Scandal Sheet

by Gemma Halliday

  I stepped out of my flip-flops, tossed my towel on a folding chaise, and ditched my shorts. I dipped one toe into the shallow end, testing the water. Crisp, cool. Perfect.

  I walked around to the twelve-footer mark, raised my arms up, and dove in headfirst. The cool water washed over me, blocking out all sight, sound, and feeling but the energizing water. It was total sensory deprivation, and I loved it.

  I surfaced, sucking in a long breath of air, then dove back under, kicking my legs behind me. Immediately I fell into a familiar rhythm. Arms pumping, legs kicking, steady, even breath breaking the surface in measured time. I reached the side, flipped around, then did it again.

  Five laps in, I was beginning to hit my stride. My muscles felt relaxed for the first time in days. In the pool there was no threat, there was no boss, there was no perky Barbie doll vying for my stories. There was just me, the cool sensation, and muscles pumping in time to the steady rhythm of my breath as my body sliced through the water.

  I’m not sure how many laps I did, but by the time I surfaced, I was breathing hard and the strain had seeped out of me, replaced by a lax, loose feeling that left my body sighing in relief.

  One that, unfortunately, didn’t last for long.

  I looked up to find Cal standing at the end of the pool, a lopsided grin creasing his face in the sparse moonlight.

  “What?” I asked, wiping the chlorine out of my eyes.

  “Cute bikini.”

  Despite the cool water covering my skin, I felt my cheeks flush. “Can it,” I said, pulling myself out of the water. Self-consciously, I wrapped a towel around my middle. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Watching you.” His eyes roved to my midriff as if to illustrate the point.

  The flush kicked up a notch, and I tugged my towel higher. “I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine,” he argued. “There’s a reason Felix hired me. So, next time you leave the house, ask me first, okay?”

  “No.” I felt my chin tilt up a notch.

  Cal’s left eyebrow hitched in response. “No?”

  “No.” I crossed my arms over my chest. A slightly childish gesture, I’ll admit. But the truth was, I was tired of being bullied. By Felix, by Allie, by Cal, by the freak show who was threatening me. Even Pines was ordering me to buy him porn! I wanted some say in my own life again. And I was taking it.

  Even if it was with childish defiance.

  “No. I don’t need your permission to live my life, Cal.”

  Cal rolled his eyes. “Bender—”

  But I wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

  “I’m sick and tired of being treated like I can’t take care of myself, like I can’t think for myself. I know you think I’m some ridiculous little chick—”

  “That’s not true.”

  “—but I got along fine on my own before you came along, and I’ll get along fine well after your taillights fade into the distance. I can handle this. So you can quit ordering me around like I’m your German shepherd or something. ‘Sit, stay, beg to leave the house.’”

  “I know this arrangement wasn’t your idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t. And I’m sick and tired of people thinking they know what’s best for me.”

  “Maybe we do know what’s best for you. Look, I know you’re angry, and I know you’re scared by all this—”

  “I’m not scared!” I protested.

  “Well, I am,” he shouted back.

  Which shocked me into silence. Looking at his compact build, sleek reflexes, gun bulging from his jeans (at least, I’m pretty sure that bulge was a gun…) I couldn’t imagine Cal being scared of anything.

  “You are?” I asked quietly.

  He took a step closer. Instinctively, I tried to take one back, calves coming up against the side of the lounge chair.

  “Yes, I am. You’re reckless. You’re dishonest. You’re stubborn. You make enemies wherever you go.”

  “Gee, way to flatter a girl.”

  “You’re also vulnerable. Alone. And too smart for your own good.”

  I swallowed, suddenly having to concentrate on the most automatic of body movements.

  “I’m scared something’s going to happen to you,” he said, his voice low. Intimate. Close.

  I shivered in the cool night air, goose bumps brewing along my arms as his gaze moved slowly over me, resting on my face.

  His hand came up. I held my breath as he brushed a strand of wet hair from my forehead, tucking it behind my ear.

