The Last Cheerleader

by Meg O'Brien

  I felt angry, suddenly, that Lindy hadn’t been smarter about her life. “Why on earth didn’t you leave Roger long ago? How could you go on so long with a man like that, a man who could—”

  She interrupted, and I supposed that was good. In my anger, I’d been about to pour out the whole miserable story about the rape.

  “You don’t know him, Mary Beth!” she cried. “God only knows what he’d have done if I’d left him, instead of him forcing me out. He had to have an heir, see? It’s all about money now. That’s even what Jade is about. Roger’s father wanted a boy as an heir to the Courtland business, but that’s one thing, at least, that Roger fought him on. He insisted that Jade could do just as good a job as a boy.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “How liberated of him.”

  “Well, he knows we’re never going to have another child, so that’s the only way he could placate his father. He had to convince him Jade was enough. Otherwise, Roger wouldn’t inherit a thing. That’s the way his father’s will is set up.”

  I was so grateful I’d never married into that family.

  “It sounds like you’ve been doing the best you could in a bad situation,” I admitted.

  “Well, I’m not as dense as everyone thinks I am. Oh, I know I seemed that way in high school, but that was just part of a plan to convince the boys I was just a little blond airhead. That way they weren’t so intimidated by me and I got lots of dates.”

  “Intimidated?”

  “Like they were by you, Mary Beth. You with your library books and your glasses and cool air that put up a wall between you and them. I tried to tell you, remember? I even wanted to do a makeover on you. You wouldn’t go for it.”

  It had been a long while since I’d thought of myself as I was in high school. Carrying a baby for nine months and then giving it away—along with a large chunk of my heart—had made me feel like an entirely different person. It was if I’d had a certain life before my baby, and then someone new had come in, taken over my body, and was living this one. “Walk-ins,” my paranormal-book authors call it. Some say that’s what happens in a near-death experience. When a person’s life force is nearly gone, someone new and better can come in and take over. That’s why, they say, so many who’ve had near-death experiences come back renewed and full of faith, ready to do good deeds.

  Or, if the paranormal book is a thriller, they come back as vampires.

  I was getting fanciful. I shook myself mentally and got back to Lindy.

  “Is all this part of a plan, too?” I asked, aware for the first time of what a good little actress Lindy had become over the years. “And is dragging me into your troubles part of it?”

  “No! No, at least I didn’t mean it to hurt you. I never would have come to you if I’d thought Roger would find me here. I was just trying to hide from him, Mary Beth. I heard he was looking for me, and that he wanted to hurt me. I came to you because I was desperate, that’s all.”

  “Well, what a lucky stroke, then, that you met someone in a bar who just happened to know where I lived.”

  She looked away, not meeting my eyes.

  I pulled over into a parking lot, and turned to her. “What the hell are you really up to, Lindy? I’m not buying this whole ‘on the streets’ business. I can’t even begin to see Lindy Lou Trent living in a cardboard box.”

  “Well, I have been!” she said angrily. “Almost, anyway. Like I said, I’m not stupid, Mary Beth. I always knew it wasn’t going to last with Roger, so I was salting money away until this happened. I took some from the grocery bills and the dry-cleaning bills and stuff, and over the past few weeks it added up. I kept the money in a secret compartment in my purse, so I had it with me the day Roger locked me out.”

  “So you do have money for a lawyer.”

  “No! Dammit, Mary Beth, I don’t know how long I have to make this money last, so I don’t dare spend the little bit I have left. I’ve been staying in the worst dives—dirty, flea-ridden motels I used to just drive by and not even look at, they were so grimy and old. And if I don’t figure out something soon, I will be living in a box! That’s if I’m lucky enough to find one.” She folded her arms and gave me a mutinous look, like a child. “And I did really walk down Sunset to your house. I…I hitched a ride partway, that’s all.”

