by Deborah Camp
Weeks stretched into months, and when she and Jean-Claude celebrated their first year of being together, Whitney was sure they would soon be married. Jean-Claude wasn’t opposed to marrying her, he said, but the timing had to be right. He wanted to establish himself as an artist in California before he made her his wife, and Whitney understood his desire to solidify his career before taking on the responsibility of a permanent relationship.
Thinking back on those weeks before Jean-Claude left, Whitney could now spot the trouble that had been brewing. Even Hampton had tried to gently prepare her for heartache. Her wise friend had suggested more than once that she should pin Jean-Claude down about a future wedding, but Whitney hadn’t taken Hampton’s advice.
When Jean-Claude had begun spending more and more time away from her, Whitney suspected that his love for her was diminishing. She had even confronted him about his frequent absences, and he had argued that he had a life of his own and wasn’t joined to her at the hip.
Desperation had then set in, Whitney recalled. She had spent hours waiting for him to come home in the evenings. Finally, one night he hadn’t come home at all. She didn’t see him until the next afternoon when he stopped by to pack his belongings.
“I’m going back where I belong,” he had told her as he closed his suitcases. “Paris. That’s my city.”
“I’ll go with you,” Whitney had offered.
“Listen to me,” Jean-Claude had said sternly. “It is over. Get it? Sooner or later I would have grown tired of you. It’s better that we end it now before we are both bored to tears.”
“Bored? I’d never be bored with you, Jean-Claude.”
“Stop whining, Whitney. Can’t you take this like an adult? Just because you create art for children doesn’t mean you have to act like one. I am leaving, and all your begging will not stop me. It’s been fun, but the fun is over.”
Whitney raised her head from her knees and ran her hands across her eyes to erase the memories of that heartbreaking day. Her mother had told her that all bad things in life teach lessons, and her father had taught her not to whine and whimper when bad things happen, but rather to shout at the devil. She was thankful for their teachings because she had needed them to piece her heart back together and bid Jean-Claude good riddance.
When her father’s lesson had surfaced, Whitney had summoned her anger instead of crumbling before Jean-Claude. She’d approached him in all her red-faced fury.
“Get out, you slime!” she’d said in a low, menacing voice which had made Jean-Claude back away from her. “Here. Let me help you.” She had grabbed one of the suitcases and had stalked to the stair railing. Hurling the case over the railing, she had felt better when it landed with a smack on the tiled foyer floor.
“Watch out,” Jean-Claude had mumbled as he clutched his other suitcase and hurried down the staircase. “You’re crazy!”
“I guess so. A woman would have to be crazy to put up with you. Get out and don’t ever come back again!”
She had waited until she heard the front door slam before she relinquished the last of her anger and slumped in defeat, feeling like the original fool.
If only that detective would keep his nose out of her private business, she fumed inwardly. If only …
Whitney unfolded herself from the windowsill and went to the telephone near her worktable. She leafed through the telephone directory until she found the police station’s number.
“I’d like to speak to the chief of police, please. This is Whitney Campbell calling,” she told the woman who answered the phone at the police station. “Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.”
“Chief Dobson here. What can I do for you, Miss Campbell?” The chief had a deep, friendly voice.
“Chief Dobson, I was visited today by a Detective Anthony Tallwalker and—”
“Ah, yes. Shadow. He’s in charge of the Malibu Intruder investigation.”
Whitney wound the telephone cord around her forefinger and took a deep breath. “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I—I don’t think he’s suited for this investigation.”
“Oh? Why do you think that?” Dobson didn’t sound as friendly now.
“Because … well, I think he’s prejudiced against the Colony residents. He was very rude to my neighbor, Ashley Summer, and he wasn’t polite to me, either. He … he asked some personal questions and … well, could you assign another detective to the case?” Whitney waited for a few seconds. She could hear the chief breathing on the other end of the line and she wondered if she had stated her case well enough.
