Murder Take Two (22 page)

“What were you doing at the Sunflower Hotel last night?”

The switch in subject didn't catch him off guard. “Who says I was there?”

“Never mind who says so, why were you there?”

“Anybody can go to a hotel. It's meant for the public.”

“I see. That doesn't tell me what you were doing there.”

“Do you have any reason for asking?”

He had her there. The only reason was something was going on here that she didn't understand and she wanted to find out what it was. “I'm looking for information,” she said.

Mockery danced in his dark eyes. “I was working yesterday evening.” He waved a hand at the garage. “I was sent over there to take care of a dead battery.”

“Who had a dead battery?”

“A driver of a van used to take crew to the set.”

“What time was this?”

“Eight when I left here. Eight-thirty when I returned.”

A customer drove up to the gas pumps and Susan let him go. As Yancy was driving back to the hotel, she asked what he knew about Kevin Murphy.

“The Murphys moved to Hampstead last year. Kevin is the best quarterback the high school has ever had. They made state championship, and after seldom even winning a game, that's close to miraculous. The father is retired military. I heard he was a navy test pilot, and had a crash that smashed him up pretty bad.”

“Mother?”

“I only know there is one.”

“Why'd they come here?”

“Because this is such a great place?”

“Right.”

When he parked in the hotel lot, she said, “Ask your sort-of friend Howie if Kevin's been around the hotel. Ask your movie pals if they've seen him hanging around watching.”

“He's been around a lot. He was hired as an extra.”

It must be because of his looks; it couldn't be his charm. “Let's go see if Delmar Cayliff, the ordinary man, is in his room.”

18

Susan knocked. The room door opened.

“Yes?” Delmar Cayliff was not an ordinary man, Susan thought. Brown pants, brown shirt, medium height, medium brown hair medium length, mid-thirties, slightly stocky. All that was ordinary enough. But there was something here that set off little alarm bells. He smelled strongly of cloves—not ordinary, but not alarming. He wouldn't look her in the eye, but stared off in the distance between her and Yancy.

“Chief Wren, Mr. Cayliff.” She held out her ID. “This is Officer Yancy. We'd like to ask you a few questions.” She stepped forward as she spoke and he automatically moved back.

“Sure, I guess so. Is it about the actress who was killed?” His eyes strayed to the small brown backpack on the bed. The roll of clove Life Savers beside it explained the odor of cloves.

“You know about that?”

“People have been talking.”

“You mind if we sit down?” Without waiting for a response, she took a chair at the small round table near the window. Yancy stood by the door.

Cayliff backed up and sat on the edge of the bed; he let one arm rest on the backpack. Those little alarm bells kept pinging. On the surface he was clean, neat, probably not wildly successful from the cut and quality of his clothes, but not unsuccessful or he couldn't afford to stay here.

“Where are you from, Mr. Cayliff?”

“Irvine. Oh, Irvine, California. You've probably never heard of it.”

“You're here on vacation?”

“I suppose you could say that. A working vacation anyway. I teach history. American history. You interested in history?” Even when he asked a question, he couldn't look at her. “Fascinating. I don't understand why everybody isn't gripped like I am.” A smile flicked on and off. “I've got students who actually fall asleep in class. Ha ha. Cattle trails are my interest. Every summer I pick one and go there, study the area around and the exact trail. I follow it all the way, taking note of—Well, as you can see, it's not only my occupation, it's my hobby.”

“You teach at UC Irvine?”

“Yes. Did you know the Santa Fe Trail runs right near Hampstead? It goes all the way from Independence, Missouri—that's where I started—and I'm following it to the end. You know where that is?”

She was afraid she didn't.

“Santa Fe, New Mexico. William Becknell—he was a trader—opened it in 1821. They did have some trouble right around here. About 1864 Indians started attacking. The wagons would get into a circle just like you see in the movies. You'd be surprised how many things the movies get wrong.”

No, she wouldn't.

