“Yes, home to all those cameras and security codes.”
“I’ll try to get out of here early. I love you.”
As soon as Avery hang up, someone was knocking on his trailer door. “Avery? It’s Bob!” the studio gofer said. “There’s a call on your other line. It’s Homeguard Security, something about the house….”
“Um, thanks, Bob,” Avery replied. He grabbed the receiver and pressed the blinking second-line button. “Yes, hello?”
“Hello, Avery Cooper? It’s Homeguard calling. We don’t mean to alarm you, sir. But we’re a bit concerned by something we saw today and thought you might help clear it up for us.”
“Yes?” Avery said.
“Well, we’ve been watching you on this video, licking your wife’s snatch, and we’re wondering how it tasted.”
The line went dead.
With dinnertime just ahead, the Recipe Hotine was buzzing with helpful hints on Monday, October 27 at 4:43 P.M.:
ARLENE: My husband used to say that one of the worst things you can do to ground beef is make it into meat loaf, but then I got this recipe from my friend, Rachel….Mix 1 1b. lean ground beef with ½ cup of Pepperidge Farm Seasoned Stuffing (not cubed), 3 eggs, ¼ cup of barbecue sauce, ½ pouch of Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix (get plenty of the brown onion salt in there!), a dash of garlic salt, pepper, and just enough milk for consistency. Mold into Meat Loaf Casserole dish. If not on a diet, cover with a couple of slices of raw bacon. Slip into the oven at 350 degrees for one hour. It’s delicious!
PAT: What do you usually serve with that? Baked Potato?
DOLORES: I have a garlic mashed potato that would complement it beautifully!
RICK: Request private chat with Pat, regarding pie recipe.
The following private mailbox interchange occurred at 4:46 P.M. on that same Monday afternoon:
AMERICKAN: Re: your inquiry, video has earned approx. $375,000 from various parties…SAAMO officers have broker handling it so we don’t get R hands dirty…Understand stills will run in various adult mags, and B reproduced for Internet…5000 copies of video being distributed…Copies can B easily duplicated to insure wider distribution…SAAMO high-ups congratulate U for profitable & productive mission…that said, are U aware of problems we’ve had with D.S.?
PATRIOT: She’s mouthed off 2 press about R last job…would like to muzzle her. We should have done job on her 2 yrs. ago after lesbo vs. hunters movie.
AMERICKAN: Exactly…New orders to humiliate & terminate D.S. as soon as possible…Details follow…SAAMO Lieut, signing off.
Dayle had telephoned the Imperial Hotel several times, trying to get a hold of Brian, the waiter. It was against hotel policy to give out home phone numbers of their employees. Dayle kept leaving her number, along with the message: “Call Ms. Sutton as soon as possible.” Brian never called.
Meanwhile, in the wake of Leigh’s death, the tabloids churned out their sordid headlines. Several publishers announced forthcoming tell-all biographies, promising to expose the secret life of Leigh Simone. Her CD sales boomed, and Leigh Simone jokes made the rounds—with suicide or lesbianism a part of the punch line. The new issue of Time magazine presented Leigh on the cover, with the headline: STARS AND DRUGS: THE SUICIDE OF LEIGH SIMONE.
Dayle wanted to prove Time magazine’s suicide verdict wrong. Ross warned her to stop “picking at the scab,” and Dennis said she was nuts. Still, he kept trying to reach Estelle Collier for her, but to no avail.
Dennis did get a hold of Linda Zane, long distance at her friend’s villa in Greece. But Tony’s widow couldn’t tell Dayle much. She’d spent little time with Tony in the final weeks of his life, and knew nothing about any threats.
Frustrated, Dayle kept trying to reach the ever-elusive Brian. He’d been dodging her for four days now.
She finally had the hotel operator put her through to the restaurant. Brian wasn’t working, but one of his buddies was. He gave her Brian’s phone number, and Dayle tried him at home. After two rings a young woman picked up. “Hi, this is Joy.”
“Hello, is Brian there, please?”
She heard the girl call out: “Hey, Bry? Telephone!”
Dayle heard her mutter something, then Brian got on the line. “Hello?”
