Murder Take Two (18 page)

“She really did complain and, actually, dogs aren't allowed, you know.”

“I'm on the way.”

Yancy put keys and change back in his pockets, turned on the outside light over the stairway, and trotted down.

When Yancy came into the lobby, Howie said, “On the Patio.”

With a wave of thanks, Yancy turned down the corridor and went through the doors to the glass-enclosed area at the back of the hotel. No one there. The small white lights threaded through potted shrubs twinkled on empty tables; chairs sat at angles, crumpled napkins lay on the cobblestones. Oh, Lord, she'd gone.

Back in the lobby, he said to Howie, “She's not there. You see her leave?”

“I'd have told you. Is the dog gone too? Elmo's a big dog, he can look scary.”

“Who complained?”

“What difference does it make? Dogs aren't supposed to be in there.”

“Come on, Howie. Who was it?”

“Don't get so short. One of the actresses—”

“Howie, I'm tired and I'm not in a very good mood and I want to be home in bed. Don't hold back on me.”

“What's with you? Okay, okay. Don't get so worked up. It was Sheri Lloyd.”

“She coos at you and you drop all your bones at her feet.” Yancy pointed a finger. “Watch it, Howie. Haven't you heard about bad women from the big city?”

“Yeah. What I'd like is a little firsthand experience.”

“You could ask the lady out.”

“I did. Hey, nothing like that. I only asked her to dinner. She said no.”

“Did you tell her you owned a chain of hotels and you had so much spare money lying around you were thinking of investing in a movie?”

“Of course not. It's not true.”

“No wonder she turned you down. How could my mother and a big black dog get out of here without you seeing them?”

“I don't just stand here, you know. I have work to do. I have an office to do it in.”

Hours for assistant hotel managers seemed even worse than hours for cops baby-sitting movie people.

“Anyway, I may have been gone for a second or two. Hey, sometimes things need to be seen to. Like seeing if everything's all right in the bar. And sending someone out to take care of drinks for the people on the Patio.” Howie flushed bright pink.

Yancy hadn't seen him do that since high school when a girl looked at him. “You sent a waiter? Missed opportunity, Howie.”

“Go to hell.”

Before Yancy could think of a clever but no doubt equally juvenile reply, his beeper went off. He tipped it so he could see the number and asked if he could use a phone. Without waiting for a reply, he eased around the counter and picked up the one on the desk.

“Peter,” his sister said, “Mother's not here.”

“Calm down. She's all right.”

“How do you know?”

“What time did you last see her?”

“About seven-thirty when she went to bed. I was reading for a couple of hours and just now when I checked on her she was gone. I've looked everywhere. She's gone, Peter.”

“She came to the Sunflower.”

“Oh, God, is she all right? How on earth did she get there? You'll bring her home?”

“Well—she's not actually here right now.”

Silence on the other end of the line. “You mean you don't know where she is.”

“I'll find her. Don't worry. I'll bring her home.”

“Don't worry,” Serena said flatly and hung up.

Guilt reared up again. He punched in a number and told the dispatcher he'd appreciate it if the patrols would keep an eye out for his mother.

“Affirmative.”

He got in his Cherokee and cruised. With the big dog at her side, she shouldn't be hard to spot. After an hour of no sign, he was getting seriously alarmed. Nothing like a shot of adrenaline to clear ideas of sleep from your mind. He widened his circles, stopped what few people were out and about at eleven o'clock at night. Nobody had seen her. Damn. By this time, a patrol should have spotted her.

When his beeper went off, he grabbed it. Serena's number. At the pay phone outside the library, he called her.

“She's back,” Serena said.

Thank God. “She okay?”

“Seems to be. But, Peter—”

“I'll be right out.”

“Maybe now you'll start to understand what I've been telling you,” Serena said when he walked in the kitchen door. She stood by the sink with her arms crossed, a hard crust of anger under her quiet words.

“I'm tired, Serena. I need to get up early.”

“You're the only one?”

