Dreams Are Not Enough (22 page)

“Dad,” he said, “there’s no point trying to frighten us” — “Frighten you? I’m merely pointing out a fact that you both already know. October’s a more advantageous month to release than January or February.”

On the way out, the trio passed Alyssia and Diner, who were in the front booth. Maxim reached them first.

“Our star people, lunching’d deux,” he said. As his father caught up, he added, “It’s rare to find Diner with a lady.” A quirk of his left eyebrow made the innuendo abundantly clear.

Desmond Cordiner’s benign smile didn’t falter, but appeared to solidify.

“Knock it off, Maxim!” Hap snapped.

“I’m only trying to point out to Dad, who’s hot to trot with Wandering On, that there’s not much chance of Magnum’s publicity department drumming up a romance between our two leads.”

“A shame,” Desmond Cordiner said, looking coldly down at Diner.

Diner flushed, then peered around the cafe in bemusement, as if uncertain of where he was.

That afternoon Diner and Alyssia did another shot on the sidewalk.

Diner kept blinking dazedly at the camera and despite the cue cards could not get his lines.

Alyssia murmured comfortingly, “Dill, you know Maxim didn’t mean anything. He’s just a born gadfly.”

“What’s wrong with the sound people?” Diner asked.

“Why don’t they turn off that damn radio? Jesus, how I hate waltzes!”

“Dill, there is no radio,” she said.

After fourteen takes under Desmond Cordiner’s piercing gaze, Hap called, “That’s all. We’ll use Alyssia’s reaction shot.”

Diner wandered as if aimlessly to one of the production cars, a maroon Dodge, and talked to the driver. Alyssia, the perspiration on her nose being powdered, wanted to go over and say something upbeat and soothing, but they were waiting for her.

She watched Diner drive off alone in the Dodge.

It was after seven and growing dark when they completed the final day’s shooting. As Alyssia returned to Three Rock Inn, her leg

throbbed mercilessly: to divert herself she watched the passing scenery.

At the curve where the road almost touches the cliff she saw tire tracks, black double lines that swerved for yards across the asphalt, growing invisible on the granite.

“Do you remember those skid marks this morning, Victor?” she asked her young, short-haired driver.

“Beats me. Miss del Mar. But this is one dangerous curve. Last year a car went off the cliff.”

Alyssia felt a prickling of apprehension on her skin.

“Maybe there’s been another accident. Mind if we go back?”

The driver slowed, turning.

In less than a minute they were parked.

“I’ll go take a gander, Miss del Mar,” the driver said.

“Be right back.”

As he peered over the cliff edge, he jerked backward, holding his hand over his mouth.

Alyssia hopped out of the car, scarcely aware of the pain or the hampering cast, moving more rapidly on the crutches than she ever had before. The roar of the breakers grew louder, thundering through her as she reached the edge of the cliff.

A hundred feet below, a wave was spuming around a maroon fender. The foamy swirl hid the interior of the Dodge. Then the wave ebbed.

Alyssia felt a physical shock in the pit of her stomach, a jarring pain.

In the front seat floated a dark-haired, masculine body.

She couldn’t move. The sun, a flaming coin, was dropping below the horizon, and in this last red light she gazed hypnotized as the v/aves broke and receded to show Diner’s body drifting in its steel and glass coffin.

“We better get some help. Miss del Mar,” the driver muttered shakily.

Staring down at the precipitous tumble of rocks, she said, “You go.”

Barging back to the highway, the youngster jumped into his car, digging away.

Her eyes fixed on evidence of mortality, her ears filled with the sound of the Pacific, she didn’t realize that Maxim was standing next to her.

“Your driver passed me yelling out something.” Maxim peered down. His face was contorted into the odd, half-humorous rictus one sees on a corpse.

“So good old Diner finally did it.”

“God….”

“No shock to me, Alyssia. The guy never quit about not being able to stand any more of life.” Maxim gave a discordant laugh.

“Snuffing himself was a preordained act.”

Barry had once pointed out to her that whenever Maxim was distraught, his protective sarcasm grew more frenetic, an astute character analysis that she forgot in her outrage.

“Preordained?” she cried.

“You forced him to it!”

“Diner Roberts was a faggot with suicide programmed into his genes.”

“He was kind, talented, good. He loved you. God knows why, but he loved you.”

