The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  Ted thought hard, shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She tried not to talk about it all. Her therapist might know ...”

  Alex experienced a flurry of hope.

  “That wouldn’t work, though. Therapists are bound by confidentiality.” Ted’s eyes shone with pity. “Tell you what. I’ll call her and see if she’ll tell me. Maybe, with Caroline dead, she’ll loosen up a little.” Suddenly his face lit up. “I know! One of her siblings should know who stayed with them that year. At least a first name. Tell you what, I’m still asleep right now, so why don’t we meet for dinner? Say, seven o’clock? I’ll make some phone calls now and let you know what I turn up?”

  Alex agreed. Walking back to her room, she felt much better. At least she was taking action, exerting some kind of control. Caroline’s sisters should know who Uncle Wiggly was, and maybe they could give a whole name and description she could take to Nick McCutcheon.

  Ted was late. The hostess led Alex to a seat by the window. She watched as an octogenarian in a bathing cap swam laps, counting up to eight before losing interest. The fronds on the date palm tree by the window turned from green to plum-red, pierced by a star of refracted light from the dying sun, before Ted showed.

  He was wearing L.L Bean again, a hunter-green polo shirt, olive chinos, and tan boat mocs, no socks—although there wasn’t a boat within five hundred miles. He produced some carnations wrapped in a funnel of clear plastic from behind his back. “Bought them at Safeway,” he said, his boyish charm turned high. “You’re looking particularly beautiful tonight.”

  Alex was in no mood for small talk. “Did you find out anything?”

  Ted looked at her blankly.

  “About Uncle Wiggly. Did you call Caroline’s sisters?”

  “Couldn’t get through,” he said vaguely, spreading the linen napkin on his lap. “What’s good? The prime rib?”

  “You couldn’t get through to any of them?”

  He caught her gaze and his face turned serious. “Well, one actually. Judith. She couldn’t remember his name offhand, but she thinks she’ll remember it later. I’m expecting a call any minute.” He withdrew his portable phone and set it on the table. “See? I always come prepared. Used to be a Boy Scout.”

  “Ted, this isn’t funny.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me that. I’m the guy married to the dead movie star, remember?”

  There was an edge to his voice Alex didn’t like. “I’m sorry,” she found herself saying.

  “No problem.”

  There was an awkward pause. Alex jumped into the breach. “Can you remember anything else that Caroline said? About the cards, the flowers?”

  “You know, Alex, you’re beginning to annoy me. I ask you to a nice dinner, and all you can do is harp on Uncle Wiggly. You know what it sounds like, don’t you? It sounds like you knew him as well as Caroline did.”

  Alex debated getting up and leaving, but the thought that Ted might have some information on Caroline’s molester stopped her. The waiter appeared to take their orders. “I’ll just have the soup,” she said.

  Ted’s face showed his disapproval; he looked at her as a stern parent might stare at a fractious child. “That’s all?” he asked.

  She glanced out at the pool. The old man was drying off with one of the Hotel Sonora’s small white towels. A nighthawk marked like a Japanese Zero swooped, dimpling the water’s surface before wheeling away into the gathering dusk. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Maybe we should just pack it in tonight and try again tomorrow.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” She set her napkin on the table. The waiter, startled, mumbled that he would give them a few more minutes to decide.

  His demeanor changed instantly. “I’m sorry, Alex.” As she stood, he held up his hands. “Just hear me out please. I didn’t want to spoil your dinner, so I wasn’t going to say anything until we’d eaten. Sit down, okay? Please. I’m …” He passed a hand over his forehead. “I’m pretty shaken actually. All I was trying to do was put a good face on things.”

  Reluctantly, Alex sat. He did look white around the gills. “Shaken about what?”

  “Something Caro’s brother told me.”

  “But you said you couldn’t reach anyone except Judith.”

  “Don’t make this any harder for me than it already is, okay?”

  Alex was so completely off-balance that she said nothing. Why was Ted jerking her around like this? Was he malicious, or just crazy?

