Born to Be Wild (5 page)

Lou Lou called out as she stirred chicken noodle soup on the stove, “This has been quite a rough Saturday for you, Mary Lisa. I'm really thinking Paulie could have snapped, tried to drive you down. He simply can't let evil Sunday sleep with poor little Susan's husband.”

“Paulie's not crazy, Lou Lou. He's pathetic more than anything. Can we talk about something else? My brain's starting to float on the ceiling. It's nice. Let me leave it up there. Would you like me to sing you a song?”

Lou Lou was treated to a full-bodied treatment of John Denver's “Rocky Mountain High” before she came back into the living room, carrying a tray.

“I can't believe you know all the words to that old song. Here, sit up a bit.”

While Mary Lisa spooned the soup into her mouth, Lou Lou flopped down beside her, steepled her fingers. “Hey, sweetie, you're looking kind of vague. I'm going to stay with you tonight. Bernie will be all calmed down by Monday.” Lou Lou took away the cell phone that was lying on Mary Lisa's chest. “You don't have to call Clyde, Bernie will do it. In fact, we should be hearing from Clyde any minute now.”

Clyde called half an hour later. He nearly hyperventilated before she finally got him off the phone.

Lou Lou said, “Why didn't he call you sooner?”

Mary Lisa flopped back down. “He said he was afraid to, said Bernie finally managed to convince him that I was okay. You know Clyde's got spies everywhere. I'll lay you a five he's even got spies in the women's room at Taco Bell. I had to swear to him on the head of my father that I'd be okay to shoot on Monday. That gives me a day and a half to get myself back together.”

“Yeah, you lucked out, it being a Saturday and all.”

“That was sarcasm I heard, but I guess I am lucky. I don't have a day off until Thursday, but then it'll be a long weekend for me.”

“Elizabeth and I will stick to you like gumballs until Thursday. Then why don't you get out of here? Like maybe home to Goddard Bay? You haven't seen your folks for a while, and maybe it's time, don't you think?”

“I miss my dad. Okay, I'll think about it.”

At nine o'clock that evening, Elizabeth Fargas burst through the front door, a bottle of champagne under her arm, still wearing TV makeup, and a gorgeous pale yellow suit, and the three-inch heels she always wore even though she was seated behind the TV news desk. “Oh my, look at you, smiling and okay, right? I've been worried out of my mind. Goodness, do I ever need a drink!”

Goddard Bay, Oregon

No way I can do this. No way. I'm an idiot.

There, good, he finally had a functioning brain again. He'd finally admitted it to himself. He didn't love her. Actually, now that he examined it, he really didn't like her all that much either.

He smiled as the crushing weight toppled right off his head. He was ready to yell with relief when, in the next instant, the weight jumped back on.

Wonderful, just wonderful. I've got to tell her before her mother books the Methodist church and it's all over town
. He pulled the velvet box out of his inside jacket pocket, flipped it open, and looked with fear and loathing at the three-carat diamond winking up at him. It was the direct result of an early morning towering inferno of sex, a shake-the-rafters event that had cannonballed him onto his back when it was over, grinning like a loon, his brain waltzing in the ether. Surely, he thought, sex like that could get a man to do more than torture ever could. He'd have been willing to say anything, do anything for her after that brain-deadening, camel-humping sex, state secrets be damned.

And to prove it, by the time he'd finally talked his brain into crawling back inside his skull, he'd already bought the ring.

Thank God he had to focus on the mayor's daughter this morning—she'd been arrested for drunk driving the night before—so he hadn't been able to run right over to her house, a marriage proposal ready to pop out of his mouth.

But she was expecting him to propose, probably tonight when he took her to dinner at Le Fleur de Beijing. It was a new Asian/French restaurant in town that had the word
fusion
on every page of the menu, which meant, his father had told him, that you could get snails with sweet and sour sauce. It was expensive, though, and to quite a few folks in Goddard Bay and the environs, that meant it had class.

He'd been sleeping with her for close to four months now, at least four times a week. What
had
made that last time different? Didn't matter. He'd presented himself that morning at the jewelry store when the doors opened.

He happened to glance at himself in the mirror. He could still see the residue of wild fear in his eyes. He looked down again at the engagement ring, and thought he'd be better off without sex like that ever again in his life. It was too dangerous.

