Last Scene Alive at-7

by Charlaine Harris

  "Go get Joel," he moaned.

  I wondered if my stepson thought the director could actually bring his leading lady back to life.

  "I'll get him," Carolina said from behind me. "I know where he is."

  "What did he say?" I heard Meredith ask her. "What did Barrett say?"

  I moved over to the open door of the trailer and peeked in. I didn't even put my foot on the concrete block that served as a step.

  Celia was half-lying on the couch, up against one wall. The stack of books—including some library books—and the manuscript were tossed around her feet, which were flat on the floor. A dark red throw cushion, stained and nasty, lay on the couch beside her. Her tongue protruded a little from her mouth. It looked bruised, as well. There was a big dent in her forehead.

  The Emmy was on the couch beside her. Its base was not clean.

  Celia was definitely deceased. Feeling quite wobbly myself, I shut the door and leaned my back against it. I didn't want anyone else to see what I'd seen.

  "What is it, Roe?" Angel had loped over and was looking at me quizzically. "Don't tell me she's dead. That's what Barrett keeps saying." Angel really, really didn't want anything to be wrong, but there was no help for it. I had to tell her.

  Carolina returned. "He's on the way," she reported.

  "You might want to call a doctor. Did the crew bring one?" I asked. She shook her head and her heavy earrings, too many to count, swayed as her head moved. Carolina's skull gleamed dully in the early-morning sun as she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. It was the thinnest cell phone I'd ever seen. She dialed 911 as I watched. While she was speaking to the dispatcher who answered, Joel Park Brooks suddenly appeared in front of me as if he'd been expelled from another dimension. Mark Chesney was dogging his heels.

  "What's this you say?" he asked, mad as hell at me.

  In a cowardly way, I nodded my head toward Barrett.

  "Oh my God, Joel," Barrett said weakly. He'd dropped to his knees and was pressing his face with both hands as if to force the grief out of it. "Celia is dead. She died some awful way."

  As if I were a fly, Joel Park Brooks took me by the shoulder and shoved me aside. Before I could stop him, he flung open the trailer door. Leaping up the step into the trailer, he bent over Celia. Meredith and Mark were peering through the door, too. Both of them stood with one hand pressed against the door frame, on opposite sides. Altogether, the movie people were doing a great job of destroying evidence.

  And I heard the voice I'd been dreading to hear, Robin's.

  "What's wrong, Roe?" he asked.

  "I'm so sorry," I said, almost whispering. I wanted to be a hundred miles away.

  "What's happened?" Robin's voice got louder as his fear mounted.

  "She's dead," Barrett said. "I can't believe it, but she's dead. We spent last night together, and now she's dead."

  "What did you say?" Robin bellowed, and I crouched down.

  "We..." All of a sudden, Barrett seemed to realize that this was neither the time nor the place nor the best choice of confidant. "Forget it, man," he muttered, but there were many ears clustering around by that point, including mine, and if Barrett had truly wanted to keep this intimate knowledge to himself, it was too late by thirty seconds.

  That helped me pull myself together more than anything.

  I moved over to my stepson, and laid my hand on his arm. He looked at me, too distraught to be hostile. "Barrett," I said, as quietly and earnestly as I could, "don't say anything else. Everyone is listening. The police will be here soon."

  "An ambulance," he began, and then closed his mouth with a snap.

  "We called 911. But it's not gonna do her any good, and you know it. That woman was killed," I told him, keeping my voice even and low.

  "Murdered?" he said, way too loud. I could see cell phones spring up right, left, and sideways.

  "Quiet, Barrett. Yes, she was murdered. I'd keep my mouth shut, if I were you."

  Anger flashed across his handsome face, followed by intense thought. Barrett was certainly good at projecting his changing emotions.

  "What did you say?" Robin was standing to Barrett's side, his fists clenched.

  "I was just talking. Ignore me." Barrett turned to walk away.

  As if I weren't there, Robin spun Barrett around and clamped both his hands on Barrett's shoulders. Barrett was younger than Robin by around fifteen years, but he was shorter, and Robin had a pretty good grip. I was going to have to believe Robin hadn't disengaged from his affair with Celia as much as he'd thought.

