After She's Gone (15 page)

“I don’t think so. Unless all this publicity about her missing sister gives her more Hollywood cred, she’s not getting any parts. Nothing major anyway, for quite a while. She’s trying to be a writer, got a couple of scripts written.” Double T’s eyebrows raised but Nash shook her head. “Hasn’t sold anything that I could find.”

“She any good?”

“Who knows? The jury’s still out.”

“And there’s still that missing sister.”

“Uh-huh.”

Double T asked, “You got a tail on the sister? In LA?”

Nash felt herself smile. “What do you think?” She then pulled up a link on her computer. “Take a look at this,” she said, indicating the monitor where a close-up of Allie Kramer’s beautiful face appeared along with a tense music score. Her expression was coy, a sly smile, eyes flashing with mischief, her skin appearing flawless as the camera pushed in more closely to focus the reflection of light in one of Allie’s eyes, the striations of color becoming clearer, the pupil enlarging and the speck of light growing, showing colors and movement within. Blurry images sharpened, then the screen was filled with the image of a frantically running woman, racing as if terror-driven, her shoes pounding the wet pavement, her breathing ragged, her face twisted in horror as heart-pounding music swelled.

The woman was Allie Kramer.

A shot rang out.

Abruptly the image on the screen faded to black.

With the sound of following shots, letters began to appear, spelling out DEAD HEAT. A final bang and the date of the movie’s release came into view and then the blackness behind the lettering evaporated into gray skies and Allie Kramer’s watery image before fading completely.

Double T leaned back in his chair. “It’s almost as if whoever put this together is playing off the star going missing in real life.”

“Ya think?” They’d already gone over the possibility that Allie Kramer’s disappearance was staged to generate more interest in her and the film, but if so the production company, or whoever was behind her vanishing act, was taking the law into its own hands.

Unlikely.

People had been known to pull outrageous stunts for publicity, but the idea seemed far-fetched. Yet they were getting nowhere with the missing person’s case. No one had heard from Allie Kramer since the night before the reshooting of the final scene. She’d called her assistant, Cherise Gotwell, and said she didn’t think she’d make the morning shoot, had wanted to make sure her stunt double was available, and had said that she would confirm in the morning.

She hadn’t. No more calls had come in from her. In fact that was the last bit of communication of any kind. Her cell phone records indicated that she’d received one final call from her sister, Cassie, but then nothing. No one had seen or heard from her since.

How the hell could someone with a face recognized by most of the people in America disappear?

“This is just one of the trailers for the movie. There are a couple more—variations of the same. I’ve got a call in to the producer and the director. Maybe I’ll get lucky and one of them will call me back,” Nash said.

“Yeah, right. And maybe I’ll go pick us up some Voodoo Doughnuts and there won’t be a line.”

She smiled at the idea, but her good humor faded as she turned her computer screen to face her and replayed the video one more time to stare at Allie Kramer’s earnest face. “Where the hell are you?” she whispered under her breath, then tamped down the feeling that the woman was already dead. Until a body was located, Allie Kramer was presumed alive.

But deep down, Rhonda Nash thought the chances of finding Allie Kramer living and breathing were slim.

And getting slimmer by the second.

 

W
hen Cassie roused to look at the clock near her bed, it was nearly ten. Her bedroom was flooded with sunlight as she’d forgotten to pull the drapes shut the night before.

Stretching, she raised up on one elbow as she shook off the cobwebs of a night teeming with nightmares.

After weeks in the hospital room, hearing the sounds of murmuring voices, rattling carts, and soft dings of the elevator, the relative peace and quiet of her apartment should have brought on a slumber deeper than any sleeping aid could deliver, but it hadn’t. She was tired to the bone and felt as if she’d run a marathon. Or maybe two marathons.

Yawning, she pushed her hair from her eyes and found her computer where she’d left it, on wrinkled sheets next to her on the bed, its screen dark.

So now she was sleeping with electronic devices.

Instead of Trent.

In her mind’s eye, she saw a glimpse of life as it had been. She used to awaken to Trent stretched out beside her on the bed, one tanned arm flung over her waist, his hair tousled, his breathing rhythmic and deep. She would stare at the curve of his spine and muscles of his back, his taut skin showing a few scars.

God, how she’d loved him.

“It’s over,” she reminded herself, and rolled over to pick up the earring on her nightstand, the one Rinko had found in her hospital room.

For the next hour she searched the Internet for earrings in the shape of a red cross, scouring hundreds of images and comparing them to the little bit of jewelry she’d collected from the hospital. Some had dangles, others made of glass or rubies, still others in the wrong configuration. Eventually, though, she’d discovered several pictures of red crosses on posts that seemed to be a match. From what she could glean, the earrings were made sometime after World War II, and weren’t expensive, nor rare. At least they hadn’t been in the 1950s. Now, of course, they were little more than a cheap collector’s item that, due to the passage of over half a century, had become harder to find.

