Sabrina answered the door wearing one of the lodge robes. Her hair was dirty and she wore no makeup, making her crimson scar seem more vivid than usual. Bella’s hands itched, wishing she could dim it with foundation and powder. But Sabrina had never let her do her makeup, refusing to attend any public events with her sister. “I don’t want to deal with the stares,” she had said once.
The two women embraced; Bella held her tightly for a moment before releasing her. There was an open bottle of wine on the table. Bella looked at her with surprise. “I’ve never seen you drink.”
“I don’t really. Well, I never wanted to in case it made it harder for Tiffany. But today I just felt like it. Would either of you like some?” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Sabrina Archer.” She held out her hand to Peter.
“No thanks on the wine,” said Peter, shaking her hand.
“Me either,” said Bella. She needed one. But she’d wait until she was back at Drake’s. She thought of Ben then, at home with Drake and Annie, probably scared out of his mind. How could this be happening? What had Tiffany Archer done to her life? This was the inevitable question. What was it that had made her self-destructive? Early fame as Stefan had suggested? Or something deeper, some seed of madness that lay in wait, dormant until the cruelties of the world made it bloom and take root? Why else would someone as talented and privileged as Tiffany Archer destroy her life? Not that she deserved to be murdered and raped, of course.
The three of them sat in the easy chairs in the sitting room. Sabrina, seeming to have forgotten her wine, folded and unfolded her hands, alternately staring at the gas fireplace and the ceiling. “I’ve arranged for her body to be sent back to Los Angeles after the coroner’s done with her. She wanted to be cremated. We talked about it once.”
“Will you have a memorial for her?” asked Bella. “I could help you, if you need it.”
“No, I don’t think so. We have no family.” Sabrina pulled on her unwashed hair. “She did good work, you know, when she was clean.”
“Sabrina, she was talented and respected by many in the industry. No one can take that away from her. Or you,” added Bella.
“But all anyone will remember is her drug use and that she was murdered. This is the legacy she’ll leave. Not her body of work.” Sabrina picked at a bandage around her thumb.
“What happened to your thumb?” asked Bella.
“I cut it yesterday. In the afternoon. Opening a box for Tiffany. New shoes she had sent up from her favorite boutique in Beverly Hills.” She fiddled further with the bandage. “Seems like a million years ago now.” Sabrina turned her gaze to Peter. “I’d give anything to know the truth. Otherwise I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind. I need to know what happened. Do you find this to be true for all victims’ loved ones?” She asked it almost clinically, as if she were conducting a survey for scientific study.
“I do.”
“No matter how horrific the end?” asked Sabrina.
“Right,” said Peter.
And then, there it was. The memory of Drake sitting with Peter in his Seattle home after Esther and Chloe were murdered. Drake had asked for every detail. “Tell me exactly.” After Peter told him every detail, he’d asked for it again. This had surprised Bella. Might it be too painful for him to know? But she understood later he wanted to measure the suffering in their final moments. They hadn’t known what was happening, Peter Ball had told him over and over. It was too quick. This had given them both a small amount of peace.
“Can I ask you a few questions?” asked Peter.
“Of course,” said Sabrina. “Anything. Not that I’ll be much help.”
“Tiffany told Ben Fleck you two had a fight. Bella tells me you said that wasn’t the case. But do you have any idea what might have triggered her binge drinking?”
Sabrina’s eyes went cold; she waved her hands around dismissively. “Anything could trigger her binges. She didn’t take her sobriety seriously. Thought it was something the rest of us were manufacturing, this idea she actually had a problem. She saw it as partying.” She made quotes in the air. “‘I’m young,’ she always said to me. ‘I have every right to be out having fun whenever I want.’ Which might have been the case if she could have kept it from spiraling out of control. But she couldn’t. She was an addict.”
Peter hesitated; he tugged on his ear. Bella could see his mind working behind his green eyes, debating about whether or not to tell Sabrina what they’d learned from Spike. “Did Tiffany tell you much about her last stint in rehab?”
