Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “I’m sure she is,” Dixie said.

  “Mother never misses a good party.” Sarina-the-young-sophisticate showed she could make a hit with all ages.

  The Berinsons beamed at her, pointed out the bar and food, then moved on to their other guests. Dixie steered Sarina toward the bar, positioning herself where she could see Parker and the “client” he was with. She should go out there, introduce herself to the woman. Walk up casually, laughing, as if she hadn’t been watching them together. Wrap a possessive arm around Parker. She could introduce Sarina. She should do almost anything other than stand here. But a bit of Barney’s sage advice popped into her mind: If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. In a courtroom, or on the highway tracking down skips, she could run with the biggest. Here she felt small.

  She ordered two club sodas with a twist.

  “Soda?” Sarina scoffed. “Totally unoriginal. I’ll have San Pellegrino.”

  “No alcohol,” Dixie said.

  “Sparkling water,” the bartender translated.

  Dixie turned away from the man’s smarmy smile. Since when had water become so damned complicated?

  “Make it two.” She didn’t really like club soda anyway. She wondered if the new yacht owners were going to sail around the world in this luxurious tub, and when Joanna and Alan would finally show up, and who the hell was the blonde Parker was talking to, and why the hell had she agreed to come here in the first place?

  “Tell me about Alan Kemp.” She ushered Sarina toward a window where they could look out at the shoreline. “Your mother said she hasn’t seen him in years. How did he know where to find you?” Through a forward porthole, she could see Parker and the blonde. He was laughing, not a pretentious, polite laugh, but the real thing. They looked good together, both tall, attractive, totally at ease.

  “No big mystery,” Sarina said. “Billboard would’ve carried the film’s location. Cast, crew, all that.”

  “Has he ever visited any other film she was on?”

  “Not that I remember.” Sarina stared into her glass, worrying the swizzle stick back and forth. “You don’t think it was Alan who sent Mother those notes, do you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” With all his charm, good looks, and sex appeal, something about the man didn’t ring true. “His arriving on precisely the same day as you and your mother bears noticing, that’s all.”

  “But Mother and Alan haven’t seen each other in years. And Alan was in Brussels when those cards were sent.”

  “You know that for certain, do you?”

  “His E-mail—”

  “Can be sent from anywhere. He said he arrived in the States yesterday, but if he’s the stalker, isn’t that what he’d want us to believe?”

  The girl shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “How often do they keep in touch?”

  “They talk on the phone once or twice a year. He always sends gifts at birthdays and Christmas.”

  “On the flight from Los Angeles, do you remember seeing anyone who might have been Kemp in disguise? Different hair, eyeglasses, maybe padded clothing—?”

  “I don’t remember anyone like that.” Sarina set her drink down and frowned at the carpet. “They’re not close cousins, I mean by blood. Before Mother married Dad, I think she and Alan had a … a thing going.” She looked worried.

  Dixie patted the girl’s arm reassuringly.

  “Listen, kid, it’s my job to be suspicious. Most of the time my suspicions are unfounded, which is exactly how I like it.” Parker and the blonde had disappeared around the deck. Dixie inched along the rail, bringing them back in view. “Now, tell me about Tori Pond.”

  “The wardrobe tech?”

  “You said she showed up at the studio where Joanna was working after they met on a cruise.” At the ship’s rail, the woman took Parker’s arm and pointed toward something on shore.

  “Tori hung out with us the whole trip,” Sarina said.

  “Could she be jealous of your mother? A wanna-be actress, maybe?” Dixie couldn’t get past the notion that the stalker’s messages were too hokey to be real. Like a bad TV movie. Belle had made a good point—criminals were more likely to be crude than clever. But the notes Joanna received were neither.

  “Dixie, Mother’s had fans before who got totally intense. I don’t see why she’s making such a fuss this time.”

  “Has any fan ever threatened you before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s why your mother’s treating this one differently.”

  The girl puffed out her cheeks and picked up her glass to worry the swizzle stick some more.

  “Did you and Joanna continue the friendship with Tori Pond after she joined the studio’s staff?”

