One advantage to Avery and Joanne’s bicoastal marriage was that the relationship never had a chance to grow stale. After two years, they still acted like newlyweds. If anything had grown stale it was all the traveling and the time apart. Before this recent theatrical misfire had lured Joanne back to Broadway, they’d been trying to have a baby—without much luck.
“I made us another appointment with the fertility specialist on Wednesday, the eighth,” Joanne told him on the answering machine. “Also I committed us to another public service announcement for handgun control. They won’t film until late December, so we can put that on the back burner for now. I miss you, sweetie. I wish it were next week already so we could be together. It’s midnight here. I’m hitting the sheets. Good night, love.”
Joanne had left the message an hour ago. Avery decided not to call and possibly wake her. Instead, he went to his suitcase in the closet. He snapped open the locks, and took out a video—a sexually explicit video starring Mr. and Mrs. Avery Cooper.
Several months back, he’d been concerned about his first R-rated love scene—in this movie with Traci Hadyn. Joanne had playfully suggested they “rehearse” together. At her urging, he’d broken out the video camera and tripod to tape their lovemaking. After some initial shyness, they began to have fun, and eventually forgot the camera was there. The resulting video was more silly than sexy. Avery stashed the tape in his underwear drawer, and pretty much forgot about it.
But his first night on location here in Vancouver, he’d unpacked his bags, and found Joanne had taken their little sex epic out of mothballs. She’d hidden the video in his suitcase—along with a Post-It note: Dear Husband, Keep Rehearsing! Your Loving Wife. She’d left for New York that same day.
Now Avery popped the cassette in the VCR connected to the hotel TV. He sat at the end of his bed and watched. He ignored his own video image: that dumb wiry guy with the erection and the birthmark on his butt. Instead, he focused on Joanne’s lithe body, the way she smiled and giggled. He felt himself grow hard.
Someone knocked on the door. Avery stood up and tried to adjust his erection. His first thought was: God, please don’t let it be Traci Haydn. He ejected the video and turned off the TV. There was another knock.
“Mr. Cooper? Turn down your bed?”
Stashing the video back in his suitcase, Avery went to the other room and checked the peephole. It was the old lady who pulled back the bedcovers every night. As far as Avery was concerned, her job was the most useless service a hotel could provide. But, hell, she was a sweet woman of sixty who walked with a limp, and he didn’t want her put out of commission. Besides, slipping her a Canadian five for a tug at the bedsheets and a mint on his pillow made him feel good. He opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Cooper!” she chirped. “Turn down the bed, aye?”
“Yes, thanks a lot,” he said, stepping aside.
“I know you go to sleep late, aye, so I saved you for last,” she said. With her basket of mints in tow, the uniformed woman hobbled into the bedroom. Then she let out a frail cry that escalated to a scream. It sounded as if she were having a seizure. Avery raced into the room. She was staggering away from his bed, her hand over her mouth. The basket of mints had spilled onto the floor.
“Are you okay?” Avery asked. Then he saw what the old woman had found beneath the quilted bedcover.
On his pillow, someone had left four dead mice, two of them cut in half. And there was a note—on hotel memo paper: You played a monster who kills little babies that aren’t even this big. He deserved to die, and so do you.
The old woman was still a bit shaken when someone from hotel security led her out of Avery’s suite. The manager on duty kept apologizing to Avery. He didn’t understand how this could have happened—what with the high security and the professional staff. Could they move him to another suite?
Avery told them that would be nice. “And could you please make sure that lady gets a ride home tonight?”
Later he left a message at the house for Joanne, telling her that he’d switched hotel rooms. He didn’t explain why. He said that if she woke up in the middle of the night, she could call him here. It didn’t matter what time. He probably wouldn’t sleep very well tonight anyway.
During a break in filming the next day, Avery retreated to his trailer, sat on the sofa, and telephoned Joanne. “Has anything kind of weird happened to you lately? Have you received any hate mail or strange phone calls?”
“Why do you ask, Avery? Did something kind of weird happen there?”
