Cold Judgment

by Joanne Fluke

  And then she began to swim again, her fears laid to rest. As well they should be. He was here. And he would always protect her from the red.

  Tears fell from his eyes, like warm spring rain. How he loved her! He had broken the rule to warn her, broken his vow of silence. He had chosen the words to tell her, cut them out of paper and pasted them to the letter he’d sent to her. Red is the color of blood.

  He knew he had frightened her, and he was ashamed. But his words had done their work, and she had been wise enough to listen. She had changed her hateful red bedroom to a sea green place of beautiful peace.

  The red mist was rising now, rising up to claim him. In a few moments it would reach his mind, and then there would be a merciful darkness. But there was work to be done before he could rest.

  He dropped to the ground, shredding the petals into thin strips that blew away in the winter wind. They would shrivel and fade, buffeted by the air until they turned to a harmless brown. Earth, air, fire, and water. They were the ancient elements. They had the power to destroy the red, to send it away forever.

  At last he was finished, and he smiled as he got to his feet. It was his job to keep her safe. He was her guardian, her lover, her unseen protector. Only he knew how to save her from the certain destruction of the red.

  CHAPTER 1

  Even though she’d had a grueling day, Mercedes Calder flashed the driver one of her famous, million-watt smiles, as he helped her out of the studio limo. Her smile was totally genuine. Mercedes liked the new driver the studio had assigned to her. George never tried to make idle conversation on the twenty-minute trip to the studio, when she had lines to learn; he didn’t mind stopping at the school to pick up her twins on the days she finished shooting early; and he was unfailingly prompt. Even though George was well paid by the studio, Mercedes planned to give him a generous bonus when they wrapped her film.

  “Six-thirty tomorrow morning, George? I have an early call.”

  “No problem, Miss Calder. I’ll be here. Do you want me to check out the house for you?”

  Mercedes shook her head. “That’s not necessary, George. They finally finished installing the security system. But thanks for asking. That was very thoughtful.”

  George tipped his hat and slid back in, behind the wheel. He was a retired policeman who looked like a fullback, over six feet tall with the muscular body and lightning reflexes of a professional athlete. He’d told Mercedes he’d taken his early retirement option when he’d been shot chasing down a murder suspect. He’d known they were planning to kick him upstairs, and he hadn’t liked the idea of sitting behind a desk all day. Early retirement pay wasn’t all that much, and George had done private detective work for a year or two. Then he’d landed this job with the studio as a combination bodyguard and driver.

  Although the studio had dismissed Mercedes’s threatening letters as a crazy prank by an unstable fan, they’d immediately assigned George to be her driver. And it had worked, as far as Mercedes was concerned. She never worried when George was around. He was more than capable of defending her, and when she was with him, she felt safe. At least there hadn’t been any threatening letters today. Mercedes had checked the mailbox at the end of the driveway, when they’d stopped at the gates. She hoped that her ordeal was over, that her crazy fan was locked up tight in some mental hospital or jail.

  Mercedes still shivered when she thought about the letters that had come in the mail. The words had been cut out of magazines, and pasted on pieces of plain notebook paper. The whole thing had sounded like something you’d see in a bad B-movie, but the message had been chilling.

  Most stars got an occasional letter from a crazy fan. It was so common, it was almost normal. Ashley Thorpe, her costar in Summer Heat, had told Mercedes about the proposal he’d received from a seventy-year-old widow, who’d offered her life savings if he’d spend the night with her. And Sandra Shepard, the character actress who played her mother in the movie, had mentioned a letter she’d received last year from a high school student in Iowa, inviting her to be his date for the Senior Prom.

  Mercedes had been in the “biz” for over fifteen years, and she’d shrugged off plenty of proposals and propositions from crazy fans before. But the letters she’d received two months ago were very different. They’d come to her home, instead of the studio.

  The first letter had arrived on a Saturday, and Mercedes had been alone in the house. She’d been out at the pool, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, when she’d heard the distinctive squeaking brakes of the mailman’s jeep. Since she usually got a letter from Marcie on Saturdays, she’d hopped into her car and driven down the long, winding driveway to pick up the mail.

  Marcie’s letter was there, and Mercedes had taken the time to read it. Then she’d noticed another letter marked “personal,” with no return address, and she’d opened that as well.

  I am watching you. I will always be near. Do not try to hide. You can keep nothing from me. I am with you at night when you swim in the pool. I am with you when you go to bed in the red room. Please do not sleep in the red room. Red is the color of blood.

  The others will tell you lies about me, but I am not what they say. Do not try to escape me. I will not let you leave me again. You will be with me always, even in death.

  Jimmy

  Mercedes’s hands had been shaking as she’d finished reading the letter. He knew her bedroom was red! He really was watching her! She’d jumped back into her car, locked all the doors, and peered out of the window in fright. The grounds seemed peaceful enough, but was he was out there somewhere, taking vicious pleasure in her fear? Her instinct had been to race for the house, but she’d left it unlocked, and he could be waiting for her inside!

