The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  “Teri, what can I say?” Bob said, beaming at her. “You were right, I was wrong.”

  “About what, specifically?” She knew what he meant, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. On the other hand, it was a legitimate question. Bob had been wrong about a whole litany of things, so it seemed fair to ask him to narrow it down. Maybe it should even be a multiplechoice exam.

  Bob dipped his head in a sort of bow. “I apologize for doubting you.” “I told you all I needed was the right script.”

  “If you’d also told us you needed a dead screenwriter, maybe we could have accommodated you sooner. I know a few who need killing.”

  That drew a brown-noser laugh from Mike, but barely a smile from Teri. The truth was, she was still troubled about taking advantage of tragedy to benefit herself. That might be the way of the Hollywood world, but it went sharply against the grain of her Texas upbringing. She had experienced tragedy in her own life, even been responsible for some of it, and she would be damned if she would ever sit still for someone to profit from her and her family’s loss. Yet here she was profiting from Annemarie and Leland Crowell’s misfortune.

  “Is Annemarie Crowell here?” she asked. She had not seen Annemarie since she had delivered the script to Teri’s house two years earlier.

  “Are you kidding?” Bob said. “Why would that nutcase be here?”

  “Because it’s her son’s script.”

  “It’s your script,” Mike said. “Her son gave it to you, and she’s got no interest in it.”

  “Mike, we talked about this. She should be here for this. And for the premiere.”

  “We’ll send her a DVD,” Bob said.

  If Bob actually did send her a DVD, it would be the only thing Annemarie would see from her son’s work. She was a strange woman, creepy, in fact, but Teri felt she deserved something more than a token acknowledgement that the screenwriter had been her son. Teri had vowed to share her profit participation with Annemarie, though she had not yet told anyone. In fact, she would likely never tell anyone. Her plan was to handle the payments anonymously through her personal attorney to Annemarie via Spencer West, attorney-at-aw.

  Bob nodded across the way at three well-dressed men huddled in a tight group. All relatively young—early to late 30s—all slick, all polished. One of them stood a head taller than the other two, his black hair slicked back Mike Capalletti-style, longish in back. His jaw was square, a threedays growth of beard worn for effect. And it worked, giving him an aura of calculated nonchalance. He was clearly the alpha dog of the pack. Nearby stood three women, dressed to the hilt, champagne glasses in hand, eyes glassy and star-struck as they pointed out celebrities and whispered excitedly among themselves. Wives.

  “I don’t think you ever met your angels, did you?” Bob asked. “The tall one is Doug Bozarth. He’s the real angel. I think at least fifty of the seventy-five is his personal money.”

  “Maybe I’m his angel,” Teri said.

  “She’s right, Bob,” Mike said. “When the dust settles, those three rich dudes are going to be three filthy rich dudes.”

  “They’re already filthy rich,” Bob said. “But they’ll be obscenely rich.”

  “What’s the difference?” Mike asked.

  “A decimal point or two.”

  “And it’ll be a good payday for you, too,” Teri said, “especially considering it all dropped right into your lap.”

  “Off a cliff and into your lap,” Mike said. He and Bob laughed, caught up in the moment, but Teri stayed silent. Death wasn’t funny to her.

  The band launched into a reggae arrangement of a Lady Gaga number, the calypso sounding as if it belonged organically to the pop star’s music. Teri grabbed Mike’s arm and dragged him toward the dance floor.

  “Come on, I want to dance,” she said, as much to get away from Bob as anything.

  “And dance you shall,” Mike said. He handed his glass to Bob and followed her onto the dance floor.

  Teri glanced over her shoulder at Bob as she and Mike moved off. He ignored her but raised his glass at the angels. Doug Bozarth raised his glass back to Bob in a silent salute, then turned to the dance floor where he locked gazes with Teri. After a brief moment, he smiled, but Teri thought it stopped well short of his eyes. She had seen smiles like that before, including one along the ropeline just moments earlier.

  She looked away.

