by Susan Lewis
‘In fact you watched her die.’
‘I didn’t know she was dying!’
‘Someone must have. If it was murder.’
‘That’s it, you don’t know! So why are you putting me through this? I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what happened, all I know is what I’ve told you. And if it is murder then I’ve been set up . . .’
‘Set up!’ Kowski pounced on it.
Kirsten recoiled sharply. ‘Yes, set up,’ she cried. ‘There’s a vendetta . . . A woman in England, she wants to ruin me . . .’
Kowski looked at Greengage and grinned. ‘Dermott Campbell’s employer?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Kirsten answered, her eyes darting between them. ‘Dyllis Fisher hates me, she wants to destroy me . . .’
Kowski waved a dismissive hand. ‘We’ve heard the background from Mr Campbell, but I gotta tell you Miss Meredith neither Mrs Fisher nor Mr Campbell are possible suspects here . . .’
‘Why not? She’d like nothing more than to see me in prison.’
Kowski’s lips pursed thoughtfully as once again he turned to Greengage.
‘I want a lawyer,’ Kirsten repeated.
‘Yeah, I reckon you could need one,’ Kowski remarked, looking up as the door opened. He took an envelope from the uniformed officer who’d come in and nodded towards the police woman who walked to the telephone and started to dial.
Kirsten watched as Kowski read, dreadful images of a future in a Louisiana State prison for something she hadn’t even done racing so fast through her mind she was almost choking on her panic. Then, just as the policewoman was making contact with someone on the other end of the line Kowski’s hand came up. Immediately the policewoman cut the connection.
‘OK, Miss Meredith,’ he said, ‘y’all can go.’
Kirsten’s eyes flew open. ‘You mean . . .? Are you saying . . .?’
‘I’m telling you you can go.’
‘So you don’t think I killed her?’
‘Not unless you want to tell me different.’
Dumbly Kirsten shook her head. She was already half way to the door before it occurred to her that what Kowski had read could have been the toxicologist’s report. She turned back.
‘Yeah,’ Kowski answered, ‘that’s what it is right enough. It would appear, Miss Meredith, that your star died a natural death.’
Kirsten’s confusion was evident. ‘What do you mean? Did she have a heart attack or something?’
He looked down at the report in his hand. ‘It says right here that she died of natural causes.’
‘Natural causes?’ Kirsten echoed.
‘That’s what it says. So either you got some genius at work here or we all got to start believing in voodoo curses.’
Kirsten stiffened. ‘So you still think it was murder?’
He grinned. ‘I think she died a natural death, is what I think. But what your crew are gonna think and how much convincing they’re gonna take is another matter altogether,’ and with that he and his fellow officers started to laugh.
‘Helena, tell me you didn’t say that,’ Campbell groaned into the fading light of the room.
His only answer was silence as Helena sat looking at him, her big amber eyes steeped in doubt. A strobing neon light just outside the window was flashing green lines across her face, the stillness of the room was untouched by the muted cacophony of Bourbon Street, three floors below.
‘Look,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘they’ve already ruled that it was death by natural causes.’
‘Which no one believes,’ Helena stated.
‘For God’s sake, you can’t seriously think I’d actually kill a woman just to get back at Kirsten for having me fired!’ Campbell cried. ‘I hate the woman, yes, but I don’t hate her enough to risk going to prison . . .’
‘You don’t hate her, Dermott,’ Helena told him savagely. ‘You want her. You’re all eaten up with wanting her.’
‘That’s crazy! It’s you I want. Jesus, I asked you to marry me!’
‘Because you know you’ll never get Kirsten.’
‘No, because I love you.’ He pressed his fingers into the sockets of his tired eyes. ‘Don’t do this to me, Helena,’ he murmured. ‘Please, don’t do this.’
‘Did Dyllis Fisher have anything to do with it, or were you acting alone?’
‘To do with what? You’re still talking as though it was murder, Helena.’
