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Authors: Gemma Halliday
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myself! Barker said it would show the world how serious I was about Tandy.”
“ I thought you picked Mandy at the end.”
“ Whatever. Point is, I’m out two thousand bucks now and gotta works this crappy-ass job on commission as a shoe salesman. A fucking shoe salesman! I’m Al Bundy, for Christ sakes.”
I sat back in my seat, scrutinizing him. “Well, it sounds like Barker got what he deserved then.”
“ Yes, he did.”
“ I bet you were pretty happy to see him murdered.”
“ Ecstatic. I threw a fucking party.”
“ Where were you the night he was murdered?”
Gary paused, narrowed his eyes. “Wait—what is this? Barker’s people set you up to this?”
“ No. I’m with the Informer .”
“ The tabloid? Great!” He threw his arms up in the air. “Just what I need. My face plastered all over some cheap trash.”
“ Hey! We are not cheap.” I made no comment on the trash part.
“ Look, I did not kill Barker,” he said. “You can print that. If you wanna know, I was here. Doing inventory. The new line of Pradas came in, and I was busy cataloguing the whole fucking lot of them.”
That was a pretty calloused way to talk about Prada.
“ Anyone with you?”
“ Jesus, what is this, the fucking inquisition?”
“ You sure they did much editing on that show?”
He crossed his pudgy arms over his chest. “Look, you gonna buy something or what, lady?”
God, I wished. I looked down at the kitten heels currently caressing (yes, caressing…they were that good) my feet. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t afford them, let alone reality.
“ Sorry. They’re not really my style,” I lied.
Gary threw the box down on the carpet. “Fucking hell!”
Chapter Six
I left Bella Sole with a serious case of shoe envy and a serious doubt that Gary had killed Barker. For one thing, I had a hard time envisioning Barker letting Gary into his place for a late-night chat. Clearly the man was not Barker’s biggest fan. Second, I couldn’t imagine him being calm and collected enough to poison the producer. Poison required planning and finesse to trick the victim into ingesting it. Now, if Barker had been bludgeoned to death with a pair of six-inch heels, Gary would be my suspect numero uno.
However, just to be sure, I phoned Bella Sole, pretending to be an unhappy customer, and asked to speak to Gary’s manager. He confirmed Gary was, indeed, doing inventory the night Barker was killed. What’s more, his manager had been with him the entire time, providing an iron-clad alibi.
Which left me with one suspect ticked off my list, but not a whole lot to write about for today’s article. I looked down at my watch. I had three hours left to find something scandalous enough to be printable. With the deadline looming, I moved on to the next reality show under Barker’s belt: Don & Deb’s Diva Dozen .
As any member of the paparazzi knew, Don and Deb lived in a large, Tudor-style mansion in Beverly Hills, a far cry from the modest suburban digs they’d inhabited when the show first started.
I had to admit, I’d had some sympathy for the couple when they’d first gone on the air with their brood. With a dozen kids, it was hard to make ends meet for the couple. Deb had been a night shift nurse and Don a computer programmer—not exactly the kind of jobs that could support twelve college funds, let alone a hundred and fifty diapers a day. In their position I totally would have jumped at the idea of TV documentary paying to follow me around for a while.
Only “for a while” turned into an entire season’s worth of episodes, which turned into seasons two and three, which had turned into a media phenomenon, sparking debates over everything from the morality of selective reduction of multiples pregnancies (something, clearly, Deb and Don did not believe in) to the morality of parading little girls in skimpy bathing
“ I thought you picked Mandy at the end.”
“ Whatever. Point is, I’m out two thousand bucks now and gotta works this crappy-ass job on commission as a shoe salesman. A fucking shoe salesman! I’m Al Bundy, for Christ sakes.”
I sat back in my seat, scrutinizing him. “Well, it sounds like Barker got what he deserved then.”
“ Yes, he did.”
“ I bet you were pretty happy to see him murdered.”
“ Ecstatic. I threw a fucking party.”
“ Where were you the night he was murdered?”
Gary paused, narrowed his eyes. “Wait—what is this? Barker’s people set you up to this?”
“ No. I’m with the Informer .”
“ The tabloid? Great!” He threw his arms up in the air. “Just what I need. My face plastered all over some cheap trash.”
“ Hey! We are not cheap.” I made no comment on the trash part.
“ Look, I did not kill Barker,” he said. “You can print that. If you wanna know, I was here. Doing inventory. The new line of Pradas came in, and I was busy cataloguing the whole fucking lot of them.”
That was a pretty calloused way to talk about Prada.
“ Anyone with you?”
“ Jesus, what is this, the fucking inquisition?”
“ You sure they did much editing on that show?”
He crossed his pudgy arms over his chest. “Look, you gonna buy something or what, lady?”
God, I wished. I looked down at the kitten heels currently caressing (yes, caressing…they were that good) my feet. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t afford them, let alone reality.
“ Sorry. They’re not really my style,” I lied.
Gary threw the box down on the carpet. “Fucking hell!”
Chapter Six
I left Bella Sole with a serious case of shoe envy and a serious doubt that Gary had killed Barker. For one thing, I had a hard time envisioning Barker letting Gary into his place for a late-night chat. Clearly the man was not Barker’s biggest fan. Second, I couldn’t imagine him being calm and collected enough to poison the producer. Poison required planning and finesse to trick the victim into ingesting it. Now, if Barker had been bludgeoned to death with a pair of six-inch heels, Gary would be my suspect numero uno.
However, just to be sure, I phoned Bella Sole, pretending to be an unhappy customer, and asked to speak to Gary’s manager. He confirmed Gary was, indeed, doing inventory the night Barker was killed. What’s more, his manager had been with him the entire time, providing an iron-clad alibi.
Which left me with one suspect ticked off my list, but not a whole lot to write about for today’s article. I looked down at my watch. I had three hours left to find something scandalous enough to be printable. With the deadline looming, I moved on to the next reality show under Barker’s belt: Don & Deb’s Diva Dozen .
As any member of the paparazzi knew, Don and Deb lived in a large, Tudor-style mansion in Beverly Hills, a far cry from the modest suburban digs they’d inhabited when the show first started.
I had to admit, I’d had some sympathy for the couple when they’d first gone on the air with their brood. With a dozen kids, it was hard to make ends meet for the couple. Deb had been a night shift nurse and Don a computer programmer—not exactly the kind of jobs that could support twelve college funds, let alone a hundred and fifty diapers a day. In their position I totally would have jumped at the idea of TV documentary paying to follow me around for a while.
Only “for a while” turned into an entire season’s worth of episodes, which turned into seasons two and three, which had turned into a media phenomenon, sparking debates over everything from the morality of selective reduction of multiples pregnancies (something, clearly, Deb and Don did not believe in) to the morality of parading little girls in skimpy bathing
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