The plates and silverware lie neatly placed just as they had been before I’d left, but a few of the wine goblets are overturned and several are missing, as if the guests had taken them as they ran. I am approaching the table, heading for the doorway into the main hall, when I hear the first moan and rustle of movement.
Low and husky, I can’t distinguish whether it is a male or female groaning, but I freeze, listening. Have I imagined it? No. Someone is breathing hard, panting—struggling, it sounds like. Soft mewling sounds, a cry, and this time there is no doubt. A woman is lying hurt under the dining room table.
I duck down, my headache intensifying, and pull back the long white tablecloth. There is no way to prepare myself for what I see. I stop, rooted to the spot, telling my hand to release the cloth and run away, but I can’t move. I am watching a train wreck in progress. Zoe’s actress friend, Diane, is lying prone on the floor, gasping, eyes closed, grimacing, her mouth opening and closing as she emits the low keening sound that first alerted me. Sitting astride her, naked from the waist down with his nether part obviously implanted, is Andrea’s husband, Mark.
“Oh, my God!” I gasp, unable to stop myself.
Mark turns his head in slow motion; eyes dazed and glassy, startled at the intrusion. He tries to remove himself from Diane, but she stops him, clutching at his waist and grinding her pelvis against him.
“Not yet!” she whispers. “I’m almost there!” She glares at me. “Go away!”
“Let me go!” Mark cries, his voice slurring slightly. Panic is etched all over his face.
“Oh, God!” I drop the starched linen, feeling sick, and back away from the table. I lurch toward the doorway and step out into the hall just as Andrea comes flying toward me.
“I can’t find Mark,” she cries. “Is he still in the dining room? I was in the restroom when I heard the first shot. Jeremy said someone was shooting into the house!”
She makes a move to push past me and I stop her.
“No! He’s not in there! You can’t go in there—the gunman might still be outside. I came in from the patio. There’s no one left in the dining room.” The lies come fast and furious and I can’t seem to stop them. “I think I saw him outside. He was directing the police. Let’s go into the living room and wait for them.”
Andrea turns to come with me, the anxiety for her slimeball husband clearly shaking her normal composure. The sound of a door opening behind us stops her. Mark lurches out into the hallway. His hair is tousled. A shirt button is missing. His trousers are horribly wrinkled. Still, I think he might pass himself off as having pursued the gunman into the night until I see his lips are smeared bright red from Diane’s lipstick. A thin trickle of blood is running down his neck from a bite to his lower right earlobe and below that is an angry purple passion mark.
Andrea’s face pales as she stands there studying her husband. It feels like an eternity but is, in all actuality, only a moment. The hurt in her eyes is palpable. Her gaze moves to me, branding me a betrayer as well, before looking at Mark for one final moment. Her body stiffens as she draws herself up, ramrod straight, and then spins on her heel to walk away from us.
“Oh, shit!” Mark mutters. “Oh, God! Andrea, baby, wait!”
She stops, spins on her heel and turns, her face a frozen, unreadable mask as she stands waiting for Mark to say something, anything that will undo this horrible pain.
He stops, perhaps knowing that approaching his wife will break the very thin thread that holds her there. “Andrea, I…”
But the door to the dining room opens again and this time Diane is standing there framed in the dim glow from the candlelight. Her long, blond hair hangs in messy waves that crowd her face and the skin around her eyes is rimmed with smudged mascara. She isn’t even attempting to hide what has happened beneath the table. Instead, she flaunts it, giving Andrea a triumphant little smirk and slowly letting her fingers slide toward the ripped bodice of her black satin dress.
But Andrea is gone, vanishing around a corner, her heels clacking against the terrazzo tile floor.
“I need another glass of wine,” Diane says, her voice a whining, childish plea. “Go get me one, would you, sugar?”
“Fuck you,” Mark says, but his voice sounds dead and lacks conviction.
“Why, honey, I believe we’ve already covered that territory,” she purrs. “Now I want a drink.” She moves past us to follow Andrea down the chilly corridor.
