THE NEXT TO DIE (18 page)

Tom watched in stunned silence. Indeed it was a young Maggie in the rickety old stag movie; probably a desperate measure from her struggling modeling days, before she’d met him. The sight of her youthful beauty left him feeling weak; he still wanted to protect her. The love of his life, and here she was, naked and debasing herself, for all to see.

They broke away from the stag movie, so the
First Edition
anchor, a perky blonde in a pink blazer, could introduce the show. Then they started the film again—with portions of the screen still blurred by the computerized grid. But Tom could tell what was going on. After pouring beer over her breasts, Maggie appeared to be doing something down there with the empty bottle. The movie had no sound. The anchor handled the voice-over, explaining that
First Edition
had uncovered the one-reel film today, less than forty-eight hours after the shocking murder of its star, Maggie McGuire. The film had been made in 1947. Miss McGuire’s costar hadn’t yet been identified.

Not that anyone had much chance to see his face. The scrawny, balding man’s back was to the camera as he strolled onto the set. The grid obscured his buttocks. Maggie, sitting at the edge of a bed, set aside the beer bottle and reached out to him.

They switched back to the announcer, who explained that they couldn’t show any more footage from the movie, titled
Thirsty Lady
. Adam Blanchard, the late star’s forty-year-old, HIV-positive son, had no comment regarding the newly discovered film.

Tom began to cry. His greatest contribution to the movies was Maggie McGuire. Yet after this, who would remember her years of hard work? Who would remember the Academy-Award-winning performance? Her impressive career was now eclipsed by scandal, and most people would only remember Maggie McGuire’s dirty movie.

“This is the worst she’s ever been, George,” Avery said to his friend on the phone. He sat at his desk in the study. “You saw how she was today. They put her back on the antidepressants at the hospital. But I don’t think it’s doing any good.”

“Be patient, give Joanne a little time,” George said. “Where is she?”

“Right now, she’s napping upstairs.”

Joanne had slept the entire time at George and Sheila’s—except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, and an episode at around three in the morning.

Avery had woken to the sound of her crying, distant whimpering that escalated to screams. Avery switched on the light and saw her across the room. Joanne stood by the guest room window, shrieking, with tears rolling down her cheeks. He managed to quiet her down and guide her back into bed. “I’m so tried,” was all she could say.

In the morning, he told his friends that Joanne had had a nightmare. It was almost the truth. She didn’t come down to breakfast. She didn’t utter a word all morning—not even when George and Sheila hugged her good-bye at the door. Avery led her to the car. He hated to think that perhaps Joanne was pulling some theatrics here. His actress wife wasn’t beyond “playing to the balcony” at times—as she herself had admitted. How much was a real breakdown—and how much was drama—he couldn’t tell.

About a dozen reporters hovered around the front gate. They peered into the car, and shouted questions. A couple of them asked about the claw marks on Avery’s cheek. All last night and this morning, Joanne hadn’t even noticed. As they pulled into the driveway, she turned away from the cameras and covered her face. Once inside the house, she plodded up the stairs to their bedroom, pried off her shoes, and slipped into bed.

That had been over four hours ago. He’d checked on her several times. To be safe, Avery had gone into their bathroom and removed all the razor blades and an old bottle of sleeping pills.

“Keep a close eye on her,” George recommended over the phone.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Avery said soberly.

“Good. Well, call if you need anything. I love you, buddy.”

“Thanks, George. Love you too. Bye.” Avery hung up the phone, and wearily reclimbed those stairs. He crept into the bedroom. Joanne was still dressed, still in bed—but awake.

Avery sat down at her side. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you go freshen up? I’ll throw something together for dinner. Okay?”

“Dinner?” she said vaguely. She didn’t even look at him.

“Yeah,” Avery caressed her arm. “C’mon, Joanne, I’m tired of talking to myself here. Please?” He started to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re scaring me….”

The telephone rang. Joanne didn’t even seem to hear it.

Avery sighed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”

“Avery? Hi. It’s Steve Bensinger.”

“Oh, Steve. You know, now is not a good time to talk.”

