Last Scene Alive at-7

by Charlaine Harris

  Angel raised a blond eyebrow. "So, what happened with Robin?"

  "I was really fond of him. I think he was fond of me, too. But when he decided to write a book about the murders, and I realized there was no way he could leave me out of the book, I felt pretty unhappy about it. And when he went to Hollywood with his agent to push the book proposal, our connection just kind of tapered off."

  "He call you?"

  "Oh... yeah. At first."

  "When did he quit?"

  "When I told him I was marrying Martin."

  "And then he moved on to that Celia Shaw?"

  "That's what the gossip magazines said. I think they had pretty much called it quits by the time they got here."

  "So he moved from the real you to the play you." Angel looked amused at my wince. After a second of considering that unnerving idea, I shrugged.

  We fell silent and watched the unfolding panorama together. Joel Park Brooks, shaved head flashing in the sun, was being attended by paramedics, by Mark, and by several other people whose names and functions I had not yet learned. He seemed to feel that the FBI should be brought in to investigate the death of an important actress like Celia Shaw. The Hollywood dispensation, I guess.

  Robin had found a chair and sunk down onto it, his hands on his knees, lost in thought. I wondered if I should go to him.

  Meredith Askew, still looking properly distraught, was resting her face on the shoulder of Chip Brodnax, the tall young man who was portraying Robin. His back was to me, so I had a good view of Meredith's face. As I watched, I saw her expression change to one of intense speculation. She was staring into the distance, unaware that anyone was observing her. As if she'd turned to me and spoken her thoughts out loud, I could tell that she was wondering if she had a chance of replacing Celia in the main role.

  This was depressing. If anyone in this crowd (besides possibly Robin) was simply grieving for Celia Shaw, I could see no sign of it.

  "Let's us go," I suggested to Angel.

  "Won't the police get us?"

  "I have a feeling I can get around that."

  I made my way through the crowd to Arthur, who was issuing instructions to three other cops. I waited until he'd finished speaking, and as soon as they scattered to do his bidding, I knew he would turn to me.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

  "Can Angel and I go home?"

  "Will you stay at your house until I come later? Will you not talk to anyone else?"

  "I promise."

  "Okay, then. You and Angel can go."

  "Thanks." I tried to dredge up a smile for him, but I couldn't.

  I trudged back to Angel and gave her the thumbs-up. We made our way to my car and climbed back in. Though it was only nine o'clock, it seemed like a lifetime since we'd gotten to the set. The day was getting hotter by the minute. The car was stuffy. The streets around the movie site were almost chaotic; I had never in my life seen traffic this disordered in Lawrenceton. I figured all the police had been grabbed off traffic control and shifted to the murder scene. It wouldn't take the news crews long to get there, especially with all the busy cell phones on the set. I was willing to bet CNN already knew about it, had maybe aired a bulletin, if Celia rated that high.

  I decided not to turn on the radio. I didn't want to hear anything about the murder, I didn't want to listen to any music, I didn't want to know the weather report. I just wanted to get out of here. With Angel helping me avoid cars and people, all going places they shouldn't go, I finally drove out of the area. I made a huge effort to obey every traffic rule. I was so grateful to Arthur for letting us leave, I was determined to be no trouble at all.

  Once I got away from the town center, traffic thinned out dramatically. I took the county highway that led northeast out of town, past the very nice suburb where my mother and her husband live. My house is about a mile out of town, on a road that turns into farms pretty much right after it leaves the city limits.

  The house waited for me, silent and dim, perfectly clean.

  Angel hadn't been out to the house in a while. She looked around, a curious expression on her narrow face. She moved down the hall with her quiet grace, looking from side to side like a cat exploring unfamiliar territory.

  "Geez," she said finally, "I want to kick the walls just to make a scuff mark. How can you live like this?"

