"Come with me and tell the police that."
"Are you kidding? I'll have to tell them that Mother set the whole thing up. I can't do that."
"Why? I was there. I'll vouch for you."
"Will you really, Diana?” Teenage sarcasm and distrust riddled her voice.
"You can trust me."
"I don't think so."
We watched the cars race past us. When the light changed red the cars screeched to a stop inches from one another, as if jockeying for a minute piece of space kept them all in the unnamed race.
"You said you used his gun. What did you do with it?” I asked.
She gazed at the nylon duffel bag on her lap. “I need it for protection."
"Jimmy can't hurt you anymore. At least let me take the gun."
"No!” She edged away from me. “How often do the buses come by?” she asked nervously. “I've never taken one.” She gripped a twenty-dollar bill in her hand.
"I took buses when I was a teenager. Kyra, I don't think bus drivers make change anymore."
"He will for me.” For a moment she sounded like her mother.
"But they don't carry change."
"When you took the bus as a teenager where were you going?"
"I had a job in downtown L.A. I was a fitter's model."
"Then you knew where you were going."
"Let's say I had a destination. Kyra, please let me take you home. Whatever your mother may have done, she wants to know you're okay."
"Then tell her I'm okay. Also tell her I have a gun."
"Why do you want me to tell her that?"
She peered at me in the shadowy light. “How can you be old and so naive?"
A bus pulled up; its airbrakes made a loud swooshing sound. Its interior was lit up like an all-night Denny's restaurant. We watched the working poor and the illegal aliens straggle off.
"Goodbye, Diana."
I grabbed her arm. She wrenched away and leaped up the steps of the bus. The door clamped shut. It pulled out into traffic. I could see her standing, swaying, talking to the driver. I was sure he would pull over and make her get off. But he didn't. Then she was talking to a passenger who began to make change for her. Just like her mother, she could talk anybody into anything. It was then I realized I hadn't got the destination of the bus or its number.
Two hours later I was drinking a glass of wine on the rotting wood balcony of my Malibu teardown. Next-door, Ryan Johns's house, separated by a narrow path from mine, towered in wealth and importance. I heard Ryan staggering up the steps to his stone balcony.
Swaying, he grabbed the newel post and yelled at me, “You're a bitter, lonely woman, Diana Poole."
"And you're a drunken hack,” I yelled back.
This had somehow become our usual greeting.
"Why do you hate me?” he asked.
Ryan Johns was a man who would betray his friends for connections. A man who stayed sober long enough to write what the movie stars and the money people wanted him to write. Then he'd hit the bottle, turning his self-loathing into drunken charm. Did I say betray his friends for connections? Had I betrayed Kyra? If I had gone to help her sooner, maybe I could have prevented Whitelaw's death and kept a young girl from destroying her life.
"I don't hate you, Ryan."
I went into the house and closed the sliding-glass door. I stared at my husband's two Oscars on the fireplace mantel. He had won them for Best Screenwriter on two different movies. They were the only tangible evidence of his life that he had left me besides this house I could no longer afford. We had lived too well, never thinking of the future, or of death. I should wrap them in newspaper and put them in a box, I thought. It was time. And then I felt that deep ache for the need of his arms around me. The doorbell rang.
I answered it. It was Detective Heath. His attitude was casual and threatening at the same time. His charming smile had disappeared.
"According to Monique Lancer, you were the last person she saw in Kyra's bedroom. That is, except for when she discovered Jimmy Whitelaw's body."
"Would you like to come in?"
He followed me into the living room.
"I take it by your composed reaction to my news that you knew Whitelaw was dead. Did you know Kyra is missing, too?"
"Yes and yes.” I sat on the sofa. He remained standing, legs apart, hands jammed into his pants pockets. “But I'm calm only because a certain amount of time has passed."
"Good. I wouldn't want to upset you. Though I could get technical and say you left a murder scene."
"Are you going to?"
"It depends on what you tell me."
I described how I had discovered Whitelaw's body and then he asked: “So where is Kyra?"
"I'm getting to that. On my way home from the party..."
"This is after discovering Whitelaw's body?"
"Yes. I stopped at Ralph's Market in Hollywood. I bought milk and coffee."
"You always do grocery shopping after discovering a dead body? What's with you people?"
"Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"
"Go on."
I told him how I had found my trunk open, the barrette, and then Kyra on the bus bench.
"What bus was she taking?"
"I didn't get the number or the destination."
"She could be anywhere. I'd like to think that you didn't help her."
"If she had taken a chance on me I probably would have. But she didn't. She thought I depended on her mother."
"For what?"
"Any small parts she could toss my way."
"How did you know to look under the evening gown?"
"I saw the blood seeping through the fabric. I lifted the hem and there he was. I put it back down and got in my car."
"With Kyra in the trunk."
"Except I didn't know she was in my trunk."
"Monique Lancer said that Jimmy Whitelaw went up to her daughter's room to escort her down to the party."
