by Lisa Jackson
While Cassie ordered, Cherise, as if she’d been a waitress in another lifetime, dropped her phone and keys onto one of the tall chairs, grabbed three sugar packets from a counter, then bussed the trash away. Using a couple of napkins she wiped up spilled coffee and muttered about “lame, self-involved, entitled kids who should be in school,” before spying Cassie with the coffee. “Thanks!” She took the cup Cassie offered and then pulled some one-dollar bills from a pocket in her shorts as if intent on paying.
Cassie waved away the offered cash. “Next time’s on you.”
“You sure?” Before Cassie could respond, she tucked the cash away. “Thanks.” Cherise took the lid off her cup and blew across the hot brew, then started opening sugar packets and dumping them in. “I can’t quit thinking about Holly,” she whispered. “Who would do something so awful? And to her of all people? She was so sweet. It doesn’t make any sense.” Stirring the sugar, waiting for it to dissolve, she stared into her coffee as if she could find answers within the dark depths. “Why?”
“I wish I knew.”
A fussy-looking woman with pursed lips who had been in line behind Cassie passed by their table and shot Cherise a hard glare. “There are no cuts,” she hissed as if they were in an elementary school lunch line, before bustling importantly out of the shop on wedged sandals.
Cherise paid no attention to her.
The line of customers waiting to order waxed and waned while Cassie and Cherise sipped from their drinks and discussed Holly Dennison for a few minutes. Cassie was about to broach the subject of Allie when Cherise asked, “You’re going to the party for the premiere in Portland this weekend, right? It’s kind of a command performance, y’know. A big splash. Dean does it before the release of all of his pictures.”
“I haven’t thought too much about it. But, probably.” It might be her only opportunity to talk to Arnette and Little Bea.
“Yeah, me too. It’s too bad Allie won’t be there.” Her smile was pensive. “Maybe she’ll show up by then.”
“I wanted to talk to you about her.”
“That’s what Laura said. Have you heard from her?”
Cassie shook her head. “Not a word.”
She took another quick sip of her drink. “Me neither.”
“But you talked to her every day, you knew her schedule in and out. Was anything unusual going on?”
She half laughed. “There was no usual with Allie. Every day was an ‘experience.’ ” Her amusement faded. “But she was kind of acting strangely, y’know, kind of weird and freaky a day or two before. I mean it wasn’t a big deal, but she was off.”
“Off? How?”
“She was just a little . . . tenser than usual. Like edgy, I guess. I didn’t say anything to the police because it was nothing really. It certainly wasn’t anything that made me think something out of the ordinary was going on. Then again with Allie, what’s normal?” Her smile was feeble.
“What was she tense about?”
“I don’t know. The movie? Working with Brandon? They were like fire and ice, always running hot and cold. And I can tell you this, he misses her.” She looked quickly away, burying her nose into her cup and taking a swallow.
Cassie was skeptical of Brandon McNary caring about anything or anyone but himself and his own interests.
“I know, I know, he’s an egomaniac,” Cherise said, reading Cassie’s expression. “I felt like such a traitor going to work for him, but it’s really been good, I think. And I kind of see things from his perspective now.” She glanced out the window then added, “You know your sister wasn’t exactly easy to work for.”
“Yes.” If Brandon McNary was an egocentric male, Allie was his female counterpart. “Do you know if she was ever in Santa Fe, or if she knew or contacted someone who lived there?”
“Santa Fe?”
“Maybe in 2007?”
“I wasn’t working for her then.”
“But she might have talked about it?”
She rolled that around in her mind and scowled thoughtfully all the while slowly shaking her head. “Don’t know. Maybe? But geez, wouldn’t she have been a teenager and your mom have to give permission, or something?” After taking a final sip from her cup, she crumpled it in her fist. “I don’t remember her mentioning it, but she certainly didn’t tell me everything.” Cherise’s cell phone rang musically and she answered, then turned her head away for a little privacy. The conversation was one-sided. Cherise barely said a word but hung up and turned back to Cassie. “Sorry, duty calls.”
“Brandon?”
“Uh-huh.” She was standing, clearing the table of empty sugar packets and her cup. “So I’ve got to get going.”
“He’s in LA?” Cassie just wanted to confirm.
“Flew in late the night before last, I think.”
That jived.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “He’s not easy to work for, either, but the only other job offer I got was from Whitney Stone, and it didn’t pay as much. She’s working on some shows for a mystery week at a cable company. Even asked about Allie—not just what’s happening now, but what happened in the past, when your mother was stalked by that sicko up in Oregon.”
Cassie’s heart froze. “She told you that?”
“She mentioned it just this morning. Can you believe she called me at six thirty? Who does that? Like I would work for a woman that anal. And all of a sudden she has an interest in the nutjob who killed people who looked like Jenna Hughes.” Cherise gave a shudder.