“Well, then you’re going to hate me, because I’m on my cellular, in front of your house. I’m sorry, Avery, but it’s urgent I see you.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, give me a minute. I’ll open the gate for you.” Avery hung up the phone. He kissed Joanne’s cheek, then hurried down the stairs and flicked the wall switch for the gate. He met Steve at the door.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” Steve asked, gaping at the scratch marks on Avery’s cheek.

“Tell you later.” Avery closed the door. “What’s the emergency?”

Steve stepped into the foyer. He wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. “Okay, no song and dance,” he said grimly. “I have a contact in the Beverly Hills police force, and he knows I work for you. He called me an hour ago and asked if I had any clue as to my client’s whereabouts last night….”

Avery shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“A certain Libby Stoddard was stalking and harassing you last month. I talked to your lawyer about it on the way here—”

“Yeah, okay, so?” Avery said impatiently.

“She’s dead, Avery.”

“What?”

“Libby Stoddard’s gardener has a key. He discovered the body this afternoon. She’d been stabbed several times. There’s also evidence of rape.”

“God, no,” Avery whispered.

“They think she let the guy in,” Steve explained. “It happened last night. Coroner’s still working on an approximate time….” He glanced up toward the top of the stairs.

Numb, Avery followed his gaze and saw Joanne at the second-floor landing. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. She clutched the banister as if it were the only thing supporting her. She had heard everything. Avery stared at her. “Joanne, you shouldn’t—”

She began to laugh.

Avery hurried up the steps to her. As he led her toward their bedroom, Joanne’s laughter became louder and louder. She sounded like a crazy woman.

He’d just fallen asleep when the telephone rang. Blindly, Avery reached toward the nightstand. “I have it, hon,” he mumbled, trying to focus on the digital alarm clock: 5:13. He cleared his throat. “Yes? Hello?”

“Mr. Cooper? This is Aaron Harvey from Homeguard Securities. Our cameras have picked up some activity in your backyard pool area—”

“What?” Avery rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to put everything together. The guy was talking about the cameras they’d installed outside their house after the break-in last month. “What kind of activity?” he asked.

“I’ve taken the liberty of sending over an ambulance—”

“An
ambulance?
What?” He sat up, then swiveled around. Joanne’s side of the bed was empty.

“I think your wife’s had an accident,” the man said. “She seems to have fallen in the pool.”

“Wait, wait a second.” Avery jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors to the balcony. He pushed them open and stared down at the pool.

Joanne’s robe billowed out as she floated facedown on the water’s surface. She barely moved—expect for the water lapping around her. She drifted in the shallow end like a fallen leaf.

In the distance, he could hear the wailing siren. Avery snatched up the phone again. “Tell them we’re around back.”

He hung up and bolted down the stairs. In the hallway, he flicked the switch that held open the front gate. Then he ran through the kitchen and out to the pool. Jumping into the frigid water, Avery grabbed Joanne. He hoisted her out of the pool, and set her down on her stomach. She wasn’t breathing. He frantically pushed and pushed on her back.

He could hear the ambulance down the street, then voices and footsteps. People were coming up the driveway.

He continued his efforts to resuscitate her, but Joanne didn’t stir. Headlights swept across the backyard bushes as the ambulance came down the driveway. Avery heard more voices: “Something’s happened!” one reporter shouted to another. “I need this on video!”

Avery wouldn’t give up. He kept trying to force the water from her lungs. The paramedics rushed through the back gate, followed by several reporters and photographers. Camera flashes popped in the murky dawn light.

Joanne coughed, regurgitating a stomachful of water onto the pool deck. Hovering over her, Avery let out a grateful cry. She was still coughing when the paramedics relieved him.

Drenched, and clad only in his undershorts, Avery rolled over and caught his breath. He could see Joanne moving. Camera flashes illuminated everything. He managed to stand up, then glared at the handful of paparazzi at his back gate. “You guys are trespassing,” he said evenly—between gasps for air. “You’re blocking the ambulance. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

Incredibly, they obeyed him.

One of the paramedics asked him how it had happened. Avery just shook his head.

“Your wife seems to have swallowed a mixture of barbiturates and alcohol. We need to move her to the hospital right away.”

