The Bequest (35 page)

When Teri and
Mary arrived back at Chad’s ranch, they found
Gretel standing forlornly in the moonlight in the middle of the meadow.
The sight was a great relief to Teri, who had simply dismounted and
rushed into the trees earlier without tying her off. When they emerged
from the woods later, Gretel was nowhere to be seen. She assumed—or
maybe the correct word was hoped—that Gretel had found her way back
to the barn. She prayed that Gretel had not found her way to the opening
in the fence and wandered off. So seeing her standing proudly in the
meadow lifted the blanket of guilt that had draped itself around her
shoulders,
replacing
another
guilt blanket that
had been
lifted by
unburdening herself to Mary. She wondered how many blankets were still
left.

Mary turned her truck into the opening in the fence. In the beam of
the headlights, Teri scanned the area then looked toward the woods. The
body she had seen close to the fence was gone, as were the trucks that
brought Doug Bozarth and his minions to the ranch, no doubt now being
scrutinized by Bandera County’s forensics personnel, or maybe even Texas
Rangers. Only Chad’s truck remained at the far edge of the meadow.
There were no other signs that a crime, or crimes, had been committed
here.

“Tell Daddy I want to talk to him,” Teri said as she opened the door
to get out. “He can either come to me, or I can come to him. But it’s time
we talked.”

“It’s long past time,” Mary said. She leaned over and kissed her
daughter on the cheek. “I love you, Baby. Your daddy does, too. You have
to believe that.”

