by Lisa Jackson
She erased all the messages, then checked her texts. Again, one from that reporter, Whitney Stone, asking to meet. No way. Not when Whitney Stone produced and reported for her own tell-all television show, a blend of Hollywood gossip and unsolved mysteries. Rumor had it Justice: Stone Cold was already in production with the Allie Kramer disappearance story. Cassie wanted no part of it. Delete! Another from her mother asking her to call. Delete. A third was from Holly, suggesting they get together since they were both in town. That message she didn’t immediately delete. Since Holly had worked on Dead Heat and was an acquaintance of Allie’s, it made sense to meet her.
Still, Cassie hesitated. She sipped the coffee, watched people hurrying in and out of the coffee shop, or sitting like she was, laptop on the table or phone in hand or both as they drank from paper cups.
It was late afternoon now, a few clouds creating a haze over the lowering sun. She needed a plan. She’d left the hospital with no clear idea of what to do, how to locate Allie, how to go forward with her life. Her first impulse had been to check out Allie’s apartment in Portland, fly south, grab her own things and her car, and snoop around a little down here, see what she could dig up.
And now as the sun sank lower in the sky and she watched the little birds pluck at bits of scones and whatever dropped near the tables, she wondered what her next move was. She knew she’d probably return to Portland, if only temporarily, as that was where, presumably, Allie had last been seen.
By you.
According to the police, you were the last person known to see her before she’d disappeared.
“Tell me about that night,” Detective Rhonda Nash had asked in the stuffy, cinder-block interrogation room. In her forties, Cassie had guessed, she wore short, frosted hair that spiked above an oval face with no apparent laugh lines. Her gray suit was crisp, her open-throated blouse pressed. From the way she’d held herself, Cassie guessed Detective Nash was no stranger to the gym. “The last night you were with your sister.”
“Nothing much to tell.”
“What did you discuss?”
“The movie,” Cassie had said. “We were both involved in Dead Heat.”
“She was the star.”
Behind rimless glasses, dark eyes had stared pointedly at Cassie, who guessed the detective had been searching for a reaction. “Yes.” This was a fact the whole world knew, an unnecessary question.
“And you had, what? Four lines?” Had there been an underlying sneer in her question?
“Yes.” Cassie had nodded as she’d somehow managed to keep her irritation from showing.
“She’s become a pretty big name.”
Cassie had waited.
“So, you talked about the movie.” She’d glanced down at her notes. “What was the nature of the discussion?”
“We were both a little upset that we had to return to shoot the final scene.”
“And why was that?”
“Because there was a test audience who didn’t like the ending as it had been written and shot, so everyone involved in that last scene had to reschedule everything to come back here, to Portland.”
“I meant why were you upset?”
“Allie wasn’t thrilled that I made a minor adjustment to a scene.”
“You made an adjustment?”
“I’m a writer, so I had an idea that the director liked.”
“But this adjustment bothered her.”
Big time. “She said so, yeah. And she was irritated because she was going to take a break from acting for a few months. Go over screenplays that were offered to her, make sure she found the right... ‘vehicle. ’ That’s what she said.”
“And you?”
“I’m a screenwriter now and I was anxious”—Wrong word! Wrong word!—“eager to jump into a plot I’d been playing around with.”
“So you’d rather write than act?”
Cassie had fielded this one before. “A lot of actors think they’d rather direct or produce or write. I chose writing.”
“Because your acting career wasn’t taking off.”
“That’s one reason,” she’d admitted. “Yes.”
“Unlike your sister’s.”
“I guess.”
“Ever since her breakout role in that film . . . oh, what was it?” She’d actually snapped her fingers as if she’d forgotten the name of Street Life, a blockbuster hit in which Allie played a teenage prostitute who, a drug user, had found herself pregnant by a sixty-year-old john and, despite all the cards stacked against her, prevailed. The role had been gritty and dark, one Cassie had auditioned for but had been cast aside as “too old,” in her early twenties. Allie had been eighteen but had been able to pull off the scared, desperate actions of a girl three years her junior.
