The Next To Die Part 13

Dennis caught up with her at the door, leaving Laura behind to chat with the a.s.sistant 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? 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 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." 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."

Tom found himself smiling. The cops didn't know.

He'd wiped away his fingerprints. No one except the dog had seen him arriving and leaving. On the way home, he'd stopped by Santa Monica Beach, and from the pier, he'd tossed his gun in the ocean.

All morning, he'd sat in front of his TV, waiting for the story to break. There hadn't been anything in the morning paper. For a change, one of the other tenants hadn't stolen it today. Most of his fellow occupants in the ugly, three-story gray stucco apartment building were lowlifers. But Tom's place was nicely furnished-if not a bit cluttered with mementos. Framed lobby cards from his films hung on the living room walls, and his career sc.r.a.pbook sat on the coffee table. His old landlady used to browse through it with him occasionally, but her kids stuck her in a nursing home a few years back.

The telephone rang, startling him.

This was the third time today. Tom didn't answer it. He hardly ever got any calls-except for the occasional wrong number or salesperson. This had to be the police. Last night, he'd been convinced that at any minute they'd break down his door and arrest him. Several shots of Jack Daniels had helped calm him down. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, drunk and weepy.

Even with the pretty reporter on TV a.s.suring him that the police had no clues, the ringing phone made Tom feel hunted. He got to his feet. The painful gout had subsided a bit. He hobbled over to the window, moved the old lace curtain and glanced at the street below. He half expected to see a line of police cars in front of the building. But there was nothing. His Volare was still parked down there. He wondered if the police already had a description of it from one of Maggie's neighbors.

At last the telephone stopped ringing, and the moment it did, Tom realized something: cops didn't phone murder suspects, they came to their homes. No one had knocked on his door yet, and they probably wouldn't either, because they knew nothing they knew nothing. Maybe those calls were from reporters wanting to interview him. After all, he'd discovered Maggie and made her famous. "d.a.m.n!" Tom muttered, falling back on the couch. The first time in years-decades-that the media would want to interview Tom Lance, and he'd been too scared to answer the phone.

Maggie's death captured the lead spot on the noon news. He could look forward to a big, fat obituary in the evening papers, and certainly a tribute on Entertainment Tonight Entertainment Tonight. Murdered movie stars were the stuff that made tabloid covers, best-sellers, and TV movies. Every time a film star died, their costars were interviewed on TV and quoted in newspapers and magazines. He'd made Maggie famous again. And he would become famous again too.

"You want the official findings, Sean? Leigh Simone OD'd in the ladies' room at the Imperial. Her fingerprints were on the hypodermic. She had almost two grand worth of heroin in her purse, and she wrote something on the bathroom mirror about her life being a lie, I forget the exact wording."

"So the case is closed?" Sean asked, the phone to her ear. Sitting at the desk in her half-painted office, she had her pen poised on a legal pad. After Dayle's last phone call, Sean wanted to find out just how much the Portland police knew about the deaths of Leigh Simone, and Tony Katz and his friend. Were they even close to suspecting a conspiracy? From her years as an attorney in Eugene, Sean had established ties with many law enforcement officials in Portland-from policemen to prosecuting attorneys.

On the other end of the line right now was Vincent Delk, a well-respected cop who became a desk jockey after getting shot in the knee during a drug bust. Vinnie had his hand on the pulse of the whole force. He was an excellent source. And it helped that he had a crush on her.

"You're hesitating, Vinnie, my love," she said, tapping her pen on the legal pad. "Is the Leigh Simone case closed or not?"

"Well, darlin', it hasn't officially reopened, but quite frankly, I want to dig a little deeper into this sucker. Now, don't quote me..."

"I told you," she said. She stopped taking notes for a moment, "This isn't for anyone but me. I just want your personal take, Vinnie."

"Well, from day one, this case smelled fishy to me. That message Leigh Simone wrote on the mirror, it always struck me as bogus. I mean, how often do we find a suicide note with someone who has OD'd on heroin?"

"Huh, not very?" Sean murmured.

"Nope. That dog don't hunt. Another thing sticking in my craw is the timing. It happened less than two weeks after Tony Katz and his buddy bought it in those woods outside St. Helens."