  The waiter was back. Ted ordered, a prime rib for him and a filet mignon for the lady, house vinaigrette on both salads, a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, room temperature.

  “I just want the soup,” Alex told the waiter.

  Ted shrugged; Pontius Pilate washing his hands. “I guess the lady knows her own mind.”

  “What’s all this about?” Alex asked after the waiter left. “What did Caro’s brother say?”

  “Can’t we eat first?” Ted asked plaintively. “I really don’t want to think about it on an empty stomach.”

  “Ted,” Alex said grimly.

  “Okay, okay.” He took a roll and buttered it neatly. “Uncle Wiggly, a.k.a. Peter Scott, was put away three years ago for raping and killing a little girl. He escaped six months ago. Such a bad guy, he was even on America’s Most Wanted; that’ll give you an idea of the extensive manhunt that followed. FBI, everybody wanted him. To make a long story short, he ended up here. Makes sense, don’t you think? It’s close to the border, so he could cross the line if things got too hot here. And there are all those poor little Mexican kids in Palo Duro—a never-ending supply.”

  Alex shuddered.

  “Anyway, my theory is when Caroline showed up, he recognized her immediately. He knew she was a big star, so—”

  Ted noticed the skepticism on her face and shrugged. “She might have been paranoid. But she was famous, he’d know who she was.”

  “But why would he—” Alex stopped. There was a reason, but it seemed outlandish to her.

  “He could have been blackmailing her.” Ted seemed to read her mind.

  “But that’s crazy. He’d risk getting caught.”

  “He’s a sociopath, Alex. Sociopaths don’t bother about risks. They take risks all the time—bold extravagant moves that you or I would never even think of. Usually it’s their audacity that helps them get away with it. Like the character in Deadly Delusions— “

  “But this isn’t a movie, Ted,” Alex said, hoping to avoid his favorite subject. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  He shrugged. “Josh said she was sure it was him.”

  “Did you tell this to the sheriff?”

  Ted snorted in disgust. “They didn’t want to hear it. They were so stuck on Booker Purlie.”

  “Did Caroline tell you about him?”

  Ted’s brow knitted into a frown as he tried to remember. At last he said, “I don’t recall her saying anything. But what could I do if she had? I was in Italy. Ah! Here’s the Chateauneuf du Rape. You won’t believe how good this is.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Dammit, Alex, what is it with you? You have some kind of complex about accepting gifts? A guy takes a woman to dinner, he wants to treat her right.”

  The uneasiness in the pit of her stomach solidified. “This isn’t a date.”

  “Jesus, you’re prickly tonight. Okay, strictly speaking, of course this isn’t a date. If you want to get all balled up in semantics. Do you want to hear about Peter Scott or not?”

  She did, so again, she let it go. Ted poured her a glass of wine.

  “Anyway. Where was I? Here’s my theory. Caroline wouldn’t pay him to keep quiet, so he killed her.” He leaned back. “Bang, just like that. Bribed Booker Purlie to put real bullets in the prop gun.”

  “Booker Purlie didn’t care about money. He thought Caroline would get him a part in her next film, so why would he kill her?”

  “Well, maybe Scott appealed to Book
er’s paranoia. Maybe he told Booker there was a plot to kill Caroline on the set, so he had Booker switch the magazines. Maybe Booker thought he was saving her, not killing her.”

  The theory had a chilling sort of logic.

  “Someone should really check into it.”

  “But why would Scott kill Caroline if he wanted money from her?”

  Ted shrugged. “Maybe he knew she’d never pay. He’d killed before. Maybe he liked it, who knows? Serial killers are into power. They get off on their power over people, over life and death. The sociopath again. They’re impulsive.” He reached out and brushed Alex’s cheek with his fingers. “Crumb,” he said as she flinched.

  She felt stupid again. What was it about this guy that pushed all her buttons? One minute he gave her the creeps, the next she felt sorry for him—and guilty besides. “So why is he after me? “

  “He knows who you are.”

  “But I can’t identify him. I can’t remember anything about him at all.”