“Miss Campbell, I think you should just leave this matter to the police. Let me assure you that Shadow Tallwalker is one of our finest officers and you’re lucky he’s on the case. We’re short on manpower right now and it’s impossible to meet your request. It’s also unnecessary. Detective Tallwalker is—”
“I’m sure he’s a fine policeman,” Whitney interrupted. “I would just feel better if someone else were—”
“Yes, I understand,” the chief broke in, “but you must understand that we can’t pull Tallwalker off the case without a good reason.”
“But, I told you—”
“That’s not a good enough reason, Miss Campbell. You just leave this investigation to us. We appreciate your cooperation, and I’ll be sure to convey your worries to Shadow. Good-bye.”
“No! Don’t do that—” Whitney stared at the receiver, realizing she’d been disconnected. “Damn!” She slammed down the receiver. Well, you’ve really made a mess of it now, she told herself angrily. The chief was going to tell Detective Tallwalker that she had requested he be taken off the case, and she could imagine Tallwalker’s reaction to that!
Whitney sat on the stool and rested her head in her hands. The chief was right. She should leave this investigation to the police. Besides, she had better things to do than to worry about some demented stranger who got his kicks by breaking into homes and tearing up beds and clothing! Hadn’t she promised herself she’d put this out of her mind and get on with her work and her life?
Turning toward the worktable again, Whitney picked up the first page of the Perky Penelope book and read it again. A vague idea floated into her mind as she selected a fine-point, black pen and began sketching the idea onto the paper before her. Thoughts of Jean-Claude, the Malibu Intruder, and Shadow Tallwalker receded as she threw herself into her work.
She outlined Penelope’s eyes, then searched for a pastel; a silvery gray pastel. Yes, this is almost the right shade, she thought as she tried out the color on the paper. Such an odd color for eyes.
Realizing what she was doing, Whitney threw aside the pastel crayon and stared at Penelope’s strange eyes.
“You have green eyes!” Whitney told the smiling child. “Not silvery gray!” Closing her eyes, Whitney counted to ten slowly before opening them again. Her hands curled into tight fists and pounded the table with force. “Leave me alone, Shadow Tallwalker! Just leave me alone!”
Chapter Two
Morning fog was still hovering above the ground when Whitney set out the following morning for her daily jog.
Gathering up her long hair, she pushed it under her sailor cap before she skipped down the wooden steps and headed south. Her tennis shoes kicked up powdery sand as she lifted her knees high and felt the muscles flex in her thighs and calves. Perspiration broke out on her legs and arms, making them gleam. She jogged past the home of one of America’s leading sex symbols and waved when she spotted him on his balcony.
“Nice outfit!” he shouted to her above the roar of the surf.
“Thanks!” Whitney shouted back, then wondered what was so nice about blue jogging shorts and a red terry cloth shirt. She gave a mental shrug. Some men were easily pleased, she thought with a smile.
Continuing along her morning route, Whitney reached the home of a Hollywood producer and doubled back toward her own home again. Looking up from the sand, she saw a best-selling author bearing down on her.
“You’re
looking good, Whitney,” he said a bit breathlessly as he passed her.
“Thanks.” Whitney turned her head and watched the writer huff and puff along the beach. Two compliments already and it was only seven o’clock, she thought as she faced forward again. It was going to be a great day!
Looking down the beach, Whitney decided her home was one of the prettiest in the Colony; although that wasn’t saying much since most of the homes were designed to simply provide the best view of the ocean and were not architecturally stunning. Whitney’s two-story stucco and redwood home had been built in the 1930s by a powerful movie mogul as a hideaway for his mistress. When the affair ended, the mistress was served notice and the mogul offered the house to Jess Campbell for a pittance. Jess bought it and he and his wife used it as their beach bungalow. Whitney could recall spending weekends in the house during her adolescence.
