After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  Cassie! Oh, Jesus.

  He should have called her again or flown down to LA after her! His heart was thudding. Whatever had propelled Carter here, it couldn’t be good. As far as Trent could remember, Shane Carter had never stepped foot on his property except in times of trouble.

  Mind-numbing images rolled through his head—Cassie in a plane crash, Cassie in an automobile accident, Cassie in a mental hospital being restrained, Cassie in the clutches of a madman or . . . damn it all to hell, Cassie on a slab in the morgue.

  When Trent had been a wild-ass teenager, Carter had come onto this ranch to arrest him. Later Trent had shown interest in Cassie. Carter had again come knocking, this time to warn him to be careful with his frail stepdaughter, and when he and Cassie had announced they’d eloped, Carter had driven to this place and glared at Trent as if he’d like to shoot him where he stood while his wife, Jenna, had tried not to crumble at her husband’s side. That time Cassie had squared off with her family, reminding them that marrying Trent had been her decision and they could butt out of her life.

  But there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Trent and Carter.

  Now he threw the pickup into park, yanked the keys from the ignition, and was out of the truck practically before the engine stopped running.

  “Hey!” he called, Hud bounding ahead of him.

  Carter wore a black Stetson and a long coat. He’d turned at the sound of Trent’s truck’s engine and was already waiting for him.

  “What’s going on?” Trent asked, his jaw so tight it ached. “Is it Cassie? Is she okay?”

  “Far as I know.”

  Trent felt instant relief.

  Hud, wiggling his butt, sidled up to Carter, a virtual stranger. Some guard dog.

  Shane bent down to scratch the shepherd who was wriggling at his feet, as if they were long-lost friends.

  “Allie?”

  A shake of Carter’s head. “Heard nothing.”

  “What the hell, then?”

  “It’s killing Jenna.” Carter straightened as the dog trotted toward the porch and his water bowl.

  A few more lines than Trent remembered were etched across the older man’s forehead and the crow’s-feet fanning from his eyes were deeper. Unspoken accusations lingered in his eyes, questions concerning Trent and his involvement with Jenna’s youngest daughter, but he didn’t voice them. Trent didn’t offer up any apologies or explanations about Allie.

  “Good to see ya,” Carter said a bit grimly, extending a hand.

  Trent shook it. “You too.” Courtesy. But a lie. He dropped Carter’s hand.

  “Just wonderin’ if you’d heard from Cass, but obviously you haven’t.”

  “I phoned her. Left a message.”

  “She hasn’t called you back?”

  Trent shook his head and studied his stepfather-in-law for a second. Then he, too, looked at the broodmares. A small herd of seven, three bays, two chestnuts, a paint, and a Kiger mustang. All were heavy-bellied, due to foal soon.

  “She didn’t get hold of Jenna?” Trent asked, his insides tensing as he considered the possibilities. Was Cassie in some kind of trouble? But Carter had just said she was “fine” as far as he knew.

  “She did. Called last night.”

  Trent relaxed a little, but didn’t understand why Carter was here.

  “Jenna wanted you to know, didn’t want you to worry. In case you hadn’t heard from her.” A sidelong glance.

  “Thanks.” But there was more. Trent sensed it as surely as he knew that rain would pour from the heavens before nightfall.

  “She’s coming back. Probably tomorrow.”

  So there it was, the reason for the visit. Next, he expected, would come the warning to back off again. Judging from Carter’s attitude it would be couched in a bit of family concern, not quite as harsh as it might have been, but he’d be told to “stay away.” Probably for the sake of Cassie’s emotional and mental state.

  However it turned out Shane was through. “Jenna wanted me to thank you. She was busy with the local theater today, but she’ll try to give you a call. If we hear anything else, we’ll let ya know.” He hitched his chin toward Trent’s small herd of mares. “Good lookin’ horses,” he said, thumping a fencepost with his fist before heading to his Jeep.

  Helluva thing, now that his marriage was nearly over, his wife’s family was treating him with some kind of guarded respect. Son of a bitch.

