Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  Chapter Four

  Sam turned the air conditioner on full blast and adjusted all the vents to point at her face. The inside of her car felt as if molten lava had recently passed through.

  “Remember, you’re the one who always said you love hot weather,” Sam muttered as she checked her neck in the rearview mirror for heat rash.

  She sat back wondering how a famous movie and television star could go through public life without some busybody reporter, such as herself, digging up her pre-Hollywood family history? It was probably because, despite having serious box office clout, Konrad was never a tabloid darling. She lived a scandal-free, normal life—at least as far as celebrities go. There were no ink-worthy affairs, no diva demands on the set, no marital drama, no conspicuously excessive lifestyle, no rehab stints, no embarrassing relatives. With a little digging, Sam could probably excavate the story of Konrad’s early years in Indio and made a mental note to talk it over with Marlene as a possible profile—especially if Konrad won the election. Local girl makes good…and good again.

  But that would have to wait until she finished the story at hand. She wrestled a windshield shade into the back seat then took out her notebook and called Konrad’s house. The first ring had barely faded away when a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is Ellen Konrad in?”

  “This is she. Who’s this?” she asked with polite curiosity, her voice colored with warm tones.

  “My name is Samantha Perry, Ms. Konrad. I’m a reporter here in town and was hoping it’d be possible to stop by today and talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Sam was well aware how so not-by-the-rules this was. Protocol demanded you call a publicist who in turn called the candidate who in turn scheduled a time when such a meeting could take place—usually in the presence of said publicist.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Perry,” Konrad apologized, slipping comfortably into the polished tones of a politician. “My schedule is so full I really don’t have the time. But I am planning to hold another press conference next week, so I hope your questions can wait until then. Just have your paper call, and we’ll add you to the press list.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you about the election, Ms. Konrad. I wanted to speak to you about Jeff Rydell’s murder. I know you were personally acquainted with the victim,” Sam told her. “I assume you want the opportunity to be quoted directly and not through some hired mouth piece.”

  Sam listened to Ellen’s even breathing and could hear music playing softly in the background. Sam waited patiently for Ellen to say something—then again, patience was never one of her virtues. “Ms. Konrad?” Sam heard the click of a door being closed.

  “I’m sorry, I was distracted by someone for a moment,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve already spoken to the police about this, and I’ll tell you what I told them: I have no idea who would want to hurt Jeff.”

  “That’s not what I’m looking for. It’s not my job to find the killer, but it is my job to make Jeff Rydell more than some faceless murder statistic,” Sam explained. “I’m trying to write a story about the person who was murdered. But I can’t do that if I don’t have some sense of the man. And I can’t have that if nobody who knew him will talk to me. I need you to talk to me. At this point, you’re honestly all I’ve got.”

  “I’m curious what makes you think I know anything that would help you?”

  “Because all good actors see the world in terms of character and emotion, and by all accounts you’re an exceptional actor. If you spent any time at all with Jeff, I suspect you have unique insight into who he was,” Sam told her, hoping it didn’t come across as shameless pandering. “Please share that insight with me, so I can bring him to life for the readers to make his death matter, even if just a little.”

  There was another beat of silence before Ellen cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t know if I’m giving into flattery or not, but why don’t you come over around 4:30,” she said, adding dryly, “Since you have my private phone number I assume you know where I live.”

  Sam thanked her and hung up. She had time to kill and knew just the way to spend it.

  • • •

  Ted’s was a nondescript bar and grill on Indian Drive with a predominantly local clientele. It’s faded and peeling outer facade did little to attract tourists but soft lighting, polished wood, and a genial atmosphere made it a favorite watering hole for a wide cross section of desert regulars. There was also a covered patio for those who couldn’t get enough of the heat, or nicotine. Sam said hello to the hostess, Sharon, on her way into the enclosed bar area where Dinah Washington was playing over the bar speaker. Felder, the day bartender, pushed a napkin in front of Sam as she slid onto a stool.

  “There she is. You want a ‘Sam’?” he asked.

  “Please. And put some ice in it. Lots of ice.”

  “Hot outside?”

  “Any hotter and I’ll sprout red horns.”

  Felder smiled as he poured a glass of champagne into a chilled flute. After adding just enough crème de cassis to turn the sparkling wine a blush pink, he added a twist of lemon peel and set the glass in front of Sam. She took a sip and sighed appreciatively.

  “Perfect. Hey, what do you know about Ellen Konrad?” Before moving to Palm Springs, Felder had bartended at several A-list restaurants in LA. “What was the dirt?”

  Felder folded his arms. “A couple friends of mine worked with her on a few films. A real pro on the set and crews loved her. Sorry to disappoint you but there really was no dirt. Lily white.”

  She downed the rest of her drink, paid her $6 bar tab with a ten, and slid off the stool. “No such thing, Felder.”

  • • •

  Ellen Konrad’s home was located at the end of a picturesque, well-tended cul-de-sac—the polar opposite of Desert Wash Drive. Tall, thick hedges bookended two intricately designed wrought-iron driveway gates customized with a smoky-gray PVC backing to ensure visual privacy. Separating the gates was a stone wall with a pedestrian entrance, the door made with the same wrought iron pattern.

