by C. S. Lakin
Praise for Innocent Little Crimes
Top 100 Finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest
“Revenge is indeed a dish best served cold in this fast-paced, thrilling story. Lila Carmichael is the Queen of Comedy, a wealthy TV actress with legions of adoring fans, who capitalizes on her less-than-gorgeous looks and snarky sense of humor. When she invites the former fellow members of her Evergreen State College theater group, the Thespians, to her private island off the coast of Seattle for a mini-reunion, initially they’re all thrilled. They all need something from their old friend, whether it be connections or cold hard cash: Della Roman needs money and a Hollywood connection; Dick Ferrol needs a cash bailout to get him out of a shady business deal; his kind, overweight wife Millie needs some excitement; Jonathan Levin needs Lila’s influence to save his directing career, and Davis Gregory needs a reminder that he was once a hot actor, not just a dull businessman. At first Lila’s guests try to ignore her barbed, acerbic humor, and reminisce over beach volleyball and drinks. But Lila hasn’t forgotten how cruel they were to her when she was a heavy, unhappy preacher’s daughter too naive to know they were using her. And now she’s got them trapped right where she wants them, and she turns them on each other, bringing to light their greed and the dark secrets they’ve been keeping all these years. Before the weekend is over, one of them will end up dead. . . . This is a page-turning thrill-ride that will have readers holding their breaths the whole way through.”
—Publishers Weekly
Innocent Little Crimes
A novel by C. S. Lakin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 C. S. Lakin
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Prologue
With the motor at a putter, Mac Dobson steered his trawler through the clammy fog, stretching his neck to spot jutting rocks before they punched holes in his hull. Even though he’d maneuvered through this maze of islands for over thirty years, he knew to keep his confidence in check. Forceful waves slapped the bow, splashing salt water into his beard. Tree branches tumbled and bobbed in the churning water, debris from the weekend storm littering the narrow channel. Sherpa whined, pressing against Mac’s legs.
“We’ll be there soon, ol’ boy. Then a bowl of hot soup for the both of us.” Mac pulled the yellow rain slicker tighter to stave off the wind, then dodged a hefty limb with the jerk of the wheel. He gave Sherpa a brusque pat on the head as the dog sought purchase with his paws on the slick deck. “Folks must be crazy to be vacationing this time of year.”
Through the drifts of gray, he could make out the island a dozen yards to starboard. The soughing of the surf as it pounded the beach rolled toward him, growing in pitch. As in a dream, the pier and moorings materialized, then the flag pole jutting from the sand.
A shiver raced across the back of his neck at the sight.
Someone had raised the signal flag; it flapped in the wind, smacking the pole. The pulley clanged against metal, tolling like a bell in a churchyard. As the boat nosed to shore, Mac made out a small group on the beach standing solemn and still, a curious contrast to their excited manner two days ago when he dropped them off.
But dream turned nightmare when his gaze followed theirs to the ground. A bulky shape lay at their feet, wrapped in a gray canvas tarp. Mac tossed the line over the post at the dock and whistled under his breath as the prow nudged the pilings. He didn’t need to take a mental count to know someone was missing—and just where that someone happened to be.
Chapter 1
January 1st
Bel Air, California
Lila Carmichael’s massive face, frozen in Living Technicolor, bore down on them from the eight-foot-wide plasma TV mounted on the wall.
“Ugh—I’ve got a voice that grates cheese.”
Lila tossed sandwich crusts into her mouth as she half-heartedly trotted on the treadmill. “I’m not that funny, you know. People think a fat broad with a big mouth is an easy target.”
She narrowed her eyes at the screen. Her short, thick, carrot-red hair flared out around her face—a pretty-enough face, but overpowered by bulging cheeks and a double chin. Her beady brown eyes resembled raisins pushed into a blob of dough.
She turned to Peter, her lithe assistant. “Here’s what I think. They laugh at me because no matter how rotten their life is, they can look in the mirror and say, ‘I may be a loser, but thank God I don’t look like Lila Carmichael.’ She looked again at her image. “Sheesh, what an ugly mug.”
“A face the whole world loves, sweets.” Peter helped her climb off the treadmill. “And pays plenty to watch.”
Lila stepped onto the scale and squinted at numbers that flashed her weight in both pounds and kilos. Neither number flattered her. With a disgusted grunt, she pasted a piece of lettuce over the digital readout.
Her head throbbed from last night’s New Year’s bash, an event she barely remembered attending. She surveyed the room she liked to call her “fat farm.” Garish-green walls with floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected back her sizable body from the ceilings and domed archways. More like a fun house sideshow than a fancy French chateau sequestered in Beverly Hills. Just who was she fooling with all this exercise equipment and indoor lap pool? She was never going to get in shape unless that shape was round. Her sixteen-million-dollar estate—her little “tear-down”—boasted spacious rose gardens, closed-circuit security cameras, and privet hedges galore. All designed to induce peace of mind. But Lila felt constrained, like a restless lion in a tight cage.
She fell back into an overstuffed chair with a sigh and wiggled a finger at the screen. “Play the DVD again.”
