After She's Gone (18 page)

Pissed, he’d finally gotten the message and started the damned truck. If she’d been peeking out a window, or standing on a veranda, or peering from behind a corner, tough. He’d done what he could. Telling himself it was over, he drove down the winding hillside through the trees, determined to contact his lawyer and end the marriage once and for all. He didn’t need the grief nor the aggravation. Obviously his “wife” wanted nothing to do with him.

By the time he’d crossed the Marquam Bridge and melded into the traffic heading east, he’d cooled off considerably and decided that instead of filing for divorce he’d drive home, find his good old friend Jack Daniel’s, and have himself a sit-down.

That’s where he’d left it. Drinking too much, suffering from a hangover the next day, and resolving to never contact Cassie again. He’d half convinced himself she was not the woman for him. Maybe not for anyone. Her emotions had always been a little edgier than those of most people. She just never held back. That’s what had attracted him to her from the get-go, her quick tongue, flashing eyes, ability to hold her own in a verbal debate, all tempered with a quick sense of humor. Life with Cassie had never been dull, which had been fine with him as Trent wasn’t the kind of guy who liked things planned or even-keeled. He believed that every road should have a few bumps. It kept things interesting. He’d always lived a little on the edge himself and he’d thought he’d found a kindred spirit in Cassie Kramer.

He should have known better.

The first time he’d seen her she was on the side of the road, her car pulled onto the gravel shoulder as she’d tried to change a tire by herself.

He’d been intrigued then and damned if he still wasn’t.

Now, frowning as he turned into the lane leading to his ranch, he remembered the first day he set eyes on Cassie Kramer, on the road not far from here, at twilight on a wet spring evening.

He’d been home less than a year after his stint in the military when he’d seen her little car pulled into the gravel of the road’s shoulder, her left rear tire flattened. He’d parked his truck behind her, turned on his emergency flashers, and offered to help. Until she looked over her shoulder, he hadn’t realized who she was. Then he knew. She looked too much like her famous mother to miss the resemblance. It was a little eerie and, truth to tell, that part of her had intrigued him, too. He’d had a major crush on Jenna Hughes as a teenager. Hell, who hadn’t? Every teenage boy he knew thought she was beyond hot.

However, that day in the driving rain, he’d seen something more in Cassie, something real, something tangible. She wasn’t just some horny schoolboy’s fantasy, but a real girl on the brink of womanhood, a girl who had grown up famous, whose childhood had been part of a Hollywood circus, and later suffered unimaginable horror at the hands of a madman.

Her hair had been plastered to her head, her jacket and jeans soaked, no makeup on her face. Determination had been evident in the set of her jaw and when he’d offered to help, she’d declined at first, was a little bristly. But he’d smiled and reasoned with her.

“Got the tools and the know-how,” he remembered telling her. She’d hesitated, her gaze narrowing on him, then finally stepped aside and allowed him to do the dirty work of changing the tire and making sure the spare was good to go before tossing the flat into her trunk.

In the end, her suspicions softened, and she thanked him, and then they’d both stood awkwardly in the Oregon downpour. She’d been young and innocent, with a hint of sexuality in eyes that were identical to those of Jenna Hughes. Noticing a smudge of dirt on her cheek, he’d slowly wiped the mark away. She hadn’t stopped him and probably he’d let his thumb linger a little too long on the arch of her cheek.

Instead of drawing away, she’d met his gaze, then impulsively stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips across his beard-stubbled jaw. “Thanks,” she said again, a breathless quality to her voice. “Really.”

Before he could respond, she’d turned and walked to the front of her car, slid behind the wheel, and driven off, never once looking back. He’d watched her leave in a spray of gravel as she’d hit the gas.

Yeah, he’d been hooked.

Now, all these years later, he was having a helluva time letting go.

The ring on his left hand was proof of it.

 

Cassie’s fingers were tense on the wheel. If she never saw Whitney Stone again, it would be too soon. All her talk about helping her find Allie was little more than a ploy to weasel out more information from Cassie, get some kind of inside scoop or something.

Her heart was still pounding from the confrontation. There was a chance she’d handled her face-to-face with the reporter all wrong. What if Whitney, with all her contacts, was able to help in locating Allie? What if Cassie had let her temper do the talking and the reasoning?

“No way,” she said. Stone was an opportunist.

The light changed and Cassie waited impatiently for pedestrians to cross the street two cars ahead of her. Tapping her fingers nervously on the wheel, she glanced in the rearview and for a heartbeat, she didn’t see her own reflection but that of Allie as she had been in the nightmare, her lips blue, her haunted eyes pleading.

