Murder Take Two (24 page)

She looked at him.

Parkhurst unbent a little. “He'll get tired and quit. He'll pick the wrong garbage can at the wrong time and get shot. We'll stumble across him on the way to something else.”

Parkhurst was right, but when citizens call and make complaints, when the mayor calls and makes threats, the chief of police makes a show of being on top of the situation.

“Your point is?”

“I talked with Laura last night.”

This was what she'd been expecting. The chair squeaked as she leaned forward. “And?”

“She wants my help.”

“Two bodyguards and the Hampstead PD aren't enough for her?”

He said evenly, “I'm obliged to help.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“You can put me on suspension. Or I can resign.”

“Would Laura want that? Your throwing out your career?”

A dry smile crossed his mouth. “She wouldn't see it that way.” He pushed himself up. “You want me to quit?”

Captain Reardon had once told her, “I stand behind my men.”

“What about women?” she'd asked. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm a—”

“Yeah, yeah. Her too. Unless that's sexual harassment. In which case I wouldn't.”

Stand behind your men. She hadn't been chief here long, a year and a half roughly, but long enough to feel Parkhurst wouldn't kill or try to kill his ex-wife, and to believe he wouldn't cover up a killing by somebody else.

“Would you give me a week to clear this?”

He took so long in answering she began to get queasy.

“Three days.”

That might not be enough. “Parkhurst,” she said as he was leaving, “were you at the Sunflower last night?”

Anger flashed through his dark eyes, gone immediately leaving them flat and blank.

“Don't,” she said sharply.

“Ma'am?”

“React like a suspect. Just tell me.”

“I was not at the hotel last night.” His words were evenly spaced and clipped off at the ends.

Oh, bloody hell, she shouldn't have asked. She didn't know if she believed him.

20

The sun, a great red ball, rose over the horizon, streaks of pale light shot through the dark, birds rustled and twittered in the trees. A silent figure in a long coat kept to the shadows as he wound through the woods. A searching stream of light struck silver from something in his hand. On a rise above, a rider on horseback sat motionless, black against the pink and lavender light of the rising sun.

“Cut,” Fifer said. “Beautiful, ladies and gentlemen, just beautiful.”

Good thing, Yancy thought. Even Fifer couldn't get the sun to come up over and over until he was satisfied. Though, he might have tromped everybody out here day after day until he got what he wanted.

“Yucky, yucky,” Clem mumbled to herself.

“What?” Yancy said. The scene had looked very artistic to him.

Fifer, the cameras and crew—strange shapes moving around in the dark—had set up, stumbling and cursing and had all been waiting for Fifer to get the moment when the sun came over the hill.

“Hokey,” Clem said, far enough away that Fifer couldn't hear. Her bib overalls hung sacklike over a red tank top so tight Yancy wondered how she could breathe.

He'd thought there would be some acknowledgment of Sheri Lloyd's murder, but Clem had used her best face of scorn when he'd mentioned it.

“What will Fifer do about her role?” he asked.

“Fortunately, most of her scenes were already shot,” she said. “For what's left he'll cut in footage of earlier pieces, use long shots, and improvise. You know, somebody else, just hands, shoulder, back of the head, that kind of thing. Same hair, same clothing. Just no close-ups on the face.”

Without a word, Fifer took off through the field toward the road about a half mile away where his town car waited to take him to the Lockett mansion. Clem was left with the crew that had to hassle equipment half a mile to the vehicles. With a lot of swearing and grousing, they managed.

“You look like shit,” Clem said when they were inside the mansion.

“Little sleep.”

“Take a nap.”

“What, and miss all the excitement?” The story line still eluded him, but he'd figured out the layout. Laura Edwards's character lived in the mansion that had belonged to her father; he had been killed in such a way that it looked like an accident—broken his neck in a fall from a horse. Josiah's barn was part of the property and it was all adjacent to the river. She had come back for the funeral. Nick Logan's character was a local cop she'd gone to for help because the bad guys were trying to kill her. Why wasn't made clear. Local cop was the only one, of all the people she talked to, who believed her. Or maybe he didn't believe her, only wanted to get next to her.