  “Tori doesn’t come to our house, if that’s what you mean. It’d be okay with me. She does incredible things with costumes and makeup. But a wardrobe tech is not exactly the crowd my mother hangs with.”

  “There was a tall, red-haired kid who followed your mother around on the set, handing her things—”

  “Hap Eggert.” Sarina grinned. “Hap’s cool. His mother costarred on some of the Guerilla Gold segments. Hap’s been in the business forever, works lighting, sometimes camera crew, whatever.”

  A waiter stopped beside Parker with a tray of drinks. He took one for himself and handed one to his “client.” When they touched glasses before drinking, Dixie’s throat tightened.

  “Were Pond and Eggert”—Dixie hesitated—“and the director—on the same flight from LA as you and your mother?”

  “Sure, but … Dixie, we’re all like family, even the techs. You’re not going to hassle them, are you?”

  “As I said, it’s my job to be suspicious.”

  “Is that why you’re spying on your boyfriend instead of walking right up and telling that blonde to get lost?”

  “I’m not spying.” Dixie felt her face flush. “Not exactly. I mean, they’re only talking. Parker’s a salesman, he talks to people. It’s business.”

  “Dixie, maybe he thinks it’s business, but she is Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction!”

  The woman did look awfully intense as she leaned toward Parker in a dress much too revealing for the weather.

  “Dixie, go get your man!” Sarina swiveled her gaze toward the loading ramp and smiled wickedly. “And I’m going to get mine.”

  Her mother and Alan Kemp had arrived, and the young man from the shuttle had boarded with them. Dixie watched Sarina-the-sophisticate slink in their direction. When Dixie looked back, Parker spotted her. He waved. The blonde glanced at Dixie, but suddenly seemed to have other interests. As Parker strolled across the deck, he looked so good, Dixie couldn’t blame the woman for wanting to scoop him up.

  Sauntering up beside her, he leaned close and whispered, “You look nice. Really nice. Thanks for coming.”

  Nice? That was a long way from smashing.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” She wished they were at home, curled up with Mud and Jay Leno.

  “Did you meet our hosts?” Parker gently plucked a piece of lint off her new jacket.

  “Yes. I’m glad you sold them this boat. They seem to be enjoying it. They seem to enjoy each other.”

  He nodded. “Like high school sweethearts. Hard to believe they’ve been married over forty years.”

  Dixie watched the couple conversing with their celebrity guest. Other guests crowded round. Sarina and the young shuttle driver stood together at the rail, well away from the others, and close enough to be in Dixie’s protective reach in a few strides. Couples, couples, couples, everywhere she looked.

  “I expected everyone here to be elderly,” Dixie told Parker. “But most seem to be … our age … or even younger.”

  “The Berinsons’ children, their friends. Come on. We should mingle.”

  Mingling was exactly what Dixie loathed about parties. Mingling meant making intelligent conversation with people she didn’t know and had nothing in common with. W
hat should she say, “Did you notice those thugs on TV last night? I caught up with those old boys down in Monterey, after they skipped bail. And how was your week?”

  But Parker was a consummate “mingler,” and in minutes they were talking to a man who raised emus. Dixie kept an eye on Sarina. At the same time, she tried to keep track of Alan Kemp, another good mingler. Wherever he was, whoever he talked to, his eyes never seemed to leave Joanna. Exactly what business had brought him to Houston? Dixie wondered.

  The emu man was funny. As he told a long, convoluted tale about his emu farm, Dixie found herself relaxing. After the story reached its punch line, Parker looked at their empty glasses.

  “What are you drinking?”

  The man said Scotch, Dixie said soda, unable to remember the name of the sparkling water, and Parker wandered off for refills. Shortly, a waiter appeared with their drinks.

  Surprised, Dixie looked around for Parker. She spotted him at the bar, talking to the blonde.