  CHAPTER 13

  Limousines stretched from the front of the Beverly Hilton, down the street, and around the corner. Uniformed, and sometimes

  tuxedoed, chauffeurs stood beside their cars, some smoking, but all talking amongst themselves, no doubt regaling each other with tales of the absurd about the conduct of the rich and famous in the back seats of limos. Stories ranged from the overt sexual to illegal to flat-out gross. Celebrity and fortune had imbued many in Hollywood with the notion that rules of decency and courtesy simply didn’t apply to them. The chauffeurs who drove them may have been silent while transporting their charges, but they weren’t deaf and blind.

  If anything, the crowd gathered along the rope lines had increased in size and sound, no doubt fueled by curiosity seekers who had joined their ranks and others who simply had nothing better to do with their time. The scraggly-haired man with the tattooed forearm hugged the rope, fighting to keep position in front. He had to occasionally push back with an elbow to force others away, but for the most part the crowd avoided contact with him. Although they pressed against each other, hips brushing hips, shoulders against shoulders, a small bubble seemed to have encompassed the man. Perhaps the ragged teeth and greasy hair sounded hygiene warnings that the others subconsciously heeded. Joining the adoring fans were scores of paparazzi, cameras at the ready, prepared at a moment’s notice to catch smiles, frowns, and awkward short-skirted entries into vehicles.

  A shout went out as the front door of the hotel opened and the first wave of celebrities began exiting. They came in small groups, usually two or three at a time, a few seconds apart, as if wanting to ensure that no one else intruded on their limelight as they walked to their waiting limos. The scraggly-haired man gripped the velvet rope with one hand. With the other, he clutched the Teri Squire glossy. He kept his eyes fixed on the front door, oblivious to the glitz and glamour that exited. As far as he was concerned, the beautiful people were a dime a dozen. Only one of them mattered to him.

  And there she was, her boyfriend in tow, making her way toward the curb. She smiled, chatted with fans, and signed autographs while the boyfriend talked on his cell phone. The scraggly-haired man wondered if there was anyone on the other end of the call, or if it was all just for show. He had his money riding on the latter.

  He strained against the rope, eager with anticipation as she drew closer. Although she was Hollywood royalty, albeit minor royalty these days, he had to admit there was a freshness, almost a wholesomeness, about her. The kind of innocence that was usually accompanied by naïveté, and which would play right into his hands She was ten feet away, now eight, now five—and now right in front of him. He thrust the picture toward her. As she took it, he saw her look at his forearm with the blue tattoo of a football helmet, a star inside the outline. She froze for a brief second, staring at it.

  “Sign it ‘To Leland, who gave his life for me. From Teri, with all my love,’” he said. Something about the tattoo nagged at Teri. She knew the familiar Dallas Cowboys logo by heart—what Texan didn’t?—but she tried to remember where she had heard about a tattoo like that. Then the man spoke, and the name he used churned up a memory. Terror gripped her. She stared at his face, which looked remarkably like the one in the photo that Annemarie Crowell had shown her when she first brought over the screenplay.

  But that was impossible! Leland Crowell was dead.

  “I knew you’d like my script,” the man said.

  “It’s my script,” Teri replied, though she knew her words, which

  nearly choked off in her throat, were barely audible over the din
of the crowd. And, she had to admit, there was no conviction behind them. “Hmmm. Wonder if dear old mom actually probated my will. She’s forgetful sometimes.” He smiled then added, “And if I’m not really dead, does it matter?”

  Teri felt strength drain from her legs, and she sagged, fighting to stay afoot. Mike grabbed her elbow and whispered into her ear. “You okay?”

  Teri ignored him as she tried to give the photo back to the man, who pushed it into her hand. “Have your people call my people,” he said. “We’ll do lunch. Ciao!”

  Then he disappeared into the crowd.

  Almost in a daze, unblinking, mind not fully grasping what had just happened, Teri made her way to the limo with Mike’s help. In her hand, she gripped the glossy photograph of herself. As she settled into the back seat, Mike clambered in beside her.

