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The Next to Die

Page 26

by Kevin O'Brien


  “Hey, you got it!” Nick said, pointing to the rack. “Check it out, the Playgirl. Page thirty-four. You might be interested, honey.” He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. Nick glanced over his shoulder at Amber. She was thumbing through the magazine; then she stopped suddenly—on his page, he was sure. “Omigod!” Amber squealed, obviously impressed.

  Smiling, Nick moved on. Made his day.

  “I think we found something to prove there’s a conspiracy,” Sean said on the other end of the line.

  The phone to her ear, Dayle sat at the vanity table in her trailer. She’d been touching up her “old” face for a scene in which her character has aged into her mid-sixties. Her hair had been spray-dyed a mousey gray, and they’d added some crow’sfeet, laugh lines, and liver spots. She wore a tweed suit and pearls. “What did you find?” she asked, turning away from the mirror.

  “Avery and I are here in this editing room at his studio, looking at security videos taken outside his home. We noticed some rental cars parked across from his house.”

  “They’re following him too?”

  “Looks that way,” Sean said. “We’re having a few of the video images blown up and enhanced so we can see the license plates. Here’s where you come in, Dayle. Do you still have that list of plate numbers I faxed you? Or did you give it to that Nick character, the centerfold?”

  “I still have a copy at my place,” Dayle said. “I can fax it to your office when I get home tonight. Would seven-thirty be too late?”

  “No. That would be fantastic, Dayle. Thanks a lot.”

  “We’ll talk tonight, okay? Take care.”

  As Dayle hung up the phone, she heard someone on the steps to her trailer. She went to the door and opened it. Dennis stood there.

  He looked startled. “I was just about to knock,” he said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “All right,” she said, mystified. “C’mon in.”

  Dennis stepped inside, and closed the door. “You better sit down for this. It’s not good news.”

  “Okay.” She sat across from him at her vanity. “What happened?”

  “Does the name Cindy Zellerback ring a bell? A distant bell?”

  Dayle kept very still. “What about her?”

  “She—um, recently completed a prison sentence for killing her husband and baby. She claims that she had sex with you a long time ago. Apparently, she’s now born again or something. The point is, at this very minute, Elsie Marshall is interviewing her in front of a studio audience. They’re taping this afternoon’s show.”

  Dayle felt a little sick. She just stared at him.

  “I only now found out,” Dennis continued. “The reporters are banging down the studio door for a statement. Publicity wants to talk to you as well.”

  Dayle reached for an Evian bottle on her vanity. It was empty. Sighing, she pitched it in the wastebasket. “Wouldn’t you know, they’d leak the story to Elsie? She’ll get lots of mileage out of it.”

  “Then the story is true,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, Dennis. It’s true.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, I need some time alone right now.”

  “You got it.” Dennis started for the door, but he hesitated and turned to her. “You can trust me, Dayle. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

  “Hi, Elsie!” the studio audience cheered in unison.

  “Hi, and welcome back to Common Sense!” Elsie Marshall said. “I know I’m breaking a lot of hearts out there when I tell you my Drew won’t be here today. He’s in Washington, D.C.”

  There was a wave of feminine sighs and murmurs of disappointment from the studio audience. Elsie held up her hands. “But we have an unusual guest this afternoon, and you won’t want to miss what she has to tell us!”

  The camera pulled back to show Elsie sitting at her desk. She wore a white dress with red piping and a sailor collar. She hadn’t yet introduced her guest: a dowdy dishwater-blonde with bad posture. She sat across from Elsie, studying the studio audience with some readable contempt and trepidation. She had on a pale, flowery dress that had gone out of style ten years ago.

  Dayle barely recognized Cindy. She watched Elsie’s show on a big-screen TV in the studio’s VIP visitors’ lounge. She was still in her matronly makeup and wardrobe. She’d agreed to work late if they filmed around her for the next couple of hours.

  “Today we’re talking some common sense with a real survivor,” Elsie announced. Then she turned to Cindy with a sudden, phony concern. “I understand you had an intimate, lesbian relationship with an established film star when you were only nineteen years old.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Dayle groaned. She reached for a memo pad and a pen.

