THE NEXT TO DIE (13 page)

Tom bit down on his lip.

Maggie retrieved the bag, straightened up, then opened the sliding glass door to the house. “Okay, here we go. After you, Tom.”

He tried not to hobble, but he caught her staring. “What’s wrong with your foot?” she asked.

“Oh, I twisted my ankle jogging this morning,” he lied.

“Jogging? You?” Maggie laughed. “I’d buy tickets to see that.”

Tom was careful of the step up to the recreation room. He loved this room, because it definitely belonged in a movie star’s home. The floor was Mexican tile, with a lambskin rug in front of the large stone fireplace. The sofa, love seat and chairs were covered with soft, cream-colored leather. Above the sofa hung an arrangement of framed photographs, Maggie’s magazine covers from a
Life
portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of
People
. There was Frank Sinatra planting a kiss on her cheek as she clutched her Academy Award; Maggie shaking Princess Grace’s hand at some formal reception; Maggie and her ex, Pierre Blanchard, attending a film premiere with Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd; Maggie and President Kennedy laughing over what seemed to be a private joke at some Hollywood political function. Her Academy Award took center spot amid the pictures, the only three-dimensional object on that wall. A sconce held it up.

“I saw you on that Burger King commercial,” Maggie said. She was in the kitchen, pouring their ice teas. Her kitchen was incorporated in the large, all-purpose room, separated by a counter bar.

Tom climbed onto one of the tall, cushioned stool-chairs at the counter. “It was a McDonald’s ad,” he said.

“Whatever,” she shrugged, handing him a glass of ice tea. “I thought it was cute.” She lit a cigarette. “Those ads can be pretty lucrative.”

“I’ve had film offers,” Tom lied. “They’re interested in me for Tom Hanks’s father in his next movie.”

“Tom Hanks,” she said, deadpan.

She knows I’m lying
, Tom thought. “It’s nothing definite yet,” he said. Playing father to Kevin Costner or Tom Hanks was one of his fantasies lately.

“Tom Hanks,” Maggie repeated, then she shook her head. “Well, that’s just terrific. I’m thrilled for you.” She took a drag from her cigarette, then reached for the gift bag. “I may as well open this—before you head out.”

“I hope you don’t already have it,” he said, grinning.

She pulled out the book. “Oh, look, one of these things,” she said, glancing at the cover. “They reduce your whole career to a couple of brief paragraphs. Hope you got it on sale.”

“You don’t like it,” he murmured.

“Actually, I’m a sucker for these books,” Maggie said. She flipped through its pages, and Tom noticed her stopping in the M’s.

“‘…But her career never fulfilled its early promise,’” Maggie read aloud, sneering. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Thank you for buying this for me, Tom.”

“That’s just their way of saying Hollywood didn’t do right by you. I think it’s a nice review. The only thing they failed to mention was the guy who helped get you started. I should have gotten some credit. I mean, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be—”

“I’d still be a cocktail waitress,” she finished for him. Maggie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to see it in print. I hear it enough from you—practically every time you come over here on one of your surprise visits: ‘You’d still be a cocktail waitress!’” She laughed. “Don’t you think that by now, Tom, I’d have been promoted to hostess?”

“I don’t bring it up that often,” Tom argued. “And I don’t drop by that often either. Lord, you make me sound like a pest.”

“Huh, no comment,” she mumbled over her ice tea glass.

Wounded, Tom gazed at her. “Is that what you think I am? A pest?”

“Every time you come over here, you make me feel like I owe you something. And I’m sick of it, Tom.”

“I don’t mean to make you feel that way, Maggie.” Yet he liked the idea that she still felt beholden to him after all these years. He reached a hand over the counter toward her. “I’m proud to be the one who helped you—”

“May I remind you for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t exactly on poverty row when you ‘discovered’ me? I’d done some modeling and commercial spots. I would have made it into the movies with or without you—eventually.”

Tom stared at his empty hand, palm up. She didn’t seem to notice that he’d been reaching out to her. He climbed off the stool, and pain shot through his foot as soon as he put some weight on it. He grabbed the counter to keep his balance.

“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Should I call you a taxi?”

She thought that he was drunk. Tom shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Oh, Jesus, the martyr role now.” Maggie reached for her Merit 100’s.

