by Joanne Fluke
As Mr. Brother took out his wallet to pay for his ticket, Christie noticed the label on the inside of his jacket. It had perfectly embroidered initials for Dolce & Gabbana. Christie had priced a shirt for her father last Christmas, but it had been much more than she could afford. She’d ended up with the usual bottle of aftershave lotion instead.
Mr. Brother slipped a five-dollar bill through the glass cutout, and Christie’s fingers brushed his accidentally as she took the money. She jerked back and a blush stained her cheeks. What if Mr. Brother thought she’d done that on purpose, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. At least he was still smiling. Her hands shook slightly as she punched up the sale on the computer and the ticket printed out.
“Here’s your change, Mr. Brother.” Christie pushed a dollar and two quarters back through the cutout, followed by the computerized ticket. “Enjoy the movie. Everyone says it’s wonderful. Have you seen Rear Window before?”
At first Christie thought Mr. Brother wasn’t going to answer. He had already turned away toward the entrance, but he took a step back when he saw that there was no one in line behind him.
“I’ve seen it many times. What do you think of it, Christie?”
It was her chance! The chance she’d been waiting for! Christie was so nervous, she was almost tongue-tied.
“Well, to be completely honest, I haven’t seen it yet. I have to stay in the booth until after the feature starts, and then I’m supposed to help out at the concession counter. Do you think I should see it?”
“Definitely. It’s an interesting piece of work if you ignore the moral implications.”
Christie nodded. She didn’t have the foggiest idea what Mr. Brother was talking about, but at least he was talking. And to her!
“It sounds wonderful, Mr. Brother.”
“Wonderful? Not quite the word I’d use, Christie. Psychologically revealing, perhaps. Just remember that what Stewart sees is a projection of his own desires. And he never becomes conscious of the connection between what he sees and his personal life. He remains completely unaware of the parallel.”
Mr. Brother stopped. He seemed to be waiting for a reply. Christie knew she had to say something. But what?
“I, uh, I’ll be sure to watch for the parallel.” Christie stared at him in awe. “Are you a movie critic, Mr. Brother?”
The question had popped out before Christie could stop herself. Why had she asked a stupid thing like that? Now Mr. Brother had stopped smiling.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Brother. I didn’t mean to be personal. It’s just that you seem so, so knowledgeable.”
Christie sighed in relief as Mr. Brother smiled again. She’d almost blown her chances to smithereens. He obviously didn’t like questions that were the least bit personal.
“Thank you, Christie. I’m not a movie critic, although it’s true that I’m knowledgeable about film. I’ve made a detailed study of Hitchcock’s work.”
Christie noticed that Mr. Brother’s expression changed as he talked to her. She could see his eyes narrow and begin to gleam with excitement. What had she done? If she knew, she’d do it again.
“Christie?” Mr. Brother hesitated slightly. “Could you turn your face slightly to the left? That’s it!”
“What is it, Mr. Brother?” He was staring at her so intently, Christie felt her palms grow damp.
“I hadn’t noticed before, but you bear an uncanny resemblance to Irene Winston, the victim in Rear Window. Are you an aspiring actress?”
Christie felt a blush rise to her cheeks. For the first time Mr. Brother was actually looking at her, studying her with obvious interest. She had kept the secret from her parents, but she’d been taking acting classes for almost a year now. Her mother and father disapproved of actresses, so naturally Christie hadn’t mentioned the small part in the popcorn commercial she’d done. She’d almost died last week when her father had seen the spot on television and commented that the girl looked just like her.
“Well, yes.” Christie did her best to look dedicated. “I know there are thousands of girls who want to be actresses, but I still have my dreams.”
“Excellent! I have something to discuss with you, Christie. Are you working tonight?”
“Uh, no. Tonight’s my night off.”
Christie regrouped hastily. She was slated to work, but she could always call in sick or something.
“Is there somewhere we could meet?” Mr. Brother gave her a smile that melted the last of Christie’s natural reserve. “At eight-thirty tonight?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll give you my address.”
