Murder Take Two (33 page)

“Herbivores?”

“Yes. They're not rabbits really, you know, they're hares. Those teeth are made for tackling plants. They've got long claws on their front feet, to pull plants and strip them. They move fast, but if they're trapped, they're not bunnies. Foxes have been known to make that mistake and gotten blinded and gutted. Even a mountain lion has lost its life by trapping one in its lair.”

Raina sat in shadow, her profile highlighted by light coming from the kitchen. She looked young and beautiful, her voice soft. She might have been telling a fairy tale to a child, or a witch weaving a spell. “That's what it was, don't you think? Desperation.”

Susan shook herself back to her purpose here. “Do you remember being at the hotel?”

Raina blinked, then said, “I've been there many times. Peter says watching the movie being made is boring. Maybe, but it's interesting.”

“Do you remember Tuesday evening?”

Raina smiled. “Sometimes I can barely remember my name.”

Susan felt a rush of liking and respect for this woman. No wonder Yancy was bent on protecting her. She was charming in what must be to her a devastating situation. “You were on the Patio. Sheri Lloyd was there.”

“She was angry, poor little thing. To get her own way, she threatened someone.”

“Who?”

“Vengeance was in the air.”

“Vengeance?”

“Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.”

“Kevin Murphy,” Susan said. “Did he have vengefulness in his heart?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.” Raina reached down to stroke the dog's shoulder. “He offered us a ride. Nice of him, even though his purpose wasn't to be nice.”

“Was he on the Patio that night?”

“No.”

Raina was certain, but how much reliance could be placed on her memory? “Who else was there beside the actors?”

“A very troubled young man. He was afraid of Elmo.”

“Anybody else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Was there a young person there? Maybe teenaged?” Leading the witness, Susan.

Raina thought. “You know I believe there was.”

“Who was it?”

“That girl, the one who lives where Peter does. I forget her name.”

“Stephanie Blakeley?”

28

Yancy pulled himself out of bed Monday morning, sat on the edge, and let his hands prop up his head. Why, having been given the opportunity, did he not snap to and take some days off. What? And leave show business?

After an unsatisfactory shower, he pulled on his uniform pants, shrugged into a shirt, buckled on his belt, and went stiffly and creakily down to his Cherokee. At the department, he turned it in for a squad car and set out for …

He didn't know where they were filming this morning. That information was on the call sheet, which he'd left at home. He had the feeling this wasn't going to be a great day. He went back to retrieve it. The crew call was six
A.M.
His watch said 5:45.

Location for shooting was the stable at the Lockett mansion. Fifer had Kevin Murphy, shirtless, mucking out a stall, the muscles showing off nicely in his back and shoulders. He did a good acting job, Yancy thought, didn't look at the camera, didn't ogle the stuntwoman, did exactly what he was told. Sullen expression perfect for a kid who has to work when he'd rather be swimming with his girlfriend. He led a horse from the stall, tied it to a ring, then loaded dirty straw in a wheelbarrow. Howie, however, should stick to the hotel business. He was supposed to drive up and park. That's all. Except he couldn't seem to stop the car at the right spot. After several tries, Fifer dismissed him. Yancy was afraid his friend Howie's movie career was over.

Fifer filmed the new stunt double leading a horse from the stable and tossing on a saddle. As she reached under the horse's belly for the girth, footsteps were heard. She straightened. Guess what? The villain. The stunt double cinched up, leaped on the horse, and galloped away.

That sequence was filmed over and over. Then Fifer did some shots of Laura Edwards standing by the horse, curry brush in hand. It was obvious she wasn't happy to be there. Any actual brushing was done by the stuntwoman, long shots and close-ups of hands and the horse's glossy hide. Even then only the neck and shoulders were touched, the hindquarters were left strictly alone. The horse looked bored.

The morning dragged on with the horse brought out of the stall, taken back in, and brought out repeatedly. No wonder it was bored. It seemed an amiable chestnut who knew his part well, until Laura got near; her tension made the horse uneasy and it continuously stepped away. Either that or the horse had a sense of humor.

