Murder Take Two

by Charlene Weir

  “What’s the problem?” Susan sat facing her and spoke softly.

  “Mac.”

  The teamster handed Susan a Ziploc bag, inside was a piece of white five-by-seven paper that had been folded in half. Printed in block letters:

  MY LOVE, YOUR HEART WILL FEEL NO PAIN

  AND YOUR DEVOTION IS MINE TO GAIN.

  THERE IS NO WAY TO REST OR SLEEP

  UNTIL I COME FOR YOU TO KEEP.

  WHEN YOU KNOW YOU LOVE ME BEST

  THEN YOU’LL FIND BOTH PEACE AND REST.

  A second plastic bag held the envelope it came in with Laura Edwards’s name printed on it also in block letters.

  And so we learn why the gun was taken. “Where did you get this?”

  “Somebody gave it to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Mac.” It was more a snapping of her fingers than a question.

  “It was handed to me by a kid on a bicycle. Girl. Thirteen, fourteen.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Skinny. Tan raincoat, hat pulled down. She said a cop asked her to give it to Laura.”

  “Did she say Laura? Not Ms. Edwards, or Laura Edwards?”

  He chewed that over. “I think she said Laura Edwards.”

  Not that it meant much, but the more formal might mean an individual who didn’t know her. “Would you recognize her?”

  “Naw. Kids hang around here all the time.”

  Right. If Laura Edwards didn’t draw them in, Nick Logan would.

  “I thought it was from Ben,” Laura said.

  “Why would he send you a note?”

  “I didn’t give it much thought,” Laura snapped. “I was dressing, going through the scene in my mind.”

  “What does it mean?” Susan tapped the note.

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  It was, indeed. Yancy’s gun, the note he received, and now this. Added up, they gave notice of a serious threat to Ms. Edwards’s life. Strong indication she was the intended victim and Yancy only a means to that end. Time to circle the wagons. A thought darted across her mind like a bright fish: Delmar Cayliff and his wagon trains. “Who put this in plastic?”

  “I did,” Mac said. “The kid handled it, I handled it, and Ms. Edwards took it and opened it, but when she—”

  Screamed?

  “… I put them in bags, for what it’s worth.”

  Fingerprints needed to be taken for elimination purposes. Susan would send Osey. Taking prints was his idea of fun.

  A knock, followed by a damp-looking second assistant saying Laura was wanted on the set, brought an end to the questioning.

  “How many notes have you received today?” Susan asked Mac.

  “What?”

  “You claim you received this from a young female with a request to give it to Ms. Edwards. Earlier this afternoon you brought flowers to Officer Yancy with a note.”

  “Oh, that. Clem gave it to me with a stack of magazines. She said since I was going up, I might as well take them, she had to split.”

  To be certain she understood correctly, Susan repeated, “Ms. Jones gave you a note and asked that you give it to Officer Yancy.”

  Susan tracked down Clem Jones inside the mansion where the filming was going on. Distracted, paying close attention to the director and none to Susan, Clem said the kid asked her to bring the note to Yancy. What kid? The one who lives there. Lives where? Where Yancy lives.

  And some days you just go round in circles. The swipe-swipe of the windshield wiper kept background rhythm as Susan tried to chivvy pieces along so they’d form some shape. Did these recent events clear Laura Edwards of suspicion? Nearly. Susan couldn’t see her skulking around in the rain, skewering Yancy to lift his gun and hightailing it back to the hotel. One thing was clear. The intended victim was Laura, not Yancy.

  These notes put another plus on the side of Parkhurst’s noninvolvement; he wasn’t silly enough to be writing bad poetry, even on his day off. Where was he when Laura tried to get him? He had a perfect right to go wherever he wanted. Except in the vicinity of Laura Edwards. And that, of course, was the worry; he was out there somewhere, like the Lone Ranger, keeping guard.

  The lady had been royally pissed because she couldn’t get him. A suspicious person might suspect Laura didn’t care, or maybe—for some reason of her own—actually wanted him to lose his job. Stupid of her. He was good at this job, and more than that, it gave him substance.