  “What happened back there?” he asked. “Who was that guy?”

  Teri shook her head. Mute, she turned and stared out the window.

  Mike punched in a number on his cell phone. “Check out a guy on the rope line,” he said. “Tall, thin, long hair. Looks like a homeless guy.”

  Teri looked at the headshot. It had been taken just prior to her first Oscar. It was wrinkled and worn along the edges, with what appeared to be a greasy thumbprint on the left side. Teri’s stomach roiled at the thought of the greasy-haired man holding the photo with one hand.

  She turned it over to see if there were additional finger stains on the back side. In small, neat handwriting, there was a single inscription: CRESCENT HOTEL 324.

  Teri folded the picture and glanced at Mike. He was still on the phone, face pressed to the window, searching the crowd. He hadn’t yet noticed the picture in her hand. She folded it and tucked it under the seat.

  “No,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, pulling the phone away.

  “It was nothing. Forget about it. Let’s just go to the theater.”

  Mike put the phone back to his ear. “Find him.” Then he hung up and looked at Teri.

  She stared straight ahead.

  There was a packed house for the movie, just what every actress wants. The audience seemed captivated by the action on the silver screen, collectively gasping at the right moments, tittering and giggling with relief at others, but hanging on every word spoken by the characters, drawn into a story of breathtaking suspense and psychological terror. Teri looked good up there, her face reflecting the same emotion as the audience, or maybe it was vice versa. No one in Teri’s camp questioned that they had a bona fide hit on their hands. No, not just a hit; a blockbuster.

  But Teri didn’t seem to notice any of that. She couldn’t even watch herself on the big screen. She had seen a rough cut on a smaller screen at the studio, but this was her first chance to watch the story play out on this big a scale. Yet her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t get the scragglyhaired man out of her mind. His thin face, his vacant eyes. Dead eyes. And that damned tattoo.

  Other memories rushed back. The freakish Annemarie Crowell, her face pale, her lips bright red, all made up as if for the circus. Eyes so dark they looked black. Emotionless. The grieving mother who didn’t grieve. Sitting in Teri’s den, talons clutching her dead son’s screenplay as she subtly swayed, perched on the edge of a chair. The words that stung: “You’re yesterday’s news.” Shoving that picture of her dead son in Teri’s face.

  Yeah, the dead son who looked remarkably similar to the man outside. And who shared his mother’s dead eyes.

  Just what in the hell was going on?

  Teri turned and glanced at the row behind her, where her “angels” sat with their wives. Their attention was riveted to the screen, counting dollars in their heads, most likely. All, that is, but Doug Bozarth. His eyes locked with hers. She was suddenly struck by the deadness in those eyes, even in the darkened theater. Eyes that could have belonged to Annemarie Crowell or the man on the rope line.

  Bozarth nodded his head ever so slightly. She couldn’t be sure it had moved at all. She nodded back then turned to face the front.

  “You okay?” Mike whispered.

  “I’m fine.” But she could tell he didn’t believe her. Hell, she didn’t even believe herself.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Crescent Hotel not only looked like a place that probably rented rooms by the hour, it actually was a place that rented rooms by the hour. A neon light alternately flashed green and purple, announcing vacancies, which was no surprise to any passersby. Two stories fanned east and west from the office, the façade a fading beige. Only a handful of cars dotted the parking area, the newest at least a decade old. A certain kind of person inhabited places like this. The kind of person you didn’t want to meet on a dark street, and the kind of person you certainly didn’t want to see in your respectable neighborhood or take home to meet mom and dad.

  A checkered taxi pulled up in front of the office, sat for a moment, then disgorged that very kind of person. The scraggly-haired man slammed the door shut, then went to the stairs and ascended to the second floor landing, taking the stairs two at a time. At the far end of the landing from the office, he unlocked the door to Room 324 and went inside.