Currently, they were filming an indoor scene, or interior to be correct. Hero (Nick Logan) and heroine (Laura Edwards) were in the kitchen. It was late at night—this was apparent from the black duvetyn tacked over the windows—and she was fixing a snack. The kitchen had been repaired until it looked shiny bright and contained nothing but the newest and best—ovens, refrigerator, stove top, and fancy wood cabinets. One wall had been removed to accommodate the film equipment.

All the hot lights and all the people made for a room with no air flow and no oxygen. It was unbelievably stuffy. Fans or air-conditioning weren't possible, they made noise. The temperature was a hundred twenty degrees. Everybody, including Yancy, was dripping sweat. Hell couldn't be worse.

“I can't make sense of this movie,” he said to Clem. Trying to track the plot was something to use the center of his mind for while the edges all around worried whether his mother had stumbled into a homicide.

“It doesn't need to, it's about Laura wiggling her ass.”

God had been more successful with the sunrise than Fifer was with this scene. Take after take went wrong. Laura flubbed her lines, then Nick came in late on a pickup. Then it was going great and one of the crew dropped a hammer that made Laura jump. Then a camera jammed, then the sound was wrong and after that the lighting was off. Once everything was going perfectly until Laura sneezed. Everybody broke up.

“Cut,” Fifer said. He spoke quietly to Laura, she nodded. He said something to Nick, then went back to his position behind the camera. “Let's try it again.”

“Roll cameras.”

“Speed.”

The young woman with the slateboard said, “Scene ninety-two, take nine,” and clapped it.

“Action.”

The actors tried to figure out how to get through the night without getting killed. Take nine did it. Also take fifteen. At that point, Fifer called a lunch break; everybody split. In a hurry.

The caterer had set up in a room on the first floor, the original purpose of which Yancy couldn't figure. Library maybe, but there were no bookshelves.

A chicken sandwich and bottle of foreign water later, he stayed on his feet by moving; if he stopped he'd be gone. It was very odd to see one room all fitted out with plush furniture, thick carpets, knickknacks, sculptures, pictures, and fresh flowers, and the next was bare with cracked plaster, spiderwebs, and dirt.

Up the staircase and at the end of a hallway, voices came from the corner room. Nick Logan and Fifer were inside. Only half the room had been completed; the far end had a highly polished wood floor, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books, burgundy leather chairs around a long wooden table, and a large, highly polished wooden desk. This was the office of the head honcho in a megabucks company. In his hand, Nick had pages of the latest script changes.

He scanned them, mumbling as he did so. He put in pauses and gestures, walked the length of the room, and leaned over the desk.

“Nick,” Fifer said quietly, “this is a cop who's been framed for murder. They're tired of him bothering them, they want to get rid of him.”

Nick nodded. He read the script again, then went through the scene speaking the lines carefully, using the pauses and gestures, shifting his weight and building anger. Then he did it again.

The concentration of effort showed. Yancy began to appreciate why Nick was considered a good actor.

In the afternoon when Fifer shot the scene, a rich powerful man sat behind the desk. Yancy leaning against a wall hoped he wouldn't drop over asleep and ruin the take. Nick went through the lines and moved step by step while the lighting was set up.

When Fifer got to the actual filming, Yancy felt he could do the scene himself. Nick's voice jolted Yancy wide awake. It carried such raw emotion that hairs stood up on Yancy's arms. As Nick stalked the man with white hair, every bit of him yelled
killer,
no matter how furiously he cried, “Frame up!”

The menace in his face sent the CEO cowering back. At the scene's finish, the room was absolutely silent.

Two ticks went by and then Fifer said, “Beautiful, Nick.”

Beautiful, Yancy echoed in his mind and was left with the feeling Nick Logan was capable of murder if the stakes were high enough.