  I couldn’t help it. I sighed. “Okay, then. So just how long do you think you’ll need, to figure things out?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I have to get some sort of hard proof of what Roger is doing with that drug, and once I get that, I can go to the police. Then I can get a lawyer and sue the bastard for all he’s worth.”

  “And you’re willing to leave Jade there in the meantime, even is she’s in jeopardy? Who knows how long that will take? Lindy, think. Forget nailing Roger for the sales to the Middle East. The first thing you’ve got to do is get your baby out of that house. She needs to be with you.”

  Lindy shook her head. “You mean fight for custody? I told you, Mary Beth. Roger would disappear with Jade before we ever got to court.”

  I studied her and noted, in the bright sunlight, the deep lines around her eyes and mouth. The strain of living with her problems was written all over her face.

  “Lindy,” I said finally, “pardon my French, but screw the courts. We’re not doing it that way.”

  “We?” she said, her eyes widening.

  “We. I have to do a bit of planning, but trust me—we’ll get your baby out of that house.”

  I had pulled into the parking lot of the Malibu Beach Inn. Sliding into a parking space, I turned to Lindy. “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Where? Mary Beth, I have to get back to San Francisco. If you’ve convinced me of anything, it’s that it’s time I tried to see Jade.”

  “You’re absolutely right, it is time. But let me figure out how to help you first. Okay?”

  The misery evaporated and she looked at me like a lost puppy who’d finally found its way home. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll never forget this, Mary Beth.”

  I’d decided to trust Lindy’s story, come hell or high water. I just hoped I wouldn’t end up in the deep end. Meanwhile, I wanted her where she’d be reasonably safe while I was at work. After hearing Lindy’s whole story, I didn’t really think it was Roger who’d broken in the night before. After all, he’d gotten rid of her, and he’d also effectively tied her hands. As long as he had her convinced that he’d hide Jade away where Lindy would never find her, she couldn’t make a move against him.

  Whether or not he would actually do that, or if it was a bluff, she couldn’t know. Nor could I.

  And, since I couldn’t be absolutely sure that it wasn’t Roger the night before, I wanted Lindy where I wouldn’t have to worry about her too much. That, to me, meant the older and highly respectable Malibu Beach Inn, easily the classiest small hotel in town.

  When Lindy saw her room and the ocean view, she looked as if she’d just fallen into paradise. “You have no idea…” she said with tears in her eyes. “And, oh, look, Mary Beth! A fireplace! And a balcony!”

  I guessed that it didn’t take too long in motel dives to make one appreciate the finer things in life. As for the cost of all this, I figured I owed my old friend. If I’d told her years ago that her husband had raped me—if I’d pressed charges—she wouldn’t be in this situation now.

  Whether it would help to press charges now, I didn’t know. But I’d been thinking about it. It would mean having everyone know about the baby I’d given away, a secret I’d made untold sacrifices to keep. But if it would help Lindy and her baby—and if the statute of limitations wasn’t up—it might be one way to free her, and to set her on a path to a better life.

  Pressing charges would take time, though. It would have to go through the courts. And as I’d told Lindy, screw the courts—at least for now. What I had in mind would take far less time.

  I gave Lindy strict orders to stay in the room, not open the door
to anyone, and call me on my cell if she had any problems. When I left her, I felt as if I were leaving a child behind.

  Home alone. What trouble might my little charge get herself into?

  At the office, I skipped my usual workout. Nia and I went through my remaining client list, looking for that one author who might save the financial day.

  “There’s Audrey Birkoff,” Nia said. “Her English mysteries are a bit on the dull side for me, I’m afraid.”

  “But she does have a large readership,” I pointed out. “And she brings in steady money.”

  “True. Then there’s Bea Lorman,” she said. “Bea hasn’t been producing lately. And her writing’s gone downhill.”

  “She’s been sick,” I said.

  Nia rolled her eyes. “She’s always sick.”

  “Meaning?”

  Nia sighed. “We’ve talked about this before and I thought we decided she must be bipolar. She goes through these periods—up and down. When she’s up she can write like crazy. When she’s down she always finds a way to sabotage herself.”