When Fifer judged the light was wrong, he called a halt. The predicted twenty percent cloud cover had him in short temper, and he made changes in the schedule and shifted everybody inside the mansion for interior scenes. The crew followed orders without chitchat, praying for the clouds to dissipate. Yancy snagged coffee from the caterer. There was nothing wimpy about California coffee. If it didn't jolt him into serious clear-mindedness, nothing would.

That wasn't cloud cover up there; it was the beginnings of rain clouds. Most likely another thunderstorm was on the way before the skies got brighter. Whether Fifer knew or not Yancy had no idea, but Yancy wasn't going to tell him.

“Gotta talk to you,” Robin said to Yancy on one of his trips back and forth to fetch props.

Fifer snapped at Clem because the AD—not Clem's fault—had herded Laura onto her mark instead of the stand-in. Laura threw a fit, went back to her trailer, and wouldn't come out.

Nick, the unflappable professional, flubbed lines over and over on a scene Fifer was trying to shoot without Laura. Robin McCormack forgot a vital prop and had to go back for it. A light blew with a pop that sent everybody six inches off the floor. One take was going along fine, cast and crew just beginning to relax, when a camera jammed.

Fifer went very still, his face hardly moved when he spoke and his voice held the menace of a disturbed rattler. Everybody immediately got so tense a pin dropping would have shattered them like a footstep on thin ice. Yancy, caught up in the tension hanging like low-lying fog, was soaked with sweat, oppressed by the humidity, and limp as a rag. His rib hurt. Fifer called an early lunch break and everybody split like lightning.

In the caterer's tent, Yancy slid next to Mac, who had his left sleeve rolled up above the bandage on his biceps. A plate piled with ravioli, salad, and chunks of bread sat in front of him.

“How's the arm?”

“Hurts,” Mac said.

“You couldn't wrangle a few days off?”

“I'd rather keep an eye on things.” Mac tore off a chunk of bread and shoved it in his mouth.

Odd, Yancy was under the impression Mac didn't like Laura Edwards. What did he want to keep an eye on? “What's wrong with everybody today?”

After washing down a mouthful of ravioli, Mac said ominously, “Jinx.”

“What?”

“Movie people are suckers for superstition. All of them; cast, crew, hired hands, above the line, below the line. They believe this movie is jinxed and they all tiptoe along looking over their shoulders waiting for the crouched beast to spring.”

Yancy hadn't known Mac was so poetic. “You too?”

“Naw. I do my job, get paid. Don't have my ego nailed to the floor.”

“Unless something happens to Laura Edwards while you're driving her somewhere.”

“Better me than her.” Mac tapped the gauze on his arm. “Fifer, who knows what that one thinks. He's spooky, is what he is.”

Yancy circled the tent looking for Clem. He found her in the rear, drinking lemonade and looking miserable.

“You okay?” he asked.

She spun around, face shutting down like a window closing. “Don't creep up on me like that.”

“I wondered if you were all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Some people get upset,” he said mildly, “when they get yelled at for something that wasn't their fault.”

“I'm used to it.” She stomped off.

Filming in the afternoon was a repeat of the morning—scene after scene went wrong, lines were forgotten, words were garbled, doors wouldn't open, or wouldn't stay closed. Fifer got more and more deadly quiet, which rippled out to cast and crew until everybody was ready to run shrieking into the woods. Yancy included.

There was no chance to talk with Robin, and when Fifer finally called a halt Robin couldn't be found. Yancy decided to try base camp.

Robin was waiting at the prop trailer. “Listen,” he said, “there's something you should know. A pair of handcuffs is missing.”

“Handcuffs are missing,” Yancy repeated.

“Yeah. You deaf or something?”

Yancy looked around at the long, crowded prop trailer. “You're sure?” He found it hard to believe that Robin knew anything was missing.

“It's my job to know,” Robin said, a mite irritated.

“Guns missing?”

“Hell, no. All you people ever think about are guns. Guns are locked in the safe. None missing.”

“Why would anyone steal a pair of handcuffs?”

