Dark and Twisted Reads: All the Pretty GirlsA Perfect EvilBone Cold (A Taylor Jackson Novel)

by J. T. Ellison

  “That’s mighty sweet of you, Miss Anna. I’d like that. You watch out for that package, now.”

  She told him she would, then let herself in through the gate, locking it behind her.

  Like many of the old buildings in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carré, hers had been built around a central courtyard. In days gone by, the courtyards, with their brick walls and lush vegetation, had offered New Or leanians a respite from the stifling heat of summer; today, they served as an oasis from the city that lay beyond their vine-covered walls.

  Anna made her way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. As her neighbor had warned, a padded mailing envelope sat propped against her door. She retrieved it, unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. After dropping her purse on the entryway table, she took a closer look at the package. It was addressed to her but unmarked in any other way. No return address, postmark or shipper’s label.

  Odd, Anna thought. She tore open the envelope and drew out a videotape marked Interview, Savannah Grail.

  Her mother. Anna smiled. Of course. Last time they’d spoken, her mother had mentioned that her agent had called about a couple of opportunities. This must have been one of those.

  Anna turned on the TV, popped in the tape, then wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water and a handful of crackers. Her mother missed working. She missed the limelight, the adulation of fans. She missed being a star.

  Although, she hadn’t been one for a long time now. For a while after the kidnapping, her mother’s already waning career had been revived. It hadn’t lasted. She had already been forty-five at the time, the age when Hollywood’s sex symbols began metamorphosing into movie moms. Those roles went to Oscar-caliber actresses. Something her mother had never been, not even at the zenith of her acting career.

  The sad fact was, her mother had now reached an age where, save for an occasional television commercial or local theater production, there simply wasn’t any work to be had.

  It had been hard for her mother to accept, though she had survived. When her marriage to Anna’s father had ended, she’d left southern California and moved back to her hometown, Charleston, South Carolina.

  There, she was still a star, still the Savannah North—the part she had been born to play.

  Smiling with anticipation, Anna settled on the floor in front of the TV and pressed the play button. A moment later the screen was filled with her mother, gorgeous in a peacock-blue silk suit and diamonds.

  Anna smiled and munched on her goldfish-shaped crackers, watching as her mother came to life before the camera, preening for the interviewer, every bit the celebrity. She was still so beautiful, Anna thought. Still the flame-haired, green-eyed bombshell that the American public—particularly the male public—had loved to ogle.

  The interviewer went to work. He remained unseen. From growing up around cameras and taping, Anna knew it would be easy to piece in the interviewer later. Many taped interviews were done exactly that way.

  The man questioned her mother about her work: about being a screen goddess: about the movies and television series she had starred in. They talked about the Hollywood of the fifties, about the stars of the day, Savannah’s romantic conquests.

  Then the interview changed directions. The videographer began to question Savannah about her personal life: her divorce, her move back to Charleston and her only child, little Harlow Grail.

  Anna straightened at the mention of her own name, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. The interviewer pressed on despite the wrinkle of discomfort that marred her mother’s forehead. He discussed the “tragic” kidnapping, its aftermath on Savannah’s marriage, their family, on Harlow’s psyche.

  Anna studied her mother’s reactions to the questions, acknowledging the interviewer’s skill. He alternated between adulatory and accusing, admiring and suspicious, seeming to know not only which of her mother’s buttons to push, but when to push them. He went so far as to comment on the way her career had profited by the tragedy.

  The last infuriated Anna. She saw through the man’s manipulation to what he was attempting to do. Obviously her mother did not. She folded like a house of cards, becoming apologetic and defensive.

  He used her discomfort to his advantage, moving in for the kill. “It’s just tragic,” he murmured, “that Harlow never overcame her kidnapping. She had such strength and courage, it must hurt you terribly to have watched her disappear into obscurity. I can only imagine how angry and…helpless you must feel.”

  “Harlow has certainly not disappeared,” she said proudly, jumping to her daughter’s defense. “She’s a novelist, living in New Orleans. And quite a successful novelist, I might add. Her first two thrillers received rave reviews.”

  Anna’s heart began to thunder; she felt ill. In one fell swoop her mother had revealed not only her occupation but her city of residence as well.

  “A mystery novelist?” the interviewer murmured. “I’m surprised I hadn’t heard this before. It seems the name Harlow Grail alone would have made her a bestseller.”

  “She’s taken a pseudonym. After what she lived through, she prefers to avoid the spotlight. I’m sure you understand.”

  The interviewer made a sound of sympathy. To Anna’s ears it sounded false. “Oh, I do. Completely. But surely you can tell us a little more? After all, the story of Harlow’s nightmare ordeal and daring escape held all of America captivated for seventy-two hours. We feared for her, then cheered for her. She was, and still is, one of our heroes. Could you at least share a title with us?”

  “I wish I could, but—”

  “What about her publisher? Is it Doubleday? Cheshire House?” He saw by her expression that the last had been correct. “Cheshire House publishes some big names in suspense. Would Harlow be one of those?”

  Anna hit the pause button, struggling to catch her breath. She felt as if she had been struck in the chest by a baseball, one speeding off a professional’s bat.

