Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (71 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next morning she called Detective Bower and told him about the scream in the night and Sybil Squire’s strange appearance at the window. “Until last night, I haven’t seen much of her at all. Before these people moved in, she was very visible. She swam every day, walked the grounds, and though she didn’t go out much, she wasn’t a total recluse, like now. Something’s wrong, Detective Bower. I don’t know who I can talk to about it. I’m freaking here. Can’t you do something…
anything
?”

“Mrs. Lundberg, the Wade death is no longer an open case. If there’s suspicious activity at the Squire house, you should be talking to the Hollywood PD.”

She pulled the drapes aside and gazed out at the mansion. When she heard splashing, she looked down and saw a nude Sybil Squire doing the sidestroke in a swimming pool littered with leaves and pink rose petals. She wore the goggles and something new, a tight fitting swimming cap. She looked healthier and more robust than when she last saw her in the pool weeks ago, in an ermine coat and a swollen black eye. “She’s in the pool,” she said without realizing she had spoken aloud.

“What?”

“She’s swimming in the pool. I’m looking at her right now. She looks like her old self.”

“Well there you go. See, things have a way of working themselves out.” The line was silent. “Mrs. Lundberg, take my advice and give it a rest. If something does come up—something that you feel requires the attention of the police, the Hollywood precinct can handle any—”

“Goodbye, Detective.” She disconnected and tossed the phone on the bed. What was going on? With the telescope leveled through a crack in the drapes, Piper spied on her until she exited the pool five minutes later. Leaves adhered to her thin body. She draped the robe over her shoulders, not bothering to dry herself first. Moments later, she was gone.

Sybil was swimming again. A robust and healthy Sybil, looking like she did the day Piper first saw her in the pool, before the fire, before the new caregivers.

What the hell?

#

With the sunshine and good weather, Luke resumed working on the chimney. Any apprehension she’d felt about him the night before gradually dissipated as the morning wore on and she watched him busy at work. His movements were smooth and swift. He was a gifted handyman.

At noon, when she crossed the driveway to the main house, he smiled and waved but made no move to talk to her or to climb down from the ladder. Relieved, she watered the plants, cleaned Dr. Jekyll’s cage and gave him his fresh fruit and seed.

The bird demanded more and more of her time each day. He missed the Vogts, particularly Belle, and hated being alone. He loved to cuddle and be the center of attention. Since the quake, she’d been visiting him twice a day, letting him out of the cage to exercise and explore. She quickly became his surrogate mother. He called out “’Lo, Mommy” whenever he saw her or heard her voice. She considered moving him in with her, but realized his screeching and rooster crowing would be too distracting while she worked. For company, she had put the portable TV next to his cage and kept it on a cartoon channel every day until the sun went down.

After an hour with the bird, she locked up and returned to the guesthouse, her footsteps climbing the staircase in sync with the tapping of Luke’s trowel handle against brick. On her doormat lay a bound screenplay. The copy looked as if it had been carried around extensively, shopworn. The limp pages curled inward, smudged with dirty fingerprints and flicks of god-knows-what. She imagined it rolled and unrolled many times. She turned to see Luke on the ladder watching her. Holding up the script, she waved it in the air and retreated inside.

Piper had asked for it and he had delivered. Now that it was in her hands, she knew he would be eager to hear her thoughts on it. She silently prayed it wouldn’t be as bad as the majority of scripts submitted by the thousands to Hollywood agencies and production companies. She brewed a cup of coffee and sat down to read
Searchlight
, a screenplay by Luke Monte. At the conclusion of the first act, she was hooked. It was a damn good piece of work; the story of a man in search of his identity and self-worth after kicking a life-long heroin addiction. When she reached the midpoint, she was interrupted by one of Mick’s assistants calling on her cell phone from nearby Sunset Boulevard. Leslie needed help to root through Mick’s projects for a copy of a pre-production script that had been misplaced or lost. There were handwritten notes on the script that he had to have. She pulled into the driveway minutes later.

