Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not much of a shopper.” That would be my mother’s idea of a dream day, not mine.

  “Then he’ll arrange a sightseeing tour for you. Okay?” During breakfast, Niko called from Miami with news, a possible Atwater sighting in Hong Kong. He, the cops, and Interpol were hot on the trail of the AIDS money. He had had tea and cookies with Mrs. Goldstein and, astonishingly, the Town Car, though ticketed, had not been towed, confirming my belief that cops tow only the cars of those who can afford it least.

  I missed Miami and hadn’t even been gone twenty-four hours. Lance barely touched the big breakfast prepared by Pilar, checked Variety and the Hollywood Reporter, kissed me goodbye, and took off with Frank and Pauli.

  I explored the house, seeing it for the first time in daylight. The place was a jaw dropper, with a ten-car motor courtyard, an art deco pub for a den, and a lava rock pool with several waterfalls and a sandy beach.

  The sightseeing tour Dave arranged for me was not one I would have chosen. LA seemed dry and brown, drab compared to Miami’s vivid colors. The terrain was not as flat, traffic was as congested, the pale sky hazy. The limo that picked me up looked like a hearse. It was a hearse. In the next few hours I saw the snug little Spanish-style house where Marilyn Monroe died, O.J.’s Brentwood estate, Nicole Simpson’s condo, the hotel where John Belushi overdosed, and the sidewalk outside the Viper Room where River Phoenix breathed his last. The dead stars’ tour reminded me of Ziff and the ghoul pool. The driver gave me a free grave map to two cemeteries of the stars. He looked like a mortician, and his spiel made me a bit headachy and depressed. I blamed jet lag or lack of sleep, thought about Bitsy and Billy Boots, and hoped they didn’t think I had abandoned them.

  I passed on a late lunch at Mezzaluna, the restaurant where Nicole ate her last meal, and asked to go back to the house. Maybe Lance had finished early.

  Dave had given me a key, in case I returned before he did and Pilar was not there. He had also informed me that I had a late-afternoon beauty appointment for hair and makeup. How considerate, I thought, hoping it had not been arranged by the same people responsible for my tour.

  The hearse dropped me off and I used the pedestrian gate. It was unlocked, which I thought a bit careless on somebody’s part. If Lance was still working, I decided, I would find some aspirin and lie down for a while. I was taking the key from my bag at the front door when Stephanie stepped up beside me. She must have been sitting on a stone bench behind the arecas that shaded the entranceway.

  “What are you doing here?” She sounded truly annoyed.

  She wore an expensive-looking powder blue suit with a ladylike pink blouse. The element of surprise was on her side. For a moment I was speechless. I finally had her and didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll take that.” She snatched the key out of my hand.

  “Hey!” I yelped. “Give it back! Are you crazy?” Why ask? I thought. I knew the answer. “Give it up, Stephanie! This is not cool!”

  A distinguished-looking older gentleman with a Doberman on a leash heard the racket, peered into the entranceway at us, then rapidly walked off. Stephanie had also glanced his way, and I took that opportunity to try to grab the key but she held it tantalizingly out of reach, behind her back like a child.

  “You had better leave now,” she instructed.

  Oh, sure, so Lance could come home and find her lurking in his house or destroying it?

  “You’re nuts!” I screamed and frantically jabbed the doorbell. “You are going to jail or a padded cell! You’ll never get out this time,” I threatened. Even as I said it, a nagging fear gnawed at my gut. Did her oversized Gucci bag conceal a weapon?

  No one answered. Did the freaking bell even work? I jabbed it again, then kicked the door out of frustration, again and again.

  Stephanie turned away. Maybe I had finally succeeded in scaring her.

  “Thank heavens you’re here!” I heard her say.

  I turned and saw who she was talking to, a middle-aged police officer in uniform, a second, younger patrolman right behind him. They were watching me.

  “I caught her trying to break into the house.” Stephanie stepped behind the first cop, who advanced toward me, club in hand. “Lance Westfell lives here, but he’s out right now,” she said. “I’m his fiancée.”