She blinked and the image was gone, replaced by her own worried gaze.

Could she? Help her sister? But how?

An angry blast of a horn behind her brought her back to the present and she hit the gas, her Honda’s wheels actually chirping as the driver behind her, a woman with a blond ponytail driving a Corvette, moved into another lane and shot her a look and an obscene gesture as she zipped past.

“Nice,” Cassie muttered under her breath as she ran the next yellow light and headed to the 110, merging into the freeway traffic. She smiled when she noticed a big black SUV, like a Chevy Suburban or something, too, charge through behind her. At least he’d catch the ticket if there was a cop around.

She’d left Stone and her goon and headed straight to Galactic West Productions in Burbank. GW, as it was familiarly called, was the place where Little Bea worked and was owned by Dean Arnette. Since no one had bothered returning her calls and texts, she’d decided that showing up in person might be more effective.

To what end?
she asked herself. If anyone had known anything about Cassie’s sister, surely that person would have contacted the police.

“Shut up!” she said to that stupid, nagging voice in her head. She’d spent weeks in a hospital, hiding, doing nothing, while her little sister was . . . God, who knew? That was the problem. Someone had to find out. It might as well be she. But what did she have to go on? A ghost nurse? An earring in the shape of a cross? Connections in the movie business? Did she really think she could find her sister over the police? Had her hastily planned trip to California been of any use in locating Allie? How had she ever thought she could find her sister when the police hadn’t? If she’d thought she could get information from people who knew Allie, that they might confide in her when they hadn’t to a detective, she’d been dead wrong. So far. There was a good chance that her trip south was a great big bust.

Pushing her doubts aside, she drove on toward the studio. The flow of traffic was smooth, cars flying past her though she was five miles above the speed limit. A glance at the rearview convinced her that no silver Toyota was following her. A larger black SUV was a few cars behind, but so what? Even if it was the guy who’d flagrantly run a red light or two, it wasn’t that unusual and the boxy SUV hadn’t been lurking near the park; she would have noticed. The important thing now was that it seemed Whitney Stone had given up trying to interview her.

But she’d be back.

No doubt about it.

The woman was relentless.

Cassie relaxed a little, her hands loosening their death grip on the steering wheel.

Whitney Stone had jangled her, ramped up her already escalated case of nerves. But at least for the time being, she’d given the reporter the slip.

Angling her Honda onto Interstate 5, she flicked her gaze to her rearview and saw no signs that anyone had her in their sights. Again, no silver Toyota and the black SUV she’d seen several times behind her hung back.

A slew of traffic turned off at Burbank, but as she wound her way through the streets, she still didn’t notice anyone lagging behind and tailing her. Still, she made a few extra turns and doubled back on her route, just to be sure that the reporter or the Suburban weren’t following.

Telling herself she was more paranoid than even Dr. Sherling suspected, she finally drove up to the offices of Galactic West Productions, which was located in an inauspicious office building shaded by a line of tall palms.

A white Mercedes was pulling out of a parking spot on the street and she slid her Honda in behind it, parked, and was inside the familiar building within two minutes. She took the stairs to the third floor and walked through seamless glass doors to a reception area. Then she was stopped cold, blocked entry to the private offices by a receptionist who was barely five feet tall and not a day over twenty. The girl’s smooth complexion, youthful innocence, and bright smile belied the fact that she was an immovable object. Obviously she regarded her job of obstructing passage to the inner sanctum of Galactic West as gospel, as if God Himself had assigned her the task of stopping anyone from entering. Maybe she, too, believed Dean Arnette was omnipotent, a god to all of Hollywood and beyond.

Cassie even tried the “But-I’m-Allie-Kramer’s-sister” card, to no avail.

“If you don’t have an appointment, then I’m sorry,” the girl said without a hint of remorse in her huge blue eyes. “You’ll have to make one, an appointment, I mean, if I can even get you in to see him. Mr. Arnette is a very busy man.”

When Cassie said she’d be satisfied talking with Beatrice Little or Sybil Jones, the producers who worked with Arnette on the film, she was met with the same implacable resistance and a wide, orthodonti-cally improved smile. “They’re not in and even if they were, you’d need an appointment. If you leave your number, I’ll have someone call you.” For the moment, Cassie felt as if she had no options. She glanced at the door she knew led to the private offices and even considered bolting around the receptionist’s massive desk, but decided she’d rather not deal with someone from the building’s security staff, or the police hauling her outside. At least not yet. No reason to give Whitney Stone more grist for her gossip mill. The simple fact was Cassie already had a history of mental issues and the cops in Oregon were already looking at her closely in conjunction with her sister’s disappearance. It just didn’t make sense to draw attention to herself by causing trouble or in any way encouraging Detective Nash to move Cassie from “a person of interest” to her “A #1 suspect.”