“No.” He gave her a one-armed hug and kissed her forehead. “But I don't want you mad at me tonight. Okay?”

She shoved him. “If I didn't love you so much, I'd yell at you. Listen, I've been trying to tell you—”

“Peter?” his mother called from her bedroom.

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Will you listen?”

“Peter—?”

“Go ahead. She thinks the moon and stars rise and set by you. See if you can find out what she did.”

His mother, pillows propped against the headboard, closed the book she was reading and held out both hands. “Peter, darling. What a lovely surprise.”

Elmo bumped his big head against Yancy's knee. Yancy gave him a pat, sat on the edge of the bed, and took his mother's hands. He kissed her cheek.

“Where were you, Mom?”

Elmo rested his head on the bed and she stroked it. “We went for a walk. It was a beautiful night.”

“You were at the Sunflower.” The book she'd been reading was
How to Recover from a Stroke.

She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I hoped to see an actor. I know that sounds silly, but how often are famous people in Hampstead? I saw Nick Logan. Such a handsome man. And Laura Edwards. She's very beautiful. And there was one other. What's her name? Oh, what was it? I can't think.”

“Sheri Lloyd?”

“That's the one.”

“How did you get there?”

“Taxi. I asked for Eddy. You know Eddy. His wife has arthritis so bad. He's the only one who doesn't fuss about Elmo.”

“How'd you get home?”

“It was such a nice night I thought we'd walk. It's cooler now. It won't be so hot tomorrow. I just can't walk like I used to. I'm afraid I pooped out before we were even halfway.”

“Then what?”

“Somebody gave me a ride.” She seemed to shake a bag of suppressed memories. “Who was it?”

“I don't know, Mom.”

“Sure you do, Peter. We went up by the ridge to see if we could spot bald eagles.”

“At night?”

“Oh, I don't think so.” She noticed his uniform. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I've been working.”

She smiled fondly and squeezed his hand. “You still want to be a policeman?”

“I am a policeman, Mom. I've been one for five years. What did you do at the hotel?”

She sang so softly he could barely hear her.

“And it is thou art come, childe Orm,

My youngest son so dear?

And is it gold, or silver plate,

Or coin, thou seekest here?”

The stroke hadn't affected her voice; it was pure and clear, but she had slipped away into whatever part of her brain waited in the shadows. He gave her a kiss, removed a couple of pillows, and said, “Good night, Mom.”

Serena was still standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, hands cupping her elbows. He knew a battle stance when he saw one. “I can't throw my mother out of her home,” he said.

“Peter, I've been trying to tell you. When she got home—she had blood on her hands.”

15

Main Street jumped with activity. Everybody wants to be in the movies, Susan thought. More people packed the sidewalks than would turn out for an end-of-the-world sale. College students in herds, Sophie the cat lady, Bob Haskel from heating and plumbing, Ab Perley from the hardware store. Her friend Fran Weymore from the travel agency. Kevin Murphy, high school football star and part-time gas pump jockey. Howie Gilbert, assistant hotel manager. Teens and preteens.

The director was intending to film a parade. If he didn't get it moving, his parade was going to get rained on. He stood on a camera truck speaking into a walkie-talkie, checking the status of every section along his route. Bright and sunny now, there were clouds on the horizon that might bring in thunder and lightning. One thing about Kansas, it knew how to stage a thunderstorm.

By eight, Fifer judged everything ready and a skeletally thin AD—assistant director to those who weren't in on movie lingo—alerted the crowd to put parade excitement on their faces and cheer at everything.

Fifer shouted, “Action.” The cheers began. With Yancy at her side, Susan watched from the steps of city hall. The high school band played loudly, scout troops marched smartly, street clowns and jugglers did their thing. Horses stepped along, decorated flatbed trucks rolled, with drama students, tumblers, and choral groups. Hampstead could be proud.

Fifer stopped and started his parade so many times she lost count, and reshot every sequence a zillion times. The extras weren't having fun anymore. The first AD worked harder and harder getting cheers. Movie-trained horses, she noted, knew the meaning of action and cut as well as the rest of the actors.

