"Two of the three, I’m afraid."
"Well you don’t seem to be looking over your shoulder, so it must be the first two. Is there something I can do to help?" Dane leaned back in the booth, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched Peter squirm. "I thought you were pretty well set when you left here."
"I’m truly embarrassed to even be here. Your generosity was not taken lightly, my friend. When I went home, I took one-half of the money you gave me and started a small publishing company. I, uh, invested the other half."
Dane nodded slowly.
"I lost it all."
"Do you have debts? How much do you need?"
"No, no debts, thank the good Lord. I paid off everybody and closed the business. Took me last pound and a bit o’ begging to get here." Peter cleared his throat and took another swig. Dane waited.
"No, all I need is for you to point me in the direction of some stable employment. A job. You know my skills, you have a lot of contacts…"
Dane wet his lips and shifted positions. "And where does the woman fit in?"
Peter drew in a deep breath that culminated in a sigh. "She was part of the publishing deal."
"Ah. I take it she found all kinds of ways to spend your money."
"Something like that. Anyway, she’s now waitin’ tables in Southend. East of London."
"Okay. When can you start?"
"You have something in mind?"
"Ever been to Wyoming?"
~ * ~
"You don’t have any women living up there, do you?"
Dane grinned, opening the door to the second bedroom in the house on the beach. "Nope. A girl comes around to clean up sometimes. You can stash your stuff here for a few days, then I’ll ship you off."
"Thanks, mate. Couldn’t have asked for a better arrangement. Anything you want me to do right away?"
"Yeah. A couple of things." Dane rubbed his fingers across his lips in thought. "First, get me a personal trainer. Female, preferably. Somebody that will come here, and help me get rid of this." He slapped his stomach in demonstration. "You might want to go shopping, buy a bunch of healthy crap."
"And?"
"And… call Jessie. Tell her you’re back."
"Jessica? And how is our lady doing these days? Awful thing about Mac, eh?"
"She’s doing okay. It’s been tough for awhile."
"That’s it? Just say I’m back?"
"Get her to invite you to lunch or something."
Peter turned his head to the side, peering at Dane in suspicion. "And the purpose of this meeting would be?"
"No real purpose, she’s just lonely these days, and I thought she’d like to see an old friend."
"If that’s the case, why don’t you just invite her over here for dinner? I can still cook."
"Look. It’s complicated. She’s a little annoyed with me right now, and…"
"And you want me to find out if she’s really peeved or not?"
"Find me a trainer."
~ * ~
Trina Vidal was right on time and brought her own music. She wasted no time in getting Dane onto the floor.
"You realize," he said, breathless between sets, "this deal has to remain an absolute secret."
"Don’t worry. No loose lips here. And I don’t talk in my sleep, either." Her shining red hair tied up on top of her head, the trainer was a picture of female fitness without being muscular. Her measurements surely defined standards for the "perfect woman."
"You have a special event you’re working for? A role, maybe? I helped Keanu Reeves get ready for Unlawful Demands."
"I thought you said you didn’t talk," Dane panted.
"If people tell me not to, I don’t. Keanu doesn’t care. There wasn’t much to do anyway, he was already in great shape."
"Hmmm." Dane groaned to himself.
"I want you to think about something else," she said, walking around him as he worked. "Consider this a change in lifestyle, not just a ‘get fit quick’ routine. You need to make better decisions about your life."
"Whatever you say."
"No, really. It’s about doing all things differently, not just the eating and exercising. If you want to improve things, you have to work on all areas."
Dane ignored her sage advice, choosing to focus on his breathing, which was becoming labored.
"So what is it? A film, or just health?" Trina asked.
"I’m going to model for the cover of a romance novel."
She gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, right. You’re favoring your left leg. What’s up with that?"
"Old injury."
"Sports? War? Trip over a crosswalk?"
"Confrontation with a gang."
"That’s a good one. I was sure you were going to say a woman did that to you."
"That, too."
Before she left, Trina made him an agenda that included daily routines of exercise, tankards of water and a vegetable-rich diet.
"The water will help clear out the toxins, and from the look of you, I’d say--"
"Did I ask your opinion?"
"As a matter of fact, it’s part of what you’re paying for. So as I was saying, you’re in pretty bad--"
"I’ll see you Tuesday. Bye."
Trina Vidal found herself on the porch, bag in hand.
Peter arrived just moments after the trainer drove away. "Broccoli, carrots, Brussels sprouts, all pretty standard," he said, perusing the list.
"So what did she say?"
"Who?"
"Damn you, man. Jessica. What’s up?"
"She’s even more beautiful than I remember. She’s tougher now. Has very definite ideas about what she wants."
Dane grunted and resumed his sit-ups. Sweating, straining, cursing, he finally lay back, staring at the ceiling, his mind far from the number of sets he had just completed. Hoisting himself up, he went to the kitchen for another bottle of water.
"So, she didn’t ask about me," he murmured to himself, downing the water and tossing the empty into the new recycle barrel under the sink.
Peter followed from the living room. "She asked about you," he said, opening the refrigerator. "You have nothing on this list, y’know."
"What did she say about me?"
