Jinxed

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “No. She's at a seminar today. We'll see her tomorrow at Lucretia's wedding.”

  He's not happy, Regan thought. I can tell he doesn't want to be here. Heidi, on the other hand, had no problem pushing her way in and taking a seat next to Lucretia. Frank was hanging back. Regan got up and walked over to him. “My name is Regan Reilly. I met Whitney last night here at the winery.”

  “You did?” he asked with surprise.

  “You haven't by any chance talked to her today, have you?” Regan asked.

  Again, Frank looked surprised. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just hoping you had spoken to her. We've tried to call Whitney a couple of times, and she hasn't called back.”

  This time the look on his face was one of serious concern. “Regan, I beeped her at about eight o'clock this morning. She always calls me right back. I haven't heard from her, either.”

  “Are you two involved?” Regan asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  At that moment Regan knew for sure that something had happened to Whitney Weldon.

  67

  Phyllis was about ready to call it a day. Charles had gone home after several cups of tea with the realization that there wasn't much either one of them could do to prevent Lucretia's wedding. If she wanted to marry this guy, then it was her business. Neither one of them had any specific reason to tell Lucretia why she shouldn't marry him, other than that they didn't like the looks of him. Or the sound of him. Or the feel of him.

  “If you think of something we can do,” Charles pleaded as he walked out the door, “don't hesitate to call.”

  Phyllis figured that even if the wedding didn't happen, she would still get the money from Lilac, because Lucretia was planning to give it to them anyway. It was like losing one round of a game show but still winning the grand prize. Lucretia was at the winery getting acquainted with her “family,” because Phyllis had called Lilac back. Otherwise that invitation never would have come about. Lucretia would give the Weldons the money no matter what. Heck, if Lucretia didn't get married, they stood to inherit millions and millions more than they would have if the wedding took place. They wouldn't try to cheat Phyllis out of her commission now, would they?

  Phyllis wiped the countertop in the kitchen one last time, looked around, and decided everything was in order. She'd be back at the crack of dawn tomorrow to prepare for the festivities. Right now I'll go home, put up my feet, and watch television, she thought. She locked the back door and started walking out of the kitchen as the phone rang.

  She almost let the machine pick it up.

  “Oh, what's one more obnoxious call?” she asked herself as she picked up the phone. “Standish residence.”

  “Hello, is this Phyllis the maid?” the woman caller asked. She sounded like a busybody.

  “Speaking,” Phyllis said.

  “Oh, good. I need to talk to you about Lucretia Standish. I've been following her story for the past couple of days now on GOS News, and the segment I saw a few minutes ago compelled me to call.”

  “Which segment was that?”

  “About the man who was arrested up at the winery.”

  “A man was arrested at the winery!” Phyllis exclaimed. “I missed that segment.”

  “Like I was saying, it just aired. They caught some guy who's a fugitive. He'd been staying at the winery.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Oh my is right. I sat next to that guy on a flight from New York to Los Angeles yesterday.”

  “You did?”

  “Can you believe it? I thought he was a little rude. He hogged the armrest and looked annoyed when I got up to go to the bathroom and had to squeeze past him. Then at the baggage claim area he pushed his way in front of everyone to get his bag. We were both walking out at the same time, and I noticed that he was picked up by a friend. I heard him say “Hi, Eddie,” when the car pulled up. What I'm getting to is that I am positive the guy who picked him up is the guy Lucretia Standish is marrying.”

  Phyllis digested this information for a moment. She wished she had seen the segment. “Edward picked him up at the airport?”

  “Eddie, Edward, call him what you want, he and this guy know each other. I felt I should let Miss Standish know. She has all that money, and this fellow she's marrying doesn't seem to have honorable intentions. My sister married a fellow nobody could stand, but everybody was afraid to say something. He put her through misery, and of course they got divorced. Now all she can say is how come no one warned her. I hear this from her so often that I figured even though I don't know Lucretia Standish, I should speak now or forever hold my peace. If I can spare just one person—”

  “Right,” Phyllis interrupted. “You're sure it was Edward Fields who picked this guy up at the airport?”

  “Yes, positive. When I saw him on the TV yesterday, he was wearing the same shirt he had on at the airport. It was pink. I noticed that because I just bought a pink shirt for my husband. Anyway, I saw you on TV this morning, and I thought you'd be the person to call. My question is, why is Lucretia Standish's fiancé associating with a fugitive?”

  “That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Well, thank you for calling Miss—?”

  “Green. Sherry Green.”

  “Maybe I'd better get your number,” Phyllis suggested.

  “Sure.”

  Phyllis wrote the number down and then hung up. She picked up the phone again immediately and dialed Charles. When he answered, she related the conversation to him.

  “We must let Lucretia know about this,” Charles said with intensity. “We can't wait until tomorrow.”

  “It's a tough thing to tell her over the phone.”

  “Let's drive to the winery now.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. What have we got to lose? This is important.”

  “Let's stop at my house first,” Phyllis said, “so I can get out of this maid's uniform.”

  “Whatever you say,” Charles agreed. He hung up and smiled. “Finally!” he cried, and clapped his hands. “We're going to get that little worm before it's too late!”