  “Yeah, I was nineteen,” Cindy said. She leaned toward Elsie. “But I want to make it clear that I’ve rejected the sinful lifestyle I once had.”

  With a little pout, Elsie gazed into the camera. “My guest today is Cynthia Zellerback, who was drawn into drugs and the gay scene eighteen years ago. Cindy’s here to tell us her story—which included a sexual relationship with film personality Dayle Sutton….”

  Elsie paused to give the studio audience a chance to gasp—and gasp they did—while she nodded emphatically. “Yes, it’s true!”

  People were still murmuring when Elsie turned to Cindy. “Eventually, you tried to reject this lesbian lifestyle and lead a normal, Christian life. But even with a husband and baby, you wouldn’t ‘go straight,’ would you?”

  Frowning, Cindy shook her head. “No. And if it weren’t for my drug and sexual dependencies, I don’t think—it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “For the studio audience and our friends at home, Cindy,” Elsie said in a whisper. “What exactly happened?”

  “I killed my husband and baby daughter,” she answered with hardly a tremor in her voice. “I was convicted, and I spent twelve years in prison….”

  More gasps and murmurs from the studio audience. Dayle took notes, scribbling furiously while Cindy described the murders as if someone else had committed them. Cindy said how much she missed her husband and her two-year-old, Sunshine. She even cried a little. If only she hadn’t been doing drugs and having gay sex. She discovered the “power of God’s forgiveness” in the federal pen.

  Elsie patted her shoulder, and chimed in to announce a commercial break. “When we return, we’ll talk some more common sense with Cindy about her lesbian affair with none other than Dayle Sutton. Don’t go away!”

  Dayle didn’t go away. On her cellular, she phoned Dennis to let him know that she would read a brief statement for the press after Elsie’s show.

  “Hi, Elsie!”

  “God bless you,” Elsie chirped, coming back on and blowing a kiss to her audience. Now that everyone had Cindy Zellerback identified as a reformed drug-addicted, child-killing lesbian, Elsie didn’t waste any time linking this survivor with a certain liberal actress. After less than a minute of chitchat with the audience, she turned once again to her guest.

  “Cindy, you were only nineteen when you met Dayle Sutton. That’s a young and impressionable age, isn’t it?”

  Cindy shrugged. “Sure.”

  “What was it like, meeting a movie star?”

  “It was pretty cool,” Cindy answered. “I was in Mexico with some friends, and heard they were shooting a movie nearby. So I started hanging around the set. I even got to be in a couple of crowd scenes.”

  “You also met Dayle Sutton,” Elsie said. “Tell us, Cindy, were you doing drugs at the time?”

  She sighed. “Yes, I was.”

  “Were a lot of people on this movie set doing drugs?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Including Dayle Sutton?”

  Cindy nodded. “Sure, I guess.”

  “And Dayle Sutton was married at this time, wasn’t she?”

  “I think so,” Cindy replied.

  “Who initiated this—gay sexual encounter?” Elsi
e asked, with a sour look, as if it pained her to discuss this sordid business.

  “It was mostly her,” Cindy said. “I could tell before this, y’know, particular night that she was interested in me. And it was kind of exciting, because she was a movie star and all that. Plus, I heard people talk on the set about her being a lesbian….”

  Dayle studied Elsie’s face, and as much as the old bitch tried, she couldn’t contain a smile.

  Dayle faced the press, flanked by Dennis and Ted. About forty reporters and several cameramen gathered outside the soundstage where she was filming Waiting for the Fall for this impromptu press conference. In her “old lady” garb, she looked very sweet and matronly. Yet Dayle had modified the makeup a little so that the pretty movie star shined through. Security was tight, with guards stationed every eight feet at a roped-off section around the podium where Dayle addressed the crowd.

  “I’m in the middle of making a movie right now,” Dayle announced. “Which explains why I’m dressed and made up this way. I’m sorry I won’t have time to answer questions. But I’d like to make a statement for anyone who cares to listen.” Dayle smiled at them. She needed these journalists on her side. “Actually, I’m not wearing any makeup. I’ve simply aged twenty-five years in the past hour while watching a certain ‘talk show.’”