At two, when Fifer finally finished filming his parade, the AD asked all the extras to gather by the river. Lyrics from a song? Something about gathering by the river.

“You get to gather with them,” she told Yancy.

He smiled. “I thought I might get to do that very thing.”

Through the milling crowd, she crossed the street to the police department. She hoped to get the work done that she'd neglected by watching the parade.

Gather, they did. For a picnic. Yancy wondered who might give him a copy of the script. So far nothing made any sense.

By now the extras were definitely not having fun and needed to be coaxed and jollied by the first AD. They milled around picnic tables brought in by the crew. Barbecue pits, also brought in, blazed and settled to low flames. Howie looked dubiously up at the sky. The AD clapped him encouragingly on a shoulder and bellowed through his megaphone, “The food is edible. Please do not eat the food unless the cameras are rolling. The food is edible. Please do not eat the food unless the cameras are rolling.”

The river—sometimes slow and lazy, sometimes fast and angry after heavy rains, like now—swept by at a good clip, rippling through the reflections of trees. The building clouds overhead lent a dark ominous look to it. Yancy rested against a tree trunk on the edge of the buzzing activity. Working in the movie industry belonged to people with stamina. Nobody moved at less than a trot. He stifled a yawn. Before Hollywood came to town, he couldn't remember ever being this tired and this bored for this long. He swiped at a cloud of gnats and hoped Fifer knew rain might start pissing down anytime. Around all these trees wasn't the best place to be with lightning forking from heaven to earth.

The shouting back and forth between Fifer on dry land and two guys in a motorboat stopped; one guy in the boat inflated a raft and tossed it in the river. It darted from side to side behind the motorboat like an eager puppy. More shouting, and the guy jumped into the raft to test its seaworthiness, then clambered back into the motorboat. Much peering into cameras on the motorboat and into those planted along the river's edge.

Rescue teams set up a station, ready to race out and save anybody who fell in. Even extras and spectators? Probably not, not spectators anyway. Which left that duty to him. Promises to protect and serve, after all. He was a good strong swimmer, but more than one sinker would be a problem. With the humidity matching the temperature, the air was approaching liquid. Anybody out here for an ersatz picnic wasn't right in the head.

Although, he might be wrong about that. Laura Edwards appeared in the prow of the motorboat with a drenched T-shirt clinging to her superb body.

To be heard over the noise of the river, Fifer had to yell at Clem. Yancy could tell the director was on the thin edge of his patience.

So was Clem.

“She's not here,” Clem yelled back.

“Find her.”

“It's not my job.”

“I need her now.”

“Where's the second second?” Clem demanded. “It's her job. Why isn't she finding Sheri?”

“Get Sheri here!”

On a shoot the director was dictator and everybody did what he said, especially the director's assistant. With a look of mutiny, Clem fished keys from the large pocket of her purple tentlike thing and stomped toward the rental car parked behind all the vans used to transport cast and crew from the hotel to base camp or set. Stars had town cars—each one had hired his or her own for personal use—and the rest went by van, all piled together.

*   *   *

Sheri Lloyd's honey wagon room at base camp wasn't much bigger than an overgrown closet with a bench to sit on, a rod overhead to hang clothes on, a bathroom you could get into if you weren't overweight, and a mirror with lights. No Sheri. Clem knew that she wouldn't be here; Sheri wasn't big enough to throw a temper tantrum and get away with it. Be on the set and do what you're told or there are five hundred just like you to replace you.

At the Sunflower, she called Sheri's room from the lobby and let the phone ring twelve times, then she took the elevator to the third floor and banged on the door of three-eighteen.

Heart ticking away like mad, she tried the knob. It turned under her fingers. The room was dark. Holding her breath, she hit the light switch.

She choked on the air in her throat.

Sheri lay on the floor. Knife in her back. Blood. Looked different from the fake stuff. Dark, and sort of thin and black around the edges. It puddled out—the smell—