  The movie people on the set were milling around, and I could hear sirens coming closer. But everyone there seemed to see his or her role as that of spectator, rather than participant. Robin opened his mouth to yell at Barrett, and Barrett's eyes ignited with anger, and I cast around for someone to help me.

  Of course! Angel Youngblood met my eyes and moved behind Barrett, while I got behind Robin and circled him with my arms and pulled. Someone behind me actually laughed, and I resolved to track down who that was and kick him in the shins. I know I am small, and I know Robin is tall, but I was not in the mood for amusement.

  Robin actually struggled for a minute, but I clung like a barnacle, and when he realized who it was had ahold of him, he relaxed. Blocked by his body from seeing what progress Angel had made with Barrett, I pulled gently on Robin's arms to get him to take a few steps away. He came willingly, and I could see that the anger had drained out of him. Robin wrapped his long arms around me and pulled me close, bowing his head over mine and crying.

  For once I wished I were taller. I would put his face in the hollow of my neck and let him cry there, concealed, if only I could. I stood on tiptoes to let him lean on me more comfortably, and I patted his back. I wondered if I had any tissues in my purse, a soft mesh shoulder bag that was now banging uncomfortably on my bottom.

  Will Weir was sitting on the curb of the sidewalk, his head buried in his hands. Meredith Askew was slumped by him, her makeup a mess, her hair all tangled. She was sitting as close to Will as she could get without climbing in his lap. Joel Park Brooks began shrieking at someone a few yards away. I recognized his voice, though I couldn't see him for the cloud of people, all chattering away on their phones.

  "Hang up the damn cell phone," he screamed, and a Motorola whizzed past me. Then a wafer-thin red phone. Everyone moved back in a hurry to protect their property from the director's hands, and there was a flurry of clicks as people hid their cells. I glimpsed Carolina sliding hers down the front of her tee shirt. Unless I missed my bet, Joel Park Brooks would be in no hurry to go after that one.

  "Robin," I said, hesitating to break into his grief.

  He lifted his head and looked down at me. I reached up to rub a tear off his face. "She was so fragile," he said. "She was such a mess."

  Not "I loved her," or "What will I do without her?"

  I pushed my glasses back on my nose and eyed him doubtfully.

  "I'm really sorry, Robin, but the police are here. We need to find somewhere for you to wait, because they're going to want to talk to you."

  "Did you say," he began slowly, disregarding what I'd told him, "did you say Celia had been murdered?"

  "I'm sorry, yes."

  He looked baffled. "But that doesn't make any sense," he said.

  It seemed like a strange comment. But just as I opened my mouth to ask him what he'd meant, I heard a familiar voice.

  And the day got even worse.

  Chapter Six

  His round blue eyes went from me, up to Robin, over to Barrett, and back again. "Isn't this fascinating" said Detective Arthur Smith. It was a moment pregnant with emotions, but those emotions were so snarled up it would have been hard to tease them apart.

  If I just explain that my history with Arthur is long and complicated, it will spare us all a lot of tedium.

  I hadn't seen Arthur (to speak to) in almost two years; of course, in a town the size of Lawrenceton, it would be hard to avoid g
limpses of him, and I hadn't particularly been trying to do that.

  Arthur was somewhat burlier than he had been in the days when we'd dated, and his hair was a little thinner, it seemed to me. He was still a solid block of a man, with hard blue eyes and curly pale hair. These past few months I'd been so far out of the loop that I realized I didn't even know if Lynn (Arthur's ex) and their little girl were still living in town.

  "Who is this?" he asked me, as casually as if we'd had coffee together the hour before. He was pointing at my stepson.

  "This is Barrett Bartell, Martin's son. He found her."

  Arthur squatted down in front of Barrett. Barrett met his eyes. I could tell Barrett was enough his father's son to dislike Arthur on sight—but Barrett was involved in a murder now, and couldn't afford such an emotion. I squeezed his arm to warn him. Barrett was definitely snapping back into his personality. He yanked away from me, and he didn't do it subtly.

