Madeline Carter makes her living day-trading from her
Hollywood apartment, having left the high-stress, crazy
world of the New York stock market where she was a
stockbroker. When a good friend asks her to teach the rich
wife of one of Hollywood's top film producers how to play
the stock market, she reluctantly agrees. Madeline expects
to meet a spoiled brat and instead finds in Keesia
Livingston a woman who could be a good friend.
The two share some confidences and then Madeline is
devastated when Keesia is killed. Intrigued by some things
that Keesia had told her, Madeline begins investigating on
her own, a move that lands her in a lot of danger.
This was such a good book! I can't wait for the next
Madeline Carter novel from Ms. Richards. I enjoyed getting
to know Madeline and was really pulled toward her multi-
dimensional personality. The characterization in this book
is especially well done, and the plot has enough
intricacies to keep you reading, too. Plus, throwing in a
few film producers, actors and other Hollywood elite never
hurts to up the gossip quotient and keep the book
interesting.
Even by Hollywood standards, five is a big number when
you're counting ex-wives.
Teaching an indulged wife to dabble in the stock market is
the last thing former stockbroker Madeline Carter wants to
do. But she's lived among the Hollywood elite just long
enough to recognize the ubiquitous "favor for a favor"
when
she sees it, so she reluctantly agrees to tutor the
current
wife of "A" list film producer Maxi Livingston.
Up until a few days ago the only thing Madeline knew about
Maxi was what she'd read in the tabloids. But she soon
learns a whole lot more, including the fact that the
current Mrs. Livingston has plans to build a nest egg for
herself -- in the stock market. Interesting.
But "interesting" doesn't begin to cover it when Maxi's ex-
wives are killed off one by one and Madeline finds herself
in the middle of a scenario worthy of the most imaginative
screenwriter -- where she is the prime suspect.
Very interesting, indeed.
Excerpt
I'll always remember her eyes. They still haunt me in my
sleep. Eyes the color of topaz, bright and rare. In that
first instant, I thought about a beautiful doll I'd had
when I was a child. These eyes were vacant and staring,
just like that doll's. And though I didn't want to believe
it, I knew in that first moment she was dead.
Though it's sometimes difficult to recall the major thrust
of events, horror can make the smallest details jump into
your mind with astonishing accuracy. It would, for
example, be impossible for me to tell you how long I stood
there as what I saw filled my conscious mind, or even to
tell you in proper detail what I'd been doing in the
moments just before. But the image of her there is
imprinted. I've tried to erase it, bury it. I can't.
I could see that she lay where she had fallen, the highly
glossed marble that covered the bathroom floor reflecting
the curve of her hand, the bend of her leg, the glow of
her cinnamon skin.
Her dress was the color of blood and because of it I
identified her easily. It was a daringly cut Balanciega
gown I'd admired when I'd arrived at the party several
hours earlier. Then it had clung to her surgically
enhanced curves like a second skin. Now there seemed to be
more fabric — it was everywhere! — as though the loss of
the essential something that had been her had caused this
overabundance of cloth.
When I moved closer I discovered what should have been
obvious from the start: the puddle that the gossamer
fabric made on the floor was amplified by her own blood.
There seemed to be gallons of it; more than I would have
thought could fit into her slight frame.
That's when I heard the screaming: a textbook horror-movie
sound, the kind that follows nightmares out of the dark.
It reverberated, that scream. It echoed through flesh and
walls, and rent, almost, the fabric of my reality. It was
only later I realized that this world-ending sound had
come from me.
I'd met Keesia Livingston a few weeks earlier. It was not
a chance encounter. Our lives would never have intersected
at a place that would have made that happen.
I'd been renting the guest house in the Malibu home of the
director Tyler Beckett and his wife, the actress Tasya
Saranova, since I'd moved to Los Angeles from New York. It
was a good arrangement for all of us. Tyler was a friend
of my old boss, Sal. Sal liked having me at Tyler and
Tasya's. It made him feel as though he could keep an eye
on me even though I was three thousand miles away and
didn't work for him anymore. Distance hasn't stopped Sal
from wanting to watch out for me. He'd been my mentor at
the brokerage firm where I worked in New York, and he'd
stepped into part of the void left when my father died.
And old habits can die hard.