“People are nuts. Some actor uses it, they want it. Don't ask me why. We can't even have snapshots developed at the local quick photo place, because some jerk off says, ‘Hey, that's Nick Logan' and prints up two dozen extra copies to pass out to his friends.”

“What can anybody do with handcuffs?” Yancy was talking more to himself than to Robin.

“Handcuff someone. Hang the cuffs on the wall, put them in a box under the bed. Who the hell knows.”

“Where do you keep them?”

Robin opened a chest drawer, five pairs of cuffs lay inside.

“When were they taken?”

“I can't tell you. I had them in a bag with a bunch of other stuff we were using. Sometime this afternoon, I noticed they were gone.”

Yancy walked up and back looking at boxes and bins of props, chewing over missing handcuffs.

“I just wanted to let you know. Could you ruminate somewhere else? I'd like to lock up and get out of here?”

“Sure.” Yancy clattered down the metal stairs. Nobody was left except the security guys. He nodded to them and wandered around stepping over electrical cables. Something was nagging at him.

*   *   *

“The Blakeley girl's in the interview room,” White said.

Susan looked up from her desk. “Her mother with her?”

White smiled. “Stephanie was playing tennis at Broken Arrow Park. I asked her if she'd like to come with me.”

White, with his blond hair, round face, and apple cheeks, looked like a Boy Scout. Even his severe crew cut didn't detract from the image. He wouldn't scare anybody.

Susan tucked in her blouse and went down the corridor. “I need to ask you some questions, Stephanie.” She put an edge in her voice.

Stephanie Blakeley turned from the mirrored glass that she'd been studying. At thirteen, she was tall for her age, almost as tall as Susan, and it was easy to see how, in a dimly lit area, she could look in her late teens. A loose T-shirt covered a thin boyish figure. Her brown hair with tawny streaks reached just past her ears, and could be worn by either male or female. Hazel eyes, clear and intelligent, were right now wary and frightened.

“Sit down, please,” Susan said.

Stephanie slid onto a chair, and turned wide-eyed when the Miranda rights were read to her.

“Why didn't you tell me you were at the hotel the evening Ms. Lloyd was killed?”

The girl pushed her hands through her hair. “I know I should have.” A basically truthful child, this one, and relieved to be clearing her conscience. “I tried to tell Peter. Two days ago. But he looked so—you know, not feeling good and that other cop was there.”

Demarco looked like a marine with matters of national security on his mind. No teenage girl would be quick to confide in him.

“Tell me now.”

“I was there. Does my mother have to know?”

“You were there without permission?”

Stephanie stared straight ahead like a cadet being disciplined. “Worse. She said I couldn't go.”

“Why did you?”

Stephanie sniffed and rubbed a finger under her nose. “There was no reason why I shouldn't. I wouldn't be late, it wasn't a school night. How many times will a movie be made here? I wanted to be around where the actors might be. I wasn't going to talk to anybody, or ask for an autograph or anything. That would be exceptionally gross.”

“Then why go?”

“You'll think I'm silly. Childish.”

To a teenager, there was nothing worse than being thought childish.

“I'm going to be an author.” There, she'd said it. Make ridiculing remarks if you want.

“And?” Susan carefully kept the word neutral.

“I wanted to observe. See what they were like.”

Susan put her through questions. When Stephanie accepted that she wasn't being thought childish, she answered easily, but she didn't have anything to add to what Susan already knew. She sketched out the scene with colorful detail. This girl might, indeed, be a writer. Unlike the others, she didn't think Delmar Cayliff was ordinary. She thought he was creepy.

“How did you get to the hotel?”

“I rode my bike. Mom doesn't want me to ride it after dark. It's got lights,” she hastened to add.

At that point, Susan would have let her go, except something still sat on her mind, something that wasn't going to be volunteered and Susan wasn't quite sure how to get at it. “What happened on your way home?”

“Well—”

Right question.

“You know that curve on Arbor Street down by the quarry?”

Susan nodded.

“It's sharp, and right there where it sort of bends there's that flat field behind the fence before you come to where it drops off. Anyway, I was riding right at that bend when a car came roaring straight at me. I got pinned in the headlights. All I could think, I'm going to be killed and my mother will know I went out.”