Mark’s shoulders slump as he stands staring after her. He’s aged ten years in the past few minutes, but I don’t feel sorry for him. Instead, I move away from the man and head toward the others, at the front of the house.
Scott, Dave, Sam and two uniformed police officers have just arrived, and the others—Jeremy, Zoe, Diane and Andrea—have turned their attention to the men.
“Did you catch the bugger?” Jeremy asks casually. He seems to have sobered up some and there is no longer a powder ring around his nose.
Sam frowns. “No. I don’t know how the guy does it. We were running along the cliff, almost on him, when he just disappeared.”
The police officers are clearly impressed by their surroundings so it takes them a minute to fall back into their professional demeanor and begin to ask Scott and Dave questions. I see Sam’s attention hone in on Andrea as he notes the flush that creeps down her neck and across her chest, takes in the reddened eyes, the dark pupils, the hum of agitation that makes her appear barely able to stand still.
He searches the room slowly, inspects Zoe and Diane standing next to her, whispering in the redhead’s ear and giggling softly, moves on, noting me, meeting my gaze, then shifting as Mark slowly walks to stand at the edge of the great room, the outsider.
I watch Sam put it together, note what little time it takes him to get the full picture, and realize this is probably nothing new to him. I reflect back on the adoring look Mark had given Andrea earlier and wonder if I was completely wrong about him. I’d assumed he loved Andrea. But to slide beneath the dining room table and stay there, even when bullets start flying, just to take advantage of a cheap lay? That didn’t make any sense to me, and I had to know what caused a seemingly faithful husband to act so out of character from his normal behavior.
My head aches horribly and I work really hard to concentrate on Scott’s story. I squint a little, trying to bring the small group of men into focus, and realize that I’m seeing one and a half of everyone. What in the hell hit me out there? Who hit me?
“The security sensors on the west side of the property alerted us to an intruder at 7:36,” Scott says. “We released the dogs, trained the infrared cameras on that sector, and responded to the area.”
One of the officers, a clean-cut, young guy about my age, looks up from his notepad. “Did you get a good look at the guy?” he asks.
Scott shakes his head and exchanges a quick look with Dave. “We thought we had him, but the bastard’s slippery. He just vanished.”
Across the room, I hear Zoe gasp slightly and her face seems to grow even paler than it already is.
“Perhaps it wasn’t a human being,” she murmurs. “There are many who are not of this world yet walk amongst us.”
Diane is nodding her head vigorously, her expression almost worshipful as she stares up at Zoe. “Of course,” she says. “It is the season.”
Sam ignores them and moves so that he’s blocking the cops’ view of the two women. “I saw him run across the lawn. I’d say he’s a little under six feet tall, thin, and he was wearing a black outfit with a hood, maybe a wet suit. If he came in from the ocean side of the property, a wet suit would make sense.”
The other cop shakes his head and frowns. He’s older than his partner, who I guess is maybe my age. He’s maybe in his late 30s and he looks like he has the attitude cops get after a few years on the street. Everybody is guilty until proven innocent.
“How would the guy get a high-powered rifle in if he swam in from the ocean?”
Sam shrug
s. “I don’t see how the guy got in at all.”
“Yeah,” Dave adds. “One minute the guy’s on the west sector, the next he’s shooting out windows on the east side of the house. That’s impossible.”
“Maybe there was more than one,” the young cop says.
“Reymundo,” I hear Zoe whisper to Diane.
“Who’s Ray?” I ask, coming up behind her.
Zoe turns and gives me this hollow-eyed stare. Her pupils are pinpoints and I know she’s flying high on cocaine.
“He is a spirit warrior in the Compali religion,” she says, like this makes sense to me and she is not a complete head case. “The Book says that Reymundo comes on the wind to lessen the pain of his earthly followers.”
Diane is still giving the nut this adoring look, like maybe she’s a goddess instead of a complete whack job, and I have the urge to tromp on her fat little foot with the sharp heel of my stiletto Prada. Surely Zoe doesn’t believe some spirit warrior is shooting out the windows of Jeremy’s dining room in an attempt to relieve pain and suffering!