“No, not really. Why?”
“Did she tell you who her neighbor was?”
Sabrina smiled, reaching for her glass of wine but not drinking from it, merely holding it in her hands and studying its contents. “Yes. Jocelyn Zinn. Of course, Tiffany would befriend her. She had radar for other self-destructive people. Attracted and attached to them time and time again. The two of them were best friends for a month or so, spending every minute together shopping or lunching. But then they had a falling out, which is the inevitable path for all Tiffany’s friendships.”
“Do you know what they fell out about?” asked Peter.
“Tiffany told me Jocelyn accused her of something she didn’t do.” She took a small sip of wine. “Although, knowing Tiffany, there’s always more than her side of the story. It’s always everyone else’s fault, never her. She’s the victim.” Sabrina’s lips trembled. “I sound terrible, speaking ill of my dead sister. It’s just she was so difficult. The fact that she’s gone doesn’t change that.”
“We understand,” said Bella. “You took good care of her.”
“I sacrificed my own career ambitions for her but she never understood that I might have any other interests but her. In the end, it didn’t matter, I suppose.”
Peter shifted in his seat. “Do you know anything about Miss Zinn’s client list?”
Sabrina stared at him, turning pale. Her hands trembled so violently the wine in her glass swayed to and fro like the waves of a lake on a stormy night. “What did you say?”
Bella reached for Sabrina’s glass, taking it and setting it on the table next to Sabrina’s chair. “She mentioned to the bartender the night she was killed that Ms. Zinn believed she not only took the book but was also blackmailing clients. You think it’s possible?”
“I can’t imagine Tiffany showing that much initiative. Blackmail?” said Sabrina, shaking her head furiously. “She couldn’t even log into her own Facebook fan page or get money out of her bank account. There’s no way she was blackmailing people. Plus, if that was the case, where’s the money?”
“But it’s motive for her murder,” said Peter. “Big time motive if it’s true.”
“And it would explain why her room was torn apart,” said Bella. “Someone was looking for that book.”
Sabrina went to the window and opened the curtains a few inches. “Did you see all those idiots down there with their cameras? Just waiting for something to put on their ridiculous shows. And all for what? To feed this fascination for scandal?” She shut the curtain, hard, and wheeled around to look at them. “If this is true, that she was blackmailing a man or men, how will we ever know for sure?”
Peter rose to his feet and went to meet her in the middle of the room. “I’m not sure exactly. But we’ll start with scouring bank and phone records, that sort of thing.”
“Right.” Sabrina poured more wine into her glass. She held it in both hands. “We’ll know it’s true if you can find the money.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this and it just may lead us to her killer.”
“How can you possibly do this work?” asked Sabrina.
Peter smiled. “My wife asked me that one time. And I don’t know the answer except to say it’s what I’m made to do. It’s the way I’m wired.”
Sabrina tugged at the tie around her waist. “I used to think that about something too, but it wasn’t to be. Instead I ended up my sister’s keeper.”
Bella wanted to ask her what this something was. What had Sabrina wanted to be when she was little? She’d always seemed so oriented toward making her sister’s career a success that it had never occurred to Bella she might have had other aspirations.
Sabrina sank back into the empty chair. “Now what am I supposed to do?” She took a large swallow of wine.
Peter leaned forward, covering Sabrina’s small, white hand with his. “Give it some time. Let’s get you some closure first. Then you can decide what to do next.”
She nodded. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m lost without having her to worry about.”
Bella scooted into the bathroom and came back with tissues. “Have you gotten any rest?”
“No. I can’t sleep.”
“Could you get a doctor to prescribe you something?” asked Peter.
Sabrina shook her head. “No drugs. I’m my sister’s twin.” Her eyes were flat now, without expression.
Bella suddenly had the impression of a young person in class who day after day cannot understand the lesson. They’ve accepted their fate, their doomed march toward a hopeless future. I cannot understand; I cannot figure a way out. She glanced at Peter. He was gazing at Sabrina with an expression of kindness despite his professional demeanor. He was probably trying to think of something to say but there was no offer of comfort within their grasp for this lost twin.
