The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (126 page)

Marc stretched out beside her, and she snuggled against him. She could feel that he was aroused, but he gently pushed her hand away when she reached to touch him down there, murmuring, “No.”

“But—” She felt selfish.

He placed a finger over her lips. “Tonight was for you.”

Her throat tightened. Marc had wanted her to have something that was hers alone. He was showing that he cared, that she wasn’t just a stand-in for his wife. It was all Anna could do to keep from letting go of the tears pressing hotly behind her eyes.

She drifted to sleep in his arms thinking of Monica—not the nightmare images that had haunted her these past few nights, but her sister as she’d looked on her wedding day, standing at the altar beside Brent, a vision in antique ivory lace, a look on her face as if to say, this was it, the brass ring she’d been reaching for. Only it hadn’t been. For all her wealth and fame, Monica had died empty-handed.

The studio in Covina turned out to be an industrial warehouse a stone’s throw from the railroad tracks, with a discreet sign on the corrugated siding that identified it as the home of Blue Knight Productions. Marc told the crackling voice over the intercom they were there to see Brent. A moment later they were buzzed in.

A punk-haired twentysomething sporting a tattoo on one shoulder and holding a steaming Styrofoam cup in each hand, greeted them as they walked in. “So, you guys are, like, legit, right?” she said. “The feds were out here last week—a hot tip that we were using minors. Yeah, as if.” She rolled her kohl-lined eyes. A gold stud over one eyebrow flashed in the overhead fluorescents.

“As far as I know, we’re legit.” Marc gave her his most disarming smile.

The girl tilted her head to one side, appraising him frankly—never mind she looked young enough to be his daughter. In a throaty voice, steam from the cups she was holding curling up around her face, she said, “Come with me. They’re still setting up, so you have a few minutes.”

They followed her down a narrow corridor fashioned out of Sheetrock. At the end, Anna could see cameras and floodlights, cables duct-taped to the floor, and a headset-wearing technician flitting in and out of view. They turned a corner, stopping at a door with Brent’s name printed on an erasable board. The girl gave it a kick, yelling, “You got company!” Coffee sloshed over onto one hand and she winced, cursing under her breath as she continued on.

The door swung open, and Anna stifled a gasp. The only thing covering Brent was the towel he was holding over his privates. He grinned as if unaware that he was naked. “Hey, Anna Banana.” She cringed at the nickname. “What brings you all the way out here? Don’t tell me you missed me.” He winked.

Several possible responses flitted through her mind before she settled on the most innocuous. “Brent, this is Marc. We, uh, were wondering if we could have a word with you.” She was careful to keep her eyes from straying south.

Brent high-fived Marc. “Any friend of Anna’s is a friend of mine.”

Brent was so boyishly exuberant, he was impossible to dislike. He was also impossible not to look at, naked or clothed. Well over six feet, with a muscular build bronzed from regular visits to the tanning salon, a Colgate smile, and perennially tousled blond locks, he was the kind of guy you’d expect to see tossing a Frisbee on the beach. Unsurprisingly, the highlight of his career had been a bit part on
Bay watch.

The problem wasn’t apparent until you were up close: Brent was old—not
old
old, but in terms of Hollywood, where most actors were washed up at forty.

“Have a seat.” Brent gestured toward the ratty sofa, reaching casually for the robe on a hook on the door. The unmistakable sounds of a couple having sex drifted toward them.

Anna had guessed it, of course—Blue Knight Productions, and that girl’s talk of the feds. She wondered how Brent could have sunk so low, but it didn’t really surprise her. In a way, hadn’t he been working toward this his whole career?

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” she said.

His smile faded as he sank into the chair opposite the cluttered dressing table. “Look, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t face it.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

She wondered briefly if there was another reason. “I’m not here because of that,” she said. “I guess you heard what happened.”

“Oh, Jesus, yeah. Guess they had to pin it on someone, the bastards.” His brow wrinkled in sympathy, but just as quickly smoothed. “But, hey, you’ll beat it. I mean, they might as well arrest the fucking Pope.”