  A leggy female, early teens, but tall for her age with straight brown hair to just past her ears, stepped out on the porch. “You mind talking out here? Mom’s giving a lesson.”

  In the background, Susan could hear the piano being attacked by heavy hands. Lessons were definitely needed. Black clouds and off-and-on drizzle had turned summer daylight gray, drops hit the shrubbery around the porch with a pit-pat, pit-pat.

  Stephanie, clearly excited by a cop asking questions, wasn’t about to let it show. Cool was her stance. She was a typical small-town teenager, lovingly cared for, educated, with a bright future. Her worn shorts and droopy shirt didn’t hide glowing health and good grooming. Less worldly, innocent even, in comparison with her big-city counterpart, and how could it be otherwise? In San Francisco, mothers got knifed in front of their kids, friends got mowed down in school yards, baby brothers or sisters asleep in their strollers got shot in the cross fire between drug dealers.

  Stephanie was disappointed to be asked only about notes. “Oh, those. I gave one to that chauffeur guy just like the cop told me, and the other to that weird movie person to give to Peter.”

  “A cop told you to deliver the notes? How do you know he was a cop?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “He said he was.”

  And this child wouldn’t ask a cop for identification. “A police officer gave you two notes and asked you to deliver one to Ms. Edwards’s driver and one to Officer Yancy,” Susan said, making sure she got it straight.

  “Yes. Actually, he said one to Laura, but people were all around, security guards and everybody, so I couldn’t give it to her. I gave it to her driver.”

  “He said Laura? Not Laura Edwards or Ms. Edwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was this?”

  “At the barn, this morning. They were filming inside. And of course they wouldn’t let me in.”

  “How did you know her driver?”

  “I’ve watched. You know, making the movie. Actually, it’s mostly bor-ing. He brings her and takes her and everything.”

  “This cop. Did you know him? Was he wearing a uniform? What was he wearing?”

  “A black raincoat. He was in a hurry, gave me the notes, and rushed off.”

  I’ll bet he did. “Describe him for me.”

  “Hat. One of those floppy kinds, and he kept ducking his head and looking the other way. I don’t even know if he was fat or anything because the raincoat was loose. He had on black shoes, they were getting all wet. He was probably about your height.”

  Since Susan was five eight and wearing two-inch heels, that made him around five ten. Maybe.

  “You didn’t take the note to Yancy yourself. Why was that?”

  Stephanie stuck a cupped hand over the porch railing and caught drops of rain. “She came—the one with the funny clothes and white makeup—while I was there. And I forgot to give it to him. When I left, she came back down for the magazines in her car, so I thought—as long as she was going back up, she might as well take it.”

  Ah, Susan thought. Stephanie had a crush on Yancy and felt jealous when Ms. Jones trotted up to see him.

  “Let me make sure I’ve got this right,” she said. “A cop gave you two notes. One for Laura Edwards, one for Yancy. You gave Ms. Edwards’s note to her driver and Yancy’s to Ms. Jones? Is that right?”

  Stephanie nodded.

  Like the emperor said to Mozart, Susan thought, there are too many notes. She asked Stephanie to come in at some time and have her fingerprints taken.

  “Cool.
”

  25

  Yancy was thinking he shouldn’t have been so eager about telling the chief he was great, rarin’ to get back to movie duty. He felt stiff as day-old toast, and trying to shower without getting bandages wet was a joke. A good hard run was what he needed, work the kinks out. No running, no workouts, until the rib knit.

  Stepping into uniform pants, he buttoned and zipped, buttoned up his shirt and buckled on his belt with the unfamiliar gun. Nothing better happen to this one or he’d never hear the end of it.

  Stephanie, at four P.M., was sitting on the bottom porch step looking woebegone. “Hi,” she said. The air was sticky hot with the worst of the day’s heat.

  “Hi, Steph. Anything wrong?”

  She shook her head. “How come you’re going to work when you’re sick?”

  “I’m not sick.”

  She scowled just like Serena used to when she was a kid. “You should be staying home.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ll see you later.” From the Cherokee, he gave her a wave as he backed out the driveway. Adolescents, who knew what went on in their minds. Even themselves.

