Murder Take Two (17 page)

“Of course. It has to.”

“Why does it have to?”

“Because that's what my astrologer said. I shall win out over my enemy.”

“Well,” Clem said, “if I were you I wouldn't mention that to Laura.”

“It's always better to dialogue and get everything out in the open.”

“Right.” Clem snorted and made her way over to the drinks table.

Clem was a really odd person, Sheri thought. Into her self too much. Did she ever have a boyfriend? The way she looked what could she expect? That awful makeup and those awful clothes. Maybe she had one once who gave her that locket and that's why she always wore it. There were times when Sheri really didn't think Clem liked her. Sheri would show Christian charity. Clem's life was hitting too many wrong planes. Sheri had offered the name of her astrologer, but Clem had refused. What more could she do?

She slid the crystal back and forth on its chain. The bad auras were making her jumpy. Of course, Nick loved her. He was going to marry her. Hadn't her astrologer said her true love would return that love twofold? Besides, she was twenty-two. Laura was old.

*   *   *

Sheri leaned over the bathroom cabinet and frowned at her image in the mirror. There wasn't enough light. This really wasn't a nice hotel. Compared to the Four Seasons, it was just crummy. Why was everybody so thrilled with old?

She examined her makeup. It was perfect, but her eyes were a little puffy. Nobody had dared leave the mansion until Fifer said they could, and then she'd come straight to her hotel room and taken a nap. It was so hot and awful, she'd felt just really drained, and she'd slept too long.

Now she didn't even have time to get anything to eat. Hayden Fifer didn't like it if anybody was late. She turned her head a little to one side and then a little to the other. She took a step back. She couldn't even see her whole self in the dinky mirror, only the top half. Although she had to admit that part looked pretty good. The white blouse with a wide neck looked great against her tan. The skimpy skirt, green to show up her green eyes, hugged her hips. Slipping her feet into high-heeled sandals, she grabbed her room key.

Fifer had a suite, of course. He answered her knock, motioned toward a couch, and went into the bedroom. He swung the door shut, but it didn't quite latch. She sat down, crossed her legs, smoothed the skirt, and waited.

She recrossed her legs. What was taking him so long? If she'd known he was going to make her wait, she could have picked up something to eat. The snacks at Kay Bender's moment of silence hadn't really appealed. From a carafe on the old-fashioned desk thing she poured herself a glass of red wine and took a sip. She grimaced. She never could understand what people saw in wine. The murmur of Fifer's end of the phone conversation drifted in from the bedroom. She tiptoed to the door and put her ear to the crack.

“… not any trouble … I keep telling you.”

Silence a moment, then he said, “Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it … if there's trouble, I'll take care of it.”

Silence.

“Just leave it to me … I told you … little setback … can be fixed…”

Silence.

She was caught taking a giant tiptoe toward the couch. He grabbed her wrist so tight she couldn't even twist it.

“Interested in other people's phone conversations?” He released her with a little push and she landed on her butt on the edge of the couch and slid to the floor. She got up, eased onto the couch, and rubbed her wrist. What was the matter with him? He didn't usually push people around, he just yelled, or got creepy quiet. That's when he was scariest.

He went back into the bedroom and she heard him say, “I'll get back to you.” When he came out again, he poured himself a glass of wine. “Refill?” His voice was dangerous.

Since she had a glass she'd only taken two sips from, she shook her head.

“Want to know what that call was about?”

She shook her head again.

He gave a little laugh that wasn't really a laugh, drank off the wine, and poured another glass. He started to pace. “The money people. They hear rumors. They get twitchy and make noises about pulling the plug. That makes me nervous. I don't like getting nervous. Understand?”

She nodded.

He stopped in front of her, leaned over too close, and stared in her face. “Who's the most disliked person on the set?”

She shrank back.