“I want to.” She paused, one foot on the ground. “I’ve gotta go get
Gretel. But you tell Daddy. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Without looking back at Mary’s departure, she walked across the
meadow to where Gretel waited patiently, munching on grass and looking
at her.
“Hey, girl,” Teri said. “Sorry I left you, but I’m back now.”
Teri ran her hand along Gretel’s side then stroked her nose. Gretel
snorted, pressed against Teri, and nuzzled her.
“That’s a good girl. Let’s get you back to the barn and get that saddle
off you. I know how a lady hates to wear the same outfit too long.”
She grabbed the reins, put one boot in a stirrup, and pulled herself up
and into the saddle. She shifted her weight, getting comfortable, then eyed
the woods. Part of her wanted to scout out the battlefield, to guarantee
herself that no more men with guns lurked in the trees, but she knew
Sheriff Waggoner and his deputies had already scoured the area. Besides,
with Doug Bozarth in custody, his minions, if any had been left, would
long since have scattered. She knew they had no quarrel with her. For
them, she was just a job with a paycheck, but with the man who held the
checkbook behind bars, it would take only the most idealistic of villains to
keep the faith.
She headed Gretel in the direction of the barn, alone in her thoughts
as she rode. What the detectives had said made sense. The source of
Bozarth’s money likely would not hold up to scrutiny, but since she had
been the only person raising questions, she had become a liability. As had
Mona.
Mona.
Teri pulled her cell phone from her pocket and checked for a signal.
She had programmed the hospital’s number into speed-dial before leaving
Los Angeles, and had, in fact, gotten constant updates during her drive
across the desert to Texas. Still critical, but holding on, had been the
constant refrain.
No signal. She would try again when she got back to Chad’s house.
But what was all that about Annemarie Crowell? At least part of it
made sense, the part about twin sons. It explained the resurrection of
Leland, showing up at her doorstep demanding his cut of the movie’s
proceeds.
That must
have
been...Rodney, was it?
An opportunistic
mother and her conniving son. Brilliant, really, when you thought about
it. Almost diabolical.
She tried to come to grips, though, with why, if Annemarie was a
hypnotizing killer, she did away with Leland, yet delivered the screenplay
for production. Unless she simply never thought anything would come of
it. But it had been mentioned, by name, in Leland Crowell’s will, which
had been in the hands of Stuart West, attorney-at-aw. And it had been
registered with the Writer’s Guild of America, which meant there was at
least one copy of it in existence that was beyond Annemarie’s reach.
Maybe she figured that, if others already knew about the script, destroying
it might simply raise questions once it was actually retrieved from the
WGA.
But why all the ceremony about personally bringing the script to
Teri? Unless, and this meant having a great deal of foresight, Annemarie
was savvy enough in the world of Hollywood to understand that the
sensational story of a despondent screenwriter taking his own life and
willing his script to an Oscar-winning actress had some cachet to it.
Enough appeal to maybe turn even a bad script into a money-maker. If
not, then no harm, no foul. But if so, then she and Rodney would be on
stand-by to capitalize when the moment called for it.
Incredible!
And yet here she was on the brink of the blockbuster opening of a
movie with a compelling behind-the-scenes story, a trail of bodies that led
from California to Texas, and a missing hypnotist.
She rode Gretel into the darkened barn, dismounted, and turned the
light on, though it barely lit up the center of the barn. She removed the
empty scabbard from the saddle and tossed it to the floor. The sheriff had
her rifle, but with a promise to return it as soon as they confirmed her
story of the events on the ranch—not that she ever wanted to see that
damn thing again. She took the saddle off and carried it to the tack room,
where she grabbed a curry brush and then scrubbed Gretel down. When
she finished, she led her to the stall next to Hansel, who whinnied a
greeting. The hay on the floor of the stall had been scattered and beaten
down, so she retrieved a pitchfork from beside the gun cabinet, scooped
hay, and tossed it into the stall.
As she worked, she heard a sound behind her, a scuffling noise, like
footsteps. She looked over her shoulder, but saw no one. It must be her
imagination playing tricks. After all, it was past midnight, and no one was
here other than the horses and her.
She hoped.
She continued to scatter hay then paused as she heard the sound
again. A shadow fell across the floor of the barn. She spun quickly.
Annemarie Crowell stood at the entry to the barn, a .22 in her right
hand, her face just as clownishly made-up as always.
“Well done, Ms. Squire,” she said.
Teri held the pitchfork upright beside her, in an American Gothic
pose. “Is that my gun?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. What are you doing here?”
“I was concerned about your safety.”
“So you came all the way here from California?”
“So it would appear.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“It’s like your question about the gun. Does it matter?”
“Just curious.”
“It’s a common story,” Annemarie said. “Children usually run to their
mothers when they’re in trouble.” She attempted what Teri assumed was
meant to be a
smile, but more
closely
resembled a
grimace. “And
sometimes they run to their lawyers. At least that’s what your Mr.
Capalletti told me.”
“And so you’re here.” Teri spoke with a calmness that she didn’t feel
upon hearing Annemarie essentially confess to killing Mike. Unless she
managed to close the distance
