by Dianne Emley
“Mark won’t answer his cell phone or return my calls. His secretary said he slept in his office last night. She said he left to shower and shave, but he must have done it at the club because he didn’t come home. He keeps clothes in his gym locker. His secretary said he was upset after those detectives came by. Everyone in the office is wondering what’s going on.”
“Is it unusual for him not to take your calls?” Crowley’s calmness soothed Hale. She wished he was there with her instead of just on the phone. It was an illicit thought, but she indulged in it.
“Yes. Even when he goes on benders in Vegas, he calls to check in.”
“It’s too soon to report him missing. His secretary saw him this morning. You said he’s erratic sometimes.”
“I just have a bad feeling.” Hale paced the floor of her bedroom. “I’m afraid he suspects something … You know, between us.”
“How could he? It barely happened.”
“Hard to believe it was only Monday.”
“I can’t believe it either, Dena. This is going to sound corny, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”
Hale let out a sob. She had vowed to end it with Crowley, but he was the only one she felt she could turn to now.
“Babe, I didn’t mean to make you cry. That’s not the response I expected.”
“I’m sorry, Bowie. I’m just so confused right now. We got hot and heavy pretty fast.”
“Yeah, did we …”
His comment made her feel embarrassed about the way she’d impulsively jumped in the sack with him. She was so stupid. She blurted, “I think we should just be friends,” which made her cry harder. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not stupid. You’re right. We shouldn’t be having sex.”
“It’s wrong and I feel so guilty. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I know, Dena. Look, I’m your friend. I really am. You can count on me. You can talk to me. Anything. Whatever you need, I’m there. Promise.”
In the ensuing silence, he heard her sniffling.
“You gonna be okay, Dena? You want me to come over?”
“I’d love it, but it’s a bad idea.”
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep? Things always look worse when you’re tired.”
“I’ll make some chamomile tea and curl up in bed with House and Garden.”
“Still, I can’t help but wish you were curling up with me.”
“Bowie …”
“All right. I’ll stop.”
She didn’t want him to stop, but it was the right thing to do.
“Dena, I’m right here at home. Call me if you need me.”
Having put on her favorite cotton nightgown, the one with hand shirring, Hale brewed chamomile tea in the mug that Dahlia had brought back from a trip to Italy she had taken with her high school girls’ chorus. Hale splurged and nibbled on a piece of buttery shortbread from a basket of treats a corporate sponsor had sent to her TV show. Before she realized it, she’d consumed an entire wedge and was halfway through a second. She tucked the remaining half back beneath the cellophane wrapper and took her mug of tea upstairs, where her magazine waited.
Before heading to bed, she went into Luddy’s room. He was sound asleep. As she straightened his bed coverings, her sadness and confusion overwhelmed her. Her eyes grew teary, but she didn’t give in. No more. She had to keep her head on straight. She gave her son a kiss while he slept.
She then knocked on Dahlia’s door and found her sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop on her thighs and her iPod headphones in her ears.
Her daughter greeted her with a put-out look and a question whose delivery sounded more academic than caring. “Have you been crying, Mom?”
“I was watching a sad movie. You know me.”
Dahlia resumed tapping the keyboard. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m going to bed. I’m kind of tired.”
“Okay … G’night.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“G’night.”
In her suite of rooms, Hale called her husband again on his cell phone, not leaving a message this time. She’d already left two. Before she climbed into bed, she said a prayer for his safety and requested divine intervention in her life to help show her the way. She turned out the lights. Through the open windows, a gentle, cooling breeze blew across her skin and the sheet that covered her.