  There were some laughs and titters among the reporters, and she heard Dennis behind her chuckling—almost too enthusiastically.

  Elsie’s show had ended only forty-five minutes ago. Dayle had scribbled out a brief speech. She felt a strange calm. The “scandal” was out there now, thanks to Elsie Marshall. That left Dayle with damage control, an assignment the studio brass tried to entrust to their public relations department. “It’s my ass on the line,” Dayle had told a studio bigwig over the phone. “I’ll handle this.”

  They wanted to check her speech, but the only person she let read it was Dennis, whose thumbs-up gave Dayle the confidence she now needed.

  “I take enormous pride in the fact that I’m on Elsie Marshall’s hate list,” Dayle announced. “Elsie had a guest on her program today, a woman named Cindy Zellerback, who murdered her husband and child thirteen years ago. Now, the widow Marshall—to my knowledge—has never had a murderer on her show—morons, yes, but not murderers.”

  A few reporters laughed, but Dayle kept a straight face. “The reason Elsie put Cindy Zellerback on her show was that this particular convicted murderer claimed to have had sexual relations with me a few years before she killed her family. Ms. Zellerback’s story first came to my attention earlier this week, by way of an anonymous note from someone who seemed to have extortion in mind. I chose to ignore it. Obviously, this mudslinger turned to the widow Marshall with this story. So in her attempt to publicly humiliate me, Elsie Marshall has consorted with an extortionist and a murderer.”

  Dayle shook her head and sighed. “Well, I’m a little embarrassed, but not humiliated. The story this woman told is indeed true. One night, sixteen years ago, while shooting a movie in Mexico, I went to a beach party and had too much to drink. While under the influence, I experimented with a nineteen-year-old named Cindy. The widow Marshall would like you to believe I corrupted this young woman, but I’d like to point out that I was the ripe old age of twenty-three at the time, and not much of a party girl. I have very little memory of my evening with Cindy Zellerback. I do, however, recall that the ‘experiment’ wasn’t my idea of a good time. I never saw—or heard about—Cindy Zellerback again, not until the anonymous note last week.”

  A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dayle shrugged. “That’s the extent of my association with this”—she shook her head—“this pathetic woman who killed her family. I can’t understand how someone who preaches the power of God’s forgiveness can also preach hate toward gays and lesbians. She blamed the murders of her husband and toddler daughter on drugs and her lesbian lifestyle—as if she herself weren’t responsible at all. That’s just not right. I’d feel sorry for Cindy Zellerback if she still weren’t doing harm—this time with her demented moralizing. I’m glad my association with this pitiful woman was so brief, and forgettable—when my mind was clouded with drink. The widow Marshall, however, chose to associate with her in front of a television audience, and seems to consider her a colleague. What’s clouding Elsie’s mind? A powerful dose of hate, I’d say. Listen, Elsie, when you resort to the testimony of convicted murderers to trumpet your homophobic rhetoric, it’s time to reevaluate your beliefs.”

  A few reporters started to applaud, and others joined in. By the time Dayle stepped down from the podium, they were cheering her.

  But in a deluxe penthouse suite at the Hyatt Regency in Washington, D.C., the reporters on hand scoffed at Dayle Sutton. Her speech was broadcasted live on the Entertainment News Network. Over thirty supporters of Drew and Elsie Marshall—many of them from the press—crowded the huge suite. Plied with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, they watched the telecast on a big-screen TV. They hadn’t expected Dayle Sutton to respond so soon. The group had originally assembled with their host, Drew Marshall, to watch his mother interview the convicted murderer who had once been Dayle’s lesbian lover.

  Elsie’s interview had been a great victory for Drew. The excitement and enthusiasm buzzing through the room had everyone nearly giddy. Dressed in a white linen shirt and jeans, he held court in a stuffed easy chair. He led the group in applause every time his mother got in a zinger against Dayle Slutton.

