After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  So many questions.

  So few answers.

  Yet.

  But she had others working on the information. Detective Natalie Jenkins was determined to find out the identity of the family that had adopted Jenna Hughes’s firstborn, and privacy codes or agreements be damned. Someone knew who had adopted the girl.

  “Hey!” Double T said, interrupting her thoughts and pointing to an overgrown lane where the trees opened a bit. “I think we’re here.”

  She might have sped right past except for the county deputy’s car about fifty feet into the private road. With lights flashing, the cruiser blocked further access to the property. Nash pulled in behind the cruiser. She and Double T climbed out of her Ford and with heads bent against the rain, made their way through the muck and mud to the cruiser, where a deputy in rain gear stood guard. Rain was sliding from his weatherproof jacket and dripping from the bill of his cap. He was young, around twenty-five, and pale as death in the darkness, his mouth a thin line, his beady blue eyes nearly luminescent.

  Quick introductions ensued as he inspected their badges, shining the beam of his flashlight over the IDs.

  As he nodded curtly, Nash glanced into the back of the county vehicle. It was empty. “Where’s Mrs. Nelson?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Not inside?” Nash asked, her heart dropping like a stone.

  “No. No one’s here, but you’d better go in and take a look. My partner’s there and we’re waiting for the crime lab guys to show up.”

  “Because?”

  “Looks like a homicide.”

  “But Mrs. Nelson is not inside?” Nash didn’t wait for an answer, just headed to the ramshackle cabin in front of which a Hyundai Santa Fe was parked. The SUV’s license was secured with a plate holder decorated with a cowboy upon a bucking rodeo horse and a couple of faded bumper stickers, one advising the reader to turn off his TV, the other professing love for the state of Oregon.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Double T said, turning his collar against a rush of cold air that rustled the boughs of the trees surrounding the small clearing.

  “You got that right.” They climbed up two rickety steps and stepped through an open doorway.

  “Hold it right there,” a harsh female voice ordered and they both stopped to view the interior of the cabin, illuminated only by a flashlight held in the hand of a female deputy.

  “Detective Rhonda Nash,” Nash said, once again flipping open her wallet to display her badge while Double T introduced himself as he flashed his own ID.

  The room, in the harsh white light from the flashlight, was a mess, turned-over furniture, a broken lamp, glass underfoot, and a huge dark stain that had spread from a river rock fireplace across the dusty floors.

  “Looks like someone bled out here,” the deputy said, running the beam of her flashlight over the wide stain. “I found no body inside. Could be on the grounds, or buried. We’ve got dogs on their way. Can’t tell whose blood it is, but it’s fresh, some not even dried.” She hitched a finger behind her toward the back wall. “Found a shell casing back there. Figured that’s where the shooter was when he fired.”

  Nash let her gaze rove over the small interior and she felt an angry disappointment. Belva Nelson had been the key to her investigation, the turning point. Nash had felt it, that sizzle of anticipation upon reaching the turning point in a case. Now, the retired nurse was missing, most probably dead, the lead withered away.

  Using her own flashlight, she swept the interior and decided that someone, most possibly Belva Nelson, had died here last night. She spied an open purse on the floor beneath a table, the stain of blood beneath it. Within the leather bag Nash found a wallet. ID and credit cards issued to Belva Nelson were inside.

  This could play out differently. Maybe Nelson wasn’t the victim. Perhaps she was still alive. There was even a remote chance she had been the killer, but Nash’s gut instinct told her differently.

  Damn, damn, damn and double damn!

  They were too late. Which wasn’t really a surprise, considering that nothing in this case was ever easy, nothing fell into place. If only they’d had a chance to interview Belva Nelson. It was all so frustrating. “Son of a bitch,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “So now what?” Double T asked.

  Nash stemmed her disappointment. Collected herself. She couldn’t just wait here for forensics and the dogs. No, not with her feeling that time was running through her fingers. She checked her watch, then instructed the deputy to call her with information and left her card. They walked out of the cabin with not more information than they’d come with.