  Pure panic had propelled her as she’d turned on the ignition and put her car in gear. She had to get away! But where should she go? What should she do? She’d made a quick V-turn, tires sliding on the gravel, and headed down Mandeville Canyon Road.

  She’d glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, but no one had seemed to be following her. She was safe. For now. As she’d turned on Sunset Boulevard, she’d suddenly remembered the interview she’d done for a popular fan magazine. It had mentioned her exercise regime, twenty laps in the pool every night, and there had been several photos of her in her newly redecorated bedroom. If he’d seen a copy of that article, he would have known about the swimming and the color scheme of her bedroom. Perhaps he wasn’t watching her after all.

  With each mile Mercedes traveled away from the house, she’d felt a little calmer. She knew that most people who wrote threatening letters never dreamed of actually carrying out their threats. This man was probably nothing more than a harmless neurotic, who got his kicks by scaring people. Still, it couldn’t hurt to take a few precautions, like buying a hand gun and learning how to use it. And while she was at it, she’d order a new security system. The one she had was over ten years old.

  It turned out that buying a handgun in California was a frustrating experience. Although her life had been threatened, and she had a legitimate reason for wanting to arm herself, there was still a mandatory fifteen-day waiting period before she could take her new Lady Smith revolver home. Rules were rules in California, where the anti-gun lobby was strong. Crooks could buy guns immediately through illegal means, but honest citizens had to wait and hope that they’d still be alive at the end of the waiting period.

  Mercedes had walked away from the gun store shaking her head. She was probably overreacting, but she had to take precautions, just in case. She’d stopped to call a home security service, and she’d hired an armed guard to patrol the grounds, until her new state-of-the-art security system was installed. Then she’d arranged to have her room redecorated in a lovely shade of sea green. That would please Brad. Green was his favorite color. Brad hadn’t liked her red bedroom. He said it was like sleeping inside a catsup bottle, and she’d been planning on changing the color scheme anyway.

  That night, when Brad had come
home and found the security guard, he’d told her he thought she’d done exactly the right thing. The letter was scary. And while it was true that Mercedes probably wouldn’t hear from this particular man again, she was a big star, and there were lots of crazy fans out there. Then he’d hugged her and told her he wished he could always be home to protect her. Unfortunately, his investment business demanded a lot of traveling. He’d certainly rest much easier after the new security system was installed. It would give him peace of mind, knowing that Mercedes and the twins were safe, behind locked gates.

  The second threatening letter had arrived a week later. Luckily, the security guard was on duty when Mercedes had taken it out of the envelope, and she hadn’t panicked. Her crazy fan was still out there, but at least she now knew what he wanted.

  I am still with you, watching and waiting. No one can protect you. You must do exactly as I say.

  Give your husband twenty thousand dollars in a backpack. Tell him to go to the phone booth on the corner of Sunset and Gower at noon tomorrow. I will call him and tell him where to leave the money.

  I love you. You belong to me. I have no wish to cause you pain.

  Jimmy

  When Brad had read the letter, he’d urged her to call the police. Naturally, Mercedes had refused. The police could do nothing, and there were bound to be leaks to the press. The studio wouldn’t like that kind of publicity, and this whole thing was probably just a crazy prank.

  Exactly a week later, the third letter had arrived. It was almost identical to the second, except that the sum of money had doubled, and there was one additional postscript after the signature. Your security guard cannot protect you. If you continue to ignore me, perhaps your death will not be as merciful as I planned.

  When Brad read the letter, he was convinced that they had to take action. While he agreed that he didn’t believe in giving way to threats, he’d suggested that perhaps they should pretend to do what the crazy fan wanted. He’d go to the phone booth, get the instructions, and deliver the money himself. And then he’d stake out the area and catch the nut case, when he came to pick it up.

  Mercedes had vetoed that idea immediately. There was no way she’d let him do something that dangerous. But Brad was insistent. He was her husband, and he wanted to protect her. There was no way he’d let a crazy fan get away with threatening his wife!

  They’d argued about it long into the night, but Mercedes had been firm. She wouldn’t let Brad put himself in danger, and she wouldn’t even pretend to give way to blackmail. Brad knew how blackmail worked. If the crazy fan actually succeeded in getting the money, he’d keep right on sending threatening letters, demanding more and more cash. It was best to take a strong stand in the beginning, and not give in to this type of extortion.

  Even though Mercedes had shrugged off the threats, she was concerned enough to take the letters with her to the studio the next morning. The studio hired experts to deal with crank letters from crazy fans, and Mercedes had asked their advice. They’d agreed that she had done all the right things to protect herself. They’d said not to worry, that they’d dealt with hundreds of extortion letters, and nothing had ever happened. It would have been an entirely different matter if someone had come up to her face-to-face and made these kinds of demands. But no one had, and chances were her crazy fan was already back in a mental institution or a jail cell.

  Mercedes felt much better after she’d talked to the studio experts, especially since they’d assigned George to be her driver. George was armed and he was formidable. There was no way anyone would bother her, while she was under his protection.