“Darling, it’s great. You’ve watched it a thousand times. Why torture yourself? You got rave reviews. You always do.”
“Shut up, Peter, please, and obey.” She shot him a saccharine-sweet smile.
He was right, though. She did torture herself. She did get rave reviews. This time. This week. You could never be sure when your little kingdom would topple and the crown would be yanked out of your greedy hands. There were plenty of wolves clawing their way to the top, with the bodies of half-chewed has-beens littered along the wayside.
Peter picked up the remote. Garrett came in, three poodles trailing like coifed models on a runway.
“Meeting’s all set. Three tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, they’re sweating over at NBC. They’re afraid you might go to one of the other networks.”
“Make them sweat. Now call them back and cancel the meeting. Tell them something’s come up and change it to Monday.”
“They’ll be furious.”
Lila shrugged. “What do I care? It’s just an act. They know they’ll have to meet my price in the end.”
“Are you really thinking about breaking from Cable?” Peter asked. “The nets will demand you clean up your act.”
“When they clean up theirs, I’ll clean up mine. They should talk. Besides, it’s only money” Lila turned back to Garrett. “Ring my manicurist, and tell the cook to go easy on the garlic. My stomach’s been a mess all day.”
Garrett nodded and left the room, with poodles’ toenails clicking on the pristine marble floor.
Peter pressed the remote and stood off to the side. Lila watched the screen, then sat up abruptly. “Hey now, what about those invitations?”
“Sent them all out this morning.�
�
She clapped her hands. “Ah, the game’s afoot.”
Peter smirked. “Wait till they open their mail. The look on their faces. Ooh . . . think they’ll all come?”
“They wouldn’t dare turn me down. Not a frigging chance they’d miss a weekend with the rich and famous Lila Carmichael.”
Peter exaggerated a sigh. “I’d give my right kidney to be a fly on the wall that weekend.”
“I’ll do you one better. You can be my ‘escort.’ ”
Peter blushed. “Oh, Lila.”
“Cut the crap, Peter. We have a lot of work to do to get ready. This is not one of your run-of-the-mill, everyone sit around and gleefully reminisce about the good ol’ days—because they weren’t any. They’re going to wish they never came.”
Lila grew pensive, and then a smile inched up her face. “They just don’t know it yet.”
Chapter 2
Brooklyn, New York
Snow pelted the window of Della Roman’s tiny room in the brownstone apartment on Montague Street. Della looked out on the neighborhood where snow piled in drifts and wind whipped the clouds in a frenzy. The street lamps cast an eerie glow onto the blanketed sidewalks. She squinted to read the illuminated numbers on her alarm clock. Three fifteen.
Her white cat lay curled in her lap as Della read and reread the same page over and over. She brushed her cat’s fur with a small comb and lit another menthol cigarette.
It was no use—she couldn’t concentrate.
She threw down the book, Meditating with Purpose, and stumbled into the bathroom, cringing under the glaring light. Why did she persist in reading herself to sleep when it never worked?
She opened the mirrored cabinet to a dozen bottles of prescription medication, most of them empty. She popped open the Valium cap and shook out a tablet, then two. As she washed the pills down, she caught her gaze in the mirror.
Della forced herself to look at her reflection. Her face was deathly pale, with dark circles under her eyes from repeated bouts of insomnia. Her skin was taut and dry, her black hair greasy and unkempt. Mascara smeared her eyelids. Her looks reflected her life—a total mess.
How had she ended up like this? Living with her condescending brother and his annoying wife in the hoity-toity section of Brooklyn. Barbie and Ken, she called them behind their backs. Ever so right, ever so plastic. They lived by “the rules,” they liked to say. Della snorted. Let them drop dead with their rules. What joy did they get out of their absolutely eat-off-the-floor spotless house? They hardly dared sit on a chair for fear of mussing it.
And her niece and nephew. Sweet kids but so spoiled. She was sure they’d grow up exactly like their parents and just as dull. They all treated her like a slave. Della, be a honey, fix the lunches, pick up the kids, vacuum the rug. Her brother Edward encouraged her when she went on auditions, but she knew he pitied her. He and his patronizing support—he never believed for a minute she had talent. Nothing Della did was good enough. She was tolerated because she was cheap labor.
She went back to her small single bed and climbed under the patchwork quilt. What humiliation, having to live in the “maid’s room” littered with the detritus of former Puerto-Rican live-in help: plaster crucifixes, half-empty purple nail polish, hairbrushes knotted with hair. She pulled her cat up to her face and hugged her.
“Oh, Princess,” she cooed, stroking the cat’s fur, “when am I going to get out of this prison? You’re my only friend, you know.” She lit another cigarette, dropping ashes on the bed. “You hate this place too, I know. But tomorrow’s the day. We finally have our ticket out. I’m going to go into Manhattan real early for a try-out. This time I know I’ll get the part. Jack Rolands is casting his soap and I’m sure he’ll remember me. Well, maybe not with my clothes on.” She giggled and the giggle became a hiccup.
“Anyway, even if I don’t get the part, I’m signing up for that class at Actor’s Studio. I mean it this time. Edward said he’d pay all the expenses. So, let him. He can afford it.”
