by Louise Lynn
Sandra scoffed. "Too busy. But good. I hope they put that jerk away for a long time after what he did. Ruining the movie and all," she mumbled.
Jerk.
The crew member looked back and forth between us. "So, who did it?" he asked.
"I—"
My phone rang before I could finish the sentence, and I froze and pulled it from my coat. An unfamiliar number stared at me. The area code was from L.A. though.
Weird.
Expecting one of those hideous telemarketers, I answered. "Hello?"
"Olivia. You. Imma trying to talk to you. Had your number in my phone and thought, I could use some Olivia right now. Probably busy making wonderful food, and I’m just out here by myself. I really don’t want to be by myself," Michael sobbed on the other side of the phone.
I turned away from Sandra and the other crew member. "Where are you?" I said and tried to make myself sound as nonchalant as possible.
"I shouldn’t be here but … I really shouldn’t be here,” he said, and his voice broke off again.
Someplace he shouldn’t be? I had an idea where that could be.
"I’ll be there in a moment. Have you been drinking, by any chance?" I said and waved at Sandra and the crewman and walked away.
"Only since noon," Michael said and let out a sound between a sob and a laugh.
I made it to the trailers in record time, and my heart dropped as I noticed Quintessence’s door open. I was right. Michael sat underneath the crime scene tape, his legs dangling out over the steps.
Next to him sat a whisky bottle that I hoped hadn’t been much fuller when he started drinking. Otherwise, he may not have anything intelligible to say. And his liver could be in serious danger of shutting down.
I hung up my phone carefully and stepped up to him. “Hi, Michael."
He looked at his phone blearily then blinked at me. A watery smile slipped over his lips and those dimples deepened with it. “Hey! Where did you come from? Was thinking about you, then you’re here," he slurred.
I carefully took the bottle from him and set it a good ten yards away, at the base of another trailer, before approaching again. "I was looking for you. I brought you scones. Do you want one?" I asked.
His nose wrinkled for a moment before he nodded eagerly. "I’m so hungry. I think that water is not water. Burning water."
"If I knew you had been drinking burning water all day, I would’ve brought tea as well," I said and quickly prepared the scones for him.
He ate them as only a drunk could, smearing a mixture of crumbs, jam, and clotted cream all over his lips before he was done. “Mmm. Itssogood," he said, and it took me a moment to decipher exactly what it was between his accent and his drunken slur.
I crouched in front of him, tucking my coat under my legs. "Michael, why are you sitting in Quinn’s trailer? You know it’s a crime scene, don’t you?" I asked carefully.
He blinked, and tears welled in his eyes. His boyish face crumpled. “I’ve been looking for her. I was looking, and she wasn’t here. Quinn always goes to her trailer. Since she stopped drinking, she didn’t come to the parties much anymore. Or stay long, but, I always find her here,” he said, and his voice was filled with a very distinct ache.
I licked my lips. "Did you take her to the aquarium?"
His mouth worked into a sad smile. "She was having a hard time being a mermaid. I said we’ll go to the aquarium and see what life is like under the sea. But not like the Disney song Under the Sea because there were no talking crabs in this movie. Which, you’d think mermaids would have talking crabs, right? But no talking crabs. Disney has copyright on talking crabs, I think.”
“Did you love her?"
Michael nodded. “More than anything. And now she’s gone … I can’t believe she’s gone," he said quietly, almost to himself. “Her eyes sparkled in the light. She smiled and laughed when we were alone. Not like with other people. She was different than most people thought. She was beautiful," he said, and his shoulders shook with his sobs.
I sat back on my heels and slowly stood. This was worlds different from the conversation I’d had with Matthew after his own wife’s death. No, this was honest grief. And I couldn’t imagine Michael stabbing the woman he loved for any reason.
The fading sunlight fell over the surrounding trailers and cast thick shadows. "Do you have any idea who’d want to hurt her?"
"Her stupid husband. He was awful to her. Always made her cry, and cheated on her, and everything. Took all her money."
He didn’t sound as broken up about Clark Duncan being dead, and I hoped the feeling in my gut didn’t mean he’d been the one to do it. That Dean was wrong about the killer being the same person.
"Did you hurt Clark Duncan because you thought he hurt Quinn?" I asked in a small voice.
Michael’s head snapped up. "Olivia. I could never do that. No. I didn’t like Clark, but I wouldn’t hurt anybody.” Then he darted forward and grabbed my hands, squeezing them between his. "You’re beautiful too, Olivia," he said and leaned toward me.
His breath reeked of bourbon, and I leaned back as he puckered his lips and tried to land a kiss. As I sidestepped it, I heard someone clear their throat from the entrance to the trailer alley, and I looked in that direction.
Sandra marched toward us, hands on her hips, eyes glaring daggers in my direction. “What do you think you’re doing with him?" she snapped and snagged Michael’s arm in her strong grip.
"Sandy? Olivia came to comfort me because Quinn is gone, and she’s so pretty," Michael babbled.
Her hand snaked around his back and his head rolled against her neck. The hand that held him squeezed tightly. And I noticed the strong possessiveness in her eyes, almost feral-like.
