Leaves and vines rustled beneath his feet. He eased one foot over a fallen limb, lifted the other—
His beeper went off.
Oh, Jesus. Heart going a mile a minute, he hauled in a barrel of air and checked the number.
“Sir,” he called out, just in case the guy was hiding behind that tree and not on Mars, “this isn’t a good place to be. Copperheads inhabit the area.” He added, “Don’t pick up any sticks until you know they won’t move.”
Back at the river’s side, nothing had changed that he could see. Fifer still paced; cameramen still fiddled with cameras and peered through lenses. Robin hurried by at a ground-eating trot on his way to get something from the prop truck parked on the road.
“You got a phone?” Yancy yelled at him. Robin shook his head.
“Excuse me, sir.” He stepped in front of Fifer midpace.
The director focused on him blankly, and had to shift through mental gears to remember who he was.
“Borrow your phone?”
Fifer made come-here motions with his fingers without even looking around. A female, obviously attuned to his every twitch, handed Yancy a flip phone. He backed off and punched the number.
On the other end of the line the phone was picked up immediately. Nobody spoke.
“Yancy,” he said.
“Oh, God, what took you so long?”
“Ms. Jones?”
“Please get over here right away,” Clem Jones said.
“Are you all right?”
“No! Get—”
“Calm down. What’s the problem?”
“Oh, God—”
“Where are you?”
“The hotel. Please—”
“I’ll be right there. Where in the hotel?”
“Room three-oh-seven.”
He flipped the phone shut and returned it, then hiked the three-quarters of a mile to the road where a line of vehicles, including his squad car, were parked along the shoulder.
At the hotel, he knocked gently at Clem’s door. It opened a crack and one hazel eye, black makeup smeared around it, peered out at him. The door opened wider and a hand fastened itself to his arm and hauled him in. Inside, Clem Jones fastened herself to his chest.
He patted her back. “What happened?”
“Sheri’s dead and—a knife. There’s blood—it’s all over and—she looks so flat.”
“Where is she?”
“Her room—” Clem waved awkwardly, either indicating direction or bursting with horror.
“Room number?”
“Three … I don’t know. Three-eighteen. Three-eighteen.”
“Stay right here.”
“You think I’m going someplace?”
Eleven doors along the corridor, he tapped at 318, waited a moment, then eased the door open. Careful to avoid stepping in blood, he went to the body, knelt, and pressed his fingertips just below the point of her jaw. He knew he wouldn’t find a pulse. She felt cold and clammy; her cheek, where it rested against the carpet, was dark; her neck and jaw muscles were tight with rigor.
When he got back to Clem Jones he found her sitting on the edge of a chair almost as frozen as the body.
“Fifer sent me to get her. It’s not my job. It’s the second second’s. I didn’t want to. He yelled, she was holding things up. Get her.”
“Did you touch her? Move her?”
“Are you crazy?”
Putting a hand on each shoulder, he got in her face, made her look at him. “Did you touch anything?”
“No. Yes. The doorknob.”
“Then what?”
“I came back here.”
“Then what?”
“I called you. You’re supposed to be a cop. Don’t you know what to do?”
“Just relax.” Using her phone, he called in and asked for the chief. She had just left; since Parkhurst was out of this one, he asked for Detective Osey Pickett.
16
Food, Susan thought. Something good. She didn’t have to wonder if there was any in the house, and claiming too hot to cook wouldn’t do it. She didn’t cook even when it wasn’t hot; she heated in the microwave. Or gave custom to Erle’s Market. The deli had wonderful things, pasta salads, fruit salads, baked chicken, barbecued—
The radio, which had been mumbling to itself, caught her attention. She responded.
“Osey, Chief. We have us another one of those movie people dead.”
No, God damn it, no. She made a U-turn. The big puffy clouds that had been piling up all day so far hadn’t come to anything, but heat lightning flickered way off to the north and there seemed an increase in humidity, if that was possible; any more and they’d be swimming through the air.
