EQMM, January 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Judd and she had never connected that afternoon, which had led to the relationship's preordained destruction, her final Dear John (Judd) phone call. He had been fun, a sexy distraction, but she was sure her bemused, work-obsessed husband probably wouldn't have cared even if he saw a photo of them in coitus with Benedetti's imprimatur. She had discussed Benedetti with him and received a waved-hand dismissal. “These guys come with the territory, honey. Termites at a lumberyard. We just have to learn to live with them.” She began to think he liked appearing in the movie magazines and the supermarket tabloids with her. Good exposure, she thought, for him and his latest epic.

  Almost every afternoon, when she wasn't shooting, she took a few laps in their pool and tried to teach Toby how to swim. It was a momentous waste of time: The boy mostly paddled in the safe shallow end, splashed the red and yellow ducks she had bought him as a two-year-old, and listened to the rap music blaring from his transistor on the apron of the pool. He treated her like a servant.

  After he went back in the house, she usually stripped off her bikini and swam luxuriously back and forth, experiencing the liberated pleasure of heated water stroking her sleek, naked body, a freedom that she had reveled in since she was a child in the Hamptons. She felt perfectly protected, since at this late hour in the afternoon the servants were in the far wing of the house attending to dinner and there were high stucco walls surrounding the pool on all sides. There was only the blue, cloudless ceiling of sky overhead, devoid of peering paparazzi helicopters or Cessnas. She doubted Benedetti had the money for a satellite.

  Of course, her afternoon idylls came to an abrupt end when the Enquirer published a nude shot and then the Internet proliferated the outrage. It showed only her face and her bare, ample breasts (she was emerging from the pool), but that was enough to get (no pun) exposure on Entertainment Tonight among other shows, and show-biz immortalization in Jay Leno's monologue.

  Again, Arnold seemed undisturbed. She argued angrily with him at the dinner table that she had become a laughingstock not only in the hermetic, front-stabbing Hollywood community but across the country. She tried to convince him that there was, paradoxically, a bad side to good publicity that could cripple a career in its incubator.

  Stepson Toby was no help. “They've been talking about it in school,” he said, more impressed with this than he had been with her in her best films. He made it a point of never calling her Mom or Mother. “My friend Scott downloaded it and taped it on my gym locker!"

  "Doesn't that embarrass you?” she asked him, incredulously.

  He shrugged pudgy shoulders. “Nope. Scott says you got much bigger ones than his stepmom's!"

  She noticed that their blank-faced butler Tanner had been standing silently near the kitchen door throughout their whole conversation. Usually he remained in the kitchen until he served the next course. Either he was someone who soaked up salaciousness like a thirsty sponge or maybe her earlier suspicions had been correct.

  The next morning she was about to unload these suspicions on her husband when the phone rang, her line.

  It was her agent, with some demoralizing news: She had been up to get the costarring role with Kevin Costner in his new movie (a big career jump), but the producers had opted to go elsewhere. Sorry, honey, luck of the draw, but there'll be others, trust me ... etc.

  That would be the day, trusting an agent. She hung up on the man's further stream of reassurances. “That was Allan,” she told her husband. “I lost the Kevin Costner thing."

  "Why?"

  "My God, Arnold, why do you think?"

  For the first time, he seemed concerned. He even left his spoon in his banana-laden corn flakes.

  Bare breasts in the Enquirer was one thing, losing a prime part was another. “Who's producing the picture?"

  "David Salter and his partner."

  "I know Dave. I'll call him, find out what happened."

  Over, done. He went back to his corn flakes.

  "Aren't you at least interested in how somebody got the photo of me?"

  He napkined his mouth, simultaneously looking at his watch, late for a meeting at the studio. “Yes, yes, of course. It's that guy you hate, whatsisname?"

  "Benedetti. Gino Benedetti. Those people pay people, Arnold, clerks at the hotels, people who arrange celebrity travel schedules, even servants in our homes."

  "I know all that. What are you getting at, honey? I'm late for a meeting."

  "The new butler you hired. The nodding, silent suckup Tanner?"