Tyler, my landlord, has a teenage daughter from a previous
marriage, and he liked having someone — me — around the
place to keep an eye on things when he and Tasya were out
of town, which was fairly often. I wasn't expected to do
anything besides paying my reasonable rent and being
there. Since the "there" in question was lovely — an
apartment tucked under the deck of a palatial ocean-view
home overlooking Los Flores Canyon in Malibu — and the
kid, Jennifer, was generally sweet and mostly kept herself
out of trouble, the arrangement was never onerous.
So when Tyler knocked on my door one sunny afternoon just
as the markets had closed for the day and I was settling
in to do a bit of relaxing, I had no reason to be
suspicious. It was only later that I'd attribute the grin
he wore when I opened the door to sheepishness.
I should, I suppose, have been alerted by his manner.
Tyler embodies California casual, right down to his
working wardrobe of chinos and golf shirts, but he's a
busy guy and gets to the point fairly quickly. Usually. On
this day, however, he seemed inordinately interested
in...stuff.
"The place looks great, Madeline," he enthused.
"You've really made it homey."
I looked around the not-many-square-foot apartment,
unchanged since the last time Tyler had been there. My
desk and computer setup dominated the window wall in the
living room. The view over the canyon was spectacular, but
I couldn't think of any way it could be accredited to my
decorating skills. I had a big, comfy chair that looked as
though it was waiting for the imminent arrival of the sofa
and coffee table that should have complemented it. I had
some art on the walls, but while it was colorful, none of
it was noteworthy. I had a little eating area — a small
table, a couple of chairs — right outside the tiny
kitchen, but they were purely functional. At a glance, it
was fairly obvious I wasn't set up to do a lot of
entertaining.
"Thanks," I muttered, on gentle alert now. "It's amazing
what a computer and desk will do."
At the sound of Tyler's voice, his dog, Tycho, had come
padding out of my bedroom, where he'd spent my workday
snoring gently on my bed: a fairly usual occurrence. I
worked at home and the various Becketts and Saranovas did
not. Probably for that reason Tycho adopted me not long
after I moved in. Though he scared the bejeebers out of me
the first time I met him, the large, hairy beast quickly
became a fixture in my life and — when I wasn't using it —
on my bed. I kept food and water for him on my little
deck, he would run with me in the morning, go for the
occasional car ride when I was going somewhere even mildly
interesting to a canine and usually watched me while I
slept. I guess you could say that Tycho and I had an
arrangement, though he was the only one who seemed
absolutely certain of the details.
Now Tyler scratched the big dog's head
affectionately. "You know, I hardly see this big lump
anymore."
I grinned at the big lump description. It seemed so
apt. "Well, you always know where he is," I said.
"Yeah. Don't know what I'd do if you moved. Probably have
to give him to you and get a new dog."
Though it was a funny thought — and Tyler was clearly
trying to be funny — I'd had enough. "Look, Tyler, much as
I'm always pleased to see you, I'm pretty sure you didn't
drop by today to talk about your dog."
What was my clue? Maybe just that I knew Tyler was one of
the most in-demand directors in Hollywood and that he was
currently working on at least two important projects. His
wife and daughter had been waving to his shadow for the
last couple of months, and the most I'd seen of him for a
while was his SUV racing up and down the canyon: we'd beep
and nod when we passed each other on the road. Tyler
didn't have time to breathe right now, never mind stop by
to chat with his tenant about decorating and dogs.
Tyler had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, as
though he'd been caught at something, which put me further
on alert. Then he took a deep breath, shrugged and plunged
right in. Once you get him going, he's a pretty forthright
guy.
"See, here's the thing. I'm this close —" he held his
hands a couple of inches apart " — to getting a green
light on the Race the Dawn project. I mean, I've really
polished the script, Alastair Reynolds's people say he's
almost a sure thing for the lead, and Vancouver is looking
super good for locations."
"That's good," I mumbled vaguely, wondering why in hell he
was telling me any of this. I have no kind of stake in the
film industry, though I did know that Race the Dawn was
Tyler's pet project. He was known as a director, not a
screenwriter, yet this was a script he'd written himself
and had been trying to get backed for years. He'd put a
lot of his own resources into it to get it as far as he
had. But he'd known all along that wouldn't be enough.
"And I'm this close —" he held up his hands again, this
time even less distance apart " — to getting Maxi
Livingston to agree to produce."