Behind sawhorses and spilling into the parking lot, the media were waiting. Television crews were fixing up lights to film their correspondents’ reports, print journalists shot questions at the nearest officers, and photographers waited with their cameras ready to snap pictures of anybody who might be connected with the death. When she walked up to the Sunflower, they surged around her. Was this death a homicide? Were there any suspects? Was this homicide connected to the death of the stuntwoman? Was Laura Edwards in danger? What did Chief Wren have to say about the suggestion this movie was jinxed? That Hayden Fifer was jinxed? Susan’s response was, “No comment.”
The lobby was empty except for the assistant manager who seemed just this side of wringing his hands, and Officer Ellis who was guarding the door. “Elevator to the third floor, ma’am, then right. Osey asked that nobody use the stairs until he can look at them.”
When she got off at three, Officer White was waiting to escort her to the victim’s room.
Heavy beige drapes were pulled across the windows. Overhead, a small chandelier dripped crystal tears and four flame-shaped bulbs shined dully on the congealed blood. A large brass lamp on the bedside table was also on, suggesting the attack had taken place sometime last night.
Sheri Lloyd’s body lay facedown, her darkened cheek rested on pale tweed carpet, one arm was tucked under her, the other stretched ahead as though reaching for something. Long chestnut hair fell away from her face; her legs in a tight skirt were slightly bent at the knees. A bone-handled knife with an eagle emblem skewered a bright blue tank top to her back. Blood, puddled in the hollow of her spine, had run down her rib cage and soaked into the carpet.
Susan let her eyes take in the room. The bedspread, brown and beige, was crumpled and the pillows crushed; Ms. Lloyd had lain on the bed without pulling back the spread. A white skirt and a knit shirt were crumpled on the floor. Drawers were partly open with clothes spilling out, tote bag on top of the chest bulging with contents Susan couldn’t see from where she stood. A pair of high-heeled sandals and a pristine pair of white Reeboks were thrown in a corner. The armchair had clothes draped over it. Not compulsively neat, Ms. Lloyd.
“She’s been dead twelve to eighteen hours,” Osey said. “She’s cold, rigor still present, the blood’s pretty much coagulated.”
“You notified Dr. Fisher?”
“He’s on the way.”
Owen Fisher, even if he were just sitting down to dinner, would cheerfully leap up and gallop over. He was a man who deemed his profession his great good fortune; he probably sprang out of bed while it was still dark so he could get a head start on the day.
“Where’s Yancy?”
“With Clem Jones in three-oh-seven.”
“She found the body?”
Before he could answer, Dr. Fisher lumbered along the corridor toward them. “Another one?”
“Afraid so.”
He peered at the body and told her solemnly, “My definite opinion upon superficial examination is we can almost certainly rule out accident this time.”
Pathologists have a weird sense of humor. “I’ll be in room three-oh-seven,” she said to Osey. “Have somebody take care of these people lining the hallway. Do you have somebody going room to room on this floor?”
“Yes, m
a’am.”
Yancy opened the door to 307. Clem Jones sat hunched over in a padded peach chair with wooden arms. She eyed Susan warily like a frightened child on Halloween. Her pink hair stood up in spikes; the white makeup smeared with black eye shadow made it impossible to judge accurately any degree of pallor. She held herself completely still, as though if she didn’t move none of this would be real.
Susan swung a chair around and sat in front of her. “Ms. Jones, would you like some water, or maybe coffee?”
“Yeah.” Clem sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Coffee.”
“Cream? Sugar?”
Clem cleared her throat. “Yeah.” A little louder this time.
Good. At least some life was returning to her face. A slack face and a weirded-out mind didn’t produce answers, and Susan wanted answers. She glanced at Yancy. He nodded and left.