Still, she was irritated. She left her name and number, which seemed redundant. Dean Arnette, Little Bea, Sybil Jones, and just about everyone else in the production company already had her personal information. Not that it mattered, though. She knew as well as the big-eyed receptionist that no one was going to call her as no one had bothered returning her personal voice messages or texts to date.

God, it was irritating.

She was just trying to find Allie, for God’s sake. You’d think the production company about to release its star’s latest film would be doing everything in its power to find her, and that included talking with Allie Kramer’s sister. Unless the people involved at GW were running under the same impression as the damned police, that Cassie Kramer was a certifiable nutcase and a person to avoid.

She made her way out of the building and found a parking ticket on her windshield. She hadn’t even seen the meter.

Grabbing the ticket, she climbed into the car and pulled away from the curb, then made an illegal U-turn.

Why not?

Things couldn’t get much worse.

Right?

 

T
he muscles in Trent’s shoulders tightened as he drove over the final rise to the heart of his ranch and spied Shane Carter’s Jeep parked near the garage. The ex-lawman was out of his truck and leaning over the top rail of the fence, staring at a field where broodmares were grazing. He was obviously waiting. For Trent. To deliver bad news?

He should have called her again or flown down to LA after her! His heart was thudding. Whatever had propelled Carter here, it couldn’t be good. As far as Trent could remember, Shane Carter had never stepped foot on his property except in times of trouble.

Mind-numbing images rolled through his head—Cassie in a plane crash, Cassie in an automobile accident, Cassie in a mental hospital being restrained, Cassie in the clutches of a madman or . . . damn it all to hell, Cassie on a slab in the morgue.

When Trent had been a wild-ass teenager, Carter had come onto this ranch to arrest him. Later Trent had shown interest in Cassie. Carter had again come knocking, this time to warn him to be careful with his frail stepdaughter, and when he and Cassie had announced they’d eloped, Carter had driven to this place and glared at Trent as if he’d like to shoot him where he stood while his wife, Jenna, had tried not to crumble at her husband’s side. That time Cassie had squared off with her family, reminding them that marrying Trent had been her decision and they could butt out of her life.

But there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Trent and Carter.

Now he threw the pickup into park, yanked the keys from the ignition, and was out of the truck practically before the engine stopped running.

“Hey!” he called, Hud bounding ahead of him.

Carter wore a black Stetson and a long coat. He’d turned at the sound of Trent’s truck’s engine and was already waiting for him.

“What’s going on?” Trent asked, his jaw so tight it ached. “Is it Cassie? Is she okay?”

“Far as I know.”

Trent felt instant relief.

Hud, wiggling his butt, sidled up to Carter, a virtual stranger. Some guard dog.

Shane bent down to scratch the shepherd who was wriggling at his feet, as if they were long-lost friends.

“Allie?”

A shake of Carter’s head. “Heard nothing.”

“What the hell, then?”

“It’s killing Jenna.” Carter straightened as the dog trotted toward the porch and his water bowl.

A few more lines than Trent remembered were etched across the older man’s forehead and the crow’s-feet fanning from his eyes were deeper. Unspoken accusations lingered in his eyes, questions concerning Trent and his involvement with Jenna’s youngest daughter, but he didn’t voice them. Trent didn’t offer up any apologies or explanations about Allie.

“Good to see ya,” Carter said a bit grimly, extending a hand.

Trent shook it. “You too.” Courtesy. But a lie. He dropped Carter’s hand.

“Just wonderin’ if you’d heard from Cass, but obviously you haven’t.”

“I phoned her. Left a message.”

“She hasn’t called you back?”

Trent shook his head and studied his stepfather-in-law for a second. Then he, too, looked at the broodmares. A small herd of seven, three bays, two chestnuts, a paint, and a Kiger mustang. All were heavy-bellied, due to foal soon.

“She didn’t get hold of Jenna?” Trent asked, his insides tensing as he considered the possibilities. Was Cassie in some kind of trouble? But Carter had just said she was “fine” as far as he knew.

“She did. Called last night.”

Trent relaxed a little, but didn’t understand why Carter was here.

