by Gary Ruffin
It was a gorgeous spring morning in Atlanta, a real Chamber of Commerce special: sunny, warm, with low humidity. The drive to the theater was easy and pleasant, Cherry and I talking as if we’d known each other forever. She sat up in the front seat with me, refusing when I tried to open the back door for her. For a young international movie star, she was really much more down-to-earth than I had expected.
The Bentley was an Arnage T, deep blue in color and ridiculously luxurious. It had a burr walnut dash and light gray leather seats that felt like butter. The tremendous surge of power I felt when I accelerated was something I could get used to with no problem. There was indeed a navigational system, and every other gadget a guy could want. The sound system was extraordinary, so I found a classical station for our soundtrack, and we motored along like royalty.
Halfway to the theater, I realized that I hadn’t called Penny yet, and mentally braced myself for the butt-chewing I would receive when I did call. But that would have to wait. The company, the car, and the day were all too fine for me to worry about my girlfriend killing me.
We arrived at the theater right on time, and found a group of thirty or more photographers and reporters in front. Another twenty or thirty Cherry fanatics were behind a line of security men, and they all started yelling and waving when they recognized the object of their affection.
As we got out and headed towards the front door, I held Cherry’s arm, and she said, “I usually talk to the fans at a moment like this.”
“Not today. Sorry, boss.”
She nodded, and smiled and blew kisses as we passed the throng.
Inside the theater, Cherry introduced me to her director and several members of the cast. No one mentioned my gun, or asked why I wore it. Everyone was friendly except for Guinness, who seemed to be in a world of his own. Before I mentioned it, Cherry said, “Don’t mind Chuck, he’s not a rude man, just very involved and on edge right now. First day, and all that. Everyone wants a piece of the director, and there’s only so much of him to go ’round.”
In the lobby was a table with doughnuts, muffins, bagels, fruit, coffee, and tea, and several members of the cast were standing around it eating and drinking. Cherry and I went over and got a tea for her and a coffee for me.
A young man with a clipboard entered the lobby from the auditorium and boomed loudly, “Okay, people, time for the first table read.”
The cast gathered around and sat down at a long table in the center of the stage, and began running over lines as Guinness made suggestions and offered encouragement. There was a lot of laughter and good-natured ribbing, and Cherry held her own. Preoccupied with the stalker, I had no idea what the movie was about from hearing them read their lines. All I could tell was that Cherry was unquestionably the star, and everyone seemed to love her.
I had hoped that I might see something or someone suspicious, but nothing caught my eye. It was just a happy bunch of actors going about their jobs, as far as I could tell.
Then it hit me that they were just that—actors—and wouldn’t give anything away even if one of them was the stalker.
I decided to just listen and guard my employer’s body.
At a little after noon, the same young clipboard guy who had boomed earlier called for the lunch break, and Cherry came over to the side of the stage where I was sitting on a folding chair.
I asked, “Would you like to go get some lunch, or do you have time?”
“Craft service has set up lunch in the lobby. Come on, let’s get there before it’s all gone.”
“And ‘craft service’ would be … ?”
Cherry pulled me from my chair, and said, “They’re the good people who supplied the food and drinks that were set up on the stage earlier. When we go on location, we’ll have a chef and catered meals as well. Lunch on location will be even better than what we have here, and what we have here is quite nice.”
We walked down the steps of the stage and headed for the lobby, where a remarkable spread was set on the tables. There were several types of eats, including vegetarian fare, all kinds of sandwiches, fruit and salad fixings, the ever-present English tea, quite a few brands of bottled soft drinks on ice, even some Mexican dishes. I was in hog heaven, and I do mean “hog.” Free food always makes my day; I’m a man of simple tastes. Just give me a buffet and a room full of actresses, and I’m happy.
The executive producer, who’d seemed nice during the table read, came over to the back row, where Cherry and I were sitting with our food, and tried to horn in on our conversation. He was a real dandy, or at least he thought so. He was wearing black leather pants and a shiny purple shirt, and was doing his best to hit on Cherry. Obviously British, his pick-up lines sounded better than most would-be playboys, but she was not impressed.
At one point, she turned to me, her back to the Limey Casanova, and crossed her eyes as she denied his third request for a date of some kind after rehearsal. I didn’t laugh, but it was difficult to keep a straight face.
When he finally gave up and walked down to the front of the stage, I asked what his name was.
Cherry said, “That creature is Lawrence Lyndon-Bowen, a marginally successful producer, and a true pussy-hound.”
Chuckling, I said, “Why Miss Page, such language. I was very impressed with Lawrence what’s-his-face. He’s quite charming. If you’re an idiot.”
She said, “I’m always amazed at men like that, who think no one sees through them. But I guess there are women who find that smarmy approach appealing. Actually, I don’t know of anyone who has ever fallen for his tired pick-up lines, but I know he always hits on the women with whom he works. I think he’s overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”
I agreed, and we went back to eating. Cherry to her turkey on whole wheat, and me to my plate of Mexican everything.
