Mirror Image (Capitol Chronicles Book 4)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Soon," he said. "Right after Thanksgiving."

  Her stomach muscles clenched. She hadn't expected to feel as if he'd kicked her. She knew this was coming, had known for a while. She tried to keep her face still. She looked down in case the pain showed in her eyes.

  "We'll have to celebrate," she told him, hoping she appeared happy for him. "We'll order a big cake and have a huge party on the set.”

  "Aurora." He took her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his. "I don't want a cake." His voice hitched.

  She knew what he meant. She wanted him, too, wanted to spend every minute of the next two and a half weeks with him. Aurora lifted her hand and rubbed it over his cheek. Yesterday's stubble grazed her hand. Her eyes clouded with tears. Her arm went around his neck and she brought her mouth to his. I love you, she thought as she kissed him.

  Aurora realized that when Duncan left he'd take part of her heart with him. She'd be left with a hole where their love had been. Right now she wouldn't think about that. She pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Right now she would think of nothing except this moment, the snow outside, and the frozen point in time where they lived. All the future moments were pushed away.

  Duncan's hand raked over her skin, heating it. His fingers brushed against her breast. Her mind went blank and only the dreamy, crystalline, fragile feeling of first love was left.

  ***

  Twenty-four hours later, while Duncan stood in front of the full crew to announce his departure from The Marsha Chambers Show, Aurora accepted a telephone call from a tearful Gillie Moore, who was willing to fly in and save her brother. And Cooper Dean picked up the report he'd dropped on his desk.

  Leaning back in the chair he read through it for the third time. Nothing, he thought as he pushed it away. Duncan had given him three names—Kevin Baldwin, Freddie Turner, and Melvin Master. Each one of them had reason to exact revenge from Duncan, but it didn't appear they had. Opening the folder again, Coop read. Baldwin had been a producer-writer. Six years ago he'd been sent to jail for placing subliminal messages in his films and TV programs. Apparently Duncan had discovered this and been the principle witness against him at his California trial. He was released from prison a year ago and apparently had picked up his connections. He had two programs ready for scheduling now. There was no indication that he was back to his old tricks.

  Freddie Turner lived in New York. Only a short drive and a river separated him from Duncan. He could come and go with no one knowing if he wished. Freddie had worked at the same studio as Duncan in Hollywood. His show had run its rating-course and production money had been pulled and put into Duncan's show. Eventually Freddie left Hollywood, and now runs a successful men's clothing outlet in Brooklyn. According to the report he had no idea where Duncan was today. Also, he commented he'd never seen The Marsha Chambers Show, since it came on during his hours at the store.

  Melvin Master had hated working in television. He'd been a sound engineer. When Duncan fired him he'd gone to work for a recording company. Later he'd taken a job managing a music and video store in downtown Los Angeles. On the surface there was the appearance of legality, but Master's life style was much too rich for the salary he commanded. No arrest had been made but he was currently being investigated for operating a bootleg video business.

  Coop went over each of the three folders again and again. There wasn't enough there. He needed more. He'd make some calls before he talked to Duncan. And he needed to see Aurora again. With the knowledge he had now, he wanted to make sure the message she'd gotten over the phone couldn't narrow the list down. Of course, there was always the chance he was following a tangent. In his mind Marsha was the primary target. He needed her to tell him the truth. He needed her to trust him. More important, he wanted her to trust him.

  Chapter 15

  The phone remained under Aurora's hand long after she'd hung up. She smiled widely, even as tears blurred her eyes. She'd wished, hoped, and prayed that Gillie would see the program, but until she took the call she hadn't believed that she could actually reach out and do something.

  Her heart was in her throat. If anyone had asked her to speak she couldn't have saved her life by doing it. Luckily she was alone in her dressing room. She needed to call Mrs. Moore. She needed to let the distraught mother know her daughter was alive, well, and on her way home. She'd take another moment. There was no need for them both to cry over the phone.