‘So are you, goddammit! I saw the story you filed yesterday, it’ll be all over the British press by now that Kirsten Meredith’s rival, Pippa McAllister’s look-a-like, is dead and no one really knows why. You’d better watch out, Dermott, because you’re on real dodgy ground insinuating that Kirsten was responsible.’
‘You don’t know for sure that she wasn’t,’ Campbell retorted. ‘And look at the facts, Helena. Take a good, long look at them then tell me, who else has got a better motive for wanting Anna Sage dead?’
‘I don’t care about the facts,’ Helena declared. ‘All I care about is that you had nothing to do with it.’
‘I’m telling you, I didn’t.’ Suddenly a harsh, glittering light came into his eyes. ‘Can you tell me the same?’ he challenged.
‘What!’ Helena shook her head in disbelief. ‘Are you telling me you suspect me Why the hell would I want Anna Sage dead?’
‘To get Kirsten back with Laurence. To make sure that the field was never open to me.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Helena exclaimed. ‘Are you suggesting I’d kill someone just to hang on to you?’
‘It crossed my mind. Why else do you think I went all out with the police to point them in Kirsten’s direction? I was doing it to protect you, just in case your jealousy had got the better of you.’
Helena pressed her hands to her head. ‘Someone tell me I’m dreaming this,’ she muttered.
‘So it wasn’t you?’ Campbell said.
‘Of course it fucking wasn’t me!’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘Jesus Christ! I feel like I’m losing my mind, here. It was me accusing you two minutes ago, now it’s you accusing me.’
‘No. I just told you, I believe you didn’t do it. Now, will you believe me?’
Helena was shaking her head. ‘We can’t go on like this, Dermott,’ she said. ‘I mean, if we can suspect each other of murder, murder for Christ’s sake, then what the hell chance do we stand?’
‘We’d stand a much better one if we got Kirsten Meredith out of our lives,’ he answered.
‘See! There you go again! Saying things like that just makes me more suspicious than ever.’
‘Why are you so quick to suspect me and not Kirsten?’ Campbell said sourly. ‘Like I said, she’s got the best motive.’
‘And why are you so quick to suspect Kirsten when Ruby’s given a full confession?’
Campbell gave a snort of laughter. ‘Ruby’s off her head and you know it. Not even the police took her seriously. Possessed by a demon child, my ass! She’s been watching too many movies.’
Helena was staring down at her hands. ‘She told Kirsten that Laurence is her son,’ she said absently.
‘He is.’
Helena lifted her head.
‘Laurence told me himself. A long time ago.’
Once again an oppressive incredulity throbbed through Helena’s mind. ‘I can’t take any more of this,’ she said. ‘I’m going with the Coroner’s verdict and I don’t want ever to discuss any of it again.’
‘Helena,’ Campbell said as she reached the door.
She turned back.
‘What about us?’
She looked at him for a long time. ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘I was always afraid that one day I might have to choose between you and Kirsten. I got round it once, but this time, Dermott . . .’
‘Don’t let her do this!’ Campbell protested, an edge of panic in his voice.
‘It’s not her who’s doing it, it’s you! Don’t you see, whatever it is you feel about Kir
sten it’s of your own making? She had you fired because of what you’d already done. You got your comeuppance and you deserved it. But now you can’t leave her alone. You’re more bent on destroying her than Dyllis Fisher is and I don’t even think you know why.’
‘Because she’s coming between us,’ Campbell cried.
Helena looked at him sadly then turning to the door she opened it, walked out into the hall and closed it quietly behind her.
Kirsten had just returned from Laurence’s room where Jane and Tom were packing up their belongings and carrying them out into the little courtyard. She had left Laurence still sitting at the dining table, endless accounts and unpaid bills spread out in front of him. He’d looked just about all in, but he’d wanted to pay whatever they owed in New Orleans before they left. She knew he was worried about Ruby too, that he felt he should have flown back to England with her the day before, but there had been too many things here still to be sorted. Kirsten had never spoken to him about what Ruby had told her, but seeing his concern over these past few days she was beginning to wonder if Ruby really had been telling the truth. Poor Ruby, she’d taken all this so hard, she was so convinced she was responsible that even the priest Laurence had asked to come and see her hadn’t been able to get through to her.