*   *   *

Blue. Dark blue. Laura my beloved. The universe is dark blue. I'm coming. Just be patient. I'm following him. The universe will provide the right moment. I'll be ready. The gun belongs to me.

*   *   *

The next day was taken up by love scenes with Nick and Laura, both half naked, tumbling around in bed. Yancy wondered how two lovers felt portraying make-believe lovers with a roomful of people looking on. Or two ex-lovers who were feuding playing current lovers. It boggled the mind. These two did it with a lot of electricity.

By the time Fifer called wrap, it was nearly seven o'clock. Yancy was just as quick to speed off as the rest of them. A fourteen-hour day that started at five
A.M.
made quitting seem a fine idea.

With escape in mind, he put the squad car in reverse, had an arm over the seat back, and was looking out the rear window when he heard Clem Jones call him. Black gauze draped her from shoulders to ankles like a shawl, she was a costume who couldn't find a party.

“Hey.” Both hands gripped the open window. “Would you do something for me?” A ragged note under her words didn't sound like the usual nasty Clem.

He didn't look at his watch. “If I can, certainly.”

“Take me someplace for dinner. Someplace I won't be recognized.”

With her appearance she'd be recognized everywhere. For a full second, he considered saying no. Then duty prevailed, it was his job, she looked right on the edge, and besides, he felt sorry for her. He tried to come up with a place that would be dark and empty.

“Please,” she said, apparently thinking he was about to refuse, which with Serena waiting he'd certainly like to do. She wouldn't be happy when he was late again.

He got out of the car, went around, and opened the passenger door for her.

“I knew I could count on you. Gentleman to the core.”

He sighed. “You know a whole hotel full of people. You could get any one of them to take you to dinner.”

She slid in, he closed the door and went back to the driver's side. “What would you like to eat?”

“It doesn't matter. I'm not hungry.”

Right. The Best Little Hare House in Kansas was loud and full of truckers. She'd probably start a riot. Poppy's Pizza? A student hangout. And she'd probably want something like kiwi and squid pizza so she could sneer when they didn't have it. The Blind Pig? He got it, Perfect Strings. He made a right, cut through town, and got on the Interstate.

“Everybody's looking at me,” Clem said darkly when they walked in.

“Nah.” Of course, she was right. Locals didn't see very many people with purple hair decked out in black gauze and white face paint. Nonlocals were media folks and they were on the lookout for somebody like her. This place had been a mistake.

A waitress with a long black skirt seated them in a booth and handed them each a menu.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said.

“You need somebody's permission?”

“You need to change your attitude or I'll leave you right here.”

“Sorry.” She opened the menu and stuck her face in it.

She really was feeling low. Sorry wasn't in her vocabulary. He found the phone and called his sister.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You're not coming. You have to work.”

“I'll be a little later is all.”

“Sure.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Sure.”

“Espresso,” Clem said with disgust when he slid into the booth.

“What did you want? Moonshine?”

“Yeah. Local color.”

“Wrong color. You're sixty years too late.”

She asked the waitress for a glass of wine. He ordered iced tea.

“You don't even drink?” Clem sneered.

“Shove it.”

“You aren't your usual sweet self. Phone call go badly? Who was it? Girlfriend?”

The drinks arrived and he took a gulp. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Deliberately irritate people.”

“Oh, that. It's just my personality. It goes with funny faces.” She crossed her eyes and made her mouth go up and down like a retarded fish.

He smiled. “Good for a laugh, and it keeps people standing on one foot.”

“What?”

“They never put the other one down to get a step closer.”

“What are you? Some kind of closet psychiatrist?” She glared at him, started to make some smart remark, then just sat there with her priorities all confused.

“Want to try a little dinner talk? Did you go to California to get into the movie business?”

“We call it the industry. I'm an only child. My mother was a housewife. They don't make them much anymore. You know, at home baking cookies when you get there from school. Dad out in the big world earning a living.”