Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun (13 page)

I
propped myself up on the bed and picked up a book about 1930s Hollywood and the
stars of that bygone era, determined to immerse myself in other people's lives
and forget my own. However, reading that Marlene Dietrich loved women all her
life and Tallulah Bankhead once announced that she'd always wanted to get into
Marlene's pants didn't exactly chill me out.

Callie
wandered through the room asking me what I was reading.

"Did
you know that all the female megastars in Tinsel Town of old were fucking each
other?"

"You
mean loving each other," she corrected.

"Come
look." I held up a photo and, when she walked over, I pulled her down
playfully onto the bed. "Let me demonstrate." I kissed her seriously
this time, with a convincing fervor that admitted I knew this was our moment.

She
pulled back as she had in her apartment, but then, just as swiftly, gave in and
her kisses were strong, and deep and probing. I kept my mouth on hers while I
unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it away from her, unsnapping the bra she wore
and releasing her huge, firm breasts. I slid her pants down and off her as she
whispered, "Take your clothes off." I could not have stripped faster
if my clothes had been on fire.

There
is a celestial happening when souls mate. It's as if a Divine Force uses the
hips and shoulders of one lover to press into the clay of the other, leaving an
imprint that no one fills until those exact shoulders, those buttocks, those
legs, that belly, slide into what heaven made, and when that happens, the fit
is so tight that nothing can unlock it, no amount of rolling or rubbing or
kissing. For Callie and me, it was as if a cosmic glue made of sweet secretions
was holding us together. We were one. So incredible was the fit that I couldn't
tell up from down, or right from left, or dark from light. I didn't know which
wet, pulsing orifice I was inside of. I couldn't tell if she were in me, or I
were in her. The sensual sensation was so intense that I no longer knew if I
was even in my body, and I wanted only never, ever to leave this blessed place.
I could feel her hips thrusting into me and hear her moaning and I realized she
was about to explode with the joy of it, when she pulled away from me abruptly.
Pleasure aborted, my senses crashed down out of the stratosphere and onto the
bedsheets.

"What's
wrong?" I was breathing like a marathon runner.

"Nothing.
You're wonderful. Nothing."

"It's
something," I said. "Did I hurt you?"

"No,
no, no." She pulled herself up into a sitting position, leaning back
against the headboard, and clutched her knees to her chest, encircling them
with her arms. "That's why I didn't really want this to happen," she
said, and then seeing my crestfallen face, she cupped it in her hand.
"I've never completely given myself to anyone...so I can't just turn it
on."

"What
do you mean?"

"When
I was twenty, a psychic told me that I wouldn't meet the love of my life until
I was in my early forties. I remember thinking, 'in another twenty years, what
will I have left to give that special someone that I haven't shared with
someone else?' I decided to save that one thing for the person I knew I would
finally meet."

"That
one thing," I repeated flatly, staring at her. "You have never allowed
yourself to climax?"

"That's
unbelievable to you, isn't it?" she said softly.

"No,
absolutely not," I lied, all the while thinking,
Omigod, Callie Rivers
is a Lamborghini up on blocks!
I put my arms around her. "So you've
been with other women and you've never—?"

"I
never wanted to."

"But
you were with these women for—?"

"A
while, yes."

"And
didn't your partners ever.. .notice?"

"No."

"No?"

"Women
can fake it so that even women can't tell," she reminded me.

I
stared into her beautiful, sincere eyes.
So maybe she’ll just fake it with
me, or maybe she's faking everything right now.

"So
you were with other people, Tee. Did you always climax?" Callie asked.
Somehow that question coming from Callie, in light of what she'd just told me,
made what I thought was a normal physical reaction to pleasure seem abnormal,
selfish, even depraved!

"You
did, of course," Callie answered her own question, and then laughed
softly.

I
kissed her neck thinking,
Only some berry-eating monk could maintain twenty
years of self-control.
"But it should have happened, shouldn't it? We
were wild for each other. Okay, so now I'm having performance anxiety. Maybe I
should have—"

"Not
everything is about you, Teague," she said gently. "This one is about
me. I'm just used to pulling back. It'll take time. It'll be fine. Don't focus
on it, and just give me time," she said.

Callie
curled up in a ball, her buttocks pressed into my belly. I wrapped around her
and snuggled closer. Her scent was overwhelming, intoxicating. I wanted her,
and I didn't know how many unfulfilled nights I could take without cracking
down the middle like a piece of parched earth.

I
should have told her I was honored that she'd saved herself for me. I should
have said it humbled me to think I was the one she'd chosen, but instead, like
some cop interrogating a suspect, I got bogged down in the details.
Why did
Callie deprive herself of pleasure, and why does that deprivation mean so much
to her?

As
if reading my mind, Callie said softly, "I just never met anyone before
who made me want to let go."

I
held her tighter.

Callie
awakened early. I could hear her pacing in the living room, the floorboards
creaking with every nervous footstep. She'd had nightmares all night about Rita
Smith, and she thought we should go over there today. I explained that stars
live behind iron gates, in heavily guarded compounds, and we had no chance of
ever getting within a thousand yards of Rita Smith. But Callie was so agitated,
she wasn't listening. I got dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt,
put my morning coffee in a thermos cup, and told Callie we should get this
visit over with so I could get some work done today. Callie told me her dream
on the way over.

"Two
gigantic black tarantulas around a fire, and we startled them. They bit us, and
we were with Rita Smith, and she died of the bite," Callie said. I told
her I liked her showgirls and fifty grand dream better.

