After She's Gone (39 page)

“He’s thinking that if he can’t have Allie, he’ll come up with the next best thing,” she guessed as she stared at a lifelike mannequin of Shondie in a hospital room. Lying on an old-fashioned hospital bed, Shondie appeared glassy-eyed, out of touch. Her dark hair was disheveled, her makeup nonexistent, her arms restrained by thick cuffs, almost as if she were handcuffed to the bed. On one of the partitions of the all-white room was a door with a small glass and mesh window. Peeking through the window was a blond nurse in a pointed white cap.

One identical to the one worn by Belva Nelson on her secretive nighttime visit to Cassie’s hospital room.

The hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck came to attention.

Apprehension collected in her heart.

Was this a coincidence?

Or part of some grand terrorizing scheme she didn’t understand?

Cassie thought of her recent stay in a mental hospital. She’d never seen restraints used at Mercy, but, of course
Dead Heat
was a retro film, hence the white-uniformed nurse.

“Thank God Mom didn’t come,” she said, staring at the mannequins, her insides curdling.

Jenna had many reasons not to attend, and she’d decided to stay home. Thank God.

Cassie scanned the room with new eyes. Could one of the people within these walls, someone who had worked on the film, be her half-sister? It seemed impossible, but . . . Heart thudding, she swept her gaze across the room, landing for a split second on the possibilities. From Little Bea in her classic black dress and heels, to Cherise, elegant in red, or Ineesha, fit as ever in a backless gown, or Laura in ivory, or Sybil Jones in a man’s black tux. All of these women were about the right age and, if Cassie let herself imagine it, could resemble her. Sure, Little Bea was tiny, but so was Jenna, and her chin was just pointed enough . . . and Laura’s eyes. Didn’t they look a little like Jenna’s? And Cherise, she had Jenna’s slim build, her heart-shaped face. Or was Cassie mistaken, just fantasizing? Seeing similarities when there were none?

Her head pounded a little as she spied Lucinda Rinaldi wearing a sequined blue strapless dress but seated in an electric wheelchair. Lucinda looked a lot like Allie, the resemblance close enough with the right lighting and camera angle to be her double.

“You okay?” Trent asked, sensing her hesitation.

She rolled her eyes. “Am I ever?”

He actually laughed. “Good point, Cass. Come on. Let’s dive into the shark tank.”

Following his lead, she took the two steps downward into the crowded, noisy room. She reminded herself that this was her chance to finally talk to some of the people who had avoided her. Little Bea. Dean Arnette. Sig Masters. And others. The problem was that Cassie was still a little unfocused, the life-sized mannequins of Allie, coupled with the recent news that she had a half sister and the murders of people associated with the film, crippled her slightly.

But the individual sets and mannequins bothered her. Each positioned lifelike doll seemed to be watching her with those glassy eyes so like her sister’s. Cassie had the unsettling feeling that Allie was here. Watching. If only in the form of the inanimate life-sized dolls.

Walking deeper into the room, Cassie felt swept into the sea of people. Actors, producers, grips, people who worked on the lighting and sound, the writers, and on and on. The press had been invited as well, of course, as this was an event to promote the movie. Posters from the movie abounded and an adjacent room nearby was showing clips of
Dead Heat
over and over. Champagne and cocktails flowed, and music from the score of the film had been piped in, barely audible over the hum of conversation. And then there were the staged scenes featuring Allie, as Shondie, in mannequin form.

Ugh.

Forcing her gaze from the sets, she walked through the throng, forcing a smile, murmuring a quiet, “Hi,” to those who passed, avoiding reacting to the curious glances sent her way. Because of Allie? Because she was with the husband she’d vowed to divorce? Because she’d recently been a patient in a mental hospital? More likely, she thought sourly, all of the above.

“See . . . this isn’t so bad,” Trent said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She caught his gaze and realized he was teasing. Parties had never been his thing and no doubt this over-the-top circus with the paparazzi in the wings and gossip flowing like water, was, for Trent, a form of pure torture.