“Brian, this is Dayle Sutton.”
Silence.
“Was that your girlfriend I was talking to just now?”
“No, that was my sister,” he whispered. “This is my family’s house. I wish you hadn’t called me here.”
“I’m sorry,” Dayle said. “But you gave me no choice. I’ve left you several messages at the hotel. Is your sister still there with you?”
“She’s in another part of the house now. But I can’t talk long.”
“Then I’ll get right to the point. I think Tony Katz was killed by the people who had been threatening him. Your story makes it seem less and less like a random gay-bashing. The police don’t know about the threats on Tony’s life. I think the same people who killed Tony and his friend also murdered Leigh Simone.”
“But she committed suicide.”
“I have every reason to doubt that. So here’s where you come in, Brian. You’re the only one who knows about the threats on Tony’s life. If you tell the police what you’ve told me, I’ll do everything I can to keep your name out of the newspapers.”
“But you can’t guarantee anything like that, can you?”
“No, I can’t,” Dayle said. “I understand how you must feel, but if you keep quiet about the threats on Tony’s life, the people who killed him could go on killing.”
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” he said, his voice shaky. “The cops won’t believe me unless I tell them about Tony and me. And I’m not doing that, no way.”
Dayle said nothing. Brian was right. Admitting his sexual fling with Tony Katz was an unavoidable part of the package. And she couldn’t guarantee anonymity for him. Dayle sighed. “Will you at least think about it, Brian?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Sutton,” he whispered. Then he hung up.
“I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”
“Hi, Elsie!” the studio audience replied in unison.
Elsie Marshall blew them a kiss. Today, she wore a purple suit, which showed off a lavender rinse in her hair. Elsie sat on the edge of the desk, the framed photo of Ricky beside her. “Well, isn’t it a shame what Leigh Simone did to herself?” she asked her subjects in the studio seats. They all murmured in agreement.
“I’ll admit, Leigh Simone was never one of Ricky’s and my favorites. But that doesn’t mean I’m not praying for her. It’s sad, it really is, to see how certain people throw their lives away. Now, the way I understand it, Leigh Simone was at this wild party full of gays and lesbians like herself…”
Elsie hesitated, then frowned. “Gay. Remember when that used to be a perfectly good word? I certainly do.”
She shrugged. “I’m just a housewife, and I don’t know much about this crowd with their ‘lifestyles’ of indiscriminate sex and drugs. But I understand this party was connected to some benefit concert promoting special rights for homosexuals.” Elsie frowned. “What do you think of these people who want special treatment, because they’re homosexual? I’m sure my son, Drew, has a few things to say about that.” She glanced stage right. “Drew?”
Drew Marshall strutted onto the set, wearing a clingy gray crew-neck jersey and pleated black trousers. This was one of the Best Dressed Man’s casual days, and a chance to show off his well-toned body—usually hidden under designer suits. Drew had wavy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones the camera loved. He seemed like the perfect, All-American hunk-hero. Never mind the rumors that a number of women had been paid off to keep quiet about their furtive one-night stands with the eligible bachelor. The stories—though unsubstantiated—went that Drew’s cruelty in bed was matched only by his inadequacies. And the wholesome hunk, so often photographed shirtless while playing football or soccer, was said to b
e hot-tempered and arrogant on the field; “an incredible asshole,” according to several former classmates at Harvard.
The reports never seemed to hurt Drew’s popularity on the show. He always came across as a perfect gentleman. He stepped up to his mother’s side and put an arm around her.
“Somebody forget to wear a tie today?” Elsie joked.
“Oh, c’mon, Mom,” he said, blushing. “Give me a break.”
The studio audience seemed to laugh on cue.
“Well, did you hear what I was saying?”
“I sure did.” Drew nodded. “Y’know, Mom, I have to admit, I liked Leigh Simone’s music. I have a couple of her albums.”
Elsie rolled her eyes. The studio audience responded with a mild tittering. Elsie moved behind her desk, and Drew sat down in his chair.
“From what I read,” Drew continued, “Leigh Simone was into drugs and had some deep problems having to do with her choice of lifestyle.”