Christie could barely contain her excitement as she printed her address carefully on the back of an old ticket stub and handed it to him. Her family was going to a cousin’s wedding in San Diego tonight, and since it was a Sunday night, they’d been reluctant to leave her alone. Her father had made her promise to lock all the doors and windows, and he’d even given her the money to take a taxi home from work. Normally, Christie would have taken the bus and pocketed the extra money, but all the girls in her acting class had been nervous about the Video Killer, and they’d made Christie nervous, too. She was doubly glad she had a date with Mr. Brother tonight. At least she wouldn’t be alone.
“Well, I see you have more customers coming.” Mr. Brother glanced around to see three ladies approaching the ticket booth. “Until tonight then, Christie. If you can perform the scene Irene Winston does in Rear Window, I can almost guarantee that your dream of becoming an important actress will come true.”
Mr. Brother nodded and then he was gone, heading toward the entrance of the Bijou. Christie’s face was radiant as she greeted the three older women who moved up to the front of the window.
“Three for the matinee, ladies?”
Christie could barely contain her euphoria as she counted out the change and gave the ladies their computerized tickets. Then she tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the feature to start so she could close the window. She’d watch Rear Window from the projection booth and study Irene Winston’s part. Mr. Brother knew a lot about film. Perhaps he was a talent scout. Or a big producer. If Lana Turner had been discovered at the lunch counter in Schwab’s drug store, there was no reason why she couldn’t get her big break right here in the ticket booth at the Bijou. As Christie closed the shutter on the window and raced up to the projection booth, she was sure that tonight would be the luckiest night of her life!
Tony sighed in exasperation. This was the fourteenth take and the scene still didn’t work.
All three of Tony’s actors wore disgruntled expressions as they sat up on the bed and separated.
“Maybe if you let Bobby take over with the camera and you crawled in here?”
There was a wistful expression on Tina’s face, but Tony ignored it. The girls were always trying to put the make on him, and he’d been firm about ignoring their advances.
“Forget it, Tina. I told you before, I’m a happily married man. What’s the matter with you two girls today? Tina, you’re just lying there like a board. Lick your lips or tremble with desire or something. And the same goes for you, Ginger. You’re both supposed to go crazy with passion when you catch sight of Bobby.”
“Go crazy with passion over that?” Tina flicked her finger, and Bobby quickly covered himself with the sheet. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tony. I’m not that good of an actress and neither is Ginger.”
“You can’t blame me for that.” Bobby frowned at the girls. “They act about as sexy as dead kittens.”
“Okay, okay, stop blaming each other and concentrate on your lines. Bobby, try to be convincing. Think about something else if the girls don’t turn you on. And girls? If Bobby doesn’t come through, pretend. This scene isn’t going to be much of a turn-on when you two look like you’re going to the dentist.”
“The dentist?” Ginger laughed. “Now that’s sexy, Tony. Did you know those chairs tip all the way back? One time, when I was the only patient in his office, my dentist . . .”
>
“Let’s take a break.” Tony interrupted what he knew would be a long, raunchy story and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. This afternoon he was wearing a mustard-yellow T-shirt that said AUTO EROTICISM DOES NOT MEAN I’M IN LOVE WITH MY CAR. ”Anybody else want a cigarette?”
“Tina and I brought our own. You don’t mind, do you?” Ginger reached out and grabbed Tony’s lighter. “This is a great lighter, Tony. I’ve seen them in the stores, but I never had the chance to try one before.”
Tony watched as Ginger held the end of the hand-rolled cigarette to the little notch on his lighter. Almost immediately the distinctive musky-sweet odor of marijuana filled the small motel room. Tony wasn’t wild about the idea of his cast smoking pot while they were working, but maybe it would help. It seemed that everything was going wrong today.
“Tony? Have a hit.”
Even though he shook his head, Ginger passed the joint to him. He took a drag automatically and held the smoke in his lungs. Good grass. Maybe it would knock him out of his depression.