I
held her hand in mine as we drove up into the Encino hills and turned in at the
driveway of an iron-gated mansion. I pointed out the closed gates and the
security box, telling Callie this was as far as I could take her. She hopped
out of the car, walked to the gate, and lifted the latch. I waited for an
intercom to come on with a reprimanding voice, or a guard to demand our
identity, or for a bell to go off. Nothing happened. Callie got back in the
car. Amazed at the lack of security, I drove up the driveway and parked at the
foot of a long, sloping flagstone pathway leading up to the house.

Up
above us, Rita Smith, her carrot-red hair flashing in the sunlight, battled the
stiff Santa Ana winds, holding the door to her canary yellow Mercedes open with
her hip as she tried to lift out two sacks of groceries and the dry-cleaning. I
guess she could have let the servants do it, but by the time she told them what
to do, it was probably easier to do it herself. Maybe it took her mind off
where Eddie might be on these mornings when he wasn't taping a show or shooting
on the movie lot. Maybe he told her he was at the club playing golf. Maybe she
didn't care. From the looks of things, they had a great life. Why question a
good thing? She might ruin it.

I'd
once read an article about Rita Smith that said she was raised on a farm in
Iowa. She met Eddie when they were both in college in Des Moines. The article
quoted her as saying, "Who would have known that the boy all my friends
said was nuts would turn out to be one of the rich and famous in Hollywood? But
we love each other, and we're just ordinary people really." Not too
ordinary, I thought as I caught a glimpse of sunlight bouncing off what had to
be a quarter of a million dollar diamond on her left hand, and probably a fifty
thousand dollar tennis bracelet on her left ankle. She could call anyone,
anytime, and get them to deliver whatever it was she wanted, and oddly enough, what
she wanted this morning was to pick it up herself.

She
backed away from the car, then turned and shut the door with her hip and headed
up the steps that ran along the outside of the mansion leading to a landing and
a door that opened onto an upstairs entryway.

Callie
and I were twenty yards from her, but still out of her line of sight, when
Barrett Silvers stepped out from under the exterior staircase, surprising Rita
and us as well. Rita dropped her packages, and they tumbled over the railing.
She screamed and Barrett quickly put her fingers to her own lips, warning her
to be silent. I grabbed Callie's arm and pulled her aside into the shade of a
large tree. I could see Barrett trying to quiet Rita down and convince her not
to go inside.

Rita
Smith was incensed that Barrett trespassed the compound. She threatened her
loudly with the police and the possible arrival of her husband and the idea
that there were servants upstairs who would blow her brains out.

"It's
too late," Callie whispered, severely upset.

"What's
she doing?" I asked her.

Barrett
gripped Rita's skirt, trying to keep her from scaling the steps as she
continued to try to shut her up, but Rita was petrified, and the adrenaline and
her superior position three steps above Barrett allowed her to kick and claw
her way to the side door as Barrett clung to her.

Rita
yanked herself free and pulled the door open at the top of the landing, where a
man in a ski mask was waiting, and he backhanded her as one would a housefly.
The force of his stroke sent her head smashing up against the doorjamb, and
Rita sank to the floor, blood slowly dripping from the door handle. Barrett's
eyes went wide. She hesitated only a moment in her assessment that there was
nothing more she could do for Rita Smith, and in a desperate act of
self-preservation, she jumped over the side of the exterior staircase, landing
on the ground below. Callie and I hovered out of sight, paralyzed at what we'd
stumbled on.

Barrett's
endorphins must have kicked in, because she scrambled over the grounds in an
attempt to escape, but two men were on level ground now—dressed ominously in
black, from their black combat boots to their black ribbed sweaters and black
knit ski masks—and on her like hunting dogs on a crippled rabbit. Before Callie
could stop me, I darted out into the clearing to help Barrett, not wanting the
guilt of having been too cowardly to at least divert them from her. I shouted for
them to leave her alone, and one of the men turned and rushed me. Callie
screamed as he dove on me, pinning me to the ground.

We
rolled over and over trying to get leverage on one another. I caught only
pieces of his face under the hood as we struggled—Anglo, older, thin—before he
let out a dull moan and collapsed on top of me. Callie had liberated one of the
large flat rocks that lined the elegantly manicured flowerbeds along the
driveway and used it like a hammer on his head. Grateful for Callie's help, I
scrambled to my feet, and we both turned our attention to Barrett.

If
Barrett Silvers saw us, she couldn't have focused long enough to know who we
were, because she was fighting for her life fifty yards away from us. We both
headed in her direction, but it was too late. The man was pointing something at
Barrett. Then came the blast, flames attacking her from all directions,
engulfing her in searing, skin-scorching fire. Callie screamed for the man to
stop, I screamed for Barrett to run, Barrett screamed for the pain to end.

I
could smell her flesh burning, imagine her expensive gold cuff links searing
into her body like a branding iron, coming to rest on her wrist bones. The pain
had to be unbearable. She rolled on the ground. He shot more fire at her. She
was screaming still.

My
wrestling partner was already waking up. "Get those two!" he shouted,
pointing his gun at us and firing bullets at our heads. We dashed through the
gate in our best track time and slammed it shut behind us. We were inside the
car and out of the driveway in seconds.

"Jesus
God!" I backed out of the driveway and swung around the corner to a pay
phone, leapt out, and used it to dial 911 so my cell number couldn't be traced.
I told the female officer who answered that I thought two people had been
murdered. The officer asked for my name. "Just get someone over to Eddie
Smith's house, and hurry!" Tears were running down my cheeks and I could
barely talk as I dialed Curtis and left word about Rita and Barrett.

"I
think she's alive, Teague," Callie said of Barrett.

"Then
we've got to go back and help her until the police come!" I drove the car
back around the corner and pulled up alongside the curb, leaving the entrance
free for emergency vehicles. This time, the gate latch on the big iron gates
was locked, by the frightened servants, no doubt, and we couldn't get back in.