A PORTRAIT OF OLIVIA

by J. P. Bowie

  “Thank goodness,” Emily said, giving Jeff a hug. “I can’t believe this is happening!”

  Jeff looked at Anthony standing pale and still in the middle of the living room. “How are you, Anthony?”

  “Ready to kill,” he replied. “I just cannot believe that those people out there are human beings. Don’t they know we’re mourning our dead mother? What kind of creeps are they?”

  “Unfortunately, this is big news. Whenever a celebrity is involved in some kind of scandal, the press goes bananas.”

  “God, I wish we’d never gotten involved with that show.” Anthony looked at him, his eyes filled with pain.

  “I’m sorry, Anthony…”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you, Jeff. It all seemed like a good idea at the time—helping other kids to overcome their shame and humiliation—but now, it’s become a nightmare.”

  “The cops are here, finally.” Justin, standing by the window, beckoned them over. They watched as the irate reporters were told to disperse. Some of them stubbornly refused to leave, stating their rights and arguing with the police that they could not force them to leave. One of them, more brazen than the others, marched up to the door and yelled; “Just give us a statement and we’ll get out of here…”

  “I’ll give them a statement,” Anthony said, curtly. “One that they won’t want to hear.”

  Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the door and pulled it open. The young man, who stood on the steps in front of him, muttered something into the microphone he held, then with an expectant look, thrust it toward Anthony.

  “I have only this to say…” Anthony stared at the assembled crowd, his eyes filled with tears. “My mother died yesterday, and you people are besmirching her memory with this despicable display of disgusting behavior. She died because she could not live with the shame of what she had done—what she had been coerced into. In her innocence, she believed she would be treated with fairness and respect when she agreed to appear on the Olivia Winters Show. Instead, she found herself being ridiculed for what she believed in…”

  He faltered for a moment, then continued. “If my mother had a fault, it was J.P. Bowie

  163

  that she expected others to share her beliefs. She died for those beliefs…and I will miss her terribly…”

  As Anthony broke down, Justin and Jeff moved to his side and pulled him away from the glare of the floodlights. The reporter, knowing this was the story that would grab the national headlines, leaped forward in front of Justin.

  “You’re his boyfriend, aren’t you?”

  Justin turned to face the man. “Yes, I am…”

  “His mother had some pretty vile things to say about you. How do you feel about that? What would you say to her now, if you were face to face with her?”

  Justin smiled and held Anthony close to him as he answered. “I would say; I love your son, Mrs. Hastings. He means everything in the world to me. I hope you understand that now.”

  As Jeff swung the door closed, he could hear the reporter babble into this microphone…“Mark Roberts for KAAP, reporting live from the home of the deceased woman’s family.”

  “Now we know what it must be like to be under siege,” Jerry said, watching from the window as the last of the TV trucks pulled away. “They seem to be leaving us alone at last. I should go out and do damage control with the neighbors…”

  “Want some company?” Jeff asked.

  “I’ll be OK.” He squeezed Jeff ’s arm. “Thanks for sending in the cavalry.”

  “No problem. I’ll call McKenna and thank him later.” Jeff walked with him to the door. “Probably a good idea if the guys stay here tonight. There just might be some stray reporter ready to tail them home and bug them some more.”

  Jerry nodded. “Okay, I’ll be back in a few.”

  For the umpteenth time that morning Brenda fielded yet another call from a reporter wanting an exclusive from Olivia. Last night’s television news had been dominated by the Patricia Hastings story, and the connection between her and Olivia’s show had created a feeding frenzy among the press.