  Noreen went silent on the phone when Aurora spoke to her. Aurora could sense the tears through the quiet air of the phone. Hers gathered in her eyes but did not spill. Hanging up, she brushed her eyes with her fingertips. At that moment the door opened. Glancing into the mirror she came face-to-face with Marsha Chambers.

  Her breath caught as the door slammed shut. She didn't have to ask if something was wrong. Marsha stood with her feet apart, her hands on her hips, and a face as set as concrete.

  "I'm back," she said.

  Aurora stood up. "I can see that."

  "I want you out of here. This is my show and I can do it."

  "No problem there," Aurora agreed.

  "You think you're good, don't you?" Marsha took a step forward. Stubbornly, Aurora refused to be intimidated. "Well, I'm here to tell you, you're nothing. Your interviews stink. A trained seal could ask better questions."

  Marsha was being unreasonable. Aurora knew better than to fight with a person who couldn't be reasoned with. She knew Marsha was too angry to listen to anything she had to say. It wouldn't matter if she agreed or disagreed. The woman was on a mission, and at the moment Aurora was the mission. Knowing all this didn't stop her, however, from hitting back.

  "My interviews were the best I could do, and I didn't get any complaints from any of the crew or the guests."

  "Well they don't count, and I do." She pointed a finger toward herself.

  "Then why weren't you here to conduct them? You've been off hiding somewhere while I've stood out there making a target of myself to save your—" She cut herself off, not wanting to say something she could never retract.

  "Save my what?" Marsha glared at her. Her eyes were as angry as her red nail polish.

  "Save your show." Aurora paused. Anger got the better of her. "You opted out. You hid in a house with guards and watched safely from the sidelines. You would have nothing to do with reruns. Don't look at me as if you don't like what you got."

  "I don't like it. I don't like you making yourself comfortable here." She looked about her dressing room.

  Aurora had used it since she took over Marsha's role. "I don't like you coming in and taking over."

  "You needn't let it bother your little head any longer." Aurora went to the closet and got her coat. Punching her arm into the sleeve, she turned back to the hostess. "You want your show back. You can have it.” Aurora grabbed her purse from the shelf and slammed the closet door.

  She pushed past Marsha and reached for the door. It opened before she could stop it. Stepping back to avoid collision she saw Joyce come in.

  "What's going on in here?" she asked.

  "Nothing," Aurora answered. "Anything that was going on is finished."

  She passed her and left the room. She didn't stop at the studio but went straight to the house, threw everything in her suitcase and then into her car, and left the grounds. Her breath came in hard gasps.

  She was glad to be rid of them, she told herself. Marsha could resume her show. She could be the target ; Duncan would be gone by the end of the month. There was nothing to stay for. She had a life of her own and it was time she resumed it.

  Aurora drove fast. She whipped the little car around curves and over road bumps in an effort to put as much distance between herself and the loonies who did television. The lot of them should be gathered together and dropped on a desert island.

  The car roared into her driveway. No guards, she thought. Duncan had told her he'd posted guards on the property. They were probably bored and left. She hadn’t been here in weeks. What did they ha
ve to guard? She didn't care, she told herself. Didn't care that Duncan was leaving, that she'd never see him again, except maybe accepting an Academy Award on television.

  "No!'' she shouted as she hit the button for the garage door. She wouldn't watch him on television. She wouldn't even own a television. She'd throw the thing out her next trash day.

  Getting out of the car she took a deep breath and tried to control the anger. It was over now. She was home. Safe. She didn't have to worry about Duncan or Marsha again. They had their lives, and she had hers.

  Grabbing the suitcase, she went into the house. The garage door led into the kitchen. Her own kitchen, she thought. God, it was great to be home. She flipped on the light.

  Her heart stopped. Sitting at the table was a man dressed in black. A ski mask lay in front of him. Aurora recognized the mask. Memory of her previous association with it took her voice away.

  "Hello, Marsha." He stood, pointing a large black gun at her heart. “It's good to finally meet you. You look better in person than you do on the screen, but then television will change you. You should have gone into feature films."

