by Linda Palmer
With his usual courtly manners, Bill Randall stood when I came into the room. As though I were a guest in his home, he began clearing scripts off a chair and said, “Here, please sit down, Morgan.”
I thanked him and sat. “I hope I’m not interrupting you two.”
“I wish,” Eva joked. “Bill and I haven’t had a naughty scene with each other since your predecessor turned Sylvia and Stuart into enemies fifteen years ago. Unfortunately.” She glanced at Bill with a teasing smile. He responded by giving her hand a gentle stroke.
Such strong sexual sparks were flying between them, I was half afraid that if I touched something metal, I’d get an electric shock.
What’s going on here?
Two years ago I’d written a story in which she shot him, and it hadn’t been an accident. Evil Stuart had hovered between life and death during the February sweeps, and then recovered, much to the delight of the viewers. Those same viewers also felt that Sylvia, who was the show’s ultimate “good woman,” had been right to put a bullet in him.
Since I’d been with the show, I’d only seen an easy professional comradeship between Eva and Bill, but now their attraction to each other was unmistakable. Watching them gave me an idea for a storyline that would shake up the lives of both their characters. Because Sylvia and Stuart were separately connected to so many of Love’s other contract players, this new plot twist could affect, to some degree, nearly everyone in the cast.
I said, “After all these years that Sylvia and Stuart have been enemies, I think I’ll create an event that brings you together as lovers.”
“Eva’s a joy to work with,” Bill said enthusiastically.
Eva squealed with delight. Bill folded one of her hands into his and beamed at me. “Is that what you came to talk to us about?” she asked.
“Actually, I just wanted to compliment you on the beautiful work you’ve been doing with Jay Garwood.”
“The brother and sister reunion scenes were great!” Eva said. “As soon as I read them, I knew you were the one who wrote our dialogue.”
I thanked her for the compliment, but I needed to get to the point of my visit. “How do you like working with Jay?”
Eva and Bill exchanged a quick glance. Awkward silence.
“What? Please be honest with me. I won’t repeat what you say, but I really need to know if there’s any reason you’re concerned about him.”
“‘Concerned’ is too strong a word,” Eva said.
“It’s just that he can be a bit annoying sometimes,” Bill told me. “For weeks he was bragging about not needing this ‘soap’ job much longer because he expected to marry a rich woman.”
“Jay’s a little full of himself, but he’s on time and knows his lines,” Eva said. “When he was on the show before he was sometimes … difficult.”
“How?” I asked.
“He made fun of the dialogue and would improvise during taping,” Bill said. “It was hard to play scenes with him. I’m theater-trained—we don’t make up our own lines.”
“But Jay’s behaving better now,” Eva said. “More respectful of other actors.”
Bill gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Being out of work for ten years certainly improved his conduct. Jay’s not a guy I want to have a beer with, but I don’t know anybody on the show who has a serious beef with him.”
Trying to make the question sound casual, I asked, “How does he behave around the kids in the cast?”
Eva shrugged. “He pretty much ignores them.”
Bill asked, “Do you mean does he use vulgar language when they’re around?”
“That … or behave in any other way that might seem inappropriate.”
Both Eva and Bill shook their heads. “No. I can’t remember him even talking to the kids,” Eva said.
“Has one of those dreadful stage mothers complained about him?”
I assured Bill that nothing like that had happened. “Please don’t say anything about this conversation. I wouldn’t want false rumors to start.”
Bill raised his right hand, as though swearing to tell the truth. “Not a word.”
Eva’s eyes suddenly widened and she gasped. “Oh, Lord—you don’t think he’s got a sick thing for kids!”
“Absolutely not,” I lied. “Forget I asked anything about Jay.” I regretted starting this conversation because if Garwood didn’t do what I’d suspected, my questions could destroy his reputation in a way that could never be repaired.
To steer them in another direction, I told Bill, “While Stuart’s arguing with Sylvia today, look at her with just a hint of softness in your eyes.”