“Daniel Boone, for instance, never wore a coonskin cap. But circled wagons is one thing they got right.”

“Are you interested in movies, Mr. Cayliff?”

His fingers tightened on the backpack. “Only in the general way that I see one sometimes.” The smile flickered on and off again.

“You've been watching the filming.” She made it an accusation.

He didn't respond to her tone, simply said, “Somewhat to my surprise I'm finding it interesting.”

“Sheri Lloyd, have you watched her?”

“If she's what's being filmed.”

“Did you think she was pretty?”

His fingers relaxed. “Pretty, yes, very pretty.”

“And Laura Edwards, is she pretty?”

“Beautiful. You have a reason for asking me these questions?”

She wondered if he had some sexual fantasy about beautiful women or thought they were evil or needed punishing. He didn't respond in any extraordinary way to the two beautiful women she'd mentioned, except he still wouldn't meet her eyes, his glance slid right past and landed somewhere over her shoulder. She wanted Parkhurst's opinion of this man. Damn it, she needed Parkhurst's help.

“You saw Ms. Lloyd last night,” she said. “On the Patio. What happened there?”

Much abbreviated, he gave her the same story she'd gotten from Clem Jones and Robin McCormack. When he mentioned the dog, his breathing grew short and fast. “I don't care much for dogs.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“A young person was there.”

Nobody else had mentioned a young person. “Male or female?”

He shook his head. “The—uh—person was sitting way back at one side. I didn't really pay attention.”

“How young?”

“Oh—teenage, I suppose.”

“What was this teenager wearing?”

“I'm sorry, I simply didn't notice. I wasn't paying attention, you see.”

“How did you know it was a teenager?”

He thought about that. “He had on—maybe she—shorts like they all wear, and a T-shirt. It had Wolverines in big letters and a picture of the animal.”

The Wolverines were the high school football team.

“Hair color?”

“He was wearing a baseball cap. I guess that's why I thought it was a boy, but girls wear them too. Anyway, this person was writing in a notebook. Does that help?”

Susan thanked him and slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Somebody followed her out,” he said as she was leaving.

“Followed who out? Ms. Lloyd?”

He nodded. “A man.”

“Describe him.”

“Tall. Red hair.”

“Robin McCormack?” Yancy said as they waited for the elevator.

“That's the only tall, red-haired man we know of who was there last night,” Susan said. “Have you any idea who this young person might be?”

“Kevin maybe? Could Cayliff be lying?”

“Anything's possible. To what end?”

Yancy's beeper sounded. She could see he wasn't enamored of the technological advancements of the telephone company.

*   *   *

That was simply awful, Laura thought, when she left Nick's suite and trailed Mac down the hallway to her own rooms. The food hadn't been fit to eat, she couldn't even remember what it was supposed to be, they'd sniped at each other, or sat there in charged silence. He kept smoking until she thought she would choke, and drinking that ridiculous beer he always had flown in wherever he was. Dinner with Nick in the hotel had seemed better than alone in her suite. Going out was impossible. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to do that, people gaping at her and whispering to each other behind their hands.

Come on, Laura May. They're what make you famous. Ah, the price you pay. If you can't appreciate your fans you better get out of the business.

Yeah, right. If it just wasn't all the time.

Nick would start to talk, then she'd start to talk and it was stops and starts and stilted and careful so neither would upset the other. It wasn't like her to be concerned about upsetting anybody, but there you are, she could be nice sometimes.

Neither mentioned Sheri, and her murder was the only thing on their minds. They should have talked about her, poor little cow. How much was Nick affected? Everything was a mess. When she'd left, he'd given her a kiss with all the warmth and excitement of leftover oatmeal.

While the bodyguard checked the place, she wondered if that was an apt turn of phrase.

“Everything clear,” he said. “This was slipped under the door.” He held up a small white envelope. “You want me to give it to your assistant?”

“Never mind. Thank you, Mac. You can go.”