  I licked my lips, wondering what he’d do next. Wondering what I wanted him to do next.

  His eyes went dark, his features soft. He leaned in until I could smell the coffee on his warm breath as it grazed my cheek.

  “Tina,” he whispered.

  My heart was racing, my breath stuck in my throat, anticipation and fear mixing an uneasy cocktail in the pit of my stomach. Yet it was the best feeling I’d felt in a long time. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to?

  I stood on tiptoe, leaning in.

  But I never got the chance to find out.

  Sirens erupted behind me. Muted at first, but gaining intensity at a rate that completely broke the moment, both of us turning to watch as an ambulance screeched into the Palm Grove complex.

  Quite frankly, ambulances here were not an unusual sight. Considering the average age of the residents was high enough to put half of them on the Grim Reaper’s waiting list, we were on a first-name basis with at least three local paramedics.

  But the way this one tore through the complex, zipping up Paradise Lane, I could tell something wasn’t right. Something that became even less right as it turned onto Oasis Terrace.

  And pulled to a halt right outside my condo.

  Chapter Eleven

  I froze for a full ten seconds before adrenaline flooded my system, and I sprinted toward the flashing lights of the ambulance. I felt Cal a step behind me, his heavy boots thumping along the pavement in time to the slap of my bare feet. Somewhere near Haven Circle I lost my towel, but I didn’t care. My entire being was focused on my home, where a police car had just joined the ambulance, a pair of uniformed officers following the paramedics through my front door.

  Aunt Sue. Millie.

  I should never have left the house. I should have made Cal come in with me. I should never have written those damned columns, should never have taken this damned job, should never have butted my nose into other people’s business. If anything happened to Aunt Sue…

  Flashing red and blue lights painted the scene in garish hues, bouncing off our stoic pink flamingo. I felt a choking sob escape my throat as I hit the front door.

  A uniformed officer held out an arm, barring my entrance.

  “I need to get inside. My aunt,” I cried, desperation slurring my speech, making me sound like some hysterical horror movie heroine. Behind him I could make out the shapes of two paramedics, heard the sounds of Jeopardy! blaring from the TV.

  “She lives here. What’s going on?” Cal asked, coming up behind me.

  The uniform looked from me to him, his expression unreadable. Which did absolute nothing to quell the fear rising in my throat.

  “You’d better take her away,” the uniform finally told Cal.

  Like hell.

  I shoved at the officer’s arm, pushing my way into the foyer.

  Which was far enough to see just what had prompted the guy’s poker face.

  Laying on the living room carpet, facedown, was a figure clad in a blue polyester track suit, her pink scalp visible between her tight, white curls. And beneath her, an ugly red stain spread on our beige Berber.

  I heard a scream and was only vaguely aware that it might be coming from me. My legs collapsed, and I landed in a heap on the floor. Two arms instantly went around my middle, lifting me up and dragging me back outside. I closed my eyes, shaking my head defiantly from side to side as a strong chest pressed against my face. It couldn’t be. I refused to believe it. Aunt Sue was fi
ne. That scene, it hadn’t just happened. This was a dream. A very bad dream that I’d wake up from any minute now.

  “I’m sorry,” Cal whispered into my hair. And I realized I was sobbing, tears soaking the front of his shirt as he held me tight. So tight I almost couldn’t breathe. So tight I wasn’t sure he’d ever let go. Then again, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted him to.

  I don’t know how long we stood like that, but it felt like an eternity. I began to shiver in the cool breeze, my wet bathing suit clinging to my skin. I felt Cal drape his jacket around my shoulders. It was warm and smelled like soap and leather. I shut my eyes, inhaling the scent. Trying to focus on just that one scent, trying to block out the horrible flashing lights still bathing our neighborhood in ominous light.

  “What’s going on here?”

  My head shot up, my voice catching in my throat. I spun around.

  To find Aunt Sue and Millie striding across the lawn.

