Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (61 page)

“Concerned for her safety. There’ve been some strange things going on next door. Things I don’t think Sybil would allow if she had a say in the matter.”

The doctor frowned. “Such as?”

“Yesterday when I went to the house to … to see for myself that she was … well, okay, I was told by her nurse that she wasn’t up to having visitors. She said Sybil had a problem maintaining mental balance and visitors would upset her.”

Dr. Lowdell sipped his coffee, frowned again. “I agreed to talk with you because I thought you were a close friend. Not just a neighbor. I’m really not at liberty to discuss my patient with you, Mrs. Lundberg.”

“I know that, Doctor. I don’t consider myself
just
a neighbor. I know she has a drinking problem and that alcohol and a smoldering cigarette were what put her here. I’m more than concerned.”

He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze. He leaned back. “Mrs. Squire was admitted to the hospital for treatment for first and second degree burns, her hands primarily. She came very close to burning her house down and dying in that fire. As you know, she lived alone. I think a domestic came in every other day to cook and clean, but Mrs. Squire was the only one in the house when it caught fire. It could happen again if I let her go back there alone. I tried to persuade her to move into an assisted living facility. She flatly refused. She said that her father tried to run her life when she was a young woman and that she preferred a life of loneliness to a life of tyranny,” the doctor said. “You see, she’s somewhat of a free spirit.”

“Yes, I know. She swims laps in the nude.”

He smiled. “She’s a remarkable woman, but stubborn. She won’t give up her scotch and cigarettes. She’s eighty-five and it hasn’t killed her yet. In all good conscience, I could not release her without someone there to prevent what happened before. She agreed to live-in help. I made the arrangements and it was approved by social services.”

“And this live-in help … they’re qualified?”

“Of course.”

“Do you check on your patients once they’ve been released from the hospital?”

He lowered the bear claw without taking a bite. “You mean a house call?”

“Yes.”

“As a rule, no.”

“Could you make an exception?”

“I can notify social services.”

“They wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“And what is it that I should look for, Ms. Lundberg?”

“The patient you treated here in the clinic, a lucid and charming woman.”

“And if I find that woman?”

“Then you made a house call for nothing.”

His pager went off. He checked it, rising to the feet. “Look, I’ll see what I can do,” he said. His long strides carried him out of the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Victor Robles reclaimed his daughter and manufactured a star. Transworld Artists championed her in their dark crime and detective pictures. Her platinum hair and pale eyes—eyes as cool as icicles—mesmerized from the screen. Sybil Squire was the most sought-after gorgeous, predatory, double-crossing femme fatale of her day. At twenty-one she had fame and fortune. She had her father to thank for that. A man she hated with every fiber of her being.

—Excerpt from the biography of
Sybil Squire: The Platinum Widow
by Russell Cassevantes

With a bow and an exaggerated flourish, Mick handed over the footage, storyboard and shot/clip list for his documentary to Piper on Saturday. The day before they left for Hong Kong. The moment the film was hers, Piper felt a tingle run up her spine. She couldn’t wait to start on it. He trusted her to do the job on her own. She was more than qualified to piece it together. This was old-school. She was in her element. It had a great analog feel, shot over a period of years using top directors, producers, and actors. This documentary,
Greatest Classics: Film Noir
was a documentary any number of good editors could probably cut in their sleep. Yet she had an edge over the others. She knew the genre inside and out. Lived and breathed it. Embraced it.

Because of Nana Ruth’s influence, she became addicted to the old thrillers in early childhood. She analyzed the classics, particularly the noir films, and studied the masters in the field. Directors like Hitchcock, Wilder, and the more modern Pankow. She yearned to get closer to film, the process, the magic. As a graduate student fresh out of UCLA, she took on low-level film jobs, assistant work to producers, directors, and studio execs, doing whatever came her way while searching for her niche. She found it in a Studio City cutting room editing a rock concert documentary, an exhilarating process. From there she went on to cut commercials, television movies, then her first major film. She was hooked. Editing held the secrets to the magic of the subjects she loved. Several years later, a director on a Mick Vogt film gave her her first big break, a chance to work directly with him as the film editor on
Upper Limits
, a 2003 Oscar nominee.

At ten o’clock that evening, she began to organize the new project. Being a nocturnal creature and a sun worshiper, she preferred to work after the sun set into the early a.m. when the gray morning fog hung over the hills of LA. Two hours into the digitizing process, thunder cracked and boomed beyond the thick stucco walls.

Rain pinged against the window, pelting it at times. This was the first rain of the season. She always looked forward to the first storm. This time a pulsing pain behind her eyes, now a full-blown headache, pounded in sync with the driving rain. She needed aspirin and to stretch.

In the dark, she stepped to the window and drew back the drapes. Sheets of water cascaded down the glass. She scanned the house and grounds next door for any movement, any sign of Sybil Squire, as she did every night since moving into the guesthouse. She even checked the pool, knowing no one in their right mind would swim in this kind of weather. The rain beat down on the surface of the pool, violently churning it up. It resembled a piranha feeding frenzy.

A flash of movement. Something white near the wall dividing the two houses. She pressed closer to the glass to see. That something was a person.
Sybil.
There was no mistaking that white hair. Wet and plastered to her head, it stood out in the darkness like a soft moon glow. She appeared to be wandering aimlessly. She fell, struggled upward only to fall again.