  A state-of-the-art security system with video camera, monitor, and intercom was installed next to the door. Sam pressed the intercom bell and the light on the camera briefly glowed green. A moment later the door clicked open and Sam stepped into the pages of an Architectural Digest photo spread. The expansive front lawn was landscaped with ornamental and exotic cacti set among earth-toned decorative gravel. Citrus trees lined the left side of the property, rose bushes adorned the right. To the left of the house Sam could see a three-car garage and behind it what looked to be a guest cottage. On the right, a gated eight-foot, wooden fence extended from the front corner of the house to the wall on the far edge of the property. Sam assumed there must be a pool and spa hidden from view.

  The house itself was two sprawling stories of stone and wood that somehow managed to be both understated and exquisite. A short, smiling woman of indeterminate age opened the front door, and Sam introduced herself.

  “Yes, please come in,” the woman said in a pronounced French accent.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am René. Please come this way.”

  The décor and furnishings inside were designed for comfort and enjoyment. This was no showcase residence, Sam thought; this was unmistakably a home.

  She followed René past a curving staircase and down a long hall that opened into a large corridor. A set of wood and glass partition doors to their left were open to a large kitchen. A matching set of doors to the right were closed. Directly ahead was a room. René opened the door and stood aside so Sam could pass. “Please, you wait here in the study, yes?”

  The study was clearly Konrad’s office. The first thing Sam noticed was a small but beautifully stocked bar.

  “You wish something to drink?” René asked.

  “You have no idea,” Sam muttered under her breath. Louder she said, “I’ll take some iced tea, if you have it.”

  �
��Of course.” René walked behind the bar and retrieved a pitcher of tea from a small refrigerator. “Would you like to sit on the couch?”

  “No, I’m fine here.” She perched on a bar stool and glanced around the room, wondering if the Oval Office were as big. It certainly could not be more scenic. The back wall was a row of French doors that looked out over the desert, the view of the mountains through them spectacular. Konrad’s mahogany desk was in the back left corner, positioned so the front faced the room and the computer table was flush against the side wall.

  On the opposite side wall was a granite shelving unit. In the center was a display case holding Konrad’s Golden Globes, Emmys, BAFTA, and several other awards Sam didn’t recognize. The shelves around it were filled with more books that were less literature and more guilty pleasure in nature. Browsing the titles revealed Ellen was partial to biographies, popular fiction, and true crime although Sam didn’t see any of her books among them.

  “First the library, now this.”

  René looked at her curiously. “Pardon?”

  “Sorry; just talking to myself.”

  “Ah.”

  Her tolerant smile reminded Sam of the way some people humor the very elderly—or the mentally infirm.

  René placed a large tumbler of iced tea on the counter along with small bowls of lemon wedges, Stevia, and sugar cubes. “Madame Konrad will be right in.” She smiled at Sam again then left, closing the door soundlessly behind her.

  Sam downed half the tea in one long drink as her eyes wandered back to Konrad’s desk. The flat screen computer monitor was powered off but several manila file folders were on top of a large day planner. As she leaned closer to see if the files were labeled, the study door flung open, and Ellen Konrad strode through, a cinematic vision in white Armani.

  “Damn,” Sam blurted out, “dramatic much?”

  Ellen froze and stared at Sam a split second before laughing. “My kids are always telling me I still know how to make an entrance,” she said, nudging the door shut with her foot. “That’s fine for an actress, but I suppose a politician should enter softly, as they say.” She walked over and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Ellen.”

  Konrad had a warm, welcoming grip and an unsettling, scrutinizing gaze. Her stunning cobalt blue eyes expressed open assessment as she held onto Sam a split second longer than necessary. Staring back, Sam noticed random specks of violet in her irises.

  She thought, You could drown in those eyes; she said, “Well, at least you got the handshake part down.”

  “Thank you,” Ellen smiled, revealing delicate dimples. “Now if I could only stop swearing in public like a Marseilles whore and learn to act like I really enjoyed kissing strange babies.”

  Besides an arresting physical beauty, Ellen possessed a commanding presence and undeniable charisma that made it that much harder for Sam to tear her eyes away.

  Ellen gestured towards the glass. “That looks good. I think I’ll have some, too.”

  While Sam grabbed a notebook and pen from her bag, Ellen walked behind the bar, looking all leg in high heels. Her hair was a rich golden blonde with sun-kissed streaks. She wore it pulled back in a loose ponytail that served to showcase her eyes. A few layered strands framed her face, casually accentuating the high cheekbones.

  Tall and toned with no discernible jiggle of flab anywhere, even in person she could easily pass for a woman in her mid-twenties at first, and second, glance. Only her watchful eyes hinted at a longer, or possibly harder, lived life.

  “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good.” Ellen glanced up with a sly smile as she cut some fresh lemon wedges. “I learned a long time ago you should never leave a journalist alone in your room.”

  Sam smiled back, guilty as charged. “Well, any journalist worth her salt.”

  “Which you clearly are. What made you leave the Times for a local also-ran?”

  The question surprised Sam. Ellen obviously spent the afternoon doing some research of her own. Sam didn’t mind but felt compelled to defend her paper.