  As Carter drove away, Trent’s thoughts turned to Cassie. It pissed him off that she didn’t have the decency to return his phone calls. Carter had said she was returning to Oregon in the next couple of days.

  Trent wasn’t about to wait.

  Shorty would see to his place and the livestock. He’d make sure of it just as soon as he booked the first available flight to LA.

  Striding to the house, he pulled his cell from his pocket, punched out Shorty’s number and glanced at the sky just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

  Enough with the unanswered phone calls and texts.

  He was going to see his wife face-to-face.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  The day had been a bust.

  Cassie had driven all over LA and beyond, adding another hundred or so miles to her odometer but getting nowhere. No one had been available to talk to her, no one had returned her calls. She’d spun her wheels trying to get answers and had come home with the feeling that she was some kind of pariah. She’d left voice and text messages with anyone she could think of who might know something about Allie, and in the end she’d only connected with Sig Masters, who had actually pulled the trigger and shot Lucinda. He had refused to meet with Cassie. On the phone, he’d sounded freaked beyond freaked.

  “For the love of God, Cassie, I can’t talk!” She’d heard the click of a lighter and the quick intake of breath as he’d lit a cigarette. She’d just filled her tank with gas and had pulled onto a side street, parking in the shade of a tall building, when she’d finally gotten through to him. “My lawyer has advised me that I shouldn’t say a word to anyone. Not to any of my friends or anyone I worked with on Dead Heat or the police or . . . oh, shit . . . every fuckin’ person on earth! It’s a nightmare, y’know. I didn’t mean to shoot Lucinda Rinaldi and I certainly didn’t mistake her for Allie Kramer, and I’m not a murderin’ bastard. I didn’t even know Allie. I’m sick of being hounded, y’know? No one will hire me, but the press . . . shit . . . they’re all over me. But . . . fuck it. Just leave me the hell alone.” He’d hung up abruptly.

  Rebuffed, Cassie had considered calling back, but figured she’d get nowhere. Instead she had stopped at her apartment, picked up her mail and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then headed to a fast-food restaurant where she grabbed an iced tea. After that she drove to the athletic club where Ineesha Sallinger worked out. Knowing that the prop manager was a gym rat who worked out two hours or so a day, often after work, she parked in the shade on the street with a view of the club’s front entrance. Then she settled down into the driver’s seat to wait.

  She spent the time on her phone accessing the Internet before sorting through the snail mail that had been left at her apartment. Most of what she had were bills, but there was one envelope she hadn’t spied earlier, this one hand-addressed. She opened it with a fingernail and found an invitation for the members of the cast of Dead Heat and the media to a party celebrating the premiere of the movie. The event was to be held at the Hotel Danvers in Portland, where several scenes of the film had been shot, and the party was hosted by Dean Arnette and Galactic West Productions. It was slated for the coming weekend—only a few days away—and an RSVP card was enclosed.

  As soon as she discovered the invitation she tried to RSVP by phone, but that didn’t work. She decided her first chance to talk to Arnette would probably be at the party and that was only if she could get him alone for a few minutes.

  It was weird to think that the party would be held despite the fact that the status of the star
was unknown. Cassie tossed the envelope aside and focused on the front entrance to the gym again.

  Two long hours later, she was rewarded when Ineesha’s classic Karmann Ghia pulled into the circular drive, and Ineesha, toting a gym bag, unfolded herself from behind the wheel of the red convertible. She dropped her keys into the hands of a waiting valet before disappearing through the front door.

  Cassie considered her options. Should she wait for Ineesha to exit in a few hours, or should she accost her during her workout? She opted for the latter.

  Climbing from her car, she then lingered until a group of three women were walking inside just as two couples exited through the wide doors. Fortunately only one desk clerk had been on duty and while the eighteen-year-old was distracted by someone with a problem with their key to the exclusive locker room, Cassie slipped past the desk and walked briskly inside. The interior was familiar, as she’d come here often when she’d been a member.

