“Thank you, Dennis!” she called, her eyes closed. Dayle emerged from the trailer. Stepping over cables, she strolled onto the set: a hotel veranda, overlooking a seascape—to be provided later with back projection. For now, Dayle’s stand-in, Bonny McKenna, waited on the fake balcony in front of a blue screen. Dressed in a white gown and donning a blond wig, she drank a Diet Coke. She grinned at Dayle, and offered her the can of pop.
“You’re a lifesaver.” Dayle took a sip from Bonny’s straw.
Four years younger, Bonny was Dayle’s mirror image—only not quite as beautiful, like the kid sister who didn’t quite match up to her gorgeous sibling. Bonny had been a policewoman for several years, and was married to a cop. The star and her stand-in were best friends on the set. Bonny stepped behind Dayle and massaged her shoulders. “God, you feel tense,” she whispered. “You okay?”
“Just peachy.” Dayle sighed, “Oh, that feels like heaven. Don’t stop.”
“Quiet on the set!” someone yelled. “Places!”
“So much for not stopping,” Bonny said, pulling away.
Dayle handed her the Diet Coke. “Thanks anyway.” Stepping on her mark, she took a deep breath. The man with the clapboard announced the scene and take. The cameras began to roll. Then Dayle Sutton became someone else.
Dayle chose her black silk pantsuit with the big rhinestone buttons for the Screen Legends Salute tomorrow night. She would be a presenter. People magazine ran a photo of her last year in this suit when they put her on their Best Dressed list. Understated elegance.
She hung the pantsuit, still in its dry cleaning bag, on her closet door for tomorrow morning. She’d change at the studio, have her hair and makeup done there, then go to the event. A long day ahead.
Dayle took another sip of Cabernet, finishing off the glass. “Let’s go, Fred,” she told the short-hair gray tabby lying at the foot of her bed. He was named after Federico Fellini. She didn’t trust him alone around the silk suit. He’d start clawing at that plastic bag the minute her back was turned. “C’mon, babe,” she called, strolling toward the kitchen with her empty glass.
Sometimes late at night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d pour a verboten brandy, then wander around her beautiful penthouse and admire what she’d done with the place. The apartment had been featured in Architectural Digest a few years ago: her spacious living room had a fireplace and a panoramic view of Los Angeles; in the dining room, an ornate inlaid cherrywood table seated twenty; her study held a large antique desk and volumes of books, which The Thinking Man’s Sex Symbol had read. She’d carefully chosen the artwork for these rooms, including two original Hopper paintings, a small Monet, and a Jackson Pollock. The art piece that most fascinated the Architectural Digest people was a glass-top pedestal in her living room. It held her Academy Award. The base and stem of the pedestal had been forged from several pairs of broken and tattered high heels wired together to create a swirling funnel effect. Dayle had worn out all those shoes walking from auditions to agencies during her struggling starlet days. “I saved them, knowing I’d do something with them one day,” she told the interviewer.
The magazine layout also included photos of her private exercise room and the modern kitchen. But they weren’t allowed to take any pictures of the large, informal pantry and TV room area off the kitchen. This was where Dayle let herself relax, where she snuggled up with Fred in her lap to study a film script, or indulge in some low-fat microwave popcorn and a good video. Of the four fireplaces, the one in this room was used most. The best view came from this picture window: a sweeping vista of the Hollywood hills. The walls were decorated with framed photos of herself with other celebrities and a few of her better magazine covers. It was the only room in the place where she felt comfortable putting her feet up on the furniture. The other rooms were for entertaining. This one was for friends and family. But Dayle had spent the majority of her time in this cozy room alone with Fred. Thank God for the cat.
She poured a half glass of wine, sank back on the sofa, and let Fred curl up in her lap. Dayle reached for the remote and switched on the TV. The news came on. The anchorwoman was talking about a Fullerton couple who had died in a boating accident. Then the picture switched to what looked like a protest demonstration.
