by Rick Copp
When we got back to the room at the Ritz Plaza, Charlie sat me down on the bed. “I meant what I said in the car,” he said.
“I know. So did I.”
He stared at me sharply, trying to read my face for any signs of insincerity.
“From the moment we met, until now, and forever,” I said.
“So you’re not leaving me for some muscle-bound ex–Navy Seal with his own boat?”
“Never was, never will,” I said.
Charlie slowly nodded, considering, and then he said, “Well, I’m leaving you. Your director, Larry Levant, came out to me on the set, and we really hit it off, and one thing led to another and well—”
I whacked him with the pillow. We both laughed. I started to unzip his black wetsuit all the way down to the lower regions when the phone suddenly rang, disrupting the mood. Sighing, I scooped it up and said impatiently, “Yes, what is it?”
I heard a bright, cheery, familiar voice. “Hi, Jarrod, it’s me, Amy Jo.”
“Hi, Amy Jo. What’s up?”
“Well, given the recent tragedy, the producers have decided to shut down production indefinitely.” I had forgotten that some people might consider Juan Carlos’s death a tragedy.
“I see. Well, I’m sure it’s for the best.”
“So we need all of the cast to clean out their trailers ASAP,” she said. “Like right now.”
“It’s kind of late, isn’t it?” I said.
“Most of the cast did it this afternoon. You were nowhere to be found. I kept calling and calling. You really should tell us when you’re going to take off like that.” Mean, vicious Amy Jo was suddenly reemerging.
“I’ll get my stuff first thing in the morning.”
“We really need you to do it now, Jarrod. The crew wants to pack up all their equipment and caravan it back to California in the morning. And we promised the city of Coral Gables we would leave the park cleaner than when we found it, and that won’t happen if your belongings are littered all over the place.”
“Fine. I’ll go out there now.”
“Good. I sure do appreciate your cooperation,” she said, her mind already onto her next job. I was about to hang up when Amy Jo said, “Oh, Jarrod, by the way, some guy left a message for you at the production office about an hour ago.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say. But he said he left you something in the tool shed on the set, and you really need to go pick it up.”
“What tool shed?”
“You know, the one out in the woods a few feet from the set. Stella from makeup keeps some hairbrushes and hand mirrors, stuff like that in there for safekeeping. But she couldn’t find the key this morning, and that thing’s a bitch to open. So bring a crowbar.”
“Did the person say what it was he left me?”
“No. Just that it’s someone you’ve been looking for.” She paused and then giggled. “The receptionist must have written this down wrong. It has to be ‘something,’ not ‘someone.’ She makes it sound like there’s a person in there.”
“Thanks, Amy Jo,” I said robotically as I hung up the phone and looked at Charlie, my face drawn and pale.
“What is it?” Charlie said. “What’s wrong?”
“I think I know where Wendell Butterworth stashed Rudy Pearson’s body.”
Chapter 33
After I told Charlie what Wendell had said about the tool shed and not having to drag Rudy’s body far, he unzipped his suitcase, rummaged through it, and drew out his gun. He stuffed it into his shoulder holster. “I’m going with you this time,” he said.
“Believe me,” I said, “I’m not about to go out there without you.”
We headed out the door and down the hall.
“Do you know where the shed is?” Charlie said.
“I’m not sure I remember ever seeing it. But it has to be in the vicinity of the set.”
We reached the bank of elevators, and I pressed the “down” arrow button. After a few moments, the bell rang and the elevator doors slid open. Laurette and Larry Levant stepped off. Larry had his arm around Laurette’s waist. She was bleary-eyed and giggly.
Larry smiled weakly. “I found her in the bar. She was drowning her sorrows. She’s had a rough time of it.”
“He’s so sweet,” Laurette slurred. “Isn’t he sweet?” She turned to Charlie and me. “Well, don’t you think so?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought it was a rhetorical question. Yes, he’s very sweet.”