The herbal tea made her drowsy, but even as exhausted as she was, her mind raced. She tried deep breathing and relaxation techniques. When that didn’t help, she focused on the hypnotic sawing of the crickets. What finally helped was a forbidden image of herself in Bowie’s arms. They were on a sailboat on a calm turquoise sea, far away, and the waves rocked the boat, back and forth.…
Sometime later, she woke to sounds of splashing in the pool. She groggily squinted at the clock and saw that it was 2:13 a.m. She rose from her bed and went to the window. The motion lights at the rear of the property had been tripped. Someone was in the pool. She couldn’t see clearly, as the lights only illuminated the part of the pool closest to the gate, but she could tell it was Mark by the noise he was making. He was a graceless swimmer, uncomfortable with the fluidity of water. He didn’t like the pool much. She was surprised to find him there, of all places.
She grabbed a light robe, slid her feet into flip-flops, and went outside through the French doors in the library.
When he saw her coming toward him across the garden, he dogpaddled beyond the range of the light and began treading water. He was nude. “There she is, Miss America,” he sang, off-key and out of breath. “Dena. My wife. My reason for living.”
“Mark, what are you doing?”
“Swimming!” he exclaimed, as if it couldn’t be more obvious.
“I can see that. Why?”
He moved to where his feet touched the bottom, yet he remained in shadows.
She noticed his clothes piled on one of the chairs that was pulled away from a table in the corner of the pool deck.
“Why am I swimming, you ask, my wifely? Because I feel like it. You say I never do anything creative. That I’m not spontaneous.” He intentionally draped the word with sibilant hissing that he hoped Dena found intimidating.
Scoville was in a great mood. He didn’t feel bad about bashing in the thug’s head. That guy was vermin. It had been a case of survival of the fittest. It was the law of the jungle and the Wild West. He had prevailed. He was the man. He had never been “the man.” He had to admit, it felt great. Maybe even better than sex. He had always been intrigued by murder’s practical aspects, but he was surprised to find it so empowering. He understood its enduring appeal.
“I’ll get you a robe.” She headed toward his pile of clothes.
“Whoa. What are you doing?”
“I’m going to pick up your clothes.”
“Don’t worry about them.”
“I’ll put them away for you.”
“Dena, leave the clothes alone.” His tone was more insistent yet flat, as if issuing a command to a dog.
She stopped a few feet from the patio table and chairs, wincing, not certain she’d heard him correctly. “Mark, what’s going on?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, my lovely. My lovely wifely.”
She was startled when the motion lights shut off. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed how bright the moon was. Still, with the dark bushes behind him, she couldn’t see him at all. “I was asleep. I heard you splashing out here.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I’m not getting this conversation.”
“Oh, I bet you are.”
The tone of his voice confused her. He was clearly putting on an act, but there was something else there. Something different and unnerving. “You must be cold.”
“Dena, why are you so concerned about my comfort all of a sudden?”
“I’m always concerned about you. Of course I am.”
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“Save your concern for Bowie Crowley.”
Her lips parted. The moment of surprise was fleeting, and she wondered if he detected it. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Stop treating me like I’m stupid. I know about you and the author.”
He correctly interpreted her silence. “I saw you, Dena. I saw you with him through the living room windows.”
She closed her eyes.
“Don’t think about leaving me.”
Her distress turned to outrage. “Are you threatening me?”
“You know what they say. Shit happens.”
She planted her hands on her hips and gaped at his silhouette, the only view the moon allowed.
“You seem bewildered, Dena. What’s the problem, my sweet? I bet I know what it is. You don’t think I have it in me. You don’t think I have the balls to do something … dangerous.”
She stared at his dark shadow and the water flecked with moonlight.
“You think I’m too big a wuss to pose a real threat, don’t you?”
He continued speaking in that low, insidious tone, slapping the surface of the water as he made his points.
“Dena, you think you’re the great interviewer. You know how to read people, how to work them, how to get them to spill their guts on TV for entertainment.” He moved closer, walking in the water. “But your critics are right. You are all fluff and no substance. You can’t see past the surface of people. Take me, for example. You have no idea who I am and what I might be capable of. After all these years, my subtleties elude you. You thought there were no subtleties, didn’t you? In fact, you have no idea who you’re married to.”
