Free MURDER ON A DESIGNER DIET by Shawn Reilly Simmons Page B

“Can you do me a favor and check if Hannah Devore came home last night?”
    The man shook his head. “It’s okay for me to check on Max for you since he gave his permission for the people on his list. But I have to protect Miss Devore’s privacy.”
    â€œOh, okay,” Penelope said, unable to hide her disappointment. She also thought for a company that was acting like Big Brother in these young people’s lives, it was ironic he was being so secretive now.
    â€œI will tell you,” the man said, lowering his voice, “those two do spend a good amount of time together.”
    Penelope looked at him hopefully. “She’s probably not here either, then?”
    The man smiled at her and splayed his fingers in a “who knows” gesture.
    â€œCan I take a look at Max’s apartment?” Penelope asked.
    The man hesitated a moment and narrowed his eyes at Penelope.
    â€œI wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency. There was an incident last night and Max might be in danger.”
    Concern clouded his features. “You’re on Max’s list, and he’s given everyone on it permission to enter. Take the elevator up to the third floor. He’s in 3C. You have a key?”
    When Penelope shook her head, he pulled open a drawer below his desk and opened a lockbox, taking a key from it and handing it to her.
    â€œI really appreciate your help,” Penelope said.
    â€œYou’re welcome. Just sign the logbook before you go,” he said, flipping open a leather-bound binder on the countertop. Penelope signed in and went to the elevator, throwing a grateful smile at him over her shoulder as the doors slid open.
    Max’s apartment was at the end of the hall on the third floor. Penelope turned the key in the lock and the door glided open silently on its hinges.
    â€œMax?” Penelope called from the doorway.
    Penelope stepped inside the main living area and saw three of Randall’s movie posters framed behind the overstuffed black leather couch. The dark wood coffee table was covered with magazines, books, and remote controls and sat low over a white faux-fur throw rug. Penelope sorted through the magazines, most of them about entertainment or men’s health. He had quite a collection of tabloids and he was reading a couple of different books. A paperback mystery lay open upside down on the coffee table and a bookmark was stuck in the middle of a large book titled The Tragedies: Sixteen Greek Plays .
    Penelope went to Max’s small kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were various takeout containers inside and a bottle of white wine chilling on the door, but not much else. She glanced into the trash bin and saw it was lined with a clean white bag, with just a few discarded menus and some junk mail tossed in.
    Max’s bed was made and the bathroom sink and tub were dry. She opened a few drawers in the vanity but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just Max’s shaving kit and the usual toiletries. A collection of pricy aftershaves were lined up at the edge of the counter in front of the mirror. It definitely didn’t look like Max had been home recently.
    â€œWhere are you?” Penelope whispered, closing a bathroom drawer.
    Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and Penelope jumped, the sound highlighting the absolute silence of the apartment. She looked at the screen and saw an unknown New York number.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œIs this Penelope Sutherland? Red Carpet Catering?” the man’s hurried voice said.
    â€œYes,” Penelope answered.
    â€œGreat. This is Gary from production. Call time is five p.m. tomorrow, fifty-two people reporting to set.”
    Penelope put her hand to her forehead and looked in the bathroom mirror. “Right. We’ll be there. How long is the day going to be?”
    â€œCurrent plan is to film until morning, through the night. Twelve hours. We’ll break for dinner