Murder Take Two (28 page)

Dozing took up most of the morning while Demarco sat in the kitchen and read the paper, then Yancy washed as well as he could without getting bandages wet, dressed and shaved and dozed some more. Whatever they'd given him at the hospital had a hell of an afterlife.

In the easy chair, he was dozing over a book on Quantrill's raiders … slipping in from the east, hidden by the predawn sky and the seven-foot-high corn in the field, they approached the rural home of John L. Crane. Before sunup Crane was dead, his house burning, and William Quantrill was leading his raiders to Lawrence. The date was August 21, 1863 … when a knock brought him up with a start. Demarco let in Stephanie Blakeley, ever-present notebook clutched to her chest, plastic container in her other hand. She came in dripping water. Rain spilled over the wrought iron and ran down through the wooden steps.

“Mother sent this.” She thrust the container at him. “Bean soup. It's actually pretty good,” she added. Stephanie, at thirteen, didn't always see eye to eye with her mother, but she believed in being fair. She'd been eight, sporting two new permanent front teeth when he had moved in, and had told him astonishing facts about the world as she'd seen it. Now she was a solemn, serious thirteen-year-old who was going to be an author, hence the notebook—to write down important or profound thoughts.

“If you're not busy, I'd like to talk.”

Uh-huh. Her questions could get sticky, like Do you believe in God, or What is it like to be in a fistfight. These things were of significance to an author. He shoved the soup in the refrigerator and asked if she'd like a beer.

She gave him a look of withering scorn. “I'm not still eight, you know. That's no longer funny.”

Sometimes he didn't remember to respect her thirteen-year-old dignity, which she was quick to point out.

“Coke?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Demarco kept himself out of the way at the kitchen table with his paper. Sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor, bony knees poking out of blue shorts, she opened the can and sipped, studying him thoughtfully. “Does it hurt?”

He always answered her questions as well as he could. Not knowing how her mother would feel about these discussions, he tried to walk a fine line between honesty and what his landlady might get upset about if she knew her thirteen-year-old daughter was getting answers from him. “Not a lot.”

She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, opened the notebook, and wrote in a tiny, precise hand. “Did it hurt when you got stabbed?”

“Some. But mostly, it was scary.”

She thought about that and then nodded as though that made sense. “Did you think you were going to die?”

“I sure thought I might.” He hoped she wasn't going to ask his opinions about an afterlife; that was something he didn't feel equipped to handle. He popped the tab on his Coke and took a gulp.

“Some people die and it's a blessing.”

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody tells me anything. I'm treated like a child with no intelligence. And I'm neither.” Her mouth tightened and she twitched it back and forth. “You, at least, think I have brains.”

“Who died going out with a blessing?”

She shrugged. “That's what the women at church were saying about Mrs. Evanosky's husband.”

“Did I know Mr. Evanosky?”

She shrugged again. “He's been sick for ages and ages and now he's dead and Mrs. Evanosky doesn't have a penny to live on. That doesn't sound like much of a blessing to me.”

Evanosky. The woman in the hospital courtyard keeping a death watch? Her vigil was finally over then.

“Do you know who murdered that actress?” Like a pushy reporter, she had her notebook and pen ready.

“Not yet.”

“Why did the murderer try to kill you? Because you were getting too close?”

“Naw.”

She made notes. “Maybe you know something you don't know you know.”

“That's only on television, Steph.”

“Have you been interrogating suspects?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“You're the only one who ever tells me anything. I'm figuring out who did it.”

“I'm a flunky who goes where I'm sent to stand around all day and watch other people film a scene.”

“Did you ever go anywhere your mother didn't want you to go?”

Uh-oh. “Where'd you go, Steph?”

“Well, the thing is, she doesn't know, and actually she told me not to, but—” She glanced at Demarco.

Narrow face, crew cut, and square chin, he looked like a drill sergeant, which is what he had been before he came to HPD.