“Yeah, just a creepy note in my hotel room,” Avery said. “It’s these nuts who didn’t like the TV movie. I’m concerned about you, that’s all.”
“Avery, I can take care of myself,” Joanne calmly pointed out. “That said, okay, yes, something happened last week after the show. I came back to my dressing room, and on the vanity, someone had left a—well, it was a small Gerber’s baby food jar, only they’d stuffed a dead mouse in it.”
“Jesus,” Avery murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Because you would have freaked out,” Joanne said. “I know what a worrywart you are. Nothing has happened since. They’ve kept a lookout for me backstage, and I’ve been careful. So don’t sweat about it. Okay?”
Avery got to his feet and started pacing around the trailer, the phone to his ear. “Listen, I’m hiring you a bodyguard. Let’s not take any chances—”
“Sweetie, I reiterate, nothing has happened since. Someone didn’t like your movie, and I had a little scare. End of story. I don’t want a bodyguard.”
“Joanne, we aren’t seeing each other for another six days. Until then, I need to make sure you’re safe.”
So when Joanne Lane Cooper arrived at the theater that night, a bodyguard her husband hired introduced himself and showed his credentials. The man, whom Joanne would describe as “a pain in the ass,” guaranteed her safety for the next six days.
Three
A number of bomb threats didn’t keep fourteen thousand people from filling Portland’s Colosseum for the benefit concert. Dayle Sutton read letters of remembrance from several of Tony Katz’s friends and costars. Many of the letters were from AIDS patients he’d visited regularly, a few of them children.
Another actress might have manufactured some high emotion for the presentation, adding her own pregnant pauses and dramatic sighs, or allowing her voice to quiver. But Dayle chose a simple, dignified approach that focused on the letters, not on the celebrity reading them. When she finished, the audience stood and applauded. Dayle walked off stage left. The ovation continued, but she would not return for a bow. They were applauding the letters, not her.
On the other side of the stage, she glimpsed Leigh Simone, waiting in the wings. Dayle still hadn’t met the force behind this benefit fighting discrimination against gays and lesbians. Two women hovered around Leigh, both of them rather chubby: one, a makeup girl, and the other, an older brunette who held a cellular phone and a clipboard. Dayle wondered if this was the assistant, Estelle Collier.
Leigh broke away from the two women, and waved to her. She was so charismatic, and full of energy. She wore a sleeveless, brown sequined dress with a scooped neck and a jagged hem serrating at her upper thighs. Her legs were long and tapered. The thirty-eight-year-old singer could have been an Olympic athlete with her taut, lean body. The cinnamon skin was flawless. She wore her hair pulled back in a long curly ponytail, which had become her trademark. Her smile could dazzle the recipient a hundred feet away.
Dayle waved back at her. Leigh blew her a kiss, then yelled something. But the applause had yet to die down. She took a pen from her assistant, then wrote something on the clipboard, and sent her off. Leigh waved to Dayle again, then shimmied and shook her way onto the stage. A thunderous applause greeted her, and The High Priestess of Rock began to turn her seductive powers on the audience. She sang an electrifying rendition of Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds.” Mesmerized, Dayle watched
her.
According to rumor, Leigh was a gay—or at least bisexual. Dayle didn’t take much stock in the grapevine—after all, they were wrong about her. But Leigh never refuted the gossip, and the sexual energy she exuded seemed to spill beyond all boundaries—including gender.
Dayle felt a little silly for even wondering. But Leigh seemed to have been flirting with her from the other side of that stage.
“Pardon me, Ms. Sutton?”
Dayle turned and smiled at the assistant, who—close up—appeared about fifty years old. She was so professionally perky, she could have been an Avon saleswoman. The woman wore jeans and a violet pullover that didn’t quite camouflage her weight problem. “Are you Estelle?” Dayle asked.
“Why, yes, hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I have a message from Leigh.” She handed Dayle a sheet of paper. “She’s a huge fan of yours.”