Maybe she wasn’t Barbara Walters, but she knew enough not to discount a threat. She unhinged her arms, letting them drop to her sides. The better to flee. Keeping her eyes on him, she took a step backward.
The motion lights clicked on. She saw his battered face. Her hand flew to her mouth. “What happened to …?”
Something else caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Walking quickly to his clothing on the patio chair, she picked up his shirt. Her mouth twisted with revulsion when she saw the blood-soaked garments.
“There’s blood on your clothes.”
He started furiously splashing through the water as he moved toward the pool steps.
Still clutching the shirt, she ran, not looking back. Her flip-flops somehow stayed on her feet as she sprinted across the gravel path through the garden. He was behind her. She heard him cursing, the pea-size gravel cutting his bare feet.
Reaching the house, she dashed into the library through the glass door, locking it behind her. She snatched up a cordless phone and punched 911 as she headed for the stairs. Her footsteps alternately slapped against hardwood and were muffled against the Oriental rugs as she ran.
Scoville was outside the library doors, pounding on the wooden frame, shaking the doorknob. “Dena! Let me in if you know what’s good for you.”
She prayed he wouldn’t break the glass, counting on him not wanting to destroy the panes of handblown glass imprinted with the family crest that his father had imported from Italy. Running up the curved staircase, taking the steps two at a time, still clutching the bloody shirt, she panted into the phone, “Hello? I need … the police … right away. My husband. I’m afraid he’s … going to hurt me. My children.”
Dahlia’s door opened and she appeared on the landing.
Hale grabbed Dahlia’s arm and flung her in the direction of Hale’s suite of rooms. When the girl staggered a few steps and seemed confused, Hale forcefully pointed and ordered, “Go.”
She then ran to Luddy’s room, saying into the phone, “He’s outside. I’ve locked him outside.”
She jumped and Dahlia screamed at the sound of broken glass, followed by a thud of something hitting the dining room table, crashing into the crystal chandelier.
Banging open the door to Luddy’s room, Hale saw her son, the deep sleeper, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
“He’s broken in. I’m getting my children.” Hale jerked Luddy harder than she had intended to. She was losing her composure. She told the dispatcher, “Get the police here now!”
Downstairs, she heard Scoville cursing and hoped he’d cut his feet on the broken glass.
“Run to Mommy’s bedroom, Luddy. Fast. Don’t stop. Wait there for me.”
The boy was faster than she was, running like mad to where his sister held her arms open in the doorway to Hale’s suite.
As Hale crossed the top of the broad staircase right behind her son, the toe of her rubber flip-flop caught on the edge of the runner. She yelped and windmilled her arms, trying to regain her balance. The phone, still connected to 911, was in one hand, Scoville’s bloody shirt in the other.
He was running up the staircase, raging incoherently.
Hale regained her footing and ran, but not quickly enough. He lunged at her, grabbing one ankle, landing across the steps, and bashing into the banister, pulling her foot out from under her. He broke through several of the old balusters and slipped halfway over the edge of the staircase. He held on to her to keep from falling.
She began slipping backward with him, and with both hands she grabbed the leg of an armoire on the landing. The heavy piece of furniture slid on the floor under the pressure of their combined weight, stopping when it hit the runner.
Scoville swung one leg back onto the stairs and pulled himself up, his fist twisting Hale’s thin nightgown, which was now pulled taut around her neck. She choked and struggled to breathe. The armoire teetered against the edge of the runner, threatening to tumble onto them.
Dahlia ran from where she’d been crouching in the doorway, shielding Luddy. She picked up the phone that Hale had dropped and, with a roundhouse swing, bashed it against the side of Scoville’s head. It stunned him long enough for Hale to break free.
Dahlia helped her up and they ran to the open door of the suite. Hale shoved Dahlia inside and leaped to clear the distance herself, one hand flinging the door closed, when she was brought up short.