“Well, anyway—never mind. I have something important to ask.”

She let it sit there until he said, “What do you want to ask?”

“Will you tell me about sex?”

He choked on the cold liquid he'd been tipping down his throat. “Uh—Steph—I don't think your mother—”

She grinned, gotcha. “Well then, will you teach me how to shoot a gun?”

That didn't exactly have an easy answer either, given the way her mother felt about guns. Before he could launch into qualifiers all around a response, there was a knock on the door.

“I'll get it.” Stephanie unfolded herself and started for the door.

Demarco beat her to it. Stephanie studied Clem Jones as she came in, glanced at Yancy, and used “Don't forget to eat your soup” as an exit line.

The director's assistant was her usual nightmare vision, only this time her hair was green, but her face was the usual white and her eyes black, she looked like a rakish raccoon. Three painted green teardrops glistened on her left cheek. She wore no coat to keep the rain off; her overalls had rips in knees and the butt, they looked like she'd just shaken out the wino and pulled them on. The sleeveless T-shirt matched her hair. Demarco gave her a hard stare.

“You dead yet?” she asked Yancy.

“No. Would you care to sit down?” He offered her the easy chair.

She ignored the offer and prowled. “You really sick or just malingering?”

“With your great sympathetic manner, you ever think of going into nursing? Can I get you something to drink?”

She shook her head. “We heard you'd been shot.”

“I fell and cracked a rib.” He took the chair she'd rejected.

“Sure you did.” She plucked a book from the shelf, riffled pages, and put it back.

“Small matter of a knife wound. Was it you? A knife in the back seems just your style.”

Edging to the couch, she perched. “Is that what happened? Does it hurt? Can I see it?”

“Yes, yes, and no.”

“I brought you some magazines, but I left them in the car.” As jittery as a prairie dog with a hawk overhead, she reached for the television remote, looked at it front and back, pushed a button, watched the television flicker on, then pushed the off button. “Was it Laura?”

“Laura what?”

“Who stabbed you.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don't know. There have been a lot of weird things that I don't know. I wish I'd never come to work on this movie. What kind of soup?”

“What?”

“The kid”—Clem gestured with her thumb—“she said eat your soup.”

“Bean. Would you care for some?”

“I guess not. I'll get the magazines.” She darted out, leaving the door open.

The rain had slacked off to a misty drizzle with an occasional fat drop falling from the eaves.

Minutes later, heavy footfalls pounded up the steps. Unless Clem bought a ton of magazines, this wasn't her returning. Demarco got to the door just as Mac, Yancy's teamster buddy, ducked in with a vaseful of roses in one huge paw.

“Clem said give you these.” He dumped an armload of magazines and tossed a small white envelope on the coffee table.

“Sweet of you to bring me flowers,” Yancy said.

“Ha. If I cared, I'd bring you a six-pack of Millers. These are from Ms. Laura herself.” Mac plunked the vase next to the magazines; jostled roses sprayed rainwater on the table. “I just pick up and deliver. You got any Millers?”

“Budweiser?”

“Bah, bad stuff. If that's all you got.” He shrugged off his jacket and handed it over. Yancy passed it on to Demarco.

“Why is Ms. Edwards sending me flowers?” Yancy snatched a beer from the refrigerator.

“To show she's all heart.” Mac opened and swallowed. “You don't look all that delicate. Aren't you supposed to have pale skin and shaky breathing, long-faced nurses standing by?”

He drank his beer, told a string of corny jokes, some of which were funny and didn't do Yancy's cracked rib any good, and when he left, gave Yancy a pat on the back that his rib took personally.

Just as Yancy picked up the cans to toss them, there was another knock on the door. And he'd thought making movies was tiring.

Demarco ushered in Serena, still dressed from work in green skirt and print blouse, and said he'd split for a few.

“How are you?” Serena sounded tightly wound and her face was a careful mask.