  “No, I tell you,” Brenda said, quietly seething. “Miss Winters has nothing to say about the suicide note. She knows nothing about it. That’s a police matter—I don’t care if it’s common knowledge now, or not. Miss Winters has not seen it. End of story.” She threw the phone down, cursing. Jesus, but this was a giant pain, she thought. She was frankly worried. She had a sinking feeling in J.P. Bowie

  164

  her gut that this kind of publicity could do some real damage. True, Olivia seemed unfazed and was quite enjoying the controversy. As far as she was concerned it only meant more people watching her show—bigger ratings equaled more sponsors in Olivia’s mind. Just one more push toward what she really wanted—her very own prime time talk show. But in Brenda’s mind, this could all go terribly wrong. There was just too much going on around them right now. It made her nervous, like she was being watched somehow from the shadows. Brad’s recent reunion with Olivia scared her. He was a loose cannon, for sure. There was no telling just what he was capable of. He had screwed with them before, causing them endless grief until they had paid him off—or thought that they had paid him off.

  “Damn him,’ she muttered, slumping down at her desk. She knew her position with Olivia had been made extremely tenuous by his arrival. He wouldn’t be satisfied until she was out of the picture. She had survived his first attempt to can her, but she knew eventually Olivia would give in to his demands. She had seen the way Olivia now looked at the rat. She was in love with him again.

  Whatever they were doing on a daily basis had Olivia in his thrall. Olivia had always considered him a sex machine—always up to meet her demands without any hesitation. He was always ready to go, she said—always. Brenda knew Olivia to be a sexually fixated woman. The brief episode between the two of them had been exhilarating, but she knew that Olivia was no lesbian, not even bisexual really. She had just gone along for the ride, so to speak—the thrill of the moment, and of course that bastard, Brad, had seen his opportunity to benefit from it.

  He’d been right, the other night, when he’d said she never looked happier than when they’d all been together on that video. It had been the only time Olivia had allowed herself to be involved sexually with another woman. For Brenda, it had been a dream come true. She had wanted this for as long as she had known Olivia, but had never had the nerve to act on it. It had taken Brad to sweet talk her into it—just for kicks, he’d said. They could watch it and have a good laugh afterwards. But for Brenda, it had never been a laughing matter.

  She loved Olivia, worshipped her, albeit discreetly. So many times, when Olivia had been low and desperate for love and attention, Brenda had wanted to comfort and hold her—and make love to her.

  Brad, the snake, knew that. He had seen it almost immediately. He’d laughed at her for it—had used it against her so many times. That’s why she’d been so damned happy when Olivia had broken up with him—and even though it had cost them dearly, Brenda believed it worthwhile.

  J.P. Bowie

  165

  Now he was back and it was all starting over again. Well, she was going to make sure he was gone permanently this time. He thought he had the upper hand, but lil ole Brenda was going to fix that—once and for all. When she was done with him, there wouldn’t be a studio in town that would touch him. He’d be yesterday’s bad news—but better still, he’d be out of her life for good.

  c h a p t e r 1 6

  s

  The Reverend Jack Fellows, drinking his morning coffee, sat mesmerized by the early television news. He had of course read of Patricia Hastings’ demise in the newspaper two days earlier. Christina had made a great show of bringing him the paper and spreading it out in front of him on his desk.

  “So the old bag did everyone a favor and killed herself,” she’d said, her speech already slurred from her breakfast martinis.

  Fellows had looked at her wit
h his usual contempt, and had held the paper close to his face to cut off the fumes that radiated from her mouth with every word. God, what an ugly harridan! He had read the report with a tinge of regret. No chance now of bilking her out of any more money by promising to aid her in her crusade to rid the airwaves of perversion.

  Now, he watched as the reporters surrounded the house of one of her daughters, and the son—Anthony was it?—give his scathing statement in front of the cameras. He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his wife’s over-painted face and shrugged her hand off with revulsion.

  “Nice looking kid,” she said, her voice raspy from the effects of booze and cigarettes. “Too bad he’s a homo. Hey, and look at those other guys with him.

  Fuckin’ gorgeous!” Her braying laughter caused Fellows to cringe within himself. He rose from his desk, switching off the television.

  “Go away, Christina.” He glared at her as she swayed unsteadily in front of him. He wished he could point the TV remote at her and make her disappear as easily as the picture on the screen. Damn woman…how he hated her. “I have work to do,” he told her.

