He turned to her. “Yes, but I—”
Her hand came up so quick, he didn’t even realize what she was doing until her fingernails tore at his cheek. He reeled back. The woman ran away, then ducked inside the white car that had just pulled up. Dazed, Avery watched the car peel away and speed down the street. There was no time to get a license plate number, no time to even process what had just happened.
Dazed, he wandered back to his car, climbed inside, and checked the rearview mirror. Whoever the woman was, she’d done a number on his face: four claw marks weeping blood on his cheek. He thought about calling the police to report the incident. But what could they do about it?
He drove home. The crowd outside his front gate had dwindled down to about twenty people, most of them reporters. Avery opened the gate with a remote device. The mob fought for a look at him, shouting questions, mostly about Joanne—where she was, how she was holding up. All the inquiries seemed to blend together—except for one reporter, whose voice dominated the others as he asked, “How did you get that scratch on your face, Avery?”
Avery stared straight ahead, pressing the remote device to shut the gate behind him.
Once inside the house, he tended to the scratches on his face. He’d forgotten he was still wearing makeup from his Tonight Show appearance. He washed his face, then put peroxide on the scratch marks. After collecting some things for Joanne, he phoned George to let him know he’d be back soon. “How’s Joanne doing?” he asked.
“Still napping,” George said. “Where are you? Did you just get home?”
“Yeah, I made a stop along the way,” Avery replied.
He’d spent almost ninety minutes in that park. It was a lapse of time the police would later question. They would also ask about the scratch marks on his face.
Twelve
As was now the custom, Hank entered the apartment first, and turned on the lights for her. Then Dayle stepped inside. She didn’t pay much attention to the ringing telephone. Hank forged ahead into the kitchen, letting Fred out. The cat scurried toward her. Dayle scooped him up and hugged him.
The answering machine in her study was picking up the call: Beep. “Hello, Ms. Sutton? Nick Brock calling from nowheresville, Wisconsin. Hold on to your socks. I got the goods on who Peter Collier’s daddy is, and it’s one for Ripley’s, a bad-seed story. Small wonder Estelle has kept junior a secret. I think you’re right about her being blackmailed—”
Dayle grabbed the telephone. “Hello? Nick?”
“Ms. Sutton?” Nick was saying. “Hey, cool. Glad I caught you…”
“I’m sorry, Danny, I don’t want you spending the night at this Greg’s house.” The cordless phone to her ear, Sean stood on a ladder, painting her office walls. “I don’t know Greg or his parents—”
“Well, geeze, Mom, maybe if you were home more, you’d know him. He’s practically my best friend.”
Working the roller over the wall, she sighed. “I thought Jason was your best friend.”
“He is, but Greg’s new. Ah, c’mon, Aunt Anne said it’s okay with her.”
“Well, it’s not okay with me—not yet. Tell you what, have Greg’s mom call me here at the office, and I’ll get back to you and let you know.” Sean paused for a moment by the roller-tray full of sea-foam-green paint. She wore a baseball cap, a paint-splattered T-shirt, and old jeans. “Are you still there, Danny?” she asked. “I just want to talk to Greg’s mother—”
“Forget it,” her son grunted. “I never get to go anywhere, and you’re never home. Fine. This sucks.”
“Hey, this isn’t very fun for me either,” she said.
After Danny hung up, Sean went back to painting her office. Her son had a point. She was hardly ever home, and missed so much of her children’s lives. But she had to set up her business. Dan wouldn’t be around too long, and she couldn’t expect to keep living off the generosity of her in-laws.
The phone rang again, and she snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Sean? It’s Dayle. How are you?”
“Oh, my son hates me, but otherwise I’m all right.” She put down the paint roller. “Did you get my message?”
“Yes,” Dayle said. “In fact, the timing is impeccable. I think you’re right. Estelle Collier will be more cooperative if she has a lawyer to work out a deal for her. Could you meet me at Estelle’s place tonight around eight?”
Sean hesitated. She’d wanted to be home by eight.