  “Also-ran sounds so, I don’t know…”

  “Pathetic?” Ellen teased.

  “Thanks a lot,” Sam laughed, “but yeah. So for the sake of my fragile writer’s ego could we say up-and-coming? I think the owners aspire to make the paper more of a Village Voice or LA Weekly alternative than traditional broadsheet. As to why I’m here…,” she shrugged. “I wanted a change of venue. My old editor from SoCal magazine is running the Weekender now, and she offered me a job after I decided to live here full-time.”

  Ellen added some Stevia and lemon to her tea. “And considering how much they paid you for the film rights to your last book, you could easily afford to change career paths.”

  “Something like that.” Sam pointed to the bookshelf. “Remind me to send you a copy.”

  “No need.” Ellen walked to the desk and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a dog-eared hardback of Sam’s last book and placed it back on the book shelf. “I thought your name sounded familiar. I was just refreshing my memory about your writing.”

  Sam was ridiculously flattered. “Do you go through this much bother any time a reporter wants to talk to you?”

  “Of course not. But it isn’t every day I’m interviewed about a murder by a noted crime journalist.”

  “I’m afraid noted is a bit of a stretch. Lucky is more to the point. Right place, right time—like they say: timing is everything.”

  Ellen regarded her with candid interest. “Your humility is very refreshing.”

  “Trust me; humble I’m not—just honest.”

  Konrad sat on the stool next to her. “Is it okay if I call you Sam?”

  “Please do.” She resisted a sudden, powerful urge to let her leg brush against Ellen’s. “Usually the only time people call me Samantha is when they’re annoyed with me, serving a subpoena, or about to write me a speeding ticket.”

  Ellen smiled and sipped the tea, her eyes never leaving Sam’s face. “You know, my campaign manager thinks I’m insane talking to you at all.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because that’s the way campaign managers are. Not too unlike most publicists I’ve had who think the road to hell is littered with journalists.”

  “Funny, I’ve always had the same thought about publicists and campaign managers.” Sam countered, eliciting an amused chuckle from Konrad. “Anyway, thank you for agreeing to see me over his objections.”

  Ellen swiveled the stool so her left arm rested on the bar. “What would you like to know?”

  Can I just sit here and stare at you a while first? “Can I get some background first, like how long Jeff worked for you?”

  “Jeff became a campaign volunteer about eight months ago. Not too long after the new year, maybe late January.”

  “Meaning he wasn’t paid.”

  “He was not paid to help with the campaign, that’s correct. We do supply our volunteers with sandwiches and drinks but they are not on payroll.”

  “Do you have many volunteers?”

  “Enough. A lot of them grew up watching me on television, so they get a kick out of working for the campaign. Whatever gets them involved in the process is fine with me. At the campaign office, Jeff pitched in wherever he was needed: stuffing envelopes, passing out literature, doing phone solicitation, that sort of thing. He was especially helpful when it came to computers. He was quite a whiz, actually.”

  “Seems like he’d have been a familiar figure at the office, then.”

  Ellen took another sip of tea and didn’t respond to the non-question.

  Sam elaborated. “I’m sure you know I stopped by your headquarters yesterday, interrupting a heated discussion between your son and Mr. Atkins. Your campaign manager wasn’t terribly forthcoming about knowing Jeff Rydell. In fact, the argument could easily be made that he outright lied. Any particular reason?”

  Ellen flicked an invisible piece of
lint off her skirt. “Phil is very protective of the campaign. He’s also my former personal manager so as I said, very wary of reporters on my behalf.”

  “Because of all those skeletons rattling around your cedar-lined closet?” Sam smiled lightly.

  Ellen laughed softly and smiled back. “Nobody’s found any yet.”

  Sam glanced at her notebook and followed a hunch. “You said Jeff wasn’t paid to help with the campaign.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, what was he paid for?”

  Ellen considered Sam a moment. “You are good.”

  “Yeah, well…I have my moments.”

  She took a sip of tea before answering. “He worked for me as a kind of…” she hesitated, searching for the right word.

  “Go-fer?”

  “I always hated that term on sets but yes, I suppose that’s what he did: odd jobs around the house, running some personal errands, things like that. He also set up a computer network here. We have every program you can think of although I’m still not sure why.”

  “When did that start?”

  “During the spring.”

  “Was that well known among the other volunteers?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a secret, but no, we didn’t advertise it either. I thought it best to keep the two separate as much as possible. Volunteers can get possessive, like fans, and I didn’t want to be seen as playing favorites. All my volunteers work hard, and I appreciate every one of them.”

  “Just like parents say they love all their children.”

  “Much like that,” Ellen agreed, adding somewhat ruefully, “Of course what most parents don’t admit is that while you love all your children equally, you might not like them all the same.”

  Sam took a sip of tea, making a mental note to pull backgrounds on the Konrad kids. When she looked up Ellen’s eyes were focused intently on her. Sam met the penetrating gaze and felt something shift deep inside her gut. She cleared her throat and forged ahead, ears radiating heat.

  “Between working for the campaign and working here, it sounds like you were a full-time job for Jeff.”