Maxi Livingston. Even I knew that name. Livingston Studios
has had some piece of some aspect of Oscar for almost
twenty years. Maxi Livingston was not just one of the most
important producers in Hollywood, he was it: the cat's
ass, the big kahuna. The twinned hyacinths of the
Livingston Studios logo were the final seal of approval:
even audiences were aware of that and knew what it meant.
Tyler was no schmuck, no slouch: he'd made some wonderful
films. But there had been whispers about Race the Dawn —
to get it made the way Tyler wanted was going to cost a
lot of money. The kind of money Maxi Livingston could pony
up without even beading the wax on his Bentley. If he
produced Race the Dawn, Tyler would be able to make it
into the kind of film he wanted.
And I found all of this interesting. I really did. I was
born and raised in Seattle, the daughter of a golf course
manager and an insurance agent. I have a business degree
from Harvard and I've spent most of my career as a
stockbroker. I've been around a lot of cool stuff. But to
me the film industry is separate. Magic. So it still
seemed really special to be this close to it. This far
inside. I liked hearing about it. I just didn't know why I
was hearing about it now.
That's what I said to Tyler. "Why are you telling me
this?" I'm not one to beat around any bushes.
Tyler sighed. Ran his fingers through his sparse hair.
Sighed again. "You see, Madeline." A beat. A pause. "It's
like this." Another sigh. Then a sense that he was just
going to rush in and let things fall where they may. "I
kinda told Maxi you'd teach his wife about the stock
market."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what could I say? I just
looked at Tyler. Closely. Tried not to enjoy it too much
when he squirmed under my glance. Finally I said
firmly, "You did not."
"She doesn't want to be a broker or anything," he said
quickly, as though assuring me of something vast. "She
just wants to play the market a bit. Like you do." Tyler
filled the space quickly with words when he saw my
face. "Well not, of course, just like you do. I just meant
from home. With a computer. Herself. Without a broker."
"Tyler, I am a broker." I hesitated. Went back a few
steps. "Well, I was. It's what I did for ten years. It's
not like you can just fall out of bed one morning and
say, 'Ooh. I think I'll play with stocks."
Except, of course, that you can. Ever since the Internet
had become so accessible, millions of people had been
doing just that. Some of them with incredibly horrible
results: buying stuff they hadn't meant to buy, sometimes
losing hundreds of thousands of dollars. I told Tyler this
now.
"See, that's the beauty, Madeline. Livingston has a pile
of money. And his wife wants to do this. Instead, I guess,
of opening a dress shop or a gallery. I dunno why, really.
Maxi just mentioned it to me and I..."
"...rushed in to be helpful," I said with a little more
venom than I'd intended. After all, it was my services he
was offering here. "And it's not like it's something I can
do, Tyler."
"You can't?" he looked genuinely perplexed. The thought
obviously hadn't occurred to him.
"Well, I'm not a teacher, for one. I don't know the first
thing about instructing someone."
Tyler looked relieved. "Oh, that. Madeline, I've seen
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Article 02: Untitled
you with Jennifer. You're a terrific teacher. She really
listens to you and respects you."
"It's not the same thing."
"No, of course not." Tyler was in heavy placate mode, yet
I could see he was determined to get what he'd come
for. "Still, I know it's something you'd be great at."
"Tyler, it's just not that simple. I'm not even licensed
in California. I can't go around giving financial advice."
Tyler brightened. "See, I knew that, so that's not what I
promised. Of course. I just thought you could teach her
the mechanical end of things. Online brokerages and how
to — you know — physically buy and sell stocks from her
computer. Not what to buy," he assured me. "Just how to do
it."
"Tyler..."
"And I wouldn't expect you to do it for free, of course."
"Tyler..."
"I'd pay you for your time."
"Tyler don't be an idiot. It's not the money."
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his chinos, a
sheepish look on his face. Again. "I know that, Madeline.
Believe me, I know you well enough for that. It's just
that it's so important."
Tyler, usually strong and in charge in every situation,
looked so dejected — so desperate — I got a sense of how
important this really was to him. And I thought about it.
It was something I was capable of doing. Not so different,
really, from when I'd shown my mom how to do the same
thing when I was last in Seattle. Yet it felt different,
somehow. More official when it was a stranger.
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