“By the way,” Dayle added. “I don’t expect you to do this for free. I’m paying for your services here, Sean, whatever you charge.”
“Well, I’m not going to pretend that I can’t use the money.” She reached for a pen on her desk. “What’s Estelle’s address?”
As Hank pulled out of the driveway, Dayle watched the Corsica start after them. It stayed on their tail for a half hour. Twice, Dayle made Hank stop for amber lights, because she didn’t want to lose the Corsica just yet.
They turned into the Valley Ridge Condominiums complex. The three tall buildings, constructed in the early Reagan years, compensated for their lack of charm with a clean, spartan style. Hank pulled up to the entrance of the middle tower. Stepping out of the limo, Dayle spied the Corsica at the edge of the parking lot—one building over. Its headlights went out.
Hank escorted her to the lobby door. Dayle toted a Nordstrom bag. She buzzed number 501: F. & B. LASKEY. Laskey was Bonny McKenna’s married name. It would take some time and research for anyone to connect Dayle’s stand-in with this address. “Hello?” the voice over the intercom asked.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Oh, howdy. I’m buzzin’ ya up.”
Dayle took the elevator to the fifth floor. Bonny was waiting in the hallway. “So what does our hair look like today?” she asked.
Within minutes, Bonny emerged from the building and strolled toward Hank and the limo. She looked exactly like her employer, right down to Dayle’s confident strut. Bonny climbed into the backseat of the limo. Once Hank pulled out of the lot, the Corsica started following them.
Dayle watched from the fifth-floor window. For the next two hours, Bonny would go shopping on Rodeo Drive—with Hank at her side. She knew enough about surveillance to keep her shadows at a distance—and eventually lose them without raising any suspicions.
Dayle changed into the outfit she’d brought along in her bag: jeans and a purple jersey. From the phone in Bonny’s kitchen, she called a cab.
The taxi dropped Dayle in front of a U-shaped two-story apartment building. The place looked as if it had once been a hotel in the early sixties. At the front gate, two tiki torches with Polynesian masks on the poles stood like relics of the bygone era. Each unit had its own entry off a balcony walkway overlooking the pool and patio.
Dayle found Estelle’s apartment on the second level. She rang the bell. It seemed a gauche place to live for someone who had worked alongside such a high-profile star. Then again, Estelle’s bad-seed son had depleted most of his mother’s income. Maybe this dump was all she could afford now.
Dayle rang the bell once more. Estelle opened the door. She’d obviously just gotten out of the tub. Her broad face was framed by dark, damp ringlets. She wore a pink robe, and her feet were bare. She frowned at Dayle.
“Can I come in and talk with you, please?” Dayle asked.
“God, what now?” With a roll of her eyes, Estelle opened the door wider, then plodded to the kitchenette. She poured herself a glass of wine, ignoring Dayle, across the counter from her. “We’ve already been through this at Leigh’s memorial service, Dayle. I have nothing more to say.”
Dayle sat down at the kitchen counter. It was a continental kitchen, the kind incorporated with the living room. Estelle’s apartment looked like a modest suite in some southwestern resort—all brown, beige, and rust colors, with Aztec art on the walls. The only personal touch to her living room was a framed photo of a younger Estelle holding a toddler, probably the son. He didn’t look much like his famous dad.
Lucky kid.
“Does Peter know who his father is?” Dayle asked quietly.
Estelle’s eyes widened for a moment. She put down her wineglass. “You can’t prove a thing about Peter’s father. You’re just guessing.”
Dayle sighed. “I know where you spent the spring of sixty-nine, Estelle. Wasn’t Peter conceived during your time at the ranch?”
“I wasn’t at there when those murders happened—”
“I know,” Dayle said grimly. “The Tate-LaBianca murders were in August. You left Spawn Ranch in March. But you lived there nine weeks.”
“Guilt by association, right?” Estelle said. “You’re just like those monsters who were harassing me. They thought Charles Manson was Peter’s father too. It’s so damn ridiculous! I wasn’t one of his women!”