“Jenna wanted you to know, didn’t want you to worry. In case you hadn’t heard from her.” A sidelong glance.

“Thanks.” But there was more. Trent sensed it as surely as he knew that rain would pour from the heavens before nightfall.

“She’s coming back. Probably tomorrow.”

So there it was, the reason for the visit. Next, he expected, would come the warning to back off again. Judging from Carter’s attitude it would be couched in a bit of family concern, not quite as harsh as it might have been, but he’d be told to “stay away.” Probably for the sake of Cassie’s emotional and mental state.

However it turned out Shane was through. “Jenna wanted me to thank you. She was busy with the local theater today, but she’ll try to give you a call. If we hear anything else, we’ll let ya know.” He hitched his chin toward Trent’s small herd of mares. “Good lookin’ horses,” he said, thumping a fencepost with his fist before heading to his Jeep.

Helluva thing, now that his marriage was nearly over, his wife’s family was treating him with some kind of guarded respect.
Son of a bitch.

As Carter drove away, Trent’s thoughts turned to Cassie. It pissed him off that she didn’t have the decency to return his phone calls. Carter had said she was returning to Oregon in the next couple of days.

Trent wasn’t about to wait.

Shorty would see to his place and the livestock. He’d make sure of it just as soon as he booked the first available flight to LA.

Striding to the house, he pulled his cell from his pocket, punched out Shorty’s number and glanced at the sky just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Enough with the unanswered phone calls and texts.

He was going to see his wife face-to-face.

Whether she liked it or not.

 

The day had been a bust.

Cassie had driven all over LA and beyond, adding another hundred or so miles to her odometer but getting nowhere. No one had been available to talk to her, no one had returned her calls. She’d spun her wheels trying to get answers and had come home with the feeling that she was some kind of pariah. She’d left voice and text messages with anyone she could think of who might know something about Allie, and in the end she’d only connected with Sig Masters, who had actually pulled the trigger and shot Lucinda. He had refused to meet with Cassie. On the phone, he’d sounded freaked beyond freaked.

“For the love of God, Cassie, I can’t talk!” She’d heard the click of a lighter and the quick intake of breath as he’d lit a cigarette. She’d just filled her tank with gas and had pulled onto a side street, parking in the shade of a tall building, when she’d finally gotten through to him. “My lawyer has advised me that I shouldn’t say a word to anyone. Not to any of my friends or anyone I worked with on
Dead Heat
or the police or . . . oh, shit . . . every fuckin’ person on earth! It’s a nightmare, y’know. I didn’t mean to shoot Lucinda Rinaldi and I certainly didn’t mistake her for Allie Kramer, and I’m not a murderin’ bastard. I didn’t even know Allie. I’m sick of being hounded, y’know? No one will hire me, but the press . . . shit . . . they’re all over me. But . . . fuck it. Just leave me the hell alone.” He’d hung up abruptly.

Rebuffed, Cassie had considered calling back, but figured she’d get nowhere. Instead she had stopped at her apartment, picked up her mail and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to a fast-food restaurant where she grabbed an iced tea. After that she drove to the athletic club where Ineesha Sallinger worked out. Knowing that the prop manager was a gym rat who worked out two hours or so a day, often after work, she parked in the shade on the street with a view of the club’s front entrance. Then she settled down into the driver’s seat to wait.

She spent the time on her phone accessing the Internet before sorting through the snail mail that had been left at her apartment. Most of what she had were bills, but there was one envelope she hadn’t spied earlier, this one hand-addressed. She opened it with a fingernail and found an invitation for the members of the cast of
Dead Heat
and the media to a party celebrating the premiere of the movie. The event was to be held at the Hotel Danvers in Portland, where several scenes of the film had been shot, and the party was hosted by Dean Arnette and Galactic West Productions. It was slated for the coming weekend—only a few days away—and an RSVP card was enclosed.

As soon as she discovered the invitation she tried to RSVP by phone, but that didn’t work. She decided her first chance to talk to Arnette would probably be at the party and that was only if she could get him alone for a few minutes.

It was weird to think that the party would be held despite the fact that the status of the star was unknown. Cassie tossed the envelope aside and focused on the front entrance to the gym again.

Two long hours later, she was rewarded when Ineesha’s classic Karmann Ghia pulled into the circular drive, and Ineesha, toting a gym bag, unfolded herself from behind the wheel of the red convertible. She dropped her keys into the hands of a waiting valet before disappearing through the front door.

Cassie considered her options. Should she wait for Ineesha to exit in a few hours, or should she accost her during her workout? She opted for the latter.