Leslie looked so much like Connie Chung that Piper unconsciously called her Connie twice before she was sharply corrected. Piper led the way up the stairs and into Mick’s relocated office and pointed to a waist-high stack of scripts on the floor against the wall. “You take those and I’ll take these.” Already hunkering down to tackle a pile in the corner. Mick saved everything. “That’s what assistants are for,” he said when he couldn’t find anything in the clutter of his two offices.

Calls from Mick every twenty minutes asking for a progress report didn’t help expedite the operation. To make matters worse, Belle got on the extension and wanted a word with Dr. Jekyll. Leaving Leslie on her knees in the corner, Piper enabled the speaker on the cordless phone, trotted down the stairs to the kitchen and held the instrument up to the cockatoo’s cage. He flapped his white wings and fanned his top crest, but refused to talk. “Take him out of his cage,” Belle said. “You know how bullheaded he can be when he feels like a caged bird. Have you been letting him out to spread his wings?”

“Every day, sometimes twice a day.”

“Do you talk with him?” she asked. “If he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, he forgets words.”

“Yes, I know. We chat on a regular basis. He does most of the talking, so you don’t have to worry.” He had even picked up a few words from
Scooby Doo
but Belle didn’t need to know that her precious was being babysat by cartoon characters.

“You’re a sweetheart. I’m so glad we have you to watch over things. We usually get a house sitter when we go off on these long shoots. Thank you, Piper, for being there.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m the one who’s in your debt.” She opened the door of Dr. J’s cage. She didn’t have to coax him out. He loved his freedom. He hopped onto her arm, then to his T-bar. He strutted up and down, bobbing his head, feathers fluffed. He began to mutter “Scooby Doo”.

“What’s he saying?” Belle asked.

“He says the economy and the national debt are in horrendous state. He’s pondering a position in politics, but fears the repercussions of campaign reform.”

Belle laughed. “Say ‘Mommy loves you’.”

“Mommy loves you.”

“Not to me. Say it to Dr. J, and with feeling.”

“Here, you say it. You’re on speaker.” The bird cocked his head and blinked when he heard Belle’s voice. The head crest rose to its full height. “…oy, cookie,” he said. “Love ya. Love ya.”

The two carried on a twisted and disjointed conversation, with Dr. J barking, then throwing in a wolf whistle, cat meow, and kissing sounds. Piper doubled up with laughter, tears streaming down her face until Mick came back on the line and reminded them there was work to be done. Dr. J was the best medicine. Like a happy child, his glee became contagious, cheering her instantly.

By the time they found the script and Leslie had faxed the specific pages to Hong Kong, it was late afternoon.

Back in the guesthouse, Piper picked up Luke’s script and continued reading. The second half was even better than the first half. At the closing lines, tears filled her eyes as she hugged the script to her chest. Her perception of Luke changed once again. She saw the handyman in an entirely different light now. Sensitive. Insightful. Enigmatic. A gifted screenwriter. He had written a script that, in her opinion, was a star vehicle. She pictured Matt Damon in the lead role.

She reread the last act, reaching the end at six o’clock, just as Lee made an entrance in a Mercedes Sedan. Dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Piper stepped out onto the deck. The driver opened the back door. Lee exited the car, waved at her, then detoured to where Luke worked on the ladder. She asked him something. He came down, spread mortar on a brick, shrugged and nodded toward the guesthouse before climbing the ladder again. The driver helped her with several shopping bags, clothes carriers, and Lee’s familiar makeup kit, carrying them upstairs and depositing them in the living room.

Lee thanked him and instructed him to return at eight.

“Are you moving in?” Piper asked her when the driver left.

“We, you and I, are going to a fabulous wrap party this evening. I took the liberty of bringing clothes for you because I know you’ll say you have nothing to wear.”

“I’m not going to a wrap party, or any party. I have work to do.”

“I have work to do, too. My job’s to see that you have fun for one evening, even if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming. You’re a free woman now—almost. Let’s celebrate.”