"Just asked how you were. I told her you were pining your damned life away."
Dane glared at him, but was pleased nonetheless. She had asked. That was something.
He continued to work out until he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. The following day found Peter chasing down exercise equipment of every variety, directing deliverymen to the upstairs third bedroom. A treadmill, stair-climber and multi-purpose weight machine barely fit into the formerly empty room.
Dane looked around in satisfaction as the installers connected the parts. He picked up the ringing phone in the bedroom.
"Dane, it’s Tom. Wanted you to know, Rox and I are throwing a Halloween party, if you’re going to be in town we’d love you to come."
"Not in costume…"
"Yeah, in costume."
"Shit. Like I haven’t been in costume half my damned life." Dane smiled to himself. "I could probably manage something."
"It’s a fund-raiser, you know, Make-a-Wish Foundation. A very worthy cause. Only a few weeks away, so don’t forget now. Jess is coming," Tom added.
As if I wouldn’t know that, Dane thought in amusement.
Once again stealing a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he pressed his palm against his abdomen.
"Three weeks."
~ * ~
Jessica sat in the waiting room, glancing nervously around at the others, like herself, who were sitting on hard wooden chairs.
When at last they called her name, Jessica expected some kind of recognition to pass across a face or two, but no one seemed to notice. She wondered if they, too, had received fear-instilling phone calls early this morning.
"Mrs. MacKendall, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. We didn’t want to discuss this matter on the phone, for obvious re
asons."
Frank Boston was the local head of the Federal Aviation Administration’s investigation bureau. He beckoned for her to lean closer to the desk.
"These are photos of your husband’s plane."
Jessica swallowed hard and looked closely at the photos. Try as she might, she could not comprehend the investigator’s suggestion.
"I know this is pretty difficult. It’s hard enough to see beings it’s so mangled and all, but these marks here are actually holes. Bullet holes. Made by a high-powered assault rifle."
"Bullet holes? You mean, someone… someone shot him down?" Her words came out as barely more than a whisper.
"That’s right. We’re not sure, of course, but we think someone may have intended the plane to blow up. It didn’t. Instead, it appears that he lost oil pressure. We don’t know if his oil gauge malfunctioned, or what, but he should have had time to return to the field. We don’t know why he didn’t."
"His gauge did malfunction just a couple of weeks ago. It read… it read empty when it wasn’t--and he landed immediately to check it out… oh God…"
Overcome with new grief, Jessica bowed her head and covered her face. Scenes returned to her mind, pictures of Mac at the controls of the small plane, his voice explaining each dial, gauge and knob to her as they hung suspended in the sky. His words just after his last flight home, when he’d complained about having to set down due to a bad oil gauge.
"Normally, he might have been able to turn around and get back to the airstrip. But it looks like the engine froze up… I’m sorry."
For months the question had also hung suspended: equipment malfunction, or pilot error? Now, a new revelation had reared its ugly head, answering one question and raising others.
Cory MacKendall had been murdered. But by whom, and why?
Her hands cramped into painful fists, Jessica vowed to find the answers.
Seven
Next of Kin
She had been driving around for what seemed like hours, once nearly arriving home before turning the car around and getting on the freeway heading west. It was after dark when she arrived in the upscale beach community of Malibu. The porch light was on, and she rang the doorbell.
Jessica was just about to retreat to her car when Dane answered the door.
He leaned against the doorjamb, wearing only sweat shorts, a t-shirt in his hand. His skin glistened with a fine layer of perspiration, and his face was flushed.
"What’s up?" he queried, now pulling the shirt over his head and dragging it down, then smoothing his damp hair away from his face. Before she could reply, music started playing from somewhere inside and Jessica looked past him into the house.
It only took a moment to put it all together. Jessica felt her face flush in embarrassment and took a step back.
"Oh… you’re not alone. I am so sorry! I should have called first." She turned to go.
"Wait. Is something the matter? Has something happened?"
"It can wait," she said over her shoulder as she hurried toward her car in the driveway. Dane took a step, as if thinking he would try to stop her, but Jessica turned her face away, throwing the Lexus into reverse.
Why didn’t I notice that red convertible parked at the curb? And why does it bother me so much…
~ * ~
"Finish your cereal, sweetheart. We don’t want to be late for school." Jessica steeled herself against the sound of the phone, which was ringing again in another part of the house; the kitchen unit had been turned off, and she opted to have the answering machine pick it up.
"Do we hafta go today?" Devon whined. "I wanna stay home with you."
Jessica started to protest, but held her tongue. Instead, she reached across the table to stroke her son’s cheek fondly. News of the FAA’s findings would rub new salt into their wounds.
"Okay, darling. We can stay home together today."
Devon immediately brightened and resumed eating. The telephone began ringing again, startling Jessica so that she stiffened. She was reluctant to answer but did anyway; it might be news.
Dane’s voice was rough from sleep, and Jessica sighed.
"I guess you heard," she said matter-of-factly.
"That’s why you came by last night."
"Actually, yes. I’m sorry if I disturbed you."
"Is there any more than they’re telling the media?"
"And what are they telling the media?"
"That some asshole son of a bitch shot at his plane. Is it true?"