Bella stood. “We’ll go. Try and get some rest. I’ll call you later.”
“Yes, thank you.” Her eyes were still glazed.
“Order some food, maybe?” suggested Bella.
“Sure. I’ll do that.” This was said without any guise at pretense. There would be no food ordered. No sleep would come. The room was dim except for the glow of the gas fireplace. Bella switched on a lamp near the window. Outside, the autumn afternoon was growing dark already. The rainstorm the night before had stripped off the last of the colorful leaves and the trees were leafless and skinny against a close, gray sky. Gray. Everything seemed gray, ugly. Bella felt a sudden homesickness for Los Angeles and her tidy, cozy apartment in Venice near the ocean. Her neighbors were artists and musicians with tattoos and purple hair. At night the bars and restaurants opened their doors and people spilled out onto the sidewalks with drinks, music blaring from unseen speakers. It was like a carnival all the time, she often thought. Today, if she were home, she would walk to the beach in her flip-flops and her wetsuit and her boogie board. The sidewalks would smell of spilled beer from the night before. The stretch of beach would smell of salt water and seaweed and marine life. She wondered for a moment, which life was real? This one with Ben and Drake and this police detective she barely knew or the one she’d left behind? Just as quickly as those thoughts came, she remembered Ben’s face that morning. It was a mixture of fear and gratitude. “You don’t have to do this,” he’d said, referring to her stint as a police detective.
But she did. This was not the time to be the selfish young woman who lived for the surf or a night out with her friends. This was the time to do something for someone she loved without worry for her own needs.
With that thought, she indicated to Peter they should go. With a sympathetic pat on the shoulder for Sabrina, he nodded. In the hallway that smelled of new carpet, they walked toward the elevator. “It’s for the family,” he said, as if she’d asked him the question. “That’s why I do this work. For the families.”
Bella punched the button for the elevator, feeling the familiar sadness. Loss. The sadness never left, never faded like the moments of joy did. The finality of death made sure of that. “I know. I was the family once.”
The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside. Peter ran his index finger over the braille next to each floor button, gazing at the floor. She felt the weight of his thinking as the elevator dropped five floors until it reached the lobby. There, waiting to get on the elevator was Fred Hughes, River Valley’s deputy.
“Fred?” Bella said, reaching out her hand. “How are you?”
“Hey, Bella.” He shook her hand vigorously. “Terrible thing, this. You must’ve known her, what with working on the movie.”
“I did. Knew her for years actually. We were just up talking with her twin sister.”
“That’s a shame now. Poor girl.”
Bella indicated to Peter with a lilt of her head in his direction. “Fred, this is my friend Peter Ball. He’s a detective with the Seattle Police Department.”
“Wow. Cool.” Fred’s pale blue eyes were wide as he held out his hand for Peter to shake. “You made detective, huh? That’s a big deal.” He sighed. “Won’t ever happen for me, you know, working here in this little town. Matter of fact, Bella, the cops from Echo Grove just swept right in and took this whole thing over.”
“I know. They took me in for questioning. I had that awful little red-haired troll grilling me for hours.”
“Shoot, yeah, he’s a real piece of work.” Fred shuffled his feet. “Hey, Annie called me about Ben Fleck. Said they worked him over pretty good.”
Bella lowered her voice, looking around the lobby. Fortunately for them, the staff at the lodge was successful in keeping the press outside in the cold, where they belonged. “They’re targeting him for it, Fred, and we’re all scared.”
Fred looked up at Peter. “You poking around for Ben’s sake?”
Fred. Not as dumb as he looks, thought Bella.
“I am. He’s a friend of mine. And my wife’s down here filming so I tagged along.” Peter, sounding conspiratorial, leaned closer to Fred. “You want to help me?”
“Could I? Well, shoot, yeah, I would.”
“You have access to her room?” asked Peter, sounding a little too casual. Fred didn’t seem to notice.
