by Deborah Camp
“Good. Let’s go take a look. I’ve seen the photographs, but I’d like to check it out firsthand.”
“Then can I let Selma clean it up?”
“Sure.” He stood up and motioned toward the staircase. “After you.”
Whitney ascended the staircase with the detective right behind her. “Ashley said that the other officers called you Shadow. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” he said in a singsong way. “So?”
“Well, she said your first name was Anthony.”
“Right again.”
Whitney chided herself for questioning him. What did she care what people called him? She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned to him. “It’s this room, Detective Tallwalker.”
That half-smile played at the corner of his mouth again. “Thank you, Miss Campbell.”
Pink coloring spread up her neck to her cheeks as she opened the door. There had been intimacy in his expression and the way he had said her name in that quiet, slow way. Where was he from? Not from California, Whitney decided. Not with that lovely drawl. She looked up at his striking profile again to find that the chaos before him had wrestled his attention from her. He moved around the bed with a light, springy tread, those strange eyes of his not missing a thing.
“Where was the note? Right here?” he asked, touching the center of the bed.
“Yes. The other officers took it with them.”
“I know.” His hand glided along the slashed comforter and sheets. “I guess you have insurance.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good.” He surveyed the rest of the room before moving toward the French doors that opened to a small balcony. “Was anything else destroyed?” He pushed open the doors and a strong breeze combed through his straight hair.
“No. Just the bed and the broken window.”
“I’d like to see that window, too.” He closed the doors. “Nice view.” Turning to face her, he gave her a thorough once-over that made Whitney’s nerves flutter. “Do you know any of the Intruder’s other victims?” he asked.
“I know of them all. Ashley Summer is the only one I’m actually friendly with. You see, here in Malibu—”
“Ashley Summer isn’t an Intruder victim,” he cut in, striding toward her with renewed purpose.
Whitney took a step back and let him pass. “But her house was broken into and—”
“It wasn’t the Malibu Intruder,” he interrupted again. “The bathroom is downstairs?”
“Yes. This way.” She descended to the first floor again and led him to the bathroom where he examined the broken window carefully.
“I’ve got just a few more questions, Whit—Miss Campbell,” he said. “Shall we go back into the living room?”
“Very well.” Whitney turned her head away so he wouldn’t see the smile teasing the corners of her mouth. He’d started to call her by her first name, she thought with an inner laugh. What had made him change his mind? Protocol? she wondered as she sat in the chair she had been in earlier.
“Your parents were celebrities, isn’t that right?” Tallwalker asked after he’d settled himself on the couch again.
“Yes. My father, Jess Campbell, was a screenplay writer, and my mother, Joan Shepperd, was a stage actress.”
“They’re both deceased.”
“Yes. They were killed in an airplane crash five years ago.”
“And this house was part of your inheritance.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact, and Whitney realized this man had done his homework on her.
“Yes. Why are you asking me these questions when you already know the answers?”
“Just double-checking.” He jotted something down in his notebook. “You’ve lived here … seven years?”
“Yes.” Whitney straightened in the chair, suddenly resentful of this man’s intrusion. Wasn’t it enough that some stranger had broken into her house and had ripped up her bedroom? Did she also have to endure another stranger snooping in her private life?
“Why are you asking about my parents?” she demanded.
“Because the Malibu Intruder breaks into homes belonging to the offspring of famous people. You fit that description.”
“But, Ashley—”
“Miss Summer was not visited by the Malibu Intruder,” he insisted firmly. “Let me ask you one more question,” he said, leaning forward a little, fixing his steady, silver eyes on her. “When you opened the bedroom door and saw that mess, who did you think of first?”
“I don’t know what you—”
“Give me your first thought, however irrational. What was it? What name popped into your head?” he pressed, leaning closer.
“I… I…” Whitney shook her head, trying to recall the moment she’d seen her destroyed bed. “Jean-Claude,” she answered, then gasped softly when she realized what she’d revealed.
His eyes narrowed. “Jean-Claude? Who’s he?”
“He’s … it’s nothing.” She waved a hand, dismissing the disclosure. “Forget I said that.”
“Who is Jean-Claude?” His lean face hardened into stubborn lines.
“He’s… he’s a former friend of mine.”
“Why did you think of him?”
“I don’t know!” Whitney held up her hands as if to ward off any more questions. “I’m sure Jean-Claude had absolutely nothing to do with this.”
“You said he’s a former friend. Did he leave under … stressful conditions? Did you have a lover’s quarrel?”
Whitney glared at him, hoping her brown eyes exposed her inner anger. “This is none of your business. It’s personal.”
“What’s his last name?” Tallwalker poised his pen above the notebook. “His last name, Miss Campbell,” he repeated sternly.
“Noir. Jean-Claude Noir. He’s in Paris now, so he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with this!” Whitney’s hands gathered into tight fists. She felt as if she were in a corner and she despised this man for backing her into it. “Did you hear me? I don’t want you to bother Jean-Claude about this!”
“How long has he been in France?”
“Seven months.”
“When was the last time you saw or heard from him?”
“Seven months ago. He had nothing to do with this,” she insisted again.