Jessica sighed. "I thought you’d risen above that schoolyard language."
"Well, is it?"
"That’s what they told me. Someone shot him down." Calmer now, the misery of the night before locked away, Jessica presented the strongest front she could muster. "Although why anyone would want to kill Mac is… is beyond me. And you’d think with all the security around airports these days…"
Dane murmured something Jessica could not understand.
"I’m sorry?"
"I said we’ll get the bastards that did it. I promise you."
"That’s a pretty big promise," she replied tiredly. She was more than weary of the whole affair. "I saw Peter last week."
"Yeah, I heard."
"It was good to see him. He told me he’s going to manage the ranch for you. Does that mean you’ll be staying in L.A.?"
"For awhile. I’m looking at a couple of options. How’s… how are things going with your deal?"
"Mr. Romance? Oh, all right I guess. I’m meeting with Johnnie Lauder next week."
"He’s going to direct?"
"Maybe. He’s interested. Why?"
"No reason. So, you take care."
"Sure. You too."
~ * ~
John Lauder had attained moderate success in the past five years. While his last film had not taken home the Academy’s coveted Oscar, it had garnered a Golden Globe award for best direction. It was no secret in Hollywood that Lauder was primed and ready for the former’s gold statuette. He only needed the right material.
Jessica MacKendall hoped to be carrying that material in her briefcase this morning as she walked into Lauder’s Beverly Hills office.
"Awful sorry to hear about Mac," he began before he had even released her hand. "So you’re developing this on your own?"
Jessica slowed her movements as she withdrew the script from the valise, wondering if she had really detected some skepticism.
"StarCrossed Productions is developing this project."
"Right. Okay, I’m ready. Give me the pitch."
"Are you going to time me?" she asked with a flirtatious grin.
"Not if you answer one question for me."
"I will if I can."
"Why isn’t your partner directing this film?"
Momentarily taken aback by the term "partner", Jessica’s smile faded slightly and she crossed her legs.
"I guess that’s one I can’t answer. Perhaps you can ask him yourself."
"Okay. That’s fair. Go."
"Michael Harris hates his father’s mortuary business and all he can think about is moving to Hollywood to become a big star. He’s already past the youngster roles, being near thirty, but he goes anyway. Of course he has to do odd jobs to pay his way, and he rooms with another wanna-be actor, a kid ten years younger, and one day the kid gets a big break so the guy, Michael is coerced into filling in for the kid, Jason we’ll call him, on his day job as a bagboy at the local market.
"When Michael goes to get his clean clothes from the cleaners bag, he’s shocked to find a costume there instead, this being Hollywood and all. The costume is a medieval nobleman’s outfit, so he’s forced to wear it to the market.
"Of course people just kinda accept him, after all, it’s HOLLYWOOD, and he sees this beautiful woman shopping in a similar era costume, with a low cut gown--"
"Now we’re talking. Go on," the director said.
"She is leaving the store and her trailing dress gets caught on a rack of dime-stor
e romance novels and he’s the only one who sees it, so he rushes to help her and the both of them fall together into a heap of paperback books. Naturally, someone takes their picture and it appears in The Star."
"So far, so good."
"So the next thing he knows, he’s being sought out by Harlequin or someone as a model for their covers. He absolutely hates the idea, but needs the money, so goes along with it. And keeps going along with it, and one day finds out he’s a contender for Mr. Romance, a contest for all the cover models."
"So of course he goes to the contest and wins," Lauder said, nodding.
"Right. Shoulder to shoulder with all these Fabio-types. And there he meets the heroine, a tough reporter who thinks the whole deal is ludicrous and rigged--"
"Julia Roberts. Maybe Sandra Bullock. Go on."
"He finds himself fighting to defend the industry, and falling in love at the same time."
"So he changes, becomes a proponent of the romance novel business? That’s good."
"Yeah. I thought so."
"And who you got to play Michael?"
Jessica pressed her palms together.
"Dane won’t do that either?" Lauder frowned.
Coloring, Jessica shook her head briefly and then straightened. "I was hoping you had someone else in mind."
Lauder uttered a short cough and then offered her a melancholy grin. "Let me get back to you on this."
Her heart heavy, Jessica forced a meek smile and took her leave.
Driving back to the office, mortification swept over her. Damn that John Lauder. If Mac had been the one to bring the deal, Lauder would have snatched it up. If Dane had warmed to the film, they would have been in production by now.
Even egotistical Kyle Wagner had bailed out on her.
It wasn’t fair. There were certainly other women producing films in Hollywood, but they were women with more power, more history, more friends. Friends that didn’t treat them with condescension and pity.
Why did it matter? She certainly had better things to do than to tramp all over L.A. looking for someone with good taste willing to take a little risk.
Better things to do. Like trying to figure out who murdered her husband?
The offices were empty when she arrived. Dane’s desk was neat and obviously not a place he frequented; Mac’s office was a working model of a successful producer’s workplace. A box akin to an "in" basket was stacked high with scripts, some thick, some thin, some shoddily constructed and others letter perfect. Sticky notes identified some as "promising", color-indicated in yellow. The "rejected" notes were blue.
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