Dropping it on the small writing desk, she sat down to read the little pile of letters already waiting there. “I've seen all your movies.” “I think you're wonderful.” “It's so exciting that you're actually here.”

She smiled, carefully folded each letter, after she read it, and stuck it back in its envelope. Her assistant would write personal replies to each and every one. Laura never got tired of them. They made her feel good all over. Okay, so she was vain and shallow, insecure even when she felt her work was good. She was never sure until it was confirmed by fans and critics. Fans liked you or they didn't. You never knew about critics. Sometimes she wondered if their reviews had anything at all to do with the movie.

She slit open the envelope Mac had handed her and unfolded the paper.

YOU WON'T GET STABBED.

Her breath caught, her heart skipped around. It took sheer force not to crumple the loathsome thing and burn it.

Okay. Calm down. Do what Ben said. Don't touch it, call the police.

The hell with that.

She picked up the receiver and punched in Ben's number. It rang and rang. Damn it, answer. She paced back and forth in half circles as far as the cord would allow. Ridiculous there wasn't a cordless phone here. She banged down the receiver and went to the little refrigerator for the bottle of white wine. She poured herself a glass.

Take a deep breath and calm down.

She tried Ben's number again, still no answer.

Okay, Laura May, what now? Be calm, be brave. She found the beeper number for that cop who was supposed to take care of things for her and punched it.

Only a minute or two went by before there was a tap on her door.

“Who is it?”

Yancy looked at Susan; she nodded.

“Police, ma'am. Officer Yancy.”

The lock clicked and the door opened cautiously. Laura Edwards, a little wild-eyed, shifted her glance to Susan and her expression froze; for just an instant she looked irritated. The lady is not pleased to see me, Susan thought. She was expecting only Yancy, young and male and maybe in her mind malleable. Peter Yancy, Susan was learning, was not as malleable as he appeared.

For all Laura Edwards's look of distress she hadn't let her appearance be affected—hair artfully tousled, makeup discreet but perfect. Gold silk pants and white silk blouse with gold splashes swayed loosely but managed to cling in all the right places.

“I've been trying to call Ben,” she said. “Get him for me, please.”

“Is there a problem?” Susan asked.

Laura bristled, then took hold of herself and smoothed herself out. “There.” She pointed to the note on the writing desk.

Susan walked over and looked at it. “When did you get this?”

“Just now. It was slipped under the door.”

“Please sit down,” Susan said.

Reluctantly, Laura sat on the love seat. “I want you to get Ben, please.”

She surely did, she could barely stay seated. Simply to have him around? Because she thinks she can lie to him and be believed? Or could it be the lady simply doesn't like me?

“I'm sure you would, Ms. Edwards, but this is a homicide and what you've got is me. I need to ask questions.”

She watched Laura consider: throw a fit, have hysterics, refuse to say a word until Parkhurst arrived? She decided on cooperation. Why, Susan couldn't guess. Fear? Playing the good citizen?

The Q and A session covered all her movements from the moment she came into the hotel this evening. Nothing startling resulted, and not because Susan didn't work at it. Laura had showered and changed and had dinner with Nick Logan in his suite, they'd ordered from room service. She'd been out of her room from seven until she came back just now.

“Mr. Logan was there the whole time?”

“Except for when he went out to get ice.”

“He got his own ice?”

“Sometimes he likes to show how unaffected he is.” A hint of sarcasm seeped through.

Susan went back to yesterday evening and questioned her about being on the Patio, and her encounter with Sheri. Nothing new came from that either. While answering with no hesitation, Laura Edwards was getting tired of questions and her cooperation was running a little thin.

This made Susan push harder; Laura stuck with her script, whatever it was. There was no relaxing of her guard even when Susan stood up, carefully collected the note in a plastic evidence bag, and made noises about leaving. Perhaps the lady is telling the truth. Even an actress can have a genuine emotion now and then. The lock clicked solidly behind them.

“Did you believe her?” she asked Yancy as they headed toward the end of the corridor.