Now, as Kirsten walked into her room where her suitcase was lying open on the bed, she looked down at the day-old British newspaper that contained the damning insinuations that she was behind what had happened. For a moment it felt as though the ground was shifting beneath her feet. It was so hard to take in that anyone would believe her capable of murder . . .
A sudden cold chill curled through her. Was that what Laurence was thinking? Was that why he wouldn’t speak to her about it? Did he think that she’d managed to delude even the police by using some extraordinary means to kill Anna in order to get him back?
Kirsten turned to the door knowing that she had to speak to him now, to find out what he was thinking. She just couldn’t leave it the way it was, with so much unsaid and so much still to get through.
She was on the point of opening the door when she saw a note on the floor. As she stopped to pick it up her heart, for no apparent reason, was starting to pound. Her fingers were unsteady as she tore open the envelope, and as she read the words, cut from a newspaper and glued on to a single blank sheet, it was as though the world was caving in beneath her.
25
Her fingers frantically turned the pages of the album, revealing the faces of all the people she had made a part of her life. Her eyes were feverish, tremors of passion rippled through her heart. The baby was screaming, but it didn’t matter. She’d let the baby scream because she had to look at her pictures.
There was Laurence as a child. Or was it Tom? They were so alike. But it had to be Laurence because the picture was old and in black and white. How she loved Laurence. How she had longed for him. But she had him now, he was hers, or he would be soon and he would be everything to her she wanted him to be. They would be so happy together, all of them. No one was going to stand in the way now. The memories were almost complete, she had all the pictures . . .
Her eyes misted over, a smile trembled her lips as she gazed down at the photo of the wedding. Laurence was so tall and handsome . . . Pippa wasn’t there any more, she should never have been there, so using her scissors she’d got rid of Pippa.
She smoothed her fingers lovingly over the sharp edges of the picture, then turning the page her body began to quake with excitement as she saw the most exquisite portrait of them all. She had made such a good job of this one . . . There she was as a baby in the arms of her mother while her father looked dotingly down on them both. There was such a thing as a happy family; she knew it because she had it – at least, soon she would have it.
A spasm of fear suddenly clutched at her mind, jerking her head upwards. Dermott Campbell was going to spoil it. He was writing things that weren’t true. But how was he going to prove there had been a murder when even the police said there hadn’t been? A brittle laugh burst from her lips. Dermott Campbell hadn’t even managed to bring the film to its knees, though he probably thought he had. But she knew differently. She knew that they’d be shooting again right after Christmas, because, of course, Anna’s death had been due to natural causes so the insurance company were going to pay out . . .
Anna’s death! The two words clashed together inside her head. Frenzied colours exploded before her eyes. She’d done it. She’d taken a human life and now it was as though she had stepped from her skin into a world of endless chaos and terror. Her heart thudded a strident beat, pumping cowardly dread to her veins, discord and violence to her thoughts. She had killed once and knew if she had to she’d do it again. A muscle in her cheek began to twitch. She crushed it with her hand. Her fingers were rigid, crooked like claws. She was gasping for breath, so afraid of herself she could feel it lapping at the shores of her sanity. She pushed the album away, pressed her hands to her ears. The baby was screaming, screaming, screaming . . . The tide was drawing closer, she was drowning in the screams . . .