"That's not true. I was there. Monique wanted Kyra to have sex with him. Monique thought that would get him to take her on as his agent."
"By pimping her daughter? What is it with you people?"
"That's the second time you've asked that. Do you really expect an answer?"
He looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Someday, but not now."
"By the way, Monique will deny what I just told you. And there's something else. Kyra told me Whitelaw got rough with her. That it was really a rape. From what little I know of him I believe her story."
"Whitelaw was shot."
"I know."
"Kyra confessed to you, didn't she?"
I nodded. Tears ran down my cheeks. He awkwardly and briskly reached into his pocket and handed me his handkerchief. It smelled of Shalimar.
"Who wears Shalimar?"
"Third ex-wife. Where did Kyra get the gun?"
"She said Jimmy had it in his pocket."
"We can't find it. Does Kyra have it?"
His dark eyes burrowed into me. I was afraid if the police knew she was armed they'd hurt her. “I don't know,” I answered.
"For an actress you're not a very good liar. What time was it when she got on the bus?"
"I'm not sure. I left the party around eight-thirty. Between nine-thirty and ten. I'm only guessing."
He reached in his pocket for his cell phone. When he made his connection he snapped out orders to check the bus schedules for the time and the area. Then he added that Kyra might be armed.
"I didn't say she had a gun."
"I didn't either. Why didn't you phone the police after she got on the bus?"
"There was a moment at the party. I was standing on the stairs and watched Whitelaw go into Kyra's room. I didn't do anything to stop it. Her mother and I should be held accountable. Not Kyra.” My tears started again.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Doesn't work that way."
He stood in front of the Oscars.
"Did you wi
n these?"
"My husband was Colin Hudson. They're his."
"You were married to Colin Hudson? God, he was a great writer. The Paddy Chayevsky of our time. How long ago did he die, if you don't mind me asking?"
"A little over a year. You want to pick one up, don't you?” I said.
"Do you mind?"
"No."
"Heavy.” He weighed the Oscar in his hands and grinned sheepishly. “I suppose everybody says that."
"Take it."
"What?"
"Take it home with you."
"Is this some kind of bribe?"
"I'm trying to let go. Besides, I thought it might help with your writer's block. Or maybe help you understand what kind of people we are."
"You trying to let go of your husband?"
"I think it's about time."
"Well, if I were you I wouldn't start with giving away his Oscars. I'd do something a little more practical."
"Such as?"
"Find another man.” He looked quickly away from me and returned the statuette to its place on the mantel. “Here's my card. It has my cell-phone number on it. If Kyra calls you, or you remember anything else, I want you to call me. Understand?"
"Yes. Here's your handkerchief."
"Keep it."
"No, thanks. I hate the smell of Shalimar."
"So do I. It's suffocating.” He threw it into the fireplace. “See how easy it is to let go?"
"You must know. Three ex-wives."
I placed his card on my nightstand. I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. At two in the morning the phone jarred me out of my sleep.
"Diana?"
"Yes?"
"It's Kyra."
I sat up, pulling the covers around me. “Are you all right?"
"I'm going to do the only thing I can. The only thing that will really hurt my mother."
"What are you going to do?"
"What I should have done. You'll be reading about it."
"Where are you, Kyra? Please let me help you."
She hung up.
I thought of calling Monique. To warn her. But of what? I didn't believe Kyra would physically harm her mother. I got up and put on jeans and a sweater, and made myself coffee. At four-thirty the phone rang again. It was Monique.
"I'm in my car on the way to your house. Kyra called. She wants me to pick her up. She wants you to be there, too."
"Where?"
"Near the restaurant at Paradise Cove. I'll be at your house in about twenty minutes.” She hung up. Like a true agent, she didn't wait for my answer.
I called Leo Heath. He answered groggily.
"If I tell you something about Kyra you have to promise me you won't show up with an army of cops."
He agreed and I told him that Monique and I were going to pick her up. I didn't trust him enough to tell him that Kyra had told me she wanted to hurt her mother.
"I'll follow you there,” he said. “Monique doesn't have to know."
"But she's going to be here soon."
"I'm just down the street from you."
"You live in this area?"
"No. I'm sleeping in my car. My third wife tossed me out yesterday. I haven't had time to find a place."
"Are you watching my house?"
"Now how can I do that when I've been asleep?"
Monique picked me up and we drove up the coast. Paradise Cove wasn't far from where I lived.
"How did Kyra get to the cove?” I asked.
"Hitchhiked from Santa Monica."
"I wonder why she didn't get dropped off at my house?"
"Maybe she thought you'd call the police."
I tried not to turn around and see if Heath was behind us, but since I didn't know what kind of car he drove I wouldn't be able to tell anyway. “What are you going to do?” I asked her.
"Our lawyer said I'm to take her to him. He would arrange with the police to bring her in. What have I done, Diana?"
I didn't respond.
"I just thought that if she'd given herself to all those creeps, why couldn't she give herself to someone who could help us? I don't know where the boundaries are anymore. Where the lines are drawn. It just seemed that nothing meant anything to her. So why would Jimmy?"