It flashed there.
Reminded me of all the other times I’d seen her with him.
"It’s alright. I’m here for you. You don’t need anybody else. I’m the only one that really understands, Michael, she was just giving you her scones. Well, hand them over. I’ll take care of him from here on out," Sandra said and grabbed the bag from my fingers.
I nodded and took an unconscious step back. "Did you tell him they caught the killer?" I said and wondered where that had come from.
Her eyes locked onto mine. "Not yet."
"Oh. Well I heard they had an expert witness. Someone who’s always on set," I said.
Someone who was always on set.
Someone who had access to Mary and Clark’s trailers, and had a reason to kill them both.
My heart lodged in my throat.
Someone who I least expected.
A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. "I know. I’m the witness. I saw that Adam guy lurking around here both nights. He’s the one who did it," she said and dug her fingers into Michael’s back, whose head lolled back and his eyes dipped shut.
"Of course,” I said. My voice came out like a breath of air and I swore the sea breeze snatched it away. "Goodbye, Michael. Sandra. Nice working with you," I said, spun on my heel, and walked away as quickly as I could without looking suspicious.
As I did, I felt Sandra’s hatred burn into the back of my skull.
Soon as I rounded the corner, I fumbled with my phone and snatched it out of my coat pocket.
Heart pounding, I pressed for Dean’s number.
"Pick up. Pick up." I whispered to myself as I rushed for the parking lot.
My footsteps echoed hollowly on the asphalt, and the sun had fully dipped into the sea. Twilight fell, making the shadows meld with the coming night and a certain sort of light hung around us. The kind that made it difficult to judge distance.
"Olive? I’m really busy right now. Can it wait?" Dean said on the other side of the phone, and I heard the bustle of a busy office behind him.
He was probably at the precinct.
How far was that from the set?
"Not really. You have the wrong guy."
"What? How do you know who I have?" Dean asked.
Chapter Twenty
Hands clutched my neck at that moment and squeezed.
I tried to suck in a breath, and nothing came.
“Olivia! What’s—”
The phone clattered from my fingers, and I tried to grip my assailant’s hands, but I couldn’t get my fingers under their relentless hold.
My vision swam with darkness, and the breath was literally being crushed out of me.
No!
I wasn’t going to die like that.
My mind snapped to a movie Ivy had been watching the other day. Some awful—but, as it happens, useful—kung fu thing.
Couldn’t hurt.
I leaned forward with all my might, using my body as a weight, and my assailant tumbled over my back and landed.
Sandra’s snarling face stared up at me from the blacktop, and I coughed and stumbled, fell to my knees, and reached for my phone.
She gained her feet far too quickly, and I shook my head and glanced around for a weapon.
Nothing.
Except—I threw the phone at her, and it bounced off her forehead uselessly and clattered on the ground.
"I thought that would work," I said, though my voice sounded as scratchy and weak as it did the last time I’d had laryngitis.
"Bad move," Sandra said and stomped her heavy work boots on it. It crushed into a pile of plastic bits.
Oh no.
I just threw away my only way to get help.
Literally.
I did the only thing I could think of at that moment—I turned and ran.
I was halfway between the parking lot and the trailers, so I turned back and ran the way I’d come. Someone else had to be on set—that crew member. He’d help me, right?
Michael was there too.
But, I quickly tossed that thought from my head. He was too drunk to help anyone.
My chest heaved, and my muscles burned.
I didn’t turn to see if she was gaining ground, but I could tell from the slap of her boobs that she was.
I felt like a mouse being hunted by a cat.
Dean. Please come soon.
I felt fingers snatch at the back of my coat, and instead of letting her grab it, I shrugged it off my shoulders.
She cursed, and I slipped away again and charged down an alley.
My mind swam.
I’d only worked on the set for a few days, but I thought this led to the trailers.
I hoped so anyway.
I stumbled out to the back of a white shadowy mass and did the only thing I could think. I fell to my knees and rolled under the trailer.
Gravel and dirt clung to me, and I shivered as I crawled out the other end.
Her feet pounded on the ground as she charged after me, but she skidded to a stop. “You can’t hide from me on my own set," she said, hardly sounding out of breath when every gasp I took felt like I was dying.
I covered my mouth to keep her from hearing me, and had a new respect for heroines in horror films.
Running from a crazy person was a lot harder than it looked.
"You’re just like everyone else. You just wanna hurt him. The way Quinn did. She didn’t love him. She could never love him. Not like I do,” Sandra said.
I crawled as soundlessly as I could. Something glinted at the corner of my vision. Perhaps something I could use as a weapon. I couldn’t tell. But at least her boots were on the other side of the trailer.
Carefully, I rolled out and snatched at it.
The bottle was half-full and heavy enough that it felt like a suitable weapon.
Michael was nowhere to be seen, yet he’d been with her just a few short minutes before. My heart lodged in my throat.
"The police are coming," I said with as much force as I could muster. "What did you do with him? What did you do to Michael?"
Her feet slapped as they moved around the trailer, but I darted behind Quinn’s. Trying to keep some distance between us. At least my shoes were quieter than her boots.