“But, Estelle, amid all that drug use and group sex, can you remember for sure?” Dayle studied her face and sighed. “The truth is, you can’t prove Charlie isn’t the father. That’s how these people got to you, isn’t it? Charlie had targeted dozens of celebrities. Who in the entertainment industry would have hired one of his disciples? Who could trust you?”
“I want you to leave,” Estelle said.
“And in the end, you couldn’t be trusted. Look what you did to Leigh.”
“That’s so unfair! Do you think they gave me a choice?”
“Are we finally talking about the same ‘they’?” Dayle asked. “How did they approach you? Did you meet any of them?”
Estelle took another gulp of wine, then shrugged. “I never met a single one. They started calling me about four months ago. I was in trouble. I’d taken some money out of Leigh’s account to pay my son’s debts. Somehow, these people found out about it, and they called me—”
“You said ‘they.’” Dayle remarked.
“Yes. About five different people phoned me over the next few months. They kept asking how I planned to replace the money from Leigh’s account before someone noticed. They knew I’d spent time at Spawn Ranch too.” She shook her head. “Who would have understood? I was a fat, unwanted teenager. That spring at the ranch was the first time I ever felt like I belonged. You and Leigh, women like you, pretty all your lives. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be repulsive to people, to be that hungry for love. At the ranch, they took me in. And yes, my son was conceived there.” She sighed. “Only I saw how some of the other girls got passed around. So I left. After I had Peter, I worked hard to make a good home for him. The truth is, I don’t know who his father was. And that’s what I told the police and FBI when they rounded everyone up after the Tate murders.”
“These people calling you, how did they get their information?”
Estelle took her wineglass around the counter and sat on the stool beside Dayle. “I heard someone was in my hometown asking questions about me a few months back. A couple of high school friends knew about my time at Spawn Ranch. Maybe somebody got to them. Is that how your man found out?”
Dayle nodded. “I just want your cooperation, Estelle.”
She let out a cynical laugh. “Ha, those monsters only wanted my cooperation too. Oh, they were very clever. They merely suggested I could replace the money I borrowed by selling the tabloids a story about Leigh Simone’s involvement with drugs, and her secret lesbian lifestyle.”
“This was before her death?” Dayle asked.
“Yes, months ago.”
“Did you try to talk to Leigh about this?”
Estelle’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I didn’t want her to know I’d stolen from her. She trusted me! I just kept hoping these people would go away. But it only got worse. They started following Leigh around like stalkers. And they were so blatant about it, as if they were untouchable. They’d park outside her house for hours at a time—”
“But Leigh had bodyguards.”
Estelle shook her head. “Only when she was on tour. Otherwise, she had a retired cop who handled security for the house, and a chauffeur who carried a gun. By the time one of them came out of the gate, the car would always take off. But another car just like it would be back an hour later.”
“Another car just like it? What do you mean?”
“They were rentals, you know, midsize cars, Corsicas, Cavaliers—”
“And Tauruses,” Dayle murmured. “Last couple of days, they’ve been following me around too. What did Leigh do about it?”
Estelle stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Leigh thought they were from the tabloids. She called them the ‘rental mentals.’ Sometimes she’d flip them the bird as she came out of her driveway in the limo. She wasn’t afraid of them. But I was.”
“You had to know they were going to kill her….”
“I thought they were out to destroy Leigh’s career. The night before we left for Portland, I got another call. They knew about the trip. This man told me, ‘If anything should happen to Leigh, her accountants will discover the money is missing. You’ll have to square things with them.’ He said that the tabloids would pay for the inside story on Leigh. I could replace the money very quickly if I gave them what they wanted. He told me, ‘Remember, she was a lesbian, and she used heroin. She was very unhappy.’ I thought at the time, ‘Why is he saying, she was, she was?’”
Dayle frowned. “In the back of your mind, you had to know.”
“I didn’t want to believe it.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even believe it when the police told me she was dead. The cop, right away, he said to me, ‘Did Leigh Simone use heroin?’ And I knew that I had to answer yes.”