  I tried not to feel hurt, but it didn't work. I felt mostly... tired, I guess. I struggled to rise above it. Martin would want me to help Barrett, whether Barrett wanted to be helped or not.

  "What brought you to Miss Shaw's trailer this morning?" Arthur said. His voice didn't sound particularly friendly.

  "I needed to talk to her about..." And then Barrett stopped in mid-sentence.

  "About what?"

  He looked like he'd just seen the Ghost of You Better Shut Your Mouth over Arthur's shoulder, and it had shaken its finger at him.

  "He was going to talk to Celia about the implications of their having spent the night together," Robin said, his face absolutely expressionless. I had no idea what he was thinking or how he was feeling. Somehow he maintained his composure and straightened his slumped shoulders, his face now in profile to me and once more under guard. It was a "man" thing to do, I thought wryly. But I admired him for holding on to his personality under the pressure of the shock and grief—and anger—he must be feeling. Even if he and Celia were no longer involved, it had to sting that she had so quickly found someone else to fill her bed.

  Will Weir stepped over to Robin and put a hand on his shoulder. For a second the two men embraced, and if ever I had seen two miserable people, this was the occasion. Then they let each other go, and I was glad Robin had someone to comfort him, someone who'd known the dead girl well.

  "Why are you here?" Arthur asked me. I had the feeling he'd said it more than once.

  "Yeah, Mom," Barrett said jeeringly. He'd recovered far more quickly than I'd hoped he would. His defenses were firmly back in place. "You come to check up on me? I thought you'd had enough of us movie people last night."

  Martin had put up with a lot from Barrett, but if he'd heard Barrett speak to me this way, he would've knocked his son from here to kingdom come. I knew that as well as I knew my own name; and Barrett knew it, too. I met his eyes to see if there was any shame lurking there. There was, but it wasn't enough.

  The guilt-engendered protective feeling I'd had for the young man—which I likened to temporary insanity— dropped right off my shoulders. Inside my head, I informed Martin that his son was just going to have to fend for himself. "And it's about damn time," I muttered, telling Martin a posthumous home truth.

  "What?" Arthur looked startled, as well he might.

  "I had hoped," I said slowly, "that you would make your father proud." Barrett looked as if I'd kicked him in the jewels. "Surely, Barrett, you're thinking more about this poor, dead young woman than you are about your little personal issues with me." I turned my back on Martin's son. I felt thirty years older than Barrett, rather than ten.

  I decided to pretend he wasn't there. "Angel's car wouldn't start, so I brought her to work today," I explained to Arthur, who'd been listening to my exchange with Barrett with great attention. "She wanted me to meet her friend, the pretty woman with all the earrings, over there." I inclined my head in Carolina's direction. "Then, Celia's friend Meredith came to get me, to tell me Celia wanted to apologize for her behavior last night."

  "What behavior?" Arthur asked, which was a reasonable question. But I didn't want to talk about my vulnerability to Celia's particular sort of—well, maybe "cruelty" was too severe a word—she'd used me ... I got mad all over again, and lost my train of thought entirely.

  "What did Celia Shaw do last night?" Arthur said gently. He had prompted me without being asked, an unpleasant reminder of how well he knew me. He reached out as if he were going to take my hand, and then changed the movement to a hair-smoothing gesture.

  I cinched up my pride. "She invited me to dinner so she could observe my mannerisms," I said. I cut my eyes sideways to see if Barrett was going to comment, but he'd turned away.

  "How did you find the deceased this morning?" Arthur asked. He'd gotten out his little notebook and the cheap Bic pen he preferred. He was still using the same model.

  Didn't make any difference if he lost it, he'd always told me.

  "While I was talking to Meredith, I saw Barrett knock at the trailer door, open it, and go in. He came out looking sick." I shrugged, letting him know that was that. "Other people had come up to the trailer earlier and talked to her."

  "I'll talk to you later, Roe," he said. "You wait over there." He pointed to one of the folding chairs on the porch of the makeup trailer. I didn't wait for a second offer. I sat in the chair and crossed my legs and took a few deep breaths. I was glad I'd worn a dress, a cool dress. The sun was coming up and the touch of it on my skin was beginning to show that little kiss of ferocity that said the temperature was going to reach the eighties. October is truly unpredictable in the South. I slid out of my sweater.