Bill nodded. A good actor, he understood how to communicate with his eyes.
“What should I do?” Eva asked.
“Play it exactly as you are now. Be angry with Stuart. Let what happens in a few weeks come as a complete surprise to Sylvia.”
I left two happy actors to go back to their rehearsing. Outside in the corridor I had to admit to myself that I’d made a serious mistake with my theory that Garwood had killed Veronica Rose. Bill and Eva, who knew him well professionally, and Garwood’s ex-wife, who knew him better than anyone, had said essentially the same thing: that he had his faults, but an inappropriate interest in minors was not one of them.
I wanted to kick myself. In flashing red neon lights it was obvious now that I’d misinterpreted Didi’s violent reaction to the mention of Garwood’s name. By listening to my emotions instead of using my brain, I’d made a dazzling leap to the wrong conclusion.
Apparently, Garwood thought of Veronica Rose as his “golden goose.” If he hadn’t done anything that would make her threaten to have him arrested, then he had no motive for killing her. Without a motive, I couldn’t offer Garwood to the police as an alternative to Nancy.
I was back to square one in the investigation.
Chapter 35
THURSDAY AFTERNOON I phoned Nancy, Penny, and Matt and told them my going-to-a-spa story. Nancy and Penny told me to have fun. Matt wanted me to hurry back.
Thursday night, after Walter went to sleep in his room, I took the emergency sewing kit out of my bureau drawer and did some needlework. It wasn’t artistic, but it was creative.
First, I sewed strips of Velcro onto the edges of two sides of the round throw pillow I’d bought to wear beneath the maternity dress.
Next, with the homemade straps attached, I slit the seam at the bottom of the pillow, stuck my hand inside, and with my fingers made a cavity in the stuffing. The hiding place prepared, I took the Glock 19 out of the drawer of my bedside table, removed the magazine, ejected the bullets, and snapped the empty magazine back into the pistol.
I have a premises permit for the 9-mm automatic. It’s legal for me to keep it in the apartment for self-protection, but I’m not allowed to carry it concealed. That regulation was only one of several laws I planned to break during the next three days.
My Glock—black, almost eight inches long, and eighty-three percent steel—could be spotted on a security X-ray machine. It wouldn’t pass unseen through properly monitored metal detectors, either, but I wasn’t worried about it being discovered. I’d worked out a way to cross four state lines without going through any security checkpoints.
I slipped the automatic pistol inside the pillow, repositioned the stuffing so that it cushioned the piece, then re-stitched the seam.
Placing the pillow against my stomach, I attached the Velcro straps so that they gripped around my back. The Glock, unloaded, but with the magazine in it, weighed about a pound and a half. I spent a couple of minutes bending, stretching, and reaching out to the sides, replicating movements a person would make in the course of normal activities. The pillow stayed in place.
Next, I took the fifteen rounds I’d ejected from the Glock’s magazine and opened a thick old copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Halfway into the story, I’d hollowed out a well in the pages. Now I dropped the bullets into the created space, stuffed enough cotton balls around to ke
ep them from clicking against each other, closed the book, and shook it. No sound from the ammunition. I wrapped the book in bright gift paper and tied it with a ribbon.
Finally, I wrote a goodbye note to Walter, apologizing for not seeing him before I left, but explaining that I hadn’t wanted to wake him. I reminded him that I’d be home Sunday evening.
FRIDAY MORNING I got up at four A.M. That was too early for Magic. As I eased out of bed, the little furry heating pad who slept curled up next to me opened his eyes, blinked, yawned, and went back to sleep.
I took the world’s quietest shower, and dressed in black cotton slacks, black running shoes, and a loose, safari-style navy blue cotton jacket that would conceal the money belt I fastened around my waist. It had twenty thousand dollars in cash in it—more than I thought I’d need, but allowing for unexpected problems. I had another six thousand dollars, mostly in hundreds, in my wallet, along with my fake “Charlotte Brown” driver’s license displayed in the wallet’s plastic window. That done, I folded the piece of paper I’d torn from the Daily News classified ads, and shoved it into the pocket of my jacket.