Della rocked the cat in her arms and lit another cigarette off the one she was finishing. “I can’t take care of his snotty kids forever. Besides, he’ll do anything to get rid of me. I’m not a good ‘role model’ for his brats. Do you believe he said that to me? Damn, these pills don’t work. They must be diluted.”
She reached down beside her bed and opened the bottle of wine. She looked around for a glass and, finding none, drank out of the bottle. After finishing off the wine, she went back to the bathroom and shook out two more pills from the near-empty bottle. Back in bed, she switched off her lamp and put the headphones on. Soft music filtered into her head and the calm voice of her therapist set her mind adrift.
“Imagine yourself lying on a fluffy white cloud. You are weightless.”
Della closed her eyes and listened. The timbre of Daniel’s voice began to arouse her. Throughout the night she waited anxiously for sleep. After rearranging pillows and untangling blankets for the hundredth time, she picked up her phone and punched in a number. Daniel’s voicemail informed her of what it always did. He was not available and to please leave a message.
“Daniel. It’s me again. I still can’t fall asleep. Call me. I need you and why the hell aren’t you ever in?” She slammed the receiver down.
She started seeing her therapist two years ago. Nothing helped until that night he finally told her she needed the ultimate therapy. She knew sleeping with her therapist was against the rules, but she had wanted him from day one, anyway. For awhile they had their weekly “therapy session,” but lately he was seeing her less and less. And she needed his “therapy” to get herself to sleep.
Della finally started to doze as the sun lit up the apartment building across the street. The door to her room swung open and disoriented her. Her sister-in-law’s gaze lighted on her, groggy in bed, then took in the empty bottle of wine on the floor, the headphones still hanging from one ear, the ashtray full of cigarette butts. Della knew the room smelled stale.
Margaret could hardly contain her disgust. “Della, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon after work. I’ll expect you to be home to take care of the kids.” Della barely moved her head in response.
“Do you hear me? I’ll be back by six. Feed them supper at five. I’m defrosting some ground beef.”
Della attempted to sit up. Princess stretched and jumped off the bed.
“And clean that disgusting cat box already. It’s stinking up the house.”
Later, Della heard the front door slam. She found the clock that had been knocked to the floor. Ten thirty. She had slept through breakfast and the kids getting off to school. And missed Jack Roland’s casting session.
Screw the audition. It was a lousy under-five, so big deal. A couple of lines in a dumb soap amounted to zilch. She looked like garbage anyway. She hadn’t been eating much lately and her clothes hung on her. All that juice fasting was supposed to give her more energy, but that was a joke.
After boiling some eggs, she tried to reach Daniel again, this time getting his service. She left a message for him to call, stressing it was urgent.
After picking at the eggs, Della searched for something to wear. The closet was a jumble of dirty clothes strewn on the floor. She couldn’t tell what was clean. She picked up a dress and smelled the armpits, then threw it back down.
She sighed and turned to look out the window. Snow continued to pile in drifts. What did she want to go outside for? The house was empty, her brother was at the office, the kids were at school, her sister-in-law at her beauty shop. She shut the closet door and went into the bathroom for some more Valium. This time she’d take four. If only she could get some sleep, she’d be fine; then she could deal with her imprisonment.
She climbed back into bed and lit a cigarette, smoking five before she finally closed her eyes and buried her head under the covers.
Little daylight remained when Stacy and Mark, bundled in coats and scarves and hats, stomped up the steps an
d rang the bell.
“Hurry up,” Stacy said, “I’m freezing.”
“Maybe the bell’s not working. The door’s locked.”
“Ring again. Aunt Della’s s’posed to be home.”
Mark banged with his fist. “Aunt Della!”
They waited, shivering. Mark looked at his sister. “Maybe she forgot and went out.”
“Don’t say that. What’re we going to do?” Stacy started to cry. “I want Momma.”
“Cut it out, Stace. Crying won’t get us in. Maybe I could try the window.”
Mark climbed the wrought iron railing in front of the window but his legs were too short to get over. He scratched his knees getting back down.
“Mark, don’t. You’ll fall!”
“Stacy, shut up. You want to stay out here and freeze to death? You could, you know.” He pounded on the door.
Stacy cried harder. “Maybe we should call the police or something.”
“With what phone, dumbbell?” Mark attempted the railing again with renewed determination. He managed to grab the ledge with his gloved hand and lean over to push at the window.
“It’s unlocked. Maybe I can shove it. Then we can get in.”
His gloves slipped on the slick surface of the window, so he threw them down to the sidewalk. Stacy kept crying and pounding on the door.
“Della, Della, where are you?” She whimpered in between gasps. Just then, she heard a crash and looked over to see Mark’s arm going through the window pane. The shards had penetrated through his coat, and blood dripped down his fingertips and onto the snow.
“Oh no!” Stacy screamed. “Mark, get down!”
Startled by the sight of his blood, Mark fell from the railing and onto the sidewalk. The door to the adjoining brownstone opened and a gray-haired woman peered out, the chain still latched across her door.