“And probably gay too,” Laurette said. “Just my luck. Or bi. Like my husband. I mean, my dead husband. The jerk.” Laurette teetered, but Larry’s hand on the small of her back steadied her. Laurette fought to focus, and squinted to get a good look at the two of us, or from her blood alcohol level, all six of us.
“I’ve told her four times I’m not gay, but she won’t believe me,” Larry shrugged. “What do I have to do to prove it?”
Laurette stroked a finger down his cheek. “I’ve got a few ideas.” Then, she burst into tears. “What am I doing? I’ve been a widow for less than two days.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “Juan Carlos wasn’t exactly a role model for fidelity, and I know a woman should take her time after the end of a relationship, but after what that bastard put you through, I say go for it.”
“Thanks, Jarrod,” Larry said. “She’s a cutie, isn’t she?”
I smiled. Laurette glared at me through her blurry vision.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “She is. I’m sorry, Laurette, I thought it was another rhetorical question.”
“You’re my best friend, Jarrod,” she mumbled as she started sliding down the wall. Larry had trouble holding her up. Charlie and I swooped in to give him a hand. Once Larry had her in his grasp again, Charlie and I stepped back as the bell rang again, and another elevator arrived. Charlie reached out and held the door open.
“Jarrod, we better go,” he said.
“Where are you two off to?” Laurette called out as Larry attempted to maneuver her down the hall.
“Back out to the set,” I said. “I think we may have found Rudy Pearson.”
Laurette stopped cold, grabbed the wall for support, and sobered up a bit. “Excuse me?”
“We’ll explain later. After you’ve had some coffee,” I said and got on the elevator. Laurette wrested herself free from Larry, and charged back up the hall and to the elevator. She stuck her hand in to stop the doors from closing.
“I don’t want you two going out there tonight. It could be dangerous. Call the police, and have them come with you,” she said.
“I called the police the last time, and when they showed up, I couldn’t prove anything had happened. They think I’m some screwy actor making up stories. If we find anything, then we’ll call the police.”
Charlie opened up his jacket far enough for Laurette to see his holstered gun. “We’ll be fine, Laurette,” he said.
I gently pried Laurette’s fingers off the elevator door. “I’ll call you as soon as we get back. I promise.”
“Be careful,” she said as the doors closed on her worried face.
When we reached the set in the wooded park just outside Coral Gables, most of the props and equipment had been packed up and the area cleared. There were a few trucks and trailers locked up tight in the parking lot, but no one from the crew was around. It was completely dark now, and Charlie and I stuck close together as we surveyed the area for any sign of the mysterious tool shed.
The temperature had dropped to the low fifties. It was cold for Southern Florida and there was a biting breeze that made me shiver. It also could have been the macabre circumstances of searching for a butchered body that gave me chills. I led the way, Charlie right on my heels, as we walked down a path leading away from the set. It was the spot where I had witnessed Wendell Butterworth stab the life out of Rudy Pearson. When we reached the clearing, the trees swayed ominously around us, blocking the moonlight, making it that much darker.
&
nbsp; “You see anything?” Charlie said.
“No,” I said. The truth was I was seeing a lot of things. When I was a little boy, I watched the John Carpenter horror classic Halloween on late-night TV. Jamie Lee Curtis played a nubile young babysitter stalked by a vengeful escaped mental patient named Michael Myers. He wore an eerie, white mask over his face, and stalked unsuspecting teenagers in the neighborhood accompanied by a disturbing, bone-chilling film score. It had an undeniable impact on me, and for several weeks after that, I saw the masked face of Michael Myers everywhere. On the street, outside my bedroom window, in my closet. Everywhere I turned there he was. And on this night, after all I had experienced at the hands of Wendell Butterworth, I saw his face. Everywhere. Peeking out from behind the trees, waiting for us down the path, hovering above us in a tree branch. I couldn’t shake his image, and it began working the knots in my stomach.
“Jarrod, down here!” Charlie said as he pounded off down a hidden trail I had missed. I ran after him, not wanting to lose him from my sight. When I caught up to Charlie, he was standing still in the middle of the path, his gaze fixed on a small wooden shed, about six feet in height, not more than four feet wide. There was a steel padlock around the rusted door handle.