Staring at her, Dayle almost felt her pain. “Did they contact you again?”
Estelle nodded. “Two days later, this woman called. She just said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy.’ They used to call me ‘Miss Piggy.’ She said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy. Now keep your fat mouth shut.’” Estelle refilled her wineglass. “I did what I was told. And I managed to replace the money in Leigh’s account.”
Dayle rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen. If you’re worried about changing your story for the police, I have a lawyer friend. I think she can swing you a deal. I’ll pay her fee. I asked her to come here tonight.”
“Generous of you,” Estelle murmured, in a stupor.
“Also if you’re worried about a job, you can work for me.”
Estelle let out an abrupt laugh. “But you’re going to die too,” she said, staring at her as if she was stupid for missing something so obvious. “You just said, they have you under surveillance. It’s already started.”
Dayle automatically shook her head.
“They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you, Dayle, the same way they got to me. It’s most likely someone you trust, a loyal, old friend, or a new acquaintance. Whoever it is, have some compassion for them.”
“I have compassion for you, Estelle. I want to help. I know a police lieutenant who’s handling Leigh’s case here. She’s a good woman. I’d like you to talk to her. Tell her what you told me.”
“Sure, why not?” Estelle ran a hand through her damp hair, then stood up. “There’s nothing more they can do to me. Go on, call the police. I’ll give them a statement. Let your lawyer friend in. I need to get dressed.”
Dayle watched her plod into the bathroom and shut the door. She heard the hair dryer start. Sifting through her purse, Dayle found Lt. Susan Linn’s business card. Then she reached for the phone.
He’d already packed his scrapbook in the suitcase, and now Tom was pulling clothes out of his closet. Another call had come in an hour ago; but he’d let it ring. Right now, he just wanted to get out of there before they called again. These people knew he’d killed Maggie, and they were torturing him. Why? He had a feeling they were watching him this very minute.
The telephone rang again. Tom stepped into the living room and gazed at the phone for a moment. Finally, he picked it up, but didn’t quite bring the receiver up to his face. The voice seemed tiny and distant: “Hello? Mr. Lance? Mr. Tom Lance? Is anyone there?�
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Tom brought the receiver closer to his ear. “Yes? This is him.”
“Hi. My name’s Hal Buckman. I’m a reporter for Entertainment Tonight. I’m calling because we’ve discovered that Maggie McGuire made her movie debut with you. I was wondering if you’d be willing to give us an interview.” He paused. “Would that be all right? Mr. Lance? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I—I’m still here,” he said numbly. “You want me to be on TV?”
“That’s right. We’d tape the interview tomorrow morning for tomorrow night’s show. Could you fit us into your schedule?”
Tom closed his eyes and smiled gratefully. “Yes,” he said, past the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yes, I—I think I can fit you in….”
Someone knocked. Dayle peeked out the window, then opened Estelle’s front door. Sean wore a navy blue silk blouse and a black skirt. Her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail. “So where’s my new client?” she asked.
“In the bathroom, getting dressed. I’ve already put a call in to a police lieutenant I know. I think she’ll work with us on this.”
Sean glanced at the closed bathroom door. Estelle still had the hair dryer on. “Is she ready to talk?”
Dayle nodded. “She’s told me an earful. These people forced her to lie about Leigh’s problems with sex and drugs. They were calling her up long before Leigh died—practically admitting they were going to kill her.”
“Does she have proof that these people actually murdered Leigh?”
Dayle shrugged. “I can’t say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Sean nodded and sighed. “I’ll need to ask her a lot of questions before we talk to the police. Might be a long night ahead.”
“You can sleep over at my place if you want.”
“Thanks,” Sean said, putting down her briefcase. “But I want to fix breakfast for my kids tomorrow. Plus my husband has had a few bad nights lately, and I need to be with him.”
Dayle squinted at her. “You mentioned he was sick. Is it serious?”
The Next to Die Page 16