Ten days had gone by since they’d returned from New Orleans and the planning of the reshoot was already underway in earnest. As far as Kirsten could see they were all going to be working right up to the last minute on Christmas Eve, after which Laurence had declared that everyone should take a week off and begin again in the New Year, preparing to film by the middle of January. The part of Moyna O’Malley had already been recast. Elizabeth Bradley, an actress with whom Kirsten had worked before, was taking over the role, though not until she had been given all the details of Anna’s death did Elizabeth agree to take it on. Kirsten understood completely, with all that was still being bandied about in the press it was only natural that Elizabeth would want to hear first-hand what had happened. So, Kirsten and Laurence had taken Elizabeth to dinner and told her all she wanted to know. Just like everyone else Elizabeth was fascinated by the mystery of Anna’s death, though, knowing Kirsten she didn’t consider, even for a moment, that there was an iota of truth in the oblique accusations that Kirsten was responsible.
It was becoming extremely difficult now for Kirsten to show her face in public. How Cambell managed to get so many pictures of her laughing Kirsten didn’t know, but he did and seeing her so happy less than a year after Paul Fisher’s death, six months after Laurence’s wife had left him and a mere couple of weeks after the mysterious demise of her rival made it – at least the way Campbell told it – seem as though she was so ruthless and dangerous in her schemings that nothing, least of all the sanctity of human life, was going to stand in the way of whatever Kirsten Meredith wanted.
For Kirsten it was like reading about a stranger, someone who had stolen her identity and was using it with such malicious and harmful intent she was as frightened by it as she was bewildered. She just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that anyone could believe she was the monster being portrayed in the press, and neither could she understand what route her life was taking to have made her the victim of such injustice and prejudice. Her lawyers had applied for an injunction against Campbell’s newspaper now, but it wasn’t likely to be granted until after Christmas. In the meantime, the libellous allegations continued and so too did the serving of writs. In fact getting into a legal battle with Dermott Campbell and Dyllis Fisher was just about the last thing Kirsten wanted for it was earning her even more publicity, but Laurence had insisted that she had no alternative.
She had told no one about the note she’d received just before leaving New Orleans. She was certain now that Campbell had sent it, though if, as the note had said, he could prove that she’d killed Anna, then why was he holding back? To torment her further? It could be, but what greater torment could there be than to find herself charged with murder? So it would seem that despite what the note claimed, he wasn’t able to prove it at all and Kirsten was only sorry that she hadn’t kept the note so that she could hand it over to her lawyers.
Right now
she and Laurence were in the festively decorated production office going over the revised schedule with the production managers. All around them phones were ringing, computers were printing out, faxes were coming in and people were yelling at each other for information. A number of the scenes from the original shoot were still usable, so too were shots within scenes, so this time round the planning of the schedule was a good deal more complicated than the last. Plus the fact that they were faced with almost insurmountable problems over the weather.
‘So what you’re suggesting,’ Kirsten said to Melvin, the chief production manager, ‘is that when we return to New Orleans we go straight out to the Plantation House and do those scenes first?’
Melvin nodded. ‘If we don’t,’ he told her, ‘then we’re going to run smack bang into the middle of Mardi Gras.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Kirsten said, casting an eye over the polaroid photographs of Oak Alley, the Plantation House they had selected for the shoot. She felt a pleasing lift in her heart at the prospect of filming there, it was such a magnificent house and was – at least so far as the shoot was concerned – still virgin territory. ‘What do you think, Laurence?’ she said turning to him.
‘Sounds sensible to me,’ he answered, taking the polaroids from her.
‘Have you discussed this with Little Joe?’ Kirsten asked Melvin, perching on the edge of his desk and stretching her legs out to rest them on his chair. ‘Can he get us the equipment and crew we need during Mardi Gras?’
‘He thinks so,’ Melvin answered. ‘He’s getting back to me sometime later this week. I can’t see Joe letting us down though. My guess is if he can’t get what we want locally he’ll hire in from Hollywood.’
‘Don’t let him do that until you’ve spoken to me,’ Laurence interjected. ‘In fact don’t book anything over there yet, just put a provisional hold on it. The same goes for the flights.’
‘I think, taking Mardi Gras into consideration,’ Melvin said, ‘that we’ll have to be more positive than that.’