Almost the entire cast was sitting here and there inside the theater in small groups, munching away happily, when a bloodcurdling scream came from somewhere backstage.
I stood, pulled my gun and told Cherry to drop her food and get down on the floor. She quickly complied, and was looking up at me from her crouching position when one of the actresses—still screaming—came running out from the backstage area and fainted on the stage.
From behind a curtain, smoke began pouring into the stage area, and someone yelled, “Get a fire extinguisher!” and the place basically went nuts. A few male members of the cast ran towards the stage, and everyone else headed in the opposite direction at top speed. I noted that Mr. Lyndon-Bowen quickly moved away from the danger.
Cherry and I headed out to the lobby, and I got Neal on my cell as fast as I could. Within a couple of minutes two Atlanta police officers and four FBI agents were on the scene, guns drawn, moving towards the backstage area. In another few minutes, more police had set up a defensive perimeter around the theater.
We watched as a couple of firefighters came in the front door and hustled inside the theater to assess the situation. It turned out to be a small fire—mostly smoke—and was easily handled with the fire extinguisher on hand. The stage manager with the clipboard came out and nervously told us that all was under control, so Cherry and I went inside the theater again and sat in the back row, watching the action as if it was a play. We didn’t say much, and I was just about to ask her what the film was about, to take her mind off of the action, when my cell rang.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hey bud, it’s me again,” Neal said. “The FBI found out where the last threatening message came from. It’s a house near Little Five Points, owned by one Marianne Ensberg. We’re trying to contact her, but haven’t been able to. At least we didn’t find a corpse this time. And her place is even cleaner than the last; not a shred of evidence has been found. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
We hung up, and I knew more almost immediately.
10
Watching the action from a parked car thirty yards up the street was such an amusing way to pass the time. The crowd wa
s growing by the minute, additional morons attracted by the noise and activity.
If only the firefighters could have been wearing black coats with yellow stripes, like the ones in New York City. That would have reinforced the notion that the place was nothing more than a hive, with all the mindless little bees droning around in circles.
Clearly, no one was in control of the situation. There was simply seemingly endless movement. The effect was hilarious, and every few minutes the horn of the parked car sounded when the hilarity was especially effective; it simply couldn’t be helped!
Like when a pair of FBI agents arrived, and one of them tripped over a fire hose that had never even been used, as the small backstage fire had been extinguished ten minutes before the truck had arrived. Or when a particularly affected young woman who was probably an actress had run out and vomited on the sidewalk. The looks of disgust on the faces of some of the bees near her were priceless, and the car horn hooted in response as if it had a mind of its own. Not one of the idiots ever turned to see who was honking the horn, or acknowledged the bleats in any way.
Hilarious.
Setting the blaze and walking away unnoticed had proven again how easy it was to move undetected among these imbeciles. And, it was definitely fun watching all the mayhem that had been inflicted with the fire, and all, but the big question still remained unanswered: Where was the Queen Bee herself?
Was she in the old theater bathroom with the corpse, holding in her own sick? Was she crying from the pressure of knowing that her refusal to allow herself to be sacrificed was directly responsible for another person’s death?
Or was she—and this was the most likely scenario—inside the theatrical hive, surrounded by her drones, unaffected by all the commotion? Yes, that must be it. Nothing affected the Queen.
The next message would have to hit even closer to home.
11
THE DIRECTOR’S ASSISTANT, A TALL, SLENDER BRUNETTE OF AROUND twenty-five, came hustling up the aisle from the stage towards us, and Cherry introduced her to me as Lynne Prather. Wringing her hands nervously, Lynne asked if she could have a word with me in private.
I looked at Cherry and she said, “Go on, Cooper, I’ll be fine here for a minute or two. But don’t go too far.”
Lynne and I walked out into the now empty lobby, and her nervous hands moved to her short hair, tucking both sides behind her ears. She said in a low voice, “There’s a dead woman in the backstage ladies’ room.”
“Oh, great. I knew somethin’ bad was goin’ on, but not that.”
“It gets worse,” she said. “Her throat has been cut, and the body has been dressed and made up to resemble Cherry. It’s the most gruesome thing I’ve ever—her eyes are closed—but her eyelids have—they have green ‘eyes’ painted on them, to look like Cherry’s, I guess. She’s also dressed like Cherry was in her last film. Same outfit: little black dress, handbag, right down to the shoes. The woman has—had—a similar body type, and she’s—there’s a red wig. Should we tell Cherry, or what? I just don’t know what to—”
“How many other people know about this?”
Trying to remember, she looked at the floor, and said, “I—I don’t know. The police are there. Her throat is—the green eyes—you have to do something!”
“Calm down,” I said, looking around to make sure we were still alone. “Stay with Cherry while I go backstage, and tell her that the police want to talk to me. Do not tell her anything else, understand?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t say anything.”
