by Gary Ruffin
Everyone in the cast and crew tried to keep things light, and no one talked about the stalker or the murders with Cherry. They all wanted the day to be as ordinary as possible under the extraordinary circumstances.
I was sitting in the aisle seat of the middle row of the theater, listening to the actors rehearse, when my cell rang. I got up and walked out to the lobby. It was around twelve fifteen, and craft service had set another nice spread on the tables. I had my eye on the lasagna as I answered the phone.
“Hello?”
Neal said, “Hey, bud, you sittin’ down?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. Should I be?”
“You might want to, after you hear the latest. There’s been another murder, and this one is a little too close for comfort.”
I said, “Don’t tell me it’s somebody we know.”
“No, it’s not quite that bad. It’s more about location this time.”
“Gimme the bad news.”
“Okay, here it comes,” he said. “At eleven A.M. today, a maid at your hotel found a dead woman in a room right down the hall from yours. The victim is Lois Langley, from Minneapolis, down here on business. Caucasian, thirty-seven, brown hair and eyes, never been married, no kids.”
I recalled the plump brunette from the day before, dancing as she unlocked her door down the hall. It took a moment before I could get back into detective mode and say, “Damn, bud, that is a little too close for comfort. Did they find anything in the way of evidence this time?”
Neal said, “This is where it gets a little weird—not that it hasn’t been weird from the get-go. The entire room, including the victim, was covered with foam—fire extinguisher foam. There were six empty canisters in the room. You can imagine the mess that would make of the crime scene. There was only one area left untouched. Ms. Langley’s laptop was sitting on the dresser with an instant message from the killer to you-know-who, and was on a website about Baal. I guess our stalker wanted to have a little fun with us, show the police how smart he is. The victim’s throat was slashed, just like the others, and she’d also been basically gutted. And, there was a sick little twist.”
“Do I wanna know?” I asked.
He said, “Well, let’s just say that there was an extinguisher lying on top of her open guts, and the nozzle was stuck inside her—in a place it shouldn’t be, if you get my meanin’.”
“Sadly, I’m pretty sure I do.” I tried not to picture the grisly scene, but was unsuccessful. Suddenly, the lasagna with its meat and red sauce didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
I sighed, and said, “That obviously makes it impossible to determine if there was a sexual assault, or even consensual sex, for that matter. No doubt about it, this freak is gettin’ sicker by the minute. I guess y’all checked out what the victim was doin’ last night.”
Neal said, “Yeah, they found out she was in the lounge for a couple of hours, sitting at the bar getting loaded. We talked to the bartenders who were on duty, and neither could tell us much. They also said it was much busier than usual because of a convention. They didn’t notice when the victim left, or with who, or much of anything. One of the bartenders—who was on duty at the time she left—said he’d gone to use the men’s room, and when he got back, the victim was gone. What else. Oh, yeah. Atlanta detectives are hooking the bartenders up with a sketch artist. I’m not expecting anything to come of it, but who knows?”
I said, “So Cherry has a message waitin’ for her on her laptop.”
“Yep. Tell her I’m sorry, and that we’re all doin’ the best we can. I think it might be best to leave out most of the gory details, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ll try and give ’er the news as gently as possible. I gotta tell ya, Neal, I’m a little worried about her state of mind. Another dead body and another message might push her over the edge. I’m not even sure if I should tell her about ’em, the way she’s been actin’. And I don’t mean professionally. I guess we’ll find out what she’s really made of after she hears this bit of news. I better keep her away from the television and radio for now.”
Neal said, “Good idea. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything. Speaking of calling, Penny called Susan this mornin’ to see how you’re doin’. Haven’t you called that girl yet?”
“No. I feel like livin’ dangerously.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d be more worried about dyin’ dangerously. And not at the hand of some serial killer.”
23
WHILE I WAS TRYING TO DECIDE JUST HOW MUCH TO TELL CHERRY, AND when, lunch was called, and everybody came out to the lobby. The hungriest of the group hit the tables like locusts, but I was slow to move, and Cherry noticed.
She asked with a smile, “Aren’t you going to fill your plate to overflowing?”
Trying to keep it light, I said, “Of course I am. You ever see me turn down free food?”
“Not yet. What do you fancy today? I think I shall have a light lunch. The pasta salad looks yummy.”
She led me to the tables, and we began to walk through the line. As soon as I got near the food, my nose took over. All of a sudden I was hungry again—slashed throats, viscera, and fire-extinguisher nozzles notwithstanding. Soon we were walking back into the theater to grab a seat on the back row, my plate packed with lasagna, Cherry’s with a reasonable amount of pasta salad.
She looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to tell her the latest bad news, so when she asked if I’d heard anything, I told her we’d talk about it after lunch. That seemed to satisfy her, and we finished our meals while talking about nothing in particular. Cherry kept glancing at me every so often, as if trying to get a read on what I was thinking. I just concentrated on my plate and kept stuffing my face.
I think she knew there was something going on, but she didn’t try to pry it out of me. Penny came to mind as this was happening. She would’ve known everything I knew in a matter of seconds. I smiled at the thought, and continued stuffing until my plate was clean.