Dayle stole another glance at Leigh, who was whipping the crowd into a fever. Then she read the note, hastily scribbled by Leigh herself:
Dear Dayle,What a wonderful tribute to Tony! Thank you so much. Can we get together tonight? Please say yes. I’m in room 1108—same hotel as you. 10:30? I love you, girl!
Dayle let out a little laugh. “Sure,” she said to Estelle Collier. “Tell Leigh that I’d love to get together with her.”
Both Leigh and Dayle had been booked into the Imperial Hotel, the same place Tony Katz had stayed the week he was killed. The Imperial had received their share of bomb threats too, and they’d tightened security at the hotel this evening. Dayle’s suite was on the twentieth floor.
For her date with Leigh, she’d changed her clothes several times, and finally decided on a pair of black stirrup pants and a dark green silk blouse. Like most women, she dressed for other women. In this case, she didn’t want to be too alluring. Leigh’s sexuality shouldn’t have been an issue. But maybe Leigh was expecting more than a friendly chat tonight. Dayle hoped she wouldn’t have to dodge a pass. She’d rejected enough sexual advances in her day, from both genders; that wasn’t a problem. But she admired Leigh Simone, and didn’t want to brave that kind of awkward situation with her.
Dayle was at the dresser mirror, brushing her hair when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, Dayle?” Leigh must have been at a party or in a bar, Dayle heard talking and laughter in the background.
“Yes, hi. Leigh? Where are you calling from?”
“My suite, believe it or not,” Leigh said. “The only person I wanted to see tonight was you, and it’s wall-to-wall people here. Don’t ask me how, but this whole thing got out of control. Are you in a party mood?”
Dayle frowned. “Um, not really. But thank you anyway—”
“No, no, no. Don’t thank me ‘anyway’ yet. I’m not in a party mood either. Could I come up? I figure I can sneak out of this circus in about a half hour. Is that okay? Do you mind meeting in your suite?”
“No, Leigh. I don’t mind at all.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit. I can’t wait!” Leigh made a kissing sound, then hung up.
With Leigh arriving soon, Dayle began to straighten what little mess she’d made in her suite. She cleared some paperwork and clothes off the couch, then called room service and ordered champagne.
She’d just hung up the phone when someone knocked on her door. Dayle checked the peephole. Leigh Simone appeared nervous and tense. She rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and started to knock again.
Dayle opened the door. “Well, hello, Ms. Simone! At last, we meet.”
Leigh seemed taller in person. This close, Dayle couldn’t help noticing the pale olive color of her eyes. Leigh wore black capri pants, fancy gold slippers, and a tuxedo blouse. She stood at the threshold for a moment, one hand on the door frame. “Before I come in,” she announced, “I need to say this, Dayle. I’m really nervous about meeting you.”
Dayle laughed. “Oh, stop….”
“No, ma’am. You’re my hero. My assistant, Estelle, can tell you, I was bowled over when you agreed to come to this benefit. I was shooting for the moon when I invited you. And then, tonight backstage, I kept asking Estelle, ‘Do you think she’d like to get together? Should I ask?’”
“Well, I’m glad you did,” Dayle said, feeling more at ease. “For the record, I was so jazzed up about meeting you, I changed my outfit four times. Now for God’s sake, get in here.”
With a hundred-watt grin, Leigh spread her arms and gave Dayle a fierce hug. “Dayle, this is a dream come true. You have no idea!” She unclinched, but continued to hold her hand. “You’re my inspiration. You know, twelve years ago, when I first moved to New York—and I was waiting tables and living in this cheap hotel for women—I used to pattern myself after you in Bending the Rules.”
“That was one of my better ones,” Dayle said.
“Oh, it was great. You were my role model in that. I saw the movie four times, bargain matinees. I used to daydream about being rich and famous. And get this, part of that dream was seeing my sassy little self lounging in a plush hotel room, having a heart-to-heart with my good buddy, Dayle Sutton. So I mean it when I tell you, this is a dream come true for me.”
