Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  “No, I don’t. How was I to know? You saw the cops. She is very believable. How can this woman afford to follow you all over the country? Does she work? How does she live? What does she do?”

  He rolled the window down, looking sullen, and lit a cigarette, again without even asking if it was okay. Jet skiers tried to pace us in the blue bay, and a V formation of pelicans glided lazily overhead.

  “This is it,” he finally said. “This is what she does. I think I’m full-time for her. She was one reason I was happy to go on location. Don’t know why I didn’t think she’d show here. Distance hasn’t stopped her in the past.”

  A generous trust fund from her grandfather supported Stephanie comfortably, he said. The well-educated daughter of a mainline Boston family, she was able to do as she pleased.

  “That explains it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Her shoe. It was a Salvatore Ferragamo.”

  “Didn’t know you were into fashion.”

  “I think it’s obvious that I’m not, but my mother is. She coordinates fashion shows. Her obsession is trying to properly accessorize me, coordinate my wardrobe, and make me over. So far, she’s failed.”

  “Shouldn’t try to fix something that ain’t broke. She did a good job the first time. Why mess with success?”

  His smile was sexy. He’d apparently gotten over his little fit of pique. I fixed my eyes on the road, but my inquiring mind wanted to know. I knew that Lottie’s would, too.

  “How did Lexie react when Stephanie showed up in your bed, unconscious?”

  “She thought it was a hoot—and scary,” he said, as I turned south on the Boulevard, past the Bayside marketplace. “She’s had bad experiences herself. She took self-defense lessons, learned to handle a gun. She’s a crack shot, with her own weapon. Customized, so it doesn’t mess up her manicure.” He sighed. “I didn’t need this now. Today is stressful enough. All the shit with this movie, and seeing Lexie again. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

  A gauntlet of cameras waited. We were late, but Lexie Duran was even later. A publicist whisked us into a staging area, where we joined director Phillip Hodges and producers Wendy Weintraub and Richard Van Ness. Hodges was tall and boyish, curly haired and in his early forties. Wendy Weintraub, small, middle-aged, and mousy, wore olive drab and no trace of makeup. Odd that a woman so colorless produced big, bold, bright technicolor movies full of action and excitement.

  “We were worried,” she told Lance plaintively. “You’re late.” She looked pointedly at me, as though I must be the reason.

  “Everything all right, Lance?” Van Ness sounded more suspicious than concerned. Tall, with white hair, glasses, and a bit of a paunch, he was in his fifties and wore expensive casual clothes.

  “Sure, sure.” Lance helped himself to a cup of black coffee from a silver pot. When he introduced me, the only flicker of interest or recognition came when he mentioned where I worked. Publicity, now that meant something to them.

  “It’s already too late for the news at noon unless they do a live feed. Is ET here? Where’s Lexie?” Wendy asked in a nasal whine, checking her watch for the second time in less than a minute.

  Lance ignored the question.

  “She just got in a couple of hours ago,” Van Ness said. “Give her a break. She’ll be here.”

  The stage was arranged as if for a panel discussion, with microphones and water glasses at each place.

  Everyone but Lance took their seats, and the director and producers began fielding questions, withholding the identity of the new co-star, heightening the suspense, promising to introduce her shortly. Watching from the sideline, with Niko and Lance, I saw Lottie down front with the other photographers. She gave me and Lance a thumbs-up. A few cursory shots were snapped, but everybody was waiting for the stars.

  Van Ness orchestrated the proceedings, so puffed up by his own importance that had somebody stuck a pin in him he probably would have flown backward a hundred yards. Finally, he pompously introduced “the star of our film, Mr. Lance Westfell.” Lance acknowledged the applause, camera shutters whirring, and took his seat. Before he could finish saying how happy he was to be in Miami, excitement erupted at the bade of the room.

  Lexie Duran. Like a flame, in a sleek red dress short enough to be illegal in many rural north-Florida counties, she waded directly through the press corps instead of waiting offstage to be introduced.

  “Here she is now!” Van Ness boomed into his mike, wearing a phony look of surprise, as though this hadn’t been set up. “Our new co-star, Miss Lexie Duran!”