“So, what?” I say to Zoe. “You think some spirit guy drops down onto Jeremy’s lawn in a wet suit with a rifle so he can bring us to a higher astral plane?”
“Our earthly bodies are mere manifestations of our benign existence in this time and space. The earth is a depot and we are but passengers waiting for our transportation to a better place.”
I want to roll my eyes and tell her what a fool she sounds like, but I can’t. “Well, if the goal is to reduce our suffering, why did he hit me on the back of the head?”
I must’ve said this a little too loudly because Sam picks up on it. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
Before I can answer him, I feel this little gyroscope start in my head, spinning the room around on a crazy axis. I don’t know if it’s my reaction to the cowboy or the hit I took outside, but it makes focusing on Sam’s face even more difficult.
“I’m fine now,” I say. “I went outside after you did and somebody clobbered me. I guess he knocked me out for a few seconds. When I came to and tried to go back inside, the idiot started shooting at me.”
Now I have everyone’s attention. Like a flock of geese they walk toward the spot where I’m standing with Zoe and Diane, and I see a fuzzy crowd approaching me. I almost start laughing because they all seem to have three eyes and their bodies waver and take on the swimmy qualities of a mirage seen through the desert heat.
“Lovey,” I hear Jeremy say from somewhere just behind my left shoulder. “Where did he hit you? Here?”
I shriek as his fingers touch the back of my head and jump forward, almost bumping into Sam, who stares at me with dark concern in all three eyes.
“How soon after I left did you start to follow me?” Sam asks.
“I guess I waited about a minute and then I got curious.”
The older cop steps in and asks, “Where were you when you were hit?”
“I was right by the pool, I think.”
“And when you came to, the guy started shooting at you? Wonder why he didn’t just shoot you when you were down?” the younger cop says.
Jeremy tries to touch my head again and I turn on him. “Listen, touch me again and so help me I’ll…”
“What, lovey?” he asks. “Sic your ferret on me? I’m only trying to see if you’re badly injured. We might need to call a doctor or something.”
“I’m fine!” I say, but my head is hurting so badly now I think I might throw up.
“Close your eyes, balance on one foot and touch your nose with your left index finger,” the young cop instructs.
“I’m not drunk and even if I were, I’m not driving!” I snap. I think he wants to give me a field sobriety test and this seems completely ridiculous.
Sam is peering intently into my eyes. “Got a flashlight?” he asks the older cop. When the man says he doesn’t have one, Sam places one finger under my chin and tilts my head up toward an overhead light.
“Nah, her pupils are equal and reactive,” he says. “It’s not a skull fracture, but I’m betting she has a concussion.”
“Will you guys knock it off?” I say, backing away from them. “I told you I’m fine. Can we get back to business here?”
“We’re just trying to make sure you’re all right,” Sam says, his voice is taking on a patronizing tone. “I think you were out longer than just a few seconds.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter how long it was. I’m fine.” I look up and see that Mark is still leaning against the doorway at the edge of the great room watching Andrea, who is making a great show out of watching all of us. I’d left the dining room thinking that everyone was drunk or high or both, and returned to find the room empty except for Mark and Diane. What had happened inside while I was outside?
The Santa Jacinta police are very thorough. They quiz Sam, Scott and Dave in great detail about their movements, their perceptions of the intruder’s invasion and the timeline of events. After this they begin asking questions of everyone else who’d been inside the house when the shooting started.
“Well, I wasn’t actually in the dining room when the shooting started,” Jeremy says. “I was showing Zoe a piece of artwork I’d purchased in Thailand. We were in my study.”
I’m sure the “artwork” Jeremy is referring to is another line of cocaine.
When it’s Andrea’s turn she looks straight ahead at the cops, ignoring the rest of us as she answers their question.
“No, I wasn’t there, either. I’m afraid I felt sick and went to the restroom to splash water on my face.”
