When word had come that Hollywood was coming to Hampstead, Susan was the only person in town who wasn’t thrilled. Her experience was—from directors and actors on down to cameramen, lighting techs, and grips—the whole bunch and their moviemaking was a gigantic pain in the butt. They moved in, took whatever they wanted, broke it, altered it, mangled it, and dropped it when they were finished. They pulled out and left the place trashed, like picnickers who left litter and breakage in their wake.
San Francisco—oh, yes, summer fog, cool ocean breezes—she leaned forward and plucked at the white blouse sticking to her back—was the site of many a movie. They’d even managed to close down the Golden Gate Bridge on one occasion she knew about. Irate drivers trying to get into or out of the city were not thrilled to be watching a movie in the making.
They did spread money around like syrup over pancakes. Which was, of course, why they were given the red carpet treatment and why the mayor was so ecstatic. He’d informed her that as police chief she was to make sure they felt welcome and to give them everything they wanted.
She rolled past the field where they’d parked their trucks and trailers, vans and cars, and drove on another quarter mile to old Josiah’s barn. Good Lord, thinking like a native, referring to a piece of property by the name of a long-dead owner.
Josiah Hampstead, an early settler before Kansas was a state, made himself wealthy in land, cattle, and oil, got a town named after him, and late in his life donated some of that land for a college. The house was long gone, but the barn remained, a large weathered stone structure. Off to one side was a power and light truck—the generator that ran all those huge lights. Cables, taped to the ground, snaked inside the barn.
An empty squad car, overheads blinking, was parked parallel to the wide-open door. An ambulance, rear doors open and waiting, was pulled up behind. A dozen or so people stood in what shade the two tall cottonwood trees provided. Susan’s arrival separated the media from the spectators and they rushed at her with mikes and questions.
She edged the pickup in beside the ambulance and slid out. Heat came up to greet her as though she’d opened an oven door. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d tried to strike a compromise between dignified businesslike and what she could survive in given the heat. Tailored white blouse and beige cotton pants was the best she could do. Linen jacket, if the occasion demanded. The pants were wrinkled and sweaty where her legs had rested on the driver’s seat. She left the jacket on the passenger side. Hot wind caught her full-face and lifted her dark hair, blowing it straight back.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“What’s the name of the person killed?”
“Was this an accident or do you suspect foul play?”
“Is this going to affect the movie?”
“How long will the filming be stopped?”
“What happens when a death occurs in—?”
“I just got here,” she said. “I don’t know anything yet.”
Just inside the big sliding door, two paramedics in navy blue jumpsuits leaned against the wall, arms crossed. One glanced at her and gave a brief shake of his head. No need for urgency.
Despite the wide doorway, the interior was gloomy. The barn was cavernous, easily over three stories high: hayloft overhead in the rear, above that a steep-pitched ceiling with rough-hewn beams. On the ground, box stalls ran the length of one side, on the other were open stalls. Actors and crew were contained inside these with White and Demarco riding herd. Cameras, lights, snarls of cable, and dollies cluttered the large open area in the center. Just below the loft, on a layer of straw, the dead woman lay on her back, the tines of a pitchfork jutting through her chest.
Susan picked her way closer, careful to stay back from Osey Pickett taking photographs. Dr. Fisher waited patiently for him to finish. She studied the victim. Young, no more than twenty, she judged. Cascade of blond hair, one errant strand across her still lips, eyes slitted, but not enough to tell color. Alive, she would have the attractiveness of youth, health, and fitness. All that had been taken by death and now she was gray and flat. The heavy theatrical makeup seemed a mockery. She wore tight black pants, a white knit shirt with a scooped neck, and black ankle boots with fringe up the back.
When Osey finished snapping pictures, Dr. Fisher drew on latex gloves and knelt for a close look at the body. Susan took out her notebook and made a rough sketch even though Osey would be doing the same. Habits from her years on the San Francisco force stuck with her.
She backed carefully away and left them to it. Yancy was waiting for her at the edge of the cleared area. “Ma’am,” he said quietly. His tentative tone made it clear he was wondering whether an ass chewing was coming his way.
