Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Beau pecked Gloria on the cheek and stood up. “You’re beat. Let’s get you home.” He turned to Rick. “Tell Marie to unlock the rear door and escort Gloria there. I’m going to pull my car around.” He marched out of the room, not open to objections.

  Rick picked up the telephone receiver and punched in a number. “Marie, meet me and Gloria at the rear entrance. She’s going home. She’s under the weather. And lock the front on your way so none of those reporters sneak back here.” He offered his hand to Gloria. She didn’t take hold. “Help me, Aspen.”

  Too stubborn to admit I was in pain, I said, “C’mon, Gloria. Candace, follow us.” Together, we traipsed through the air-conditioned studio to the rear entrance.

  Marie was already there. She draped a light jacket over Gloria’s shoulders, even though the temperature outside was nearly a hundred degrees. “Hope you feel better.”

  A horn honked. Marie opened the sliding metal door and peeked out. “All clear.”

  Rick and I slipped outside with Gloria leaning heavily on me for balance. I jolted when I spied Beau in a midnight blue TrailBlazer. It was the one I’d seen at the bowling alley with the bumper sticker Stop abortion or else. Could his have been the SUV seen in Camille’s neighborhood? And in mine?

  Before I could find my voice, Beau ushered Gloria into the passenger seat and sped off.

  I tried to assure myself that Beau wouldn’t hurt her. If he was the guy sending her the notes, he’d vowed to protect her.

  “Let’s go,” Rick said, holding the door open for Candace and me to return inside. “That way to reception.” He pointed.

  “Oh, gee. I left my car keys in Gloria’s dressing room.” I hoped he wouldn’t notice the bulge in my pocket.

  “And I need the bathroom,” Candace said.

  I wasn’t sure if she was picking up on my need to scour for clues. At this point, I didn’t care.

  “Don’t be long,” Rick said and hurried in the direction of the studio. “Marie, see them out.”

  Marie closed the rear door and locked it. “By the way, what happened to your head?”

  “Brain surgery,” Candace quipped as she disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  Marie gasped.

  “She’s kidding. Small accident.” I didn’t feel the need to tell her I’d been attacked at Camille’s. “I could use some ice.”

  “Sure.”

  “Before you go, tell me about the bumper sticker on Beau’s car.”

  “His sister had a bad go of it. Some doctor in Tahoe City messed up.”

  I jolted. “Messed up how?”

  “When Stacy was pregnant, the doctor didn’t realize until, like, week twelve that the fetus was growing in the tube. It’s called ec-something.”

  “Ectopic pregnancy,” I said, knowing the dire nature of the term because a friend at BARC had suffered the same thing. The fetus wouldn’t survive in the tube, and if allowed to grow, it could threaten the mother’s life.

  Marie said, “But then she did realize it and fixed it. Stacy had an abortion.”

  “And Stacy blamed the doctor?”

  “I don’t think so. She adopted a little girl and is thrilled. Beau’s happy for her.”

  “You sure know a lot about him,” I said.

  “He’s my kids’ godfather.”

  I gawped. Beau had helped the bartender at Incline Bowl with his kid’s braces and now this? Had I misjudged him? Was he a Good Samaritan?

  “You have a child?” I said. Marie was barely past needing a babysitter herself.

  “She’s two. I’m a lot older than I look. I—”

  “Marie!”

  Three of KINC’s staff crowded the receptionist and began shouting rapid-fire questions at her: When could they get back to business? Were the vultures gone? Where was Tom?

  Seizing the distraction, I stole toward the cubicles hoping I could locate a home address for Tom. I tiptoed past the editing booth where Rick was reviewing some tapes. He didn’t glance up.

  Yellow sheriff’s tape crisscrossed the opening to Camille’s cubicle, prohibiting entry. I assumed Detective Hernandez had found everything I’d previously uncovered, including the agreement between Camille and Tom—unless Tom had squirreled it out.

  The adjoining cubicle belonged to Beau. Either he had taste or he’d hired a designer. Intriguing black-and-white photos covered the walls. The lamp and desk accessories were made of black tortoiseshell. Even a black shag rug complemented the ebony furniture.

