Murder Take Two (14 page)

“You think he loves you?”

“Of course, he loves me.”

“Then why isn't he here?”

Her face hardened to porcelain and her eyes took on the intent focus of a raptor spotting a rabbit. “I saw him,” she said. “This morning. He stayed behind in the barn when everyone else left for lunch.”

So much for true love.

Going to the elevator, Yancy got the same prickly feeling of being watched. He stopped and looked around. Nothing. If he didn't get some sleep, he was going to be just as out of touch as these film folk. He poked the button, heard something behind him, and spun around. Guest. Same one he'd seen earlier.

The man held himself stiffly and rocked slightly forward on his toes. He fiddled with his backpack and never looked Yancy in the eye.

To Yancy's surprise, when the elevator door opened, there stood the lieutenant. Muttering something about forgetting something, the guest went off down the corridor.

“Yancy,” Parkhurst said with a curt nod.

“Sir,” Yancy replied. What was the lieutenant doing here? He wasn't working this case anymore. Oh, Lord, will this day never end?

11

Laura twisted the lock after Ben left. She hadn't really expected him to stay; she hadn't expected to be quite so disappointed either when he said he didn't think that was a good idea. Odd, all those years since she'd seen him and there it was, the same old excitement, the same old rush of hormones.

One thing about him, he made her feel safe. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He had some kind of code that wouldn't let him. She could trust him to find who was sending weird pictures and notes. Someone trying to kill her? It didn't seem actually real, yet she knew it was a possibility. They all lived with it. Stand out there in the open and you catch attention. The world was full of crazies. If you let it get to you, you'd never go anywhere.

They lived in different worlds, she and Ben. Yet here he was in the very place she was sent out on location. Karma?

She'd been restless lately, twitchy, unlike herself, unhappy, feeling like something was missing in her life, who knows. Nick playing footsie with that no-talent nitwit hadn't helped. Maybe maybe maybe a few changes would come along. Would that be interesting?

There you go plotting again, Laura May. Remember what your mother always used to say. You're never satisfied with what you've got, you always have to be planning and plotting for something else. Well, all that planning and plotting got her where she was.

The muscles across her back, just below the shoulders, were pulled up tight. She shrugged and moved one shoulder forward and one back, then the other way, to ease them. It was all very well to tell yourself there might be some idiot out there tracking you, but that's the way it is and just carry on. The body had its own responses.

An aromatic bath was what she needed.

In the bathroom, she turned on the taps in the old-fashioned tub with claw feet and let it fill to the brim. She dug out the chart given to her by her aromatherapist. Bergamot for tension, worry, and anxiety. Agitating the water, she carefully allowed two drops to fall. Two drops of lavender to balance the emotional extremes of stress, shock, worry, impatience.

Interesting impatience was included. By all means include lavender, she was getting impatient.

Patchouli, she noted, was an aphrodisiac. Lure Ben over and push him in the tub. Except it wasn't a physical thing that stopped him. It was that personal code again. Anything to do with that woman cop?

Two drops of vetiver for anxiety and tension ought to do it.

Slipping off her robe, she stepped in, slid down until water rose to her chin, and let her skin absorb the essential oils. A little guilt was always a useful thing. Maybe something could be done along those lines.

*   *   *

Silver. Laura my beloved. The universe is silver. In the world of magnificent palaces we will love each other in a new life. He stared up at the window, all he could see was light behind the curtains. He couldn't even see her move around, the curtains were too heavy. But in his mind he could see his beloved. Her beauty surpasses all others. She is the princess of the universe, the angel of all that is caring, the countess of all that is good. My soul mate. Hand in hand we will walk through a meadow of buttercups. We will spend eternity together.

*   *   *

This day seemed to last an eternity. Clem stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself. She was totally wrung out. With a hand towel, she made one swipe over the steam on the mirror and looked at her reflection. What a mess everything was, including herself. Fifer walking around like God creating the world with his very hands. Laura and Nick at each other's throats. Big surprise the film wasn't run out of Eden. A snake handing out apples right and left. Fifer should direct a new film.
The Snake That Ate His Career.
He was so uptight all the time it made everybody jittery. His butt was on the line here, and the accident—

She pulled on an oversized pajama top patterned with zebras, then tried to call room service for some ginseng tea. It was after midnight, room service was closed. She knew that. No room service after midnight. Her mind wasn't working right. She padded barefoot around the room, touching the table, the chair, the chest, the lamp. How could she go to sleep without ginseng tea? Her mother always brought it to her.