"You see a connection?"

"At first I thought it was the hotel. They were both staying at the Imperial at the time of their deaths." Vincent Delk let out a long sigh. "So we checked the registration and found a handful of guests who were there during both Tony Katz's and Leigh Simone's stay. But all of the people cleared. Ditto the hotel staff. I still see a connection. But I'm a minority opinion."

Sean stopped writing for a moment. "So what's the connection?"

"One word: planning planning."

"I'm listening," Sean said.

"The scene in the ladies' room looked like a suicide or an accidental overdose, right? But in case of any doubts, we get this weird message on the mirror, spelling it out for us. To me, that's the result of deliberate planning."

"Go on."

"I'm not sure you want me to," Vincent said. "It's got to do with what happened to Tony and his friend. It's not pretty, Shawny."

"I'm a big girl," Sean said. "I can take it."

"Well, you probably heard that the two guys had been stripped naked, tied up, and killed. Looked like a gay-bashing."

"Yes, that's what I heard."

"Well, Tony and his friend were abducted and taken to that forest. We know this, because both men had come to the gay bar by taxi. They didn't have a car to drive fifty miles to that forest preserve. Some of the more gruesome details were kept out of the papers. This part's on the hush-hush. Tony Katz was found with a whittled-down tree branch shoved up his b.u.t.t. And he'd been s.e.xually mutilated. The other guy died execution style, shot in the head. But he also sustained sixty-one stab wounds and a slit throat."

"My G.o.d," Sean muttered.

"Now get this. The coroner is pretty sure he was already dead when they went to work on him with their knives. Which brings me back to what I was talking about earlier: planning planning."

"What do you mean?"

"The excessive stabbing occurred after after they killed the boyfriend. Shows they didn't so much want to prolong his agony as they wanted to make a sensational impression. Like I say, they killed the boyfriend. Shows they didn't so much want to prolong his agony as they wanted to make a sensational impression. Like I say, planning planning. Next. From checking out the tire tracks and footprints, the FBI estimated anywhere from six to ten people were there in the woods-in two or three cars. Yet not a beer can or cigarette b.u.t.t in sight. This wasn't the work of some drunk teens who let a gay-bashing get out of hand. No, this is a tight-knit group. Possibly eight people partic.i.p.ating in one of the most grisly, sensational murders here in recent years. Headlines every day for well over a week-"

"Until Leigh Simone's suicide," Sean interjected.

"And despite all that sensationalism, none of those six, eight, or ten partic.i.p.ants talked. No one bragged to anybody about it. That's unheard of. No leaks. Tight as a drum. As freakish and insane as this double murder appeared, in actuality, it was carefully orchestrated and performed without a flaw. A bunch of people got together and planned it, Shawny. You can bank on that. And they're still together, you can bank on that too."

"So you think these same people killed Leigh Simone, and made it look like a suicide?"

"As I said, seems like deliberate planning there too. But I'm flying solo on this. I'm the only one around here who thinks Leigh's a.s.sistant is a liar."

"Listen. What if Estelle Collier stepped forward and said she'd been forced to lie about Leigh's-drug and s.e.xual problems?"

"Are you trying to strike a deal for her?"

"I'm hoping she'll change her story. Knowing she can do so without incriminating herself might make it easier for her to tell the truth. Might make it easier for everyone."

"Well, Shawny, if anyone can swing a deal for this gal, it's you."

"Thanks. Listen, Vinnie. What if I told you that I believe this same group is now after Dayle Sutton?"

"Then I'd say Dayle Sutton is a dead woman."

Eleven.

"So-do you recognize us with our clothes on?" Joanne asked the audience at the beginning of The Tonight Show The Tonight Show. She and Avery came across as good sports, and the host clearly enjoyed exchanging zingers with them: INTERVIEWER: What's the deal with this home movie? So you just decided one night to set up a video camera, and get the whole thing on tape, huh?AVERY: Well, it's not like we were the first couple to come up with the idea. I just figured it might add a little spice to things.JOANNE: I like being married to a guy who, after four years, is still interested in spicing it up. The fact that he's still interested is wonderful. Though I must admit, had I known the d.a.m.n thing would end up being seen by hundreds of thousands of people, I'd have insisted on better lighting, a good makeup person, and a stunt double.