  I launched myself at them, tackling Aunt Sue around her middle. Huge tears flowed down my cheeks. Only this time, they were in relief.

  “Ohmigod, you’re alive.”

  “Well, of course I’m alive. It was just bingo,” she shot back, detaching me. “And you’ve got my shirt all wet. Where are your clothes?”

  I choked back a laugh, relief replacing the grief which had replaced the fear, which all had me feeling limp, tired, and amazed I could even stand up still.

  “What’s going on?” Aunt Millie asked, squinting at the flashing lights through her glasses. “You having some sort of party?”

  “I thought she was dead. The body. Our carpet. It’s red.” I realized I was babbling. I stopped. Took a deep breath. Then hugged Aunt Sue again.

  “I have no idea what you’re saying, peanut,” she confessed, “but, I hope you’re as glad to see me when I tell you I lost fifty bucks.”

  “I don’t care,” I mumbled into her curls as I squeezed her midsection.

  “I’ll be right back,” Cal said, moving away from our group to talk to the uniform, his brow drawn in concern. Which I didn’t blame him for. As I released Aunt Sue, I realized that even though my loved ones were still alive and well, things were not hunky dory. There was a dead body on my living room floor. If it wasn’t Aunt Sue or Millie, who the hell was it?

  I tugged Cal’s jacket tighter around my shoulders, watching as he pulled some sort of identification from his back pocket, presenting it to the officer. After a brief moment examining it, he and Cal exchanged a few words, the officer gesturing behind himself every few seconds. When they were done, Cal’s expression wasn’t any less grim.

  “Well?” I asked as he returned to the group, almost afraid of the answer.

  “It’s your neighbor. Hattie Carmichael.”

  Aunt Sue sucked in a breath, her hand going to her mouth.

  “It looks like she was in the living room, near the television. She was struck from behind with a metal bookend.”

  “This is all my fault,” Aunt Sue moaned. “I forgot to shut off the TV before we went to bingo. Hattie was always complaining about it playing too loud.”

  “Did Hattie have a key to your house?”

  I shook my head. “No, but we always kept one in the planter near the door. Hattie knew it was there.”

  “Would she have just let herself in?”

  “This is Hattie Carmichael you’re talking about,” Aunt Sue said. “She was nosier than a bloodhound.” She paused. “God rest her soul,” she added, quickly crossing herself.

  “A murder at the old folks’ village,” Aunt Millie said, then jabbed me in the ribs. “There’s a story for ya, huh?”

  It certainly was. And, were it anyone else this was happening to, I would have already been mentally constructing a salacious headline for the morning edition. As it was, I pulled Cal’s jacket tighter around my shoulders.

  Someone had been in my home. Someone had been seen there by Mrs. Carmichael. And someone had killed her. If anyone was to blame for this, it wasn’t Alex Trebek at top volume. It was me.

  My caller turned vandal had just turned murderer.

  Since our condo had officially become a crime scene, Cal insisted that Aunt Sue and I come stay at his place for the night. For once, I didn’t protest. As soon as the officers let me, I slipped into my bedroom, carefully avoiding looking at the black tarp-covered mound on my living room floor that used to be my neighbor. I changed out of my cold, wet bikini and packed a few necessities in a bag. I crossed the hall and did the same for Aunt Sue before meeting them back outside.

  Cal, Aunt Sue, Aunt Millie, and I hopped into his Hummer and rode through the dark streets in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. We dropped Millie home at the Sunset Palms retirement village in Glendale, then hopped on the freeway, where the steady rhythm of the wheels turning beneath me suddenly caused the physical toll of the day to catch up to me. Big time. So much so that by the time we pulled up to Cal’s place in West L.A., I was half asleep and Aunt Sue was snoring in the backseat.

  Cal cut the engine, the silence settling over our trio as I stared up at the one-story craftsman in front of us.

  “You okay?” Cal asked, turning to me.

  His face was guarded, shadowed by the light from the streetlamp outside.

  I nodded. “I will be.” Which was more than I could say for poor Mrs. C.