She wasn’t sure if she appreciated the comparison. “I was hoping you could clear up a few things,” she said.

“Sure. Anything I can do to help.” He sat back, spreading his arms.

Marc leaned forward. “Where were you that night?”

“What the fuck. You think
I
offed her?” Brent’s benign expression turned angry.

“We’re not saying that.” Anna was quick to soothe him. “We just thought that if you
were
there, you might have noticed something suspicious.” She averted her eyes from the gap where his robe didn’t quite meet.

“Afraid I can’t help you there.” He frowned, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the dressing table. “I was at a bar with some friends. The police checked it out. The last time I saw her was that day at the house.” He shot Anna a meaningful look, and she blushed.

“I heard she was getting ready to cut you off without a cent.” Marc eyed him dispassionately.

Brent lit his cigarette and took a long drag, sending a stream of smoke jetting toward the ceiling. “Yeah? Well, you heard wrong. She blew off steam from time to time, but it didn’t mean shit. You know how she was.” He looked at Anna, then back at Marc, his eyes narrowing. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Anna reiterated.

After a moment Brent relented and said, “Yeah, okay. She heard I was pulling in some bucks doing this.” He shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. But, hey, it’s a business just like any other. Guy who owns it is married with three kids, goes to church on Sunday. You know who our best customer is? Bristol Hotels.” He snorted. “Adult pay-per-view is big with traveling salesmen.”

“Look, I don’t care what you do for a living,” Anna told him. In light of her own situation it didn’t seem so shocking. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of all this.”

“Man, if I knew who did it, he’d be one sorry fuck after I got through with him.” Brent shook his head, looking more sad than angry. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d miss anything other than his monthly check.

“Any idea who it might’ve been?” Marc zeroed in.

Brent took a languid drag off his cigarette. “Why don’t you talk to Lefevour?”

“You think Glenn had something to do with it?” The uneasiness she’d felt seeing him at the funeral crept back in.

“You tell me.” In the mirror over the dressing table she could see that Brent’s sun-bleached hair was starting to thin in back. The moans on the other side of the door grew louder. Anna heard a female voice urge breathlessly, “Oh yeah, baby, yeah. Give it to me. Oooooohhh … harder …
harder …
”

Suddenly the memory came rushing in, and this time she couldn’t stave it off. Was it only three weeks ago? It seemed like a year. She closed her eyes, reliving that day …

Anna sat staring at the computer screen, frowning and nibbling on a thumbnail.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Life sucks

Dear Monica,

Sorry i haven’t written in a while. The thing is, i got fired. The Bitch didn’t like me from the get go and was always on my case ragging me about every little thing, even stuff i didn’t do. And that was while Brianna had the mumps and was keeping me up all night. So i guess i sort of lost it. i let her (The Bitch) have it. Even told her what a skank she is and i don’t know how her old man can stand to look at her. i know, i should’ve kept my mouth shut, but i was sick and tired of her acting like i was something she stepped in. Like she was doing me this big fat favor or something. Don’t i deserve some respect? Is that too much to ask?

Well, anyway, now my parole officer is on my case. It won’t be easy finding another job but I won’t give up. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me going is knowing you care.

Your friend,

Krystal

Anna’s frown deepened as she typed her reply:

From:[email protected]

To: [email protected]

Re: Life sucks

Krystal,

I DO care … very much. And I understand about your boss being on your case … believe me. But there are better ways of handling those kinds of situations. And if all else fails, you can quit without burning bridges. I’m not saying this to kick you when you’re down. I know what you’ve been through. But look at it this way—if you can make it this far, you can go the rest of the way. Who cares what someone else thinks? It’s what you think of yourself that counts.

As ever,

Monica

Anna felt bad about deceiving Krystal, her more than anyone, but would she take her advice if she knew it was Monica’s nobody of a sister giving it? Also, if the tabloids ever got wind of it …

She sighed. She had enough problems without that. Like the fact that Monica had started drinking again. And the way she’d been acting lately, like a tire on a speeding car about to blow. At the moment she was lighting into Brent, who’d dropped by a little bit ago, no doubt to ask for money. Angry voices drifted up the backstairs.