She’d like to chew somebody’s. This would come down like an avalanche on her and her department. The movie crowd might make trouble, the mayor would be furious and worried. More media would turn up. She was beginning to understand why the brass was so quick to jump on someone. Sheer frustration.
“What happened?”
“Her name is Kay Bender,” Yancy said. “The stunt double for this film.”
Oh, my. Film, not movie. He’d been infected with showbiz.
“She did all the risky stuff for Ms. Edwards.”
If there was anything to be thankful for about this, she could be thankful Laura Edwards wasn’t lying dead with a pitchfork through her chest. A stuntwoman would rate a paragraph in the back pages of the newspapers, maybe a brief mention on television news. Only Hollywood Reporter would care. The media would still come, anything touching Laura Edwards was news, but they might not descend like locusts as they would if she’d been the one killed.
Susan made quick notes while Yancy gave a clear, concise account of what had occurred, ending with Ms. Edwards asking him to her trailer. “When Kay fell, I had Mac call nine-one-one.”
“Mac?”
“Laura Edwards’s driver. I prevented anybody from going over there and secured the scene. I wouldn’t let them move her. That meant they had to stop filming. Fifer, the director, got furious. I got a cold whisper that I had no idea what I was costing him.” Yancy paused, giving her the opportunity to yell, if she was so inclined.
“Go on.”
“I think he wanted to shove the body aside and get on with the movie. I told them all to move over into those stalls along the side there.” Yancy nodded. “I figured that’s the best I could do. Everybody’s been in and out of them all day anyway, and at least I could keep an eye out till backup arrived. Fifer refused, said he’d be in his trailer. Short of cuffing him to a manger, there was nothing I could do.”
“Was there any reason to make you think this was more than an accident?”
“No.” He hesitated. “The director kept yelling it was a tragic accident and I was being an asshole.” Yancy took a slow breath. “Damned if I can figure what this movie is about. Laura Edwards was supposed to be thrown backward across that railing”—he nodded up at the loft—“with the bad guy choking the life out of her. Then Kay Bender, the stuntwoman, would take over. The rail breaks and down she goes.”
He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Down below they would have it set up such that when she fell she wouldn’t get hurt. Except, Ms. Edwards wouldn’t leave her trailer.”
The star having a fit, Susan thought. Not a rare occurrence.
“The stunt coordinator then insisted he wanted to work something out and the director agreed. The railing broke. There wasn’t supposed to be a pitchfork under it.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Laura Edwards wanted you to come to her trailer. Why?”
“No idea.”
“Cop business or because you’re tall, dark, and handsome?”
Yancy smiled. “Much as I’d like to think it might have been the latter, I doubt it.”
Yancy was tall all right and dark-haired; handsome didn’t say it. He was soft-spoken, with soft brown eyes, and a smile as sweet and soo
thing as a summer night. Trim and fit in his blues, he was dynamite. She could see even Ms. Big Hollywood Star being interested.
“I assume you asked her what she wanted.”
“Yes, ma’am. She said she’d tell me later.”
“Where is she now?”
“In her trailer. At the base camp. I went to check.”
More movie talk. Base camp was the place where all the trailers, cars, trucks, et cetera were set up. In this case, the field a quarter mile back.
“You go baby-sit. I’ll be right there. I want a word with Dr. Fisher. Oh, and Yancy, have somebody move the newspeople back.”
Owen Fisher, a man of solid bulk, wasn’t able to tell her any more than she already knew. He brushed straw from his dark trousers and peeled latex gloves from his hands. Those hands always fascinated her; they were perfectly shaped, delicate, and long-fingered, a total mismatch with the rest of him, which was thick and bearlike.
“Well?” she said.
He peered at her from under dark heavy eyebrows, a sharp contrast with his white hair. “Yep, she’s dead all right.”
“Anything else?” she asked dryly.