Bobby was telling the girls a joke when Tony stood up and walked to the window. It was growing dark, and there was a steady stream of headlights outside. Sunday night in Los Angeles. Would the Video Killer strike again tonight?
Suddenly Tony wished for open spaces where the air didn’t smell like exhaust fumes and violent crime was something that only happened in other, faraway places. A ranch. He’d always wanted a ranch somewhere in the foothills. Lots of land with a trout stream running through it and a house built in the lee of a hill. It wouldn’t have to be fancy. No gardeners or landscapers required. All he needed was a comfortable old ranch house somewhere in the high desert, sturdy enough to keep out the elements.
What would Allison think of living out in the wilds? Tony wasn’t really sure. She’d always been a city girl, and she might miss the bright lights and the convenience stores.
One of the girls came up behind him, Tony didn’t bother to find out which one, and handed him the joint. He took another hit and passed it back. Why was he so damn depressed today?
Mentally, Tony catalogued his problems. First there were the lies. He’d lied to Erik because of the murder videos. And to Allison to cover up his moonlighting porn job. Tony knew Allison was hurt and puzzled by the way he’d pulled away from her, but he couldn’t tell her about the terrible financial crunch they were in. She had enough problems dealing with her mother’s terminal illness, and there was no way he’d burden her with any more worries.
Tony pulled out his packet of uppers and washed one down with a swallow of beer. He knew he was abusing the damn things, but his back was to the wall, and it was the only way he could stay alert enough to meet all his commitments. He’d contracted to complete this film to repay his loan. And he’d promised to block out Video Kill for Erik. And he’d agreed to act as an adviser on the murder videos for Sam. On top of all that, he had to try to be there for Allison to lean on. Somehow he had to accomplish everything, even though there weren’t enough hours in the day, and when he finally got a chance for some sleep, he was either so wired he stared up at the ceiling or so exhausted he practically passed out. Tony felt as if he were trapped on a speeding roller coaster with no way to get off.
“Hey, Tony, are you all right?”
Tony whirled around as Ginger put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone in the room.
“Can we do something that’s not in the script? I just thought it up. Bobby’s going to be a dentist, and I’ll be his patient. I’ll seduce him, and then Tina’s going to be the dental assistant who catches us and gets into the act. What do you think?”
“Sure.” Tony shrugged. Ginger’s idea was a lot better than the script. “Go for it, Ginger.”
Twenty minutes later Tony had the scene on disc. It was very good, probably the best thing they’d done so far.
“Okay. That’s a wrap.” Tony walked to the wastebasket and dropped the script inside. “Let’s take a break while Ginger thinks up the next scene.”
Ginger gasped in surprise. “You mean we’re not going to follow the script anymore?”
“Nope. Your ideas are a lot better than the guy’s who wrote this script.”
“Wait a minute.” Bobby scratched his head. “I thought you wrote it.”
“I did. From now on Ginger works up the scenes, and I’ll see there’s a bonus in it. What do you want, Ginger? Extra money?”
“Well, money’s always nice.” Ginger looked thoughtful, and then her face lit up. “But I’d rather have that nifty lighter of yours. I love the inscription. I’ll work out the rest of the scenes if I can have your lighter for a present. Is it a deal?”
Tony hesitated. The lighter was his anniversary present from Allison. It wouldn’t be right to give it away, but he didn’t have time to rewrite the script.
“Okay . . . you’ve got a deal.”
Tony fought down his feelings of guilt as he tossed Ginger the lighter. He’d pick up another one tomorrow morning before Allison noticed this one was gone. He told himself that she’d never know the difference, and he’d just saved himself hours of work.
Katy Brannigan darted into a space in the fast lane and earned a blast on the horn from the car behind her as she fishtailed slightly. She still wasn’t used to the quick steering on her new car. The old Ford she’d driven up until two months ago had been as staid and steady as a truck.