  ***

  "Mr. West, this is Finch at the front gate. Is Ms. Chambers still there?"

  "Ms. Chambers? I haven't seen Ms. Chambers." A cold fear fissured down Duncan's spine. He knew he wasn't going to like what the guard had to tell him.

  "She arrived about an hour ago."

  "She didn't come into the studio."

  "I saw her go in, sir. Then a few minutes ago I believe Ms. Alexander left. I know the woman who left wasn't wearing the same clothes as the one who arrived. I just wanted to be sure everything was all right.”

  Duncan sighed heavily into the receiver.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. West I can't tell them apart. This is why I called. I thought—"

  Duncan cut him off. "Have you checked the guest house?"

  "Sir, we've called but get no answer. I'm awful sorry, Mr. West."

  Duncan's hand gripped the phone so tightly he could feel the tension up his arm. He relaxed it. "It's not your fault.” He knew Aurora. If she got it into her head to leave the compound, she would. Something had to have driven her away.

  “It could have been Ms. Chambers. They look alike. I can’t tell one from the other unless they smile. Ms. Alexander always smiles.”

  “Marsha!” Duncan shouted, latching onto the word. “Was she here?”

  “Yes sir. She came in about half an hour ago. I didn’t see Ms. Alexander leave so I thought she was still here, but her car went out the gate a few minutes ago.”

  Duncan hung up. He'd go to the guest house himself. Maybe Marsha had left the compound and Aurora was preparing for bed. Snatching the phone up, he dialed the guest house. It rang four times before the answering machine clicked on. He heard Joyce's voice asking whoever it was to leave a message. Duncan remembered the phone call she'd received before. More than likely she wouldn't answer without hearing who was calling.

  "Aurora, it's Duncan. Pick up the phone." He waited a second. "Aurora, if you're there, please pick up the phone." Still nothing. He dropped the receiver in its cradle. Fear crept up his spine like a silent enemy.

  Duncan left his office at a fast walk. He didn't want to panic. He was sure Aurora was fine. He just needed to make sure. On his way to the outside he swung by her dressing room. The door was open and he saw someone inside.

  "She's gone." Marsha's voice was strong and confrontational. She stared at him like a satisfied cat.

  "What do you mean she's gone?"

  "I sent her packing. It's my show and I'm back."

  Duncan reigned in his temper. He tried to remind himself that Marsha did not know the things that had gone on. That she was just a frightened artist who thought she was losing control of her program.

  "Where did she go?"

  "I don't know and I don't care." Marsha sat down on the sofa and put her feet up. She looked relaxed, as if there were nothing important in the world except the comfort of Marsha Chambers.

  Something inside him snapped. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up. Her face was extremely close to his.

  "What did you say to her?" Duncan shouted. He saw fear enter Marsha's eyes. He wanted to choke her. He was as close as he'd ever come to wanting to hurt a woman.

  Wrenching her arm free, she rubbed the spot where he’d held her. "I merely told her I was back."

  "I can just hear how you said it too, Marsha. You never think of anyone but yourself." Duncan swung away. He didn't even want to look at her. He knew if he continued he might put to action the thoughts that were going through his mind. "She's not in the guest house. She's left the compound."

  "She's a big girl, Duncan. She doesn't need you escorting her everywhere she goes."

  Duncan rounded on her. He must have looked menacing, because Marsha took a step back.

  "You don't know what's been going on here. You've been safe while Aurora stood in for you. She's been harassed by phone calls and frightened that whoever is looking to harm you will get her instead. Her home has been broken into and her life turned around. All because she had the misfortune to be on the set the day someone mistook her for you."

  "You don't know that," Marsha shouted. Duncan knew her, knew she'd attack. "The man who attacked her could have been looking for her. There's no evidence that he was looking for me."