Cassie’s vocal cords felt as if they’d seized up. She tried to respond, but there was no need as Cherise went on blithely, “All the buzz surrounding Dead Heat must’ve resurrected interest in your mom’s story. Whitney was trying to pick my brain, see if I knew anything, y’know, unique. If Allie had said anything to me. She acted like it was kind of a rush job, said something about already having the footage and wanting to air the program during mystery week. It was a little over the top, y’know. Not that tragedy hasn’t been used as a means to promote a program before.” She glanced at her phone and noted the time. “Look, if I think of anything, I’ll call ya,” Cherise promised, obviously in a hurry. “But don’t hold your breath.” With that she turned and racewalked to her car. She drove off with the same pedal-to-the-metal attitude that she’d come in with.
It was almost as if she’d met Cassie because of some kind of duty, like getting through a hated obligatory chore. Odd. But the bare fact of the matter was that as refreshing and energetic as Cherise was, Cassie didn’t trust her and felt Cherise might be holding back. Cassie swallowed cold coffee and replayed Cherise’s words. “Not that tragedy hasn’t been used as a means to promote a program before.” Or to promote a movie. Like Dead Heat.
The gears in her mind ground. Was it possible? Could some of the strange occurrences that had been happening be a means to create a buzz around the film? She was so lost in thought she nearly jumped when she heard someone clear his throat. Looking up, she realized that a twentysomething was hovering nearby, a cup of coffee in one hand, an iPad in his other, waiting for her table. Quickly, she picked up her trash and left the shop. It was after eleven by now and she wondered if, when she got home, Trent would still be waiting. A little jolt of anticipation filled her heart and she told herself she was being an idiot.
Again.
But then wasn’t she always about her husband? She figured it was a character flaw. One of far too many.
CHAPTER 19
As Trent waited in Cassie’s apartment, he figured he might be stood up.
Or, more likely, played for a fool.
It was a chance he’d decided to take.
He’d found breakfast and coffee at a deli six blocks away, returned his rental car, then taken a cab to the apartment to find that Cassie still wasn’t home. Her place was small and compact, three half-packed suitcases flung open on her bed, her closets virtually stripped, the bathroom nearly empty of products, the refrigerator not much more than
a bare lightbulb.
It did appear as if she were leaving, that she’d returned to LA to grab her things. And play private detective. Trent wondered about that, her quest to find her sister. Maybe it was natural but he doubted a would-be actress, sometime writer, recent mental hospital patient would have more luck finding out what had happened to Allie than the police with their manpower, sophisticated technology, and training. Allie and Cassie had always had a love/hate relationship, hate being the best-stated emotion recently.
He’d been the cause of that.
Hell, he’d been the cause of a lot of friction in Cassie’s life.
While he’d been at her place he’d snooped a little and didn’t feel all that bad about it. She was his wife, he rationalized, and she’d just walked out of a psychiatric wing. He hadn’t found much of interest except for the single keepsake from their wedding, a picture of the two of them in Las Vegas, the glass covering the photo broken, the frame placed facedown as if she hadn’t wanted a reminder.
But it hadn’t been in the trash.
Or missing.
Maybe that was a good, if slightly marred, sign.
He was just replacing the photo, standing it up, when he saw her pull into the parking area. Without her roller bag, she was out of the car and heading inside. He met her on the tiny porch.
“So you are still here” was her greeting.
“I missed you, too.”
She shot him a dark look. Obviously she wasn’t in the mood for levity. “Let’s go.” Passing through the living room, she spied the photograph, hesitated, then flipped it facedown again before storming into the bedroom.
He followed after her and watched as she opened drawers in her dresser and threw a few more sweaters and jeans into the open bags. Without looking up, she zipped up the first roller bag and said, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and help me take these out to the car?”
“Wrong side of bed?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What I meant to say was why don’t you please make yourself useful and take these out to the car.”
He chuckled. Her head shot up and it looked as if she might let loose again, but all she did was shake her head. “You’re just being a little intense,” he pointed out.
“I’m busy and . . . you know, it’s been kind of a bad day.” Then she stopped short. Her face fell and all of the bristly anger he’d witnessed melted into sadness. “Oh, God, you don’t know.”
“What?”
“Holly Dennison is dead,” she said and bit her lip. “Murdered.”
“What?” He thought he’d heard wrong.
“She was the set designer on Dead Heat.”
“I know who she is. You’ve worked with her before.” He was stunned. “Murdered?” he repeated, and the bad feeling that had been with him for the last few days intensified. “When did this happen?”
“Last night, I guess. I just found out a couple of hours ago from Laura Merrick.” Calmer, she told him what little she knew and all that Trent got out of it was that Holly was found last night in the Venice area.
“My God, Cass.”
“I saw her the other night and . . .” Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat, blinking rapidly.
“I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I, but I have to get back to Oregon. I’m sure the police will want to talk to me, but they can damned well do it up there. I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said suddenly.
“No, you’re not.” She gazed at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Already took back the rental and took a cab back. I’m good to go.”
“What? Why? Did you think you were staying here? With me?” She looked at him as if he were stark, raving mad.