I looked at Charlie, my eyes wide with anticipation, and the knots in my stomach twisting tighter. “You think this is it?”
Charlie shrugged. “I guess there’s one way to find out.” He picked up a rock and banged it against the padlock. Nothing. Not even a scratch. He tried again. No luck.
“Amy Jo was right,” I said. “This is going to be a bitch to open.”
“Stand back,” Charlie said, drawing his gun out of his holster. I did what I was told and Charlie aimed the barrel right up against the lock and pulled the trigger. There was a loud pop, and it made me flinch. The padlock snapped off. Charlie put his gun away and lifted the broken lock off the door handle.
“You ready?” he said.
I nodded, and watched as he gripped the handle with his right hand and slowly opened the door. The first thing I saw were Stella’s beauty supplies lined up on a small shelf that ran across the top of the shed, and then I saw him. Rudy Pearson sat almost in a lotus position on the floor, covered in dried blood, his eyes wide open in terror. Wendell had told the truth. His body had been right under our noses the whole time.
I stepped back to get a good look. “Oh, shit.”
“Come on, Jarrod, let’s call the police. This is all we need to get Wendell off the streets for good.”
Charlie started back up the path. I took a moment to stare at the dead body. Who else would have to die before the authorities realized what a menace Wendell Butterworth was to society? I took a deep breath, and turned. Charlie stood still, halfway up the path. Why had he stopped? And then, just beyond him, I saw the face of Wendell Butterworth. Was this my mind playing tricks on me again like it did when I was a kid with Michael Myers? A part of me prayed it was just my imagination, but I knew better when Charlie went for his gun. Before he could snatch it out of the holster, Wendell rushed forward with a shovel raised over his head and cracked it down on Charlie’s skull. Charlie crumpled to the ground.
“Charlie!” I yelled, and ran to him. Not even concerned with Wendell at the moment, I knelt down and saw a trickle of blood stream down Charlie’s forehead. He moaned softly. Thank God he was alive.
“Why did you betray me, boy? We had a chance to escape to a place where no one would ever bother us again, and you ran away! Why?” Wendell stepped forward, still gripping the shovel.
“Because you’ve been bad. Very bad. You’ve hurt my friends. First Bowie. Now Charlie. Who else have you hurt, Wendell?”
Wendell glanced down at the still body of Charlie and pointed an accusing finger at him. “He was the one who wanted to hurt me. I was just protecting myself. Same with the other one. And Juan Carlos.”
“What about Juan Carlos?”
Wendell didn’t answer. His fingers tightened around the wooden handle of the shovel.
“Did you poison Juan Carlos?”
Wendell’s eyes were blank, as if I were talking to a robot. He didn’t respond. He just stared off into the distance.
“Did you somehow get your hands on some of Rudy’s poison and use it to kill Juan Carlos?”
Wendell looked at the ground and shrugged, like a schoolboy brought to task for shooting a spitball.
“I don’t understand, Wendell. Why? Why would you go after Juan Carlos? The facts just don’t add up.”
“Because Wendell didn’t kill him,” a voice said from behind me. I spun around and gasped at the smiling corpse of Rudy Pearson. He was on his feet, and very much alive. “I did.”
Chapter 34
Rudy Pearson lifted his heavy body up out of the shed using the wooden door for balance. He pulled a white handkerchief out of a pocket in his trousers and began scrubbing off the dried blood on his face.
“Pretty nifty, huh?” he said. “Blood looks so real.”
I stood a few feet away from him, my mouth agape, still somewhat in a state of shock. “I don’t understand, Rudy. Why did you go to all that trouble to make it look like Wendell killed you?”
“Too many people knew I hated Juan Carlos, especially you. I would’ve been the first person the cops came looking for.”
Wendell stepped over Charlie’s inert body, and lumbered up behind me. I felt his presence, his hot breath on my neck, but stayed calm. The last thing I was going to do was make a sudden move and spook him.