She started to cry softly, so I said, “Listen, forget about staying with Cherry. Go outside and wait ’til I come for you, okay?”
She nodded her head yes, and walked towards the front door like a zombie.
I walked back to Cherry, and said, “Listen. The cops wanna talk to me backstage, so sit here and wait. Don’t move, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“No way I’m sitting here without you,” she said. “I want to know what is going on here, and right this minute! Now, I mean it. Let’s go talk to the police together.”
“Cherry, listen to me. I’m sure it’ll be nothing more than routine questions and stuff. You’ll just be a distraction. To them, and to me.”
“I’m going with you, Cooper. I am putting my foot down here; I’m going to find out what is going on. After all, it has to do with me, yeah?”
We glared at each other for a moment before I gave in, and said, “Okay, you win. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
We went backstage, and the smoke that remained from the fire made us both cough. I identified myself to a young male officer who directed us to the man in charge, Sergeant Traylor. He was standing in front of the ladies’ room door, making notes on a pad. A burly man of around forty, he looked at Cherry, and said, “I don’t think you oughta be seein’ this, ma’am. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“All right, sir, I’ll not get in your way. I just want to know what is happening.”
I said, “Cherry, there’s a dead woman behind this door, and she’s most likely the latest victim of your—your fan.”
Cherry backed up slowly, shaking her head as if it was all too much for her. She found a seat in an old wooden chair, and put her face in her hands. I asked if she was okay, and she waved me off, her eyes closed. The sergeant and I entered the restroom and I got my first glimpse of just how sick the stalker really was.
Marianne Ensberg’s body was propped up on a toilet seat, her legs spread wide, the black dress hiked up to expose her naked privates. Her head was at a weird angle, due to the fact that the cut to her throat was so deep. There was blood only on her body and clothes, which meant that she’d been killed somewhere else and brought to the restroom. A wavy bright red wig was on her head, and just as Lynne had said, her closed eyelids were colored with bright green circles around black dots, representing Cherry’s famous eyes. Written on the stall beside the body in black magic marker were three words: “Baal’s Only One.”
Traylor asked, “You have any idea who this poor girl might be?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure her name is Marianne Ensberg. The FBI just traced another death threat to her house. I assume you know about the threats Ms. Page has been getting?”
“Yeah. I’m part of the task force lookin’ into it.”
At that moment, two men walked in carrying large metal briefcases. Traylor said, “These guys are part of the task force.”
I nodded.
He said, “Let’s get outta here and let ’em get to work.”
As we walked out of the ladies’ room, Traylor led me out of earshot of Cherry, and said, “The fire was started in a dressing room down the hall that’s usually used by someone who isn’t too important, according to the building manager. That’s why it’s so small. Whoever did this musta been in here last night. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough corpses to know this one’s been dead quite awhile. But the fire was started only a short time ago, so it’s obvious that the perp likes to live dangerously. Takes a lot of nerve—or not much brains—to pull a stunt like this. That gives me hope that he’ll screw up sooner rather than later. It also points a finger at anyone who was in the theater this mornin’. I called you back here ’cause I want you to be on the lookout for anyone involved with the film who acts strange. And, I wanted to let you know that we’re doin’ all we can to catch this bastard.”
I could read the sincerity in his eyes, and it gave me a good feeling to know he wasn’t just going through the motions. Sometimes, wanting to get the job done—as opposed to not caring about it—can go a long way.
I said, “Thanks for everything y’all are doing, Sergeant. I’m sure we’ll see each other again, and we’ll figure this thing out before too long. I’m gonna go ahead and take Ms. Page back to her hotel. Here’s my card, call me anytime you need me or have news.”
He looked at my card and said, “Will do, Chief Cooper. You take real good care of that young lady. We don’t want Atlanta to be her
final restin’ place.”
12
I TOOK CHERRY BY THE ARM AND LED HER TO A QUIET SPOT IN THE BACK corner of the theater, and we sat down, as far away from the noise and action as we could get. She was quiet and withdrawn after going through the ordeal of another dead body being found, and I gave her a few minutes to be alone with her thoughts. I was putting my own thoughts together, trying to decide the best way to discuss what had happened over the last few days, and especially the last few minutes.
Before I could speak, she slid down in her seat, and said, “That idea you had about telling the media I no longer have a computer simply won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but I suppose with everything that’s been taking place, I merely forgot. When I first started to gain recognition in Britain several years back, I mentioned on a chat show that my cell phone had been destroyed when I dropped it in the street and a taxicab ran over it. I thought it was an amusing story, and told it only because I had run out of things to say. I was oblivious to the incredible power of the telly, having had almost no experience whatsoever with it before that night. The next day, the movie studio and the chat show each received over a dozen brand-new cell phones from all the big-name manufacturers—and ‘small-name’ as well—hoping I would be seen using their product in public. So you see, if I were to say on CNN that my computer is no longer working, well, I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this, yeah?”