“Fine.”

“I brought Mom.”

“Hey, Serena, this is your brother speaking. Did you get dipped in brine on the way over?”

Her face crumpled. “You could have been killed.”

“No, Serena, no. I'm fine, going back to work tomorrow. It's just a scratch. Nothing to get uptight about.”

“Now look what you did. When Mom sees me, she's going to be upset.” She made quick jabs in her purse for tissues, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. “I wish you'd quit this job.”

“I can't.”

“It's too dangerous.”

He took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “It was an accident. Accidents can happen anywhere.”

“It wasn't an accident. Somebody tried to kill you. Why do you have Demarco watching over you, if it was just an accident?”

“Serena—” He searched for the right words. All through their childhood they'd depended on each other for survival. If they hadn't stuck together, with their Looney Tunes mother they wouldn't have made it out as normal as they had. They were two halves. If one was gone, the other would be just that—a half.

“You duck out on me by getting yourself killed and I'll never speak to you again. You hear me? Mom's waiting. I wanted to see how bad off you looked before I brought her in.” She blew her nose again. “Where'd you get the flowers?”

“The famous and beautiful Ms. Laura Edwards.”

“You're kidding. Just a scratch, huh? Why then is she sending flowers?”

“Serena—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

His mother rushed in, hugged him—too tight for his rib—and ran her hand down his cheek. “Didn't I tell you not to climb the apple tree?”

Over her shoulder, he sent Serena a look. Serena shrugged.

“Does your arm hurt?” His mother sat on the couch and pulled him down beside her. With a feather touch, she stroked his left arm.

She was back sixteen years to when he'd fallen and broken it. “You're a brave boy.” She noticed the flowers. “I knew you'd like the roses. Serena said bring pansies.”

Serena smiled sweetly at him and crossed her eyes.

“It's okay.” His mother placed a hand on his face and looked puzzled.

“We need to go,” Serena said. “Dallas is coming for dinner.”

“You might see what's in the locket,” his mother said. “That could be the answer.”

“I'll do that, Mom.”

She kissed his forehead.

As soon as they were out the door, Demarco came back. He was taking this guard dog stuff a little seriously. Yancy picked up the envelope Mac had delivered for Clem and opened it, assuming it would say something like “Get well soon.”

Wrong.

Printed in block letters:

What was yours is now mine.

Waiting for the sun to shine.

The Lovely Beauty.

When it's right

This will bring the end of time.

24

Carefully, Susan inserted the poem in a plastic envelope. “When did this come?”

Yancy shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Patrol officers didn't like to be interrogated by the chief when they were sitting down; they preferred to be on their feet, even standing at attention.

“A couple of movie people were here,” he said.

“Who?”

“Clem Jones. She's the one who takes care of everything for the director, requests and complaints, whatever he needs or wants. Mac Royce. He's Laura Edwards's driver.”

“You must have made a great impression if the megastar sent flowers. Who else was here?”

“My mother and Serena.”

“And the kid,” Demarco said.

“Right. Stephanie Blakeley, the landlady's daughter.”

“Mac Royce brought the note?”

“He dropped it on the table. I didn't open it until after he'd gone.”

She sat down on the couch. “Now that you've had time to think about it, is there anything you can add to what happened last night?”

“Uh—no.” He looked embarrassed. “I saw an individual—To be accurate, I saw movement I
thought
was an individual go into the rear of the property at twenty-one twenty-nine Taylor. I knew the residents were away. I thought it was the mad painter at it again.”

“You went after him.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You were intent on catching him and didn't watch your back.”

“Yeah—yes, ma'am. I felt a push. Like someone was—like somebody had shoved me hard. I went down on one knee, lost my balance or got shoved again, and fell on the damn knife. That's when I knew this was not a good situation. I wasn't thinking about much else for a second or two. Then I realized my gun was missing. I expected to be shot. I heard my heart beat. Loud and clear.”