“Yes, of course,” Avery whispered. He gazed down at the other medic inserting a fat plastic tube in Joanne’s mouth. Her eyes were half open.

Avery began to shiver from the cold.

He stepped into the dimly lit hospital room. Joanne was asleep. As Avery moved closer to the bed, he saw the restraining straps around her wrists—attached to the bed’s side railings. She looked so frail and sickly. Her damp hair had dried into flat, greasy tangles.

He still smelled of chlorine from his plunge into the pool five hours before. He’d found the empty bottle of sleeping pills in the kitchen garbage. Joanne had had the prescription filled in New York. She’d washed down the pills with several shots of vodka—before jumping into the pool.

The doctor had allowed him only a brief visit, so Avery stayed just a few minutes. He gently kissed her forehead. “G’night, honey,” he whispered, though he knew she couldn’t hear him.

Outside Joanne’s private room, a slim Asian woman, about fifty, waited by the security guard’s desk in the hallway. She had a pen and pad, and wore a red cardigan with black pants. Avery was a bit disappointed the guard hadn’t chased away this reporter. He frowned at both of them.

“Mr. Cooper?” She dug into her purse. “I know my timing is awful. But I need to ask you some questions.” She pulled out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, Beverly Hills police. Could I buy you a coffee in the cafeteria? I promise this won’t take long.”

Avery sighed. “I’ve talked to you people all day. How many times do I have to go over this? My wife wasn’t herself. She’s been through a lot—”

“This isn’t about your wife, Mr. Cooper. I need to ask you some questions about Libby Stoddard. I believe you knew her.”

They’d caught the hospital cafeteria during a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. Only a handful of other customers were scattered about. A janitor was mopping up; he’d placed chairs upside down on several tables.

Avery sipped his Coke. “So what did you want to ask me?”

Susan Linn frowned. “Well, first you should know that—um, you’re not required to answer any of my questions. You’re entitled to counsel, and anything you say might be used against you.”

Avery gave her a wary look. “Am I a suspect?”

Lieutenant Linn shrugged. “It’s standard jargon. You’ve seen the cop shows. Hell, you’ve
acted
in the cop shows.”

Avery nodded. “I’ll let you know if I feel the need for a lawyer. For now, go ahead, ask away.”

“The scratch,” she said, unwrapping her prepackaged Rice Krispies Treat. “How did that happen?”

Avery touched his cheek, then shrugged. “I was at this little ocean-view park last night, just to—well, collect my thoughts. Suddenly, this nut—this woman—came out of nowhere, and she scratched my face. Then she ducked into a car and drove off.”

“When did this happen?” Linn asked.

“Around five-thirty. Joanne and I were staying with friends. I was on my way home to pick up some things, and I swung by this park.”

Lieutenant Linn nodded pensively. “Your friend, George Weber, concurs—you left his house at five-fifteen. One of the reporters outside your front gate saw you come home at seven-twenty. You spent a lot of time at this scenic spot, collecting your thoughts. Did you go somewhere else?”

Avery shook his head. “Only the park. I had a lot on my mind. My wife had just had a miscarriage—”

“I know all about that,” Lieutenant Linn said, over her coffee cup. “You were filming a talk show when your wife had to be rushed to the hospital. Were you wearing any stage makeup for this television appearance?”

Sipping his Coke, Avery nodded. “A little.”

“Did you have a chance to wash it off before this trip to the park?”

“No, I didn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

She put down her Rice Krispies Treat. “Can you believe these things are low-fat? They’re so sweet. Only a few more questions.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Um, what’s your blood type, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, not looking up.

“Type O.”

“Hmmm.” She kept scribbling. “Between the time you left the Webers’ and arrived at your home, did you meet up with anyone besides this scratch-happy woman in the park?”

“I’m afraid not.” Avery straightened in his chair. “Am I a suspect in Libby’s murder?”

Lieutenant Linn sighed. “Well, I’ve done my homework. I know Libby was your ‘number-one fan’ as well as a thorn in your side. According to her attorney, you threatened Libby at an arbitration hearing last month.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Avery said quietly.