  I heard somebody whistling—a man, not Candace. I presumed she’d returned to Gloria’s dressing room to wait for me. The whistling grew stronger. Pulse racing, I scurried into the office beyond Beau’s and crouched down. When the whistling faded, I stood up and realized I’d landed in Tom’s cubicle. Perfect.

  Like Beau’s space, a television and DVD recorder sat on a bureau against the far wall. Unlike Beau’s office, this one was a mess. Piles of books, old magazines, and used foam cups were everywhere. An old-fashioned Rolodex and stacks of paper and business cards cluttered the desk. I spotted a landline phone buried beneath a pile of papers and dreamed up a cover story about my cell phone having no connectivity and needing to contact my office.

  As I pulled on the telephone to clear it, its cord whipped up and scattered the business cards. Cursing softly, I began to gather them but paused when I noticed one for Floral Wizard, the outfit that had delivered flowers to Gloria and Camille. Having a business card didn’t prove any wrongdoing on Tom’s part, of course. I would bet he and Camille had shared all sorts of contacts.

  I twisted the knob on the Rolodex, prepared to file the card under F, when it dawned on me that Tom might notice. To my surprise, when I’d paused, I’d landed on the card for Beau Flacks. On it was a number for a relative, in case of emergencies: Stacy.

  Chapter 36

  I peeked around the cubicle wall and, seeing no one, lifted the telephone and dialed Stacy’s number.

  “Hello?” a woman answered.

  “Can I speak with Stacy?”

  “I’m Stacy. Who’s this?”

  “Um, my name is Audrey,” I said hastily. Why lie? Because Beau might have talked to her about me. “I’m a reporter for the Tahoe Tribune.”

  “Yes?” Stacy sounded like a woman with a lot of time on her hands, the kind who responded to all telephone surveys.

  “You were a patient of Dr. Kristin Fisher, a woman who was killed in Lake Tahoe, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I was her patient for a nanosecond.”

  “I’m working on the angle that a pro-life advocate might have killed the doctor. I was wondering—”

  “You want to talk about my abortion?” Stacy groaned. “Boy, I tell one personal interest story to a newspaper and everybody wants to glom on. What did you do, run an Internet check and come up with all the names of women in the U.S. who confessed to having an abortion?”

  “I—”

  “Look, I agreed to do that article for the Phoenix Times because women needed an insider’s perspective on how it felt to have her body invaded. There’s no shame in having an abortion when it’s necessary to survival, you know? But there’s pain and loss, and women need to know that.”

  “Of course, they—”

  “Women need to band together. We need to take care of ourselves. Men won’t do it for us.”

  I could picture Stacy on a stage with a microphone in hand.

  “Look, I heard about Dr. Fisher’s murder. It never occurred to me that her willingness to do an abortion would factor into it.”

  “We’re not sure it does.”

  “Look, I was going to die. I chose to live. And my resulting infertility wasn’t Dr. Fisher’s fault.”

  Aha. So that was why she had adopted.

  “I had a mess of a uterus. Everyone I knew, even the pro-lifers, suggested I abort. I did a lot of soul searching, and I guarantee that any woman who goes into a doctor’s office for that kind of operation has taken the time t
o think about it. She has discussed it with her loved ones. Neither she nor anyone she loves is going on some doctor-killing rampage afterward.” She paused and clicked her tongue. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “I’m with the Tribune,” I said, not repeating my phony name.

  “Look, if you want more, read the article I gave the Phoenix Times. It’s all in there.”

  When Stacy ended the call, I took a moment to reflect on Beau. If his sister was at peace with her decision, then perhaps he was, too, and I needn’t worry about him escorting Gloria home.

  I reconsidered Tom. Where was he? Did he have an alibi for the time Camille was killed?

  I rotated the Rolodex to search for his home address.

  “There you are!” Candace raced in and thrust a DVD at me. “Look at this.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I knew you had your keys. I could see they were in your pocket. So I decided to snoop, like you.” She tapped the DVD. “You’ve got to see this. Remember the segment we watched with Gloria and Miss Tejeda? Beau’s name was listed as the director.”