  “Sure you do, Jack.” She leered at him, clutching the back of his chair to steady herself. “Gotta find a way to fleece some other old broads, eh?”

  - 166 -

  J.P. Bowie

  167

  “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out before I wring your neck.”

  “Oooh now, that’s not very Christian of you Jackie,” she said, still laughing at him. “Thou shalt not kill, and all that baloney.” She looked at him, her face wrinkled with dislike. “What a jackass,” she muttered, turning and lurching from the room.

  “Christ…” Cursing, Fellows threw his heavy body into the soft folds of his leather chair. She had no idea just how much he longed to really wring her fat neck. To see the folds of spongy flesh contuse and bruise under his hands as he slowly squeezed the life out of her. To watch those thyroidal eyes bulge even more under the pressure of his deathly stranglehold. Oh how he’d love to do it!

  With a supreme effort, he shook himself from that violent daydream. Right now, he did have work to do. Somehow, he had to get some publicity out of this. After all, he was the one in whom Patricia Hastings had confided before her untimely demise. She had imparted to him all her ideals and ambitions. He had, in fact, already communicated her dislike of the Olivia Winters Hour on national television. Surely now, with this latest development, almost any talk show would be more than willing to have him on as an expert guest speaker on this subject. He could, no doubt, afford to pick only the most prestigious of them. Smiling with satisfaction, he picked up his phone. Well, no time like the present to begin.

  Peter strolled into the kitchen in search of his early morning caffeine jolt.

  Jeff, already seated at the table, looked up with a smile. “Hey, sleepy-head, I thought you’d decided not to get up at all today.”

  Peter kissed him on the forehead. “I couldn’t sleep for thinking about all that’s going on,” he grumbled, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He slumped down on the chair opposite Jeff and gave him a bleary smile. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating a small parcel that lay on the table.

  “Your camera and photographs,” Jeff told him. “I picked them up from McKenna the other day, but with all the commotion I forget to bring them in from my car.” He pushed the parcel toward Peter. “Take a look at the photos—there are some classics worthy of framing.”

  “I bet,” Peter muttered, opening the parcel. He chuckled quietly as he sorted through the various group photographs depicting one or two of his guests behaving inappropriately. “Look at Andrew and Eric in this one—what on earth were they doing?” His eyes widened as he looked at Olivia lying flat on J.P. Bowie

  168

  her back, drunk as a skunk. “Oh my God,” he laughed. “This is priceless.

  Should we send them to her, d’you think? A souvenir of how much she enjoyed your party?”

  “I think not,” Jeff said, chuckling. “Although it would make a great Christmas card…”

  “What’s this one?” Peter asked, pushing one of the photos across the table.

  Jeff looked at it for a moment, turning it this way and that, then shook his head. “Beats me…” He flipped it over and looked at the back. “According to this, it’s number sixteen. How many photos are there?”

  “Sixteen…so it was the last one taken. Let me see it again…” He squinted at the photo for a moment. “Looks like a pair of legs, maybe—but what an odd angle. Oh, my god…” He looked at it again, then let it fall from his fingers as a wave of nausea overtook him.

  “Peter…” Jeff jumped to his feet. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.” He knelt by him. “Are you OK?”

  Peter leaned back in his seat, waiting for the sick feeling to dissipate. “I’ll be fine in a minute,” he said, panting.

  “What happened? What did you see?”

  “Luke’s murderer,” he whispered.

  “Jesus,” Jeff muttered. He put his arms around Peter and held him. “You’re sure?”

  Peter nodded. “I could see Luke…He was holding the camera…it slipped from his hand. It must have gone off as it hit the floor…”

  Jeff picked up the photo and looked at it again. “Yeah, I see now. Obviously the flash didn’t go off or whoever this is would have noticed. It’s kind of dark, but I can see the legs now. Khaki pants and sneakers…” He massaged the back of Peter’s neck. “You feeling better now?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Whew…” he took a deep breath. “I will never get used to those feelings, if I live to be ninety. Not much to go on, is it? Some guy’s legs and feet.”

