by A. W. Gray
“You’ll think silly,” Sharon said, “once Milton Breyer is finished with you. Look, I’m not commenting on what Dallas County will or won’t do; that will come out in the wash. But talking to the police without an understanding, especially where you’re so near to the crime, that’s akin to suicide, and that goes double for talking to the newspapers. If Milton has no plans to indict you, that’s all well and good. But the newspapers are going to twist your words around to fit whatever slant they’re putting on the story, and telling them anything can’t possibly help you. And if what they say in print paints Dallas County in any sort of bad light, then granting an interview will prompt Milt Breyer to charge you out of spite. And I don’t care if your Mr. Verdon wrote the California Legal Statutes, if he’s advising you to talk to the media, he’s advising you wrong.”
Darla’s mouth quivered. Sharon had seen the expression before, and it meant that Darla was about to burst into tears. Which she always did at the most inconvenient times imaginable. Darla laid her palm alongside her face. “I just don’t know who to believe.”
“Try me,” Sharon said. “I don’t have a profit motive.”
Darla sniffled. “Will you please go with me? Explain all this to Chet?”
“He’s a lawyer, so he understands every smidgen of it. He sure doesn’t need me to lay it out. The problem is, he sounds like one of these publicity hounds.”
Darla began to shake, the preliminary to an outand-out bawling session. “Please go, Sharon. Whatever you tell me, I’ll do.”
Sharon got up, went over to the rail, and peered down at the sea. The scenery somehow didn’t seem as breathtaking as before. She had no business cutting in between Darla and her paid counsel, and was certain now that any meeting with Verdon would be a nasty scene. She was also Darla’s friend, of course.
She tossed off the rest of her scotch. “It’s almost two where I come from,” Sharon said. “Let’s sleep on it, Darla, okay?”
12
Sharon spent the night in a dead man’s bed, and had a bad dream. In the dream she stood at one end of a tunnel. Darla ran toward her, naked and panting from exertion, nameless beasts in pursuit, their forelegs sprouting hands with clawlike fingers. The fingers snatched at Darla’s breasts and buttocks and twisted in her hair. The monsters snarled like wolves. They had no faces, only slitted yellow eyes. Her legs pumping for all she was worth, Darla neared the end of the tunnel, where Sharon waited with open arms.
Sharon hugged Darla in a protective embrace, then shoved her back and stood between her and the monsters. The beast-things were on them at once, and Sharon lifted her hands as a shield. One monster’s teeth sank into her forearm, tearing away skin, muscle, and a chunk of bone. Sharon was drenched in blood. Her body was wet from head to toe.
She awoke with a chill and sat bolt upright. The sheets beneath her were soaked, and she’d kicked the covers into wilted pretzels of cloth. Morning daylight filtered in from the balcony. The bed lamp was on, and she switched it off. The clock showed a few minutes after seven. She stretched and yawned, stood up on padded carpet, and walked outside. Her T-shirt was wet with perspiration and rode up to expose her panties. The cool air made her shiver. She yanked down the T-shirt’s hem and covered herself to her knees.
The sun’s rays over the roof lent a yellowish tint to the rocks and painted the ocean crystal blue. The breakers were whiter than they’d appeared in night time. A string of buoys floated in the distance, rocking and bobbing. Nearer the shore, seagulls dove and struck and cawed. Sharon filled her lungs with the sweetest air imaginable and went back inside.
She bathed in a sunken Jacuzzi tub the size of her room back in Dallas, and turned on the jets for a while. A ledge was lined with every fragrant soap, shampoo, or body oil known to woman. Sharon selected lilac. She finished her bath, toweled herself to a healthy pink, blow-dried her hair, and went downstairs in a terry-cloth robe.
Darla had conducted the cook’s tour the night before, and the house had two kitchens. One was the standard bard’s variety, complete with island stove, and the other was a nook behind the bar which opened into both the den and the game room. The larger kitchen was deserted, so she passed through and walked toward the den. A sizzling noise reached her ears, and the odor of smoky maple bacon frying wafted into her nostrils. Visible inside the kitchenette, Lyndon Gray waved a spatula in greeting. He wore a cook’s hat and had an apron tied around his waist.