  Nia was right. Bea had been doing that for years, and I’d only kept her on because I knew there was real talent there. If she ever got her emotions straightened out, she’d be a wildly successful author.

  “Maybe we could get her on Paxil,” I said, only half kidding.

  Nia grinned. “Can you imagine that? A completely well Bea Lorman?” Sobering, she added, “No kidding. She could replace Tony as your number-one best-selling author.”

  “She might,” I agreed. “Right now, though, I need to see who’s bringing in the most bucks today.”

  She smiled. “Will you wine and dine that person? Hold his or her hand? Smile pretty and speak softly?”

  “You betcha,” I said, grinning.

  “Well, there’s Lucy Watson.”

  “Our own Jackie Collins?”

  “As far as her vocabulary is concerned, that’s the same Lucy Watson.”

  I’d been building Lucy up to be as big a seller as Jackie Collins, if that were at all possible, given Jackie’s long lead. Lucy wrote books about Hollywood and she had all the four-letter words and sex down pat. There was something missing, however.

  I said as much to Nia.

  She nodded. “You know what I think? She’s a nun in disguise.”

  I laughed. “Now, that would be good for a ton of PR, wouldn’t it? But no, I think it’s just that she doesn’t have a strong enough will to succeed. I still have to teach her how to dress when she goes to New York.”

  Nia agreed. “You should get her to burn those jeans, then take her shopping on Rodeo Drive.”

  “We already did Rodeo Drive, right after she got lipo and the breast implants. She’s got everything she needs in her closet—two-piece suits, cocktail dresses, dozens of great shoes and purses. She just keeps showing up looking like a cowgirl.”

  “Maybe that’s because she is one,” Nia said.

  “No, Lucy comes from Long Island.”

  “I mean at heart,” Nia replied pointedly. “There are all those wild stallions following in her wake every time she goes out. They must like the way she squeezes herself into the jeans and low-cut tops. I’d say she gets a bit of riding in before the night’s over.”

  I tried not to smile too much. “She has gained weight again,” I agreed. “She’s looking a bit—”

  “Bosomy?” Nia finished for me. “Buxomy?”

  “To be kind, let’s say she’s starting to look like a lusty seventeenth-century barmaid.”

  Nia chuckled. “That’s kind?”

  “I just mean she’s not yet the slick Jackie Collins image we’ve been trying to turn her into.”

  I didn’t care what most of my authors looked like when they went to New York, as long as they dressed professionally, as if they were winners. Lucy Watson was another matter. It was taking a derrick to move her up the ladder. So much potential, but so little, socially, between the ears.

  I changed the subject, not wanting to get into the habit of tearing my authors down. I’d been in some agents’ outer offices when they didn’t know I was listening, and I’d heard them say the most awful things about their clients. I’ve always wondered how an agent could successfully represent someone they didn’t like, or whose writing they despised.

  The worst of them tore other agents down, as well. One had started a rumor about a top New York agent from France, saying he wasn’t really French, that he came from Alabama and that even his French accent was false. That rumor had sped around literary circles like wildfire, and it had all started with one mean-spirited agent in Los Angeles who was jealous of the French agent’s success.

  At least, I’d always assumed it was a mean-spirited rumor. But what if it was true? I wondered. The thing is, once an agent’s reputation has been sullied, it’s hard to get it back. The thought’s been placed in the minds of people, and there’s no Paul Revere to ride around shouting, “The Frank is real, the Frank is real!”

  I stretched and leaned back into my chair.

  “You look tired,” Nia said.

  “Well, I haven’t told you about my night yet, have I?”

  “Out carousing?”

  “Sure, that’s me, all right,” I grumbled. “No, I had an old friend show up, and in the middle of the night someone broke in and tried to kill us.”