“So the pansy was spilling all to you.”

“How could you have blamed him because I didn’t want you? And that crack in the cafe—God, wasn’t he down enough? How could you broadcast it, you, of all people?”

“You dumb, castrating bitch—Diner Roberts was an aberration in my life! Ask any one of a hundred women. You want references, I’ll give you references.” Maxim’s voice rose and the words rushed out frenziedly.

“Better yet, I’ll give you proof!”

He turned, clutching at her, kissing her, thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Through her blouse she could feel the iciness of his hand as he squeezed her breast hurt fully A crutch fell, skittering across the granite. He drew away, staring at her.

His eyes glittered, and that death-mask smile again twisted his lips.

Then he locked her body against his, lifting her from her feet, carrying her a few steps to the point. From here the cliff fell in a sheer drop.

There was no ground beneath her. Nothing to keep her from falling except the inescapable, bony strength of Maxim’s arms. A hundred feet below, a breaker crashed, spuming over the maroon car and the rocks with their sharp barnacles.

Her breath rasped loudly through her arid throat; Maxim’s breath rushed at her. Her eyes widened as she stared into the glint of his eyes. The remaining crutch dropped, falling into the murderous surf, and she accepted that she might follow. Perspiration covered her face and body. She felt her bladder go loose.

Then Maxim lurched backward, setting her down.

She crouched, pressing a hand to the rough, still warm stone. Her blood pulsed so strongly through her carotid artery that her neck vibrated. She was so dizzy that she worried she might faint. But it was more than vertigo that made her touch the rock. She needed reassurance that the earth’s substance was beneath her.

Maxim, staring down at the crashing sea, began to laugh.

Obviously he had gone around some hairpin bend in his sanity. It was impossible to calculate his next move—would he hurl her down to the barnacle-covered rocks below? The anesthesia of terror numbed the agony of putting weight on her left leg as she escaped through the gathering darkness toward Highway One.

Oncoming headlights shone on Maxim’s Porsche (he was the only member of the production crew to drive his car nearly the length of California to Mendocino), and a Ford Fairlane sedan glided to a halt.

Before it had fully stopped, the rear door opened. Hap jumped out, followed by his father. Obviously her driver had spread the word to them as well as to Maxim.

Alyssia waved violently. Hap, reaching her, put an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay?” he asked.

She leaned into his side.

“It’s horrible….”

“Diner?”

“God … yes, Diner.”

Desmond Cordiner and Mrs. Kelley, owner of the Fairlane, had caught up.

“You mean the darling actor?” Mrs. Kelley cried.

“Is he dead?”

“His car went over the cliff,” Alyssia whispered.

“They never did bank that curve right.” Mrs. Kelley’s voice rose shrilly.

“And in the late afternoon the sun blinds you. There’s been a slew of accidents. Just last summer another car went over.” She stared at the cliff.

Maxim was clearly silhouetted, his shoulders rising and falling.

Obviously he remained trapped in that crazy laughter.

He can’t be exposed to strangers, Alyssia thought.

“I wouldn’t go to the edge if I were you,” she said to Mrs. Kelley.

“The rocks are very slippery.” She held out her hands.

“I lost my crutches.”

Desmond Cordiner was staring at the cliff.

“Isn’t that Maxim?”

“Yes, and he’s really upset. Uncle Desmond,” Alyssia said, using the appellation for the first time.

Desmond Cordiner peered at her, nodding. He had spent a lifetime keeping the press and other interested parties from the scandals inevitable with a group of highly exposed, highly nervous people.

“Son,” he said to Hap, “you and Alyssia go ahead with this kind lady. I’ll drive Maxim’s car.”

A half hour later, Alyssia, Hap, Barry and Whitney sat in the Three Rock Inn’s shabby, comfortable office, where the two police officers had asked them to wait until somebody they respectfully called the Lieutenant arrived to take their statements. Barry, prompted by the solemnity of death, maintained a marital proximity to Alyssia, sitting with her on the sagging tweed couch. The manager had dug up a pair of old wooden crutches in the storeroom for her, and she gripped them tightly. Her eyes appeared a darker, more intense blue.

Whitney said, “What can be holding up Maxim?”

“He’s having a drink is my guess,” Hap replied quickly.

