celine and I would appreciate it.”
I stare at the picture that matches the one in my purse. Dani giggles, assuming that I’m enthralled. But really, my mind is three thousand miles away, back in California, on a Berkeley friend who dated a guy for a short period of time. He liked to text her random dick pics. For months after the relationship fizzled, he kept sending them. He must have thought they would win her back. It was a big topic of discussion one night among a few friends, and she forwarded one of these pictures to all of us in our group messenger chat, to settle a debate.
Well, one of my other friends in the group chat was married and the picture automatically downloaded to her photo album and her husband saw the pic on her phone and . . .
This is how misunderstandings happen.
This guy, who Celine privately professed would be her salvation and her ruin, was screwing his assistant.
“What did Celine say when she saw this pic?”
“Um . . . not much from what I remember.” Dani’s eyes are squinted, like she’s thinking back to that day. She winces. “Oh, well Celine was having a hard time that day. I found her in the lady’s restroom, bawling her eyes out.”
“Over the picture?”
“No! Over her mom. She said her mom had the flu and she wished she could be there to take care of her. Given how sick she already was, Celine was worried that it might put her in the hospital.”
Would Celine have used Rosa’s health as an excuse to explain away her tears over a man? “So she wasn’t upset by it at all?”
Dani frowns. “I don’t see why she would be. She’d be jealous, if anything. Hell, I am! Look at him!”
“Yeah.” I’ve spent plenty of time looking at that picture.
My stomach sinks as the flimsy theories I’ve been clinging to for the last few days drown in improbability. While I still have some questions—about her phone and who sent her flowers and how she’d become so infatuated with a guy she might not have had a connection with at all—I’m beginning to wonder if Detective Childs was right. Maybe this was nothing nefarious. Nothing sensational.
Just a mentally unstable woman who killed herself over a broken heart.
CHAPTER 8
Maggie
“Did you get the files?”
“I did. Almost crashed my computer,” Hans announces, his voice a song in my ear. “And I, of course, have a brilliant idea!”
“Okay, I’ll bite.” I’m smiling as I listen to him. His excitement is palpable.
“Well, Celine was somewhat of a regular at Hollingsworth. So I spoke to the director and, as long as all of the costs are covered and I organize this on my own time, they are willing to let us hold a special exhibit and silent auction in her name in their gallery.”
Warmth fills my chest. “Oh my God, Hans. That would have been Celine’s dream.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“Seriously, Hans. This is amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, you’ll just have to write me a big, fat check.”
I roll my eyes but laugh. “Story of my life. No problem. When do you think we can do this?”
“There’s an opening on December twenty-second. It’s not the greatest time for an auction, with Christmas and all¸ but that’s why they’re willing to give us space.”
December 22. So I definitely need to stay in New York until then. “Sounds great. And then whatever we don’t sell, I’ll stick in storage and give you the key so you can pull things out after I’m gone.”
“Perfect. And I’ve already shown pictures of Celine’s clock collection to my clock expert.”
I snort. “Your clock expert?”
He ignores me. “He said there’s nothing remarkable, but we can probably get about two grand for all of them.”
“That’s not bad.” Celine really did have an eye for treasures.
“You’re using the gloves I couriered over, right?”
“As soon as I start packing, I will.” The ones that will ensure I don’t leave my “dirty, oily fingerprints” on anything.
“And plenty of foam peanuts and newsprint paper. Not actual newspaper.”
“Yup.”
“And those instructions that I sent you on how to package antiques?”
“Memorized.” I haven’t so much as scanned them. I’ve had no time!
He huffs into the phone. “I’m serious, Maggie. You can’t just throw these things into a box. Even the creepy dolls. I’m pretty sure there’s a French Bisque Poupee in there. That one alone could fetch anywhere from fifteen hundred dollars to twenty-five hundred, depending on the shape of it.”
My eye drifts to the boxes in the corner, where I dropped the dolls in a pile. “Yup. They’re all individually wrapped.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“You can come by and check. And help me pack all thousand-plus items. In which case, I’ll love you forever.”