He said he'd already eaten and disappeared into the study. A storm had blown up in the afternoon and was still raging. This time Edward offered only a token protest when Violet insisted he let her stay the night.
"I'll be quite comfy in the guest room,” she said, adding coyly: “After all, it's not the first time I've slept there."
Edward, seemingly intent upon dulling his anxiety with whiskey, did not react. Making a show of tidying the room as Edward slumped on the sofa, Violet said passingly: “You don't suppose she found out, do you, Edward?"
"Found out what?” His weary gaze focused on her with sudden sharpness.
"Well, you know ... about us."
"What about us?"
"My dear, it's no use pretending it didn't happen, not anymore."
"What are you talking about?"
She felt suddenly angry. Why was he being so obtuse? It required all her self-control to keep from blurting out the truth of what she'd done for him.
"I'm talking about us. About the night Audrey asked me to stay over, and what happened. We needn't pretend any longer, Edward. She's gone, that's all that matters. How or why is of no importance. She isn't coming back."
No alcoholic fuzziness in his eyes or voice now. “How do you know that?"
Had she gone too far? “Well, I don't know, of course, but how else can you read the evidence? If she'd found out about us..."
Edward's look of amazement collapsed into a smile of amused disbelief. “My God, Vi, where are you coming from? Nothing's been going on between us."
"You know what I mean. That night. What you said—and did."
"Oh God, you can't possibly have misunderstood that. Look, it was all my fault. I admitted that. Don't ask me why it happened. I'd had a tiff with Audrey. I was drunk, feeling sorry for myself. It was a stupid mistake. I'm sorry."
This was not at all the scenario Violet had contemplated with such fond anticipation. But she didn't blame Edward. She blamed herself. Poor darling, how could he concentrate on anything at the moment aside from what had happened? Now was hardly the time to remind him of his infidelity; he must be feeling guilty enough already. Now was the time to offer sympathy and compassion. He needed her, as he would soon discover.
"No, Edward, I'm the one who's sorry. You're right. Now isn't the time to think about us. You'll see things more clearly in the morning."
* * * *
Detective Nobbs arrived at the house not long after Edward had left for the office the following morning. Violet explained that Nobbs had just missed him.
"I know. It wasn't Mr. Fisher I wanted to see. I thought you and I might have a little chat. When I was here before I had a hunch that Mr. Fisher's presence put a certain—restraint on you."
"I don't understand,” said Violet, only faintly alarmed. Nobbs hadn't ventured beyond the pool and terrace on his first visit; he could have discovered nothing.
"You worked closely with Mrs. Fisher. You must have been aware of any domestic trouble between her and her husband."
"Quite the contrary. They got along fine."
"Then tell me what you think happened."
"Isn't it obvious? She packed her bag and flew away. Don't ask me why."
"No one claims to have seen Mrs. Fisher at the airport. She was not listed as a passenger on any of the day's commuter flights."
Violet floundered. “So maybe she left her car there to throw anyone off the scent. Maybe someone picked her up."
Nobbs jumped on this. “Are you implying that she might have been involved with someone?"
"Indeed not. She's devoted to Edward."
Nobbs looked around appraisingly. “As I understand it all this is actually hers, right? Inherited from her father the Senator. House, money, everything?"
"So what's that got to do with anything?"
"Possibly nothing."
"Look here,” she said, hotly indignant, “you're not suggesting Edward had anything to do with Audrey's disappearance, I hope."
"There's no indication of that, so far. Mrs. Randolph verified Mr. Fisher's story about the dinner date. We know that Mr. Fisher was already at his office when she called Mrs. Fisher to confirm the date. According to Mr. Landry, Mr. Fisher didn't leave his office all day. You said you arrived here about noon and found nothing amiss, except for Mrs. Fisher's absence."
Violet nodded. “Audrey must have packed and taken off sometime after Edward left the house and before I got here. What more can I tell you?"