“Just what you can see. Newly dead. Body temp not even lowered yet. Course it is hot in here. Lividity just beginning. Mucous membranes just beginning to dry.” He bent over and snapped his instrument bag shut. “Something might show up when I get her on the table.”
Susan clambered up the wooden rungs to the loft and found Osey on his hand and knees sifting through straw. Needle in a haystack. When she stepped off onto the loft, Osey unfolded his tall, thin body in a series of jerks. Hair the color of the straw he was fingering through, guileless blue eyes that were deceptively naive, hands and feet that seemed to get in his way, brown pants and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tie askew. The impression—harmless country boy, not too bright. Reality—mind like a gin trap.
“Anything of interest?”
“Naw.” He whacked at his pants legs. Dust filled the air and sunlight slanting through the small window under the peaked roof sparkled on the motes. “Not yet anyway. People all over the place. Up here, down there. Now that railing there. That’s maybe a mite interesting. I’m going to have to get both pieces together and see. They got a rail that’s rigged to break. It’s part of the action. But this one was supposed to be solid. Was solid right before they all took off for lunch. Now it looks like it was cut most of the way. Then with weight on it, it just gave.” He showed her the spot where the rail gave way.
Damn, Susan thought. Murder? Accident would have been bad enough. And who was the intended victim? Stunt double Kay Bender? Actress Laura Edwards? Any hint of an attempt on Laura Edwards’s life and the media would be all over it.
“Where’s Parkhurst?” she asked. Ben Parkhurst was her most experienced officer. She used him to sound out data and surmise, he pointed out the difference. They made a good team. At least, they had until personal stuff started leaking over into cop stuff.
“On his way. He was up in Topeka dropping off some water samples at the lab, from the Sackly well.”
“When he shows, I’m at Ms. Edwards’s trailer.”
* * *
Pale green. Laura my beloved. The universe is pale green. The spirits are worried. I know you’re in there. I know you’re not hurt. I saw you go in. You’re afraid. I can feel your fear. Don’t be afraid. Everything’s going to be wonderful. I’m here. Near. My love, my light. The light of truth. Sweet and lovely. I’ll watch. I’ll wait.
He watched the tall, black-haired policewoman knock on the trailer door. He didn’t see Her inside, but he sent love.
* * *
Yancy opened the trailer door at Susan’s tap and she walked into welcome coolness. The only sound was the hum of the air-conditioning unit. The kitchen area had sink, cabinets, and a table with a green padded bench. The living-room area, carpeted in pale blue, had two blue-tweed couches at a right angle to each other with a large round coffee table in the bend, two end tables, large television set, and a VCR. Watercolors hung on the walls, flowers done with intricate detail.
The woman sitting on a couch brought a split instant of surprise before Susan’s mind caught up. A stunt double would of necessity be made to look like the star. Laura Edwards wore the same form-hugging black pants, white knit scoop-necked shirt, and black ankle boots with fringe.
She sat perfectly still, legs crossed, hands palm up in her lap with the fingers loosely curled, staring blankly ahead. She took no notice of Susan.
Even frozen in shock, Laura Edwards was stunning. A thick tangle of hair the color of pale gold curled away from a smooth forehead and high cheekbones, it fell in loose swirls along her neck and shoulders. Long dark lashes over blue eyes that tilted up slightly. Perfectly shaped nose, generous mouth.
“She won’t say anything,” Yancy said. “Hasn’t even moved. She didn’t answer when I knocked. I’m not even sure she knows I’m here.”
Uh-huh. This stricken beauty had aroused protective instincts in Yancy the cop. Susan could understand it, even she felt a tug to protect the vulnerable maiden. Laura Edwards was as still as a stone sculpture.
Let us not forget here, the woman is an actress.
“Ms. Edwards?”
No response, not even a focus in Susan’s direction. Kneeling in front of her, Susan took one of her hands. Cold and limp. “Laura.”
No reaction. Susan put the hand back in Laura’s lap and rose. “We’d better get a doctor in.”
There was a tap on the door. Yancy opened it and Parkhurst stepped inside. He nodded curtly to Yancy and said to Susan, “You wanted to see me?”
