Cold Judgment (22 page)

He liked the housekeeper. She was always friendly, and she took good care of the children. She thought she knew him, but all she really knew was the mask. They thought they were locking him out with the new security system, but he could get inside the gates anytime he wished. And they'd never guessed that most of the time he was here already. It was like the Red Lady used to say, there was always a way around everything, if you used your head. Of course, she wasn't saying anything now. Now her mouth was closed forever.

He could feel the red mist threaten as he thought of that night, and he pushed it away. Not now. He had to be alert. The housekeeper was sweeping back and forth with hard, even strokes of the broom. It reminded him of something that made him shiver, but he pushed that out of his mind, too.

He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, as a voice called out from the house. Not one of her children. And not the husband, either. This was a different voice, a voice that made him ache inside with its hauntingly familiar tone.

And then he saw her, and his breath caught in his throat. She was wearing a white bathing suit, and she looked like a swan, all sleek and glossy and graceful. Or perhaps she was an angel. Her beauty was pure and immaculate. He felt his hands began to tremble uncontrollably, as she stepped into the light by the pool. She was going to swim, and he loved to watch her swim.

The warm feeling rushed through him as she slipped into the water. Ah! How beautiful! How lovely her arms were as they rose up and down in the water, stark white columns of curving beauty that cut through the dark surface to reemerge again for the next stroke. Her long, shapely neck arched out of the water, and her glorious blond hair gleamed in the moonlight, even though she'd piled it high on her head in a shining knot. She was supple and strong, like a young sapling, but as delicate as a piece of fine lace. She was Homer's Helen of Troy, and Poe's Lenore, and Sir Lancelot's Lady of the Lake. She was the only woman he had ever loved. She was Jimmy's lost mother, and he wouldn't let her leave him again.

But there was something wrong, a hateful red color spilling out from the garden just beyond the pool. Red blossoms like the blood that had bubbled and bloomed from Aunt Neecie's mouth. He had to stop it before it spilled out and covered him.

The red mist began to swirl around his feet, rising, rising. He had to move quickly, before it was too late. He stepped out very softly, very quietly, to do what had to be done. Around the pool, behind the hedge of lush green boxwoods without a rustle. Like a cat in the dead of night, he moved without hesitation. And then he dropped to his knees on the soft earth by the bubbling blossoms. And he whimpered as he plucked them off one by one, crushing the petals between his fingers and feeling them die.

Her head turned in his direction. It seemed as if she were looking directly at him with her beautiful green eyes. But he knew that was only an illusion. She saw only a shadow, heard only a faint rustle. A neighbor's cat in the garden, a fierce night prowler stalking his blood prey. Her head rose out of the water, watching, listening. But he was as still as death.

And then she began to swim again, her fears laid to rest. As well they should be. He was here. And he would always protect her from the red.

Tears fell from his eyes, like warm spring rain. How he loved her! He had broken the rule to warn her, broken his vow of silence. He had chosen the words to tell her, cut them out of paper and pasted them to the letter he'd sent to her.
Red is the color of blood.

He knew he had frightened her, and he was ashamed. But his words had done their work, and she had been wise enough to listen. She had changed her hateful red bedroom to a sea green place of beautiful peace.

The red mist was rising now, rising up to claim him. In a few moments it would reach his mind, and then there would be a merciful darkness. But there was work to be done before he could rest.

He dropped to the ground, shredding the petals into thin strips that blew away in the winter wind. They would shrivel and fade, buffeted by the air until they turned to a harmless brown. Earth, air, fire, and water. They were the ancient elements. They had the power to destroy the red, to send it away forever.

At last he was finished, and he smiled as he got to his feet. It was his job to keep her safe. He was her guardian, her lover, her unseen protector. Only he knew how to save her from the certain destruction of the red.

CHAPTER 1

Even though she'd had a grueling day, Mercedes Calder flashed the driver one of her famous, million-watt smiles, as he helped her out of the studio limo. Her smile was totally genuine. Mercedes liked the new driver the studio had assigned to her. George never tried to make idle conversation on the twenty-minute trip to the studio, when she had lines to learn; he didn't mind stopping at the school to pick up her twins on the days she finished shooting early; and he was unfailingly prompt. Even though George was well paid by the studio, Mercedes planned to give him a generous bonus when they wrapped her film.

“Six-thirty tomorrow morning, George? I have an early call.”

“No problem, Miss Calder. I'll be here. Do you want me to check out the house for you?”

Mercedes shook her head. “That's not necessary, George. They finally finished installing the security system. But thanks for asking. That was very thoughtful.”