I figure this is code for “My husband was drunk and flirting so blatantly with another woman that it made me sick. I left the room rather than let him rub my face in his betrayal.”
Mark colors as she says this. He tells the two officers that when the first bullet hit the window, he ducked down under the table with Diane and that the two of them stayed there until they heard the sirens and felt they were safe to leave the room.
Diane giggles and pokes Zoe. When the cops ask Diane if she saw anything she gives the young cop a big smile, pauses, probably waiting to insure that everyone is listening, and then answers in a loud, clear voice.
“My eyes were closed,” she says. “Mark was shielding me with his body.” She lets her gaze wander the room until she locks eyes with Andrea. “He did such a good job that I just about forgot all about the danger.”
Andrea stands there, locking eyes with Diane, two high spots of color darkening her cheekbones as she refuses to let Diane goad her into responding. She just stares at her, looking like a queen without a crown, until at last Diane looks away. Only then does Andrea allow herself to turn and leave the room.
I can’t stand it. I go after her, only I don’t know what I’ll do when I find her because I know she hates me for lying to her about Mark. But I can’t stand to see her hurting and alone. I cross the room and start down the hallway, remembering the pained look in her eyes when Mark stepped out of the dining room, followed by Diane. It was the look of an animal, trapped in the jaws of a hunter’s trap, innocent and unsuspecting, trusting until betrayed and overwhelmed by the grief and loss of the world as it had been and would never be again.
Andrea is walking swiftly down the driveway, rounding the house and heading for a dark green Jaguar parked in front of the five-car garage.
“Andrea, please, wait!” I call. I am not surprised when she ignores me.
I reach her just as she is opening the driver’s side door. When I grab her forearm she turns on me, eyes flashing, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Leave me alone!” she snaps.
“Andrea, I didn’t know what to do. When I saw them I…and then you were there and I didn’t…”
“You should’ve been honest,” she says. “I knew that woman was throwing herself at him. He was lapping it up and I was disgusted. That’s why I left the room, but when the shooting started, I had to know he was all right. He is my husband afte
r all. I didn’t think he’d take it that far with her, but I guess I was wrong.”
Her voice trails to a stop and she stares at a spot on the car door, as if she’s watching something other than green metallic paint.
“He’d had too much to drink,” I say.
Andrea snorts. “As if that excuses it! If your husband did that to you, would you feel better knowing he was drunk at the time?”
Of course not, I think, and feel so sorry for her. “No,” I say softly.
“We go out five nights a week. It’s Mark’s job. Sometimes he goes out without me, entertaining clients, wooing important deal-makers, and I have never questioned his devotion to me. Then, tonight, he throws it in my face. He’s slobbering all over that two-bit whore and doesn’t even care I’m in the room, across the table from them!”
“Why didn’t you kick his ass, or hers?” I ask. “I would’ve grabbed him by the hair, said ‘You’re drunk!’ and then hauled him out the door. Maybe I would’ve kicked her ass first.”
Andrea starts to sob softly and without thinking, I pull her close and wrap my arms around her. I stand there, letting her cry it out, and wondering how in the world something so wonderful and solid just falls to shit in a single moment.
The sky is brilliant with stars. The ocean is pounding against the rocky shore below the house and the air smells of frangipani and gardenias. But Jeremy’s beautiful estate is no different than Andrea’s marriage, a lovely illusion that seems to be crumbling as I watch.
“Come on,” I say, dragging her away from the car and across the lawn to my guest house. “Let’s go have a hot cup of tea and talk about this. It’ll make you feel better and then we can make a plan. You’re in no state to drive anyway.”
My voice has taken on the sing-song, falsely cheerful quality that sounds ridiculously stupid to me, but I can’t help myself, it’s just what comes bubbling out. Andrea starts to say no, but I ignore her. I don’t for a minute believe that a hot cup of tea will erase the horrible events of the evening, but I’m on autopilot, remembering the times when my nanny would say those same words to me. Sometimes it did make the world look a little brighter and it certainly couldn’t make things worse.
Lethally Blonde Page 7