“So you aren’t positive he is still in Paris, are you? He might be in California.”
“He isn’t,” she said firmly.
“How do you know that?”
“I know Jean-Claude. He’s in Paris. He wouldn’t come back here.” She tried to sound assertive, but she could tell that this policeman wasn’t convinced. He wrote something else in the notebook, then flipped it closed.
“Listen,” Whitney tried again, “I don’t want you bothering Jean-Claude. Is that clear?”
Shadow Tallwalker placed the notebook and pen in his inside pocket and rose to his feet. His voice was granite-hard when he spoke down at her. “Miss Campbell, you might be used to ordering your servants around, but you cannot dictate orders to the police department, and certainly not to me. I’ll handle this investigation without your suggestions, thanks all the same.”
“You don’t understand …” Whitney rose from the chair to gain equal footing, but he still towered above her. “I’m not issuing orders. I’m just trying to make it clear that—”
“I’m not stupid, Miss Campbell. I get your drift.” He flicked back his cuff and glanced at his watch. “Thanks for your time and cooperation. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Detective Tallwalker,” Whitney beseeched his broad back as he headed for the front door. “Please, be reasonable.”
He stopped and turned around to face her. “By the way, are you doing anything to increase your security around here?”
“The locks were all changed this morning.”
“That’s good.”
“Jean-Claude had nothing to do with this,” she said, following him to the door. “He doesn’t know any
of the other break-in victims! Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?” Whitney instantly regretted her sharp tongue, realizing that she had once again damaged her own defense.
“Everyone is a suspect, Miss Campbell,” Shadow Tallwalker said quietly—too quietly. “Even former French … friends. Good day.” He pulled open the door and a group of reporters standing outside converged on him, shouting questions and demanding answers.
“Oh, no!” Whitney said, standing behind him. “I wish they’d leave me alone.”
Tallwalker turned sideways, a sardonic smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. “You shouldn’t have notified the press if you didn’t want to talk to them.”
Shadow locked his car doors and glowered at the reporters until they got the message and moved away from his car. Sitting in Whitney Campbell’s driveway, he jotted down a few notes from the earlier conversation, then stared blindly at the notepaper.
It was too bad that Whitney was a spoiled, little rich girl, he thought with a frown. She was a looker, and he had felt a tugging attraction for her. She’d seemed interested in him, too, asking all those questions about his name and heritage, and that didn’t fit the mold. Ashley Summer and the others had spoken of nothing but themselves when he’d questioned them, but Whitney had asked about him. No, she didn’t quite fit the Malibu, self-centered mold.
Looking up from the notepad, Shadow saw that the reporters had given up and were leaving Whitney’s house for Ashley Summer’s place. Shadow watched as they crossed the lawn, and a bitter smile touched his mouth when Ashley opened the door and pulled the reporters inside her home. Now that was the way most of the people around here behaved, Shadow thought. Anything for a story.
He looked back at Whitney’s house and confusion settled inside him. She hadn’t opened the door to the reporters. Maybe he’d been wrong when he accused her of calling the press and then acting as if she were surprised and irritated at seeing them. Could he be wrong? No, he decided as one side of his mouth lifted in self-reproach. There was always a margin of error, but Shadow prided himself in his keen intuition. He was usually right, having learned early in life that he could depend on his first impressions of people.
Shadow scrutinized Whitney Campbell’s house and found himself hoping he was wrong about her. She seemed genuinely distressed over this Malibu Intruder incident, and there wasn’t any doubt that she had been visited by the Intruder, unlike her glossy neighbor.
Shadow switched on the car engine and pocketed his notebook and pen as his gaze swept past Ashley Summer’s house. Ashley must really need publicity to fake that Intruder business, Shadow thought. Didn’t she understand that he could have easily charged her with fraud?
Chuckling softly, Shadow backed out of the driveway and headed away from the Colony. Lucky for Ashley Summer that I’m such a nice guy, he thought with a smirk, because there are other officers who would have slapped her with a fraud charge once they realized she’d faked a breaking and entering in her own home.
Glancing in his rearview mirror at the retreating solitude of the Colony, Shadow could understand why the celebrated waited in line to live there. It was quiet and stately, with a breathtaking view of the ocean. Shadow shrugged and grinned. Face it, he told himself, if you could afford it, you’d live there, too.
It wasn’t the location that bothered him, it was the people who lived in the Colony. There were too many bad apples like Ashley Summer who gave the place a bad name. What type of man would be attracted to a barracuda like Ashley? he wondered. Then his thoughts circled back to Whitney Campbell. His smile became tender and he issued a long sigh. His intuition told him that Whitney was different. She just might be his key to this case since she seemed to be on the level and not interested in publicity. He’d just have to wait and see if his intuition panned out.
Braking at a traffic light, Shadow’s attention was captured by a toy store, its display window filled with Perky Penelope merchandise. Was there a little bit of Penelope in her creator, Whitney Campbell? he wondered. It might be fun to discover if a child lurked somewhere in the woman. The light changed and he accelerated through the intersection, leaving his thoughts of Whitney back in the toy store window.