Laura blinked her beautiful blue eyes, shiny with unshed tears. “Ben?” Her voice, low and husky, caught on a sob.
Parkhurst’s face went hard. Laura hurled herself at him, wrapped herself around him, and nestled her face against his neck.
Yancy’s jaw dropped. Susan’s eyebrows shot up.
3
Laura’s muffled sobs and the hum of the air-conditioning blended together for a stretched-out moment. Parkhurst, arms around the actress, held himself board stiff, a muscle ticked away in the corner of his jaw the way it did when he was angry. Susan, startled by the woman’s actions, was even more startled to discover tiny seeds of jealousy. What’s all this?
Confusion. She’d known Parkhurst a little over two years. They’d gone from suspicious dogs snarling at each other to grudging mutual respect to just recently something else that she didn’t want to admit to but had attraction thrown in and would, if not stomped, lead to trouble. So why was she getting all prickly around the edges because Ms. Movie Star was sobbing all over Parkhurst’s chest, and acted like she’d done that very thing before?
Why Parkhurst? If Susan were the flinging type, given the choice between Yancy and Parkhurst, she’d choose Yancy every time; any limpet would. Yancy had a gentle look, with “pliable” and “kind” thrown in. Parkhurst looked dangerous. Everything about him was hard, from his dark eyes to his tight back, and when he lowered his voice it wasn’t soft, it was menacing. So what the hell?
She eyed Yancy and gestured with a thumb. He slipped out the door without protest. His curiosity was probably as high as hers, but she was the boss. Parkhurst peeled Laura’s arms from his neck and held both her hands in one of his. He put an arm around her and edged her to the couch. She dropped, not at all gracefully, and clutched his hand tight when he tried to pull it loose. Short of a clip to the jaw, his only choice was to perch at an angle beside her and allow her to keep the hand. Which she did, clasping it to her bosom.
Every male’s fantasy. Parkhurst’s? She never could tell what he was thinking; he had a great ability at self-concealment. Thick dark hair, medium height, mid-thirties, he was self-assured, self-contained, intelligent, and a good cop. Just lately, she’d learned that stuck back there behind the air of reined-in violence was a sense of humor.
Laura kept her eyes fastened on him, as though he might disappear
if she so much as blinked. Tears glistened and left smeary trails through the heavy makeup. This did not detract one whit from her beauty, if anything it made her more attractive by throwing in vulnerability and an appeal for help. Susan poked around in the tiny pale-rose bathroom and found a box of tissues. She plunked it on the coffee table and backed over to the padded bench in the kitchen area, out of Laura’s line of vision but able to watch her.
Laura snatched a tissue, then another, wadded them together, and rubbed at her eyes. Susan reminded herself again that this woman was an actress. Yet the crying was real, red eyes, splotched face, and runny nose. Even Susan wanted to help; any red-blooded male would grab his lance, leap on his horse, and gallop to her defense. Susan caught Parkhurst’s eye and gave him a short nod. His show. She pulled out her notebook.
“It’s good to see you, Ben,” Laura said. “You look great.”
Parkhurst knew Laura Edwards. That was a little like the sun rising in the west. The whole Hollywood circus had been in town almost a week and he never mentioned he’d known the famous Laura Edwards.
Susan wished she could read him better. Whatever was going on inside, he had it under control—face set, eyes flat—but he had to work at it. His jaw muscles were so tight, she wondered if he’d ever be able to speak again.
He worked his hand free. “Likewise.”
They were mouthing platitudes, Susan thought, while they fought off the emotions of the underlying situation. She noted the pulse beat in his throat and judged his heart was banging around inside his chest.
Laura smiled. “You haven’t changed, have you?”
“No,” he said, “and right now I need to ask you some questions.”
“Still the cop. You have a title?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Really? I expected by now you’d be chief, or commissioner, or whatever is at the top.”
A tiny bit of hostility oozed through here.
Parkhurst responded with raised hackles. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my personality. It always did get in my way.”
Murder Take Two Page 2