Murder Take Two (29 page)

Either the assailant thought Yancy was as good as dead or he was after the gun and didn't care whether he had a dead cop or not. The note indicated the gun was the target. “What else?”

He gave her a half smile. “On that bright and cloudless morning.”

“What?”

“It zinged through my mind. ‘When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there.'”

“Anything else?”

“Footsteps.”

“Which direction?”

“Retreating.”

She closed her notebook and dropped it in her shoulder bag. “Well, you did catch the mad painter.”

Yancy gave her a humorless smile. “He more or less caught himself when he crept up to see if I was dead.”

“Could he be your assailant?”

“Possibly. He'd have to go through the rear of the property and around to the front to come up at me from behind. If he did, why would he come back and call for help? Oh.”

“What?”

“I gave him my house key.”

“Parkhurst has it. He checked the place out. As near as he could tell, nothing was missing. Unless you had valuable silver or stamp collections.”

“The most valuable thing I own is a T-bone steak in the freezer. Is it still there?”

“I'll ask Parkhurst. He did send someone to collect Kevin's paint stuff. What's the poetry all about?” she said, circling around to where she came in. “Who's the lovely beauty?”

“Laura Edwards, I would guess.”

“Why would you guess that?”

He looked at her like this might be some trick question. “I'm aware a nutzoid has been sending her threats. I assumed this was more of the same.”

“Anybody come to mind? Always hanging around, getting too close? Someone who just doesn't smell right?”

“Smell,” he said.

She waited.

“Why did I think of pumpkin bread?”

“When?”

“Just as I was stabbed.”

“What do you associate with pumpkin bread?”

“Thanksgiving. Childhood.” He thought. “Sophie the cat lady.”

Susan smiled. Sophie baked pumpkin bread and brought it to those in trouble or grieving or feeling low. Or to people she wanted to find out more about. Snooping was almost as big a passion as cats. “Anything else?”

“Only that whoever wrote it is a bad poet.”

“You know good poetry from bad?” That sounded surprised and horribly patronizing, which she could see he picked up on.

“Yes, ma'am, I do,” he said with no hint of sarcasm. “My mother may be odd in many ways, but she knows poetry and she made me learn.”

“If you think of anything else let me know. Otherwise, take it easy. Take a few days sick leave—”

“No, ma'am.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Uh—with your permission, I mean. I'd just as soon go back. If one of those movie people shoved a shiv in me, I'd like to know who. And—” He gave her a cockeyed grin. “This is hard to admit, but I feel a proprietary interest in this movie.”

“You're not exactly one hundred percent tiptop.”

“Close enough.”

“I'll check with Sheffield and let you know.”

Officer Demarco, trying to stifle a yawn, swallowed it when she looked at him. “Ma'am,” he said.

A body could get used to all this instant respect. She reminded herself, before she got too carried away, that she didn't know what they said behind her back. “You've been here all day?”

“Since oh six hundred.”

Overtime. Never did she expect to be concerned about overtime, except her own. “I'll see you get relieved.”

“No problem. I'd just as soon see he's taken care of.”

“Anything Yancy left out?”

“No, ma'am. I assumed the roses weren't dusted with deadly poison so I let them come in.”

Ex-military, Demarco wasn't thrilled by a female superior; by playing single-minded, he got away with snide comments. One day, she was afraid she'd have trouble from Demarco.

*   *   *

Since she passed the hospital on her way to the department, she swung into the parking lot and went inside. At the nurses' station, she asked a young red-haired nurse to page Dr. Sheffield. Seconds later, the PA system announced, “Dr. Sheffield? Dr. Adam Sheffield.”

A man with muscles, dark curly hair, and a day's growth of beard burst through the stairway door. “You wanted to see me?”

“About Officer Yancy,” she said. “Is he okay to return to duty?”

“You gonna have him doing sit-ups and fistfights?”

“I didn't have that in mind, no.”

“As long as he keeps his ribs taped and doesn't try to run marathons, he should be fine.”

Before she even got the pickup out of the hospital parking lot, the radio was chattering at her. “Yes, Hazel?”