“Do you feel even an ounce of gratitude toward me?” he asked.

“Now that’s a laugh.” She lit her cigarette. “I only lived with you and put up with your crap for practically three years. If that ain’t gratitude, I don’t know what.”

“I thought it was love,” Tom murmured.

Maggie shook her head and sighed. “Good exit line, Tom. Now, just let that hang in the air as you make your way to the door. And you can take this book with you.” She pushed it too far across the counter—over the edge. The book toppled to the floor, just missing Tom’s sore foot.

Clutching the stool, he bent down to retrieve the unwanted gift. The .380 fell out of his pocket. Tom wondered if she saw it. Quickly, he stashed the gun back inside his jacket. Then he retrieved the book and pulled himself up. “Do you know why I came here, Maggie?” he asked.

“Obviously, to bring some sunshine and happiness into my day.”

“No. It’s because I thought you were the only one who would miss me. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I killed myself.”

She started sorting through some mail left on the countertop. “Oh, Tom. Give me a break, will you?”

“I’m serious, for God’s sake!” He pulled out the .380.

But she wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah, you’re serious all right,” she said, studying her phone bill. “Like that business about playing Tom Hanks’s father.
Sure
. See you in the movies, Tom. You’re pathetic, you really are.”

“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” he whispered.

Maggie looked up from the phone bill. Her eyes widened at the gun in his hand. “My God, you stupid—”

The moment the gun went off, Tom felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. He felt powerful. The shot still echoed in his ears, and an electriclike jolt rattled his hand. He blinked and looked down at her.

Maggie’s thin body twitched and convulsed on the kitchen floor. Blood covered her face, yet her eyes remained open. She still wore that baffled, openmouthed expression from when he’d turned the gun on her. The spasms in her arms and legs halted. But blood continued to leak from her forehead. Wedged between her fingers, the cigarette she’d been smoking still smoldered.

“Maggie?” he whispered.

He heard the dog barking outside.

Beneath her head, a pool of dark blood bloomed on the tiled floor. The cigarette was burning down to her fingers, but she didn’t move. He’d done this to her. His heart beating wildly, he gazed at the gun in his hand. He’d meant to take his own life today. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Tom glanced toward the sliding glass door. Had anyone heard the shot? Were her neighbors calling the police right now? The dog continued to bark furiously. It was as if the dumb animal knew what had happened to its master.

Tom began to tremble.
Fingerprints
. He shoved the gun back inside the bag, then pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the edge of the counter, the bar stool, every place he’d set his hands. He rinsed out his ice tea glass, then put it away. He found the gift bag and stuffed the book inside it.

With the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, Tom slid open the glass door. He clutched the bag to his chest. As soon as he stepped outside, the Doberman lunged at him. Then, with a yelp, the animal abruptly stopped a few feet shy of him, restrained and choked in midjump by the chain attached to his collar.

Tom hobbled around the side of the house. The dog’s barking started up again—like some beastly alarm that alerted the entire neighborhood. Tom expected to see a police car blocking his Volare in the driveway. But there was no one. He climbed inside his car, fumbled with the keys, then started up the engine. He crept out of the driveway. Reaching the palm-tree-lined street, he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear a police siren either. But the dog’s barking still echoed inside his head.

They had a huge whirling fan trained on her. Dayle’s hair fluttered in the breeze. Shadows of trees, phone poles, and headlights raced across her face and reflected on the windshield of her mock convertible sports car. That was the front screen projector working. The rear screen had the seaside road on which Dayle’s character drove while intoxicated. Clutching the steering wheel, Dayle rolled her eyes ever so slightly. She’d been “drunk driving” on and off for about two hours now.

During one of the off moments, she’d retreated to her trailer and telephoned Nick Brock. He was still digging around Estelle Collier’s hometown. Dayle caught him in his room at the Holiday Inn in Madison, Wisconsin.

“Nothing new on the father of Estelle’s kid,” he told her. “I’ll have to pick up the pieces in San Francisco. But this you’ll be interested in. I’ve talked to about twenty people, just casually fishing about our Miss Collier, and it turns out I’m not the first person to come here with a lot of questions about Estelle. This one yokel told me that a guy calling himself a reporter was digging around here four months ago with the same kind of questions.”