At a table of canapés, she stopped and again surveyed the crowd. Along with those she didn’t recognize were the people she’d worked with. Brandon McNary was holding court, his unshaven jaw fashionably scruffy, his dark hair mussed, a gray jacket, open-collared shirt, and jeans. Several women in their early twenties or late teens were hanging on his every word.

Cherise Gotwell stood nearby, sipping champagne and gauging the crowd, while Little Bea buzzed through the knots of people and Laura Merrick moved from one group to the next. Lucinda Rinaldi didn’t even bother forcing a smile as she wheeled through the throng; and the rumors that she was still going to write a book and name names, all the while suing everyone she could who was associated with the film, hadn’t died.

Cassie couldn’t blame her. Allie’s double’s injuries were real and severe, so why wouldn’t she make a few bucks because of it?

Like you
, she thought, thinking of the screenplay of Allie’s life she’d barely started,
taking advantage of the situation, the tragedy involving your sister and you don’t even know how it ends.

With an effort, she quieted the nagging voice in her head and spied Sig Masters. Despite the stigma of actually taking the shot that had wounded Lucinda, Sig had shown up and now was talking to one of the writers. Upon spying Lucinda rolling his way, he ended the conversation and headed straight for the open bar.

Cassie understood. Seeing Lucinda in the chair had to be tough for him. And yet he’d attended, knowing full well she might appear. Sig actually had more guts than Cassie had given him credit for. Or else he was a glutton for punishment.

She felt Trent’s hand tighten over her arm.

“You okay with all of this?”

“No,” she admitted, wondering if she should even have come. But the truth of the matter was that by not showing, she would have been making a bigger statement and here, at least, the people who had been avoiding her would have a tougher time ignoring her. She glanced up at her husband. “Let’s get a drink.”

“Great idea.”

As they headed to the bar, Cassie caught Ineesha’s eye. Wrapped in a conversation with Sybil Jones, the prop manager visibly started, her lips compressing, her eyes thinning. Obviously she wasn’t over Cassie’s intrusion at her gym workout in California. Quickly and pointedly, she ended her conversation and turned on her heel as Cassie approached.

“Wow. That wasn’t obvious at all.” Cherise watched Ineesha wend her way through the clusters of guests. “Don’t let her get to you.”

Cassie shook her head. “Never.”

“She’s just in a bad mood.”

“When isn’t she?”

Cherise giggled, then sipped from her glass of champagne, her green eyes dancing with mischief. “It doesn’t look like she got in her million steps today.”

Cassie actually smiled.

“I think her pedometer might blow up because she works out so much,” Cherise said. “She’s probably racewalking her way to the hotel gym right now.”

“You’re wicked.”

“When I have to be.”

Cassie had a sudden mental image of Ineesha in her long dress on some kind of weightlifting machine, her back muscles visibly straining as she moved a bar, her body sweating all over her designer gown. “Not a pretty image.”

Trent bent closer to Cassie and said, “I’ll get the drinks. Be right back.” She nodded and he smiled slyly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Oh, wow, so you two are back together?” Cherise asked, her gaze following Trent as he slipped around a large group of guests and made his way to the bar.

“I guess.”

“Looks like he’s really into you.” Cherise’s eyes thinned before she sighed wistfully. “Must be nice.”

“It is. Mostly.”
Except when you act like a jealous idiot and accuse him of being in love with your sister.

Dragging her gaze away from Trent’s backside, Cherise rimmed the edge of her glass with a manicured finger. “I don’t suppose there’s any word on Allie?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad,” she said without much empathy. “I’m sorry. But, you know she was kind of a pain to work for, but way better than Brandon. He’s . . .”

“All about himself.”

Cherise nodded, her eyebrows pulling together, her voice a barely audible whisper. “I think he’s dating someone, but he’s keeping it very hush-hush.”

“Probably until after the movie’s out for a while,” Cassie said. “For the fans. They want to think that he’s still in love with Allie.” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand to the horrible stages of Allie lining the vast room. “For this. To keep up the fantasy. To sell more tickets.”