“The director.” He straightened and continued pacing. “You want to know why? I'll tell you why. He makes people act. He doesn't allow them to get away with what they think is acting. He makes them be things they never thought they could. They might think the actions are stupid, or wrong for the situation, but he insists. He demands too much and ignores their carefully considered suggestions. He's never satisfied and makes them work their butts off. He has no understanding of the sensitive artist, sets impossible goals, and doesn't make allowances for weather or technical problems. He demands the impossible and yells when he doesn't get it.”

He sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. “Why is that, Sheri?”

She stared at him.

“He has a vision. A vision of what he's working toward. The final product. He feels each section, has an overall sense as the work progresses, even if it gets changed along the way. He has to fight to create that vision. You understand? Sympathy on the set isn't possible, or tolerance for individual foibles. That would create chaos, turn out a project with no focus. A cause without a leader.”

His voice got even scarier. “I'm not a person who yells a lot. I've found it's more effective to speak softly. I believe in
Lethal Promise.
I want to see it finished. I'll fight to make that happen.”

Her heart was beating fast. She shivered. Her fingers found her crystal.

He waved toward the bedroom. “They heard about Kay's accident. They heard about the possibility it was an attack on Laura. I'm running the line that any publicity is good publicity. By the time
Lethal Promise
hits distribution, the public will be clamoring to see it. An attack on Laura will bring them charging in.”

He pinned her with his eyes. “What is not good is your upsetting Laura. I don't care about your hormones. I care about this movie. Drop all your sexy little plays for Nick. Don't give Laura even a smell of anything to complain about. Understand? Or I will be forced to take care of you.”

He stood up, took away her almost full glass of wine, set it on the table, and opened the door.

As if hypnotized, she got up and walked out. She didn't get mad until she was in the elevator going down. How dare he talk to her like that? He couldn't tell her what to do. When the doors opened at the lobby, she was momentarily confused, then realized she'd pushed the wrong button.

She stomped out, then stopped and drew in a deep breath. Calm. Ease the anger. Deep breath in. Let it out slowly. Release all the tension. Deep breath in. Out slowly. For a moment she wasn't certain what to do. But only for a moment. That pathetic man at the counter, assistant manager or whatever he was, was watching her and pretending not to. With a smile on her face, she walked to the desk.

“Hi,” she said with a throaty purr. At least he appreciated her. Hadn't he been so kind as to give her that Yancy person's phone number? It wouldn't hurt to be nice to him. She might want something else, you never knew.

Howie, who had been acutely aware of her from the instant she got off the elevator, looked up from the papers he was pretending to work on. “Hey, Ms. Lloyd. Is everything all right?”

“I'm going out there.” She pointed. “Could you have someone get me a drink?”

“I'll send someone right out.”

“Thank you so much.” She glided across the lobby, then marched down the corridor and out through glass doors to the Patio. She paused and blinked to let her eyes adjust to the dimness.

The area was glass-enclosed. Shrubs, growing in big pots and draped with strings of tiny white lights, sat on the uneven flagstone floor. Little round tables with two or three chairs placed here and there. Most were unoccupied. A ring of large trees outside screened the area from the rest of the grounds.

She waited for somebody to notice her. A hicksville kid, sitting in the corner where it was almost pitch-black, couldn't take gawping eyes off her. And a local nobody in a white dress. She'd been gazing out at the stars or something. A big black dog lay at her feet. Dogs shouldn't be allowed. She intended to complain. Laura and Nick were at a table with their heads together. They pretended like they didn't see her, but she knew better. Clem and Robin were over there with a makeup girl and somebody from wardrobe.

With her chin up, Sheri tip-tapped across the flagstones, high heels on the uneven floor making her stumble a little. “Okay if I join you?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a chair from a nearby table and joined Nick and Laura.

A waiter was at her elbow the moment she sat. She gave him a captivating smile and asked for a rum and Coke, then turned the smile onto her companions. Laura glared daggers. Somebody really ought to tell her how unattractive she was when she did that. It made her look haggard. Caused wrinkles too. At her age, she needed to be careful. Nick didn't seem really happy to see her either. That frightened her. She needed to get him alone so she could fix everything. It was Laura, sitting there sending out hateful auras, who made him act that way. Sheri felt very discomposed. She really did.