  Blood pounding in her ears, she stared at the television, at the frozen image of her mother. Her mother had revealed everything about Anna but her new name and phone number: her city of residence, occupation and the kind of books she wrote. She supposed she should be grateful her mother hadn’t mentioned The Perfect Rose or announced her street address.

  Calm down. Don’t panic. Assess the damage.

  Anna breathed through her nose, ticking off the facts in her head. New Orleans was a big city, one with a large community of writers. Nothing in her publisher’s materials revealed the city in which she lived, including her author bio. Cheshire House published quite a number of mysteries and suspense novels; her mother hadn’t mentioned the exact month her book was scheduled to appear.

  Or had she? Anna glanced down at the remote control, still clutched in her hand. Without giving herself time to reconsider and chicken out, she hit the play button.

  The video advanced. Her mother looked distressed, near tears. The interviewer wrapped the segment; a moment later the television screen went to black.

  Black save for the crudely executed white words that flashed onto the screen:

  Surprise, princess.

  E! Today at three.

  CHAPTER 8

  Saturday, January 13

  3:10 p.m.

  Saturday at three sneaked up on Ben, so much so that he missed the first ten minutes of the E! program, one about unsolved Hollywood mysteries. He sank back against the sofa cushions, exhausted. He’d fallen asleep at his research last night and, although he only had a vague recollection of doing so, he’d stumbled to his bed sometime during the night. He had awakened just before dawn, lying horizontally across the bed, completely dressed and feeling as if he had spent hours out howling at the moon instead of slumped over a desk.

  The show cut to commercial break. As it did, the narrator urged viewers to stay tuned. Up next: Fairy Tale Turned Nightmare: The Harlow Anastasia Grail Kidnapping.

  Ben leaned forward in his seat, instantly alert. The Grail kidnapping
was one of those cases that resurfaced in the media every few years. It possessed all the elements to make its appeal timeless: beautiful people with Hollywood connections, wealth, children in danger, both a tragic and triumphant ending, an unsolved mystery.

  The narrator returned, briefly recounting the tale of the little Hollywood princess and the day she and her friend had disappeared from the stable on the Grail’s Beverly Hills estate. The show recounted the story in news clips from the time and in dramatic reenactments—including one of Harlow Grail’s daring escape.

  Ben hung on every word. He realized he was holding his breath and released it slowly. Whatever happened to her? he wondered. After enduring such an ordeal, what had she become? How had the horror of those three days affected the person she was today? The choices she’d made and the relationships she’d forged?

  Even as the questions filtered through his brain, the show switched to a recent interview with Savannah Grail. Minutes later, the show’s focus shifted to another mystery.

  Ben flipped off the TV and sat back, intrigued. Harlow Grail’s story would be an incredible addition to his book. She had survived an experience few did; that experience had no doubt shaped the rest of her life. Inclusion of her story would not only enrich his book, it would make it newsworthy.

  He drew his eyebrows together, reviewing what he had learned from the program. Savannah Grail had indicated that her daughter lived in New Orleans, that she was a suspense novelist, published in hardcover by Cheshire House. She had revealed that her daughter wrote under a pseudonym and fiercely guarded her privacy.

  Ben stood and crossed to his desk. There he found the book that had been left for him the day before. The spine listed the publisher as Cheshire House, the author as Anna North.

  Of course. North had been Savannah Grail’s maiden name, a fact he hadn’t remembered until it had been mentioned on the show just now. Anna was a diminutive of both Anastasia and Savannah. Obviously then, Anna North the novelist was little Harlow Grail, the kidnapped Hollywood princess.

  Ben frowned down at the novel in his hands, puzzled. Which of his patients had left the book for him? Why had they left it?

  He would simply ask, he decided. Starting with the six patients he had seen the day before.

  CHAPTER 9

  Saturday, January 13

  4:00 p.m.

  The sun finally made its promised appearance and cold, harsh light spilled across Anna’s kitchen table. She sat, staring blindly across the room as the phone screamed to be answered.

  She didn’t make a move toward it and the machine finally picked up. She had turned the recorder’s volume all the way down so she wouldn’t know who was calling. She couldn’t face another person’s surprised disbelief.

  She had already talked to her mother. And father. She had talked to a half-dozen friends. Her agent and editor. They had all been sent a copy of her latest book and a note urging them to tune into E! today at three. One after another they had expressed their disbelief over learning that she was Harlow Grail, the kidnapped Hollywood princess. Again and again she had been asked to explain why she hadn’t told them.

  Some, like her editor, had been delighted by the news. Now, the woman had gushed, they had the perfect promotional hook to send her upcoming book straight onto the bestseller lists. Her agent, on the other hand, had been furious at her for having kept something so important from him. How could he adequately represent her when he didn’t even know who she was?

  Anna brought a hand to her mouth. Who had done this to her? Why had they done it?

  A knock sounded on her front door, followed by Dalton’s voice. “It’s us,” he called out. “Dalton and Bill.”

  Anna dragged herself to her feet, went to the door and opened it. Her friends stood on the other side, both grinning from ear to ear.

  “We tried to call—”

  “First the line was busy, busy, busy—”

  “Then you didn’t answer.”