John McInnis Goddard, the great-great-great-grandson of Joshua Barrington Goddard, founder of Goddard Bay nearly a century and a half before, and a tough-as-nails district attorney referred to by local defense lawyers as a major shitkicker, was thinking he'd prefer a long winter's stay in a Siberian gulag or a campout in the Galápagos to a
fusion
dinner with Kelly Beverly.

John pulled out his cell phone. He had to talk Goon Leader into helping him.

But before he could punch in the numbers and grovel for the favor, his cell rang and Jack, the man himself, told him to get his butt over to the Jason Maynard house on Westview. His wife, Marci, had just found his body in the garage, lying in a pool of dried blood.

BORN TO BE WILD
Adolphus Club, Founder's Day dance

Sunday Cavendish is slow dancing with Damian Sterling, her half sister, Susan's, husband. She's wearing a long black fitted gown with sheer black netting that begins above her breasts all the way up to an inch-wide jet bead collar around her neck. The net sleeves fit close to her wrists. A slit in the netting gapes to show a very full cleavage. The back of the gown is cut nearly to the waist. Her red hair is swept up on top of her head. Sparkling jet earrings dangle from her ears, winking in and out of the long curls that fall nearly to her shoulders. Her mouth is crimson, her blue eyes brilliant with makeup. She knows she's beautiful and the arrogance of that knowledge is clear in her eyes, in her body language. She's the main attraction, power and wealth in one beautiful, ruthless package, and everyone in the big room knows it and accepts it.

Damian is in his late thirties, with light hair and contacts to give him pale green eyes. He looks elegant and comfortable in a tux, like the smooth operator he is. He's only a bit taller than Sunday, who's nearly six foot in her stiletto heels. He looks about surreptitiously to make sure neither his wife nor her mother is around, then pulls Sunday very close, his mouth only an inch from her ear.

“You look incredible, Sunday.”

She leans forward and lightly bites his earlobe. He goes stiff, looks surprised, then panicked. She smiles at him, only a flash of disgust shadowing her expression. “Don't worry, Romeo, your wife is in the women's room, probably whining about me to Mother.” She laughs at the relief on his handsome face. “Since Mother's begun to have major problems with Bernard, she'll change the subject quickly enough.”

“But Bernard loves her, seems to be interested in marrying her. What's the problem, Sunday?”

She gives him a lazy smile. “I told her to check out one of Bernard's offshore accounts, particularly the one in Bimini. I told her she might still find a lovely amount of newly transferred money there that just might have resided in her company vaults only last week. It could be gone by now, but the trail will still be there.” Sunday shakes her head, looks sad. “Seems that her wonderful, grand self wasn't what was important to Bernard.”

“You've got to be wrong. Surely she didn't believe you.”

“She called me a liar, a troublemaker, oh my, any number of nice names, but I know she won't be able to help herself. She'll start stewing about it tomorrow or the next day. Then she'll have her investigator Toby the Leach check it out and Bernard will soon be history. So you see, she's mad and won't have the patience to listen to Susan complaining about us.”

“You helped your mother. Why?”

Sunday shrugs, a gallic shrug she perfected when she studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. “Do you really think so?”

“Wait, you know the money's already gone, don't you? Or maybe Bernard never did anything wrong and you set him up.”

“You think?”

“You still think Susan and your mother set that maniac on you, don't you?”

Sunday laughs, gives a little wave to a group of friends. “Let's just say it's time for a bit of
heart
burn for her. I would have made it all up, but the fact is, Bernard's a crook. I hate crooks.”

“But you didn't warn her until he'd moved the money.”

“Toby the Leach will find it, never fear.” Sunday looks bored. “Enough of her problems, Damian. I know you're friends with Bernard. Could it be you had something more going on with him?”

“No!”

“Who cares? I don't. More power to you if you were working with Bernard trying to steal money from Mother's coffers. Now, I think it's best for you if you forget about this. Otherwise, Mother will be furious if she knows you've sniffed out her latest mistake.”

“She spoke of marrying Bernard.”

“Now she won't, will she?” She pauses a beat. “You look very fine in that tux.”