“Morning, miss,” he called out. “And you’ll have your eggs …?”
Sharon normally ate only a piece of toast for breakfast, but the salt air had made her ravenous. “Over easy,” she said. “Do you have orange juice?”
Gray’s arm dipped out of sight as he used the spatula to flip something over on the stove. “Frozen or squeezed?”
She blinked. “Squeezed. What if I’d said, Benedict with Hollandaise?”
He looked up mildly. “Is that what you want?” Her chin tilted. “No, just … over easy, please.”
“My pleasure, miss.” Gray raised his voice and looked through the window into the den. “Your pancakes will be ready in a moment, Miss Hays. Maple syrup or strawberry jam?” He grinned at Sharon. “The other Miss Hays, Miss Hays.”
Melanie answered, from somewhere around the corner, “The jam, Jeeves, the jam. Wow, you’re spoiling me.”
Gray smiled, picked up tongs, and expertly turned a slice of bacon. Sharon rounded the corner and entered the den.
Melanie was seated on a chintz sofa half the length of a football field. She was dead center on the cushions with a television remote in her lap. A sixty-inch television screen practically covered one wall of the den, and Joan Lunden’s image seemed seven feet tall. On the wall adjacent to the television was a case with plastic doors, its shelves lined with videotapes. Spring of the Comanche, four copies, five copies of Termination, a thriller in which David Spencer had appeared with Harrison Ford. Every tape in the case was one of Spencer’s movies. Sharon quickly scanned the titles. Nothing featuring Darla, unless it was one of the unlabeled cartridges near the bottom. She said to Melanie, “Sleep good?”
Melanie gave a sideways smirk. “Are you kidding? Slept none, Mom. I was awake at three a.m., and I’ve been sitting here fooling with this thing since four o’clock.”
Sharon sat on the end of the sofa and watched Good Morning, America. “You could get whiplash, like sitting on the front row in a movie theater.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Sharon’s tone sharpened. “Haven’t seen anything, Melanie. Haven’t seen anything.”
“Oh, be cool, Mom.” Melanie thumbed the remote, and as if by magic a program schedule appeared, superimposed over Joan Lunden’s image. The schedule was identical to the one in TV Guide, with times of day heading a row of columns in which various programs appeared. The top row was shaded. Melanie clicked something on the remote, and the shaded area moved down a row. She clicked some more, and the shaded area jumped downward until it covered a Three Stooges title. Melanie pressed a button. Joan Lunden vanished in a flash, and Sharon chuckled as Larry hit Curly in the face with a pie. Melanie said, “Satellite dish. Two hundred stations. Twenty or thirty movie channels. If I lived here, I’d watch TV all day, every day, and with Jeeves in there on duty I’d weigh a million pounds.”
“His name is Mr. Gray,” Sharon said. Her gaze roamed to the doorway through which she’d just entered the room. “At least you’ll have something to keep you occupied while I’m downtown with Miss Cowan.”
“Plenty occupied. I’m going on a tour of Hollywood.”
Sharon’s forehead tightened. “Oh? With whom?”
Melanie brought the schedule back up on the screen and moved the shaded area down. “Don’t worry, Mom. Just be cool.”
Sharon snatched the remote away and laid it on the coffee table. “I am cool. Let me tell you something, young lady.”
Melanie turned with a retort on her lips, then caught something in her mother’s look which caused her to close her mouth.
“You are thirteen years old,” Sharon said. “You’ve got several more years to put up with me, and put up you must. Now. What tour is this, and with whom?”
“Just something Jeeves said.” Melanie scooted down on the sofa.
Gray walked in from the kitchen carrying a plate of fluffy pancakes. “Do you wish to eat at the table, Miss Hays, that’s Miss Melanie Hays, or do you want service on the porch?” He stopped, took in the scene, and said to Sharon, “I’ve arranged entertainment for the young lady. I hope you don’t mind.”
Sharon stood. “Sure, if it’s safe.”
“Oh, it is right enough, ma’am. One of our operatives will take her to Universal Studios and on a tour of Hollywood homes. It’s quite the thing for visitors.”
Sharon frowned. “Your operatives?”