“Yes, indeed,” Elsie said. “If you were listening to your mother instead of combing your hair backstage, you’d have heard what I said about that rally in Portland for homosexuals wanting special rights.”
“I heard you, Mom,” Drew said. He suddenly looked serious. “You know, unfortunate people like Leigh Simone—who promote the homosexual agenda and campaign to restrict our constitutional rights to bear arms—have no regard for American family values. We need to protect our homes, our families, and our impressionable youth. These homosexuals who want to take away our guns and prey on our children, they pose a direct threat to the American family….”
Police had to control the mob of reporters and fans gathered outside the gated community of Malibu Estates. A parade of limos, Mercedeses, and BMWs slowly passed through the guarded entry. Each one carried a film or recording star. None of those famous people gave autographs or talked to reporters. They stayed in their cars—until the guard waved them through to the private cul-de-sac. Photographers still managed to take their pictures, while reporters wrote down what they were wearing and who they were with.
It may as well have been a star-studded film premiere—instead of the site for a memorial service.
Leigh’s will requested a quick cremation and no funeral. Her producer, record mogul Morley Denton, invited a hundred of Leigh’s friends to his beach-front mansion to “celebrate the life” of the late pop diva. Dayle was on the guest list. Morley had also invited some press agents and publicists. In addition to the crowd outside the gate, unwelcome tabloid helicopters hovered over Morley’s house. Dayle’s publicist had alerted the media that Dayle was attending the memorial with her current leading man, John McDunn.
One of the busiest actors in Hollywood, John had snatched up a Best Supporting Oscar three years before. Every one of his forty-six fast-living, hard-drinking years showed on his still-handsome face. Recently divorced, John costarred with Dayle in her new movie. Their steamy love scenes together had already generated some hot prerelease publicity for the film.
In fact, John had been Dayle’s relationship number eight during the finalization of his divorce. She went into the affair knowing he had a roving eye. The romance was short-lived, but they remained friends.
John was the solution to Dayle’s problems. He had no objections to a few publicity dates with her. They looked so right together, it silenced a lot of the whispered rumors about Dayle and Leigh.
Dayle clung onto John’s arm as they stepped into the front hallway—an airy, marble atrium with a waterfall along one wall. She recognized a couple of press agents, staking out the arriving guests. They sized up John and her, then unabashedly scribbled in their notebooks.
“I really appreciate this, Johnny,” she said under her breath. “I know there are a thousand other places you’d rather be right now.”
John shrugged. “The Lakers game, in bed with you…”
Dayle nudged him. “Not anymore, honey. But thanks just the same.”
The helicopters buzzing overhead had driven scores of guests from the terrace into the house. They gathered in Morley’s huge living room, with its panoramic ocean view. Everyone still seemed in shock over Leigh’s untimely death—and the news about her “drug problem.” One of Leigh’s noncelebrity friends confided in Dayle that she refused to believe any of the stories. “And by the way, Dayle,” she said. “You should know, Leigh was so excited about meeting you. Before her Portland trip, that’s all she talked about.”
Dayle felt cheated of a friend.
She spotted Estelle Collier by the hors d’oeuvres table. In only six days, Estelle had gone from celebrity-assistant to celebrity. She knew Leigh better than anyone. Agents, publishers, and TV producers were tripping over each other for the rights to Estelle’s story. She’d already appeared on several tabloid TV news shows, painting her dead employer as a pathetic, drug-dependent lesbian with a string of nameless, faceless lovers.
How Estelle could face Leigh’s friends now was beyond comprehension. She looked like a white-trash lottery winner: too much makeup, too much jewelry, and a tacky purple dress that was too tight for her chubby figure. She loaded up her plate with food, and popped a cheese puff in her mouth.
Patting John’s shoulder, Dayle excused herself and started across the room toward Estelle. Leigh’s former assistant saw her coming. She put down her plate and started to turn away. “Estelle, we need to talk,” Dayle said.
Estelle swiveled around with a professionally perky smile. “Why, hello, Dayle. I’ve been meaning to return your calls—”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Dayle said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why did you lie to the police about Leigh?”
Estelle nervously glanced around at the other guests. Frowning, she shook her head at Dayle. “I don’t have to talk to you,” she said.