  Chapter Twenty

  Following a taxi with Joanna and Alan Kemp back to the Four Seasons Hotel, Dixie decided this was one day she was glad to see end. She couldn’t recall one thing that had gone right. To top off the uncomfortable evening, a black spot had appeared out of nowhere and landed on the crotch of her new white pants. The club soda-removal trick someone suggested only made it worse. Everybody she talked to the rest of the night seemed to adopt a frozen-faced stare to avoid looking at the stain. And Parker spent most of the evening talking with his blond “client.”

  To be fair, Dixie hadn’t been the ideal date, unable to dance, unwilling to be far from Sarina. How could she blame Parker for being less than attentive? But dammit, he’d wanted her there, hadn’t he? The strain between them had not lessened. Would he be at home when she got there? Maybe by the time she saw Sarina safely into the hotel suite, and investigated something that had been nagging her since seeing that latest valentine, she’d have figured out what to say when she finally faced him.

  Sarina hopped out of the Porsche. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait! I’m going up with you.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll ride up with Mother and Alan.”

  “I need to check out the suite.”

  “Okay. We won’t go inside until you get there.”

  “Sarina, I’ll only be a minute here. Wait up.”

  “C’mon, what can happen between here and the hotel room? Are you planning to hold my hand in the shower, too?”

  Using her new cane for support, Dixie eased out of the Targa. Her foot ached from standing on it all evening. She accepted a valet ticket and steered the teenager toward the entrance.

  “Sarina, you can do this my way or you can break in a new bodyguard.”

  “Unbelievable! You’re making a big deal over a two-minute elevator ride. What about Mother? If Alan’s the stalker, isn’t she in danger, too?”

  Joanna and Alan Kemp were disappearing behind the elevator’s gold-tone doors.

  “I wasn’t hired to protect your mother.”

  The girl blinked at Dixie, then her eyes narrowed with understanding.

  Dixie glanced at her watch. Parker should be home by now, settled down with Mud in front of the fireplace.

  “You’re saying you’d let my mother walk into danger, while you’re protecting me?”

  “The only way this kind of job can be done is to set priorities. Your safety is my priority. You’re the one the stalker threatens.” Dixie chose her next words carefully. “If you and Joanna were both in a killer’s gun sight, I would save you. Then I’d help Joanna if I could.”

  Sarina scuffed her shoe over a matted spot on the carpet, mouth thinned into a stubborn line. Then she crossed her arms and stared at the elevator doors until they opened. The day hadn’t been bad enough, new Dixie had the kid mad at her, which meant tomorrow would begin on a sour note.

  Upstairs, Joanna had kicked off her shoes and was on the phone ordering room service, while Alan sat on the sofa, reading aloud from the menu. The scent of too many flowers thickened the air. Dixie spotted a fresh arrangement on the bar separating the sunken sitting room from a tiny dining area beyond it. She sauntered over and angled a glance at the attached card. Knock ’em dead, Joanna. No signature. Another bouquet from her agent?

  Snatching up the television remote, Sarina perched on a sofa arm and punched the POWER button, then looked over Alan’s shoulder.

  “Pizza,” she said. “Huge, with everything except anchovies. How about you, Dixie?”

  No sulk in her voice. Had she already decided not to be mad?

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Dixie felt a peculiar relief. She had enough to deal with tonight. “I just came up to use your telephone—when your mother’s finished.” She’d purposely left her cell phone in the Porsche’s trunk. “Meanwhile, I guess the bathroom is through there?”

  She strolled offhandedly toward the bedrooms.

  “Yeah.” Sarina rolled her eyes behind Kemp’s back. “There’s another phone, too, if you want privacy.”

  “Thanks.” Dixie shut the bedroom door behind her and quickly searched the closets and under beds. In different circumstances, she would’ve swept the entire suite before Sarina and her mother set foot in it. But Belle had warned that the film star was as stubborn as a fed mule about maintaining a low profile, and Joanna had indicated as much when she introduced Dixie to her cousin Kemp. Searching the hotel suite had to be totally, as Sarina would say, unobvious.

  Dixie also wanted to satisfy a hunch. A hunch she hoped wouldn’t pan out.