“I came for you, Cass. I told you that.”
They stared at each other. He could almost see her calculating, trying to figure out how to ditch him again. But then she just made a sound of exasperation and said, “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here.”
With that she finished packing quickly and together they hauled the things she wanted to take with her to Oregon to her car. She locked the door of the apartment as he folded himself into the passenger seat and within ten minutes they were on the freeway, heading north.
Neither said a word.
Cassie wondered why she had ever agreed to let Trent ride with her to Oregon. It had been a mistake; she hadn’t been thinking, she’d just reacted. So here she was, hands gripped on the steering wheel as if she thought the car was going to run away from her, nerves strung tight as bowstrings, heading ever northward on the Five. They were out of Los Angeles, traffic on the freeway moving along at a good clip. The engine was purring, the wheels humming on the pavement, the scenery of Southern California flying by the windows, and Trent was way too close to her for comfort, his shoulder nearly touching hers, the familiar smell of him teasing her.
Big mistake.
“So, the way I figure it,” he said, “we’ve got fifteen hours or so to sort things out.” He slid a glance her way and her heart did a hard little flip. God, she was a moron where he was concerned. “Unless of course you’re a lead-foot. Then the trip will be shorter. We’ll have to work faster.”
“You mean about what happened to Holly and Allie.”
“You know what I mean.” He focused on the windshield again.
Her chest tightened. She wasn’t ready for this. He was too near and there was nowhere she could run or get away from him. “I don’t think I want to talk about us on a road trip.”
“No better time,” he said. “No distractions. No way to run away from each other. Just you and me and the miles rolling by.”
“Sounds like lyrics for a bad country song.”
He smiled faintly. “Isn’t that what we’ve been living?”
She winced. He was right. But the thought of hashing out all of their history right here in the warm car scared her a little. Too many emotions were involved, too much drama. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Got a better one?”
“Another time.”
“Nope.” He was firm. “I’m tired of living in limbo. Married, but not married. Having a wife who avoids me at all costs. Thinking I’ll be served with divorce papers at any inconvenient minute. It’s time to resolve this,” he said, turning to stare straight at her. “Either we stay married and try like hell to work things out, go to counseling, the whole nine yards, or we throw in the towel now. But we make a damned decision. Together.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if I wasn’t driving?”
“It’ll never happen.”
He had her there. No way would she have ever agreed to meet with him to talk things out over dinner or coffee or drinks. Nor would she text, e-mail, or take his phone calls. But still . . . this could get messy, they would surely argue. She might even break down. She thought of the long hours in the car ahead. She was tense already, her shoulders tight, her stomach in knots. “No.”
“Cass—”
“Listen. I’m not ready.” She shot him a look. “Let’s get to Oregon first.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Hell, yes, I’m stalling. I said, ‘Not now!’ ” She let out a sigh, realized she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t care.
“You can do this. You’re a lot tougher than you know.”
She flexed her hands on the wheel. No, she wasn’t.
“So listen, I’m going to tell you about what happened with Allie, and you’re not going to run us off the road or try to kill me or anything. You’re just going to keep driving and more importantly, keep calm.”
She didn’t think that was possible, but she tucked her Honda behind a green station wagon filled with people, a dog, the cargo space crammed with gear, suitcases strapped to an ancient roof rack. The wagon was moving a couple of miles over the speed limit, which she figured was as good as this part of the trip was going to get.
Just
so he was clear about how she felt, she said, “For the record I think this is a crazy idea. And you know, if I don’t want to talk about it, I could either crash or pull over and kick you out of the car.”
“You could. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
This was such a bad idea. “I’ll try to keep my cool.”
“That would be good.”
She shot him a glance, caught his profile. There was an earthiness to him, a pure-male quality that always got to her and she silently cursed it. “No promises.” When she felt his gaze on her again, she added, “I said I’d try. It’s the best I can do.”
“Okay.” A pause. Then, “First off, and you have to believe me, I never cheated on you.”
Liar! But she didn’t say it. Bit back the word. Felt her stomach roil a little.
“I’ll admit I thought about it. After all we were separated and you’d made it very clear you wanted a divorce.”
“Because of Allie,” she reminded flatly.
“Before you thought I’d gotten involved with her.”
Yep. This was a bad idea. Real bad. Her jaw tightened and she found herself driving too close to the station wagon in front of her, so she backed off, slowed down, and caught a glimpse of the car behind her, a black compact that pulled sharply into the next lane to jet around her and the station wagon.
“That’s not how it was,” she said. “Allie said—”
“Allie lies. You know that. For whatever she wants and she doesn’t care who she hurts. Yeah, she’s attractive. Yeah, she came on to me.”
Cassie died a little inside even though she’d known part of this for a long while.
Trent looked out the side window. “Yeah,” he admitted. “The truth is I considered going for it. She was offering and for all intents and purposes I was single because my wife wanted it that way. Why the hell not?” There was a bite to his words. “But before anything happened I figured out why she got to me. Why I was so tempted.”
