Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  “Not really. The weather dictates my schedule. During the day, I only edit when the weather’s bad, like today. Usually I work at night.”

  “Is it lonely?’

  “It can be. Unless I’m so pumped about a project that I forget about everything but the piece I’m cutting. That happens a lot. You should know. A writer’s life isn’t much different. You shut yourself away with only your characters for company.”

  He smiled.

  “So when do I get to see one of your screenplays?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and rocking slightly.

  “You were serious? I thought you were just shining me on.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I said I’d have a look. I can’t guarantee anything except that I’ll read it and let you know what I think.”

  “Yeah. Sure. That’d be cool.”

  His tone was casual, matter-of-fact, which she thought rather odd. It was her experience that whenever anyone close to a studio exec or a producer offered to read your work, that called for a celebration. At the very least, some measure of enthusiasm. Luke seemed almost put-off by her offer to help.

  He removed the broken pane, taking down the entire frame. He stapled the plastic over the opening.

  “Will you be home this evening?” he asked. “I’ll go get the new pane and set it in tonight. That work for you?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  #

  Piper spent the afternoon viewing all three movies, looking for anything that could shed light on Sybil and her life, past and present. By the second viewing, Piper’s concentration dissolved. At five o’clock, frustrated, she gave up and soaked in the tub. What was Sybil trying to tell her? As a big fan, she should get it.

  She dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a V-neck cotton top. At seven o’clock the headlights of Luke’s truck swept across her front windows.

  When she heard his steps on the stairs, she ran her fingers through her hair and answered the door in her bare feet.

  “Come in,” she said, moving aside for him to get by with the windowpane.

  He wore clean jeans and a button-down faux-suede shirt in a deep blue that brought out the blue of his eyes. He leaned the windowpane against the wall. A quick trip to his pickup for tools and within minutes he was back upstairs and hard at work.

  Not sure what to do with herself, she turned on the radio, a swing music station, and went into the kitchenette. “Care for something to drink?” she asked.

  “Love something. Whatever you’re drinking is fine.”

  “Wine?”

  “Wine’s great.”

  “Red. Or do you prefer beer?”

  “Red’s cool.” He began to pull out the staples holding the plastic sheeting to the wall. A breeze caused the clear plastic to flap against the front of his jeans.

  She took a glass to him.

  He stopped in the middle of prying out a staple, took the glass and tapped it lightly against hers. “Here’s to…whatever makes you happy.”

  “To whatever does.” She drank.

  “What would make you happy?” he asked.

  “I’m happy.”

  He smiled and set his glass down. “Mind holding an end?”

  She helped him position it into the empty frame.

  While he reset the window, they talked about old movies and their mutual penchant for Hitchcock.

  “What’s your favorite?” she asked.

  “Psycho.”

  “Why?”

  “The obvious. The shower scene. What’s yours?”

  “Rear Window.”

  He glanced toward the Squire house. “You have your own rear window thing going on here, don’t you? I couldn’t help noticing the telescope pointed at the house next door. What’s with that?”

  She felt her face grow warm. Why hadn’t she moved the damn telescope? “Busted,” she said with a grin. “I’m a big fan of Sybil Squire.” The expression on his face told her he wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. She pointed at the bookshelf to her collection of Squire movies. “I’m not a groupie or a stalker. I just have an interest in her.”

  “An interest.”

  “Well, lately it’s more than an interest. I’m concerned about her, actually.”

  “Yeah, how so?” he asked, tipping his head.

  “Before I answer, let me ask you this,” she said, detouring somewhat. “You’ve been around here for awhile, what do you know about her?”

  “Not much. I know she was big in the movies at one time, old, and that she swims naked. Not appealing, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you know anything about the people who take care of her?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. I’ve seen the woman and the man coming and going, but I’ve never had reason to talk to them. The guy reminds me of that bug-eyed Chinese actor, what’s his name?”

  “Peter Lorre playing Mr. Moto.”

  “Exactly.” He laughed, slapping the wall.

  “Actually, Peter Lorre was not Chinese, or Asian even. He was Austrian or Hungarian.”

  “No kidding. I guess in those days they had white actors play all the foreign parts, made them up to look the part. Wonder why they did that? There was a shortage of foreign actors, or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So does your neighbor still skinny-dip?”

  “She hasn’t in a while, at least not that I’m aware of.”

  “You’d be surprised how many of those old babes like to run around in the buff. No inhibitions. It’s creepy. I’ve been on jobs where I have to move fast or risk being cornered and groped. I’m nobody’s boy toy, that’s for damn sure.”

  Piper smiled. She had no doubt he was telling the truth. “Have you ever done any jobs for her?”

  He shook his head again. “An old relic like that—the house, not the lady—needs more than this handyman could handle. I’m not that ambitious. I’m into writing and music.”