When her parents died, they willed the Malibu Colony house and their Winding Way Canyon mansion to her. Whitney had been living in the Malibu house and decided to stay, so she sold the canyon mansion and used some of the money to redecorate and renovate her Malibu retreat.
The salty air and pounding surf had eaten away the redwood, and Whitney had been appalled when her contractors told her that it was a wonder her home was still standing. It took almost a year for the contractors to replace all the redwood, shore up the house, and convert the attic into a loft office.
Gazing at the house in the hazy distance, Whitney decided it was well worth the money spent. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She loved the seclusion of the Colony and the beauty of the ocean. Privacy was the Colony watchword, and residents were careful not to intrude on their fellow inhabitants. Friendly, but aloof, the Colony residents waved and smiled, but rarely stopped to chat with each other.
Of course, the Malibu Intruder had cast a dark cloud on Malibu Beach, Whitney thought. Her peace had been shattered by a faceless enemy, and she could only wait and pray that she wouldn’t be visited again. A shiver ran down her body, even though she was perspiring from her exertion, and Whitney steeled her mind against the cold fear that surfaced within her.
Pulling her cap down lower onto her forehead, she narrowed her eyes against the sun which was quickly burning off the misty fog. Another jogger was coming her way. She studied his form, but couldn’t place him among the Colony residents, most of whom she didn’t know personally but only through the media. As the jogger drew nearer, Whitney could tell that he was tall and athletic. He wore white gym shorts and a bright blue, sleeveless t-shirt. He flowed across the sand, and his feet looked as if they barely touched the ground. His hands were gathered into loose fists and moved up and down with each loping stride. A white headband was around his head and his ebony hair spilled over it. He began to slow his progress as if he’d spotted her.
Whitney was only a few feet away when she suddenly recognized him. She broke her stride and stumbled to an abrupt halt.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded of Shadow Tallwalker.
He reigned himself in and glared at her. “I’m blowing off steam. By the way, I’m still on the case.”
Her attention was diverted for a few moments by the words on his t-shirt: Cops Do It Arrestingly. Whitney pulled her gaze from his chest, and his miffed expression reminded her of yesterday’s folly.
“About my request that you be taken off the case …”
“Yes?” he asked, placing his hands at his waist and waiting for her to continue.
“I—I’m not myself these days. The … this Malibu Intruder incident has rattled me.”
“Was that a cleverly disguised apology?”
“That was a statement of fact, Detective Tallwalker,” Whitney said curtly. “Perhaps I was wrong. I don’t know because I’m not sure of anything right now. That break-in has thrown my life into a turmoil.” She stepped around him. “Excuse me.”
“I guess this is the price you have to pay for setting yourself up for public display.”
His drawling accusation spun Whitney around to face him again.
“I didn’t ask for public attention,” she bit out. “I was forced into this situation.” She studied his superior expression for a moment, then added, “You’ve reaffirmed my belief that you shouldn’t be investigating this case since you obviously think every Colony resident is a publicity seeker.”
“I don’t think every resident here is a publicity hound, but I’m pretty sure of a couple of them. Take that neighbor of yours, Ashley Summer—”
“Her home was broken into and you were rude to her,” Whitney said, coming to Ashley’s defense.
“There isn’t any evidence that her home was broken into,” he argued. “But regardless of that, she shouldn’t have turned this thing into a circus event!”
Whitney stared up into his face and saw that he was on the very brink of fury. She shook her head, confused by his extreme reaction.
“A circus event? I think you’re overreacting.”
“I take it you haven’t seen the morning newspaper yet,” he said between gritted teeth.
“No, I haven’t.”
He started walking toward Whitney’s house, his long strides reflecting his inner rage. “Your poor little neighbor told the press that the police were botching the investigation and that I was making light of the break-ins.”
Whitney hurried to keep up with him. “If you’d been nicer to her she wouldn’t have—”
He stopped and whirled to face her. “My job is to find the Malibu Intruder, not to coddle publicity-seeking actresses!”