To start Clem talking, to keep her mind from the horror and let it ease back to functioning, Susan asked personal questions. How old was Clem? Twenty-six. Where did she live? Los Angeles. Has she always lived there? All her life. Did she go to school at UCLA? USC. How did she happen to get interested in the movie industry? Her father was an art director, she’d grown up in the business. Did she have a boyfriend? Not really. How many movies had she worked on? Shrug, lots. Did she ever work on the same movie with her father? Small shake of her head. Was her father working on this one? Another shake of her head.
After a soft tap on the door, Yancy came in bearing a tray, with coffeepot, cream, and sugar. Bless him, he’d brought two cups. It might be a long time before she could get around to food; a little caffeine would help.
Taking the tray, she set it on a table and poured two cups. “Tell me about this afternoon.” She added sugar and cream to one and handed it to Clem.
Clem held the cup against her chest with one hand under it, as though it were a puppy that might wriggle away. “She was on the floor when I went in,” she whispered.
“What time was that?” Susan sat back down, keeping herself where Clem would focus on her.
“I don’t know.” Clem gulped hot coffee.
“Give me a guess.”
“She was supposed to be on the set.” Clem started breathing hard.
“Take it easy,” Susan said. “Just take your time.”
Clem took smaller sips. “Fifer had the second second doing something, so he yelled at me.”
“Second second?”
“Second second assistant director. I called Sheri’s room and she didn’t answer so I went out to base camp and checked her honey wagon room, even though I knew she wouldn’t be there.”
“How did you know?”
“Fifer was getting ready to chop off heads. Oooh.” Clem turned slightly green, clapped a hand over her mouth, and rushed to the bathroom. Sounds of retching could be clearly heard. The toilet flushed, water ran, and Clem came back patting her face with a towel.
“Sit down,” Susan said. “Take it easy.”
Clem sat and breathed quickly and shallowly for a few moments. “And I came back here. Something was wrong or she’d be on the set. I mean, if she wasn’t there, she’d be having a tantrum and we’d hear about it. She wouldn’t just—she’d be screaming to everybody and—I knocked on her door and—”
“Was the door locked?”
Clem shook her head.
“Was the light on?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. No.”
“Which?”
“On.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. It gleamed on the blood—like a one K—”
“One K?”
“Light. Like a scene—kinda like from Lethal Promise?” Clem rubbed her face with the towel, removing much of the mess of white makeup and black mascara and further smearing around the rest. “Except the blood wasn’t red enough. I thought—I thought Fifer’s gonna yell about this and make them do it over. It doesn’t look at all realistic. I had no idea.”
“No idea about what?”
“They were so flat. Dead people. Flat—like, like—I don’t know.”
“What did you do yesterday evening?”
Clem pressed the towel hard against her cheeks, pulling them down and distorting her eyes. She looked like a sad clown. “What?”
“Where were you yesterday evening?”
“After wrap, you mean? Here, I think. Dinner in the coffee shop. A drink out there on that, that—” She waved her hand.
“Where was Sheri?”
Clem shrugged. “In her room. I don’t know. Later she came out. She was miffed at Fifer. Saying something about she’d show him. She’s not really all that swift. I didn’t listen.”
“What about her family?”
“We weren’t buddies. I don’t know anything.”
“Who else was out there last night?”
Clem squeezed her eyes shut. “Robin.” A tear seeped under a closed eyelid and trickled down her face.
Susan pressed a tissue in her hand. Clem took it and blew her nose.
“Who else?”
“I don’t know. Some guy. Oh, and a woman.”
“Describe them for me.”
“The guy was medium. I don’t know. He was kind of on the edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Creepy.”
“What did he look like?”
Clem’s mouth turned up in a quirky smile. “Oh, wow, you’re asking an awful lot.” She shifted from side to side, and leaned her elbows on the chair arms. “Just a guy. Thirties? Maybe brown hair.”
“Tall? Short? Fat? Thin? Skin color? Eye color? Distinguishing marks?”
Clem tugged on a tuft of pink hair. “You ever think of being a script supervisor?”