George tipped his hat and slid back in, behind the wheel. He was a retired policeman who looked like a fullback, over six feet tall with the muscular body and lightning reflexes of a professional athlete. He'd told Mercedes he'd taken his early retirement option when he'd been shot chasing down a murder suspect. He'd known they were planning to kick him upstairs, and he hadn't liked the idea of sitting behind a desk all day. Early retirement pay wasn't all that much, and George had done private detective work for a year or two. Then he'd landed this job with the studio as a combination bodyguard and driver.

Although the studio had dismissed Mercedes's threatening letters as a crazy prank by an unstable fan, they'd immediately assigned George to be her driver. And it had worked, as far as Mercedes was concerned. She never worried when George was around. He was more than capable of defending her, and when she was with him, she felt safe. At least there hadn't been any threatening letters today. Mercedes had checked the mailbox at the end of the driveway, when they'd stopped at the gates. She hoped that her ordeal was over, that her crazy fan was locked up tight in some mental hospital or jail.

Mercedes still shivered when she thought about the letters that had come in the mail. The words had been cut out of magazines, and pasted on pieces of plain notebook paper. The whole thing had sounded like something you'd see in a bad B-movie, but the message had been chilling.

Most stars got an occasional letter from a crazy fan. It was so common, it was almost normal. Ashley Thorpe, her costar in
Summer Heat,
had told Mercedes about the proposal he'd received from a seventy-year-old widow, who'd offered her life savings if he'd spend the night with her. And Sandra Shepard, the character actress who played her mother in the movie, had mentioned a letter she'd received last year from a high school student in Iowa, inviting her to be his date for the Senior Prom.

Mercedes had been in the “biz” for over fifteen years, and she'd shrugged off plenty of proposals and propositions from crazy fans before. But the letters she'd received two months ago were very different. They'd come to her home, instead of the studio.

The first letter had arrived on a Saturday, and Mercedes had been alone in the house. She'd been out at the pool, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, when she'd heard the distinctive squeaking brakes of the mailman's jeep. Since she usually got a letter from Marcie on Saturdays, she'd hopped into her car and driven down the long, winding driveway to pick up the mail.

Marcie's letter was there, and Mercedes had taken the time to read it. Then she'd noticed another letter marked “personal,” with no return address, and she'd opened that as well.

Mercedes's hands had been shaking as she'd finished reading the letter. He knew her bedroom was red! He really
was
watching her! She'd jumped back into her car, locked all the doors, and peered out of the window in fright. The grounds seemed peaceful enough, but was he was out there somewhere, taking vicious pleasure in her fear? Her instinct had been to race for the house, but she'd left it unlocked, and he could be waiting for her inside!

Pure panic had propelled her as she'd turned on the ignition and put her car in gear. She had to get away! But where should she go? What should she do? She'd made a quick V-turn, tires sliding on the gravel, and headed down Mandeville Canyon Road.

She'd glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, but no one had seemed to be following her. She was safe. For now. As she'd turned on Sunset Boulevard, she'd suddenly remembered the interview she'd done for a popular fan magazine. It had mentioned her exercise regime, twenty laps in the pool every night, and there had been several photos of her in her newly redecorated bedroom. If he'd seen a copy of that article, he would have known about the swimming and the color scheme of her bedroom. Perhaps he wasn't watching her after all.

With each mile Mercedes traveled away from the house, she'd felt a little calmer. She knew that most people who wrote threatening letters never dreamed of actually carrying out their threats. This man was probably nothing more than a harmless neurotic, who got his kicks by scaring people. Still, it couldn't hurt to take a few precautions, like buying a hand gun and learning how to use it. And while she was at it, she'd order a new security system. The one she had was over ten years old.

It turned out that buying a handgun in California was a frustrating experience. Although her life had been threatened, and she had a legitimate reason for wanting to arm herself, there was still a mandatory fifteen-day waiting period before she could take her new Lady Smith revolver home. Rules were rules in California, where the anti-gun lobby was strong. Crooks could buy guns immediately through illegal means, but honest citizens had to wait and hope that they'd still be alive at the end of the waiting period.

Mercedes had walked away from the gun store shaking her head. She was probably overreacting, but she had to take precautions, just in case. She'd stopped to call a home security service, and she'd hired an armed guard to patrol the grounds, until her new state-of-the-art security system was installed. Then she'd arranged to have her room redecorated in a lovely shade of sea green. That would please Brad. Green was his favorite color. Brad hadn't liked her red bedroom. He said it was like sleeping inside a catsup bottle, and she'd been planning on changing the color scheme anyway.

That night, when Brad had come home and found the security guard, he'd told her he thought she'd done exactly the right thing. The letter
was
scary. And while it was true that Mercedes probably wouldn't hear from this particular man again, she was a big star, and there were lots of crazy fans out there. Then he'd hugged her and told her he wished he could always be home to protect her. Unfortunately, his investment business demanded a lot of traveling. He'd certainly rest much easier after the new security system was installed. It would give him peace of mind, knowing that Mercedes and the twins were safe, behind locked gates.