“It was pretty grim,” Alyssia added.

Headlights shone through the window as cars turned off the highway.

After a couple of minutes the door opened. A short man with thinning, slicked back gray hair and a brown plaid sport jacket strode in briskly, followed by a youthful, narrow-jawed man in a khaki uniform.

“I’ll be investigating this case,” said the gray-haired man, going directly to the manager’s desk, sitting in the swivel chair as if it were his own.

“The name’s Lieutenant Mikeleen.”

As they introduced themselves, the younger man began scribbling rapidly.

Mikeleen said, “Low tide is early tomorrow morning. We’ll haul up the Dodge then. No point risking any more lives tonight. Miss del Mar, did you see the deceased in Harve Escabada’s car?”

“It was Diner Roberts.”

“Are you absolutely certain it was him?”

“I’m positive.”

“Young Victor Johnson says it was too dark to make an identification.”

Mikeleen’s voice had a badgering note.

“I saw a black-haired man wearing a Levi jacket embroidered exactly the same as Diner’s costume.”

A soft rap sounded on the door.

“Desmond and Maxim Cordiner are out here, Lieutenant Mikeleen,” called a deferential bass voice.

“About time. Send ‘em in.”

Maxim’s expression lacked all evidence of his recent craziness. For a moment Alyssia pondered the use of a sedative, then decided sedation wasn’t necessary: his father’s presence worked on him like a drug.

“It’s my fault we’re late, sir,” Maxim said.

“Dad stayed with me while I was on the phone to Ohio. Being the producer of Wandering On means I’m in charge. It seemed wrong to let Diner’s mother hear the news on television” — “All right, all right,” Mikeleen cut him off brusquely.

“We’re in the middle of the interrogation.”

There were no vacant chairs in the crowded little office. Maxim leaned against a metal filing cabinet while Barry and Hap both rose to give Desmond Cordiner their places.

Desmond Cordiner, however, showed no inclination to take a passive position. Aware that a film’s chances are radically damaged by the star’s suicide, he was determined to prevent any such cause being written on the death certificate. Placing both hands on the scarred desk, he stared down at Mikeleen.

“Now maybe you people will do something about banking that curve.”

“Highway repairs aren’t the subject of this investigation,” Mikeleen retorted.

“Last year on this same stretch you had another fatal accident.”

“A case of drunk driving,” Mikeleen said coldly.

“The curve’s not banked.” Desmond Cordiner leaned farther forward.

“Magnum dislikes bad publicity. If we didn’t, Mendocino County would find itself in a suit for major damages. So let’s settle this unfortunate accident as quickly as possible.”

“We haven’t ascertained it was an accident.”

“I fail to see any other conclusion.”

“Cars can be steered over cliffs.”

“Diner Roberts was alone, so there couldn’t have been any foul play.”

“He might have steered it himself.”

“Surely you can’t be suggesting that he killed himself?”

“It’s the top possibility.”

“An actor who’s struggled for years and is finally on the brink of well-deserved stardom? Lieutenant, this was a young man with everything to live for.” Desmond Cordiner paused reflectively.

“I knew him well. He was a magnetic and dedicated personality. Magnum’s lost a valuable asset. I better confer with our legal department before I make any decisions against filing that suit.”

Mikeleen fingered back his thinning gray hair.

“All we’re here for now, Mr. Cordiner,” he said with a small cough, “is to ask a few questions about what actually occurred.”

“Then let me talk straight. You’d be one hell of a lot better advised to ask your questions about your highway than to cook up wild reasons for the death of a brilliant young actor.”

By the time Mikeleen and the others drove away, the restaurant was closed and the chef had gone home, so the manager’s full-cheeked wife offered to cut roast beef sandwiches and brew fresh coffee.

Alyssia wasn’t hungry. She bowed out.

Hap said, “I’ll walk you to your room.”

As they went slowly down the long corridor, he asked, “Dad browbeat them into accidental death, but do you think Diner did kill himself?”

“Maybe,” she sighed.

“He’s been terribly on edge.”

“And it got worse this last week. Any idea what was wrong?”

“It could have been a hundred things,” she hedged.

“That dumb dig of Maxim’s at lunch! I wanted to kill him. Diner was a good guy, so what difference did that make. To anyone except Dad, I mean.” Hap shook his head.