Shadow Tallwalker’s parting remark left her speechless, and Whitney could only stare after him as he shouldered his way through the press representatives with a curt, “No comment!” Before the reporters could bombard her with questions, Whitney shut the front door and locked it. Fists pounded against the door and the doorbell chimed incessantly.
Whitney went back to the living room and sank onto the couch, pressing her hands to her ears to block out the chiming and pounding.
“I could kill Ashley Summer for sicking those reporters on me!” she said above the noise. Several minutes passed before the reporters gave up and left her alone. Whitney sighed in relief. “Ah! Peace and quiet!”
The telephone rang and she reluctantly answered it, hoping it wasn’t a reporter. “Hello?”
“I’m at the office now,” Hampton said. “Has that police officer left yet?”
“Yes, he’s gone. What did you think of Shadow Tallwalker?” Whitney asked.
“Apart from his rather odd name, he seems very serious and dedicated to his work.”
“I think he’s a creep!” Whitney said with a frown. “I don’t think he should investigate this case.”
“When did you become a law enforcement expert?” Hampton asked.
“I’m not,” Whitney admitted, “but I have a gut feeling about this.”
“No doubt that is a valuable tool in the apprehension of criminal elements, and far more useful than the education Detective Tallwalker obviously has in his field.”
“You’ve made your point, Hampton,” Whitney said grudgingly. “Will you join me for dinner tonight?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner tonight, if you promise to put this whole ugly business out of your mind and concentrate on the further adventures of Perky Penelope.”
“I’ll give it my best shot. What time will you pick me up?”
“About seven. Would you like me to stay one more night with you?”
“No. I’m over the scare now. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you this evening.”
“Until seven.”
Whitney replaced the receiver, grateful to Hampton for helping her get past yesterday’s events. Maybe he was right. Maybe Tallwalker was a good investigator; bad manners, aside.
Recalling her earlier vow, Whitney forced all thoughts of the Malibu Intruder and Detective Tallwalker to the far corners of her mind and went upstairs to her loft office. She opened the venetian blinds to let sunlight pour into the office before she settled herself on the stool at the worktable.
Her creation, Perky Penelope, smiled up at her from the sketch pad. Whitney smiled back, wishing she could always face life with a happy grin like Penelope. Picking up a carrot-colored pastel, Whitney traced a lock of Penelope’s hair and thought back to the first time she had drawn this whimsical five-year-old. Three years ago she had been working for Disney Studios as a cartoonist, while in the evenings she worked in her loft on her own special projects. One Saturday afternoon Whitney found herself sketching a round-faced urchin with a lopsided grin. Adding a mop of unruly reddish hair, a sprinkling of red freckles, and bright green eyes, Whitney had given birth to a merchandising bonanza.
Perky Penelope had caught on like wildfire. Preschoolers across the United States and Europe had fallen in love with Whitney’s precocious creation which started as a comic book character and grew to include everything from six-inch-high dolls to wallpaper, bedspreads, posters, records, and even miniature tea sets.
“And now novels,” Whitney said with a shake of her head as she picked up a sheet of paper.
Her trip to New York had committed her to illustrating six Perky Penelope adventure novels. The writing was being farmed out to a well-known children’s author, so she had only to do the art work.
Whitney read through the fi
rst page of text, then glanced to the top of the sheet. “Perky Penelope Finds the Lost Rainbow,” she read aloud. She waited a few minutes for inspiration, but found she couldn’t get her mind on her work. Since the break-in, she couldn’t seem to shake this feeling of being watched.
Whitney slid off the high stool and went to the window, which gave her a view of the side lawn and Ashley Summer’s house. Cars were parked in Ashley’s driveway, and Whitney decided that her neighbor must still be holding court with the press. Turning from the window, Whitney stared at her worktable and wondered if she’d ever get back to that comfortable rut she’d been in before she’d left for New York.
It wasn’t fair! she fumed inwardly. Just when she’d thought she was over Jean-Claude and could get on with her life, the Malibu Intruder struck and everything was thrown into a turmoil again!
Sitting on the wide windowsill, Whitney closed her eyes and wasn’t surprised when Jean-Claude’s handsome face floated into her mind. It had taken her six months of licking her wounds to get him out of her mind, and now he was back. Hampton had said that you never forget your first serious brush with love. It seemed he was right again.
Whitney pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs as her memories of Jean-Claude surfaced and bobbed before her like pieces of a shipwrecked dream. She recalled the first time she’d met him at an art gallery in Paris. A couple of his paintings were on display, and the gallery owner had introduced Jean-Claude to Whitney. There had been an instant attraction which had deepened during the next month. Jean-Claude had squired her around Paris, making her fully understand why Paris was the city for lovers.
It had been a teary farewell when Whitney had left Paris and Jean-Claude to return to Malibu. She had blamed Paris for her impulsive response to Jean-Claude. There was something about that city that made even the most level-headed women throw caution to the wind and embark on whirlwind love affairs, and Whitney had not been an exception.
But when Jean-Claude showed up on her doorstep two weeks later, Whitney knew that Paris had nothing to do with her feelings for this Frenchman. She welcomed him with open arms, thrilled to hear that he couldn’t live without her and had closed up his studio apartment in Paris to come to her.