  The enormous bathroom had twin sinks, a shower, a whirlpool bathtub, a separate area for the toilet and bidet, and locking doors that opened into the bedrooms. It didn’t take long to see that everything was fine. Fine, that is, unless they’d brought the stalker home with them.

  The door popped open just as Dixie rose from looking under the bed. Sarina poked her head in.

  “Mother’s off the phone.”

  “Okay. I won’t be long.”

  Lifting the extension, Dixie dialed Belle’s unlisted number. She loved interrupting the lawyer’s evenings. When Belle answered, Dixie quietly filled her in on Kemp’s opportune visit, suggested a background search, then rattled off the other questions on her list.

  “I don’t feel good about your leaving them alone while Kemp’s in the hotel suite,” Belle said when she’d finished. “Maybe you should spend the night.”

  “That wasn’t part of our deal.” Besides, even though she was suspicious of Kemp’s motives, Dixie’s hunch might eliminate him as the stalker. “You said Joanna wanted me to disappear when Sarina was with her.”

  “I didn’t know she might invite the viper back to her own nest.”

  “Kemp’s probably exactly what he claims to be—a reporter who happened into town, saw his cousin was filming here, and dropped by to say howdy. Doesn’t make sense that he’d stalk Joanna after not seeing her for ten years. Checking him out is just part of doing the job right.”

  A resigned sigh issued from the phone. “I alerted hotel security. I suppose that’s the best we can do.”

  “No. If you’re really worried, you can hire round-the-clock surveillance, not only for Sarina but for Joanna.”

  Belle’s silence stretched until Dixie wondered if she’d disconnected. “Trust me, Flannigan, Joanna won’t budge on this subject.”

  As Dixie cradled the phone, she scanned the bedroom. Judging by the bug-faced space monster residing on the dresser, this was Sarina’s room.

  Beyond the door, a Lexus commercial changed abruptly to a sitcom. The kid would be busy for a while, manipulating the TV control. Dixie slid open dresser drawers and riffled stacks of cotton underwear, black and gray T-shirts, and jeans. Then she opened the closet to search through jackets and shoes. Inside the pocket of a black designer bathrobe with “SP” embroidered in gold, she found what she’d prayed wouldn’t be there: a white paper sack with a brand-new valentine inside, along with a cash registe
r receipt and a red felt-tip pen—as red as the spot on Sarina’s thumb that morning.

  According to the receipt, the pen and three cards had been purchased at a gift shop in the Los Angeles airport. A tan smear on the side of the bag caught Dixie’s eye. She sniffed it. Peanut butter, the same odor that had puffed out of the Ziploc bag that held the second valentine at Belle’s office.

  Sarina was Joanna’s stalker.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Arriving home to see the familiar wisp of chimney smoke in the night sky. Dixie’d felt a rush of relief that quickened her spirits like sunshine after a long rainstorm. She found Parker stoking a blaze of pecan shells in the fireplace. And now she was curled in her favorite club chair in the living room, a woolly afghan over her lap, her hands wrapped around a warm mug. Parker had made hot buttered rum.

  Mud, having lapped up his own small measure of the savory drink, lay with his muzzle across Dixie’s good foot. He snapped to attention when Parker tossed him a homemade cookie.

  “I don’t understand why the kid would want to terrorize her own mother,” Parker said.

  Dixie had related what she’d found in Sarina’s bathrobe pocket.

  “I stood in that closet doorway at least two minutes, staring at the valentine and the red pen and the peanut butter smear, and asking myself that exact question. Sarina obviously sent the cards. But why?”

  Dixie didn’t want to talk about the blonde at the party, or the fact that Parker had barely said a dozen words to Dixie the entire two hours she was on the boat. But she did want to talk. She wanted them to get past the disagreement about her job. Maybe keeping him involved, letting him know what she was doing, would dispel some of his anxiety.

  “The thing is,” Dixie explained, “if Sarina sent the cards, then she was never in danger. Joanna had no reason to hire a bodyguard, no reason to worry about her daughter—except whether the kid’s psychotic. But why would Sarina play such a mean prank on her mother?”