“Street Life.”
“That’s right.” Nash had nodded. “You tried out for that role, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“But Allie landed it.”
“Yes.”
“And there was talk of her being up for an Oscar, I think.”
“She wasn’t nominated.”
“But the buzz was that she should have been.”
“Her breakout role,” Cassie had agreed as the detective had scribbled a note to herself even though the session was being taped.
“It had to be difficult for you that your kid sister got it and you didn’t.”
“She was better suited. Younger.” Cassie’s palms had begun to sweat and she’d stuffed them under her legs, kept her face relaxed, though Detective Nash had hit a sensitive nerve. That role of Penelope Burke was an actor’s dream. In fact it had been Cassie’s dream. Allie had only learned of it from her older sister and then decided to audition.
“I understand she beat you out of roles more than once,” the detective had said as she scanned some pages from the file she’d brought into the small, airless room. “Three times?” She looked up expectantly.
“Uh . . . yes. Yes, I think that’s right.”
“You can’t remember?” Skepticism. “Boy, I would have known, if it had been me.”
“Three parts,” Cassie had clarified, keeping the edge out of her voice. Obviously the cop had been badgering her, looking for a way to get her to explode and say something she’d regret.
“There were signs of a struggle at her apartment. A broken wineglass on the floor. Furniture slightly moved. Since you were the last one there, I thought you might tell me about it.”
“We argued over the change to the script, and she got upset and dropped the glass.”
“It wasn’t more personal?”
“No.” Another lie. She’d wanted to expand, to blame it all on sister stuff, sibling rivalry, but she’d thought it best to keep her answers short and to the point. Her lies and equivocations simple. So she could recall them when necessary.
Detective Nash’s eyebrows had pinched together as if she were deep in thought. “Your sister and your husband had gotten together, hadn’t they?”
Cassie had seen red and her fingers had curled over the edge of her chair, her fingertips glancing off wads of gum. “While we were separated, Allie and Trent had gone out,” she acknowledged though Trent had insisted it had all been platonic, both parties concerned about Cassie. All bull, but she hadn’t admitted it in the interview. In fact, she hadn’t admitted to much, not when the questions had gotten more personal about her marriage nor when the detective had probed about her relationship with each of her parents. Detective Nash had even brought up the horrid ordeal she and Allie had gone through at the hands of their mother’s stalker, but Cassie had held on to her cool.
It had been obvious they considered her a suspect in her sister’s disappearance. She’d been one of the last, if not the last, person to see Allie before she vanished. The fact that she had no alibi, that she’d been alone on the night Allie had seemingly evaporated into thin air, had made her a “person of interest” in Allie Kramer’s missing person’s case. As such, she’d been under
surveillance, had felt people following her, watching her, and knew the police were discussing her motives and opportunity to do away with her sister. Paranoia had become full-blown.
Was it any wonder she’d checked herself into Mercy Hospital where she was under constant observation and psychiatric care? The staff at Mercy had been employed to help her, not be suspicious of her.
As she took her final sip of her coffee, her phone vibrated across the table and she snagged it. Another text from Holly.
In Santa Monica. How about drinks near the pier? Love to get together.
She could have a drink. She would talk to Holly, then head back to her condo. Her plan, loose as it was, included cleaning out the apartment, giving her notice, poking around LA for a few days, and finally heading north. Maybe at night. Traffic would be easier then, and she could start her drive up the coast, take the PCH toward San Francisco and chill out, enjoy the view of the Pacific lapping along the California shore, then cut over to the Five, sometime along the way. Or she could freeway it from here and the drive would take sixteen hours or so.
She tossed her empty cup into the trash and climbed into the heat of her car where she second-guessed herself. What good would meeting Holly do?
Maybe it will do nothing, not help at all, but it sure as hell won’t hurt, will it?