“Maybe.” Another swallow from her glass. Her lips pursed as if she’d just thought of something bothersome. “You know, I have this feeling . . . I mean he’s never said it, of course, but . . . I think he never got over Allie.” The words had a bit of bitterness to them and the corners of Cherise’s mouth turned down. Cassie couldn’t help but wonder if McNary’s assistant had a secret crush on her boss. It wouldn’t be the first time and, of course, McNary was considered a heartthrob.

Laura Merrick passed by and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. “Not as fun as I’d hoped this would be,” she said on her way to the bar. “Kind of a pall over the place. It’s as if Allie is here and she’s not here, y’know?” Hitching her chin toward the set of Shondie in the mental hospital, she shook her head. “Macabre, if you ask me. Arnette’s idea of art.” She looked past Cassie and added, “Uh-oh, here comes Picasso now. Talk later,” and with Cherise in tow drifted toward the open bar where a crowd had gathered and two bartenders were busy mixing drinks.

“Cassie! There you are!” In a black suit and matching open-throated shirt, Dean Arnette approached. His smile, beneath his signature glasses, was wide. Friendly. He seemed pumped to be in the room.

“Hi,” she said.

Tall, rail thin with a shaved head and hint of a beard, Arnette gave her one of those almost-hugs. As if he were actually glad to see her. As if he hadn’t been ducking her calls.

As Arnette gave her a little space, Cassie caught a glimpse of Trent returning with their drinks. Walking carefully, agilely avoiding other guests while balancing the half-full glasses, Trent slid around the producer to hand Cassie her drink.

She held up the drink in shades of orange and yellow. “What is this?”

“Tequila sunrise. Signature for the party tonight, I guess. Kind of retro.”

“Shondie drank it in a bar scene,” Arnette clarified, “the character Allie played.” He had the good sense to appear grave for a second, then said, “You’re Cassie’s husband.” Quickly he stuck out his hand. “Dean Arnette. The director of
Dead Heat.
” He flashed a quick smile as they shook. “I’m surprised we haven’t met before.” He acted as if Cassie were his long lost daughter rather than someone he’d deftly avoided.

“You know,” Cassie said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

“Oh, right. Right. I know. Sorry. I’m just busy as hell right now.” With a sweeping gesture, he motioned to the surroundings. “You know, putting this together was almost as difficult as filming the damned movie.” As if he’d personally constructed the sets, hired the caterers, and overseen the publicity when he had assistants and minions doing the actual work. He flashed his grin then and it seemed practiced and false. “I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t come. How is she holding up?”

Inwardly Cassie tightened. Suddenly she didn’t want to divulge a word to Arnette. Her skin actually crawled as he studied her intently. As if he cared. “She’s fine,” she lied.

“Well, we all miss Allie. I had hoped she would, you know, show up before tonight. God, it’s awful.” He shook his head, the sweat on his bald pate visible in the light from the chandeliers.

“It is.” Cassie nodded. “I was hoping to talk to you about her.”

“Of course! Any time.” Arnette was already looking around, searching for an escape route, someone more important so he could slither away.

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight?” He tossed her an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Seriously? Like after the party or something?” He swirled one finger as if to include everyone and everything in the ballroom. “Honey, I’d love to, but we’ll both be exhausted. And I fly out tomorrow. At the crack. But I’ll be in LA next week, I don’t start shooting
Forever Silent
until next month.”

“Dean?” a voice called from somewhere nearby.

He waved across the room to someone Cassie couldn’t see.

“I could meet you in the morning—”

“My flight’s at the crack. No, that won’t work, but don’t worry. We’ll talk!” And then he was gone. Disappearing into the crowd.

“Cassie Kramer?” a woman’s voice called from behind, and Cassie turned to find Whitney Stone not two feet away. Dressed in a long, black dress that sparkled under the lights, she was as beautiful as anyone in the room. Once more Cassie thought about her anonymous half-sibling and once more she saw a resemblance to Jenna in the slope of Whitney’s cheekbones, the arch of her brows, her sleek, black hair with just the right amount of wave. Was it possible? Cassie felt her pulse elevate. Whitney Stone? Her half sister? Whitney had been in LA and Portland and . . .