  “Doesn’t he direct them all?”

  “This one’s different. It has Rick Tamblyn’s name on it. So I watched it. Is it okay to play it here?”

  “Yes.” Her excitement was infectious. I was all in. If we got caught, we got caught.

  She slipped the DVD into the machine, grabbed the TV remote, and queued it up.

  What came into view on the screen was the Tejeda segment, but it was being shot from a different angle, paralleling the other DVD we’d viewed. Gloria and Vaughn were attaching their microphones to their raincoats while discussing the nasty weather. As in the other DVD, a viewer targeted Vaughn with the squirt gun, after which they exchanged terse words. Following that, Gloria approached Miranda Tejeda, who was holding her clever sign regarding literacy.

  “Look.” Candace pointed at the screen, savoring her role as spy.

  “What?” I felt the stitches tugging at my scalp. “I don’t see anything different.”

  Amid countless umbrellas were people holding rain-drenched signs broadcasting their home states.

  “There.” Candace tapped the screen. “See them? Tripp and his dad.”

  “Where?” I peered harder. I didn’t see anyone that bore a resemblance.

  “In the hooded jackets. By the red umbrella. You missed them. I’m going to rewind.” She did and pressed Play. “There.” She paused the DVD.

  I gasped. Finn Ambrose and his son, huddling beneath black rain ponchos, looked like a pair of Grim Reapers. Finn told me he’d left KINC the moment his stint was canceled. In addition, he’d said he didn’t know Miranda Tejeda.

  He’d lied.

  Chapter 37

  Nick answered his cell phone with a hushed, “What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” I asked as I steered Candace toward KINC’s reception area.

  “Ambrose Alley. I can’t talk—” He coughed.

  “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  “Where are we going?” Candace asked.

  “I’m taking you back to the office then I’m going to meet Nick in South Lake Tahoe.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why? Isn’t it safe?” Her voice rose with heart-wrenching anxiety.

  “Of course it’s safe,” I said. I didn’t want her to worry, although my getting clobbered by a potted plant hadn’t helped on that front.

  “You’re hurt. I need to stay with you.”

  “Candace—” I pushed through the door to the lobby.

  “There you are.” Marie rose from her desk to offer me an ice pack.

  I took it and eyed the reporters standing outside the front door. “Could you let us out?” I asked.

  Marie moved to the door, unlocked it, and with the authority of a bouncer bellowed, “Stand back.”

  Candace and I squeezed through and hurried to the Jeep. A skinny male reporter trailed us shouting questions. Neither of us responded.

  Once we were inside the vehicle, Candace said, “You think I’m too young to understand, don’t you?” She buckled her seat belt. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  I ditched the bag of ice on the car floor and drew in a deep breath. “Finn Ambrose might get mad about what you and I discovered.”

  “Tripp won’t be. I’ll hang out with him.”

  “No. This discussion is at an end.”

  Candace crossed her arms and huffed. I remembered doing the same thing whenever my parents shut me out of an argument. I’d survived. So would she.

  While driving, I phoned my aunt and explained the situation. Like Candace, Max wasn’t fond of my plan, but I convinced her that I was feeling fine. All I was going to do was deliver evidence to Nick, and then I’d return to the office.

  Candace and I arrived in record time. Without saying a word, she clambered out of the car and trudged up the path.

  When I arrived at Ambrose Alley, I left the Jeep with valet parking and stepped inside the casino. Ignoring the stares of patrons studying my weird hairdo, I sneaked past the elevator guard, who was busy giving a guest directions, and stole into the penthouse-only elevator. Quickly, I entered the four digits I’d seen the guard use on the keypad, and the lift moved upward.

  Although the trip to the top floor seemed endless, I was thankful that the elevator didn’t plunge. When the doors opened, I charged down the hall toward Finn Ambrose’s residence. The front door was open.

  I stepped inside and came to a stop when I realized there was a full house. Finn Ambrose was perched on the sofa. Beside him sat a somber man with silver hair and a hawk’s beak for a nose. In his dark suit and Hermes tie, he reeked of power and money. Behind the sofa stood Jules, allying herself with Finn, her back erect and fists clenched. Just how much did she know? Would she ditch him if he was guilty?