Pulling back the curtain, she peered up at the night sky. The moon was full. A cloud like a wispy piece of gauze floated across the face of it. The Patio below, with chairs and tables, lights strung through trees like fairyland, was deserted. Except someone stood on the very edge looking up. There was something creepy about him. He blended into the shadows and she couldn't tell who it was.

Creepy, quivery, bump in the night, bad will. Even before the accident, astral influences were stacked against this film.

She shivered, let the curtain fall back, and rubbed her arms. Go to bed, get some sleep. Business as usual in the morning. Oh, Laura's scenes might be postponed, the dangerous ones, but not in acknowledgment of Kay's death, only because the new stunt double wasn't due until afternoon.

The bed was tall, high off the floor, a good place to leave a body under if you had one lying around. The phone rang, sending her three inches into the air.

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Oh, did I wake you?”

“Not really.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it was. Listen, I'll let you go back to sleep. Tomorrow I need to talk with you. I think you can do something for me.”

“What?”

“You shouldn't have any trouble with it.”

*   *   *

Climbing up the outside stairway, Yancy had trouble lifting his feet high enough to clear the risers. They tended to catch on the soles and pitch him forward. His landlady had turned the light off again. He'd explained to Mrs. Blakeley more than once that the best way to discourage prowlers and burglars was to keep lights on after dark. She always nodded, then turned them off anyway, worried about the cost. With the full moon shining down he could see well enough, but the stairs stretched twice as high as normal. At the top, he shoved his key in the lock, then raised his head. Noise. The concrete driveway below was empty, silver in the moonlight. The Cherokee, parked by the storage shed, cast a black shadow.

The house next door was dark. At one-thirty, they would be in bed and long asleep. As he should be. The yard behind the neighbor's house was shadowy with trees and shrubs. Occasionally, a shadow moved, nudged by a warm breeze.

He rubbed his eyes and squinted. He couldn't see around to the rear of the house. Honeysuckle was soft in the air. Night sounds came on the wind, of birds nesting in the trees, frogs conversing with each other, and crickets sawing away.

As he turned the key, he heard the whisper of a shoe on damp grass. Fatigue cut so heavy through his mind, he wasn't sure he could trust his senses. A metallic clink sounded, silenced almost immediately.

Wishing he had a flashlight, he ran down the stairs and hugged the house as he inched toward the back. A footstep came from the driveway. He stopped, looked behind him. Nothing. He imagined it. Or somebody had melted into the dark below the stairs.

Three-quarters of the way to the rear of the house, he tangled with Stephanie's bicycle. It clattered onto the driveway as he sprawled across it, banging a kneecap and scraping a hand. Oh, Lord, little cat feet.

He pushed himself up and dashed to the Cherokee for a flashlight. When the dome light went on he ducked low—even though he didn't think precautions were necessary at this point, unless the prowler was deaf and blind he was long gone—and snatched the flash from the glove box.

In the backyard, all was quiet. Holding the flash at arm's length, he clicked it on. He was still a pretty good target if the prowler was so inclined.

Whoever had been here had hightailed it over the fence disturbing the lilacs and spreading their scent through the night air.

The mad painter had struck again. Somebody with an artistic soul or a keen sense of the absurd started creeping around painting nudes on garbage cans when people were away on vacation, then when they were out for an evening. Lately, he—or she—had gotten even bolder. But to come here, with a cop in residence, was downright insolent.

Yancy checked all ground-floor doors and windows, then went back and studied the artist's rendering. Mrs. Blakely now had a garbage can with a female nude on it. He wasn't sure what they'd charge the guy with, if they ever caught him. Defacing private property? The garbage cans actually looked better. Lewd and lascivious?