  The man flipped a light switch just inside the door, which illuminated a dim lamp on a nightstand that perched on matchstick legs. The bed had not been made, likely for days, the threadbare bedspread in a pile on the floor and the sheets swirled into a tangled mess in the middle of the mattress. A non-matching nightstand on the other side of the bed held empty soda cans, a Styrofoam container of taco crumbs in which two roaches cavorted, and a cigarette lighter.

  The most disturbing thing about the bed, though, sat perched on the side nearest the cockroach playground: Annemarie Crowell, with her painted face.

  “How’d you get in?” he asked.

  “Is it done?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Does it really matter how I got in?”

  “It does to me.”

  She shrugged, and one corner of her mouth raised a fraction. “It’ll

  just have to be one of life’s little mysteries.” He walked to the dresser, just as mismatched as the rest of the furniture, extracted a thin wallet from his back pocket, and put it on top. He grabbed an open can of orange soda and took a swig.

  “Is it done?” Annemarie asked again.

  “I gotta tell you, it’s weird coming back from the dead.” “Did she know who you were?”

  “She knew.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me, she knew.”

  He set the can down and went into the tiny bathroom. Remnants of

  whiskers and shaving cream scum decorated the sink, although they were not nearly as eye-catching as were the orange streaks of rust. He stripped off his shirt, revealing a dangerously thin torso with ribs punched out against the skin. The kind of body prisoners-of-war often returned home with after months or years of incarceration—or drug addicts too strung out to eat.

  Annemarie swiveled her head to watch him as he splashed water on his face and dried it with a towel he picked up from the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, ran a hand through his hair as if it made a difference, then turned toward Annemarie.

  “Just baited the trap. The little mousey will come for the cheese soon enough.”

  “Good.”

  He turned back to the mirror and studied his reflection. Annemarie stood robotically then went to the bathroom. She entered and stood directly behind him, looking over his shoulder. In the mirror, it appeared to him as if he had two heads.

  He turned the water on again and took a can of shaving cream from the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. As he lathered his face, Annemarie put her arms around him. Her hands caressed his chest, her fingers tangling in a thin nest of graying hair.

  Against his will, his nipples sprang erect and his groin stirred. She slid one hand down across his stomach as she gripped a nipple with the fingernails of the other.

  She squeezed the nipple, pi
nching hard with her nails. The other hand slipped inside the waistband of his pants and found the handle it sought.

  She kissed him on the back of the neck, purred softly in his ear.

  For a moment he stood still, his eyes closed. The pain in his nipple gave way to pleasure as her other hand moved up and down.

  He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. She stared at him, no pleasure on her face. Rather it was the look of a worker dutifully going about her chores.

  “Enough,” he said.

  He grabbed her wrist at the waistband of his pants and pulled her hand out, then spun around and evaded her grip on his nipple.

  Her lips curled again, ever so slightly. She held her fingers to her mouth and licked the tips of her fingernails.

  “She’ll be here soon,” he said.

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I saw her face. She’ll be here.”

  Annemarie turned and left the bathroom. As soon as she cleared the doorway, the man slammed the door shut. After a few seconds, he heard the sound of the outside door open and close.

  He opened the bathroom door and looked out. Sure enough, she was gone.

  He glanced down at his chest, where a line of blood trickled from his nipple. Further down, he saw the bulge at his crotch.

  He spun and punched his fist into the mirror.

  CHAPTER 15

  Teri rode silently in the passenger seat of Mike’s Mercedes SUV, face pressed to the window, looking out at the world the same way she did when she was a little girl back in the Texas Hill Country. By all accounts, the premiere had been an overwhelming success. Bob was happy, and that meant Mike was happy. The angels were happy, and that meant the studio was happy. Everybody was happy except Teri. Oh, sure, she put on a good face, smiling at everybody, laughing at all the right lines, and accepting congratulations left and right, but the scraggly-haired man haunted her.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Mike asked. “You haven’t said two words since the limo dropped us off back at the hotel.”