  Then a call had come in saying that ENN would provide a live telecast of Dayle Sutton’s response to today’s Common Sense segment. Everyone stayed to witness Dayle Sutton’s humiliation. They couldn’t wait to see her squirm.

  In reverence to Drew—and out of respect for his mother—several of the guests hissed at Dayle during her speech. But some people seemed uncomfortable, their mood plummeting from the zealous fever of an hour before. A few of them even left the room—very quietly. But the loyal ones stayed on to criticize and ridicule Dayle Sutton. Drew insisted that today was a moral victory for everyone who believed in family values.

  With his beer in hand and a confident smile on his face, Drew turned to one of his associates. “Listen carefully to me,” he said, under his breath. “When they shoot that whore next week, I want a piece of her goddamn brain for a souvenir. I don’t care if they have to scrape it off the fucking floor, make sure someone brings it to me.”

  Drew caught a reporter’s eye from across the room. He hoisted his beer stein as if to toast him and broke into his charming, boyish smile. “Hey, you’re running on empty, Duane,” he called. “Have another round!”

  A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror of the blue ’89 Chrysler LeBaron. It pulled into the Reservations Only space in front of Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Things were slow at the front desk. Amber had her nose in a Cosmopolitan quiz, “Are You Getting the Most out of Masturbation?”

  She glanced up from her magazine as the driver of the LeBaron stepped into the lobby. With his mustache, receding gray-brown hair, and windburned face, he looked like a cowboy. He wore a denim jacket and tan sans-a-belt pants that rode low under his belly. He leaned against the counter. “I need Nick Brock’s room number, honey.”

  Setting down her magazine, Amber consulted the guest file. “Brock?” she asked, snapping her gum. “There’s nobody here by that name.”

  “You sure? Maybe he checked in under an alias.”

  Amber simply shrugged.

  “Good-looking guy, about thirty, my height. Black hair—”

  “Omigod, yeah, sure,” Amber said with a smile. “Nick Brock. I remember thinking he didn’t use the same name when he checked in.” She grabbed a Playgirl from the magazine rack, then flipped through the pages until she found Nick Brock’s butt shot. She set the open magazine on the counter, under the man’s nose. “Is this the guy you mean?” Amber asked.

  Sean felt as if she’d made a couple of friends this evening. Sheila Weber was a salt-of-the-earth
type. Sean recalled going through that same stage of pregnancy, and Sheila lapped up the advice. George was cute, congenial, and obviously a wonderful friend to Avery. The Webers insisted that they stay for dinner. Sheila made a terrific chicken pasta.

  Sean had to remind herself that the Webers were tight with Avery and his wife. There was no room for a fifth wheel.

  Still, tonight had been special, and for a few minutes she’d stopped worrying about respirators and catheters. She hadn’t thought about conspiracies and grand juries. She’d actually fooled herself for a while, and felt like part of a normal couple again.

  They were now on their way to the park, where Avery’s mystery woman had scratched his face. Sean had a tiny buzz from the Chianti the Webers had served with dinner. She glanced over at Avery in the driver’s seat, watching the road ahead. She studied his profile, the strong jawline, and those long eyelashes. He was playing a tape of seventies music. He’d brought it to his wife in the hospital, but she hadn’t wanted it.

  Out of respect for James Taylor, and “Fire and Rain,” neither of them talked. Sean sat quietly, enjoying the pretty drive along the coast. The cool air smelled sweet through the car window.

  Avery pulled off the highway to a little alcove with six parking spaces. “This is it,” he announced. He hopped out of the car, and hurried around to open the door for her. The wind had kicked up. Sean rubbed her arms from the chill. Avery dug a flannel-lined jacket out of the backseat, then placed it on her shoulders. They strolled down to the park benches and a little stone wall. The Pacific stretched out before them, rippling and moonlit.

  “I watched the sunset that night,” Avery said. “So it was earlier.”

  “When we go back to the car, remind me to call the weather bureau and find out what time the sun set on the fourteenth.”

  Avery nodded. “I stayed until dark, I remember.” He pointed to a path by the rock wall. “That’s where the woman came from. The trail dips down, then comes up to the other side of the parking alcove.”

 

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