When the interviewer asked who might have stolen the video, Avery became serious, yet not too solemn. He said it was a police matter, but he suspected the responsible party didn't agree with Joanne's and his politics.

"I think someone was trying to humiliate us," Joanne added. "And it's embarra.s.sing this video-we made for ourselves-has been seen by so many people. But you know, I'm not sorry we made it. What's the big deal? Why the scandal? We're an old married couple, for G.o.d's sake."

They applauded her. Avery had forgotten about Joanne's ability to connect with a live audience. She instinctively knew what to say, when to be serious or irreverent, when to shut up, and when to shut him up.

Braving a barrage of intimate questions, she'd held up through an insane schedule the last three of days. And the phone calls wouldn't stop: film offers, and a long list of magazines wanting to shoot cover stories, including Vanity Fair Vanity Fair, who asked for them both in a s.e.xy Herb Ritts portrait.

The producers of Expiration Date Expiration Date couldn't have been more pleased that Traci Haydn's costar had grabbed the media spotlight. They talked about moving up the film's release date, and giving Avery top billing over Traci. Suddenly he had clout. Dayle Sutton e-mailed Avery to use his influence with their director to hire another writer to rework the gay-bashing script and make it more honest. On her recommendation, he also phoned Gary Worsht, the gay man he'd be playing-a nice guy, but definitely not the milksop saint from the script. couldn't have been more pleased that Traci Haydn's costar had grabbed the media spotlight. They talked about moving up the film's release date, and giving Avery top billing over Traci. Suddenly he had clout. Dayle Sutton e-mailed Avery to use his influence with their director to hire another writer to rework the gay-bashing script and make it more honest. On her recommendation, he also phoned Gary Worsht, the gay man he'd be playing-a nice guy, but definitely not the milksop saint from the script.

Gary had high praise for Sean Olson: "That lady really went to bat for me." The least Avery could do was go to bat for her and Dayle Sutton. To his utter amazement, the director listened to him, and a new screenwriter was hired. Almost overnight, he'd acquired that kind of pull.

If someone had been out to sabotage Avery's career by releasing that video to the public, their plan had backfired. Proof of their failure might have been gauged by the loud applause for Avery and Joanne as they strolled off The Tonight Show The Tonight Show set. Holding hands, they waved to the audience. set. Holding hands, they waved to the audience.

Joanne ducked behind the curtain, and her grip on Avery's hand became tighter. A few members of The Tonight Show The Tonight Show staff, two NBC pages, and the reporter and photographer from staff, two NBC pages, and the reporter and photographer from People People waited for them backstage. Blinded by camera flashes, they made their way toward their dressing room. Joanne's hand remained like a vise around his. waited for them backstage. Blinded by camera flashes, they made their way toward their dressing room. Joanne's hand remained like a vise around his.

Avery opened the door for her. "What's going on?" he whispered.

Joanne shut the door behind them, then suddenly bent over. "Oh, G.o.d, Avery," she gasped. "Something's wrong."

He sat her down in a chair. All the while, Joanne trembled and clutched her abdomen. Avery grabbed the phone and got through to the studio operator. "This is Avery Cooper calling from my dressing room in-in Studio B. We have a medical emergency. We need an ambulance or a doctor here at once. Can you help us?"

"Yessir, I can."

He noticed blood seeping down Joanne's legs. "Tell them to hurry."

Tom was fed up. He'd left three messages on his agent's machine, and the son of a b.i.t.c.h still hadn't called back. In fact, the phone hadn't rung all day, not one lousy call since the one he should have answered around noon. Now he was about to videotape Entertainment Tonight Entertainment Tonight, a.s.suming they'd have a tribute to Maggie McGuire. But like an idiot, he'd forgotten to buy blank videos. He had to tape over one of his old movies from The Late, Late Show The Late, Late Show. He was frantically trying to find some leftover time on the tape of his 1950 western, Trigger Happy Trigger Happy, when Entertainment Tonight Entertainment Tonight started. started.