“You mean, before Leigh’s death?”

“At least three months before,” Nick said. “I think you’re right about a blackmailer. Somebody was looking for a skeleton in Estelle’s closet.”

“They must have found something,” Dayle said. “Listen, Nick. I need to know more about that ‘unknown’ father. It’s what they must have used to get her to lie. Maybe we can use the same thing to squeeze the truth out of her.”

Once Dayle had clicked off, she phoned Sean Olson’s office and left a message on her machine—relaying what Nick had just told her. In only two days, Sean had become her confidant. Concerning this conspiracy, no one else took her seriously except Sean.

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Beautiful, Dayle. Let’s break for lunch.”

Dayle sighed and let her hands drop from the steering wheel. Dennis helped her out of the mock sports car. A tall, stunning redhead stood behind him. She wore a lavender suit that showed off her jazzercised-thin figure and long, shapely legs. “Dayle,” Dennis said. “I want you to meet Laura.”

“So you are
the
Laura,” Dayle said, shaking her hand. She wondered what this woman saw in good old pudgy Dennis. Snuggling alongside him, Laura stood an inch taller than Dennis. She had a sweet, nervous smile, and seemed starstruck in Dayle’s presence. “Dennis has told me all sorts of nice things about you,” Dayle said. “How does it feel to be on a movie set?”

“Oh, I love it!” Laura exclaimed. “It’s so exciting!”

Dayle gave her shoulder a pat. “Someone once said that your first day on a movie set is an incredible thrill. And your second day is so dull it couldn’t cut butter. Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Laura. My big question for you is—how do you put up with this character?” She nudged Dennis.

Laura just giggled nervously.

Bonny handed Dayle her Evian water. Dayle winked, then turned and toasted Laura with the bottle. “Nice meeting you,” she said, heading to her trailer. “Keep this guy out of trouble.”

Laura giggled again. “Sometimes I call him Dennis the Menace!” she called. “You know, Dennis the Menace?”

Dayle looked back and nodded. “Yes, that—that’s very cute. Well, see you around, Laura.” She continued toward her trailer.

Dennis caught up with her at the door, leaving Laura behind to chat with the assistant director. “So what do you think of her?” he whispered.

“Oh, she’s nice—and very pretty.” Dayle stepped into the trailer.

Dennis followed her in, then shut the door. “So—am I still in the
casa de fido?
” he asked warily.

“Why should you be in the doghouse?” Dayle sat down at her vanity table. “You mean for suggesting I was paranoid yesterday?”

He nodded. “I was out of line, Dayle. I’m sorry.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “Okay, no sweat. You’re forgiven.”

He just stood by the door, looking at his feet. “Um, listen. I heard some bad news from the studio publicity folks a few minutes ago.” He took a deep breath. “Maggie McGuire’s dead. Somebody shot her.”

Dayle turned to stare at him. “What?” she whispered.

“It was on the AP wire. Happened in her house. Her dog was barking all night long, and one of her neighbors called the cops. They found Maggie on her kitchen floor early this morning, before dawn.”

Dayle kept shaking her head. Tears stung her eyes.

“The cops are pretty certain an obsessed fan did it,” Dennis sighed. “But considering everything that’s happened lately, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sorry, Dayle. I know you liked her.”

She nodded. “I want to send flowers to Maggie’s children.”

“Consider it done,” he replied.

She turned toward her vanity once more. “Dennis, I think I need to be alone for a while,” she said, her voice quivering.

“I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” He paused in the doorway, and caught her reflection in the vanity mirror. “For the record, Dayle,” he said quietly. “If I ever thought you were paranoid—I don’t any more.”

The
Noon News Report
on TV led with their coverage of Maggie’s death. Tom Lance watched a jerky clip of the sheet-covered corpse on a gurney as it was loaded into an ambulance. A police barricade held people back; it could have been a star-studded film premiere, judging from the curious crowd. A pretty, black woman reporter in a red suit stood in Maggie’s driveway—just about where Tom had parked his car yesterday. She announced that the police didn’t have any clues. “One theory here is that Ms. McGuire’s killer is an obsessed fan. But police are still gathering evidence.”