  Every camera swung into a 180-degree turn, cutting Lance off mid-sentence. No one could take their eyes off her as she sauntered slowly to her seat, waving like Miss America, flashing her million-dollar toothpaste-ad smile, radiating charm, confidence, and sex appeal.

  When she sat, adjusted her skirt, and crossed those impossibly long legs, I thought Wayman Andrews from WTOP would have a heart attack.

  She had certainly upstaged Lance Westfell. Exactly what she had in mind. She was good.

  Lance looked wistful for a moment. I was probably the only one who noticed. Did he yearn for their lost love or his stolen spotlight?

  Questions flew fast and furious. Lexie smiled and laughed. Each time Lance spoke she crossed or uncrossed her legs, tossed that lush mane of tawny hair, or licked her full crimson lips, attracting the cameras like heat-seeking missiles.

  Yes, she loved Miami. Yes, she was “so excited” about the new movie.

  “Do you foresee any difficulties in working with your ex-husband?” asked the Channel 7 entertainment reporter.

  “It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.” She laughed and glanced coyly at Lance. “Seriously, as a professional actor,” she said, flashing perfect teeth for the cameras, “you don’t let your personal life interfere with your work. I’m looking forward to this movie.”

  “What about you, Lance?” another reporter asked.

  “We’re all grown-ups,” he said evenly. “And we all share the same goal, to turn out a terrific product.”

  “But the love scenes?” The first reporter persisted, turning back to Lexie. “Don’t you think that will be awkward, given your history?”

  Lexie smiled, drooping her eyelashes, a trick she did so well on the national hair-color commercial that first ran during the Super Bowl. “Of course not,” she purred into the bank of microphones. “We’ve already rehearsed.”

  “So that’s what that was,” Lance quipped, his rueful expression drawing laughter. From my peripheral vantage point, I caught the split-second glint of malevolence in Lexie’s eyes as he sat grinning, momentarily back in the spotlight.

  The press corps loved it.

  “Sheesh, I need a drink,” Lance muttered as he, Niko, and I left the hotel. Lexie and the others still held court inside.

  “Not yet, amigo,” Niko said. “It’s onward and upward, to Metro-Dade county hall.” I left my car at the hotel and we took the Town Car driven by Niko, who seemed happier with that arrangement.

  “Didya see what Lexie was doing?” Lance grumbled. “Didya see the stunts she was pulling? Her and that son of a bitch Van Ness. What love scenes?” His voice rose. “What freaking love scenes? There are none in the script as I know it.

  “This day has got to get better.” He leaned back on the plush seat, closed his eyes, and sighed, repeating it like a mantra. “It’s gotta get better.”

  The commission chambers atop Metro-Dade Center were jammed. Meetings are televised live on cable so our citizenry can see their elected leaders in action. The shows often have more comedy, drama, and intrigue than prime-time network programming. Lobbyists, lawyers, and taxpayers wheel and deal at tables on an open-air patio outside, watching the show on monitors as they await their turn. Today, fans of all ages had joined the usual crowd.

  They mobbed Lance as we crossed the patio. Cheers and applause rang inside the paneled cham
bers. The mayor hammered his gavel to interrupt discussion of the controversial high-rise sprinkler issue.

  “Let’s take a break now to recognize an esteemed visitor to our city”—he beamed and straightened his tie—”someone we hope will enjoy his stay as much as we enjoy having him. We want him to feel at home in the Magic City, so he returns often; therefore we are taking this opportunity to proclaim Lance Westfell an honorary citizen of Dade County and hereby present this token, a key to the county. The world-famous world-class star of The Last Gunfighter, Ground Zero, Dead by Sundown, and many, many others, Lance West-fell!”

  Lance took the key and stepped up to the mike. He appeared happy and relaxed, without a trace of the harried, headachy expression worn moments ago. Must be show biz, I thought, or perhaps positive energy drawn from the enthusiastic crowd. Waiting for the applause to subside, he scrutinized the key, pretending to bite it, in a test for authenticity.