Gray nodded. “From our security agency. Mrs. Welton. She’s retired from the L.A. Police. Is a grandmother and quite taken with children.”
Sharon looked at Melanie, who was watching with a hopeful expression. She said to Gray, “Well, sure. The woman will be with her constantly?”
“Every step of the way, miss,” Gray said.
Sharon smiled at her daughter. “Of course, then.” She stepped around the sofa “I was wondering, all those videotapes. There are none of Darla’s movies?” Gray looked toward the stand-up case. His forehead wrinkled. “Mr. Spencer was taken with his image on the screen. Miss Cowan wasn’t taken with hers, so they compromised by watching him.”
“Not even those blanks…?”
Gray seemed puzzled, then his gaze rested on the unlabeled cartridges near the bottom of the case. “Oh, no, miss. That’s a project of mine.”
Sharon looked at him.
“I’ve recorded every news report I can since Mr.
Spencer’s death.” Gray pointed at a VCR on a low table in the comer. The red light glowed, indicating that the machine was on. “I’m taping CNN even as we speak. Just anticipating, miss, that Miss Cowan’s defense team should review them if the worst happens for her.”
Sharon was impressed. “Marvelous idea, Mr. Gray. You’ve got quite a bit of law enforcement training, don’t you?”
“Some.” Gray stepped toward the kitchen. “Your eggs will be ready soon.”
Sharon grinned as a thought came to her. “How do you take your martinis, Mr. Gray?”
Gray paused in the doorway, then showed a smile of his own. “Stirred, Miss Hays. That shaking bit, that bruises the gin.” He disappeared into the alcove.
Sharon followed and stood behind the Englishman as he expertly flipped sizzling eggs with a spatula.
“Has Darla already eaten?” Sharon asked.
Gray’s features creased in worry. “I fancy she’s in a bit of a foul mood. She didn’t respond when I rang her up.”
Sharon glanced at the clock on the mantel. “If we’re to be downtown by ten, she’d better get a move on.”
Gray looked perturbed. “Miss Cowan’s wants are changeable, I’ve discovered.” He had the look of a man speaking from experience.
So that’s the deal, Sharon thought. She chewed her lip. She’d given Darla a pretty good verbal thrashing last night As retribution Darla had gotten up this morning and decided to be difficult. In her off-Broadway days she’d driven more than one director bananas, and Sharon could imagine what she was like now that she was a major star. For just how long the actress might pout was anybody’s guess; Darla’s highs and lows were far enough apart to be on the manic-depressive side. Once in New York, after a director had given her a dressing-down, Darla had refused to come out of her room for two or three days. Sharon had considered herself a better than passable actress, in the eighty percentile range, but Darla’s talent had been ten zillion cuts above. The really great ones, a writer had once told Sharon, are ninety percent schizo. Of all the times, Sharon thought. Of all the freaking times.
She strode briskly through the den as Gray paused in the kitchen door. “I’ll have a word with Miss Cowan, Mr. Gray,” Sharon said.
Gray seemed relieved. “I was hoping you would. Sometimes a woman’s touch …”
As Sharon left the room, she threw the Englishman a confident wink. “Better hold the eggs, okay?” she said. “You just keep providing the muscle, Mr. Gray, and leave the celebrity pampering up to me. I’ve got a teenage daughter I’ve been practicing on.”
Sharon climbed the stairs and hustled down the hallway with terry cloth swirling around her calves. She felt as if she’d checked into the inn at Bonkersville. Thirteen years removed from showbiz, she’d forgotten the problems involved in dealing with High-Strung Artist Syndrome. Once long ago she’d lured Darla onstage for Act II by promising to do her nails. She reached the door to Darla’s bedroom and knocked softly.
“Go away.” The door muffled Darla’s voice. “It’s Sharon, sweetie. Mind if I come in?”
“Sharon who? I used to have a friend named Sharon.”
Sharon scratched her chin. She knocked again. more firmly this time. “Open up, Darla. We need to visit.”
“Visit about what? You’ve made your feelings clear.”
Sharon puffed out her lower lip and blew upward through her bangs, and rested clenched fists on her waist. “Well, let me make them clearer. I’m worried to death about you.”