  After she’d finished work for the day, Mercedes had asked George to drive her to the gun store. She’d picked up her handgun, and bought a gun safe that only opened if she pressed a series of coded buttons. George had installed it for her, and that weekend he’d driven her to a firearms safety class, where she’d learned how to use her Lady Smith with deadly accuracy.

  Of course, Mercedes hadn’t mentioned any of this to Brad. And she’d decided not to tell him if she got another threatening letter. Brad might do something brave and foolish, like trying to catch the blackmailer himself.

  The letters had definitely changed Mercedes’s life. Opening the mail had always been fun for her, but now she dreaded it. She held her breath every time she picked up the neat stack of letters her postman slipped in the box. It had been almost a month since the last threatening letter, and she was almost convinced that her crazy fan had given up. But even though their new security system was up and running, George had told her to carry her handgun from room to room, whenever she was alone in the house.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Calder?”

  George looked concerned, and Mercedes nodded. “I’m fine. See you in the morning, George.”

  Mercedes waved as the limo drove off. The moment the gates had opened and closed again, she reactivated the alarm system. There was no way anyone could open the gates without the code. And if anyone tried to climb over the bars or force his way in, a patrol of armed security guards would be on the grounds in less than five minutes.

  The alarm on the front door was set, and Mercedes punched in the code on the numbered panel. The advisor from the security company had cautioned her against using her birthday as a code. That was a matter of public record. Brad had suggested they use their anniversary instead, and he’d joked that it was one way to make sure she never forgot the date. As if she could!

  As she opened the door and walked across the tile foyer, Mercedes caught sight of her reflection in the gold-framed, oval mirror on the wall. She’d never considered herself beautiful, although everyone else seemed to think she was. Green-eyed blondes weren’t all that unusual in her home state of Minnesota.

  When Mercedes had landed her first movie role, the studio publicity department had called her a cross between Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe. The comparison had made Mercedes laugh. Doris had been bubbly and innocent, while Marilyn had exuded sex from every pore. Mercedes knew she wasn’t bubbly and innocent, or super sexy. She was just an ordinary actress, who worked hard to learn to play any role she was offered.

  At first Mercedes had played the fun-loving teenager, the cheerleader who fell in love with the quarterback on the football team. Then she’d graduated to college roles, playing the young freshman coed who fell in love the professor. From there she’d played the young professional who fell in love with her boss. She was always falling in love and ending up happy, the essence of the female romantic lead. Finally, she was mature enough to play other, more demanding parts, but her latest role in Summer Heat was the biggest challenge she’d ever faced.

  Summer Heat was a story of deception, of a marriage gone awry. Mercedes played the victim, a wife whose husband was slowly poisoning her, so that he could be free to marry his mistress. She had to be naively trusting and totally unsuspecting in the early part of the movie, a woman who was so in love with her new husband that she was completely blind to his faults. As the movie progressed, her character deepened and matured. The wife began to doubt her husband, and finally realized, in horror, that he was trying to kill her. At the end, Mercedes had to play a woman so crazed by her husband’s duplicity, she exacted a terrible revenge.

  Her role in Summer Heat wouldn’t have been all that difficult, if it had been a play. Most plays were chronological, starting at the beginning and progressing in a straight line to their conclusion. But movies weren’t like plays, although most people who weren’t in the industry didn’t realize that. Almost all of Mercedes’s scenes were shot out of sequence.

  The scene they’d done today had been near the end of the movie. Mercedes had played the vengeful wife, preparing to kill her husband and his mistress. Tomorrow they would shoot the park wedding at the very beginning of the movie, and that meant Mercedes had to jump back in time to play the trusting bride, meeting her husband’s mistress for the first time, and being completely unaware of their relationship. It took menta
l preparation to jump back and forth like that, but it was more cost effective. Scenes that took place in the same setting were shot on the same day, regardless of where they occurred in the movie. Mercedes reread the script every night, starting at the beginning and stopping at the scene they’d shoot the next day. That helped her to get into the right frame of mind for the morning’s work.

  “Rosa? I’m home!” Mercedes walked down the hall and peeked into the immaculately clean kitchen. Her housekeeper wasn’t there. She walked through the beautifully decorated rooms on the ground floor, but Rosa and the children were nowhere to be found.

  Since she was still uneasy when she was alone in the house, Mercedes got her Lady Smith from the gun safe and carried it upstairs to her pretty sea green bedroom, where she undressed and slipped into a robe. She loved the new color she’d picked for her bedroom. It was very calming and restful. Then she sat down at her white wicker dressing table, and peered into the mirror to assess the damage after her long day of shooting. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, but that wasn’t surprising. She’d waited up for Brad to come home last night, despite her early call. Her green eyes were clear and bright, thanks to the eyedrops her makeup artist had applied, but her pale blond hair was wet with perspiration.

  Mercedes walked to the huge mirrored bathroom and turned on the shower. She’d feel much better once she washed her hair and used some conditioner. She took off her robe and surveyed her body critically. Her skin was still tight, and her breasts were high and firm with no signs of sagging. Another week of dieting, and she’d be in better shape than she’d ever been in before. And she needed to be in perfect shape, since she would wear a bikini in the honeymoon beach scene.