  “You know,” she said to Double T as they headed for her car again, picking their way through mud puddles that reflected the pulsing red and blue light from the cruiser’s light bar. “If we wrap things up here and get back into town, we might not miss the end of the party for Dead Heat. You got a tux or extremely hip black suit you can change into?”

  “You’re serious?” Double T asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” She was nodding, sliding into the driver’s seat, wondering about her own change of clothes. “Serious as hell.”

  Tonight the splendor of the Hotel Danvers, one of Portland’s most famous and historic hotels, was lost on Cassie. As she and Trent entered through a side door to avoid the reporters camped out at the main entrance she barely noticed the gleaming woodwork, elegant chandeliers, massive staircases, stained-glass windows, or thick carpets. She was too keyed up, still trying to sort things out in her mind.

  Jenna’s revelation about another child, Cassie’s half sister, had caught her off-guard, suggesting that the unknown sibling might be a killer was more than disturbing and it had haunted her on the drive into Portland from Jenna and Shane’s ranch. Was it possible? Could it be that she’d even met the woman and not realized they were blood, that they shared the same DNA, the very same mother? The idea gave her goose bumps.

  “Come on,” Trent said, a hand in hers when they climbed the stairs to the cavernous second-story ballroom.

  Through wide open doors, she surveyed the sunken room. Massive chandeliers, dripping with teardrops of crystal and lit by dozens of lights, were suspended from an intricately carved ceiling. On an exterior wall, windows stretched two stories and offered guests an unlimited view of the city. Across an expansive marble floor, French doors opened to a long balcony, that had been built over the main entrance a floor below. Guests gathered and moved through the center of the room.

  “I wish Allie was here to see this.”

  “I think she is . . . kind of,” Trent said just as Cassie saw the first of a group of sets, each decorated as individual rooms that had been butted up against the surrounding walls.

  Cassie’s heart dropped as she eyed the mini-rooms more closely and she realized each had been designed to be an exact replica of one of the sets for Dead Heat. “What?” she whispered, disbelieving because in each of the individual rooms, a life-sized mannequin of Allie dressed to look like Shondie Kent, the heroine of the film, had been staged. “Oh, no.”

  From the wide entrance of the sunken ballroom she was able to view each individual scenario:

  Shondie in a business suit and glasses, leaning back in a desk chair, one high-heeled foot resting on the desktop.

  Shondie without makeup, tears streaming from beneath oversized sunglasses as she walked through a park.

  Shondie wrapped in a long negligee, posed provocatively on a bed with mussed covers, a fake mirror positioned over a fireplace. In the mirror’s reflection a man’s naked muscular back and neck were visible—Brandon McNary’s character’s backside.

  This was so wrong.

  There were other scenes as well, each with a mannequin of Allie.

  The most heart-stopping set was of Shondie running down a dark alley, storefronts visible, as she glanced over her shoulder. She was wearing the very same outfit that Lucinda Rinaldi had been dressed in, an identical white jacket, when the fateful
bullet had been fired and she’d been shot.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Cassie’s throat turned to dust. Memories in short bursts flashed through her mind. Another place. Other mannequins. All dressed like Jenna Hughes in her starring roles. All macabre likenesses created by a crazed fan who nearly killed Cassie and her mother. She was suddenly chilled to the bone as she recalled that horrid time, ice water running through her veins.

  Cassie wanted to run from the room.

  “What the hell was Arnette thinking?” Trent’s gaze wandered from one scene to the next, each one showcasing the film’s missing star.

  “He’s thinking that if he can’t have Allie, he’ll come up with the next best thing,” she guessed as she stared at a lifelike mannequin of Shondie in a hospital room. Lying on an old-fashioned hospital bed, Shondie appeared glassy-eyed, out of touch. Her dark hair was disheveled, her makeup nonexistent, her arms restrained by thick cuffs, almost as if she were handcuffed to the bed. On one of the partitions of the all-white room was a door with a small glass and mesh window. Peeking through the window was a blond nurse in a pointed white cap.

  One identical to the one worn by Belva Nelson on her secretive nighttime visit to Cassie’s hospital room.