  She hurried past the entry to the pool, spa, and the locker room, then through a wide corridor flanked by glass walls and smaller rooms. One of the spaces housed a spinning class and another was filled with yoga mats and members attempting downward-facing dog poses.

  She didn’t spy Ineesha in any of the classes, which was good, but Cassie silently prayed that the prop manager wasn’t involved in a session with her private trainer. No. She needed to find Ineesha alone.

  She walked through an open area filled with exercise equipment. Muscle men were working out on the weights and various machines that looked as if they’d been designed for human torture. A group of women were clustered together in a private Pilates class while cyclists spun to the beat of frantic music.

  Cassie checked out all of the rowing machines and treadmills, eyeing earnest personal trainers working with clients and thinking she’d made a big mistake until she caught sight of her target. Ineesha Sallinger was sweating profusely on an elliptical machine. Perfect. Or as good as it could get.

  Hopping onto the machine next to her, Cassie caught the older woman’s eye and said, “Hi.”

  Ineesha glared at her. Lips pinched, eyes narrowed suspiciously, she said loudly, “I’m not talking to you.” Attached to her cell phone, thin, white cords hung from her ears as she pumped with her arms and legs. Her skin glistened and her hair, pulled into a ponytail, was separating from perspiration, her carefully matched yoga pants and T-shirt dripping. “I don’t know anything. How did you get in here anyway? This is a private club.”

  And one to which both she and Allie had once belonged. “I used to be a member.”

  “Used to be doesn’t cut it. Leave me alone or I’ll have you thrown out.” She focused on her monitor, which showed a steep hill. Gritting her teeth, she poked her earbud deeeper into the shell of her ear and turned her attention away from Cassie. “I’m not kidding. I’ll call security.”

  “I just want to know about the prop gun.”

  “You and the whole damned world. Including me.” Rather than keep shouting, Ineesha yanked out one of her ear buds.

  “Somehow it was exchanged.”

  Ineesha, struggling on the elliptical, shot her a no-shit-Sherlock look. “Duh.”

  “But you were in charge—”

  “Of the prop closet. Yeah, I know.” She kept on pumping. “God, don’t I know. But I have no idea how it happened, okay? I followed protocol. The cupboard was locked. I double checked. I always double check.”

  But she didn’t seem to be as sure.

  “Who else has a key?”

  “To the cupboard? No one . . . unless I specifically loan it to an assistant, but no, I didn’t that day.”

  “What about to the room?”

  “Several people in the department and the producers,” she said, thinking aloud and then caught herself up short. “Oh for the love of Jesus, why am I talking to you?” Her eyes were fierce. “My lawyer told me to say nothing to anyone without him, so this interview is O-V-E-R! I wasn’t kidding about calling security. I mean it, Cassie, leave me the hell alone!”

  “What about Sig?”

  “Masters? That moron? You think what? He exchanged the guns? Even he isn’t that stupid. He couldn’t switch batteries and get away with it, much less firearms.” Ineesha rolled her expressive eyes. “The man’s a twit. IQ of fourteen, I think. Well . . . okay, maybe he’s just dumb enough to exchange the weapon, real for fake, and shoot, almost kill Lucinda Rinaldi.” She snorted through her nose. “No, that doesn’t make a helluva lot of sense, but I suppose that’s not surprising, coming from you.” Breathing hard, she sent Cassie a pitying look. “Again, what is it you want from me?”

  “I’m just trying to find out what happened to my sister.”

  “Oh, save me. Like you care what happened to her! The way I heard it she was after your husband.” A little smirk.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “How many times do I have to say, ‘I don’t know’?” She grabbed her water bottle from a cup holder, twisted off the lid without breaking stride and took a long swallow. “Your sister didn’t show up that day, right? Have you ever wondered about that? Like maybe she knew something might happen?”

  Cassie didn’t reply. Of course she had.

