by Joanne Pence
She no sooner finished explaining about being at Eagle Crest when Frannie shrieked. “Why are you encouraging Mamma to run around with another man?”
Angie bit her tongue and tried to calm Frannie down the best she could, which essentially involved her making scoffing noises during those infrequent moments when Frannie paused to draw a breath.
Finally, she got to the goal of the call: Junior Waterfield.
“He was such a disappointment,” Frannie wailed. Angie could see her rolling her eyes. Frannie was a first-class eye-roller. “I hate to even think about him.”
“Think about him,” Angie ordered.
A long, irritated, martyred sigh blew through the receiver. Angie waited, impatient and annoyed, saying nothing. It was the best way to handle her sister.
Frannie’s marriage was rocky, to say the least, and Frannie bore much of the fault. She tended to overly dramatize her problems and loved to play the victim. She was also good at pushing people away, believing she was better than anyone else, and subject to severe bouts of jealousy, all of which Angie had to take into consideration as she listened to Frannie’s version of the brief romance.
“On our first date,” she began, “he told me he loved me, and started making all kinds of plans for us. Can you imagine? I was looking for a boyfriend, a serious relationship, but he freaked me out. He called all the time, asking what I was doing, where I was going, who I was going with. We went out three weekends in a row, and I broke it off. I couldn’t take it. For a while, that made him worse.”
“What do you mean worse?” Angie asked.
“I had the feeling I was being watched. Sometimes when I answered the phone, no one was there. Finally, I warned him that if he didn’t leave me alone, I’d tell Papa and he’d sic ‘the boys’ on him.”
“You didn’t!”
“Damned right I did. I told him I hated him and that my father’s friends would turn him into mincemeat.”
“Mincemeat…glad you reminded me.” Angie made a mental note to include the traditional Christmas pie.
“What?”
“Anything else about Junior or Sterling?”
“Sterling always liked Mamma. His wife was one of the coldest women I’ve ever met. Instead of Crystal, she should have been called ‘Ice.’ I think Junior’s problems were because he was looking for someone to love him. All I knew was, it wasn’t me.”
Angie didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “Any idea how Mamma feels about Sterling?”
“I think she likes him, too.”
Oh, dear!
Angie soon got off the phone and tried to reach Paavo once more. Unsuccessful, she finally shut off her phone in frustration, since the stupid thing didn’t work at Eagle Crest anyway, dropped it into her purse, and traveled back to the Napa Valley.
Paavo inched along behind winery touring drivers who knew little about driving and probably less about wine. Now traveling at about twenty, the Ford was purring like a baby.
Not until he turned off the main highway onto the winding road to Eagle Crest did the congestion ease.
To his surprise, there was no activity around the estate. Empty trailers and a couple of cars filled a parking area. Angie’s Mercedes wasn’t among them.
He knocked on the door. When no one answered, he tried the doorknob. The door opened.
Was this what Eagle Crest looked like on television? After the reaction from others in Homicide, he must be the only person alive who had never watched the series.
He wandered through the downstairs rooms and didn’t see a soul. The kitchen was the first place he’d looked. No Angie. Finally he went out into the courtyard.
A figure stood on the hillside. When he saw Paavo, he started to hurry away.
“Hey!” Paavo called. “Stop. Can you help me?”
The fellow turned. Tall and rugged, he had long black hair that was thick and wild, and a bushy black beard. He appeared to be in his early thirties, his nose and cheekbones sharply angled, his forehead high. He wore a rugged gray plaid flannel shirt and jeans and faced Paavo with a hostile glare. “What do you want?”
“Do you live here?” Paavo asked.
His bearded chin jutted out. He took a moment before answering, “Yes.”
Paavo stepped outside the courtyard gate. “My name’s Paavo Smith. I’m looking for a woman who was hired to help out with the TV special.”
The man nodded.
“Are you one of the Waterfields?” Paavo eyed him closely.
“I’m called Junior.” The name fell from his tongue with derision. He appeared nervous.
“You must know Angie Amalfi,” Paavo said.
“I know her.” Junior’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m her fiancé. Did she tell you?”
Junior shook his head.
That didn’t sound like Angie. “Do you know where she is? Or where anyone is? The house appears empty. I was expecting a lot of people here.”
“I don’t know. It’s Saturday. Maybe they don’t work weekends.”
Paavo looked at him skeptically. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it. “I thought an entire cast and crew were in this house.”
“Look, we get a lot of people trying to come in here, saying they’re friends of this one and that one. We never tell where people are.”
“Maybe this will help.” Paavo held out his badge. “If you come down here, you can see the I.D. better.”
“I don’t need to.” He shied even further up the hill.
People who took a step back at the sight of a cop’s badge aroused Paavo’s curiosity.
Junior cleared his throat. “The crew’s gone for now, and the town’s putting on some kind of shindig for the cast. I think everyone went into town with the director. Nobody’s working. Everyone’s having a good time. Angie’s probably with them. The party will be over tonight. She’ll be back then. Or, you can go to St. Helena and try to find her. It’s not that big.”