  68

  Here's my television reporter!” Lucretia cried. She sprang up from her seat like a spring uncoiling.

  Lynne B. Harrison walked in the door, followed by a cameraman. “Hello,” she said, giving a quick wave to the roomful of people. “I guess you could say we hit some turbulence on the road to Altered States.”

  “I want you to meet everyone,” Lucretia exclaimed. She started the introductions with Heidi, who had practically been sitting in Lucretia's lap. “This is Heidi. She's producing a movie that my niece Whitney Weldon is starring in . . .”

  “Whitney Weldon is your niece?” Lynne asked. “I just heard her being talked about on the radio.”

  Regan moved closer to Lynne. “What did they say?”

  “Well,” Lynne answered, “they said how funny she was in the movie.”

  “Who would have said that?” Heidi asked. “I mean, who would know that?”

  “It was a production assistant on your film. He was a guest on the show. He was on with a guy who taught some sort of acting seminar today, but they had to evacuate because of the wildfires.”

  “Whitney was going to that seminar,” Regan said quickly.

  Lynne looked at her. “She didn't make it.”

  “She didn't make it?” Lilac said incredulously.

  The room was still for a moment.

  Lynne stammered, “A-a-apparently not.”

  “Oh, no,” Lilac moaned as the reality of the situation began to hit her.

  “Did they say anything else about Whitney?” Regan asked.

  “No, they didn't. They were mostly talking about the fires.”

  “I want to phone the station and see if the seminar teacher is still there,” Regan said decisively. “Maybe Whitney called him this morning to say she wasn't going to make it. Do you know the call lett
ers?”

  “The show was called Dialogue with Dew.” Lynne turned to her cameraman. “Scott, do you remember the call letters of the station?”

  “No. I'll run out to the van and turn on the radio. It's still tuned to that station. I'll be right back.”

  Everyone in the room remained quiet. It was almost as if they were afraid to speak and had a collective pit-in-the-stomach feeling.

  “Maybe she just decided to do something else today,” Heidi proposed optimistically.

  Frank stepped forward. “I called her this morning. She would have called me back if she could have. But she didn't.”

  Heidi looked at him and finally understood.

  Lilac turned to Frank. “I thought something seemed different about Whitney last night. She said she wanted to really talk on Sunday,” Lilac said softly.

  The look Lilac and Frank gave each other was one of shared pain.

  A moment later Scott was back. He handed Regan a piece of paper. “They gave out the phone number of the station for people to call in.”

  Regan quickly dialed the number on her cell phone. An operator answered, mumbled the call letters, and put Regan on hold.

  “Come on,” Regan muttered.

  Finally the operator picked up again. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I need to speak to a guest who was on your show this afternoon. He teaches the acting seminar—”

  “That's Norman. Hold on.”

  Again, Regan waited, hoping against hope that Whitney had phoned to cancel. Maybe she decided to spend the day at the beach, to go with the flow. Maybe there was a logical explanation . . .

  “Hello, this is Norman Broda.”

  Regan introduced herself. “I'm with Whitney Weldon's family,-and we're concerned about her. We understand that she didn't attend your seminar today. Did she call you?”

  Norman sighed. “No. I was very surprised because she just signed up for the class yesterday. She sounded so enthused.”

  Regan shook her head. “If you hear anything from her, please let us know.”

  “My girlfriend is the disc jockey here. I'll ask her to make an announcement on the air asking people to be on the lookout for Whitney, and if Whitney is listening, to please call.”

  “Thank you.” Regan gave him the number of Altered States and hung up. She turned to the group, all of whom were watching her intently. “I'm going to call the police. But since Whitney has only been gone since this morning, she's not officially considered missing yet . . .”

  “But that criminal was staying here,” Lynne interjected.

  Lilac looked as if someone had struck her.

  “I know,” Regan said. “But we have to start looking for Whitney ourselves. She could be anywhere between here and the site of the seminar—which is about seventy miles away. I don't think she got very far, though. She was planning to leave here at six o'clock this morning. If Rex Jordan was involved with her disappearance, he must have been back before eight because someone here would have seen him coming in after that. That means he wasn't gone very long, and he must have been on foot since Whitney's car is missing.”

  “I'll air a piece on Whitney right now,” Lynne offered, “and tell people to be on the lookout for her. Do you have a picture?”

  “In the office,” Lilac answered as she went running out of the room.

  Edward appeared from the hallway and stood at the edge of the group.

  “Darling,” Lucretia said, “Whitney is missing.”

  “That's awful,” he replied.

  Regan continued. “If we all fan out—” Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, saw that it was Jack, and answered it quickly.

  “Regan, I just got Rex Jordan's cell phone records. He has called one number repeatedly in the last few days. It could be our friend Edward's phone number. I dialed it, but no one is answering, just the electronic voice mail.”

  Regan glanced over at Edward, who had remained at the edge of the room, almost as if he was planning his escape. “What number is that?” she asked Jack. Regan repeated the number loudly and deliberately as she grabbed a pen and wrote it down: “310-555-1642.”

  “That's Edward's number!” Lucretia cried.