Climbing from her car, she then lingered until a group of three women were walking inside just as two couples exited through the wide doors. Fortunately only one desk clerk had been on duty and while the eighteen-year-old was distracted by someone with a problem with their key to the exclusive locker room, Cassie slipped past the desk and walked briskly inside. The interior was familiar, as she’d come here often when she’d been a member.

She hurried past the entry to the pool, spa, and the locker room, then through a wide corridor flanked by glass walls and smaller rooms. One of the spaces housed a spinning class and another was filled with yoga mats and members attempting downward-facing dog poses.

She didn’t spy Ineesha in any of the classes, which was good, but Cassie silently prayed that the prop manager wasn’t involved in a session with her private trainer. No. She needed to find Ineesha alone.

She walked through an open area filled with exercise equipment. Muscle men were working out on the weights and various machines that looked as if they’d been designed for human torture. A group of women were clustered together in a private Pilates class while cyclists spun to the beat of frantic music.

Cassie checked out all of the rowing machines and treadmills, eyeing earnest personal trainers working with clients and thinking she’d made a big mistake until she caught sight of her target. Ineesha Sallinger was sweating profusely on an elliptical machine. Perfect. Or as good as it could get.

Hopping onto the machine next to her, Cassie caught the older woman’s eye and said, “Hi.”

Ineesha glared at her. Lips pinched, eyes narrowed suspiciously, she said loudly, “I’m not talking to you.” Attached to her cell phone, thin, white cords hung from her ears as she pumped with her arms and legs. Her skin glistened and her hair, pulled into a ponytail, was separating from perspiration, her carefully matched yoga pants and T-shirt dripping. “I don’t know anything. How did you get in here anyway? This is a private club.”

And one to which both she and Allie had once belonged. “I used to be a member.”

“Used to be doesn’t cut it. Leave me alone or I’ll have you thrown out.” She focused on her monitor, which showed a steep hill. Gritting her teeth, she poked her earbud deeeper into the shell of her ear and turned her attention away from Cassie. “I’m not kidding. I’ll call security.”

“I just want to know about the prop gun.”

“You and the whole damned world. Including me.” Rather than keep shouting, Ineesha yanked out one of her ear buds.

“Somehow it was exchanged.”

Ineesha, struggling on the elliptical, shot her a no-shit-Sherlock look. “Duh.”

“But you were in charge—”

“Of the prop closet. Yeah, I know.” She kept on pumping. “God, don’t I know. But I have no idea how it happened, okay? I followed protocol. The cupboard was locked. I double checked. I always double check.”

But she didn’t seem to be as sure.

“Who else has a key?”

“To the cupboard? No one . . . unless I specifically loan it to an assistant, but no, I didn’t that day.”

“What about to the room?”

“Several people in the department and the producers,” she said, thinking aloud and then caught herself up short. “Oh for the love of Jesus, why am I talking to you?” Her eyes were fierce. “My lawyer told me to say nothing to anyone without him, so this interview is O-V-E-R! I wasn’t kidding about calling security. I mean it, Cassie, leave me the hell alone!”

“What about Sig?”

“Masters? That moron? You think what? He exchanged the guns? Even he isn’t
that
stupid. He couldn’t switch batteries and get away with it, much less firearms.” Ineesha rolled her expressive eyes. “The man’s a twit. IQ of fourteen, I think. Well . . . okay, maybe he’s just dumb enough to exchange the weapon, real for fake, and shoot, almost kill Lucinda Rinaldi.” She snorted through her nose. “No, that doesn’t make a helluva lot of sense, but I suppose that’s not surprising, coming from you.” Breathing hard, she sent Cassie a pitying look. “Again, what is it you want from me?”

“I’m just trying to find out what happened to my sister.”

“Oh, save me. Like you care what happened to her! The way I heard it she was after your husband.” A little smirk.

“I don’t think so.”

“Whatever.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“How many times do I have to say, ‘I don’t know’?” She grabbed her water bottle from a cup holder, twisted off the lid without breaking stride and took a long swallow. “Your sister didn’t show up that day, right? Have you ever wondered about that? Like maybe she knew something might happen?”

Cassie didn’t reply. Of course she had.

“Okay, so I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ ” She put the bottle back in its holder just as the landscape on her monitor flattened out again. “Look, this is over. I said more than I should. My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone and that includes you.” Visibly irritated, Ineesha turned off the machine, grabbed her water bottle and towel, and stalked toward the center area where there was a wide desk manned by several trainers and reception people.