“Hah!”
“Darla, if you don’t get ready and come with me to your attorney’s office, Texas may very well issue a warrant and haul you back to Dallas in handcuffs.” And likely will anyway, Sharon thought, though telling Darla now would only create more problems.
“Let them, then.”
Sharon rolled her eyes.
“Besides, you told me you weren’t going,” Darla said.
Sharon sighed in exasperation. “I said no such thing.”
“Did, too.”
“I said we’d sleep on it.”
“I’m not any publicity hound, Sharon. I didn’t ask for this.”
It was an effort, but Sharon softened her voice into a sympathetic purr. “No one said that you did. You’re a victim of circumstance if ever there was one.”
“Damn right. Not that anyone cares.”
Sharon gently jiggled the door handle. “Come on, let me in.”
“No. Go away.”
Sharon actually took a step in the direction of the stairs. To hell with Darla, let her learn about the justice system the hard way. Then she had a flashback, Darla in a hospital room thirteen years ago, holding Melanie in her arms. She’d looked as if she was afraid of hurting the baby, and had looked upon Melanie with an adoration akin to worship. Sharon sidled up to the door and gently knocked. She tried her last resort. “Can’t we talk things over?” she cooed. “Come on, I’ll do your nails.”
There was silence, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. The latch clicked. The footsteps retreated.
Sharon pushed the door halfway open. Darla was seated at a vanity wearing a shortie nightgown. She’d set Pearl Drops polish and a bottle of remover in front of her. Her hair was disheveled. Even without makeup Darla Cowan was one of the most stunning women Sharon had ever laid eyes on.
Sharon walked over and leaned a hip against the vanity. “You’re having one helluva time of it, aren’t you?”
Darla extended a hand, fingers spread. “I’m not promising I’ll go.”
Sharon reached for the polish remover. “I think you should. You must. If I wasn’t your friend, I wouldn’t be telling you that.”
Darla’s lower lip trembled. “Will you look out for me with those lawyers?”
Sharon briskly shook the bottle. The liquid gurgled and glugged. She uncapped the bottle, soaked a cotton ball with polish remover, and used her free hand to grip Darla’s forefin
ger lightly. “Of course I will.”
Darla testily crossed her legs. “You have to, Sharon,” she said.
Mrs. Welton turned out to be totally no sweat, as far as Melanie’s safety was concerned. She was British like Lyndon Gray, a trim woman who could have been fifty, and five minutes after she arrived at the house she and Melanie were thick as thieves. As Mrs. Welton opened her purse to exhibit pictures of her granddaughter, the butt of a pistol protruded above the compact box of Kleenex and package of Beechnut gum stowed inside. Sometime during her visit Mrs. Welton winked at Sharon and said conspiratorially, “She’ll be fine with me, ma’am.” Sharon quit worrying on the spot.
Later she stood beside the limo along with Gray and Yadaka, and watched the Jag stop inside the gate with Mrs. Welton behind the wheel. Melanie sat in the passenger seat, giggling. She was coordinated in red from head to toe, and wore big, round sunglasses perched atop her head. Visible through the Jag’s rear window, Mrs. Welton fiddled with something on the dashboard. The electronic gate hummed open. The Jag rolled smoothly out and turned down the mountain road toward the freeway as the gate swung closed.
Sharon turned conversationally to Yadaka. “What do you guys do when you’re not playing nursemaid?” She’d yet to hear the Oriental utter a word, and halfway expected him to say he went home, left his shoes outside, and sat cross-legged on the floor while enjoying a nice warm sake.
Instead Yadaka folded his arms. “There’s a couple of dance joints out in the Valley,” he said in an accentless tenor. “After a day of guarding this lady, I gotta let my hair down.”
Sharon closed her mouth. She was dressed in a summer-weight gray courtroom suit and medium black heels, and had a red filmy scarf around her throat to add a splash of color. She turned to Gray. “You go along with him?” she said.
The Englishman had replaced his chef’s outfit with a black suit, complete with bulge under his arm. “I’m past all that, Miss Hays, and I’ve got children at home. I leave the partying up to Benny.”