  "This Benedetti paid him? You know this for a fact?"

  "No. But if Benedetti was going to make a deal with anyone in this household I'd say Tanner would be his conspirator of choice."

  That afternoon, she decided to stay away from the pool, which was just fine with Toby because he would not be subjected to her private torture regime: swimming lessons. He could play his video games with his omnipresent Cokes and potato chips. She swore he and his father were prime candidates someday for a gastric bypass.

  In the study, Megan had picked up the phone to call her agent when she was surprised to see Tanner in the doorway. He was no longer in his servant's coat and dark trousers. Now he wore a double-breasted suit and respectful tie. His face was pained, as if he had just been forced to go on a castor-oil regimen.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, madam. But I wanted to say goodbye."

  "Goodbye? Where are you going, Tanner?"

  He stood more spine-erect than usual, like a recalcitrant schoolboy in front of the principal. “I was telephonically dismissed this morning."

  "By my husband?” She was more surprised than angry.

  "Yes, madam. He questioned me about a gentleman I have never heard of, I believe Benedetti is the name. He intimated that I had taken a photograph of you, ma'am, in dishabille, and sold it to Mr. Benedetti. I told your husband I had no knowledge of the incident he was referring to. But he is very generously releasing me with three months’ remuneration."

  She had totally misjudged Tanner. He was obviously a gentleman of the Old School, a class that had been dismissed years back. What she had condemned as obsequiousness was merely a form of respectful politeness. His silence was just that—he did not chatter or volunteer an opinion, waiting until his master gave him an order. God, it was almost comical—how had she missed it?—he was a living stereotype, the perfect movie butler!

  Megan rose from her chair. “Tanner,” she said, her tone graver than she wanted, “this has been some kind of terrible mistake. I don't want you to leave. I promise you I will clear everything up with my husband."

  "Yes, madam.” The smile was a man sucking on a lemon. “With your permission I will return to my duties."

  He left, and she just stood there, dealing with the breadth and depth of her ignorance.

  Later, she drove her Jaguar around to the back of the property: There was only one high tree, an ancient elm, that stood outside the high stucco wall that protected their pool. If someone climbed it they would have a perfect view of the pool and the perfect angle to get the shot of her emerging from the water. But as she carefully inspected the tree, she couldn't find any evidence on the bark that anyone had ever climbed up. An old tree, but still a virgin.

  Driving back to the house, she was convinced that it was an “outside job,” as the cops say in the heist movies. If not the elm, where could someone have been positioned to get the “money shot"?

  When she returned to the house, Tanner was waiting for her at the door, announcing that her friend Mrs. Kitridge was in the study.

  Puzzled, she went to the study, wondering why Sue Kitridge was paying her an unannounced visit. They had talked on the phone that morning and Sue hadn't mentioned anything about getting together.

  Sue was Megan's age, blond, intelligent, unassuming; a good friend and a decent person. She had nothing to do with the business, which downgraded her as a “civilian” in Hollywood parlance. Her son Alec was one of Toby's schoolmates.

  "Can I ge
t you something?” Megan asked. “Coffee, some tea?"

  For a neat, well-groomed person, Sue looked a bit disheveled today. Megan wondered if it was something about the photo, but they had discussed that ad infinitum this morning on the phone.

  Sue removed a snapshot from her handbag and wordlessly handed it to her. At first she thought it was the now infamous picture, but she quickly realized it was different: This one revealed her breasts and her privates.

  "Sue,” she stammered, “where—?"

  "I caught Alec with it. I can guarantee you he's going to be severely punished."

  "But where—?"

  "Toby. He's been selling them in school. This is a terrible thing to tell you, but you know we're such good friends, so—so I thought it was something you'd want to know."

  Megan nodded, still peering at the photo. In a way she was relieved—she no longer had to build her stupid sand castles on suspicions of butlers and elm trees.

  "Where could Toby have gotten it?” Sue asked.

  "I don't know,” she lied. “But rest assured, I'm going to find out."

  She reached over and grabbed Sue's hands. “You're a dear, dear friend and you mustn't feel you've hurt me."