“Two weeks after the deaths of Tony Katz and James Gelder, a special memorial service was held in Seattle, Washington, for Gelder, the thirty-two-year-old ‘other victim’ in the still-unsolved double murder,” the newscaster announced.
Dayle stared at the TV, and a line of demonstrators marching in front of a church. There were about a dozen of them, and they held anti-gay signs, the same FAGS BURN IN HELL slogans brandished for Tony Katz’s funeral. In fact, according to the anchorwoman, this demonstration had been organized by the same minister who had masterminded the protest at Tony’s memorial.
“Assholes,” Dayle muttered, shaking her head at the TV.
“I’m grieving my brother’s death right now, and I don’t need to see this,” James Gelder’s older brother told a reporter outside the church. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, the demonstrators waved their signs. “It’s wrong,” the surviving brother went on. “Jimmy was happily married. He wasn’t gay. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Oh, so if he was gay, he’d deserve it?” Dayle growled at the TV. She wasn’t mad at him—really. All of it was so wrong. Frowning, she grabbed the remote, switched off the TV, and got ready for bed.
While brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection. “Gutless,” she said to herself. Was she going to let malignant morons like that minister and those idiot protesters scare her? How could she allow them to influence her career choices? If anything, she wanted to defy them.
Dayle rinsed out her mouth, marched down the hall to her study, and switched on her computer. The film star was dressed for bed in a very unglamourous, extra-large man’s T-shirt. She clicked on to e-mail and sent the following message to Dennis Walsh:
Hey, Dennis:I’ve been rethinking the Portland benefit. Tell Leigh Simone I’d be happy to participate.
Dayle bit her lip, and quickly typed the next part and sent it before she had time to change her mind:
Also, I might have been too hasty on that gay-bashing trial story. Tell Soren Eberhart that I’d like to see the script, especially if Avery Cooper is coming aboard. Keep your powder dry, kiddo. See you in 7 hours.—D.
Dayle Sutton didn’t know that she’d just written her own death warrant.
Two
“I’m definitely interested if Dayle Sutton’s interested,” Avery Cooper grunted between push-ups on the floor of his trailer. He was talking on the speaker phone to his agent, Louise.
“The script’s a little dog-eared, but they’re rewriting it. With Soren Eberhart at the helm and Dayle Sutton starring, you’re in great company.” Louise paused. “By the way, what’s with all the huffing and puffing? What are you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I’m doing my crunches,” Avery said, sitting for a moment to catch his breath. The shirtless thirty-four-year-old actor worked hard on his taut physique. Yet fans considered Avery Cooper more “cute” than “hunky.” The handsome, blue-eyed former TV star never made anyone’s Sexiest Man Alive list. Still, he possessed a sweet, beguiling, nice-guy appeal that made him enormously popular during the five-year run of his hit TV sitcom. Those same qualities had landed him a role as the hapless hero who comes to the aid of a hooker in danger, played by America’s new sweetheart superstar, Traci Haydn. The film was called Expiration Date, and he had one more week shooting here in Vancouver, British Columbia (doubling for Seattle), before they returned to the Hollywood studios for interior shots. Avery couldn’t wait to get home.
“Devil’s advocate time,” Louise announced. “You ought to consider the possible backlash to playing this gay man. You just had a controversial role. Maybe you should play it safe for a while.”
&nbs
p; “Do you mean that, Louise?”
“Not a syllable, but I had to say it for the record.”
Avery smiled. He loved Louise. She’d been his agent for nine years. She understood him. “This is a good part, Avery,” she said. “But you can make some enemies. The network says you’re still receiving poison-pen letters for the TV movie last month.”
The film, called Intent to Kill, tapped into Avery’s nice-guy image. He played a doctor, paralyzed after being gunned down by protesters outside an abortion clinic. The controversial “network event” won him critical raves—along with piles of hate mail, even some death threats.
Avery got to his feet and grabbed a couple of thirty-pound dumbbell weights. “A lot of the letters were very supportive,” he pointed out.
“And a lot of them were damn scary,” Louise said.
Someone knocked on the trailer door. “C’mon in,” Avery called.