“Where’s Silver?” Paavo asked. Angie had called him from a restaurant last night where she was dining with Silver. He wasn’t a jealous man. He trusted Angie more than he’d ever trusted anyone in his life—but he wanted to take a look at this Silver character.
“I haven’t seen him, either,” Junior said. “He doesn’t stick around the house much.”
“Could he be at the town’s festivities?”
“I doubt it. He’s not a barbecue-and-speeches kind of guy.”
“You aren’t, either, I take it.” Something about Junior bothered Paavo the longer he talked to him.
“Right. I’m not, either. I want to go now,” Junior said. His voice sounded strained.
“One question,” Paavo said. “This place is called Eagle Crest on TV. Are there eagles out here?”
Junior looked over the hillside. “There used to be. No more, though. East of the valley, there’s a wildlife preserve near the north shore of Lake Berryessa. Eagles, falcons, hawks. That’s the place to see them.”
“Thanks,” Paavo said.
Junior nodded and headed back up the hill.
Paavo watched him a moment longer, thoughtful. As he went through the house, he looked for someone to question, but as Junior had said, everyone was out.
He left Angie a note on the foyer table.
In St. Helena, he found the park where the barbecue would be held later that afternoon. A woman who appeared to be in charge of the set-up told him the mayor and city councilmen had invited the actors to an elaborate lunch at the Silverado Country Club. Afterward, they’d come to the park to meet the public and be given the keys to the town. They had a very complete day planned.
Angie was most likely with them. Leave it to Angie to rub elbows with actors and town politicians.
Time to head back to the city. He’d probably spent more time away than he should have anyway. If all he’d learned in Vallejo was true, the Quetzalcoátl gang was involved, and they wouldn’t be stopping
with three murders.
St. Helena appeared to be a pleasant town. Angie was in good hands and was enjoying herself.
He was glad. Or, at least, that was what he told himself.
Chapter 14
Angie drove back from San Francisco depressed. Where could Paavo be? It wasn’t like him to travel so far that his cell phone didn’t work. She wasn’t used to that happening. Before cell phones, how did people find each other?
In St. Helena, a banner proclaiming “Eagle Crest Day” was prominently displayed. A crowd had gathered at the town square.
Angie pulled into a grocery store lot, the only parking available. From there it was a short walk to the park. On a dais, wearing studious expressions, were Bart and Rhonda, and also Kyle O’Rourke and Gwen Hagen. They must have arrived after she’d left Eagle Crest.
The town’s mayor read a proclamation and presented a plaque to Emery Tarleton. Photos were taken of the celebrities with the beaming mayor.
The speech ended to a short ripple of applause before the crowd mobbed the actors for autographs.
Several tables topped with food edged the park. American picnic classics, barbecued beef and pork ribs, fried chicken, potato and macaroni salads, cold bean salads, and gelatin molds straight out of Family Circle, plus apple pie and ice cream desserts, were spread out.
A hunger pang reminded Angie that she hadn’t eaten yet that day, having hoped to share a meal with Paavo. She made up a heaping plate, plus a glass of Mondavi chianti—she wasn’t in the Napa Valley for nothing—then wandered back toward the actors.
Bart Farrell was holding court like a war-weary king.
Rhonda Manning was standing with a group of people, batting her round blue eyes, saying nothing more than “Yes,” “No,” or “I’m not sure.” The force of her personality was stultifying.
Up close, Kyle O’Rourke was smaller than he seemed when playing Adrian Roxbury, although his body was well toned and muscular. A group of thirty-something women flocked around him. He must have been the teenybopper favorite on the show. Even when Angie was a teenager Adrian was too sweet and naïve for her taste.
Gwen Hagen had a surprisingly hard look to her face and demeanor. Her hair was boy-short and straight, which gave her a far different image from the long, sultry locks Leona Roxbury wore.
Kyle and Gwen’s crowds were larger than Bart and Rhonda’s.
Angie veered away from them, looking for a bench to sit on and enjoy her lunch.
“Psst!”
Had she just heard something? She ignored it.
“Pssssssssst!”
She turned to see a man with a camera dangling from his neck standing on the far side of a tree. He was of medium height, slightly overweight, with a loose, wrinkled sport coat over corduroy slacks. The battered brown fedora on his head made him look like the Internet reporter Matt Drudge. He waved her toward him.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Come back here, I don’t want to be seen by the actors,” he whispered. He had brown eyes and overly large teeth.
“That’s your problem.” She turned away again.
“It’s important.”
“I’m hungry.” She sauntered toward a bench far from the actors.
Apparently, continuing to hide wasn’t all that necessary, since he rushed after her. “I hope they don’t look this way.” He puffed along by her side. “They might recognize me.”
She glanced at him. “Why should they?”
“Let’s use that bench. I can sit with my back to them, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Curious, she sat where directed. The bench had no back. He sat close beside her but faced the street, while she sat watching the activities in the park.
“I heard you’re connected with the group out at Eagle Crest,” he said, talking out of the side of his mouth like a B-movie tough guy.
“Where did you hear that?”