“There seems to be a problem with Laura Edwards. She called in hysterics, demanding to see Ben.”

“Where is she?”

“In her trailer out there on old Josiah's property.”

“I'm on my way.”

At base camp, rain soaked into the ground beneath all the trailers, trucks, cars, and vans. California summers didn't include rain; surely, whoever scouted this location had known it rained in Kansas at any time of year. The ground was already soft underfoot when she slid from the pickup.

“Where's Ben?” Laura demanded.

For someone who'd been having hysterics, Laura Edwards looked remarkably unhysterical; what she looked was pissed. Dressed in a tidy little black number that fit like skin, she stalked toward Susan on four-inch heels, a diamond—or what looked like a diamond—pendant hung on her creamy bosom. An exotic sight for a Kansas afternoon. Platinum hair was swept up with wispy tendrils on the sides of her beautiful face, now artfully made-up. She whirled and stalked away, giving them the backless view.

“I'm due on the set,” she said.

Directors didn't simply sit around and wait for the sun to shine. Electricians, carpenters, drivers, props, makeup, wardrobe, and everybody else got paid whether they worked or not. After eight hours they got time and a half; after twelve, double time. And that was the least of it; car and van rentals, security guards, hotel rooms, catering. Every day of filming was horrendously expensive. Each day over schedule meant that much over budget, which explained why Fifer couldn't afford to stop shooting for somebody's murder. It cost too much. What little Susan knew about the movie industry came from occasionally working movie detail in San Francisco. She used to have a friend who'd become an entertainment lawyer and defected to Los Angeles.

“Ms. Edwards, could we sit down?”

Laura took in deep breaths, heaving bosom and all. Or tried. The dress was so tight, there wasn't much room for expansion. Susan hoped she wouldn't faint.

Laura debated, seemed about to keep stalking, then went to the couch where she was forced to perch.

“What's the problem?” Susan sat facing her and spoke softly.

“Mac.”

The teamster handed Susan a Ziploc bag, inside was a piece of white five-by-seven paper that had been folded in half. Printed in block letters:

MY LOVE, YOUR HEART WILL FEEL NO PAIN

AND YOUR DEVOTION IS MINE TO GAIN.

THERE IS NO WAY TO REST OR SLEEP

UNTIL I COME FOR YOU TO KEEP.

WHEN YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME BEST

THEN YOU'LL FIND BOTH PEACE AND REST.

A second plastic bag held the envelope it came in with Laura Edwards's name printed on it also in block letters.

And so we learn why the gun was taken. “Where did you get this?”

“Somebody gave it to me.”

“Who?”

“Mac.” It was more a snapping of her fingers than a question.

“It was handed to me by a kid on a bicycle. Girl. Thirteen, fourteen.”

“What did she look like?”

“Skinny. Tan raincoat, hat pulled down. She said a cop asked her to give it to Laura.”

“Did she say Laura? Not Ms. Edwards, or Laura Edwards?”

He chewed that over. “I think she said Laura Edwards.”

Not that it meant much, but the more formal might mean an individual who didn't know her. “Would you recognize her?”

“Naw. Kids hang around here all the time.”

Right. If Laura Edwards didn't draw them in, Nick Logan would.

“I thought it was from Ben,” Laura said.

“Why would he send you a note?”

“I didn't give it much thought,” Laura snapped. “I was dressing, going through the scene in my mind.”

“What does it mean?” Susan tapped the note.

“Isn't that your job?”

It was, indeed. Yancy's gun, the note he received, and now this. Added up, they gave notice of a serious threat to Ms. Edwards's life. Strong indication she was the intended victim and Yancy only a means to that end. Time to circle the wagons. A thought darted across her mind like a bright fish: Delmar Cayliff and his wagon trains. “Who put this in plastic?”

“I did,” Mac said. “The kid handled it, I handled it, and Ms. Edwards took it and opened it, but when she—”

Screamed?

“… I put them in bags, for what it's worth.”

Fingerprints needed to be taken for elimination purposes. Susan would send Osey. Taking prints was his idea of fun.