  “The police are going to want to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “I know.

  “Do me a favor and don’t lie to them, okay?”

  I nodded again.

  “I mean it.” He paused. “You can do that, right?”

  I shot him a look. “Yes.”

  “Good. Tell them everything. They need to know about the calls, the break-in. Everything.”

  Full disclosure was not exactly in my nature. However, in this instance, I had to agree with Cal. Someone was dead. And it was all my fault.

  I nodded in the darkness once more.

  “Good.”

  He got out of the car. I roused Aunt Sue, and we followed him up the walkway to a dark porch where he fumbled with the keys for a second before letting us inside.

  As soon as he switched on the lights, I fell in love with the little house. It was small even by L.A. standards, a tiny living room in front, a kitchen/dining area to the left and hallway visible in the back. But the low beamed ceilings and dark, hardwood floors gave it a cozy feel instead of being cramped.

  A red leather sofa hugged the back wall, chrome legs curling under it like claws. Beside it, black, lacquered end tables squatted, one of them holding a lamp with a hula girl painted on it. Two Jetsons-looking white, futuristic chairs flanked the fireplace, and the sign over the mantel read, “Eat at Joe’s” in bright neon lettering. The floor was covered in a zebra-striped rug, and, to the right, the kitchen was tiled in black and white checkers, an old, turquoise fifties-style stove sitting in the corner.

  Despite the day I’d had, I felt the corners of my mouth tilting upward. Who knew Cal had such personality?

  “Guest room’s down the hall,” he said, dropping his keys in an olive green ashtray near the door as he led the way. “Sue, you can take that one,” he offered. “Tina can sleep in my room.”

  I felt my cheeks rush with heat, instantly remembering how close together our lips had been earlier that night. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s—” I started.

  “I’ll take the couch.”

  Oh. Right.

  “No, I don’t want to put you out. I’m fine on the couch, thanks,” I protested.

  But Cal ignored me, taking my bag and leading the way to a room at the end of the hall. He flipped on the light.

  I’m not sure what I had expected Cal’s bedroom to look like. Maybe a few guns, posters of Rambo on the walls, camouflaged bedding. But, instead, I found myself in your average bachelor bedroom. A comforter in dark navy, a black dresser in the corner, hamper just slightly overflowing with dirty laundry. The only thing that wasn’t average was the larger than life fu
zzy velvet portrait of Elvis on the wall.

  I smirked.

  “You have something against the King?” Cal asked.

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak without giggling.

  “Good.” He grinned. “I’ll put some fresh towels in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  With that, he backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. I could hear him rummaging in the linen closet as I slipped out of my jeans and turned off the light, sliding between the sheets.

  Cal’s sheets.

  They were cool and smooth beneath my skin, and I was suddenly hyper aware that Cal’s bare skin had touched this same place.

  I got up and put my jeans back on, then slid in again. Not that it helped. I could smell his aftershave on the pillow. Subtle, just a whisper of woodsy scent. But there. So very there. I inhaled, burying my face in it. And felt myself relax, the tension, adrenaline, and worry of the day slipping away as I melted into his pillow.

  I was swimming. The water cool and smooth, enveloping my limbs. I peeled through the water. Long, even strokes, legs pumping, arms reaching, lungs burning. It felt great. Wonderful. I was in a lane that seemed to go on for miles. No matter how hard I pumped, I was still swimming, never seeming to get closer to the end, never hitting that wall. I pumped harder, faster, pushing with everything I had. If anything, the wall seemed to get farther away.

  And then it happened.

  The water started to cloud. Red. Swirls of bright red liquid surrounding me like tendrils as they mixed with the chlorinated water. I reached out to touch one, watching the wisps of colors slide over my fingers. Then there was more. And more. Suddenly the entire pool was red. Bloodred.

  I screamed. Long, loud, lashing in the bloody water, feeling it suck me down, down, down. Lower and lower until no one could hear my screams anymore.