"The entertainment world is shocked and saddened today by the pa.s.sing of one of its most durable talents. Academy-Award-winning actress Maggie McGuire was shot to death in her Beverly Hills home last night...."

Tom kept having to go back and forth from the broadcast to the videotape until he finally found the end of his western. Then he switched back to the broadcast and started recording. They were showing Maggie's ranch house, police cars jammed in the driveway. "...as investigations continue," the anchor-woman said. "Maggie McGuire's career spanned four decades. She played a Mafia mistress in her first movie, Hour of Deceit.... Hour of Deceit...."

"My G.o.d, there I am!" Tom gasped. He stared at a scene from the movie. He'd cornered Maggie in a bar. His back was to the camera, but his face was visible in partial profile. "I'm not gonna sing to any cop," Maggie said, puffing a cigarette. She wore a s.e.xy, off-the-shoulder c.o.c.ktail dress. It was before Hollywood had groomed her for stardom, and she looked so fresh, raw, and beautiful. Her wavy black hair fell down to her bare shoulders. Tom now remembered why he'd fallen in love with that gorgeous young girl. "I've had a bellyful of you cops," she continued. "Besides, Frankie treats me nice...."

Tom still remembered his line that followed: "I think you're scared of him, Miss Gerrard." But they cut to another film clip. "More bad-girl roles followed for McGuire," the anchorwoman announced. "She received a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Strange Corridor Strange Corridor, in which she played-"

The telephone rang. For a moment, Tom was torn. Was it a friend who had just seen him on TV? His agent? A reporter? A movie offer?

He pressed the mute b.u.t.ton on his remote and reached for the phone. "h.e.l.lo?" he said, tentative. He watched a clip of Maggie with Robert Mitchum.

There was a mechanical click on the other end of the line. A strange humming sound followed, and over this, a m.u.f.fled barking-as if a dog was outside the caller's house.

"h.e.l.lo?" Tom said again. "Who's there?"

The dog continued to bark, only louder. Tom realized it was a recording. Someone turned up the volume. Why would anybody want to tape a dog howling and yelping repeatedly?

He was ready to hang up. The barking was like some sort of alarm that wouldn't shut off. Then he realized that he was listening to Maggie's dog, Tosha. The recording must have been made yesterday, at just around the time when he was killing her.

"h.e.l.lo?" Tom whispered. He could hardly breathe.

The volume went down on the tape, and the dog's barking faded away. Tom listened to the quiet for a moment. Then he heard another click, followed by Maggie's recorded voice: "Tom. You're pathetic, you really are."

Entertainment Tonight had another headline story-besides Maggie McGuire's death. Behind the anchorwoman's right shoulder appeared a blowup photo of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane. "Doctors released Joanne Lane from Cedars-Sanai Medical Center today after emergency treatment for an undisclosed ailment," she announced. "The Broadway actress and her husband, Avery Cooper, have been embroiled in a media furor over the public release of their very private home-video s.e.x tape. had another headline story-besides Maggie McGuire's death. Behind the anchorwoman's right shoulder appeared a blowup photo of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane. "Doctors released Joanne Lane from Cedars-Sanai Medical Center today after emergency treatment for an undisclosed ailment," she announced. "The Broadway actress and her husband, Avery Cooper, have been embroiled in a media furor over the public release of their very private home-video s.e.x tape. E.T. E.T. correspondent, Charles Platt, has the story from outside the Coopers' home in Beverly Hills." correspondent, Charles Platt, has the story from outside the Coopers' home in Beverly Hills."

A swarthy, square-jawed young man stood by Avery and Joanne's front gate. "Sally-Anne, I'm here outside the home of Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane," he said into his microphone. "The couple had just filmed a segment for The Tonight Show The Tonight Show, and while backstage at NBC studios in Burbank, Avery Cooper telephoned for an ambulance for his wife. Joanne Lane was rushed to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There have been conflicting reports as to the nature of this medical emergency. However, sources at the Cedars-Sinai have unofficially told E.T. E.T. that Joanne Lane suffered a miscarriage...." that Joanne Lane suffered a miscarriage...."