  “You saw,” she said. “The show on E!”

  “Of course we did, you naughty, naughty girl.” Dalton wagged a finger at her. “And here Bill and I thought we knew you.”

  “She’s an open book,” Bill murmured, moving across the threshold. “That’s what we thought. Then we got your note about the show today.”

  Dalton closed the door behind them. “Cute, Anna. But you could have just told us.”

  Anna couldn’t speak. She couldn’t form the words for the fear choking her. The despair.

  She turned her back to her friends and brought her shaking hands to her mouth. Whoever had done this not only knew where she lived but who all the important people in her life were. Dear God, who could know so much about her?

  “Anna?” Dalton murmured. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t send you that note,” she managed to say, voice choked with tears. “I wish I had.”

  “I don’t understand. If not you, who?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned to face her friends once more. “But I think…I’m afraid—”

  Kurt. He’d found her.

  “I think I’d better sit down.”

  She turned and crossed to the couch, then sank onto it. They followed her, each taking a seat beside her, Dalton on her right, Bill on her left. Neither pressed her to speak, which she appreciated. She hated losing control in front of others and struggled to regain it.

  When she had, she told them about her past—her parents and her idyllic, star-kissed childhood, then about the kidnapping, the horror of Timmy’s murder and her last-minute escape.

  She rubbed her arms, at the gooseflesh that raced up them. “After the kidnapping my life changed,” she murmured, looking back, aching at the memories. “I changed. I didn’t feel safe anymore. I wasn’t so…open as I had been. I didn’t trust. I was…afraid.”

  Her friends were silent, no doubt digesting all that she had told them. After a moment, Dalton cleared his throat. “You mean he killed that little boy…in front of you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears even as her head flooded with images—of Timmy struggling while Kurt held the pillow over his face, his arms flailing and body jerking. Then of him going deathly still.

  A sound rose in her throat, and she choked it back. One of remembered horror. And pain. It still hurt, almost more than she could bear.

  She found her voice. “And then he came after me.”

  “Your finger.”

  She nodded and Bill curled his hand around hers. “No wonder you’re frightened, Anna. How awful.”

  “You two weren’t the only ones who received a note about the E! program.” She drew in a deep, fortifying breath, acknowledging that she was afraid. “Nearly everyone in my life got one, my mother and father, friends, agent and editor.” She explained about coming home to find the package containing the tape of her mother’s interview, the same one that had been incorporated into the story about the Hollywood mysteries. “The tape ended with a message urging me to watch the E! program.”

  “You don’t think your mother—”

  “No.” Anna shook her head, acknowledging hurt at her mother’s part in this. Acknowledging a feeling of betrayal. The truth was, neither her mother nor father fully understood her fear of exposure.

  “About a year ago, my mother was contacted by an independent videographer. He was putting together a series he called Screen Goddesses of the Fifties. He wanted to include her. She gave the interview and never heard from him again. Until indirectly, today.”

  Dalton bristled. “That doesn’t explain how she could have revealed so much about you during that interview. Really!”

  Anna glanced down at her hands, then back at her friends. “It’s done now. And she’s not the enemy. She’s not the one who wishes me—”

  She bit the word back, but it hung in the air between them.

  Harm. Someone wished her harm.

  For several moments they were silent, then Dalton hugged her. “My poor sweet Anna. You’re being forced o
ut.”

  Bill drew his eyebrows together. “By any chance, does your mother remember the videographer’s name?”

  Anna shook her head. “But she took his card. She’s going to look for it.”

  “I tell you what,” Bill murmured. “I have a couple of friends in television production. How about I give them a call, see if one of them can find out who E! acquired the piece from. With a little luck, I can track down where they got the footage of your mother.”

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching a hand across to his. “That would be so…it would really help.”

  “Do you have any idea who could be behind this?”

  “No, I—” Anna shifted her gaze to Dalton, struggling to form the words, knowing how ludicrous they would sound. “As you know, Kurt was never caught. But the FBI insisted he wasn’t a threat—”

  “You think that Kurt person is behind this, don’t you?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I…do you think it could be?”

  Dalton pulled her closer, shooting a narrow-eyed glance at the other man. “It’s highly improbable, I should think.”

  “That’s right,” Bill agreed. “Why would Kurt come after you now? So much time has passed.”

  “Unfinished business,” she whispered. “To get even with me for screwing up his plans.”

  Again her friends fell silent. This time, Bill spoke first. “Let’s think this through, Anna. I understand your fears and why you would feel threatened by this man. But why would he want to force you out?”

  “That’s right,” Dalton spoke up. “If Kurt wanted some sort of revenge, why not just have it? Kidnap you again? Kill you?”

  “Thanks a lot, Dalton.” She forced a weak smile. “Remind me to have burglar bars installed.”

  Bill frowned. “Kurt coming after you simply doesn’t make sense, Anna. Look at the facts. Twenty-three years have passed. This Kurt has no doubt gone on to other crimes. He may be imprisoned. Or dead.”

  She rubbed her fingers over her deformed hand. “I want to believe it, but…I have this awful feeling he’s found me.”