He grinned. “Actually, I guessed it from the way you looked at Tarleton and the others. You don’t appear the least bit interested in their autographs. And your clothes tell me you don’t live in St. Helena. So I put it all together. I’ve got a nose for stuff like that.”
She looked down at her heather and gray Jil Sanders wool pantsuit, a perfect San Francisco outfit. The crowd was mostly a hodge-podge of polyester, cotton, and denim. “Maybe I just don’t like autographs,” she suggested, not very convincingly. She began eating a rib, which was quite tasty. She preferred her barbecue sauce a little tangier and the ribs juicier, but for a town picnic she couldn’t complain. The wine was delicious and welcome after her disappointing trip to the city. She suppressed a sigh. The food would taste better if Paavo were sitting next to her instead of this bizarre character.
“Do you mind?” He picked a rib off her plate and bit into it.
“Hey!”
“Are you from Los Angeles?” he asked, mouth full.
“San Francisco,” she replied.
“Great. That means you don’t know these people very well,” he said, twirling the half-eaten rib as he spoke, “which is perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
He finished the rib and reached for another. She slapped his hand. “For giving me an open, honest opinion about them.”
His audacity was laughable. “Why should I give you any opinion at all?”
“Because the public wants to know.” He took a sip of her wine. “It’s my duty as a journalist and yours as a citizen to give them the information.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a journalist? For which paper?” She moved her wineglass out of his reach.
“The National Star.”
“A tabloid! Give me a break!” As she stood to walk away from him he snagged the last rib.
“You want your name in the news?” he asked. “What is your name, by the way?”
She stared at him as if he had two heads. “None of your business! The last thing I want is to have my name in any way associated with the National Star!”
“Don’t you care about Brittany Keegan?” He concentrated on eating the rib as if he’d lost interest in her or her help.
She sat back down. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you want to know who killed her?”
Killed her? He was a madman, just as she’d first thought. “Her death was an accident.”
“That’s the official story,” he said, studying the rib for any last iota of meat. “But I know better.”
“What do you know?” she asked.
“That’s the problem,” he said, finishing her wine. “I haven’t been able to put pieces together yet because I haven’t had inside help. With such help—your help—I’m sure I will. I’ll figure out who killed her. It’ll be the scoop of the century!”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Aren’t you in favor of justice? I thought you’d be on the side of the good guys in this.”
“I’m always on the side of the good guys.”
“Just like me.”
“With the National Star?” She made a face. “How many visitors from outer space have you written about lately? Or interviews with the Abominable Snowman? Have you retired the Loch Ness monster yet?”
His face turned petulant. “Stop right there. I’m a journalist, and a damn good one. I’ve got ways to find out things. It’s just that for this murder, I need some help. Anyway, you’re really out of date as to current tabloid news. Loch Ness? Are you kidding?”
“I have a job to do, too,” she said, “And I don’t care at all about your tabloid news.”
“You said you cared about justice.”
“And I do.” She proudly raised her chin and waggled her engagement ring in front of his nose. “My fiancé is a homicide inspector in San Francisco. It’s his whole life.”
“A homicide inspector! Hoo, man!” he shouted, rubbing his barbecue-stained hands together. “This is my lucky day, I mean, our lucky day! He’ll be able to find out things about the investigation into B
rittany Keegan’s death that’d take me months and a fortune in bribes to turn up. This is wonderful!” He eyed the ring. “Nice rock.”
She handed him the rest of her plate. He’d begun picking the fruit out of the Jell-O mold, and she lost her appetite. She was sure he’d scoop up potato salad with his fingers next. “This isn’t his jurisdiction, for one thing. For the other, he doesn’t help the press.”
“Your fiancé would be disappointed in you.” He used her fork on the potato salad, for which she was grateful. “Do you think he’d turn away a source? Someone who knows a lot about a case? Wants to be helpful? You know sources don’t come wrapped up in sterile gowns, like in a hospital. We come in all shapes and sizes and job descriptions. I’m a source for your boyfriend and you’re a source for me. In other words, you wash my back, and I’ll wash yours.”
She couldn’t imagine anything much more dreadful than having this grungy fellow’s hands, with their fingernails chewed to stubs and jagged cuticles, touching her, let alone washing her back. She didn’t want to touch him in any way.
“I don’t think so.”
“Take my card.” He handed her his business card.
“Digger Gordon?” she read. “Digger? Are you kidding me?”
He grinned. The smile made his face pleasanter to look at. “I’ve been called Digger since I was a kid and wanted to become a newsman. At age ten I used to write a newspaper about my neighborhood. It didn’t make me popular, but it gave me a taste for reporting about people, a taste that’s never left me, no matter what.”
“Sounds like you and the National Star are meant for each other,” she said.
“Someday”—his gaze was serious now—“you’ll see my name on the New York Times front page.”
“In the article where it talks about major scandals in the tabloid business,” she added.
He stood to leave, clearly unhappy with her jabs at his work. “The card has my cell phone number on it. Call me when you’re ready to talk. You’ve got to be ready.” Dark brown eyes held hers. The importance of this story seemed to go far beyond journalistic curiosity for him. “I need to do this. For the public, but most of all for Brittany Keegan.”