Before she could talk herself out of the meeting, she texted:
Sure. How about The Sundowner? I can be there in 20 min or so. It’s still happy hour.
Before she could jab her keys in the ignition, her phone chirped and she read: I’m there!
Cassie glanced at the rearview mirror. Worried eyes stared back at her.
What’re you doing? You don’t even like Holly. If she knew where Allie was, she would have told the police already. She can’t help you.
“Yeah. Well, no one can,” she said aloud.
Jamming her car into reverse, she backed out. A silver Mercedes that had been hovering grabbed her spot, nearly hitting her in an effort to park near the café. Cassie restrained herself from flipping off the driver as she pulled out of the parking lot. Instead, she scrounged around and found a pair of dusty sunglasses in a side pocket of the car and slid them onto the bridge of her nose.
She prayed the gods of traffic would rain grace on the 405 heading north.
Otherwise, the drive would be a bitch.
CHAPTER 8
Judging by the empty glasses, Holly was deep into her second mojito—or was it her third?—when Cassie arrived at The Sundowner. Half a block from the beach, the bar filled part of the basement of a trendy hotel in Santa Monica. Already the after-work crowd was starting to gather, people knotted in groups inside the darkened interior, standing room only, the noise of conversation escalating.
“Hey, I thought you were going to ditch me!” Holly accused as she spied Cassie wending her way through the tightly spaced bistro tables packed between a wall of booths and a long, glass-topped bar.
“I would have called or texted if I wasn’t going to show,” Cassie said. She eyed the table. A tiny copper-colored mug with a slice of lime perched on the rim sat on the table in front of the only empty seat. Obviously the drink was intended for her.
“A Moscow Mule,” Holly said, licking a bit of mint from her upper lip. Petite, with her hair spiked on end, the current color being jet black, she waved Cassie into her seat. Her makeup was perfect, full lips glossy, skin smooth, eye shadow glittering a bit. Holly had an impish charm about her and had, she’d admitted, played the character of Tinkerbell more times than she wanted to admit. She’d started her career at Disneyland and over the years gotten into acting, primarily commercials, before the roles had dried up and she’d been forced to turn her attention to set design. A true artist, she’d worked her way up through the ranks to eventually become the lead designer on Dead Heat.
“For me?” Cassie asked.
“Umm-hmm.”
Cassie slid onto the padded bench.
“Basically it’s vodka and ginger beer and . . .” Holly’s neatly plucked eyebrows drew together as she thought, her gaze falling onto the drink again. “And, oh, yeah, lime. Duh!” She mock-slapped her forehead, then had another sip of her drink. “Thought you might like it.”
“I’ve had ’em before.” She glanced at Holly’s mojito. “Why aren’t you having one?”
“Vodka’s not my thing.” A forced shudder. “One too many martinis on New Year’s Eve a few years back.” She rolled her expressive eyes. “Man, was that a hangover? God. It seemed to last forever. I switched to gin and . . .” She lifted her glass, hoisting it in a toast. “Rum. Yum.”
Holly seemed to be already starting to feel the effects of her drinks. Her smile was a little off-center, some of her words slightly slurred. “So,” she said, eyeing Cassie, “what’re you doing back here anyway?”
“I live in LA.”
“But it’s been a while since you really lived in California,” she said. “Ever since you and Trent . . . you know.” She ducked her head into her shoulders and waggled it as if she couldn’t quite find the right word. “. . . split, I guess you’d say, you haven’t stuck around much.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah . . .” Another long swallow. A quick check of her phone as over the noise of the bar it had pinged, indicating texts had come in.
Cassie wasn’t going to argue, nor explain her relationship or non-relationship with her husband to Holly Dennison or anyone else for that matter.
As if she hadn’t noticed Cassie’s discomfiture Holly said, “So, I was kind of surprised when I saw you at LAX. I didn’t even know you were out of the hospital.”
“I was just released.” A bit of a fib. Not exactly “released.”