  “Yeah,” I said, exasperated, “and I’m Princess Grace.”

  I knew as I spit it out that it was the wrong thing to say to two strange LA cops. This was not Miami.

  “Be careful,” Stephanie warned them. “I think she’s dangerous.”

  “I’m gonna get you for this.” I pointed my index finger at Stephanie, who shrank back.

  Again, the wrong thing to say, but this entire scenario was simply outrageous.

  “Don’t let her get away! She has to go back to Boston in a straitjacket,” I said, as they frisked me.

  I explained that she had burned 3900 acres trying to kill us in South Florida, that she might have murdered Trent Talon, that she was Lance’s longtime stalker, and that I was his houseguest, his date for the premiere. I added that we were heading back to Miami on an early flight first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, my identification and my plane ticket were locked in the house, in the guest room upstairs.

  I realized how this looked to them. Well groomed, well dressed, and well spoken, Stephanie seemed the solid citizen. They had found me kicking on the door of a famous movie star’s multimillion-dollar mansion with no ID and nothing but three dollars, my free cemetery map, and a dead stars’ brochure in my bag, my blouse and slacks stained by an Orange Julius I had spilled in the hearse.

  “I can explain everything, officers.” How many times, I wondered, had these cops heard that line.

  Stephanie graciously allowed them to check her purse after I warned that she might be armed. The cop’s big hand came up with a dainty lace-edged handkerchief, cosmetics, and her Gucci wallet full of cash, credit cards, plenty of legitimate ID, a picture of Lance, and, of course, the key to his house. They apologized to her and glared at me.

  The neighbor with the Doberman was watching from a distance. He knew about Lance’s trouble with a female stalker and had flagged them down.

  “Ask him,” I demanded furiously.

  He was no help. He said he didn’t recall seeing me before but that Stephanie looked familiar. The cops decided to keep us both until they could sort it out. They ignored it when I said I had a hair appointment. Stephanie and I wound up wearing little plastic bracelets, sitting on cold metal benches, me on the left, she on the right, in the back of a LAPD paddy wagon.

  “Is Lance really taking you to the premiere?” she asked in a small forlorn voice.

  I nodded.

  “But…” She didn’t finish the thought, but I saw as she studied me that she was puzzled, probably wondering what the hell Lance could possibly see in me, especially when he could have her.

  The paddy wagon started with a lurch.

  “I hope you’re happy now,” I said. “Stephanie, why are you doing this?”

  “You don’t give up on your dream,” she said earnestly. “Lance and I are meant to be together.”

  “Is that why you want to kill him, so nobody else can have him?”

  Her jaw dropped, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing. “I would never hurt Lance,” she said indignantly. “Never, never, never! I would do anything to protect him. I’ll always love him. He wanted me to join him out here. That’s why I don’t understand “

  “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “His messages.” She smiled. “He sends me messages.”

  “How?”

  “All sorts of ways.” She cocked her head, still smiling. “The most special was on the Today show.”

  “I saw that; he sent you no message.”

  “You’re wrong. He did it again, last night on the Tom Snyder Show.”

  “You’re imagining it”<
br />
  “No. You’ve seen him take his right hand and gently touch two fingers to his eyebrow when he’s talking.” Her curly lashes dipped shyly, and her voice took on a dreamy quality. “Then he looks into the camera and smiles. That’s our secret signal. That’s when what he’s saying is meant for me. He did it when he talked about coming out here, to the Dark Journey premiere. He was saying he wanted me here.”

  I swiveled my head, looking for the cops, wishing they could hear this.

  “That’s how he sends you messages?”

  “Only one of the ways,” she said coyly.

  “Stephanie, get a grip!”

  She regarded me intently. “Did you ever want something so much that nothing else in the world mattered?” she whispered.

  “Sure.” I watched the sky out the small window high over our heads. Miami’s sky was so much bluer. “I get that way about the truth, about stories, on deadline.”

  “Do you give up when somebody says no or slams a door in your face? Do you?”