The second threatening letter had arrived a week later. Luckily, the security guard was on duty when Mercedes had taken it out of the envelope, and she hadn't panicked. Her crazy fan was still out there, but at least she now knew what he wanted.

When Brad had read the letter, he'd urged her to call the police. Naturally, Mercedes had refused. The police could do nothing, and there were bound to be leaks to the press. The studio wouldn't like that kind of publicity, and this whole thing was probably just a crazy prank.

Exactly a week later, the third letter had arrived. It was almost identical to the second, except that the sum of money had doubled, and there was one additional postscript after the signature.
Your security guard cannot protect you. If you continue to ignore me, perhaps your death will not be as merciful as I planned.

When Brad read the letter, he was convinced that they had to take action. While he agreed that he didn't believe in giving way to threats, he'd suggested that perhaps they should pretend to do what the crazy fan wanted. He'd go to the phone booth, get the instructions, and deliver the money himself. And then he'd stake out the area and catch the nut case, when he came to pick it up.

Mercedes had vetoed that idea immediately. There was no way she'd let him do something that dangerous. But Brad was insistent. He was her husband, and he wanted to protect her. There was no way he'd let a crazy fan get away with threatening his wife!

They'd argued about it long into the night, but Mercedes had been firm. She wouldn't let Brad put himself in danger, and she wouldn't even pretend to give way to blackmail. Brad knew how blackmail worked. If the crazy fan actually succeeded in getting the money, he'd keep right on sending threatening letters, demanding more and more cash. It was best to take a strong stand in the beginning, and not give in to this type of extortion.

Even though Mercedes had shrugged off the threats, she was concerned enough to take the letters with her to the studio the next morning. The studio hired experts to deal with crank letters from crazy fans, and Mercedes had asked their advice. They'd agreed that she had done all the right things to protect herself. They'd said not to worry, that they'd dealt with hundreds of extortion letters, and nothing had ever happened. It would have been an entirely different matter if someone had come up to her face-to-face and made these kinds of demands. But no one had, and chances were her crazy fan was already back in a mental institution or a jail cell.

Mercedes felt much better after she'd talked to the studio experts, especially since they'd assigned George to be her driver. George was armed and he was formidable. There was no way anyone would bother her, while she was under his protection.

After she'd finished work for the day, Mercedes had asked George to drive her to the gun store. She'd picked up her handgun, and bought a gun safe that only opened if she pressed a series of coded buttons. George had installed it for her, and that weekend he'd driven her to a firearms safety class, where she'd learned how to use her Lady Smith with deadly accuracy.

Of course, Mercedes hadn't mentioned any of this to Brad. And she'd decided not to tell him if she got another threatening letter. Brad might do something brave and foolish, like trying to catch the blackmailer himself.

The letters had definitely changed Mercedes's life. Opening the mail had always been fun for her, but now she dreaded it. She held her breath every time she picked up the neat stack of letters her postman slipped in the box. It had been almost a month since the last threatening letter, and she was almost convinced that her crazy fan had given up. But even though their new security system was up and running, George had told her to carry her handgun from room to room, whenever she was alone in the house.

“Are you sure you're all right, Miss Calder?”

George looked concerned, and Mercedes nodded. “I'm fine. See you in the morning, George.”

Mercedes waved as the limo drove off. The moment the gates had opened and closed again, she reactivated the alarm system. There was no way anyone could open the gates without the code. And if anyone tried to climb over the bars or force his way in, a patrol of armed security guards would be on the grounds in less than five minutes.

The alarm on the front door was set, and Mercedes punched in the code on the numbered panel. The advisor from the security company had cautioned her against using her birthday as a code. That was a matter of public record. Brad had suggested they use their anniversary instead, and he'd joked that it was one way to make sure she never forgot the date. As if she could!

As she opened the door and walked across the tile foyer, Mercedes caught sight of her reflection in the gold-framed, oval mirror on the wall. She'd never considered herself beautiful, although everyone else seemed to think she was. Green-eyed blondes weren't all that unusual in her home state of Minnesota.

When Mercedes had landed her first movie role, the studio publicity department had called her a cross between Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe. The comparison had made Mercedes laugh. Doris had been bubbly and innocent, while Marilyn had exuded sex from every pore. Mercedes knew she wasn't bubbly and innocent, or super sexy. She was just an ordinary actress, who worked hard to learn to play any role she was offered.

At first Mercedes had played the fun-loving teenager, the cheerleader who fell in love with the quarterback on the football team. Then she'd graduated to college roles, playing the young freshman coed who fell in love the professor. From there she'd played the young professional who fell in love with her boss. She was always falling in love and ending up happy, the essence of the female romantic lead. Finally, she was mature enough to play other, more demanding parts, but her latest role in
Summer Heat
was the biggest challenge she'd ever faced.