* * * *
Edward called that afternoon to tell Violet he was having dinner with Audrey's lawyer and would spend the night in town with a friend and see her in the morning.
"I'm sorry about everything, Vi. We'll have a good talk when I see you."
This pretty speech boosted Violet's spirits. Everything was going to be all right. Edward had realized how much he needed her. Her happiness suffered a slight rebuff, however, when Edward came home in the company of his young assistant.
Violet had laid the table on the terrace beside the pool and had prepared a lovely breakfast, the sort Edward probably hadn't enjoyed in years.
"I'll set another plate,” she said, feigning delight at seeing Landry, and added, to Edward: “Everything you really like. Time someone spoiled you."
Edward grinned at Landry. “I don't know what Audrey would do without Violet. She'd mother me if I gave her the chance."
The word mother didn't sit well with Violet but she faked amusement. “No word from Audrey, Edward?"
"No."
"Well, cheer up. I'm sure you'll hear something today."
Edward's night in town had seemingly restored his spirits; he was visibly in no need of cheering up. Violet poured the coffee and they all sat down.
Violet's few encounters with Landry had left her unimpressed and vaguely distrustful. She found the young man's familiar manner toward his employer inappropriate. Nor did his looks appeal to her. Too cute for her liking, one of those snub-nosed, fair-haired, and blue-eyed angel-with-muscles types.
Avoiding the subject of Audrey's disappearance, the two men talked shop throughout the meal, leaving Violet with the disagreeable feeling of being the invisible woman. Presently, Landry excused himself. “I'd better get my bags from the car and drive you back to the office, Ed."
"You needn't bother. Why don't you stay here and settle in?"
"Settle in?” said Violet, nonplussed.
Edward finished his coffee, said lightly: “Todd's moving in until we hear something."
Ominous tidings, indeed. “But Edward, I'll be here. You won't be alone."
"Vi, dear, you've done more than enough. There's no point in your doing any further work until we hear from Audrey. I know you must be eager to get back to your own place. It's high time you had a holiday."
No, this was not going right at all. “I don't want a holiday. I want to keep working on the book until Audrey returns. She'd expect me to."
"We don't know if Audrey's going to return,” said Edward, rising and following Landry from the terrace. Violet trailed after them, her face blank with dismay. Landry here? Spoiling everything? Unthinkable.
As the young man fetched his bags from the car and carried them upstairs, Violet seized Edward's arm. “I don't understand. We don't need him here."
"No, but he's kindly offered to stay. Please, Vi, I don't wish to discuss it."
"Edward, you can't just throw me out like this."
"I'm not throwing you out. Be sensible."
"After what I've done for you?"
"You've embarrassed me, Vi, that's what you've done. And I don't think Audrey's going to want you working for her. Not after I tell her about your—fantasies.” He opened the car door and looked around at her. “I want you gone when I get back from the office. You can leave your key with Todd."
Before she could protest he was in the car and driving away. She could not have been more shocked if he'd driven the car straight into her body. When she finally found the strength to
move she walked slowly into the house, turning blindly into the study and shutting the door behind her.
When she came out a few minutes later Landry, wearing only bathing trunks, came tripping lightly down the stairs.
"If anyone calls,” he said, “I'll be in the pool."
Seething with the cruel injustice of it all, Violet followed him out onto the terrace.
"You lied to the police!” she cried. “You told them Edward never left his office that morning."
Landry shrugged. “He never did. What the hell are you going on about?"
"He killed Audrey! And you're covering up for him."
"You're crazy. What put that idea in your mind?"
"I risked my life for him! He thought I wouldn't be here that day. My taxi was just approaching when I saw his car speed out of the driveway. I found Audrey dead on the lawn. He'd killed her with a croquet mallet. I suppose he thought it would be blamed on an intruder. Never! Police aren't that dumb. He would never have got away with it. I had to protect him. I had to make it look as if she'd run away. I buried her down by the river and left her car at the airport. I saved Edward's life. Because I loved him. Because I thought he loved me."