  “The real thing” he announced directly to me. “Not plastic. Lock your doors,” he warned, waving it high. “What will this open?” he demanded, turning to the mayor and the commissioners.

  “The hearts of every Dade County resident,” the mayor said quickly. That man is never at a loss for words.

  “I know you’re dealing with important issues here, so I won’t take up your time,” Lance said. “I simply want to thank everybody for our wonderful reception in your beautiful city, which will shine in our movie. I hope we do you justice. This is just the beginning. Hollywood has discovered Miami. Thank you for this honor.”

  He exited down the center aisle to an ovation, grinning and pumping hands. It was a love fest. He should run for office, I thought. Look at Sonny Bono and Clint Eastwood. He could not do worse than the politicians we have. Our commission meetings are a three-ring circus anyway. We could use a ringmaster proficient with a bullwhip.

  As Lance approached where we stood, Niko, who never took his eyes off him, said, “Thanks for warning me about the knife this morning.”

  “I’m glad it turned out all right.”

  He forged ahead, parting the sea of fans as we fought through the crush and clamor toward the elevator. Nearly there, I reached out, caught his shoulder, and spoke in his ear.

  “Stephanie didn’t stay at the hospital,” I said urgently. “She’s here!”

  7

  Lance did not see her. He was grinning at several giggly teenage girls and pumping the hand of a fresh-faced young woman in pink. Stephanie was pushing through the crowd about four feet from his right elbow, smiling, her eyes fixed on him.

  The elevator doors had opened. Niko shouted his name, moving fast. As Lance turned, Niko wheeled him around and hustled him inside, one big hand on the small of his back. The young woman in pink, still clinging to Lance’s hand, was swept inside as well. Niko shoved me aboard and seemed about to eject the woman in pink but Stephanie bounded forward, face alight. Hard to believe she was the same hysterical woman marched off in handcuffs that morning. Did she ever quit?

  Niko lunged forward, blocking her as the doors slid shut between them.

  “Lance! Lance!” Stephanie called. The elevator was glass enclosed, in the center of an atrium. We stared at Stephanie and she stared back, mouthing words unheard as the car slowly descended. The last we saw of her were the toes of her Salvatore Ferragamos.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” Niko muttered in exasperation.

  The cute blonde girl had an upturned nose, big blue eyes, and a gaze fixed adoringly on Lance.

  “It’s okay,” he assured her, assuming that our abrupt departure had startled her.

  “I’ve seen all your movies,” she chirped, as though nothing had happened. “Saw Island of the Dead seven times.”

  “Now there’s a fan,” he said. “Glad you liked it.”

  I paid scant attention, wondering, as Lance and Niko had to be, about Stephanie. When and where would she next appear? Were those expensive shoes of hers pounding down the stairwell at this very moment? Would she greet us in the lobby as we disembarked? The blonde girl fumbled in her purse, in search of a pen for an autograph, I assumed. Instead she came up with a spray-top bottle. I hoped she would not use hair spray or perfume in these tight quarters. She did not. She sprayed a healthy blast directly into Lance’s face.

  “What the…?” His hands flew to his eyes.

  Her arm extended rigidly from her body, teeth on edge, her eyes narrow slits, she kept spraying with the enthusiasm most Miamians reserve for fire ants or palmetto bugs.

  “What is tha—?” I didn’t complete the word because Lance shoved me into the corner, his broad back planted in front of my face, shielding me from the spray.

  The control panel was handy, so I mashed the red emergency button. A shrill alarm bell sounded as the elevator jolted to a stop between floors.

  “Drop that! Drop it!” Niko demanded. I heard someone grunt as they scuffled, his ponytail flying. More spray hissed wildly, mist arcing into the air, as they fought for the bottle.

  What was that stuff? The droplets smelled sweetish and sickening. Not mace, not tear gas. The sounds of their struggle evoked flashbacks of that night in the woods when I fought to survive. The walls spun. I wanted the hell off this elevator. Now!

  The bottle escaped their clawing hands, catapulted free, and fell. Lance lurched backward, protecting me. Niko kicked it into a corner. It was unlabeled, the contents milky.