  Jeff looked at him, then asked with some hesitation; “Peter…How would you feel about us visiting Luke’s apartment? I can ask McKenna to meet us there…”

  “Okay. If you think it’ll help.”

  “It’s worth a try. I’ll call him right now and see if he’s free.”

  Later that day, they were standing outside Luke’s apartment, waiting for McKenna to meet them there. Peter was nervous. He wanted to help, of course.

  J.P. Bowie

  169

  Too many murders went unsolved. Yet, he dreaded what might happen when he went inside. This strange power he had been given scared him at times. Yes, it had saved lives in the past, including that of his own mother, but it never came easily—and it usually drained him of energy for a while. Still, this was important, he thought. Luke’s murder needed closure, and secretly it had bugged him that the police investigation had come up empty. His thoughts were interrupted by McKenna’s arrival along with his partner, a stocky, dark haired young woman wearing a tailored pantsuit and sensible shoes.

  “Hey guys, good to see you.” McKenna, a tall, genial African-American shook their hands warmly. “This is Detective Jenny Lopez—but don’t call her J-lo, if you want to stay on her good side.”

  “We’ll remember that,” Jeff said smiling as he and Peter both shook her hand.

  “So, you’re the psychic guy that was on the Olivia Winters Show, right?” she asked as McKenna started to open the door to Luke’s apartment.

  Peter winced, then grinned at her. “I would prefer to be remembered for my other attributes—but yeah, that was me, I guess.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re an artist,” she said, with a light shrug. “But who isn’t in Laguna Beach?”

  Peter chuckled as he stepped into the apartment, then stopped dead in his tracks as though he had walked smack into a closed door. For the second time that morning, he visibly paled and sweat broke out on his forehead. He felt an icy coldness envelope him, and in the faint light that leaked through the apartment’s slatted blinds, he could make out the shape of a man standing by the window. Every nerve ending in his body prickled with sensation as the man slowly turned to face him, his expression one of complete sadness.

  “Luke?’ Peter whispered, barely able to breathe. Beside him, Jeff gave a sharp i
ntake of breath as he saw the intensity with which Peter was staring at the window. He instinctively knew that Peter was seeing something that no one else in the room could. He wanted to reach out and hold him, but did not want to break Peter’s bond with whatever was in the room with them. Behind them, the two detectives stared with grim expressions as Peter reached out, his hand open as if to grasp something they could not see.

  “What’s going on?” McKenna whispered, but Jeff silenced him with a quick gesture. All of them now could feel the cold that seemed to seep from the very walls of the apartment. Under her breath, Lopez muttered something that sounded to Jeff very much like a rosary.

  J.P. Bowie

  170

  Peter continued to stare straight ahead, his total concentration centered on the image of Luke that had taken shape before him. “Who did this to you, Luke?” he asked. “Tell me, so we can let you rest…”

  Luke’s spectre gazed at Peter with profound sadness, then turned away from him and slowly disappeared back into the shadows.

  Peter looked at Jeff. “He’s gone…” Then he paused and sniffed the air tenta-tively. “D’you smell that?”

  Jeff shook his head. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Like a perfume—gardenias, I think. You don’t smell it?” He looked at McKenna and Lopez. “Can you smell it? It’s almost overpowering.”

  The detectives looked at him dully. “I don’t smell any perfume,” Lopez said.

  “But thank God it’s got warmer in here. What was that anyway?”

  “I need some fresh air,” Peter muttered, making for the door.

  “How come it got so damned cold in here all of a sudden?” Lopez asked Jeff who ignored her and hurried out after Peter.

  “Are you all right?” He put his arm round Peter’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” Peter nodded, leaning into him for a moment. “I saw Luke in there.

  He’s lost, Jeff; lost and alone. I feel so damned bad for him, but I don’t know how to help.”