“You’ve taken me for my last dime, you sorry son of a bitch,” Monica shrieked at the top of her lungs. “In fact, you can kiss your alimony good-bye!”

“Yeah? Well, in that case
you
can talk to my lawyer.” Brent was all bluster and no bite.

She gave a harsh laugh. “What are you going to pay him with, a postdated check? God, you’re pathetic.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the gig. But like I said, it’s only short term.” His voice turned wheedling. “The thing is, I’m a little low on cash right now. If you could slide me some, I’ll pay you back as soon as I get caught up.”

“When would that be, in twenty years or so?”

“Please, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re divorced.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down.”

“That’s what you said when I found out you were fucking that bimbo. I swear it ought to be coming out of
your
hide, not the other way around.”

“Look, it’s not much. You pay your friggin’ gardener more.” Anna could hear the fear in his voice even as he attempted to stand up for himself.

“And how, exactly, have you earned it?”

“Christ, Monica, I was
there
for you. I worshiped the ground you walked on.”

“Oh, really? And just how does charging whores to my American Express figure into all this worship?” Monica was really getting into it now. Anna could tell she was enjoying herself

“You cut off a guy’s balls, what’s he supposed to do?
You
were the one I wanted.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Anna got up and closed the door. She could still hear them, but the voices were muffled now. There was a time when she’d have felt compelled to rush downstairs in case things got ugly, but no more. The only reason she was still there was because she had yet to line up another job. It wasn’t easy when she had to make calls in secrecy and sneak off for interviews feeling like an FBI operative.

The muffled bleating on the other side of the door grew louder, and Anna felt a twinge of alarm. Suppose things
did
get out of hand? Like the time Monica threw a vase at Brent, missing his head by inches.

Anna sighed. Now that she’d made the decision to leave, each day was unbearable, a Sisyphean boulder to be pushed uphill, the task made even more difficult by Monica’s being so keyed up—almost as if she sensed a shift in the wind.

Then she thought of Krystal, struggling to make a go of it against nearly impossible odds.
Why should I feel sorry for myself?
Things were better now that her mother was at the Sunshine Home. She’d joined a gym and was spending more time with Liz and Dylan. She’d even spoken to Marge Fowler at the museum about becoming a docent.

Marge, in turn, had steered her toward the Women’s League, which was looking for volunteers to conduct tours of historic homes. In preparation, Anna was reading everything she could get her hands on to refresh her memory of the town’s history. As a result, she’d become friendly with Vivienne Hicks at the library. They’d gotten together for coffee a few times, and the other day Vivienne had complimented her on her weight loss.

Others had begun to comment as well. Anna no longer shopped in the plus size department at Rusk’s. She’d even started wearing makeup—not much, just enough to give her a little color and bring out her eyes. (If she’d learned anything from all the beauty tips she’d been doling out through the years, it was that less is more.) Norma Devane had even persuaded her to add a few subtle highlights to her hair.

Her thoughts turned to Marc, the memory of their night together like a precious gem tucked away for safekeeping. If he hadn’t called, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to see her, she knew, but because he was afraid of hurting her. Her friends might tell her she was naive, but the look on his face when he’d said good-bye—no one was that good an actor. She’d seen how torn he was, wanting what she was offering and at the same time knowing it wouldn’t be enough for either of them.

She could almost hear Liz’s derision. Welcome to the real world, she’d say. But the last thing Anna wanted was to be lumped in with Liz. The mere fact that Marc had kept his distance proved he was better than her sister’s married lover, whoever he was.

With an effort, Anna brought her attention back to the screen: One message was from a fan who’d seen every one of Monica’s movies numerous times and suggested a remake of
Dark Victory
in which Monica could do the Bette Davis role, crippled instead of blind. Another from [email protected] wanting to know what Monica thought of interracial dating, on account of she had the “hots” for this black guy at work. And one from a retired nurse named Dottie, who after years in an abusive marriage had found the courage to leave her husband. She thanked “Monica” for her encouragement, saying it was the extra push she’d needed.