  “Hold on a second, Jack. Is that your number?” Regan asked Edward, her eyes boring into his.

  “Ah, yes, it is.”

  “Is there any particular reason why Rex Jordan would have called you several times over the last few days?”

  “What?” Lucretia gasped.

  “I . . . I . . . I,” he stammered.

  “You're an associate of that hoodlum,” Lucretia screeched. “I knew him in New York. . . . I tried to keep him out of trouble.”

  “You lied to me!” Lucretia spat. She took off her ring and threw it at him.

  “Hugo or Edward, or whatever you call yourself,” Regan said in a steely tone, “where's Whitney?”

  Edward's face was as white as a ghost. “How would I know where Whitney is? I didn't do anything wrong. Lucretia, you have to listen to me.”

  “You do know,” Regan continued in the same steely tone, “that if anything happens to Whitney Weldon, you'll be considered an accessory to murder. Maybe you don't realize that the penalty for kidnapping and murder in California is execution.”

  The sound of twenty-one motorcycles making their entrance to Altered States pierced the air.

  Dirt came running into the lodge, followed by Big Shot. “The fires are coming over from the west side of the mountain. We just drove by your barn out back—it's on fire. Burning embers are flying around everywhere.”

  “We'll get out the hoses,” Leon cried. “At least it's not the lodge. We've got nothing back there but a bunch of old machinery and junk.”

  “That's not true,” Edward said in a trembling voice. He knew it was all over. “Whitney's back in the barn. She's tied up in her car.”

  Lucretia wailed as though she had been mortally wounded. “Whitney!” she cried longingly for the niece she had yet to meet, afraid now that she'd never get the chance.

  69

  Whitney knew it was futile. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it. Smoke was filling the barn. The heat from the fire was becoming intense. All the meditation exercises in the world couldn't calm her now.

  Why? she wondered. Why did this have to happen just when everything was going so well? She'd met Frank, and he was everything she'd been looking for. Tears started spilling from her eyes, dampening the blindfold. It had been such a short time, but he felt like her soul mate.

  Whitney thought about her mother, who had raised her alone. I wish I hadn't given her such a hard time about naming me Freshness. She actually laughed. I guess it could have been worse. Mom said her other choice was Poetry. Yes, Mom was a hippie, but Whitney knew she couldn't have found a better mother anywhere. What Whitney was afraid of now was that her death would be so traumatic for her. Lilac didn't deserve that.

  And Uncle Earl. What a character! He had taught her to meditate and focus. “You've got to pay attention!” he told her repeatedly when she complained that her mind flitted around so much. “Use ditzyness for your comedy, not in real life.”

  Uncle Leon used to roll his eyes when he heard that coming out of Earl's mouth. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” he'd say. Leon was the worrier of the group, the one who was behind the scenes and quietly made sure everyone was all right.

  I'll miss you all, Whitney thought tearfully as she started to cough. I'll miss you all.

  70

  Drive me back to the barn,” Regan yelled to Dirt.

  “I'm going with you,” Frank shouted.

  The whole group sprang into action.

  “I'll call the fire department,” Nora said with urgency in her voice.

  Leon ran out the door, shouting to the gang of bikers: “I need some help with the hoses.”

  Regan jumped on the back of Dirt's bike. He took off, driving around the back of the lodge and straight
through the vineyards. Frank was right behind, riding with Big Shot.

  Please, Regan prayed as she held on to Dirt's leather vest. Please let her be okay. The smell of smoke was stronger and stronger. They came to the end of the aisle of trees and turned right. The left side of the barn was ablaze in front of them. Dirt stopped the bike, and Regan jumped off. She ran over to the building. The barn door was on fire. She ran around looking for something to use to break down the door. Behind the barn Regan spotted two shovels on the ground. She grabbed them both and ran back around to the front. Frank pulled one of the shovels from her hands. They both pounded at the burning door with the shovels and managed to pull it open.

  Smoke came billowing out. Regan, Frank, Dirt, and Big Shot all started shouting Whitney's name. The air was thick with smoke, and it was impossible to see.

  “Whitney!”

  “Whitney!”

  “Freshness!” Frank yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Inside the car, sweat was pouring down Whitney's face. She was losing consciousness. Was someone calling her, or was she imagining it? she wondered as she drifted off.

  “Freshness!”

  Someone was calling. Someone was trying to save her. She had to let them know where she was. She was so tired. It took a superhuman effort, but she mustered all her strength, lifted her legs, and started to thump on the back window of the Jeep.

  “I hear something!” Regan shouted. “In this direction.” Holding the shovel out in front of her, Regan blindly followed the sounds of the thumping noise. Then the shovel hit what sounded like glass. Regan put out her hand. It was a car door, on the passenger side. “I found the car,” Regan yelled as she opened the door.

  “Whitney?” Regan called, coughing.

  A low grunting noise came from the back of the Jeep.

  Regan reached over to the console. The key was in the car! “We're going to get you out of here, Whitney,” Regan shouted as she climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. She held her hand down on the horn as she backed up and out of the flaming barn, not stopping until she was well clear of the burning building. The barn was now consumed with flames.