"Kyra called me."
"When?"
"Around two this morning."
"What did she say?"
"She said she wanted to hurt you."
"What does that mean?” Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"I don't know. What did she say to you when she called you to pick her up?"
"Nothing. Just that she wanted to turn herself in."
"When I talked to her earlier she implied she had the gun to protect herself against you."
"Does she truly believe I would physically harm her? Oh God, Diana, what have I done?"
We drove in silence. There was a heavy, wet mist and we seemed to be the only people on the Pacific Coast Highway.
"She has a gun, Diana. I'm scared of my own daughter."
"But you said she wanted me to come along. She's not going to harm you if I'm there. Kyra is not a cold-blooded killer."
Tears showed on Monique's face. They looked out of place. I remembered Kyra's tears as we sat on the bus bench.
"Did you ever want to be a mother, Diana?"
"I was more interested in being loved myself."
"By Colin?"
"Yes."
"I was more interested in my career. But I thought I could have it all. Women always get screwed."
I was so tired of hearing women say this. We repeat, “I thought we could have it all” like a mantra of self-torture, constantly reminding ourselves of what we hadn't gained. Or if we had, it was tainted by what we had to give up. Why did women think they could escape loss?
As we sped closer to our destination, I said, “My first modeling job was a fashion layout for bathing suits. We shot it at Paradise Cove. I remember I glued fake plastic nails over my stubby ones. They had a live trained seal they wanted me to pose with. He swayed his big head and hit my hand. All my nails flew off. I was mortified."
"Is there a moral to this, Diana?"
"I was Kyra's age. Sixteen. I was still a virgin. And I was worried about plastic nails."
"Different time."
"Now we have acrylic nails and no virgins. Do you love your daughter?"
"Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. And I felt chill.
Turning left, Monique guided the Mercedes down a steep road into the cove and the restaurant's empty parking lot. I looked in my side-view mirror. I thought I could make out the shadow of another car behind us. The Mercedes’ lights pierced the mist. I put the window down. The sound of the ocean crashing against the shore and the thick, damp, salty air filled the car. My heart pounded.
"Do you see her?” Monique asked breathlessly.
"No. Drive slower."
"Oh, Diana,” she murmured. “I'm afraid of her. Afraid of my own daughter. You talk to her. I can't."
"Stop!"
She slammed her foot on the brake. We both lurched forward as the car skidded to a stop.
"Did you see something? Hear something?"
I peered out the window.
"Is it Kyra?” Monique asked.
I opened the car door. With the car's headlights as a guide, I slowly approached what appeared to be a bundle of clothes on the asphalt. But my gut knew it wasn't just clothes. It was Kyra. She was curled in the same fetal position as Jimmy Whitelaw had been. The right side of her head had a bloody hole in it. A gun rested near her hand. Monique got out of the car.
"Kyra? Kyra!"
"Stop her!"
Confused, I turned and saw Heath running toward us, yelling, “Stop her!” Monique fell to her knees and pulled Kyra's body to hers. She began to rock her, and sob. I stepped back and felt Heath standing behind me. Trembling, I wondered if this was what Kyra had meant about hurting her mother.
Heath rested his hand on my shoulder
for a moment.
"Stop her from what?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he impassively studied a mother holding her dead daughter. He looked like a director who was unable to get the scene to work right.
"Evidence. Contaminated now,” he said to no one in particular.
Kyra's death was declared a suicide. Hollywood closed ranks around Monique Lancer. Her client list might be ageing but she still had power. The rumor that she had prostituted her own daughter was said to be scurrilous and spread by those who had personal axes to grind. And the hot new Jimmy Whitelaw was quickly forgotten. His unfinished movie was dumped along with my ten lines and one closeup. But the image of Kyra huddled in death on the cold asphalt of the parking lot never left me. I couldn't forget her telling me that the gun was for her own protection. And then there were Heath's words: contaminated evidence.
A few days later I called him and asked him out to dinner. We met at a restaurant near my house.
"Are we on a date?” he asked as we sipped our drinks.
"No. I mean, I hadn't thought of it that way."
"You want something. What?"
"I'm a woman who lives a chaotic life and I would like to tie up some loose ends."
"I like tying up loose ends. Are you sure we're not on a date?"
"I think Monique killed her daughter. I also think she wanted me to be a witness."
He sat back. “You mean Monique wanted you to see her discovering the daughter she had just murdered. But Kyra said she wanted to hurt her mother. Wouldn't suicide do that?"
"It would hurt Monique more if she came back home. If she told the truth."
"About her trying to prostitute Kyra."
"Yes. Right now it's just a rumor. Hollywood can deal with that. It's the truth we have trouble with."
"So you're saying what?"
"I think Kyra called to have her mother pick her up. I think Monique went to Paradise Cove and shot her with the gun Kyra had. Then called me. Remember she was only twenty minutes away when she called. About the time it takes to get from the cove to my house."
EQMM, August 2007 Page 6