  At the department, he picked up a radio, got a squad car, and set out for the mansion. As usual people stood around watching even when they should have been home eating their suppers. He got a call sheet from Clem Jones and ran his eye over SET/DESCR.

  EXT. TREES BEHIND BARN

  Billy fires at Sara.

  Billy, of course, was the hit man hired by the bad guys, and Sara was Laura, the heroine who stumbled across the information that the bad guys had killed her father because he was going to turn them in for using banned pesticides.

  COVER SET:

  INT. JEFF’S OFFICE

  Jeff was the hero cop.

  Yancy didn’t like this “Billy fires at Sara” stuff. He hied himself over to the prop truck in search of Robin McCormack.

  “I told you,” Robin said. “All firearms are kept locked in the safe.”

  “Bullets.”

  “IN THE SAFE.” Robin sighed. “Look, this isn’t the first shoot I’ve been on, no pun intended, and I’ve got nothing but blanks.”

  “Let me see them.”

  “Oh, man, I’ve got things to do.”

  “I can shut you down, which will give you lots of time. Now, open up that safe and show me everything you’ve got in there.”

  “This is really stupid, man. You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think everything isn’t checked and rechecked before it’s used? What’s got in your soup?”

  Robin dialed the safe’s combination number, 5-7-3. Yancy, standing beside him, had no trouble seeing what he was doing. If this was how careful Robin was, no telling who had the combination.

  “This is what he’s going to use.” Robin handed him a scope-mounted rifle. “And this is what he’s going to be firing.” Robin handed over the shells. “If you worried this much about who killed Kay maybe you’d have the bastard by now.”

  Yancy examined the stock, the trigger, the hand guard, and looked through the scope. He looked at each bullet, definitely blanks.

  The Starbucks coffee he’d picked up from the caterer sent fully alerted nerves zinging to attention throughout his body. He moved around and got in everybody’s way.

  Billy, the villain, was getting some last-minute instructions from the director. Robin handed him the rifle. A black armed condor (metal structure painted black) stood taller than the barn with the light on top blazing. Yancy judged it could be seen four miles in all directions. Probably like the light God had used to shine down on Adam when He asked where the apple came from.

  Yancy kept reminding himself Billy had a blank, he probably didn’t know shit about rifles, and couldn’t hit what he was aiming at in any case.

  That went up in smoke when Billy took the rifle and handled it like he’d gone deer hunting all his life. Yancy’s adrenaline level kept rising.

  Sara/Laura, in a filmy white thing that Yancy assumed was a nightgown, stood by a tree waiting for the director’s word. When he gave it, she ran. A path had been semicleared, at least enough so she could run among the trees. If it hadn’t been, the chase would have ended about three steps after it began. There was too much in the way, fallen branches, dead leaves, and new growth covering the ground.

  Sara/Laura, following the path marked out for her, crept down a rise, darting from tree to tree. Billy, the villain, stalked. As fetching a sight as the heroine was in her nightgown, or whatever it was—peignoir?—Yancy kept his eyes on the rifle. Occasionally it glinted in the beam of light. Otherwise, it was simply a menacing shadow. Periodically, Billy brought it to his shoulder and looked through the scope.

  Jeff/Nick, automatic in hand, was creeping after the bad guy trying to off him before he could put a round smack in the middle of the heroine’s beautiful back. Standard movie stuff.

  Every time Billy brought the rifle to his shoulder, Yancy’s teeth clenched. He’d need a trip to the dentist if this went on much longer. Billy curled a finger around the trigger.

  Yancy held his breath.

  Billy brought the rifle down and stalked on.

  The whole routine again. Stalking, sighting, finger around trigger. Finger tightening.

  Yancy discovered it was impossible to take a deep breath with your ribs strapped.

  Billy fired.

  No recoil on the rifle. Yancy relaxed. Billy had fired a blank.

  That didn’t mean that the rest of them wouldn’t be live.

  Two more shots. Blanks.

  This bit of rifle to shoulder, fire, was repeated over and over. Yancy assumed bullets gouging chunks from trees, boulders, and the very ground beside the heroine would be added at some time, along with close-up views through crosshairs.