between them, the .22 trumped the
pitchfork. But she also knew that Annemarie would only shoot her as a last
resort. It was more likely that she had some sort of staged scene in mind
that, she believed, would exempt her from scrutiny. What she didn’t
know was that the detectives were already on to her and that if anything
untoward happened to Teri, Annemarie Crowell would be their prime
suspect. Of course, if Annemarie simply disappeared again, it wouldn’t
matter if she was a suspect. She definitely held the upper hand here, even
if she didn’t fully recognize it.
“We need to reach a...business arrangement,” Annemarie said.
“So you’re here to pick up where Leland or Rodney—or whatever
his name was—left off.”
“Leland really did write that script. He was always very creative,
even as a boy. He just didn’t have a business head.”
“Who went off that cliff two years ago?”
“Leland. He couldn’t cope with rejection. He’d had too much of it in
his life.”
“Then Rodney played the resurrected Leland. Was that your idea?”
“Maybe I should think about a career in show business. I have lots of
story ideas. And Rodney is a natural actor, don’t you think? Maybe you
should think about putting him in one of your movies.”
Hansel and Gretel both whinnied, almost in unison. Hansel sniffed
the air, as if aware of the aroma of impending doom.
Or maybe someone was approaching. The CHP detectives, maybe?
No, they were still at the hospital in San Antonio.
Then who?
She
had to keep Annemarie
talking, keep her
distracted
until
whoever was out there was close enough to see what was happening, and
more particularly, see the gun in Annemarie’s hand.
“It’s a little late for Rodney’s movie debut, isn’t it?” Teri asked.
“Oh, that’s right. I nearly forgot.”
“I have a feeling you never forget anything.”
“I’m going to miss Rodney, more so than Leland. He knew things
that Leland either didn’t know or was unwilling to share with his mother.”
She paused, as if for dramatic effect. “Sexual things.”
Teri recoiled a step. For the briefest of seconds, her grip relaxed on
the pitchfork then she snagged it again before it fell to the floor.
“You’re even sicker than I thought,” Teri said.
“Mothers and sons are not really all that different from brothers and
sisters when it comes to sexual things, are they?” She paused again, but this
time Teri didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. “But then you know
all about that, don’t you?”
“Go to hell.”
Annemarie laughed, an emotionless cackle suited for the barn in
which they stood. Teri shifted her focus from Annemarie’s face to the gun.
Annemarie raised it, as if to allow them both to admire it in her hand.
“It’s amazing how easy it is to get into someone’s house when they’re
overconfident in their security system,” Annemarie said.
“And of course you had a chance to scout it out from the inside.”
“You were most gracious to allow me into your house. It must have
been the Texas hospitality in you.”
“All right, enough of the bullshit,” Teri said, a curt tone to her voice.
She intended to sound confident, but worried that she came across as
shrill, because that would make her seem desperate. Which, of course, she
was. “How much do you want?”
“Is it always about money with you Hollywood types? Box office and
production bonuses and back end and gross points, and all that?”
“It’s what Rodney had in mind when he paid me a visit. I have no
reason to believe it died with him.”
“That was certainly my original plan,” Annemarie said. “To get my
fair share.”
“By blackmailing me.”
“Such a terrible word.”
“Such an accurate word. And now, with Rodney dead—with a bullet
in his back from my gun, I assume—if the police ever found it—”
“And they would.”
“–it would all lead back to me.”
“Yes, poor Leland. When he showed up alive on your doorstep, you
killed him to guarantee your bequest.”
“But you and I both know that the most recent son to die was
Rodney, which means that Leland really did die two years ago. And that
means I have owned the script all along.”
“An argument to be made. Of course, that assumes those facts are
discovered.”
Teri flinched, involuntarily. She hoped Annemarie hadn’t noticed the
movement. After all, Annemarie had just confirmed that she was unaware
that the cops were already on to the existence of her twins. Good. Teri
needed to keep her in the dark.
“But even so...” Annemarie paused. “Do you know what a codicil is?”
“It’s a change to a will.”
“It turns out that there was a codicil to Leland’s will that no one
knew about. Prepared by his attorney, Mr. West.”
“Who conveniently committed suicide.”
“Yes, an unfortunate man. I only recently found the codicil, myself.
It seems that, instead of an outright bequest of his script to you, Leland
only gave you a life estate. Upon your death, it and any proceeds from it
go to the secondary beneficiary.”
“His beloved mother.”
“A predictable storyline, I’m afraid. No movie there.”
“Am I going to commit suicide now with my own gun? Is that what
happened to Mike?”
Annemarie shook her head and made a shushing sound. “You really
don’t pay much attention, do you? You’ve already made the movie, but I
wonder if you ever really read the script. Our hero killed people by—”
“You mean the villain, don’t you?”
“Potato, potahto. It’s all about point of view, isn’t it? I prefer to think
that Leland viewed his mother as the hero.”
Annemarie waved the gun then settled her hand with the barrel
aimed directly at Teri’s face. “But we’re getting off topic here. Let’s go
through it again. Our hero disposes of her enemies by—”
“Hypnotizing others into killing them for her.”
A shadow appeared on the ground behind Annemarie. Sure enough,
someone else was there.
A familiar figure stepped into view. Tom Tucker, Teri’s father.
He walked up beside Annemarie, who handed him the gun. “There
she is, Tom. The woman who killed your son.”