“Yep.” He nodded toward the front desk. “These guys know me. I’ll get a key right now.”
“You’re more than a tad bit evil,” Bella whispered to Peter. “I like it.”
“Takes one to know one,” he whispered back.
***
Room 501 was blocked off with crime scene tape that Fred gingerly moved so they could cross over before using the key to unlock the door. Bella suddenly felt strange entering the room, and a shiver went up her spine, given what had happened here. The light was dim, making it hard to see much except the bed and chairs similar to the ones in Sabrina’s room. Fred turned on several lamps. Bella stifled a gasp.
The room was ransacked. Every bureau drawer was open, clothes and shoes strewn about, magazines tossed on the floor. There were several empty bottles of airplane-size tequila bottles on the bedside table. Dirty towels were in a pile on the floor in the bathroom, with evidence of someone getting sick in the splashes around the toilet. A crumpled up washcloth was on the sink, dry now but obviously wet at one time. The one Ben used to wipe Tiffany’s face after she was sick—just as he’d indicated.
Had they been looking for Ms. Zinn’s black book?
Peter was on the floor with a small flashlight that must have been attached to his key chain, looking under the bed. “Don’t see anything under here.” He scooted onto his stomach, reaching under the bed with his right arm. “Ah, I feel something,” he said, scooting a few inches farther, his face plastered against the side of the bed. “Somebody hand me a tissue.”
Fred did so, placing it in Peter’s outstretched hand. Peter made a stretching noise, grunting softly. “Got it.” He straightened, coming to his feet and holding something shiny. “A lighter. Stuck between the bed’s leg and the wall. They must’ve missed it the first time.”
The room began to tilt. Bella took in deep breaths but still black spots appeared.
“Bella, what’s the matter?” she heard Fred say, sounding like he was inside a tunnel.
But she couldn’t answer, her vision darkening. The nausea came, swift. She stumbled. Fred caught her and brought her to an empty chair.
“Put your head between your legs,” said Peter.
She did so, taking in deep, calming breaths,
until the feeling of faintness dissipated enough for her to speak.
“What’s wrong?” asked Peter, his brows wrinkled in concern. “Too much for you to be in Tiffany’s room?”
“It’s not that,” she answered, bringing her hand to her mouth, the nausea in waves now. “That’s Graham Rouse’s lighter. I’d know it anywhere. It was his father’s. He takes it everywhere with him. Loves to light people’s cigarettes with it. Especially actresses, apparently.”
“Graham Rouse? The producer?”
“Yes.” She looked up at him. “And my ex-boyfriend. My married ex-boyfriend.”
“The married man she told Spike about is Graham Rouse?” said Peter, in a way that was more a statement than a question.
Fred’s gaze bounced between them, like he was watching a tennis match. “Another suspect, then?”
“I suspected it but I wasn’t sure,” said Bella. “But this proves he was here. I think he’s the man Ben saw get off the elevator that night.”
Peter shrugged. “We don’t know when he dropped it. Could’ve been any night and it certainly doesn’t mean he raped and murdered her.”
All Bella could think was, she was raped. She was raped. Could Graham Rouse be capable of rape? And murder? He was a liar, sure. But he’d only been aggressive with her once and that was after he’d had a lot to drink the night she told him she was done. He’d shaken her, thrust her against the wall before he charged out of her apartment, slamming the door so hard her neighbor, Tim, a Venice Beach body builder, had come over to check on her.
As if he’d read her mind, Peter asked her the question. “Bella, was he ever violent with you?”
She glanced at Fred, feeling self-conscious to talk about it in front of him. What did he think of her? The feeling of shame washed over her, as it did when she had to talk about her relationship with Graham Rouse. But it was for Ben. To save Ben. She had to tell the truth. Graham? What have you done? she thought. “Once. When I broke it off the last time. But nothing close to rape. He just shook me. Almost like a child throwing a temper tantrum.” She thought back to what Spike had told them earlier. “You know, Peter, she didn’t tell Spike she was afraid of her married lover. Did she?”
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