“I have work.”

“This is not your ordinary wrap party, girlfriend. It’s on a yacht in Marina del Rey.”

“I get seasick.”

“Liar. They’re wrapping Tommy’s film.
Blue Haven Highway.
”

“Thomas VanRaven?”

“The buzz is that
Highway
is a winner. Blockbuster, perhaps. But hell, that’s not surprising. VanRaven could shoot a dripping faucet and get rave reviews. He has a slew of new films lined up like airplanes in a holding pattern. Meaning …”

“You don’t have to tell me what working on a VanRaven vehicle could mean for me or my career.” Tommy once told her she had a clear sense of a film’s purpose,
his
films in particular. His brilliant unconventional storylines were a challenge and just the thing to help her to break back into the trade.

“Have I sold you yet?” Lee said.

“You had me at yacht.”

Lee laughed. “Good.” She reached for a hanging carrier and stopped in mid-motion. “Piper, who is that man?”

Piper didn’t have to look to know she was talking about Luke. He’d taken off his shirt just before Lee had arrived.

“The Vogt’s handyman.”

“Does he have free run of their house? He just went inside and came out with a beer. He appears to be helping himself to his employer’s stash.”

Piper thought that odd, but maybe they did have some sort of agreement. She didn’t know. She told Lee about the earthquake damage and his part in repairing the Vogt’s house.

“So what’s your part?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you Lady Chatterly to the hot groundskeeper?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? But before you go off and do something incredibly outlandish—like ask him—no, I am not boffing the handyman.”

“Good. Guys like that are trouble. They ooze sex. Sex and neuroses. They take, take, take. If they give anything in return it’s a bun in the oven or a social disease. My judgment in human character, as you well know, is exceptional. That man has the look of deception about him. He’s not what he appears to be.”

“Not what he appears to be?” Piper’s smile was wry. “He’s a handyman, for crissakes. So what else might he be? A heart surgeon…a rocket scientist…posing as a handyman? You exchange half a dozen words with him for a couple of seconds and you know his deepest, darkest secrets. Miss Lee, you chose the wrong vocation. I hear the psychic hotline needs a few good mediums.”

“Laugh. Go ahead and laugh. I had years of first-hand personal experience in deception and role-playing. I’m rarely wrong.”

Piper looked out the window at him. “Maybe you’re right,” she said pensively. “He’s written a wonderful screenplay.” She picked it up and fanned the pages.

Lee took it from her and without even glancing at it, unzipped one of her clothes carriers, and stuffed it inside. “I’ll read it. Maybe I’ll want to represent him if it’s as wonderful as you say. But enough talk about business and the sexy groundskeeper. We have more important things to hash over. Like tonight’s attire.”

“Okay, let’s see what you have.”

#

“Since when have wrap parties gone red carpet?” Piper asked. The wrap parties she’d been to were casual. Generally, they were a way for the cast and crew and their families to celebrate the project completion and say goodbye. Lee’s major client played the female lead.

“They haven’t. But Tommy’s all about press and putting himself out there. He likes fireworks.” Lee opened the dress carrier. “Nothing over-the-top. I brought us a couple of hot little black numbers to wear.”

Lee stripped down and strutted around in front of the windows, uninhibited in skimpy sheer undergarments, unconcerned about who might see her from outside. No matter how many times Lee changed clothes in front of her, she would never get used to seeing her childhood sweetheart in a woman’s body. Lee seemed so comfortable in her skin, so self-satisfied. Piper wasn’t in the same place in her life.

VanRaven was renowned for his party extravaganzas. This elaborately catered excursion epitomized power and prestige and offered up the best publicity for him and his film. Open bars and live music at each end of the upper deck catered to an impressive guest list of studio heads and top actors.
Blue Haven Highway
, like all of VanRaven’s pictures, had a cast of mega-stars. Usually thrown in was a cameo appearance by the greatest of the greats.