  I got out my own cell phone and called the library to explain why I'd be late. Sam's assistant, Patricia Bledsoe, was at her desk, and as correct as ever. What a pain in the patootie that woman was, I thought absently, and then felt embarrassed at myself. Since when had dressing and speaking correctly, and acting professional, been a pain? "I'll try to be in this afternoon," I told Patricia and snapped my phone shut.

  Well, it was a pain. She was a pain. And she was hiding something, my less correct self insisted on muttering to my nicer, more charitable persona. The last thing in the world Patricia Bledsoe would want was her Jerome hanging around on a movie set. That whole conversation had been fishy.

  "I should have known not to bring you this morning," a familiar voice said dryly, and Angel folded her long legs to sit beside my chair.

  "It's not my fault stuff happens. Celia Shaw's dead," I said.

  "I heard tell."

  "I don't think it was a natural death. Unless she had fits or something. But then, someone whacked her with the Emmy."

  "Ummm."

  "Barrett found the body."

  "Time Barrett grew up."

  "I bet Barrett wouldn't be such a ..." I groped for a nice way to say it.

  "Asshole," Angel supplied.

  "Asshole, if Martin had stayed with Barrett's mother." Sometimes the blunt term fits the bill best.

  "I bet not." Angel began braiding her hair, her slim muscular arms stretched back behind her head. "I bet he would've been worse. Martin was miserable with his first wife. Named Cindy, right? Shelby met her—long, long time ago. I know you got to know her a little last winter, but I think she must have mellowed out by then." Angel secured her braid with an elastic band.

  "So it's not just me who thinks Barrett is hard to deal with?" I felt a little better.

  "Oh, no." Angel was matter-of-fact. "Shelby, little as he knows him, can't stand to see that boy coming. And he is still a boy, when he should be a man."

  It was so refreshing to have a conversation with someone who agreed with me, and wouldn't think the less of me for detesting my stepson. I began to feel a few degrees less tense. Then I thought of the crumpled body just a few yards away, and realized that it was pretty darn likely someone had killed Celia Shaw while I was sitting in this very chair. I shuddered, despite the gathering heat.

  "Wonder what this'll do to t
he movie schedule." Angel took a sip from a bottle of water she'd snagged from the catering table.

  "They won't cancel, surely?"

  "No, they'll just hire someone else, I figure."

  "Meredith Askew?"

  "That would be unusual," Angel said. "I think they'll hire someone just about Celia's level, and Celia was several steps higher on the food chain than Meredith." I forgot, all too often, that Angel had an eclectic background that included considerable knowledge of the movie world. She was the most down-to-earth person I'd ever met, and I admired her many abilities immensely. And I would much rather think about that than the dent in Celia Shaw's forehead.

  "Meredith's going to hope she'll be moved up," Angel went on, spotting the young woman in the crowd, making the most of the "friend of the deceased" role. "But I doubt it."

  I thought about that a little. "So, someone's going to be mighty happy about Celia dying."

  Angel nodded. "But no telling who that is, though there may have been some other woman who's been on the back burner the whole time, some woman we don't know about. Carolina told me that Celia had been acting strange for the few days they'd been here."

  "Robin thought so, too," I said after a moment. I had seen the perplexity on his face while he observed his former flame. I remembered the previous morning, when it had seemed for all the world as though Celia was going to slap the director.

  "So that's Robin Crusoe, over there?" Angel had come to Lawrenceton after Robin left. She gestured with one bony finger, and I nodded, glad she'd spotted him for me.

  Robin looked haggard, understandably enough, since he'd just discovered his former flame had been murdered, and that she'd spent the night before her death with another man. He'd put on dark glasses and was talking to a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked black hair. Robin pushed his fingers up under his glasses, and I knew he was brushing away tears. I pushed my own glasses up on my nose.

  "You and him were tight?"

  "Kind of," I said, feeling unaccountably shy about it. "But we're talking years ago. Right before I dated Arthur Smith." I looked down at my hands, and began twisting my wedding band around on the finger it no longer fit.