Landry stared at her with astonished disbelief. “So that's what happened. My God, it was you."
"I buried her. I didn't kill her. Edward did. Now I don't care who knows it."
His sudden burst of laughter jarred her into silence. “You're wrong, you know. Ed didn't kill her. I did. It was me driving away in Ed's car. When he told me she'd vanished I couldn't believe it. It seemed like some kind of bizarre joke. I've gone nuts wondering what the hell happened to her body."
Violet swayed. "You? But why?"
"Because she'd found out about Ed and me. She came across a letter I'd been dumb enough to write to him. She was going to dump him. He'd have lost everything. All this, the business, every damn thing."
"Edward? And you?"
"Shocks you, does it? Imagine how Audrey felt."
Feeling too weak to stand, Violet reached out for the chaise beside the pool and sank down upon it. It was all for nothing. All a waste. Shutting her eyes to hold back the tears, she wasn't aware that Landry had moved until he was standing behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders.
"You look all hot and bothered, love,” he whispered in her ear. “I think we both need a dip."
* * * *
He was changing when the doorbell rang. Shirtless, he waited for whoever it was to go away; when the bell kept ringing he quickly ran a comb through his damp hair and went down to answer it.
He recognized the detective who'd questioned him at the office.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Landry,” said Nobbs. “We're here to see Miss Rusken. She called a few minutes ago, said she had something very important to tell us about Mr. Fisher."
Landry's lips formed the semblance of a smile. “Sorry, you just missed her. She left a few minutes ago."
Before Nobbs could reply a uniformed officer appeared beside him. “You'd better come around to the pool, sir,” he said to Nobbs. “I think I've found her."
Copyright © 2009 by Donald Olson
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: A HOLLYWOOD ENDING by Melodie Johnson Howe
* * * *
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
Here with another in the series of Hollywood mysteries she's been writing for EQMM (starring struggling, middle-aged actress Diana Poole), is sometime novelist and former actress Melodie Johnson Howe. These days Ms. Howe mostly devotes her time to her superb short stories, but she also teaches creative writing and regularly blogs on subjects of interest to mystery readers and writers. Check out her regular Tuesday contributions at www.criminalbrief.com. The site's special focus is short fiction.
"Your daughter is waiting for you in the lobby, ma'am.” The banquet waiter hovered over me, balancing a tray of coffeepots and cups.
I was sitting at a table of ten women at a Planned Parenthood luncheon being held in the banquet room of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The women were movie producers, production executives, a director, and an agent. Enormous crystal chandeliers splattered their prismatic patterns of light on us like stardust.
"I don't have a daughter,” I told him.
"She pointed you out.” He moved off to serve the next table.
"Did he say your daughter, Diana?” Beth Dawson sat next to me. She was a producer who had hired me for a small part in her last movie.
"He made a mistake. We're in a ballroom filled with women."
We looked around at the well-dressed, high-powered females. It was a typical Hollywood fund-raiser—two million dollars in veneered teeth, three million in face-lifts, four million in pumped-up breasts and puffed-up lips. The rest, as they say, “Priceless."
"I always seem to be surrounded by women,” Beth said drily, adjusting the collar of her pink spring jacket.
As with all the things I do now, I was here because it might be good for my career. My husband Colin, a screenwriter, had died suddenly of a heart attack over a year ago. He left me with what the realtors euphemistically call a “teardown” in Malibu, an old Jaguar, two Oscars—each for Best Screenplay—an empty bank account, and an emptier heart. So I had gone back to what I had been doing before I married him—acting. Except now I was older and the parts were fewer.
I stared at the voluptuous flower arrangement, tuning out the female lawyer who was droning on at the podium, and reflected on how most of us at our table were premenopausal, menopausal, and postmenopausal. And how nature had its own prepared plans for us. Sighing, I brushed napkin lint from my pencil-slim black skirt and fiddled with the cuffs of my white silk blouse. Then I found myself peering back at the row of large double doors that led to the lobby. I realized I was looking for a girl searching for her mother.