Cherry hopped up when she finished her salad, and said, “I’m going to get some biscuits—oh, sorry, cookies—shall I bring you a handful?”
“I’d rather have a brownie. Does that translate?”
Chuckling, she said, “Barely.” She looked pensive, then asked, “Who was it that said: ‘England and America are two nations separated by the same language?’ Or however it goes. Was it Oscar Wilde? Churchill, perhaps? I’d Google it if I could face my computer.”
That reminded me that she had a new sick instant message, but instead of telling her about it, I merely replied, “I don’t know who said it, but it’s true. You Englishters sure do talk funny.”
“No, my dear, we don’t. You insufferable colonists are the ones who speak oddly. We speak the King’s English, and don’t you forget it.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, Carl Reiner said, talkin’ about you Brits and your fancy speakin’: ‘If you wake ’em up in the middle of the night, they talk just like everybody else.’ Take that, Limey!”
Cherry walked off and said over her shoulder, “See if you get your brownie now, Mr. Man.”
I actually did get a brownie. In fact, I got two. I had been trying to think of a way to soften the blow about the latest instant message while Cherry was getting dessert, but I couldn’t come up with anything. When she came back, she threw the wrapped brownies in my lap with a smile, and sat down to eat her cookies. She looked so childlike, I wished I could have kept her in the dark, but there was no easy way around it: She was just going to have to hear the news, and take it like a man, in a manner of speaking.
When we finished eating, the cast went back to work until almost six, and then the director thanked everyone and called a halt to the action. Cherry talked to the oily producer again, Lyndon-Bowen by name, and I could see her deftly parrying each advance he made. After a minute, he gave up, and tried to give her a kiss goodbye. She pulled back and offered her hand for him to shake, and he gave up gracefully and shook it.
&
nbsp; As she headed up the aisle to my back-row seat, she crossed her eyes like she’d done the day before when he’d hit on her, and I had to once again keep a straight face while the dork followed her with his eyes.
I had decided to tell her the bad news as soon as possible and just get it behind us.
As we made our way out the front doors, I was surprised to see that there were still a lot of news people waiting outside. Don’t these people have lives?
Officers had them all safely behind barricades, so it wasn’t too bad. The police were doing a great job as far as security went, I thought. But, the commotion and bellowing started as soon as the reporters spotted Cherry, and she smiled, waved, and said nothing as we walked down the steps. I wondered how she dealt with all the fanfare that surrounded her every time she went out in public. At least they hadn’t heard about the latest killing, so they didn’t yell any questions about it.
We had reached the bottom step when a gunshot rang out above the clamor of the crowd.
I immediately took Cherry down to the ground by the steps, and covered her body with mine, drawing my gun. I stuck my head up, looked around, and saw the media types screaming and scattering in all directions, some being trampled in the frenzy.
Unbelievably, three video cameramen stayed put, and aimed their cameras in the direction of the gunshot. A second shot blasted, then a third, and finally two of them ran for cover as best they could with their big cameras in tow. One intrepid soul just kept filming as an officer drew his gun and ran alongside the building towards the back of the theater, barking into his handheld, “Shots fired, Candler theater! Request backup immediately!”
While all this was going on, Cherry and I were on the ground by the steps, basically in the missionary position. I suddenly felt Cherry’s hand slide under my shirt, and slowly make its way up my back. I tensed, and she started to lightly scratch my back.
It was one of the sexiest things that has ever happened to me, but I went against everything that my body was screaming for me to do, and pulled away from her touch. I had to remind myself yet again that I already had a girlfriend, and was happily entangled with her. Not to mention, we were under fire. I quickly unlocked our loins before I lost my resolve, and got to my feet, my gun aimed safely at the ground, but still ready for what might come.
There was a commotion going on behind the theater, and I could hear policemen and policewomen calling out to each other, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Luckily, the brave video cameraman had moved towards the action behind the theater instead of focusing on Cherry and me. I was glad that he wasn’t as interested in her as he was in the officers’ situation. There was already enough news footage of me to last a lifetime.
I turned and glanced down at Cherry. She was smiling up at me as she lay on her back, her left arm now under her head as a pillow. The stretching of her arm had caused her tee shirt to ride up on her belly, exposing her navel and the bottom of her bra. The same bra I had watched her change into earlier that morning. I swallowed hard, and went back to looking towards the action, my poor brain frying to a turn.
A moment later, an officer called, “All clear!” and two other cops walked up by the side of the building towards the front of the theater. Each officer had two young boys by the arm, leading them towards a squad car.
I holstered my weapon, and asked, “Those guys were the shooters?”
One of the officers, a large black man of thirty or so, said, “These knuckleheads were the shooters, all right, but it wasn’t gunshots you heard. They’re goin’ downtown for setting off illegal firecrackers, which is just the beginning of their troubles. Skipping school is another charge. They thought it would be kinda funny to make everybody think that there were shots fired. Take a look at the name on these firecrackers.”
The name on the package was “Gunshots.” There was a picture of what appeared to be a .357 Magnum under the name. They were “Guaranteed to sound just like real gunshots!”