  “No, but this is entirely different. Your goals have to be attainable, you have to have some hope of achieving them.”

  “I do,” she said simply. “You don’t understand. I’m ready for Lance. I have a lifetime of recipes, funny stories, dreams, plans, and unconditional love, all saved for him. If he’s not ready for me yet, I’m willing to wait. Lance is worth waiting for.”

  “That all sounds so positive,” I said sarcastically. “But you left out the parts about trying to kill us, vandalizing my car, slashing tires and clothes, arson and murder. How do you justify them?”

  “Me?” She looked as innocent as a little lamb. “You’re accusing me of all those things?” Her expression was one of disbelief.

  “Did you rewire that control panel; did you kill Trent Talon?”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying that. I won’t even listen to it. I’m channeling my positive energy force to gain fulfillment, peace of mind, and the man I love. I can make it happen. Nothing is impossible. We create our own futures.”

  I sighed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing, Stephanie, and it won’t be pretty.”

  She sounded so earnest, so believable, who could blame the cops for listening to her and doubting me? Outside of her obsession, she seemed to function so well in the real world.

  They had left a note on Lance’s front door. I knew it was only a matter of time before I was sprung.

  I expected him to send one of his men, but it was Lance who showed up at the station, with Dave and Al. His nose was running. He wanted Stephanie prosecuted for trespassing and said his lawyers would contact the judge about the restraining order.

  He was apologetic. I didn’t blame him as much as I did Dave. “If Niko was here,” I told Lance, in front of him, “this never would have happened.”

  “Let’s go to Tiffany’s, I want to buy you something,” Lance said soothingly.

  “I don’t want anything,” I said peevishly. “Let’s just stop and buy some postcards, so I can let everybody back home know what a good time I’m having.

  “Oh, yeah,” I added. “You know that thing you do?” I mimicked his little hand-to-the-brow gesture.

  “What?” He looked puzzled.

  I did it again, exaggerating.

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded.

  “Stop it! Don’t do it again! Especially not in public. Especially not in front of a camera.”

  I had turned ugly. I guess that’s why they took me to a North Rodeo Drive salon to be pampered. I felt like a poodle being dropped off at the groomers. Like a bad-tempered poodle, I wondered if they would ever return for me. The salon staff took me in tow, whisking me off to a small room where they gave me a smock, then steamed my face like a lobster, over water bubbling with aromatic herbs and spices. An elegant woman examined my pores through a huge magnifying glass, shook her head sadly, and asked if I knew the word sunscreen. Then she spread a sticky green clay masque over my skin, slathered my hands and feet with oil, placed heated gloves and booties over them, and left me in a reclining chair with my feet up, swaddled in a fleecy blanket, soft music playing. I fell asleep immediately. Too soon, they woke me, peeled the masque from my face, splashed my skin with rose water, daubed it with moisturizing cream, and unleashed Armando, the makeup artist.

  When he finished with his brushes and pencils, crayons and colors, a manicurist shaped and polished my fingernails and toenails while a stylist swept my hair up and off my face in a style I had never worn and could never duplicate, with waves, tiny curls, and dangling ringlets.

  Somebody should take my picture, I thought, as I stared in a mirror, awed at the new me. I would never look this good again.

  Al rushed me back to the house, where I slipped into my little black Chanel knockoff and joined Lance downstairs. Champagne waited in the limo. “I got you something,” Lance said, on the way to the theater.

  The box was from Tiffany’s. A little gold bracelet linked with Xs and Os, hugs and kisses.

  It was all I had imagined. Velvet ropes, photographers, TV cameras, fans waving. Lance held my hand, flashed his megawatt smile, and waved. Pauli and Frank brought up the rear.

  Everybody seemed to love Dark Journey, and I didn’t see how anyone could tell that there had been frantic re-editing and a new ending shot.

  I met too many people to remember at the post-premiere party. All Hollywood types, exchanging phony kisses, lips not really touching the other party, as they made sounds like mmm-whaa. I felt uncomfortable with all those strangers who kept repeating how “excited” they were about everything. So “excited” about the film, about their new projects, about seeing Lance again.