* * * *
Two hours later I was outside the hotel waiting for my old Jag as the luncheon women scurried into their sleek cars, the high-powered engines purring.
"Are you Diana Poole?” the hotel doorman asked, approaching.
"Yes."
"Your daughter described you perfectly. She said to tell you she couldn't wait. She'd meet you at home."
"My daughter gave you my name anddescribed me?"
He nodded. “To a T."
"What did she look like?"
"Your daughter?” He frowned, taken aback by my question. “Blond."
"How old?"
"You don't know?"
"No, I don't. Tell me."
"Hard to tell. Twenties? You don't look old enough to have a daughter that age."
"That would be an even better compliment if I did have a daughter that age."
He looked completely bewildered. I didn't blame him.
* * * *
Driving back to Malibu, I opened the windows and the sunroof because I couldn't get the Jag's heater to turn off. Sweat ran down the inside of my legs. The wind pulled at my determinedly blond hair. I kept thinking about the waiter telling me about my daughter. I'd dismissed him by thinking he'd got the wrong woman. But now the conversation with the hotel doorman unnerved me. My daughter was going to meet me at home? My home? My daughter?
I began to wonder what a daughter of mine would look like. She would be a natural blonde as I once had been. Her eyes would be blue like mine, too. While my features were settling into a look of defiant permanence, hers would be full of anticipation and discovery. Another loss as breathtaking as my husband's death washed over me. I'd never had a child. Career first. Then Colin's career. Stop it, Diana. I go to a Planned Parenthood luncheon and end up with a phantom daughter. I tried to smile at the irony of the situation, but the sweat on my legs had turned cold.
I checked the rearview mirror to see if a young woman in search of her mother was following me home.
* * * *
My house, wedged between Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean, was a one-story wood-and-stucco left over from the sixties. Unlocking
the front door, I stepped into the tiled foyer and stopped. Listening. The house was just as quiet as it always was when I returned home nowadays. What was I expecting? Still, I felt wary as I walked into the living room. The shabby but not chic furniture, Colin's two Oscars on the fireplace mantel, and the water stain on the ceiling looked exactly as they should. Nothing disturbed.
I went into the kitchen and turned on the small TV, a habit I'd developed to wipe away the isolating silence. A twenty-four-hour cable news station broke the quiet. Two sexy, pretty blondes who looked as if they'd been cloned were talking about how bad everything was. I felt better.
As I put my purse on the breakfast table, I noticed the knife drawer was open. Had I left it open? I peered into it. Were they all there? How would I know? Colin had been a great cook. The only knife I used was to open takeout cartons. I wasn't sure what utensils I had or didn't have. I slammed the drawer shut. Get a grip, Diana.
I went into the bedroom to kick off my high heels and get out of my too-tight skirt. I stopped dead. The bed was perfectly made. I knew I hadn't made it this morning. As usual, I'd been running late. Or did I make it? I couldn't remember what I'd done or hadn't done. Inconsistency had become consistent in my life since Colin's death. Then I felt my body tense with an animal-like alertness and I knew there was another person in the room. I whirled around.
A young woman, in her early twenties, leaned casually against the jamb of the bathroom doorway. Her hair was bleached blond. Her sharp, intelligent eyes were an appealing gray-blue. They matched the color of her sweater. Low-riding jeans revealed a flat, muscular midriff. She held her hands behind her back.
"I made the bed for you,” she said, smiling. Perfect white teeth.
"Thank you,” I said stupidly.
"You should get your security alarm fixed."
"Can't afford to.” My heart was racing now. “What are you doing in my house?"
Ignoring the question, she took her hands from behind her back. She held a gun. I took a step back. She pointed the weapon at me as if it were the most natural thing to do under the circumstances.
"You shouldn't leave your bedroom window open. Anybody could break in. You don't remember me, do you?"
EQMM, July 2009 Page 15