A knock, followed by a damp-looking second assistant saying Laura was wanted on the set, brought an end to the questioning.

“How many notes have you received today?” Susan asked Mac.

“What?”

“You claim you received this from a young female with a request to give it to Ms. Edwards. Earlier this afternoon you brought flowers to Officer Yancy with a note.”

“Oh, that. Clem gave it to me with a stack of magazines. She said since I was going up, I might as well take them, she had to split.”

To be certain she understood correctly, Susan repeated, “Ms. Jones gave you a note and asked that you give it to Officer Yancy.”

Susan tracked down Clem Jones inside the mansion where the filming was going on. Distracted, paying close attention to the director and none to Susan, Clem said the kid asked her to bring the note to Yancy. What kid? The one who lives there. Lives where? Where Yancy lives.

And some days you just go round in circles. The
swipe-swipe
of the windshield wiper kept background rhythm as Susan tried to chivvy pieces along so they'd form some shape. Did these recent events clear Laura Edwards of suspicion? Nearly. Susan couldn't see her skulking around in the rain, skewering Yancy to lift his gun and hightailing it back to the hotel. One thing was clear. The intended victim was Laura, not Yancy.

These notes put another plus on the side of Parkhurst's noninvolvement; he wasn't silly enough to be writing bad poetry, even on his day off. Where was he when Laura tried to get him? He had a perfect right to go wherever he wanted. Except in the vicinity of Laura Edwards. And that, of course, was the worry; he was out there somewhere, like the Lone Ranger, keeping guard.

The lady had been royally pissed because she couldn't get him. A suspicious person might suspect Laura didn't care, or maybe—for some reason of her own—actually wanted him to lose his job. Stupid of her. He was good at this job, and more than that, it gave him substance.

A leggy female, early teens, but tall for her age with straight brown hair to just past her ears, stepped out on the porch. “You mind talking out here? Mom's giving a lesson.”

In the background, Susan could hear the piano being attacked by heavy hands. Lessons were definitely needed. Black clouds and off-and-on drizzle had turned summer daylight gray, drops hit the shrubbery around the porch with a
pit-pat, pit-pat.

Stephanie, clearly excited by a cop asking questions, wasn't about to let it show. Cool was her stance. She was a typical small-town teenager, lovingly cared for, educated, with a bright future. Her worn shorts and droopy shirt didn't hide glowing health and good grooming. Less worldly, innocent even, in comparison with her big-city counterpart, and how could it be otherwise? In San Francisco, mothers got knifed in front of their kids, friends got mowed down in school yards, baby brothers or sisters asleep in their strollers got shot in the cross fire between drug dealers.

Stephanie was disappointed to be asked only about notes. “Oh, those. I gave one to that chauffeur guy just like the cop told me, and the other to that weird movie person to give to Peter.”

“A cop told you to deliver the notes? How do you know he was a cop?”

Stephanie shrugged. “He said he was.”

And this child wouldn't ask a cop for identification. “A police officer gave you two notes and asked you to deliver one to Ms. Edwards's driver and one to Officer Yancy,” Susan said, making sure she got it straight.

“Yes. Actually, he said one to Laura, but people were all around, security guards and everybody, so I couldn't give it to her. I gave it to her driver.”

“He said Laura? Not Laura Edwards or Ms. Edwards?”

“Yes.”

“Where was this?”

“At the barn, this morning. They were filming inside. And of course they wouldn't let me in.”

“How did you know her driver?”

“I've watched. You know, making the movie. Actually, it's mostly bor-ing. He brings her and takes her and everything.”

“This cop. Did you know him? Was he wearing a uniform? What was he wearing?”

“A black raincoat. He was in a hurry, gave me the notes, and rushed off.”

I'll bet he did. “Describe him for me.”

“Hat. One of those floppy kinds, and he kept ducking his head and looking the other way. I don't even know if he was fat or anything because the raincoat was loose. He had on black shoes, they were getting all wet. He was probably about your height.”

Since Susan was five eight and wearing two-inch heels, that made him around five ten. Maybe.

“You didn't take the note to Yancy yourself. Why was that?”