  "I don't know how to live any other way," I said. And it was the first time that way struck me as odd. I stood in the middle of the long hall that runs from the front door and past the stairs down to a closet door, looked to the left into the formal living room, and I felt weirdly isolated. I stood, in my orange knit dress, feeling the coolness of the house, the shadows cast by the bright morning sun streaming in the windows, the sudden lack of contrast when clouds floated across the sun. I felt time passing.

  "Do you ever have company?" she asked.

  "No. At least, very seldom. But you know," I said, pondering this idea through, "that's not actually my fault. People don't come to see me. Even when I say, ‘Come by and see me,' they don't."

  "You need to move back into town," Angel said, her voice flat and definite.

  I gaped at her. "Like that would be easy! Like moving isn't incredibly stressful!"

  She cocked her head, her blond braid trailing to one side.

  "Is living like this relaxing? This place is a tomb."

  I stared at her, shocked.

  She was absolutely right.

  It was the second revelatory moment I'd had in two days.

  "I would help," she offered. "I could bring Joan's playpen and set it up, and she'd be good for a while."

  "But this house," I said, feeling my tears spring up. "I was so happy here. Martin bought it for me."

  "You think Martin would like you being here by yourself? You think Martin would ever live in a place this... dead?"

  That cut me to the quick. Martin had surrounded himself with energy, with projects, with life. I felt instantly that I had failed him, yet again.

  "You didn't die with Martin," Angel said brutally.

  I gasped in surprise at the way her thought chimed in on what I was thinking. "This house has so many memories," I said feebly.

  "You have the memories inside you. This house is stifling you. It's too big, it's out of the way, and it's... unwelcoming."

  "Enough," I said.

  Wisely, Angel did keep silent. We went to the kitchen, and I got out two glasses and filled them with ice while Angel got the pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator. Angel poured, and I put a package of Sweet ‘N Low in mine.

  In a desperate way, it hurt to even consider leaving this house. I had sure had enough hurting. But, with very little inner debate, I found I was thinking that Angel was right.

  To effect such a change seemed incredibly daunting. I began to break it down into steps.

  I would have to find a house in town. That would be easy, with a mother in real estate.

  I'd have to have everything in this house packed and ready to move. I could afford to have that done for me.

  I would have to sell this house. Well, part of keeping the house perfect was having its contents pared down to the minimum. This house was ready to show, as it was. With all the improvements I'd made, I had no doubt it would find a buyer sooner or later.

  I'd have to pay someone to move all the furniture and boxes to the new house. So, the biggest exertion would be unpacking in the new house.

  When I'd first met Angel and Shelby, they'd been hired by Martin to help bring this house to renovated life. They'd helped make the move into the house as smooth and painless as such a major upheaval could be. Now, Angel was offering to help me move out of the house. Somehow, tying the two events together made me cry. In the past year, I'd become used to sudden outbreaks of tears, but it startled Angel. I had to wave a reassuring hand at her, to let her know I was going to be all right. She eyed me doubtfully, but she relaxed when she realized she didn't have to figure out how to comfort me.
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  She indicated the phone and raised her eyebrows, and I nodded. Shelby now had his own office at Pan-Am Agra, and she was busy relating the events of the morning to him as I strolled out of the room and across the hall into the den to get a Kleenex. I kicked off my sandals, put my ice-tinkling glass on the small table by my current book. I folded my legs under me as I settled in the large leather armchair that had been Martin's favorite. I hadn't slept well the night before, and the day so far had been exhausting. When the air-conditioning came on again, with its relaxing drone, it seemed only natural to lay my head against the wing of the chair and close my eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  There was a hand holding mine. It felt comfortable; long, thin, fingers twined through my short ones. I opened my eyes to see Robin in front of me, sitting on the ottoman that matched the chair.

  "Was I snoring?" I asked.

  "No, actually. Just sitting there like you were resting your eyes for a minute."

  I pushed my glasses up with one finger. "Where's An-gel?"