Bob, a studio gofer, stepped into the trailer, and set a package on the sofa. “This arrived for you special delivery a little while ago, Avery. Looks kind of personal. I don’t know.”
Avery put down the weights. “Great. Thanks, Bob.”
Bob ducked out of the trailer, not closing the door entirely.
“What did you get?” Louise asked over the speaker phone.
“I don’t know yet,” Avery said, reaching for the box. He tore off the brown wrapping. “There’s no return address.”
“Well, wait a minute!” Louise barked. “What if it’s a letter bomb or something? You already have all these nuts wanting you dead. Wait—”
“Too late, Louise,” Avery said. The box bore a Ralph Lauren polo insignia. He set the top aside, parted the folds of tissue paper, and found a card resting on a gray hand-knit sweater.
“What it is?” Louise asked.
“It’s a sweater that must have cost a few hundred bucks.” Frowning, Avery read the card insert. “Here’s what the enclosure says: I bet it’s cold up there in Canada. Thought you’d need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven’t I heard from you?”
“My Lord,” Louise muttered. “She just won’t give up, will she? You’re too nice. You should let me or someone from the studio write and tell her in a polite way to piss off.”
The sweater was the most recent in a long line of gifts Avery had received from an obsessive woman named Libby Stoddard, who claimed to be his biggest fan. She’d sent the first present a year ago, a book on Bob Hope, because Avery had said in an interview that he was a sucker for old Bob Hope movies. He thanked Libby in a letter and included an autographed glossy. She thanked him right back with a video of Son of Paleface. After that, her presents became more extravagant. Avery started sending them back. He stopped enclosing “No Thank You,” notes with the return packages, figuring they fed something in her. Shortly before Avery had left for Vancouver, he got a call at home, and was stunned to hear a woman on the other end of the line say, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you! This is Libby.”
He probably should have hung up on her right away, but he was stupid enough to think he could talk sense to her. “Um, hello,” he managed to say. “How did you get my home number?”
She laughed. “I hired someone to find out for me, that’s all. I have a lot of money, you ought to know that from the presents I send. This is so neat! How are you, Avery?”
“Well, ah, Libby, I’m—not too happy about this call. I know you’re probably a really nice person, but this is an invasion of my privacy. The gifts you’ve sent are very generous, but—”
“I thought for sure you’d keep the aviator jacket. It cost a lot.”
“I’m sure it did. That’s why I sent it back to you. This has to stop. I can’t have you buying me all these clothes—”
“But I want to….”
“Well, what you’re doing borders on harassment. And I don’t think that’s your intention.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, in a hurt little-girl voice. “Is your wife there? Is that why you’re saying these things? Should I call back later?”
Avery took a deep breath. “I’m asking you not to call me or send me any more gifts. I’m sure your intentions are good, but—”
“I can’t believe you’d be this ungrateful,” she said. “I must have caught you at a bad time. Listen, it’s okay. I’ll call back later—”
“No—”
“Don’t worry, I still love you, Avery.” Then she hung up.
Avery had left for Vancouver two days later. There had been several hang-ups on his answering machine during those forty-eight hours. His caller ID showed seven of those calls were from “L. B. Stoddard: 555-1939.”
Now she’d discovered the film location address here in Vancouver. Avery stared at the sweater. “Christ,” he muttered. “Think she’ll ever give up?”
“Highly doubtful,” Louise said. “I told you last year when you left the show—you need someone to run fan interference. The network did it for you for five years. You can’t be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, Avery. Let me handle this Libby character, okay? I’ll have my assistant, Nola, send her a very officious letter telling her to knock it off.”
“I guess you better.” Avery set the Ralph Lauren box on the sofa.
At that moment, someone stepped into the trailer. “Hey, nice…”
Avery looked up and caught Traci Haydn leering at him. The twenty-seven-year-old ash blonde with an angel’s face was smoking a cigarette. Her breasts stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.
“Traci, hi,” was all Avery could say.
“Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?”
She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. “Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?” she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.