She was driving a red Mazda MX-5, the car she’d bought for herself after the divorce. It was a good car, even Consumer Reports said so, but Katy had come to the unhappy conclusion that it wasn’t right for her. All the women in her therapy group had recommended a sports car. They’d told her about the sense of freedom a high-powered engine would give her, the fantastic maneuverability, the sexy single image she’d project in a fast, two-seater luxury car. The MX-5 was touted as the top of the line, and Katy admitted that it had never given her a speck of trouble mechanically. But owning the car meant that she had to tailor her lifestyle to fit her vehicle.
Katy loved to wear fancy hats when she got dressed up, but her new car didn’t have enough headroom. That meant she had to take her hat with her and put it on at the last minute, being careful not to dislodge it when she got out of her car. Then there was the problem of carrying the boxes of papers and books she needed for research. There was no trunk and no backseat. She’d tried putting her things on the passenger seat, but they were heavy and the Mazda had a safety feature. The engine wouldn’t start if there was weight on the passenger seat and the seat belt wasn’t buckled. That meant her boxes had to go on the platform behind the bucket seats, and there they were difficult to put in and take out.
The seat belts were another feature that drove Katy crazy. Her Ford had been so old that it’d had lap belts. Her MX-5 was equipped with the newest in shoulder harnesses. While Katy realized that they were much safer than the lap belts, it meant she had to modify her wardrobe. She could no longer wear her favorite silk blouses without arriving at the office wrinkled diagonally.
Katy eased over two lanes to the right and drew a sigh of relief. She hoped she wouldn’t have to speed up before she got to the freeway exit. She loved the concept of a high-performance engine, but she was a bit afraid of the surge of power that came when she stepped on the gas pedal. With the quick steering and the high horsepower, she sometimes felt as if the car were in control, not her. This was one of the days when she wished she’d ignored all the well-meaning advice of her new friends and kept her old car.
A few minutes later Katy turned in the driveway at the Wilshire Towers and parked in the empty space next to Sam’s car. As she walked through the garage and approached the glass door that led to the lobby, she noticed that the ugly orange-and-green-striped carpet had been replaced with a lovely deep-pile royal blue. It looked much better, and she wished they’d done it earlier. She’d always hated the carpeting in the lobby.
Katy picked up the telephone by the doo
r and dialed Sam’s apartment. It felt strange to be dialing the number she’d answered so many times. When Sam picked up the phone, she had to swallow hard before she could talk.
“Sam? It’s me, Katy.”
Sam pressed the buzzer that unlocked the door, and Katy pulled it open. Again, a feeling of unreality struck her. She’d lived in the end unit on the sixth floor for most of her marriage, and it still felt like home. She reminded herself that she was only a visitor and pressed the button on the elevator for the sixth floor. While she rode up, she reviewed what she’d learned so far today. Cinescope Studios was doing a screenplay about the Video Killer. One of Alan Goldberg’s secretaries had tipped her off. The writers of record were Tony Rocca and Erik Nielsen, and Katy had already started an investigation into their backgrounds. As far as the actual murder DVDs were concerned, several reliable sources at police headquarters had mentioned that they were in Sam’s possession. They weren’t in the evidence room, and they weren’t in Sam’s office. Katy had checked on that. And she had the advantage of knowing Sam’s habits. She was positive that Sam had the murder DVDs here, in his apartment. And if the Video Killer ran true to form and struck tonight, she’d have plenty of time to copy them when Sam was called to the scene.
The moment Katy had figured it out, she’d called Sam. She was missing a few important facts for her article. Could she interview him tonight? At home?
Katy had expected resistance, but Sam had agreed almost too eagerly. That made her a little nervous, but she quickly squelched her suspicions. Sam wasn’t the type to have an ulterior motive.
“Hello, Katy. Come in.”
Sam pulled open the door before she had the chance to ring the bell, and Katy almost jumped out of her skin.
“Hi, Sam.”
Katy gave him her very best innocent smile, but she trembled a little as he helped her out of her light summer coat. She noticed the eager look in his eyes, and now she was glad she’d rushed out at lunch to pick up this particular dress from the cleaners. It had always been Sam’s favorite.