Holly waved her hand as if flitting aside any excuse. “Anyway, I was waiting for my bag there in the claim area. Just got back from Phoenix visiting my mom. Talk about a trip. I swear she’s losing it. So I’m waiting and waiting for my damned bag, texting my boyfriend and out of the corner of my eye, I see you walking out the doors. I yelled and waved at you, made myself look like an idiot, but . . . I guess you didn’t hear me. I couldn’t just leave my bag on the carousel, y’know. It’s the only Louis Vuitton I’ll ever own.” She made a face. “Anyway, by the time I grabbed my bag and tried to catch up, I saw you getting into a taxi. And that was that.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
A waitress was serpentining through the tables and Holly, catching her eye, twirled her finger, signaling another round.
“Hey, no. I just started this,” Cassie said, and thought of all of the drugs she’d recently taken while in the hospital. How much was still in her bloodstream? Should she mix alcohol and God-only-knew what else?
Holly grinned. “Then you’d better catch up.”
The waitress, a willowy blonde in a white shirt and black skirt, appeared. “Two more?” she asked.
“I’m good,” Cassie assured her while Holly shot her a disgusted look.
“I’ll have another. Of these.” Holly hoisted her glass and when the waitress cast another glance at Cassie, she shook her head. After she moved to the next table, Holly turned to Cassie and said, “I just don’t get why anyone would voluntarily check themselves into a nuthouse.”
“Pressure. Stress.”
“Because of the Allie thing, yeah, okay . . .” Holly nodded, her head wobbling a bit. “Whoa . . . maybe I’d better slow down.” She let her drink go untouched as she leaned back in the booth. “So what do you think happened to her?”
Cassie slowly shook her head and stared at the copper cup. “Don’t know. It’s upsetting, to say the least.” She thought about her mother’s grief, her fears, and once again, felt as if she were the worst daughter on earth for not communicating more with Jenna. She grew silent and Holly was quick to fill the ensuing lapse in the conversation.
“I wasn’t that close to Allie, but if you ask me, she was a head case . . . oh, sorry, that’s probably a sensitive subject.”
“I’m okay.”
“Good. Good. But it was the whole man thing with Allie, y’know? From one to the other. I mean, I’m not one to judge, hell, who wouldn’t want to hop in a few of the beds she warmed, you know what I mean? This isn’t a judgment call—God knows I’m no saint—but it wasn’t just casual sex with her, was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t mean to get too personal, but didn’t she go after some of your boyfriends, even your husband?” Holly held up her hands, palms outward, stopping any answer Cassie would make. “Sorry . . . sorry . . . I should leave Trent out of it. But Brandon McNary? She swore she was over him, right? I mean, I heard it over and over again, and they barely spoke on the set of Dead Heat.”
“They’d broken up just before it started shooting.”
“I know, but I got this feeling, call it a vibe or female intuition or whatever, that she was still in love with him.”
“McNary? Nah . . .” Cassie was skeptical, but she recalled the pictures of Allie and Brandon in Allie’s bedroom.
The waitress deposited the new drink and Holly actually smacked her lips. “She still had a thing for him,” she insisted.
Cassie shrugged and nursed her Moscow Mule as customers continued to drift into the bar. The decibel level had risen to the point that Holly was nearly shouting in order for Cassie to hear her. After Holly downed her last drink, they paid their tab, splitting the lopsided bill, and the minute they stepped away from their table, two couples who had been eyeing it descended. Each claimed ownership rights, and a squabbling match ensued.
Outside, the sun was dipping into the Pacific, the sky striped in vibrant hues of orange and pink. A cool breeze blew inland and rustled the fronds of the tall palms guarding the entrance to the hotel, and Cassie was reminded why she loved this part of California as she watched Rollerbladers, dog walkers, and runners vying with pedestrians on the long stretch of sidewalk raised above the beach.
“You ever talk to anyone from the movie?” Holly asked.