Susan smiled. “Not my field. Come through for me.”
“He important?”
Probably not. Likely, he was just a guest who had a drink, then went innocently to his room. Unless he followed Sheri Lloyd and drove a knife in her back. Reason? Susan couldn’t guess. A stalker, if they had one, was obsessed with a single individual. Assuming the person was Laura Edwards, why attack Sheri? He felt, somehow, she stood in his way?
Clem curled her fingers over the ends of the chair arms. “He was medium height, maybe a little stocky. That’s the best I can do. Oh. He had a backpack. A little one, it was on the floor right by his feet. The only reason I noticed was he patted it now and again.”
“Was anybody with him?”
“I don’t think so. He was just sitting there.”
“What about the woman?”
“Maybe fifty or something. Pretty. I mean for her age. She wore this long kind of skirt, white. There was something about her—I liked her and I didn’t even know her.”
Without looking at him, Susan was aware that Yancy, standing behind Clem near the door, tightened up like a bird dog spotting a quail.
Susan refilled both coffee cups and waited while Clem added cream and sugar. “Did Sheri mention that anyone was bothering her? That she was getting phone calls? Maybe notes or flowers?”
“Like Laura, you mean?”
“You know about that?”
“Sure. Everybody does. There are no secrets on location. Anyway, Sheri doesn’t—didn’t keep quiet about things. She would have gibbered on to everybody.”
“What about you? Anybody annoying you?”
Clem looked startled, then shrugged. “Why would anybody send me flowers? I’m a nobody.”
Not in Hampstead, she wasn’t, not with that hair. Susan refilled her own cup, set the pot down, and leaned back in the chair. Clem, with one forefinger made tiny rubbing movements on the chair arm, as if she were feeling for grains of sand.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Susan asked.
Clem shook her head.
“Who shall I have stay with you?”
Clem propped her head on one hand and tipped it sideways to look up at Yancy. “Him.”
Susan smiled
. Sweet, handsome Yancy with his soft brown eyes and soft voice. “Sorry. I need him.”
Clem took a breath. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Susan left her feeling for imaginary grains of sand. When they had gone partway along the corridor, Susan turned and faced Yancy, “Who was the woman?” That sounded like the leadin to a tired joke.
He gave her a wry smile. “My mother.”
That was unexpected. “She’s involved?”
“No.”
Stated in a nice firm tone. “Then why are you worried?”
“She was here last night, on the Patio. Howie—the assistant manager—called me to come get her.”
“She was causing trouble?”
“The dog was with her.”
“Clem didn’t mention a dog.”
“I don’t know why, he’s a big dog.”
“Vicious?”
“Very friendly. Sheri Lloyd complained.” He stood squarely, feet planted at a wide stance.
“You think your mother stabbed Sheri Lloyd because Ms. Lloyd complained about her dog?”
“No, ma’am.” This wasn’t said with quite the same conviction.
“Then what is it?”
He hesitated. “She had blood on her hands when she got home.” He spoke easily, but it came hard; ethics played hell sometimes.
“You realize I’ll have to talk with her.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know who the guy is, would you? The guy who’s medium all the way around?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I might.”
* * *
Brown. Laura my beloved. The universe is brown. From the edge of the parking lot, he watched them roll the stretcher toward the ambulance. The body was all wrapped up in a black bag, like a package. They lifted the stretcher, shoved it in, and drove away. It could have been you, Laura, my darling. Don’t worry. I’m coming soon. Nothing will get in the way. Until then you can be assured. She won’t bother you anymore. She was a snoop, not worthy of attention. She couldn’t compete with your beauty. Soon, my beloved, soon.
* * *
“His name might be Delmar Cayliff,” Yancy said.
Well now. She liked Yancy; he was easy to have around, young enough to be handy for college student problems, if necessary, and it looked like he might be coming along to being a good cop. “How do you know this?”
Murder Take Two Page 15