Dayle squeezed her hand. “Stop, you’ll make me cry—and we haven’t even sat down yet. C’mon. Champagne’s on its way.” She opened the minirefrigerator. “Meanwhile, what can I get you?”
Sitting on the couch, Leigh glanced toward the small refrigerator, then gave Dayle a wicked smile. “That chocolate bar in there. I’ll split it with you. Shoots my diet to hell. But let’s be decadent.”
Dayle grinned. “It’s a deal. Don’t you want a drink?”
“No, but you go ahead. I already had a glass of wine at the party. I’m a lightweight—a total disgrace to the rock star profession. I don’t do drugs or trash hotel rooms either. Half a glass of your champagne, and I’ll be out like a light. I swear, I’ll fall asleep right on this couch.”
“Kind of like a slumber party,” Dayle said, handing Leigh the candy bar and a glass of water.
“Oh, wouldn’t that make the bees buzz?” Leigh unwrapped the Nestle’s Crunch. “‘Leigh Simone Spends Night in Dayle Sutton’s Hotel Room.’ The tabloids would have a field day.” She patted the sofa cushion. “C’mon, sit. I’m not wolfing this down alone.”
Working up a smile, Dayle sat beside her. There was an awkward silence.
Leigh snapped off a corner of the candy bar, then put it up to Dayle’s lips. Dayle hesitated, then took the chocolate in her mouth. Her lips brushed against Leigh’s fingers. “Pretty sinful, isn’t it?” Leigh whispered.
She nodded.
Leigh broke another piece off of the Nestle’s Crunch bar and studied it. “Am I wrong?” she said. “Or is something happening here?”
Dayle shrugged. “Well, I’m picking up some signals—if that’s what you mean. And it’s very flattering. I really admire you, Leigh. You have—so much integrity. You’ve got the courage to say, ‘This is me, I’m gay, and it’s—’”
“Um, Dayle, I’m not gay,” Leigh interrupted.
“You’re not?”
“I know the rumors. If people want to think I’m a lesbian, that’s fine. But you’re not ‘people,’ Dayle, so I can tell you. I’m not gay.” She took a deep breath. “In fact, I thought you were—”
“Gay?” Shaking her head, Dayle started to laugh. “No. God, we must be prey to the same warped rumor mill. I’ve been wondering all night what to do if you should make a pass.”
“Ha, I was thinking the same thing!” Leigh gave her shoulder a playful push. Grinning, she nibbled at the candy bar again. “Want to know what else? I figured, if you tried any moves, I might just go along. After all, you’re Dayle Sutton, for the love of God. Who—no matter what their persuasion—wouldn’t want to give you a tumble?”
Dayle rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, cut me a break.”
Leigh sighed. “Reminds me of those movies on late-night cable TV. They always have lesbian
sex scenes. Only those girls are never lesbians, they’re just experimenting.”
Dayle laughed. “It’s the guy myth that we females of the species are all one glass of wine away from becoming bisexual.” She raised her glass in a toast. “So I gather you too have spent many a night on the road in a hotel room with only cable TV for company. That’s me, filming on location.”
“I’m on tour thirty weeks every year,” Leigh said. “I can give you a list of the best hotels in every major city in the world—who has the best room service, the best on-call masseuse…”
“I’ve always been a bit leery of those hotel hands-on artists,” Dayle admitted. “I figure, I’ll have this great message in my room one night, and a week later, it’ll be in the National Enquirer that I’m not a natural redhead.”
“Folks like us, there aren’t a lot of people we can trust.” Leigh picked at the candy bar. “Not a lot of decent men who will put up with the crazy schedules we keep, the press and paparazzi, and all that excess baggage. Not a lot of friends either.”
Dayle nudged her. “If you say, ‘It’s lonely at the top,’ I’ll smack you. Besides, much as I hate to admit it, my box-office clout has been slipping lately. I’m not so close to the top anymore.”
“Then that makes the loneliness even worse, doesn’t it?”
The Next to Die Page 4