  Nia’s indrawn breath and shocked eyes reminded me of just how unsettling last night had been. I’d tried to push the incident to the back of my mind, telling myself that the intruder wasn’t Roger—it was a simple break-in, like the one my neighbor’d had recently. There was a bad guy in the neighborhood, and all I had to do from now on was get new locks and a mean lean dog.

  The dog part I liked, but it wasn’t feasible at the moment. Changing the locks was something else.

  “Would you do me a personal favor?” I asked Nia. “When we’re finished here, would you call someone to change the locks on my front door and the two French doors? I’d also like some kind of extra security for the windows. See if you can get them over there right away. Tell them I’ll pay extra.”

  “Thinking mighty positive today, aren’t we? Paying extra?”

  Nia knew just about everything about me—how I’d gone out on a limb to open this office and buy the house in Malibu, and how hard it could be now to pay for it all.

  But she jotted down the instructions. “I do require some pay for this. You’ve got to tell me what happened last night.”

  “If you insist.” I told her from the beginning, with Lindy showing up and on through to the way we’d raced to Patrick’s house and he’d taken us in till the sheriff arrived.

  “Patrick Llewellen? He lives near you?”

  “Just a few houses down,” I said.

  “That’s pretty handy. What about the sheriff’s department? Did they find anything?”

  “Not a thing. They combed the area and asked if we had any ideas about who might have broken in, but we couldn’t tell them much.”

  “What about your friend?”

  “Lindy? I hadn’t seen her in years.”

  “So, all of a sudden she shows up and you nearly get shot in your own home? C’mon. This person must have been after her.”

  “Possible. She thought it might be her husband. He threw her out of their house a few weeks ago, and she’s been living on the streets, more or less. I just don’t know why he’d want to kill her.”

  “Well, maybe what happened last night didn’t have anything to do with her. Maybe it had to do with the three murders.”

  “I thought of that, too.”

  “Even so, what reason did she give for showing up at your door in the middle of the night?”

  “She needed a place to stay. I put her up for the night.”

  “Yikes. You took a chance, didn’t you? If you hadn’t seen her since high school? And who knows what she’s been doing on the streets?”

  “I know. But at the time it seemed the thing to do.”

  Sh
e shook her head. “What a softie.”

  “Not really. She was a friend, Nia. You wouldn’t turn away a friend who’d fallen on bad times.”

  “Ha. Just try me.”

  But her smile told me she would have done the same thing.

  “Speaking of the murders,” she said. “Do the police know yet who committed them?”

  “Not that they’ve told me. I only know they believe the three men are tied together in some way.”

  “It just seems so odd,” she said. “Two of your authors, your ex-husband, and now that break-in at your house. It really looks like…”

  “Someone’s out to get me, not Lindy,” I finished for her.

  “But why? And aren’t you afraid? Even a little bit?”

  “I think I’m too tired today to be afraid. And yesterday there was too much else happening. Once I catch up on my sleep I’ll probably be a raving maniac.”

  Nia smiled. “Let me know when that’s about to happen, will you? I’m due for a vacation.”

  “Nia! Oh my God, I forgot. You’re overdue! You were supposed to take it the minute summer started. So get going, girl. Hie ye off to Peru or one of those other metaphysical places you love, with all the vortexes and stuff.”

  “Oh, please. Like I’d really leave, with all that’s going on here now.” Nia sipped her coffee.

  “No, really, you don’t have to stay here just because of that. I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon.”

  “You aren’t getting rid of me,” she said firmly. “This is the most exciting thing that’s happened around here since Charlie Dunkle drowned in Clyde Rivera’s swimming pool last year.”

  I groaned. “Don’t remind me of that.” Dunk, Dunk, Dunkle, were the headlines emblazoned across the gossip rags. One fun night in his boyfriend’s pool in West Hollywood and poor Charlie—along with his romance novels, which had been selling so well under the pseudonym Charlene Dark—was gone forever.

  “So how was it when you found Craig?” Nia wondered. “You didn’t say much on the phone.”