Scoville had grabbed hold of her ponytail. Hale’s head snapped back.
Dahlia snatched her mother’s arm.
Hale held on to the heavy old door, smashing it against herself. Scoville still held fast to her hair. Her lower body was inside while her head and shoulders belonged to him. Dahlia wailed and cried, but she held on to Hale’s arm as hard as she could. Scoville got his hands around Hale’s throat.
She couldn’t breathe.
Dahlia braced her foot against the doorjamb, pulling on Hale’s arm with both hands. She screamed, “Let her go, let her go!”
Hale saw spots before her eyes. Still she clung to the door, the weight of her body painfully squeezing it against her.
All of a sudden, Scoville cried out and released Hale. Dahlia pulled her inside, the momentum causing them to collide and crash to the floor.
Luddy slammed the door closed and turned the bolt lock, a remnant from when Mark’s mother used to barricade herself from her husband’s rages. Luddy leaned against the secured door.
Bewildered, his mother and sister looked up at him from the floor. Breathing hoarsely, Hale gingerly rubbed her neck.
Luddy opened his hand and dropped a sterling silver letter opener Hale kept on her desk. It had been a gift from Scoville when she’d landed the cohost spot on Hello L.A. He’d had it engraved “To Dena, the costar of my heart.”
Outside, they heard Scoville’s Porsche.
Dahlia bolted to her feet and ran to the side window in time to see the sports car’s taillights veer crazily as it sped around the corner and out of sight.
THIRTY-THREE
Scoville wondered why the police were taking so long to respond to Dena’s 911 call. He was prepared to go out in a gunfight. A hail of bullets. At least he’d leave this world standing on his feet. Nude, but on his feet.
He drove fast, yet not too fast, on the surface streets, avoiding major t
horoughfares when he could and keeping off the freeway, where he’d be easy to spot. He’d lived most of his life in this part of the city and knew it like the back of his hand.
While he was driving, he dug inside his gym bag in the storage area behind the seats and pulled out shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. He twisted the rearview mirror to get a look at his face and almost didn’t recognize himself. The sight was both horrifying yet strangely fun, as if he was wearing a Halloween mask.
At a stoplight, he pulled on the shorts and T. He ran his hand down the blood on his thigh from where Luddy had stabbed him. At another stop, he opened his briefcase, took out the gun Jenkins had given him, and set it beneath his seat. On the floor of the passenger side was the leaping cat hood ornament, sticky with blood and brain matter from his bookie’s hapless henchman.
Scoville recalled something his mother used to tell him, claiming it was a Native American proverb: “Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.” The sort of Hallmark-card philosophy his mother tried to pass off as wisdom. His father, of course, had laughed at her. But now, Scoville saw the truth in the adage, and he enhanced it with personal experience: Don’t judge a murderer until you’ve wielded your own bloodied blunt instrument.
Scoville was now a member of a different club. He was no longer one of the men who lived in the shadow of demanding fathers and passive mothers. He no longer shuffled along in the great line of also-rans, wielding good but not stellar report cards, bringing home trophies for “Most Improved” and “Best Sportsmanship” while he watched others collect honors for first, second, or third place. He’d have been happy with third place. Now, he possessed a more potent trophy—a heavy hood ornament covered with a man’s blood and brains. A dead man. And Mark Scoville was the man—the man—who had made him that way.
Now he was off with a loaded gun to make his next kill. Bowie Crowley. He didn’t have to take crap from the Bowie Crowleys of the world any longer. Or even from the Dena Hales. Both of them were social-climbing hicks who overestimated their value in the world. Or even from bullies like Jack Jenkins. He’d kill Crowley all right. He’d kill him and then kill Jenkins and frame him. He had wanted to kill Dena too, but whatever. Best in the long run not to leave his son motherless. Still, it had been good fun seeing her face when he’d messed with her by the pool. He chuckled, just thinking about it.