I said, “Truth in advertising, for sure.” Giving the boys my meanest chief-of-police glare, I asked the officer, “What’re you gonna do with these guys?”
“We may just throw ’em under the jail,” he replied.
The boys, two white and two black, looked to be ten or twelve. They tried their best to look tough, but as soon as they got close to the squad car, tears started to flow, and the begging began. They were in huge trouble, and I was glad it wasn’t me going to jail. I was also glad that the shots had turned out to be nothing more than a prank.
The relief of it all was so great that I forgot about what had just happened with Cherry for a second. That’s about how long it took for me to turn back and see Cherry still lying on her back on the grassy spot, smiling at me.
She stretched her arms up, and showing me her red fingernails, said, “Are you sure you don’t want me to scratch that itch for you, Cooper?”
There aren’t enough red fingernails in the world to scratch the itch I felt at that moment.
24
The report about the kids and the firecrackers was just too funny! The news cretins had a field day with it, some reporting the story so earnestly, and others taking a lighter approach. It was all over the TV and in all the papers, and the Internet stories covered all the bases: Sympathy, outrage, lampooning, seriousness. Cherry Page certainly was a lightning rod for the media. Everyone had an angle and an opinion.
Come to think of it, maybe the kids’ false attempt on her life would take her over the edge, and she’d be an easier target. If she had to be hospitalized, it might make the job of getting to her easier. But in reality it probably made it harder to get to her now. All her protectors would be on an even higher alert.
But come on, it was pretty damned funny. Kids setting off firecrackers!
And what fun Lois had turned out to be! No doubt the display of that stupid bitch covered in fire extinguisher foam was a sight to see for those pathetic, dim-witted cops. Wonder how they liked the positioning of the nozzle-slash-sex-toy left for their perusal? Probably some of the morons even got a little excited by that, especially the crime scene monkey who was given the job of taking it out of the barfly-bitch’s hole.
What did the slut expect, letting a stranger buy her martini after martini? Some kind of romantic interlude that would lead to a deeper relationship? Possibly a life-changing affair filled with excitement and joy? Could she really have been as desperate as her eyes had shown? Such an obvious target, sitting there at the bar all alone. She deserved everything she got, and more.
Besides, she shouldn’t have advertised the fact that there was a laptop in her room when asked about it. She chose herself to be the messenger, and that’s all there was to it. It was almost as if her actions were preordained, as if her destiny was to end up in that hotel room exactly as she did. Living all those empty years before that night, each day bringing her closer to that exact location, at that precise time.
Speaking of exact locations, it was time to move even closer to home.
25
I PULLED CHERRY UP OFF THE GROUND BY HER MANICURED HANDS, AND watched as she brushed the dirt off her backside. There were a few blades of dry grass in her hair, and I reached over and pulled them out. As I removed the blades, I was trying to think of something to say that would be completely asexual after our little moment in the grass. The scent of peaches on my hand reminded me of a question I wanted to ask, so I did.
“Do you always use peach-scented shampoo?”
Pulling her hair back, she said, “Actually, no. I generally use an apple-cinnamon scent, but when I heard I was coming to Georgia, I thought peach might be more appropriate. Don’t you like it?”
“I like it very much.” Looking at her in the late-afternoon sun, I completely forgot my asexual approach, and stupidly said, “I don’t think I’ll ever catch the scent of a peach again without thinking of you.”
She leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and said, “Cooper, if you really want to keep me at arm’s le
ngth, that is definitely not the way to go about it.”
“Well, see—I mean, I’m not tryin’ to—I still think—”
Laughing softly at me, she put her arm in mine, and said, “Down, boy, you’ll have a stroke. Now would you please get me out of here before the horde returns?”
I smiled and took hold of her hand, and we ran to the Bentley and were away before the crowd could follow. I took a different route back to the Ritz just in case.
I turned on the classical radio station, and she said, “After today’s events, what would you say to a little rock and roll?”
“I’d say ‘rock on, Red.’”
She fiddled with the radio till she found John and Paul belting out “Eight Days a Week.”
“Ooh, I love this song!” she said as she sat back and started to dance in her seat.
I asked, “How would a young’n like you know that song? I barely do.”
“Mum used to play them all the time when I was growing up. She loves them more than anyone I know. Besides, it’s pretty hard not to know about the Beatles when you grow up within a stone’s throw of Abbey Road.”
“You’re kiddin’.”
“No, my dear, I’m not. You’re riding with—or should I say, you’re driving—the youngest daughter of Pamela Jayne Cherry and James Hubert Page III. My older sister and I grew up in a beautiful home in St. John’s Wood, in London, and spent many happy days at our glorious family manor house and estate in the Lake District. I also bought myself a townhouse in London a few years back, where I now live quite happily with Marlon. Truth be told, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Or as Sally likes to say, ‘A complete silver service for twelve.’ You would’ve found out sooner or later, so I might as well admit it to you now. I was born to a life of privilege. Since he was an only child, my father inherited everything from my fabulously wealthy grandfather Page. I’ve always had the absolute best of absolutely everything, and I’m now quite certain you’re absolutely bored with me.”