  "She's out spraying a wasp nest. What an energetic woman. If I were left alone in this house, I'd head for the bookshelves." The shelves I'd had put in all up and down the hall were my favorite feature, too.

  "Angel's not much one for reading," I said. "You're welcome to go to the shelves if you want. How come you're here? I'm glad you are," I added hastily, not wanting to be rude, "but I'm kind of surprised Arthur let you come."

  "Luckily for me, I had an alibi for this morning."

  "Oh?"

  "First, I ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant at the same time as at least ten other people. It's quite the local watering hole, huh? Then, I was on the phone with my agent for thirty minutes. We were talking about this film, and the contract for my next two books. Then, after I got to the set, Joel grabbed me to discuss some dialogue changes. So I think I'm pretty well covered."

  "That's lucky for you. So Arthur said you could come out here?"

  "No, I just came out here on my own." There was a pause, not an uncomfortable one.

  "Angel was telling me I should move," I said.

  "How do you feel about that?"

  "I was thinking I was staying here because I had been happy here." I was still a little simple from my nap.

  "And now you think?"

  "I think Angel is maybe right." I wiggled straight in the chair, untwisted my legs. I was too old to fall asleep in such a position without paying a penalty. "I loved this house the moment I saw it, and I've loved living in it. And I've spent a mint on it. But now it just feels... empty." I made a face. "Like I'm not even here any more."

  "Would you live somewhere else?"

  "You mean, leave Lawrenceton?" I'd wondered what would happen if Martin got transferred, so this wasn't a new idea. "Not likely. Not if I don't have to."

  "So you'd look for another house in town?"

  "Yes." Come to think of it, it was true that I could live anywhere in the world I wanted. I could live in England. I could travel to Italy. But that idea of moving out of my normal orbit scared the heck out of me. I was okay, right here in Lawrenceton. I knew who I was, here. And the time might be coming when my mother would need me; she never had, but it was always possible.

  I'd always had the feeling I was a frill, rather than a necessity, for my mother.

  Robin was looking thoughtful, but not as traumatized as I'd expected.

  "Do you feel very bad?" I asked, trying to keep my voice small and level. After all, his former companion had just been murdered, and she'd spent the night with someone else before that, to boot. A punch in the stomach and a kick in the privates, all at the same time.

  "I don't feel like you'd think," Robin said ambiguously. He took his hand back and raked it through his hair, which was long enough to get seriously rumpled.

  "Oh? And how would I think you'd feel?"

  "You'd think I'd feel like you did when you lost Martin."

  "No, I wouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I really loved Martin, and you didn't love Celia." And then I closed my eyes and put my hand over my mouth, because I never should have said that.

  Robin didn't speak, and I opened my eyes just a sliver to take a peek at his face. He looked sad. He didn't look heartbroken.

  "I guess not," he said, looking down at his hands, dangling between his knees. "It was great for a while, but the last few months, I've been feeling like she was keeping secrets from me."

  "Secrets? What kind?"

  Robin raised his eyebrows at me so I'd elaborate.

  "Like ... an ‘I'm pregnant' kind of secret, or an ‘I know who stole the nuclear warhead,' or ‘I was witness to a mob rubout'?"

  Robin almost smiled. "I think it was more in the personal category."

  "Did you notice anything different about her?"

  "Yes," he said, as though he'd just realized that. "Yes, there was a lot different about her. Sometimes she seemed like she was staring into space, not even in the same dimension. Sometimes she'd fall."

  I remembered seeing Celia stumble in the parking lot of Great Day.

  "It was like she wasn't always in control of her own body. I suspected she was using drugs, for a while, but I'd never seen a recreational drug affect anyone quite like that. And I never saw her using, never."

  Her hand flying out to graze Joel's cheek, her horrified face...

  "So maybe she was ill. Maybe she did die of some natural cause?" That would be great for those of us among the living. Though it sure hadn't looked natural to me. Could she have had some kind of fit?

  "The police don't think so. But maybe they just have to act like it's a homicide, until they know different."