  She was hiding something. "They came to your show in broad daylight. If they were looking for Aurora, she lives alone in an old house that's big enough to fit a circus inside. A man could easily wait there and grab her without anyone knowing. No, he came here. He was looking for you. Why, Marsha? Who is he?"

  She turned away, but Duncan grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Who is he?"

  She snatched her arm away and Duncan let it go. He didn't want to touch her. "I have no idea what you're talking about. There is no one."

  "What really happened when they kidnapped you, Marsha?"

  The swift change in subject threw her off guard. He saw the change in her. The quick intake of breath. The fear in her expression. Emotion played over her face as if she were a veteran actress in an Academy Award winning scene. This was no scene. Duncan saw raw fear.

  "I told you what happened. I've told Coop what happened."

  "You can stick to that story if you want to. Sooner or later one of us is bound to find out the truth." There was a threat in Duncan's voice and he hoped she heard it.

  ***

  Blue uniforms and badges were intimidating enough. Even a person identifying himself as a cop had clout over the average American citizen. With Coop, size was a major factor. Coop knew this and it played a part in his cutting through the red tape of channels that let him cross the river into New York City to personally talk to Freddie Turner.

  The city was decked out for Christmas shoppers. Lamp-posts and store windows sported colored lights, Christmas trees, garlands, and sale signs. Coop liked the city. It reminded him of Chicago, with horns blaring, hundreds of taxi cabs, and constant road construction. He liked the Christmas lights, too. Annually, he made the trip to Radio City Music Hall to see the Rockettes, and a couple of times a year he went there for a play and dinner. A few times he had been there on business.

  Like tonight.

  Mike Kelly, a six-foot, red-faced Irishman, met him at the corner of the fashionable neighborhood in the West Twenties. Kelly came with all of Coop's requirements. He was a uniformed officer with big hands and big feet, and he drove a patrol car. He commanded attention when he walked up to someone. With Kelly, he'd get what he wanted. Kelly had jurisdiction here, but before entering the men's clothing store, they established that Coop would ask the questions.

  Inside the space was well lighted. Suits hung against one wall. Sport jackets and pants took up the other. The floor had shirts and ties on various round tables. The dark mahogany furnishings were upscale and expensive. The room was spacious and uncluttered, with sofas and tables, giving the appearance of a place to relax while picki
ng out next season's wardrobe.

  "Mr. Turner?" Coop asked the man who came forward.

  "No," he shook his head. "I'll get him for you."

  The man looked relieved and scared at the same time. He went to the back of the store and disappeared through a curtain. Moments later he returned with another man. He was short and a little too round about the middle. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark pants that looked as if they'd been made for his unsymmetrical body.

  "I'm Freddie Turner."

  "Cooper Dean." He extended his hand and the man took it. “This is Officer Kelly." They both flashed badges. "We'd like to ask you some questions."

  "What's this about?" Coop glanced at the salesclerk hovering close by. From what Coop observed, the two men were more to each other than employer and employee. Freddie Turner was gay.

  Turner saw the clerk and said, "My office is this way."

  They followed him to a backroom filled with a drafting table, bolts of fabric, a cluttered desk, and a stand with awards on it.

  "You design clothes, too." Coop noticed the paper on the drafting table, a woman's evening gown.

  "I try," he smiled.

  Coop looked about the room. He was good at reading people from the space they chose to occupy. Freddie Turner's office held none of his former life. There wasn't even a television there, no memento of his short-lived series. A bookcase held books on fashion design and use of accessories, nothing on film or screen. On the floor were jars of buttons, a rack of various colored threads on huge spools, an isolated pair of worn shoes, and fabric, all kinds, everywhere.

  There was nothing personal—no pictures of a wife or child, no children's drawings from kindergarten— only awards from various fashion events. The case holding them was dusty and neglected. Only a coffeemaker sitting next to his desk gave Coop any insight into his personality. At arm's reach, it probably supplied Turner with several pots during the day. Dregs filled the room with a burnt odor. A jar of vanilla non-dairy creamer, gave away a Hollywood memory that had Coop smiling.