Taking an old tote bag from the closet, I stuffed in the maternity dress, the “baby bump” pillow with the automatic pistol inside, the black wig, glasses, the roll of duct tape, the needle-nose pliers, and a flashlight with fresh batteries. On top of these items, I added underwear, socks, and a toothbrush, paste, the lock pick I’d taken from the studio property room, and the gift-wrapped book that concealed fifteen rounds of 9-mm ammunition.
I left the note to Walter on the kitchen table, and slipped out of the apartment.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the woman who emerged from an all-night diner’s restroom carrying my tote bag looked nothing like me. She—Charlotte Brown—had shoulder-length black hair with bangs, wore glasses, and, in her dowdy green maternity dress, appeared to be about seven months pregnant. The weight of the automatic pistol in the pillow strapped against my stomach reminded me to move with the abdomen-first walk of a genuinely pregnant woman.
At six A.M., my subway car pulled into the 191st Street Station in upper Manhattan and I got off.
In spite of the nagging voice of reason that kept telling me to go home—I had come to buy the last item I needed for my trip into the distant past.
Chapter 36
I’D MADE AN appointment with a woman on West 190th Street for seven o’clock this morning. I couldn’t show up an hour early, so I found a diner in the neighborhood and ordered breakfast.
A middle-aged waitress with dyed platinum hair and lipstick that reached beyond the natural shape of her mouth didn’t want to serve me coffee.
“You’re pregnant,” she said.
“I’m allowed two cups a day,” I replied. Firmly.
She picked up the pot with the orange plastic lip. “Okay, then decaf.”
I clamped my hands over my cup. “No—caf.”
She moved the decaf pot away, but she was still reluctant. “Do you smoke cigarettes, or drink?”
“Not a puff. Not a drop,” I assured her. “Now, please, I want that coffee.”
Something in my caffeine-deprived attitude told her not to mess with me this morning. She poured from the “strong-stuff ” urn, and I ordered orange juice, scrambled eggs, and crisp bacon.
“Take the fresh fruit instead of the hash browns,” she said. “It’s better for the baby.”
Having triumphed in the caffeine battle, I agreed to have the fruit with my eggs. Smirking like a winner, she headed for the kitchen to place my order.
Because I’d never been pregnant, it hadn’t occurred to me before, but now I wondered about something. How did the millions and millions of people whose mothers smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol, whose mothers ate fried potatoes instead of fresh fruit, who drank coffee and water that wasn’t bottled—or, heaven help them, drank water that came from a tap—how did all of those people grow up to be healthy and productive? And how did generations before our current age of enlightenment survive while breathing in secondhand smoke and eating red meat and white sugar?
The waitress brought my breakfast, and it was very good. She even refilled my coffee cup—after I’d asked her twice.
AT EXACTLY SEVEN A.M., I stood at the entrance to an apartment building on West 190th Street and pressed the bell button next to the name “Harrison.”
A woman’s voice answered the buzz. “Hello? Who is it?”
“Mrs. Harrison? We spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m here about the car you’re selling.”
“Oh, yes. It’s the second one past the fire hydrant—the gray Buick Skylark. Take a look. I’ll be right down.”
The ad in the paper had said the car was a 1998. I couldn’t tell one year from another, but it didn’t matter. The paint on the car was a bit faded, there were a few little nicks and scratches but no distinctive marks that might cause someone to remember it. I examined the tires. The tread on them was worn, but the tires weren’t bald. They would serve me well enough for as long as I needed them.
“What do you think?” The woman had come up behind me while I was running my fingers over the surface of the tires.
I stood up. “It looks pretty good.”
“Hi, I’m Adele Harrison.” She was in her fifties, with a narrow frame and a head that was a little large for her body. Her brown hair was cut short and shot through with gray. Her complexion was pitted with old acne scars, but her eyes were lovely: large and pale blue, with naturally thick lashes.