“You didn’t have to talk to the tabloids either, but that didn’t stop you.”
Estelle’s eyes narrowed. “Be grateful I’ve left you out of it, Dayle. Take my advice and stay out of it.”
“Leigh wasn’t gay,” Dayle whispered. “She didn’t take drugs. And she didn’t commit suicide. She trusted you. How can you betray her like this?”
“Let’s drop it, okay?” Estelle whispered tensely. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. Forget about it. Nothing can bring her back.”
Dayle numbly gazed at her. “You know who killed her, don’t you?”
“Please, leave me alone.”
Dayle took hold of her arm. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk. I want to help. If someone is threatening you—and making you tell these lies—”
“Please!” Estelle wrenched free from her grasp. She glanced around. They had an audience. Estelle cleared her throat. “I know how fond you were of Leigh,” she said calmly. “We all were. There’s nothing we could have done. She had so many problems. We mustn’t blame ourselves.” Estelle slowly shook her head. “Don’t linger on it, Dayle. Let it go.”
Seven
Twelve laps around her apartment building’s rooftop track equaled a mile. Dayle was alone up there, twenty-one stories above the street. The heavy smog tonight made for a gorgeous sunset: billowing clouds of vibrant pink, orange, and crimson. But the smog also took its toll on Dayle’s lung power. Eighteen laps, and already she was exhausted.
She took to the track whenever she was particularly frazzled, lonely, or blue; which meant she was in damn good physical shape lately. She’d hired a private detective agency, Brock Investigations, to check on Estelle Collier. Dayle figured Estelle was being blackmailed or threatened. There had to be some explanation for her lies. John McDunn had recommended the agency. He swore they were good, because his second wife used the sons of bitches to catch him cheating—and he’d been so careful. Dayle had spoken with Amos Brock three days ago. He’d assigned the case to his brother, Nick, who was supposed to have some results for her soon.
In the meantime, she felt uncertain and all alone with her theories about the deaths of Leigh, Tony, and his frien
d. Hell, she felt all alone, period. Though they never had a chance to become friends, Dayle felt an inexplicable void in the wake of Leigh’s “suicide.”
Last night, she’d started to call Dennis at home—just to chat. But she hung up before she finished dialing. He wasn’t on the clock. She had no right to bother him at home simply because she was lonely. Besides, Dennis had met someone, and supposedly he was in love. The way he kept talking about her—Laura this, Laura that—was rather nauseating. Dayle hated to admit it, but she was a little jealous. Dennis had found a life outside his job, he’d found someone more important to him than Dayle Sutton.
She wondered what people would say if she died the same way as Leigh had. Would her memory be marred by rumors and innuendo? Who knew her well enough to rush to her defense? She had no real intimate friends. All she had was her public image.
They’d probably rehash the lesbian rumors. Some enterprising tabloid reporter might even dig up evidence of the one time she’d “experimented” with another woman. It had happened almost fourteen years ago, the first of her two indiscretions while married to Jeremy. She was starring in a satire called Positively Revolting, about antiwar demonstrators in the sixties. The movie was shot in Mexico with a very hip, young cast and crew. Dayle often felt as if she was the only person on the production who wasn’t high on something half the time. One night, during a weekend beach party, she indulged in too many margueritas. Everyone went skinny-dipping, and soon, two-somes and threesomes were ducking into the bushes or cars to have sex. Dayle wound up on a cheesy yacht that belonged to a friend of Cindy something. She didn’t know what Cindy had to do with the movie, but she was pretty, with long, curly red hair, blue eyes, and freckles all over her slender body. Cindy also had a little cartoon of Winnie the Pooh tattooed on her ass—along with the words, BEAR BOTTOM.
The next morning, Dayle felt so sick and hungover as she crawled out of the bunk. She found her damp, sandy clothes amid beer cans and food wrappers on the cabin floor. Pulling on her panties, she squinted out the porthole and was relieved to see that they were docked at a pier with a couple of other boats, and not drifting somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. But her hopes for a clean getaway were dashed when Cindy woke up and said something about going out for pancakes.
The Next to Die Page 8