The bicycle belonged in the shed. Stephanie was thirteen, an age when things didn't always get where they belonged. He put it away and limped up the stairs. Sufficient unto the day.

*   *   *

What a day this has been, what a rare mood I'm in, Susan thought sourly as she let herself into the house. She checked the messages on her machine. There was only one, from her father. It could wait. Upstairs, she took a quick, tepid shower to wash away the sweat, dirt, and irritation of the day. In the bedroom she dug a white T-shirt from a drawer and slipped it over her head. It hit her about midthigh. Her husband had been a tall man. He'd been dead now about a year and a half, sometimes it seemed only days, sometimes it seemed forever.

She reversed the cassette in the portable player and pushed play. Soft sounds of Boccherini floated around her. She shoved the window all the way up and invited in any breezes. They came, but they were hot. San Francisco nights—most days also, but especially nights—were cool. A soft puff of air, like a baby breathing, touched her cheek. The silver moon shone full, crickets sang, fireflies blinked. They intrigued her, those fireflies.

Perissa, the Siamese kitten, squeezed her furry little self between Susan and the window screen. Perissa gave it a chance and when she was still ignored, she jumped from the sill to the floor and bit Susan's ankle. The cat had been an unwelcome gift from Sophie, a nutty old woman with a passion for cats and snooping. Susan didn't know much about these cat creatures, but this one seemed to sense when her thoughts were far away; if she was reading the cat would spread itself across the book; if she was staring thoughtfully into space it would climb up and pat her face. Weird creatures, cats. She rubbed Perissa's chocolate brown head and thought about Kay Bender. Dead at twenty-one, almost certainly killed because she was in the wrong place. A stunt double for Laura Edwards at dangerous moments, and a double for her murder.

A shadow of cloud passed across the moon, leaving a dark blotch on the dark lawn. An owl called, then some other night bird.

She hadn't yet come up with much of a motive for anyone to ice Ms. Edwards. That she didn't need to show motive didn't matter, she wanted one. That it had been only about twelve hours since the death didn't matter either, those were crucial hours. She got impatient when nothing showed. She needed movement on a case or she got irritated. Not enough was happening here.

She had Sheri Lloyd, jealous of Laura Edwards and wanting the starring role. Ms. Lloyd was not superbright, but could she really believe she'd get the part of the star if the star was out of the way? Maybe. Some people simply couldn't see beyond their own wants.

Nick Logan. Susan liked him. That didn't mean anything, she had known charming killers before. He was easy in himself, not handsome, but had rugged good looks, and that flavor of southern California. Large, talented, charismatic, a man whose very presence commanded attention. He'd had an affair with Ms. Lloyd, was supposed to be madly in love with Ms. Edwards. Would he kill Laura to be with Sheri? This was sounding like a soap opera again. Someone in a coma ought to show up here pretty soon. It just wouldn't fly. Why not simply walk away from Laura? It was done all the time, and these two weren't even married.

She listened to the cello concerto on the tape and felt homesick. Her mother played cello for the San Francisco symphony. When Susan was a child, she could remember lying in bed at night hearing her mother practice.

Fifer, the director. His motive seemed even weaker. Get rid of Laura and collect the whopping great insurance he had on her. The movie was in financial trouble, it was true. It was way over budget. But everybody except Sheri Lloyd—and that was maybe jealousy—said Fifer was ecstatic about how it was going, fully confident that when it was released he'd have the hit he needed.

Parkhurst. No motive at all. True, spouses and ex-spouses headed the list of suspects, but she wouldn't believe it. However, as her former boss used to say, what she believed didn't cut any cake.

Laura Edwards herself. Which meant Kay Bender was the intended victim. No motive at all that showed so far. Early days, early days.

Sheri Lloyd, Nick Logan, and Hayden Fifer, all with weak motives for doing in Laura Edwards. Laura Edwards with no motive at all for doing in Kay Bender. None of them had an alibi worth looking at. Okay, making great progress here. Damn it, she missed Parkhurst. Much of a homicide investigation had to do with theories. She tossed them out. Parkhurst said, that stinks, that's asinine, or maybe you've got something here.