  Sue smiled faintly, her hands squeezing Megan's in return.

  While Toby was snacking before dinner in the kitchen, Megan made a quick search of his room. She found a digital camera, but it was a different model than Samantha's gift. Didn't matter: The once murky waters were clearing, and another, more sinister picture was slowly coming up in the developing tray.

  Toby had coveted his friend's camera and “Santa,” observing that at the brunch, had seized on the opening. Get a juicy photo of Stepmom and there was money for Toby. He probably even gave him a free digital to do the dirty work, which must have maximized the boy's incentive. Benedetti had probably scoped out the house and seen the inviting elm, but why use that when he had an accomplice now in the very heart, if not the breast, of the victim?

  Megan changed into her bikini and went down to the kitchen, collared her stepson. “Swimming lesson, young man. Let's go."

  "Do I have to?” The classic plea of the parent-oppressed child.

  "Yes, you have to. I promise it'll be a very short but important lesson today. And don't turn on your rap."

  She tried to relax on the chaise lounge, knowing he was purposely keeping her waiting while he changed into his swimming trunks. Finally he came out into the darkening afternoon, the lengthening shadows on the bright tiles. She knew he was picking up on something hostile in her gaze.

  She dove into the pool, gesturing him to follow. Once he was in the water with her she knew he would be more vulnerable to what she had to say.

  "Okay, make it fast,” he said, once he was treading water next to her. “What do we do first?"

  "We tell the truth. You admit you took those photos of me and gave one to Gino Benedetti."

  He didn't answer, tried to paddle away, but she grabbed him by a slippery arm. He turned his head, but wouldn't face her.

  "Admit it, Toby. If not now, then tonight, when I accuse you in front of your father."

  Now the boy's head swiveled defiantly to look at her. He laughed. “Dad? He'd never believe you. He said you're just a gold-digging bitch who married him for his money and his power to make you a big-deal movie star. And you cheat with other guys. Get lost, Megan."

  For a moment her words wouldn't come. Then: “Your father loves me. He would never say hurtful things like that."

  "He did! He said he never should've divorced Mom. Biggest mistake of his life. So don't go tell him your lies. I never took any pictures of you. And the one I told you Scott saw?” Laughing, having the time of his life now: “He said you're just an anorexic bitch, old lady floppy jugs, a real turnoff—"

  Her hands closed on his wet shoulders. He tried to shrug them away, but her anger thrived on their potato-chip flabbiness. “Go on,” she said, her voice incredibly even. “Tell me more."

  "You're a Playboy reject. Look in the mirror, bitch. You're laughable. You really lost that movie because you can't act! That's what Dad says!” He laughed again, his hands almost playfully trying to claw hers away. “You got a smell comes off the screen! Don't you know that? You stink! You'll never make it!"

  There was no strength in his soft, Big Mac arms. It was easy to hold his head under water, his words just a gurgle now, the frantic pleas trapped in the pitiful air bubbles escaping from his almost-closed, hate-filled mouth.

  When she went back in the house she found herself surprisingly calm. Already she had her story: She had left him there practicing his breast stroke and when he had overexerted himself he had called for help, but unfortunately no one heard. She was sure she had been careful enough to leave no marks on his shoulders.

  Arnold was devastated. The police told him accidents happen when children are left unsupervised. Megan tearfully accepted the blame, and her husband's pathetic anger, but she knew she was home free. All their friends came over to commiserate that night and Arnold drank himself into a tearful oblivion.

  It was almost a day and a half later when the police returned.

  They showed her a vivid, graphic photo of her drowning Toby in the pool.

  It immediately metastasized into a major media event, with Arnold refusing to pay her bail. And Gino Benedetti, her nemesis, from his elm-tree vantage point, had finally realized his dream ... the cover of People magazine.

  (c)2007 by William Link

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  Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider

  The Internet is always changing. New blogs come along every day, while blogs that I've been reading faithfully disappear. Reader's Almanac is a case in point. I touted it last issue, and now it's history, though Bill Peschel promises that something else will appear in its place, maybe by the time you read this. Stop by www.planetpeschel.com and check if you're so inclined.