He looks grim. “I've got to go, Sunday, I'll be back, give me five minutes—”

“To call Bernard, to warn him? Now, now, Damian, I would cut my losses if I were you.”

He looks uncertain, knows the jig is up, and that he's been trapped. He pulls in a deep breath, manages a smile at the beautiful woman in his arms. “All right. Let Bernard roll around in his own swill. You know, Sunday, if Susan can't get your mother's sympathy, it means she'll be moaning to me about you later, accusing you of betraying her.”

“Of course she will.” Sunday shrugs her elegant shoulders, says flippantly, “So seduce her, then she'll believe anything you say. I don't suppose she'll ever consider that you're the one betraying her, not I.”

His arms tighten around her, his voice lowers to a sexy whisper. “It doesn't matter. You know it's not her I want.”

She looks at him, an arched eyebrow raised, a questioning look on her face that lasts and lasts until—

“Clear!”

Mary Lisa's hip throbbed. She slowly walked off the set and took a pain pill from Lou Lou's outstretched hand.

“Bad?”

“No, not really. It's just that Jeff was pushing hard on my hip there for a while.”

“Detective Vasquez was back again this morning, talking to everyone in makeup and wardrobe. I think he's considering a stalker-gone-violent deal. It's happened before.”

Mary Lisa sighed. “I guess I'd rather have a nutcase than someone I know who hates me and wants me gone, someone who's so clever I don't automatically suspect him or her. I'll bet Detective Vasquez doesn't find out anything if he hasn't by now. He did scare Paulie though. I told him again I didn't think Paulie has it in him to try to run someone down with a car. He hummed, you know the way he does, but wouldn't say what he thought.”

“Hey, Mary Lisa, you hanging in there?”

As producer of
Born to Be Wild
, Clyde Dillard was responsible for monitoring the acting quality, while the four directors were responsible for the camera quality and the “look” of each scene, which sounded a bit strange to people not in the soap business, but worked very well. He lightly touched his fingers to her forearm.

She dredged up a smile and a nod.

“You really pulled off that scene with Damian. And the gown is perfect, not a bruise in sight. Good choice, Mavis.” He nodded to the pixie-faced girl, who was actually pushing forty even though she looked more like fifteen, her eyes bright under a mop of red-streaked black hair. “If you're okay, Mary Lisa, we'll finish this scene in five minutes. Oh, yeah, about Paulie. His uncle Tom told me this job is very important to him, it's all he talks about, all he thinks about. He said to assure you that Paulie really likes you, Mary Lisa, that he wouldn't hurt a hair on your head—not even on Sunday's head. He told me Paulie's frightened of Detective Vasquez. You know as well as I do that Paulie can't throw a lobster into boiling water. He's certainly not stalking you, and no way would he run you down.”

Mary Lisa didn't smile. “I don't think he is, either, but someone is, Clyde. Detective Vasquez will find out, I hope. As for Paulie, as long as he behaves himself, I've got no problem with him.”

“Clyde is such a mushy worm,” Lou Lou said a few moments later to Mary Lisa when Clyde turned to speak to Jeff about a camera angle the director wanted changed.

Not all that mushy. Mary Lisa said, an eyebrow cocked, “What kind of name is Paulie, anyway?”

Clyde turned back, looked thoughtfully at Mary Lisa. “I'd say it's the name of a kid who's never grown up. Hmm. Maybe it's time he did. You know, Mary Lisa, I wish that Detective Vasquez would finish up instead of disrupting everything and dizzying up everyone. It's playing havoc with the schedule.” He realized then what he'd said, and coughed into his palm. “Of course he needs to find out who tried to hurt…”

He looked acutely uncomfortable and Mary Lisa, no fool, leaped at the opportunity to lobby him. “Hey, Clyde, please speak to Bernie about this plotline with Sunday sleeping with Damian. It's still not too late to come up with something else. He's such a sleaze, Clyde—Damian, not Bernie—and Sunday has too high an opinion of herself to sleep with him. She's not just any bitch, she's the goddess bitch who would never sleep with a weakling. She despises them. She could tease Damian, sure, make him twist for a while, but actually get naked with him? No way. I don't think even her desire for revenge against Susan would make her sink so low.”