  Sorcha McRae stood beside Jules. So much for visiting her brother. She was dressed again in her typical black shirt, black pants. Her gaze shot in my direction. What part was she playing in the drama?

  Nick’s face was ashen. The collar of his starched white shirt was drenched with perspiration. He spied me and said to the group, “Excuse me a moment.” He strode to me and clutched my elbow. “You should be in bed.”

  I knew he was right. I was sweating more than he was, but I didn’t budge. “You’re the one who looks ill,” I countered.

  “Touch of flu. Came on suddenly. Maybe food poisoning.”

  “You’re overworked. Go home. Let Hernandez handle this.”

  “Can’t. We’re stretched thin. Why are you here?”

  “Finn Ambrose lied. He knew Miranda Tejeda.” I held out the DVD and explained what I’d seen on it. “The only victim you can’t connect Finn Ambrose to is Dr. Fisher. If you look harder, maybe—”

  “It’s no use,” Nick said. “Ambrose’s lawyer is stonewalling everything. He won’t let us look at any of the casino’s vehicles without a search warrant.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “We’re working on getting a telephonic one.” The telephonic search warrant was a means of obtaining a warrant when a judge wasn’t in chambers. Judges were on call in the evening, on weekends, or holidays. Not all warrants were guaranteed, however.

  “Detective Sergeant Shaper,” Hawk Nose said.

  I pivoted. Nick stepped away from me.

  “If there’s nothing further, you should leave the premises,” the lawyer said. “We have a meeting with investors in ten minutes.”

  Finn stared at Nick with a gaze as placid as Lake Tahoe at sunrise. A smile graced his lips. I wanted to throttle him.

  Nick said, “I’ll go, but I’ll be back. With the warrant. And if I were you, Mr. Ambrose, I wouldn’t have your hotel’s delivery vehicles detailed quite yet. You wouldn’t want to be accused of interfering with our investigation, would you?”

  Finn remained unfazed.

  I accompanied Nick to the lobby and out of the casi
no. He paused next to a column near the valet stand, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and checked his cell phone for messages. I did the same and noticed I had missed two calls. One from an anonymous number and the other from Gloria.

  I moved to one side so I could listen to Gloria’s message first. She was home and doing much better. Beau was being the perfect nurse. She said if she sounded a little loopy, it was because she’d taken a sleep aid. She was going down for a long nap.

  The next call was from the delivery girl, Laila, left at six thirty a.m., hours before Gloria’s message. “Miss Adams, it’s Monday morning. I’m out caving because, well, I am, and anyway”—she sounded out of breath—“I saw the guy again. The one I told you about. This time I can describe him. Call me on my cell phone.” She rattled off the number.

  I raced to Nick, who was also on the phone. “I just got a message—”

  Nick held up his hand, warning me to be quiet. “Are you kidding me? On my way.” He ended the call.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Nick flashed his badge at the valet and handed him a ticket stub. “Get my car. Pronto.” He turned to me. “You remember the delivery girl you told me about? Laila Walton?”

  The tension in his tone made my heart leap into my throat.

  “I sent King to interview her, but the girl didn’t show up for work. Her boss said Laila never missed a day and that the girl often went caving before her shift began.”

  “Yes, she’s caving. I got a message.” I held up my cell phone. “She—”

  “Laila’s no-show had her boss worried, so she dialed 911,” Nick continued. “Laila’s dead. Murdered. In a remote cave.”

  “Oh, no.” Tears sprang to my eyes. She was so young.

  “King is there now,” he went on. “What do you bet Ambrose has an alibi for this one, too?”

  “Do you want to go back and ask him?”

  “And get stonewalled? No.”

  “If only I’d seen Laila’s message earlier.” A thought occurred to me. “Tom,” I blurted. “Regent.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a spelunker and I think he owns a Navigator. It’s as big as a Suburban. Plus, he’s left-handed. What if he killed Laila and Camille and—”