“I’m Charlotte Brown,” I said. Gesturing to the car, I asked, “Why are you selling?”
“It was my husband’s. He passed away last year. I wanted to keep it, but I just can’t afford the insurance any longer. It’s in good condition.”
“What’s the mileage?”
“Seventy-nine thousand and something. My husband worked in New Jersey and drove it to and from work. He bought it new, and said it was the most reliable car he’d ever had.” Her voice full of sarcasm, she added, “When they stopped making Skylarks, he said it was because they were too good, that people kept them longer than the car people wanted.”
I nodded as a signal of shared irritation. “It’s like lipstick. As soon as I find a shade I like, they stop making it.”
“That’s the truth! Let’s drive around the neighborhood.”
Adele Harrison took a key from her pocket and unlocked the driver’s side. She flipped the button that unlocked the other doors. “Get in,” she said, as she walked around to the passenger side. “You can see how it drives.”
I piloted the Skylark up one street and down another without detecting any problems. It was a simple basic car, and operated smoothly.
“Your husband must have taken good care of it,” I said.
“Oh, he did. He had the oil changed every three thousand miles.”
When we got back to her apartment house, we saw that her old parking spot had been claimed by a new Honda. I eased the Buick into the space in front of the fire hydrant.
“How much do you want?” I asked.
“Well … my brother said it was worth six thousand dollars …” She stated this so hesitantly, I was sure she didn’t believe what she was saying, but instead was trying to trick me into paying an inflated price.
According to the used car ads, other vehicles of this age and type, with lower mileage, were being offered at four thousand, sometimes less. I was willing to let her think she was taking advantage of me, because I didn’t want the paperwork trail there would be if I went to a dealer.
Although I was prepared to overpay, I didn’t want to raise her suspicions by seeming too eager. “That’s a little higher than I’d hoped.” I heaved a sigh of regret.
From her sudden frown of concern, I guessed she was afraid of losing the sale. “How much can you spend?”
“Fifty-eight hundred is really as high as I can go,” I said. “But I brought cash.”
An instant smile lighted her face. “Okay. If that’s all you’ve g
ot, I’ll let you have it for fifty-eight hundred, in cash.”
Adele Harrison pulled the key out of the ignition and practically leaped out of the passenger seat. “The pink slip is upstairs—I’ll go get it.” Her greed apparently blinded her to the possibility that I might have an ulterior motive for overpaying.
I took fifty-eight hundred dollars out of my wallet. When she returned, I counted the money into her hand. She gave me the key to the Skylark and turned over the pink slip.
“I signed on the back,” she said, showing me that she’d transferred ownership. “I’m going to cancel the insurance this morning so I don’t have to keep paying.”
Now that she had the money I’m sure she didn’t care what I did. For the sake of the charade, I assured her that I would register the car in my name and buy my own insurance right away.
Just as I put the key in the ignition, she asked, “When are you due?”
I had been ready for that question ever since I decided on this phony pregnancy disguise. “Late August.” To be polite, I added, “Do you have children?”
“Two. They’re both grown. Enjoy them while they’re little—you never know how they’ll turn out.” Her voice held a note of melancholy.
I thanked her for the advice and drove away.
After filling the Skylark’s gas tank, I headed south toward the George Washington Bridge, to begin my 445-mile trip to Belle Valley. Unless the car broke down, I’d be there by late this afternoon.
I wasn’t worried that either Adele Harrison or the waitress in the coffee shop would remember me, because by late tonight, “Charlotte Brown” would cease to exist.
And I would be taking the greatest risk of my life.
Chapter 37
THERE IS NOTHING “belle” about Belle Valley, Ohio, and it isn’t in a valley. It is a depressed—and depressing—town strewn carelessly across a dusty plain. From the deteriorating cluster of buildings I saw behind a sagging chain-link fence, the town had once been host to a large manufacturing plant, but the factory had been boarded up and abandoned. Belle Valley is nearly as dead.