Clyde shrugged. “It's a solid story line, pet. Bernie told me sleeping with Damian is only phase one of Sunday's revenge. He said they're working on a twist that'll have everyone slack-jawed for Sweeps Week. The soap fanzines are already stirring things up with all their speculation.”

“Sleeping with Damian will lessen Sunday, maybe forever.”

Clyde's sparse gray eyebrows flew up. “Hmmm,” he said, stroking the straggly Vandyke trying to cover his chin. “If I know Bernie, he's probably whipping lots of stuff into the pot to see what floats to the surface. Okay, okay, I'll mention it again. He's the final word, Mary Lisa, no one else, you know that. We've all got to trust his instincts. He got us here.” He turned away when one of the actors wanted to ask him about something.

“Ha!” Lou Lou said under her breath next to Mary Lisa's ear. “You're the one who got us here.”

“No, I just goosed things up. Come on, Lou Lou, what he means is that Bernie Barlow has been the soap's head writer, guru, and creative genius for well nigh seventeen years. Only the network people have the power to force him to change his mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, and since they don't even agree on what constitutes casual Friday, Bernie always does what he pleases.”

Mary Lisa nodded. Since the network lived and died by the weekly Nielsen ratings that still cranked syrup-slow out of the fax each Thursday, and
BTBW
had been at the top of the heap since shortly after Mary Lisa arrived, Bernie was golden. Not to mention that very recent Emmy for best soap. It didn't look good for Sunday's staying out of Damian's bed.

“Look at the bright side,” Clyde continued, happy as a clam, turning back to her. “If they have Susan attempt suicide or something, it might even have viewers cheering for Susan and Lydia. And you'd be the most hated daytime star on TV for a while, until Sunday magicks the viewers again.”

Jeff strolled over in his tux. “Not going to happen, Clyde. The viewers hate whomever Sunday hates, and that includes her half sister and mother.”

“Whatever. Okay, kiddo, I'll pass this on to Bernie, give him a headache. Now, it's time for Sunday to make her assignation with Damian.”

Lou Lou said, “Susan shouldn't only attempt suicide, she should succeed, that's what I say.” She said it low enough for only Mary Lisa's ears so one could carry it back to Margie.

Three minutes later, Mary Lisa's hair was scrutinized, her dangling curls coaxed a bit lower, now nearly touching her shoulders, one of them twisting around a jet earring. She checked the monitor, and…Sunday resumes the same expression.

She smiles at Damian. The camera catches her full face, eyes slumberous as her hands lightly stroke up his arms. From the corner of her eye she sees her half sister, Susan, walking into the ballroom with their mother, Lydia, and she gives a small calculated smile. She stops stroking his arms even as she presses closer, her breasts against him, leans up, and whispers, “All you have to do is unfasten the collar around my neck and this gown drops.”

Damian looks like he wants to leap on her. His eyes dilate a bit, he's breathing hard.

She laughs. “But not here. Here's your lovely wife, the old warship steaming along behind her. Why don't you call me after you've seduced your little woman and made her happy?”

Damian sees his wife from the corner of his eye, but he can't help himself. After a brief moment of uncertainty, he says, “Yes.”

The camera moves to Susan's face. She's been crying but now she's wearing a brave look. “Damian,” she says softly and lightly touches her fingertips to his forearm. “Take me home.”

Damian looks down at her, his expression unreadable, holds it, holds it, until—

“Clear!”

In the dressing room, Mary Lisa heard Margie say angrily, “I heard about what you said, Lou Lou!”

“How is that possible? I barely heard myself.”

“You said I should commit suicide, that I should succeed. Dammit, Susan isn't about to do that. Never.”

“Hey, it's just another idea for Sweeps Week,” Lou Lou said easily around a mouthful of eye shadow pencils. “They could pretend you're in a coma, bring you back in a couple of months. Hey, it's no worse than poor Mary Lisa having to sleep with Susan's husband.”

“It's not going to happen,” Mary Lisa said. “Don't worry about it.” She remembered what Detective Vasquez had said about a stranger listening in. Someone who didn't know would have no clue who was talking about whom. Mary Lisa smiled at Margie, who seemed mollified, and walked away, whistling, to have a bubble-gum-chewing Mavis help her out of the black gown.