  Right. They’re making a movie here. All make-believe. Nobody’s getting shot.

  Sara/Laura, face frozen in fear, kept just one step ahead of the bullets. Billy, the villain, expression of a job to be done, relentlessly followed.

  Jeff/Nick, the hero, expression of worry, was just a bit too far behind to be of any use. Bit by bit, he was gaining. Finally he fired his automatic. He wasn’t close enough to hit anybody and he wasn’t aiming, but hey, he was firing like all good heroes.

  Fifer kept shooting the scene, even after the pink light of dawn bled into the clouds. Yancy paid close attention to the villain’s rifle and the hero’s handgun. Sara/Laura shivered realistically with cold and fear, and maybe for real. Early morning chill hung in the air, but wouldn’t go on much longer. With yesterday’s rain feeding the humidity, it would be humid in spades when the sun got going.

  Coffee in hand, Yancy moved around, getting dirty looks from the crew.

  “Hey!”

  A shot. Two more in rapid succession.

  Yancy was a split second slow in responding. He was still in fantasyland.

  Oh, Christ!

  He tossed the coffee cup and ran.

  The spectators scattered. People screamed. Mac, trying to shield Laura Edwards, hustled her toward her town car. People ducked, crouched, darted. Or just looked around in confusion as though they were uninformed of this change in script.

  Like a Keystone Kop, Yancy waded into the middle of it, gun in hand. A guy with a handgun was aiming at Laura.

  “No!”

  The guy fired.

  Like a movie scene, Mac looked at his arm in surprise, clapped a hand around it, and watched blood seep through his fingers.

  “Put the gun down! NOW!”

  Sun, tipping over the rise, spilled golden light into the hollow. Looking directly into it, Yancy saw little more than a silhouette.

  “NOW!”

  The sniper ran.

  Yancy chased. “Police! Stop!”

  The gunman ran straight into the sunlight. Yancy stumbled over the rocky, uneven ground.

  The guy tried to run uphill, slipped on wet grass, and almost fell. He recovered and dashed left.

  With no breath to yell, Yancy kept
after him. The sniper ran flat out. Not a smart thing to do on this terrain: holes, rocks, and pockets of rainwater waited to trip up the unsuspecting.

  Yancy slowed, fighting for air.

  The gunman stumbled, sprawled on the ground.

  Yancy sprinted. “Don’t move! Stay right where you are!”

  One knee on the back of the guy’s neck, Yancy grabbed the gun. “One … twitch…” he panted, “you’re … dead…”

  Yancy’s lungs felt on fire.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  Yancy holstered his gun and fumbled for cuffs, got one wrist cuffed, and thought he’d expire before he got the other. Finally, he managed to bring the other arm around.

  Head hanging like a spent horse, Yancy worked on getting air without breathing deeply.

  “Could you get off now?”

  Wondering how he was going to get himself upright, Yancy eased pressure from the guy’s neck.

  “How am I going to get up?”

  “Well, pal, you’re on your own.” Yancy could almost breathe again, but fire still locked his chest. “At least till I know whether I’m going to die.”

  “The grass is wet.”

  This was true. Yancy could feel it through the knee of his pants. “Roll over and sit up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Hold on.” Yancy pulled out his radio and spoke to the dispatcher.

  “Okay, pal, let’s go.” Yancy flipped the gunman over. It was the weird history teacher from the hotel. Delmar Cayliff.

  With a little help, Cayliff managed to sit. Cracked rib protesting, Yancy got him to his feet.

  The gun was his, Yancy was glad to see, but after this, no telling how long before he’d get it back. They went down the rise a whole lot slower than they’d gone up.

  Everybody watched, spectators, crew, actors, directors, and probably the squirrels in the trees.

  Fifer said quietly, “Cut.”

  Everybody clapped. Yancy felt like a complete ass.

  26

  “Were you trying to be a hero?” What was it about cops? Like teenagers, they thought they were invincible.

  Yancy stood more or less at attention in front of her desk. He wasn’t ramrod stiff, she thought, only because of pain. At least he wasn’t turning pale from hemorrhage caused by a rib puncturing a lung.