Piper pulled on her raincoat and dashed down the wet concrete steps, now slick with sodden leaves. Her bare feet slapped against the concrete driveway as she ran. The gate to the Squire property resisted when she pushed at it. She used her back and shoulder to buffet the gate. It sprung open, dropping her to the ground. She pulled herself up, pushed the wet hair from her eyes, and ran into the yard, heading toward the place where she had last seen Sybil. She called her name. No response. She caught a glimpse of the whitish glow of her hair and the pale outline of her nightgown. When she reached Sybil, she was on her hands and knees.

“Mrs. Squire, are you all right?” She shouted to be heard over the wind and rain. Piper dropped down in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

Sybil came up on her knees, her back straight, her head bowed. She swiped a dirty hand through her hair, depositing a trail of debris through the wet strands. Lightning lit up the sky. Her knees were crusted with mud, leaves, and grass.

“Mrs. Squire, what can I do to help you? Please, let me help you.”

Sybil grabbed Piper’s forearm and squeezed. Raising her head, Sybil stared at Piper with glazed eyes, eyes devoid of expression. Eyes that in no way were close to resembling the expressive “movie” eyes she had once been so famous for.

“I’m going to call the police,” Piper said, helping her to her feet. Sybil leaned into her. “I’m taking you to my place, right next door there, and I’m calling the police.”

“No.” Sybil jerked back. “No police.”

Piper smelled alcohol on her breath.

“Okay, no police. But you’re coming to my place.”

“Sybil. Sybil, what am I going to do with you?” the nurse shouted to be heard. “You promised, didn’t you? You promised, and then you went back on your word.” A hand wrapped around Sybil’s upper arm and yanked her away.

“She’s coming with me,” Piper said, blocking the way.

“This is none of your business,” the woman said. “Everything is fine. I know how to handle it.”

“Fine? She’s soaking wet and shaking like a leaf. She was out here stumbling around in the rain, falling into the mud. What if she slipped into the pool and drowned? Is that how you handle it?”

“You’re trespassing. Get off this property. Call the police and I’ll report you for trespassing. Then we’ll see who gets into trouble.”

Piper turned to Sybil Squire. “Would you like to come home with me?”

“Sybil?” the woman said her tone sharp.

“No.” Sybil pushed Piper’s hand away from her arm. Then she allowed the nurse to put an arm around her waist and lead her away willingly, like a wayward lamb.

Piper watched them disappear into the heavy rain. She stood there in the rain, cold feet in the wet leaves.

Go home
, the rational side of her brain said.
Go home. Don’t get involved.

#

Piper refused to listen to the voice of reason. Early the next morning she rounded the stone wall separating the Vogt’s driveway and strode up the Squire driveway. This time she bore no gifts. She marched up the brick walkway into the arched porch and smacked the doorbell with the palm of her hand. All through the previous night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, she had replayed the bizarre scene in the garden. What possessed Sybil to wander around in the rain so late at night? What possessed her to crawl around on her hands and knees in the dirt?
Was
she, as the nurse had implied, mentally incompetent? She was drunk or drugged, that was clear from the alcohol on her breath and the glazed look her in eyes. But had she lost her ability to reason? Dr. Lowdell said her mental state was intact when he treated her two weeks ago. Could a person’s mental capacity deteriorate in so short a time?

The small, bespeckled Mr. Moto-look-a-like answered the door. An instant later the nurse appeared behind him.

“I want to see Mrs. Squire,” Piper said, ignoring the man and talking directly to the woman. “Now. No excuses.”

“She’s not well.”

“Really? Why am I not surprised? It might be a bit much for a frail, elderly woman to stumble around in her nightgown in the middle of the night in a freezing rainstorm. But then, you know how to handle that sort of thing, don’t you?”

The woman clamped her mouth shut, a grim line in a stony mask of a face. Her black eyes bored into Piper’s.

Piper took a step forward. The nurse barred the threshold.

“You have no right to stop me from seeing her. If she’s okay, then let her tell me so.”

“Leave us alone.”

“I can’t do that. Not until I’ve talked to Sybil.”

The door began to close.

“Dammit, I’ll sit here on the step until you let me see her.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Social services might appreciate a call. Dr. Lowdell too,” Piper added.

The door continued to close, but before it shut completely, the woman said, “Seven o’clock. She’ll see you then.”

CHAPTER NINE

That afternoon Mick flooded Piper with last-minute instructions for the documentary. He wanted to walk through the entire storyboard and clip list. The list was so long the documentary would need to be a mini-series to include all of them. Her mind was at the house next door. At seven that evening she would finally sit down with Sybil and find out what the hell was going on. The hours dragged, despite Belle taking over when Mick finished. They went over her first week’s schedule. As their house sitter, she would look after the place, feeding the cockatoo and watering the dozens of plants that seemed to overrun every room throughout the nine-room Tudor. Although the yard was maintained by a weekly lawn service, Piper insisted on tending the outdoor planters. That included watering, weeding, and cutting flowers for the two houses. This she did to indulge her compulsion for sunshine and fresh air when she wasn’t shut away in a dark room working.