“See?” Whitney charged, her voice rising to match his. “It’s exactly that kind of attitude that prompted me to call the police chief and question your suitability for this investigation!”
“My attitude has nothing to do with my skill, Miss Campbell. As a matter of fact—”
“Stop yelling at me!” Whitney shouted, then ground her teeth together when she heard her own voice. She looked down at the sand and sighed heavily. It wasn’t like her to fly into a rage, and she took several deep breaths as she strove to regain her characteristic placid nature. “I’ve got a pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator,” she said in a calm tone. “If you’d like to join me for a glass, we could discuss this rationally.” She fully expected him to throw her offer back in her face.
“I don’t mind if I do. Thanks.”,
Whitney looked up quickly, surprised by his quiet voice and even more surprised to find that he was smiling. He extended one arm, gesturing her to precede him up the steps to the deck.
Feeling foolish for indulging in a heated argument with him, Whitney swept her cap from her head and went up the six steps.
“I’ll be right back,” she told him before ducking into the house. She took the pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and set it on a tray along with two glasses. Shadow Tallwalker was leaning back in one of the chairs and admiring the view of the ocean when she returned. As she poured the lemonade, Whitney took in his profile. He was a handsome man, she thought, realizing fully for the first time that his high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, and swarthy complexion gave him an exotic appearance.
It was stupid of her to fight with this man, she told herself firmly. After all, he was here to help her and the other victims of the Malibu Intruder. She should cooperate instead of making his job more difficult.
“I’m sorry I—,” she began.
“I’m sorry I—,” Tallwalker said in perfect unison with her own apology.
Whitney laughed and shook her head. “It seems we’re both thinking along the same lines.” She took a long drink of lemonade and began again, “I am sorry, I don’t usually scream at police officers. In fact—and you may find this hard to believe—I don’t usually scream at anyone.”
“And I’m not usually so hotheaded.” He dabbed at the perspiration on his upper lip with the back of his hand and chuckled. “You bring out the Italian in me.”
Whitney pushed his glass of lemonade closer to h
im. “Have some refreshment, Detective Tallwalker.”
“Thanks, and please call me Shadow. Detective Tallwalker is a mouthful.”
“Shadow,” Whitney said, trying out the name and liking it. “Where did you pick up that nickname?”
He took a drink of lemonade and gave a wink of appreciation. “My parents gave it to me. When I was growing up I went everywhere with my father. My mother started calling me his little shadow, and it stuck.”
“Does everyone call you Shadow?”
“Everyone except for my grandmother on my mother’s side. She’s old-world Italian and doesn’t believe in nicknames. I’m Anthony to her.” He leaned back in his chair and his gaze swept over the deck and tinted-glass wall of the house. “This is quite a place,” he said. “Has it been in your family a long time?”
“Yes, since before I was born.”
“And what about Hampton?”
“What about him?” Whitney asked.
“Well, he seemed at home here yesterday …” He glanced up at her and one corner of his mouth twitched.
Whitney laughed, shaking her head. “My father hired Hampton before my own career took off. He’s been a friend of mine for ages.”
“He’s quite a character. Is he married?”
“At fifty-eight, I think it’s safe to say that Oliver Hampton is a confirmed bachelor. He lives in Malibu Canyon and has for more than twenty years.”
Shadow tipped up the glass and drained it. “That hit the spot,” he announced. “Could I have one more glass before I go?”
“Of course. Did you see anything interesting this morning during your jog?” Whitney asked as she refilled his glass.
“Other than you, no.” One side of his mouth lifted briefly in a secretive smile. “People around here tend to keep to themselves.”
“The Colony is known for its seclusion,” Whitney explained. “Everyone here is famous, in one way or another, and they live here to escape the public eye.” She looked at the stretch of beach and foaming surf. “I suppose this township has more celebrities than any other place on earth.”