“You knew I was hot on your trail after I found the monkshead poison in your room,” I said. “So you manipulated Wendell into helping you set all this up.”
Rudy grinned and nodded. He was rather proud of himself. I didn’t dare to turn and see what Wendell was doing.
It was clear now that Wendell was Rudy’s mysterious roommate at the hotel. He was the one taking a shower when I found the monkshead poison. All the facts kept spinning around in my head. It was an incredible rush of information, and I felt I was reaching up and grabbing pieces one at a time to fit into the puzzle.
“Why? Why would Wendell help you?” I said.
“Because I promised to help reunite him with his soul mate if he did as he was told. And look, I did,” Rudy said as Wendell pressed his giant hand around my bicep in a steel-like vise grip. “See how happy he is, Jarrod? Just don’t disappoint him by running away again. He suffers from separation anxiety, not to mention a white-hot temper.”
I glanced up at Wendell, who squeezed my arm so tight, the pain shot through my entire body. I winced.
“Look at the big lug,” Rudy said. “He was like a kid in the candy store when we were setting this whole thing up. He loved all the fake blood and makeup we stole from the set to make my murder look real. And the crew never even missed one of the retractable prop knives we lifted while you were shooting your death scene. Once we had you convinced Wendell had stabbed and killed me in the woods, I was free to poison that bastard Juan Carlos.”
“Now you can just disappear and start over, and Juan Carlos can never hurt you again,” I said.
“That’s right,” Rudy said, a euphoric grin slinking across his face.
“Why, Rudy? Why did you hate him so much?” I said.
Rudy clenched his fist, and stared at the ground. Just the thought of Juan Carlos sent him spiraling into an internal rage.
“Did he sleep with you too?” I said.
“No!” Rudy snapped. The thought of it disgusted him. “I’m not some love-starved, pathetic, needy, blithering idiot like that Dominique girl. I would never allow myself to manipulated by that piece of shit.”
“You two obviously have some kind of history,” I said.
“Yes, we did. When we were struggling actors, we both went up for the same parts time and time again,” Rudy said, eyeing me for my reaction.
This was indeed a surprise. I had no idea Rudy Pearson had ever acted before. And given his rather slovenly appearance, I
was hard pressed to believe he and Juan Carlos had ever competed for the same roles.
Rudy gauged my reaction and sighed. “I used to look a lot different.”
I didn’t want to set him off so I remained silent, still very much aware of the giant hand squeezing my left arm and the formidable presence of a much taller Wendell Butterworth standing behind me.
“It was the late nineties,” Rudy said. “I gotta tell you, I was a real hunk. Worked out every day. Surfed on the weekends. My acting teacher kept telling me I was leading man material in my scene study class. But I just couldn’t catch a break. My manager wasn’t sending me out on any auditions. My prospects looked pretty bleak. I was about to quit the business and start looking around for something else to do, when a friend of mine came to me and said he heard they were looking for a good-looking, sexy guy around my age to play a professional rugby player from England to romance Tori Spelling for a story arc on Beverly Hills 90210. Man, I was perfect. I had just finished a short run doing a Noël Coward play at one of those small equity waiver theaters on Santa Monica Boulevard. I had perfected an English accent, and I knew how to play rugby. But my manager was useless. She said she couldn’t even get me in to see the casting director. So I took matters into my own hands. I bluffed my way in. And I blew her away. I remember her saying, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ She took me straight to the producers and they loved me. I even tested with Tori. We flirted. I could tell she thought I was cute. It was pretty much a done deal.”
Rudy let the stained handkerchief slip from his fingers and drop to the ground. He kept staring at the ground, remembering. “I had it in the bag. My manager, who actually took me out to dinner after she got the call, was busy negotiating the contract. I was going to appear in seven out of the first thirteen episodes of the new season, with an option for more. I had such a good feeling about it. I kept having dreams that I’d make such a great impression, they would reshoot the opening credits so they could put me in with the other cast members. You know, shots of me on the beach messing around with Luke Perry and Jason Priestly, pinching Jennie Garth’s ass. That kind of stuff.”