  “Okay, so I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ ” She put the bottle back in its holder just as the landscape on her monitor flattened out again. “Look, this is over. I said more than I should. My lawyer told me not to talk to anyone and that includes you.” Visibly irritated, Ineesha turned off the machine, grabbed her water bottle and towel, and stalked toward the center area where there was a wide desk manned by several trainers and reception people.

  Rather than risking making a scene and being thrown out on her ear, Cassie, frustrated and discouraged, feeling as if she was getting nowhere, made her way between two rows of treadmills, some occupied by runners, others standing idle.

  She hadn’t learned much more than that Ineesha was definitely testy, but it was no use to try and stick around. Ineesha, if she did know something, wasn’t going to crack, and Cassie doubted if she did have any idea what had happened to Allie anyway.

  But while she was in LA, Cassie wanted to talk to as many people as possible, hopefully glean some information about Allie, and talking to Ineesha had seemed important. She had been in charge of the prop room and cupboard. And somewhere, despite “protocol,” the weapons had been exchanged. On Ineesha’s watch. No wonder she was so defensive. Did she know more than she was saying?

  Someone knew something. Cassie only hoped she could locate that someone who might eventually lead her to Allie.

  Unless she’s already dead.

  A chill raced down her spine and her thoughts started to turn down a desperate, painful path, but she fought the fear that it could be true and turned her thinking around. For now.

  She left the gym and headed home, parking near the bougainvillea hedge again. After stopping at the main house and picking up a new set of keys from Doug, she hauled her purse, mail, and a bag of fish tacos she’d picked up on her way home, to her apartment. As she was unlocking the door, her cell phone chimed with a text. The key stuck a little, then the lock twisted open.

  Hallelujah!

  Inside she dropped her things on the counter, then checked her messages.

  The first was from Brandon McNary:

  “I’m in LA. Heard you were in town. Looking for Allie. Thought we could combine forces to find her. Let’s talk over drinks.”

  “As if,” she said. Was it a little weird that Brandon was now back in Southern California? Of course not. He lived here, worked here, but still she found it a little unsettling that she’d seen him in Portland and now he was trying to contact her again in Los Angeles.

  But throwing in with Brandon seemed a bad idea. As much as she wanted to locate her sister, she didn’t think Brandon could help. She hit the delete button. Almost immediately she second-guessed herself. Brandon mig
ht be able to help. He had been close to Allie. But they’d already had that conversation. “Forget it,” she said after a moment of indecision, then scrolled to the next message from Laura Merrick:

  Have a cancellation. Call me.

  Really? After all her talk about being booked to eternity and back again? Nonetheless, Cassie immediately phoned her.

  Laura picked up on the third ring. “Can you believe it?” she said, and it was obvious she was angry, almost incensed. “This woman . . . she’s a client of one of my stylists. A real big deal around here and she . . . she has the gall to cancel the day before!” Acrimony was mingled with disgust in her voice. As Laura was a makeup artist to the stars, few people dared change an appointment once it was made. Even with one of her underlings. “Sorry . . . You said you needed a trim and you’ll still be in town tomorrow morning, is that right?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Well, can you come in at nine? I cannot tell you how pissed I am.”

  Before Laura could go off on another rant, Cassie said, “I’ll be there.”

  She rattled off the address and Cassie hung up. She had to start packing, figuring out what she was taking with her, how long she would stay. Her plans weren’t to live in Oregon, at least not permanently.

  Her life was down here.

  Or was it?

  As a writer, she could set up shop anywhere. With wireless connections and the Internet, she didn’t have to be in LA to be close to the industry, to do her job. She could keep this apartment another month or two, and maybe once Allie was found, Cassie would have more direction in her life. She hoped so. She packed one roller bag and left it by the front door, took a break by zapping the tacos for a few seconds in the microwave, then plopped onto a barstool at the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area.

  She’d just gingerly opened the wrap from around her first taco when her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It was her father. Great. Obviously he’d gotten the word that she was out of the hospital and in the area. She considered not answering, told herself she was a horrible daughter, and guilted herself into taking the call.