  He and the girl bounced off the walls, she whimpering as he wrestled her to the floor. “What is that stuff?” he demanded. “What the hell is that shit?”

  “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” she panted, sprawled ungracefully, legs splayed, his knee on her chest.

  “What’s in the fucking bottle? What is that stuff?”

  “You bastard! Let me up!”

  He glanced from the floor where he held her. “You okay, Lance? Let’s get this tiling moving and get out of here.”

  “Yeah,” Lance said. Hands trembling, I jabbed frantically at buttons, but the elevator seemed frozen in place. The girl’s darting eyes fixed on the bottle, just out of her reach. Niko couldn’t let her go. Lance stood in the same position, hands to his face. Fighting claustrophobia, trying not to inhale, I hit the lobby button. The elevator lurched and began its descent.

  Niko took his knee off the girl, snatched up the bottle, sniffed the contents, and tasted some on a finger, as she sat up. Her twisted pink skirt exposed pale, slightly flabby thighs.

  “I’m going to sue you,” she spit venomously at Lance. “Your goon attacked me. I’m calling the National Enquirer. I’ll make a hundred thousand dollars from this! I’m suing.”

  Lance said nothing.

  “What is this shit?” Niko demanded, shoving the bottle in her face.

  The elevator door opened at last. The cop assigned to maintain security at commission meetings stood waiting, baton ready. I hoped he would swat her in the teeth with it. I was tired of all this.

  She scrambled to her feet and rushed out. “Help, officer. I’ve been attacked! Officer!”

  His response was skeptical and knowing. A middle-aged man in suspenders, a video camera balanced on his shoulder, stood behind him. The man had been taping Lance’s appearance for his hospitalized teenage daughter, a fan. After the key was presented, he had rushed to the lobby to tape Lance’s departure. He had been filming our descent from a vantage point on the outside portico and had alerted the police officer.

  Amateur video, phenom of the nineties, the new national pastime. Americans are everywhere with their trusty InstaCams, capturing plummeting planes, violent cops, crooked politicians, and each other in action. Amateur video, beloved by tabloid TV—and me, at the moment.

  His playback clearly showed the woman wielding the spray. More good news: Stephanie was being detained outside the commission chambers until Lance could leave the building.

  The cop ushered us into a private office to escape the growing crowd. He closed the doo
r behind us and asked if everybody was okay.

  “No,” Lance answered. “I think I have to go to the hospital.” He blinked. “My eyes burn like hell, and I can’t see.”

  “That shit could be acid,” Niko said, voice tight.

  Something roiled in my stomach.

  At first, Lance refused to lie on a stretcher but the rescue squad prevailed. “We’ve gotta irrigate your eyes. Lance,” the medic said, “and we can’t do it with you sitting up. Time is important here, buddy. We don’t want any permanent damage.”

  “Do what they say. Do what they say,” Niko urged, helping Lance, whose eyes were squeezed shut, down onto a gurney. “We’re going with you, amigo.”

  “You got my key to the city?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ve got it,” Niko said.

  Before we rolled, the paramedics administered anesthetic drops to Lance’s eyes. I sat up front with the driver. Niko rode in back, gripping Lance’s ankle as a medic inserted a plastic tube into an IV bottle of saline solution and washed out Lance’s eyes. He did one, then the other, then began again. Each time he had to force the lids open.

  A Channel 7 news crew pounded up as we were about to pull away, a reporter from the other paper and Channel 23 hot on their heels.

  “Where are they taking him?” a reporter cried.

  “Cedars!” I shouted, as the rescue truck roared away from the curb, siren wailing.

  The driver turned to me. “You know we’re going to Bascom Palmer?”

  “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  I watched, wincing with Lance, as the medic held open his right eye and drowned it in saline solution.

  “Hear you’re in town to make a movie,” the medic said cheerfully as he forcibly pried open Lance’s left eye. Lance’s fists clenched.

  The famous eye institute, only two miles away, seemed so far. In emergencies it always does.

  I held his hand as they rolled him into the ER. “You didn’t have to shield me,” I told him. “Niko and I are supposed to watch out for you. We’re the ones paid to throw our bodies in front of yours and take the bullets.”