  Jochem Van Der Steen is a Dutch writer (White Knight Syndrome) who often writes in English. He maintains the Sons of Spade blog (sonsofspade.blogspot.com), which is devoted to “spotlighting the fictional P.I.” The site features mostly reviews of private-eye novels and interviews with their authors, including people like Dave White and Shamus winner Andy Straka. If you like P.I. fiction, you'll want to be sure to bookmark this site.

  James Reasoner's not Dutch, but he knows his P.I. fiction, being the author of the legendary Texas Wind. He's also the author of Dust Devils, a superb crime novel that recently received a starred review in Publisher's Weekly. Reasoner has published hundreds of Westerns under many names, including his own. The most recent is Death Head Crossing. He's published dozens of short stories, too. His engaging Rough Edges blog (jamesreasoner.blogspot.com) gives monthly updates on his writing progress and has regular reviews of the books he's read and movies he's seen. These aren't always mystery-related, but they're always well worth your time.

  The Lady Killers don't really kill ladies. They're women who kill people in their books, and The Lady Killers is the name of their group blog (theladykillers.typepad.com). Their own names are Jane Finnis, Cara Black, Rhys Bowen, Mary Anna Evans, and Lyn Hamilton, and variety is the name of their game. Evans and Hamilton write archaeological mysteries, but Hamilton's have various exotic settings while Evans writes about the American South. Black's novels are set in Paris. Bowen's historicals are set in New York at the beginning of the twentieth century, and her contemporary mysteries are set in Wales. Finnis's series is set in Roman Britain. So you can imagine the entertaining assortment of topics they discuss in their blog entries. There's always something new.

  Detectives Beyond Borders (detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com) is maintained by Peter Rozovsky, a Philadelphia copyeditor who has a great interest in mystery novels by writers from other countries. If you're a fan of “Passport to Crime,” you're certain to be interested in Rozovsky's comments on writers like Gianni Mura, Fred Vargas, and Jean-Claude Izzo, among others.

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  Fiction: THE FIRST HUSBAND by Joyce Carol Oates

  Joyce Carol Oates's most recent book (Harcourt, August 2007) is The Museum of Dr. Moses: Tales of Mystery and Suspense. The collection received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, which said, “Powerful narratives, a singular imagination, and exquisite prose make this a collection to relish.” Three of the volume's ten stories previously appeared in EQMM. Ms. Oates's latest novel is The Gravedigger's Daughter (Ecco).

  * * * *

  1.

  It began innocently: He was searching for his wife's passport.

  The Chases were planning their first trip to Italy together. To celebrate their tenth anniversary.

  Leonard's own much-worn passport was exactly where he always kept it, but Valerie's less frequently used passport didn't appear to be with it so Leonard looked through drawers designated as hers, bureau drawers, desk drawers, the single shallow drawer of the cherrywood table in a corner of their bedroom which Valerie sometimes used as a desk, and there, in a manila folder, with a facsimile of her birth certificate and other documents, he found the passport. And pushed to the back of the drawer, a packet of photographs held together with a frayed rubber band.

  Polaroids. Judging by their slightly faded colors, old Polaroids.

  Leonard shuffled through the photographs, like cards. He was staring at a young couple: Valerie and a man whom Leonard didn't recognize. Here was Valerie astonishingly young, and more beautiful than Leonard had ever known her. Her hair was coppery-red and fell in a cascade to her bare shoulders, she was wearing a red bikini top, white shorts. The darkly handsome young man close beside her had slung a tanned arm around her shoulders in a playful intimate gesture, a gesture of blatant sexual possession. Very likely, this man was Valerie's first husband, whom Leonard had never met. The young lovers were photographed seated at a white wrought-iron table in an outdoor cafe, or on the balcony of a hotel room. In several photos, you could see in the near distance a curving stretch of wide, white sand, a glimpse of aqua water. Beyond the couple on the terrace were royal court palm trees, crimson bougainvillea like flame. The sky was a vivid tropical blue. The five or six photographs must have been taken by a third party, a waiter or hotel employee perhaps. Leonard stared, transfixed.