As she sat cross-legged on the messy bed, staring at the bit of jewelry in her palm, she realized the earring wasn’t a clue to who had worn it in her hospital room, but it was the only hard evidence that the nurse had really existed and visited her. No one would believe that she had actually seen the nurse, not in her state of tentative rationality. The same could be said of Steven Rinko, as no one at the hospital nor his parents trusted him since he had been diagnosed with some kind of neurological disorder in which, at least at some times, he hallucinated and couldn’t distinguish between reality and fantasy. Though he claimed his IQ was off the charts, and that’s why he saw things others didn’t, Cassie wasn’t quick to believe him. But she did think he actually believed his own warped view of the world, even though it was slightly altered from that of the general public.

She studied the earring for the hundredth time, then slid it into a compartment in her purse and made her way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, threw on her clothes, and twisted her hair onto her head. A slap of lipstick and sunglasses was her makeup as she grabbed the overnight bag that she kept with a change of clothes and headed out the door and into the bright morning.

A flock of tiny birds chatted and flitted in and out of the bank of bougainvillea that separated the parking area from the main house. The sun was high, sharp rays bouncing off the windshield of her car as she slid inside. She rolled down the windows and started the ignition.

As she backed up, she glanced at the door of her condo, the place she’d sought sanctuary after her last split with Trent. The unit had been available and she’d been able to rent it month to month, but it had never felt like home, had always been a place to crash when she was in LA, nothing more. The truth was that there was nothing to come home to here. No pets. No children. No husband. No reason to stay. Which is just as well as she intended to drive to Oregon the following morning.

If she could get through another night.

She’d already called the owner of the apartment and explained about the key going missing and asking that the locks be changed at her cost. Doug Peterson, who lived in the main house and was retired, was a handyman and promised to replace the dead bolt. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked a million questions about Allie.

As she drove to the local post office Cassie’s stomach growled. Somehow she’d missed dinner, opting instead for the Moscow Mules Holly had ordered and which had, as far as she could see, zero nutritional value.

Her plans for the day were simple: First grab her mail, then find coffee followed quickly with food. Next, she planned to double-check with a jeweler about the earring. Then the rest of the day she would spend trying to connect with acquaintances of Allie’s, people Cassie hadn’t talked to since entering the hospital. She knew her chances of finding out anything new, anything the police could have missed, were nearly nonexistent, but she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d reached as many people as possible. Why? Because she loved her sister. Oftentimes it was a love/hate relationship, sibling rivalry at its worst, but she did care about Allie. That was a fact.

And, of course, there was the story surrounding her disappearance and the fact that Cassie was already blocking it out in her head.

At the post office she went through her mail, tossed the junk in a recycle bin, and kept the bills and anything that looked important before grabbing coffee and a scone at a drive-through coffee shop. She pulled into a park and rolled down the windows to let in a soft little breeze, eased her seat away from the steering wheel, then made several phone calls, starting with the people who had recently worked with Allie.

As she watched a nanny playing with toddlers at a slide, Cassie dialed Little Bea, then Dean Arnette, followed by Cherise Gotwell. No one answered. “Great,” she said, leaving voice mail messages and texts for each of them. She then tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and opened the paper bag she’d brought from the coffee shop.

Picking at her scone, she kept her eyes on the scene in front of her, the group of little children running, skipping, and screaming with glee as they darted in and out of the play structure. With an effort she ignored the emptiness that threatened to crawl through her soul. A boy of around four and a girl a couple of years younger prattled at each other as they took turns on the small slide, then, with the nanny pushing the empty stroller, they ran for the fountain, which was little more than a grid of spouts shooting jets of water high into the air. The kids giggled and screamed in delight as they tried to anticipate where the next stream would appear.

They were wet, happy, and adorable.

Cassie smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Being the oldest she could remember playing with Allie at that age, here in California. Her sister had been a toddler, cute, plump, and delightful, and their parents had been, at that time, happily married. Before Robert had started cheating, or at least before Jenna had realized it. God, it seemed like ages ago, another lifetime.

Nearby the nanny lit a cigarette, blew smoke away from the children who were paying her no attention, then checked her cell phone as she sat on a bench, just out of reach of the spray. She was young. Maybe twenty. Maybe not quite. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she wore tattered jeans, a T-shirt, and a bored expression, but she kept her eyes, for the most part, on her charges.

Cassie glanced at her own cell. Of course there were no new messages.

She wondered if anyone she’d called would phone or text her back.

Unlikely. Very unlikely.

How could she ask questions or find out
any
thing when no one would give her the time of day?

As if she were in the throes of trying to quit smoking or hide her habit, the nanny quickly dropped her cigarette onto the concrete and crushed it with the heel of her sandal. Then, while the kids were distracted, she walked to a trash can situated near the restrooms and discarded the butt.