  "Did you tell Arthur all this that we've talked about?"

  "No, he was more interested in establishing where I'd been all morning. He did tell me he wanted to talk to me again later, not to leave town. As if I would."

  I sat forward in my chair, preparatory to getting up to head to the bathroom. Not only did I need the facilities, I needed to rinse out my mouth and brush my hair. I had that sticky feeling I always get when I fall asleep in the daytime.

  "Go pour yourself some tea," I said. "I have to excuse myself for a minute." The downstairs bathroom didn't have a window, so I had to switch on the light to examine myself. I looked exactly like I'd just woken from a nap: rumpled hair, smudged makeup, sticky mouth. Yuck. I cleaned up, polished my glasses, and felt much more alert when I joined Robin in the kitchen. Angel had come in, and the two were in conversation about Angel's previous movie experiences and Robin's loathing of Hollywood.

  "I thought you loved it out there," I said, surprised.

  "I did at first," he admitted. "I liked being somebody to people I thought were important. I liked being a noteworthy person. Writers don't get that too much, even in Hollywood, where you'd think they'd be revered. Those beautiful faces have to have words to say, after all. When I first arrived out there, I had a desirable property—my unfinished book—that several studios wanted. At first a really famous actress had an option on it. She wanted to play you." He grimaced, an expression I really couldn't interpret. "But then she went into rehab, and the option lapsed, and enthusiasm was cooling. The book actually came out, hit the best-seller list for a month, and interest built back up. A studio optioned it for one of its up-and-coming boy actors. They were going to beef up the role of Phillip."

  Phillip, my half-brother, had been staying with me when the murderer was arrested.

  "Go on," I said.

  Robin looked weary, but he did offer me a little smile. "Then the boy wonder backed out because he got a chance to do the new musical version of Treasure Island, and he wanted some stage credentials. In the meantime, the book went off the best-seller list, naturally. So, after all the hills and valleys, this production company optioned it for a made-for-cable miniseries, and hired Celia for it a few months before she won the Emmy."

  "Was that when you met her?"

  "Yes,"
he said, and wiped a big hand across his eyes. "That was when I met her."

  "I'm sorry," Angel said. I nodded.

  "Like I said," Robin told us, visibly pulling himself together, "it was really over. There was a lot to admire in Celia, a lot of talent, but she also had a full measure of the selfishness actresses sometimes have. And there was definitely something going on with her these past few weeks."

  "Someone coming," Angel said.

  Then I heard the crunch of the gravel as a car made its way up the driveway.

  Arthur was here, as he'd said earlier. I sighed. I just couldn't help it. I wondered how Lynn, his ex, was doing, raising their little girl. I'd heard Arthur took the child every chance he got, but still...

  By the time Arthur knocked on the front door, Angel was making some coffee and I'd put some cookies on a plate. It was my attempt to soften the edges of an official visit. It didn't work, of course. Arthur was glad of the coffee, turned down a cookie with a pat of his waistline to explain the refusal, and got immediately down to business.

  Angel and I went over our morning in detail, including approximate times and whom we'd seen and when we'd seen them. Arthur was particularly interested in my account of who I'd noticed at Celia's trailer door, but I pointed out that I hadn't been watching every second, and I'd only observed the door for maybe ten minutes. You had to figure that the murder had happened after Will, Mark, and the unknown woman (Arthur thought she must be a sort of sub-assistant director named Sarah Feathers) had spoken to Celia. That would have been while Angel and I were talking to Carolina.

  "That Tracy girl who works for Molly's Moveable Feasts had as good a view of the door as I did, and for far longer," I said.

  "Yeah, but her attention was constantly distracted by people coming up and wanting juice, coffee, a pastry, to pass the time of day ..."

  I nodded. I could believe that.

  Arthur wrote everything down and asked me and Angel a million questions. Robin sat silently and listened. Just when I thought we must be through, he said, "Do you live out here alone, Roe?"