When the waiter came back with her rum and Coke, she took a tiny sip, tipped her head, and looked out at the moon, full or almost full, like she was enjoying its beauty. This was an awful place, she hated it here, she'd be so glad when they left.

With a scrape, Laura shoved her chair back and stood up. “You don't realize who you're playing with.” She smiled and stalked away.

“Good,” Sheri said. “She's gone.” She scooted her chair closer to Nick and laid her head on his shoulder. “I wanted to be alone with you.”

He sighed and dropped his chin to his chest, then looked at her and shook his head. Without a word he got up and started to leave.

“Nick—?”

With one hand, he made a gesture like he was brushing her away. It brought tears to her eyes. She concentrated hard on not crying and sipped her drink like she wasn't in pain, like the moon really was beautiful and she was enjoying gazing at it. Aware that everybody was leaving, she didn't even look around. Put out confidence and confidence would be there.

When the woman in the white dress started over to her—actually, more like floated, the long white skirt and tuniclike blouse shimmered around her—Sheri felt tired at what fame brought. At least, this woman's aura was peace and serenity.

She sat at Sheri's table. “I'm Raina Yancy,” she said. Her dark eyes were odd, kind of luminous and—she was scary somehow. Like crazy. The big black dog paced by her side and flopped at her feet.

Sheri drew away. Big dogs frightened her, but she smiled, even if the smile was maybe a little bit strained. Always smile at the fans. “Sheri Lloyd,” she said, just as though she was an ordinary person. She always did that, even though the other person obviously knew who she was. It made them feel like she wasn't setting herself above them. And she didn't want to do anything to upset this woman. You never knew what might set them off.

“‘The moping owl does to the moon complain,'” Raina said.

Sheri looked around. Everybody was gone, even the kid in the corner.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Raina said.

“How very kind of you, but I have to go now.” Sheri smiled and shoved back her chair.

The noise made the dog leap to its feet and she shrank back.

“Don't mope, child. Sometimes you can't have what you want; that doesn't mean there aren't other things you can have. That are just as good.”

“Excuse me.” Sheri walked slowly and deliberately away. They were like dogs, the mad ones. If you didn't stare them in the eye and didn't run, maybe you could get away.

Sheri didn't look around until she had reached the door into the hallway. The woman didn't come after her. With a deep cleansing breath, Sheri let her shoulders relax, and went to complain about the vicious dog and the crazy woman. Howie—that was his name—said he'd take care of it right away. Because she felt so unnerved, she chatted with him awhile. He was really kind of sweet, in a short, stocky kind of way.

She couldn't stay long. She needed her beauty sleep. Fluttering her fingers at him, she went to the elevator that took an age to get there. It always did. One more thing about this crummy place.

On the third floor, she stuck the key in the lock and turned it. Just as she stepped inside, she felt a sharp pain in her back. She stumbled forward, and fell. Rough pile carpeting pressed against her cheek. Brown and beige. Ugly.

The door shut behind her.

Her tanned hand, nails painted red, crawled on its fingertips toward the crystal around her neck. The fingers went still, the hand fell flat and soft against the ugly carpet.

14

Yancy, transferring keys and change from his pockets to the chest, let the phone ring. God damn it, it's ten o'clock. I put in sixteen hours. He counted twelve rings, then with a sigh of exasperation, irritation, and downright annoyance, picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Pete.”

“Hey, Howie,” Yancy said. “This better be important or I'm cutting you from my will.”

“Sorry. Your mother's here.”

“Where?”

“The hotel.”

Oh, hell. With thumb and forefinger, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. “How'd she get there?”

“How do I know?”

“Trouble?”

“No. You know I like your mother, but I had complaints about the dog.”

“Elmo's there too?”