Cassie watched while a thirtysomething man in shorts and a T-shirt jogged along a path. He passed by on the opposite side of the fountain, where beneath a shade tree an older woman sat on a bench. She was busy breaking a crust of bread and tossing crumbs to a few small birds and a crow that inspected each morsel before pecking quickly and cawing for another tidbit. “Enough,” the woman yelled as if the bird could understand her. Then she crumpled her sack and stuffed it into her collapsible shopping cart, dusting her hands. “Tomorrow,” she said, then climbed off the bench and, rolling the cart in front of her, headed to a little Volkswagen Beetle parked in a handicapped space.

Cassie’s thoughts were still on how she could possibly find her sister as she watched the woman leave. She finished her scone and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Someone knew something. She was sure of it. Allie had to confide in someone. Probably Cherise, who was MIA.
Damn it all to hell. If only—

Like a lightning bolt, inspiration hit.

Who would be Allie’s most likely confidante? Someone who knew her moods inside out, someone who had worked with her for years. A smile spread across Cassie’s face as she picked up the phone again, scrolled through the menu, and touched Laura Merrick’s name. There were several numbers listed, one being her personal cell, which Cassie had gotten from Allie. In her mind’s eye she conjured up Laura’s face. Sharp features, big eyes, smooth complexion, and someone who might just know something.

Laura the makeup artist.

Laura the hairdresser.

Laura who had been with Allie since her first role in
Street Life.

Who else would Allie spend so much time with, be inclined to share secrets with? Cassie pressed the number and waited. One ring. Two. Three and then a real voice, not a recording.

“This is Laura.”

Thank God. “
Hi. It’s Cassie,” she said, testing the waters.

No response.

“Cassie Kramer.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

Not exactly encouraging and Cassie didn’t want to take a chance that Laura would simply hang up on her if she started asking questions, so she said, “Look, I’m in town for a day or two and I was wondering if there was any chance you had room to squeeze me in for a haircut?”

Again the pregnant pause, then, “You want an appointment with me? And like immediately?”

“Well, yeah. That would be so great.”

“Well . . . you know, Cassie, I’m booked solid.”

“It’s . . . it’s just a quick trim. Really. I don’t need a shampoo or color or anything.”

“Today?” Laura actually laughed. “Seriously?” And then, before Cassie could respond, “You’re here? In LA? But I thought . . .” She let the sentence trail.

“I thought that you were in a psych ward somewhere.”
That’s what she was about to say. Of course. “I just got back into town and I won’t be here long.” Cassie forced her voice to sound cheerful. “I knew it was a long shot, a really long shot, but I thought I’d call. Allie raves about you.” Cassie crossed her fingers, knowing she was playing on Laura’s relationship with her sister, but she didn’t feel bad about using every possible trick in the book. Laura, as Allie’s hair and makeup person, was likely to know more about Allie’s inner feelings than anyone. Sitting for hours in a chair while the stylist tended to you created a sense of intimacy. Secrets were often shared.

“Have you heard from her?” Laura asked.

“No. I . . . we don’t know anything.”

A long sigh. “Look, I’m not joking. I’m scheduled for like eternity. Most of the time I’m on a set somewhere. I’d like to help you out, but everyone who works in my salon is crazy busy.”

Cassie hid her disappointment. “The truth is I’d like to talk to you. About Allie.”

“You said you hadn’t heard from her.”

“That’s right, but I was hoping you might know something.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what happened to her. It’s weird, y’know?” There was another pause, then Laura said, “Look, Cassie, tell ya what. I’ve got to run, but if anyone cancels with any of my hairdressers, they’re all spectacular, by the way, then I’ll text you, okay? We’ll work something out. Are you here for a while?”

“I was planning to leave in the morning.”

“You thought you could get in
today? Just today?
” Laura laughed again. “You don’t ask for much, do you? I’ll do what I can, but don’t hold your breath. As I said, on the off chance someone in the shop gets a cancellation, I’ll let you know. But you have to understand it’s really unlikely. Like probably not going to happen.” And then she was gone. Cassie stared at her phone and felt defeated. Laura wasn’t just Allie’s hair and makeup person, she had other big-name clients as well. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Cassie could speak to her alone. Not that it really mattered, she thought, staring out the windshield. Hadn’t Laura just said she didn’t know anything?

A text had come in while she was on the phone, from a private number she didn’t recognize:

What? She texted back:

She hit send before realizing someone had probably texted the wrong number.

Or not?

What did anything having to do with Santa Fe, New Mexico, have to do with her? And 07? Did something happen there in 2007? Or was the 07 part of another number? Had Allie had a movie out in that year? Been on location in Santa Fe . . . no, her career started after that.

“It’s nothing,” she warned herself. She didn’t even know the person who’d texted. Still, it bothered her, so when no one responded immediately to her text, she dialed the phone number, which she could tell from the first three digits had originated in Oregon. Maybe if she knew who’d called?