  The hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck came to attention.

  Apprehension collected in her heart.

  Was this a coincidence?

  Or part of some grand terrorizing scheme she didn’t understand?

  Cassie thought of her recent stay in a mental hospital. She’d never seen restraints used at Mercy, but, of course Dead Heat was a retro film, hence the white-uniformed nurse.

  “Thank God Mom didn’t come,” she said, staring at the mannequins, her insides curdling.

  Jenna had many reasons not to attend, and she’d decided to stay home. Thank God.

  Cassie scanned the room with new eyes. Could one of the people within these walls, someone who had worked on the film, be her half-sister? It seemed impossible, but . . . Heart thudding, she swept her gaze across the room, landing for a split second on the possibilities. From Little Bea in her classic black dress and heels, to Cherise, elegant in red, or Ineesha, fit as ever in a backless gown, or Laura in ivory, or Sybil Jones in a man’s black tux. All of these women were about the right age and, if Cassie let herself imagine it, could resemble her. Sure, Little Bea was tiny, but so was Jenna, and her chin was just pointed enough . . . and Laura’s eyes. Didn’t they look a little like Jenna’s? And Cherise, she had Jenna’s slim build, her heart-shaped face. Or was Cassie mistaken, just fantasizing? Seeing similarities when there were none?

  Her head pounded a little as she spied Lucinda Rinaldi wearing a sequined blue strapless dress but seated in an electric wheelchair. Lucinda looked a lot like Allie, the resemblance close enough with the right lighting and camera angle to be her double.

  “You okay?” Trent asked, sensing her hesitation.

  She rolled her eyes. “Am I ever?”

  He actually laughed. “Good point, Cass. Come on. Let’s dive into the shark tank.”

  Following his lead, she took the two steps downward into the crowded, noisy room. She reminded herself that this was her chance to finally talk to some of the people who had avoided her. Little Bea. Dean Arnette. Sig Masters. And others. The problem was that Cassie was still a little unfocused, the life-sized mannequins of Allie, coupled with the recent news that she had a half sister and the murders of people associated with the film, crippled her slightly.

  Pull yourself together.

  Think!

  Don’t miss this opportunity.

  But the individual sets and mannequins bothered her. Each positioned lifelike doll seemed to be watching her with those glassy eyes so like her sister’s. Cassie had the unsettling feeling that Allie was here. Watching. If only in the form of the inanimate life-sized dolls.

  Walking deeper into the room, Cassie felt swept into the sea of people. Actors, producers, grips, people who worked on the lighting and sound, the writers, and on and on. The press had been invited as well, of course, as this was an event to promote the movie. Posters from the movie abounded and an adjacent room nearby was showing clips of Dead Heat over and over. Champagne and cocktails flowed, and music from the score of the film had been piped in, barely audible over the hum of conversation. And then there were the staged scenes featuring Allie, as Shondie, in mannequin form.

  Ugh.

  Forcing her gaze from the sets, she walked through the throng, forcing a smile, murmuring a quiet, “Hi,” to those who passed, avoiding reacting to the curious glances sent her way. Because of Allie? Because she was with the husband she’d vowed to divorce? Because she’d recently been a patient in a mental hospital? More likely, she thought sourly, all of the above.

  “See . . . this isn’t so bad,” Trent said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She caught his gaze and realized he was teasing. Parties had never been his thing and no doubt this over-the-top circus with the paparazzi in the wings and gossip flowing like water, was, for Trent, a form of pure torture.

  At a table of canapés, she stopped and again surveyed the crowd. Along with those she didn’t recognize were the people she’d worked with. Brandon McNary was holding court, his unshaven jaw fashionably scruffy, his dark hair mussed, a gray jacket, open-collared shirt, and jeans. Several women in their early twenties or late teens were hanging on his every word.

  Oh, save me.

  Cherise Gotwell stood nearby, sipping champagne and gauging the crowd, while Little Bea buzzed through the knots of people and Laura Merrick moved from one group to the next. Lucinda Rinaldi didn’t even bother forcing a smile as she wheeled through the throng; and the rumors that she was still going to write a book and name names, all the while suing everyone she could who was associated with the film, hadn’t died.