Avery backed into his dressing table. “Jesus, Traci…”
A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked damn sexy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.
“Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside—”
Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. “If the trailer’s rockin’, they won’t come knockin’.”
“Lord, did I hear her right?” Louise asked over the speaker phone. “Did she really just say that?”
“What the fuck?” Traci’s playful grin vanished.
“Traci, I’m on the speaker phone with my agent,” Avery explained. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Um, do you know Louise Farrell?”
“Hi, Traci,” Louise piped up.
Traci Haydn rolled her eyes, then deliberately stepped up to Avery. Those firm, beautiful breasts rubbed against his sweaty chest. She stood on her tiptoes, and her nipples grazed his. “I’m going to get you, one way or another,” she whispered. Then she gave his ear a long, slow lick. Backing away, Traci smiled at him.
Avery tried in vain to camouflage the erection stirring inside his jeans. “Traci, how many times do I have to tell you no?” he whispered.
Ignoring his question, she put her T-shirt back on. “Bye, Laura or whatever your name is,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”
“Oh, you too, Traci, dear,” Louise replied.
Avery watched her go; then he sank down on the sofa. He sighed. “You still there, Louise?”
“Honey, I wouldn’t hang up for the world right now. How many passes does that make from your happily married costar?”
“That’s the third one this week, and it was a lulu, about a five-point-five on the Richter scale. I tell you, she’s worse than Libby.”
“Sounded like she said something about ‘no shirts.’ Was she topless?”
“Yes. And my ear is still wet from her licking it.”
“Well, Mr. Avery Cooper. Do you realize what you just experienced? Traci Haydn is the fantasy girl
for millions of boys and men, the stuff wet dreams are made of. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I miss my wife,” Avery replied.
“Hi, sweetie. I erased all the other messages, because we maxed out on the machine. Aren’t we popular?”
Avery smiled. He sat at the desk in his suite at the Vancouver Four Seasons. Simply hearing Joanne’s voice on the answering machine at home soothed some of his loneliness.
Joanne Lane was a stage actress. Twice nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, she’d made a name for herself on Broadway. Elsewhere, she was Mrs. Avery Cooper. Her latest play hadn’t fared well with critics. Unless business picked up, the production would close next week, and she’d return home to L.A. Under such gloomy circumstances, Avery tried not to celebrate their reunions too eagerly. Joanne had bouts with depression. She was on medication, but still required kid-glove handling at times. Things were always a little touch and go whenever one of her plays failed, but it also meant they could be together for a while.
They’d met four years ago, during a summer hiatus from his TV show, Crazy to Work Here. Avery had played a “nice guy” who has horrible luck with women. Quickly he’d become the star attraction among the ensemble cast of “wacky” characters employed at an ad agency. Comparisons to Jack Lemmon and Tom Hanks abounded for the former Northwestern drama major and Second City alumni. He was also a favorite guest on the talk show circuit. On Letterman, he stirred the studio audience into a sing-along frenzy with an impromptu rendition of “Wild Thing” on his harmonica. And to Rosie, when pressed, Avery humbly admitted, “I can count on one hand all my sex partners—including the hand.”
That summer away from the show, Joanne Lane became the fifth woman in Avery’s life. With lustrous shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, Joanne had an undefinable star quality. Though no great beauty, she had a sultry voice and a toned, taut body. She oozed sex appeal. The Broadway actress had landed a role in Avery’s first “starring” feature film, a forgettable romantic comedy called Five Feet of Heaven. She played his slutty sister, and outside of falling in love with her screen brother, she found film acting incredibly tedious. Joanne ran back to Broadway, and Avery reluctantly returned to Los Angeles and Crazy to Work Here. But they couldn’t stay away from each other. Avery used his clout to get Joanne some guest shots on the show. He spent summers and holidays on the East Coast; she took breaks between plays to be with him in Hollywood. All the traveling and scheduling became quite complicated. So they kept the wedding simple. They were married in a small chapel in Avery’s hometown of Fairfax, Virginia.
The Next to Die Page 3