  “He doesn’t know that. What are you going to do, take out an ad in Variety? ‘Dear Uncle Wiggly, I don’t have the slightest idea what you look like. Signed, Alex Cafarelli.’ Like that’ll work!” He leaned forward. “You’d better take this seriously, Alex. This guy has offed, by my count, four people. I’m getting sick of going to funerals.” He reached over and poured her more wine. “You like it?”

  He’d gone from hurt to worried to sarcastic to rapturous over a bottle of wine in the course of two minutes, three tops. His manner reminded her of a theater game in college. With each snap of the instructor’s fingers, you had to switch moods. Only Alex could swear that Ted genuinely felt these things. He must have an incredibly short attention span.

  He was talking again.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you would be perfect for the role of Laura in Filthy Lucre.”

  “Filthy Lucre?“

  “The spaghetti western remake I’m producing in Italy. Really, you should think about it.”

  “Being in the movie?” Was he completely out of touch with reality?

  “Why not? You probably have no idea how gorgeous you are, Alex. Sultry, mysterious. You’d make a perfect Nora.”

  This time she wasn’t imagining things. “I thought you said her name was Laura.”

  “Laura, then,” he said, annoyed. “We’re working with a few names right now. The point is—if you’d let me make it—that you’ve got what it takes to make it in Hollywood. I know this isn’t a good time to be talking about this. That’s the problem with creative people. No matter how tragic something is, there’s always that small cog in the back of our heads that’s turning. Framing a shot, spotting talent—you can’t turn it off.”

  Impatient, Alex asked, “What about Peter Scott? Did Josh say what he looks like?”

  “Well, he’d be in his fifties now.”

  Suddenly Alex remembered the maintenance worker mowing the hotel lawn. Nick had called him Rollie. She remembered bumping into him at the cafe, and that was when she’d smelled his aftershave—Old Spice. Excitedly, she asked Ted, “Did Josh say what he was doing here? Was he a guest?”

  “You know, he did mention it, but I—”

  “Could he have been working here?”

  Ted looked at her blankly. “Working here? As a waiter, or what?”

  “Could he be a maintenance worker?”

  Ted thought hard. “That might be it. I can’t remember.” He stared out the window. “Why?”

  Alex told him about the man named Rollie. “So he’d be in his fifties now. Do you know what he looks like?”

  “Yeah. I remember him from the Most Wanted segment, but it was a long time ago. He was dark—”

  “You mean tanned? Weathered skin?”

  “Uh-huh. A real outdoorsman. Kind of a redneck.”

  Rollie was a redneck if she’d ever seen one.

  Ted caught her excitement. “You think it’s the same guy?”

  Alex thought about the man named Rollie. It was hard to pinpoint his age—probably because his face was weathered from working out in the sun. She tried to picture him almost twenty years younger, tried to superimpose his face on the man in the cheap shirt and trousers. It didn’t work. “I don’t know.”

  “He probably changed his name,” Ted said. “Although it’s a long way from Peter to Rollie. I mean, if his name was Randy or Rocky or ...” He trailed off. “I’ll find out what Josh says.” He checked his watch. “I can call him at the prison.”

  “Josh is in prison?”

  “He’s been there for years. That’s how he ran into Peter Scott again. Married some woman who wrote letters to him. One of those people who hold candlelight vigils for death row inmates. A prison groupie.”

  It sounded as if he’d made it up, just another one of his half-baked stories. “She have a name?” Alex asked, hoping he’d need a split second to think about it and she would catch him in a lie.

  He didn’t bat an eyelash. “Clarice,” he said.

  Alex would have seemed rude if she didn’t let Ted walk her to her room. She wanted to call Nick right away and tell him what she’d learned. But Ted had paid for the meal and she supposed she could put up with him for a little while longer. She’d tried to waylay the waitress and pay the bill herself, but that didn’t work. “It’s on Labyrinth Productions’ tab,” the waitress said. “Enjoy it. The guy’s good-looking in a Dan Quayle kind of way.”