  “I’m excited,” I whispered to Lance, “about the hors d’oeuvres. Aren’t they great?”

  “I’m excited too,” he said, flashing me his smoldery-eyed sexy look. Maybe his cold was breaking up.

  We stopped at Spago afterward, to be snapped by the paparazzi, to see and be seen by more of the excited Hollywood crowd, and to eat a tiny pizza.

  Everybody else magically disappeared when we got back to the house. Alone at last. More champagne. I fetched my nightgown from the guest room but never got to wear it.

  Afterward, I lay next to Lance, thinking. Did I expect too much? Was he a bit disappointing in the stud department? Could it be the steroids he had ingested, buffing up early in his career? Maybe it was because I was overtired. He did still have his cold. And we were both jet-lagged.

  He pushed our early morning flight back until afternoon, despite angry words long distance with Van Ness, who wanted him back in Miami to shoot a scene late that afternoon. “They’re lucky I’m coming back at all,” Lance muttered after hanging up. Obviously buoyed, he was feeling more feisty after the Dark Journey reviews. It looked like his last film for WFI would be a success; the reviews were terrific. We sunned by the pool and ate a leisurely lunch, interrupted by a call from Miami.

  Niko wanted to know if we were sure Stephanie was in LA. The Star Island guard said she had just driven by several times.

  “No way she could be in Miami,” I said. “Unless she has a twin or a double.”

  The LAPD was apologetic. A snafu. By the time the paperwork had reached the threat management unit that handles VIP stalking cases, it was too late. Stephanie had already been released on a $50 signature bond in the trespassing case. She could be anywhere, Miami included.

  Lance dreaded the return flight and reporting to the Margin of Error set, but I was ready to go home to Miami.

  “I know what is so odd about this town,” I told him, as our plane climbed and I saw the reddish smog hugging the jagged Pacific coastline spread out below. “The ocean is on the wrong side. It’s so weird.”

  We lowered our seat backs and relaxed, holding hands as I described my heart-to-heart with Stephanie.

  “The worst lies are the ones you tell yourself,” he said, shaking his head.

  He was right. I was impres
sed. “Is that yours? Or is it from one of your movies?”

  “What?”

  “I never know if it’s you or a scriptwriter talking.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Plagiarism.”

  “No, it ain’t. Hell,” he grumbled, and looked alarmed. “My ears just popped. Hope I don’t have any problems on this flight.” He blew his nose gingerly, then tucked away his handkerchief. “Now if some talent was paid Guild wages to write me that line, why shouldn’t I use it? Besides, who remembers? Once I learn a line”—he tapped his temple—”it’s in there somewhere. How can I remember if it’s something I thought of or something somebody else thought of for me?”

  He paused.

  “I guess that sounds so Hollywood,” he said bleakly. “Like all those people at the party last night.”

  “Your friends?”

  “They are not my friends. Never make that mistake. In the real world, you keep lying to people and pretty soon you’re not making a living. In Hollywood, the opposite is true. Shit has integrity in Hollywood. They admire a lie, a good scam, more than they admire real talent. If they don’t constantly retail lies, a movie doesn’t get made. Under all that hype you heard last night, there is one chance in a thousand that any of those projects will be made. They’re shrewd. They use your name Show any weakness at all, and they ply you with alcohol or drugs. If they see that you have a minor weakness for women, money, or booze, they turn it into a major vice. If you’re vain, they zero in on that, feed it, and stroke it.

  “There is no truth in these people. It’s not considered hip to tell the truth. They live in a fantasy world. Hollywood is like prison. If they are twenty years old when they get there, they become even more juvenile. Nobody ever grows up in Hollywood. It’s like dealing with an underworld culture, like in prison or a third world country.”

  “How do you survive?”

  “I’m tough and I’m smart,” he said simply. “But I learned a helluva lot of things the hard way, and I never stop watching my back.”