"Hurt Michael? I would never hurt him. I put him to bed in one of the crew trailers. Then I was coming to have a word with you. I hadn’t even planned on hurting you until you were trying to call the police. I won’t have anything come between us. Not you or anything."
Crazy, indeed.
My fingers trembled around the bottle and I glanced left and right.
Escape.
I needed an escape.
Then I noticed something I hadn’t before. The ladder on the back of Clark Duncan’s trailer. From what I could tell, it was connected to the trailer itself and led to the roof.
Interesting.
"You can’t save yourself. The cops will never make it here on time. And I’ll just make it look like an accident. Poor Miss Tea Maker got crushed because she was wandering around set where she shouldn’t have been. And that Adam idiot is gonna rot in jail for two murders."
I bit my bottom lip and forced myself up the ladder. It squeaked. And I hoped she didn’t know what I was doing.
As I clambered on top, I realized it was a lot higher than I originally expected. At least twelve feet off the ground—high enough that a fall would hurt and potentially break limbs.
"Bad move. You just trapped yourself, idiot," Sandra said.
I glanced around me. She was right. The trailer wasn’t close enough to jump to another. Nor did I trust myself to do that. I wasn’t much of an athlete.
But I still had a weapon she wasn’t expecting.
A plan formulated in my brain quicker than I would’ve imagined.
Quickly, I fell to my stomach, right in front of the ladder, and gripped the bottle of bourbon in my hands as I heard her climbing.
I took the largest swig I could and felt my face go bright red at the burning flavor. Well, I wasn’t going to swallow.
It felt as if it took an age for her head to pop up, and when it did, I spit my entire mouthful of alcohol right into her face.
She screamed a howl of rage, and I swung the bottle as hard as I could at her head.
Eyes closed, she wasn’t expecting it and the glass shattered. With it, Sandra’s grip loosened, and she tumbled off the ladder, and crumpled on the ground.
I crouched where I was, shaking from cold and fear and listened to the sirens blaring in the distance. They were followed by footsteps and people shouting my name.
However, I kept my eyes glued on Sandra’s still form until several flashlights lit up the area around the trailers.
"I’m up here," I called, and my throat ached.
"Olivia, what … what happened,” Dean asked, slightly breathless.
I peeked over the ladder at him. "She’s your killer. And Adam is innocent. She was trying to frame him for the murders," I said and gripped the ladder—making no move to get down.
A few of the officers started cuffing Sandra as she came around, and Dean let out a heavy sigh. "Thank God you’re okay. Are you going to come down anytime soon?"
Right.
Coming down.
"Give me a minute," I said.
I gathered the last of my courage and slid down the ladder to the ground. Once my feet hit the asphalt, my legs turned to jelly, and his strong arm snapped around my shoulders and held me upright.
"Did she hurt you? Your neck –" he said, and his fingers danced over the sore flesh.
"Just a little strangulation. Nothing I can’t handle," I said with a pained smile.
He wrinkled his nose. "Have you been drinking?"
I snorted. "Hardly. But I did take her down with the old bourbon in the face and bottle to the head gag. That’s classic, right?"
He let out a heavy sigh. "Right."
Chapter Twenty-One
My stomach flipped whenever I thought about it. The movie set had been comple
tely dismantled. Whatever hope I’d clung to for the mermaid extravaganza to hit the big screen was now gone.
It had only been a few days since Sandra was arrested, but once she had been declared the killer of Quintessence Lovejoy and her narcissistic husband, Clark Duncan, Michael and his crew packed up their things and prepared to leave San Bas for good. I could hardly blame them after what had happened here.
I’d wanted to say goodbye to Michael and Sanjay, but the night of the arrest, Dean had forced me to sit with him in the police station and drink tea to settle my nerves. I didn’t feel as though my nerves were shot, yet for once I obeyed without arguing, and I let his colleagues fuss around me to make sure I hadn’t been harmed or emotionally traumatized. The bruises on my neck would fade over the next few days.
All I had wanted to do, though, was sleep. I’d done what I promised Juno.
I had proven Adam’s innocence.
And the real killer was in jail.
Not bad for only a few days’ work, considering.
“Olivia, darling.” My mom jingled into my living room, where I’d been slouched on my sofa after rewarding myself some rare down time on my laptop. “Can you help me frost these cupcakes for the baby shower?”
I peered at her from over my screen. She wore a lime green apron covered in piglets and smears of cake batter, with dollops of flour clumped in her long hair. The flour made a change. Mom usually left her hair rollers in en route to her yoga classes.
“How many?” I asked, not committing myself before I knew what I was getting into.
Or rather, the volume that was needing to be done.
I’d baked over a thousand cupcakes that week and the thought of touching another single one of them made my stomach churn. But it was for Juno, who’d been summoned by my mom—and Carole—for lunch at our home. Really, Carole had let it slip to Mom about Juno’s pregnancy, and I think my mom just wanted to make sure she wasn’t being lied to.
Juno was practically like a daughter to my mom, and I think a part of her was hurt that she’d been kept out of the loop. Not that I could blame Juno for doing so. Keeping the pregnancy under wraps had been her and Tom’s decision, after all, and I respected that.