  It was clear Ted had had a little too much of the Chateauneuf du Pape. Alex remembered what Luther van Cleeve had told her—that he didn’t have a head for liquor. “Let’s hope that’s the guy. But you call me if you get any more threats.” His hands closed around her arms, fingers digging into her biceps. Her skin crawled. “I mean it, this is nothing to fuck around with. He’s killed four people.”

  A screw tightened somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. “You’re scaring me, Ted.”

  “You should be scared. You’ve got to be on your guard. There are guys out there who prey on beautiful women.”

  “Ted, I don’t think—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” His face loomed over hers, and before she could react, he kissed her. Panic welled up in her chest, pushed up into her throat as she shoved him away.

  “Ted!”

  “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  “I thought you loved Caroline.”

  “That’s right, throw it in my face. You’re a spiteful person, Alex.” He dropped his hands to his sides and paced back and forth under the eves of the portal like a caged cat. “How do you suppose I feel about this? You think I like what I’m feeling? Huh?” He spun around to face her, his eyes anguished. “My wife’s not even in her grave and here I am, falling in love with her best friend. Go ahead, Alex, rub it in.”

  “I’m not rubbing it in—”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I’m a real heel.”

  Heel? Suddenly he was Jack Lemmon playing a frustrated husband in one of those sophisticated New York comedies from the sixties.

  A role in a play.

  “You’d better go home and sober up.” Her pulse pounded in her ears.

  “Is that any way to treat the guy who just took you out to dinner? Do you know how much Chateauneuf du Pape costs? I won’t even mention the room.”

  “Jagged Impact paid for my room.”

  “They paid for the first week. Labyrinth Productions has been picking up your tab since then. So don’t get on your high horse.”

  Shocked, Alex stepped back. “I’ll write you a check for it right now.”

  “Oh, don’t be an ass. I’m just doing what Caroline would have wanted.”

  “I think we’re done talking, Ted.” Why had she given him a second chance after he’d crept into her room? Her instincts had been right, but she hadn’t trusted them.

  He hovered over her as she stuck the key in the lock. “You’re acting totally irrational. What do you think, I’m going to bite you?” />
  She didn’t bother to answer. Damn this lock,anyway.

  “You’re not being fair, Alex. I was only telling you how I felt. I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

  She took the bait. “What do you mean, me ‘of all people’?”

  “Didn’t Caro take away one of your boyfriends? Actually, I think she took away several.”

  “We were kids.”

  “But it hurt, didn’t it? I know it hurt me. When Luther took Caroline away—”

  “Ted, you’re drunk.”

  He stood over her again, his hand on the doorjamb. “You’ve always been such a good girl, Alex. That’s what Caro said, with that big sneer on her face, like it was something bad. But I admire that in a person. We’re a lot alike, you and I. We’ve both been prize dupes.”

  God, he was as slippery as an eel. She was tired of this merry-go-round and didn’t want to waste her time talking to him anymore. Perfect timing. The latch clicked and she slipped into her room, closing the door behind her.

  “Goodnight, Alex,” he said through the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  As soon as he left, Alex called the sheriff’s office. She got Doug Childers again. He sounded impatient. There was little doubt what reception Deputy Fife would give her convoluted theory regarding Peter Scott/Rollie. With a sigh, she left a message for Nick to call her.

  She tried to picture Rollie the gardener, but the only face she saw was Ted’s. What was he trying to do?

  Alex had always sensed there was something off about him, but she’d managed to rationalize it away because he was Caroline’s husband. But after tonight, she was aware of a slow-moving dread trickling through her vitals.

  He’d fixated on her, and she had no idea how to shake him.

  She wondered, suddenly, about Caroline Arnet’s marriage to this guy and was surprised at the deep, ugly void that concept evoked.

  Alex awoke to the droning of a lawn mower. It was still dark. Confused, she glanced at the digital clock. The numerals read 3:12 a.m.

  Who would be mowing the lawn at three in the morning?

  Wide awake now, she sat up, pulse pounding. There was only one answer to that question.