  Cassie couldn’t blame her. Allie’s double’s injuries were real and severe, so why wouldn’t she make a few bucks because of it?

  Like you, she thought, thinking of the screenplay of Allie’s life she’d barely started, taking advantage of the situation, the tragedy involving your sister and you don’t even know how it ends.

  With an effort, she quieted the nagging voice in her head and spied Sig Masters. Despite the stigma of actually taking the shot that had wounded Lucinda, Sig had shown up and now was talking to one of the writers. Upon spying Lucinda rolling his way, he ended the conversation and headed straight for the open bar.

  Cassie understood. Seeing Lucinda in the chair had to be tough for him. And yet he’d attended, knowing full well she might appear. Sig actually had more guts than Cassie had given him credit for. Or else he was a glutton for punishment.

  She felt Trent’s hand tighten over her arm.

  “You okay with all of this?”

  “No,” she admitted, wondering if she should even have come. But the truth of the matter was that by not showing, she would have been making a bigger statement and here, at least, the people who had been avoiding her would have a tougher time ignoring her. She glanced up at her husband. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “Great idea.”

  As they headed to the bar, Cassie caught Ineesha’s eye. Wrapped in a conversation with Sybil Jones, the prop manager visibly started, her lips compressing, her eyes thinning. Obviously she wasn’t over Cassie’s intrusion at her gym workout in California. Quickly and pointedly, she ended her conversation and turned on her heel as Cassie approached.

  “Wow. That wasn’t obvious at all.” Cherise watched Ineesha wend her way through the clusters of guests. “Don’t let her get to you.”

  Cassie shook her head. “Never.”

  “She’s just in a bad mood.”

  “When isn’t she?”

  Cherise giggled, then sipped from her glass of champagne, her green eyes dancing with mischief. “It doesn’t look like she got in her million steps today.”

  Cassie actually smiled.

  “I think her pedometer might blow up because she works out so much,” Che
rise said. “She’s probably racewalking her way to the hotel gym right now.”

  “You’re wicked.”

  “When I have to be.”

  Cassie had a sudden mental image of Ineesha in her long dress on some kind of weightlifting machine, her back muscles visibly straining as she moved a bar, her body sweating all over her designer gown. “Not a pretty image.”

  Trent bent closer to Cassie and said, “I’ll get the drinks. Be right back.” She nodded and he smiled slyly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Oh, wow, so you two are back together?” Cherise asked, her gaze following Trent as he slipped around a large group of guests and made his way to the bar.

  “I guess.”

  “Looks like he’s really into you.” Cherise’s eyes thinned before she sighed wistfully. “Must be nice.”

  “It is. Mostly.” Except when you act like a jealous idiot and accuse him of being in love with your sister.

  Dragging her gaze away from Trent’s backside, Cherise rimmed the edge of her glass with a manicured finger. “I don’t suppose there’s any word on Allie?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said without much empathy. “I’m sorry. But, you know she was kind of a pain to work for, but way better than Brandon. He’s . . .”

  “All about himself.”

  Cherise nodded, her eyebrows pulling together, her voice a barely audible whisper. “I think he’s dating someone, but he’s keeping it very hush-hush.”

  “Probably until after the movie’s out for a while,” Cassie said. “For the fans. They want to think that he’s still in love with Allie.” She made a sweeping gesture with one hand to the horrible stages of Allie lining the vast room. “For this. To keep up the fantasy. To sell more tickets.”

  “Maybe.” Another swallow from her glass. Her lips pursed as if she’d just thought of something bothersome. “You know, I have this feeling . . . I mean he’s never said it, of course, but . . . I think he never got over Allie.” The words had a bit of bitterness to them and the corners of Cherise’s mouth turned down. Cassie couldn’t help but wonder if McNary’s assistant had a secret crush on her boss. It wouldn’t be the first time and, of course, McNary was considered a heartthrob.