  “Music? You’re a musician?”

  “Drummer.”

  “A band?” she said, refilling their glasses.

  “What’s left of it. The lead guitarist put the lead singer in the hospital when he caught him poking his ol’ lady, and now he’s serving two to five in Soledad. Second guitarist is in and out of rehab—in more than out, lately. Our manager stopped returning calls. Guess you could say I’m in search of a new group.”

  She nodded.

  He hovered near the telescope. “Why are you so concerned about the naked swimmer?”

  She told him about the fire and her week in the hospital. “They released her in the care of this nurse and that man. She doesn’t seem the same anymore.”

  “They’re hurting her?”

  “I don’t know. She had a black eye last week.”

  “No shit.” He drank deeply. “That’s extreme.”

  “Sybil’s housekeeper died after going over there. I found the woman’s body and now I’m involved.”

  He turned to Piper. “You think these two people did her in? What do the cops think?”

  “They don’t believe me. They closed the case.”

  “Hey, look, if these assholes threaten you in any way, I want to know. You let me know. Okay? Okay?”

  She suddenly felt uneasy. Not sure where this conversation was going and sorry she had brought it up.

  “Yeah. Okay.” Even as she said that, she knew Luke would be the last person she’d go to if she were threatened. Something about the look in his eyes when he said those words disturbed her. She thought of Robert Mitchum in Night of the Hunter—a flash of evil behind a benevolent mask.

  She went into the kitchenette and busied herself unloading the dishwasher while he wadded up the clear plastic sheeting. He used jerky, agitated movements, as if trying to punch the plastic into submission.

  “Goddammit!” he hissed under his breath, shattering the uncomfortable silence. He stuck his finger into his mouth.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Staple. Burns li
ke a sonofabitch.” He snapped his hand in the air, then squeezed the wound until blood welled up and began to run down the padded flesh of his palm. “Gotta make it bleed. Gets rid of the poison.”

  She tore off some paper towels and brought them to him. He twisted the towels around his thumb, but not before blood had dripped onto the wooden floor and the fringed edge of the area rug.

  “I’ll get some antiseptic,” she said.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll live,” he said. Then he smiled, his eyes suddenly bright and crinkly at the corners. “Hungry? How ‘bout we go out for a bite? There’s that Thai joint on Fairfax. Or are you into sushi?”

  Although she was starving, going out with Luke, even on a casual basis, was not going to happen.

  “No, I’m sorry, I … I can’t. I—well, I don’t date.” She turned away.

  “Who said anything about a date? You gotta eat. I’ll run over and pick some up, bring it back here.”

  “Really, no. Thanks, but—” All of a sudden she was eager to say goodbye and have him gone.

  “Okay.” He sank down on the sofa, crossed his leg at the knee and leaned back, sipping his wine.

  “I really should get back to work,” she said, nodding toward the monitors.

  He stared down into his glass, rolling the contents around. Just when she was about to repeat what she’d said, he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. He stood, handing her the empty glass. While he gathered up his tools, she rinsed the wine glasses in the sink and dried them.

  He walked to the door. Only after he opened the door did she cross the room to see him out.

  Instead of stepping out onto the deck, Luke pulled her into his arms and lowered his head for a kiss. She pushed at him, turning her head. His mouth brushed across her temple.

  “No,” she said.

  Luke’s large hand cupped her jaw, turned her head toward him.

  “Goodnight, Luke.”

  He dropped his arm, nodding. Without saying goodbye, he went down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  She spent the rest of the evening staring at Sybil Squire on the screen, yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Luke. She saw his blue eyes become hard and dark. She saw the muscle in his jaw contracting with tension. His hand holding her face, squeezing. In an instant, something had made him change.

  #

  That night Piper woke with a scream echoing in her head. A woman’s scream, bloodcurdling and shrill.

  She leaped from the Murphy bed and stumbled to the window, stubbing her foot on the leg of a chair in her path. Her toes throbbed, making her curse. The house next door was dark and without movement inside or out. Then a light blinked on in Sybil’s bedroom, a soft light from a bedside lamp. She focused the telescope at the window.

  Sybil came into view. Wearing a long, shiny robe and carrying a rock glass filled with an amber liquid, she crossed to the window, staggering slightly. Behind the transparent sheers, she stood silhouetted in the dim light, gossamer and otherworldly, before she yanked the drapes closed. There was something familiar about her actions. A scene from one of her movies. Piper shook her head. She was beginning to jumble real life with make-believe.

  Piper sank to the floor and rubbed her throbbing toes. She thought about what she’d seen and heard. The scream puzzled her. Had it come from Sybil? She looked fine. Probably the cats again.

  She climbed back into bed and pulled the covers tightly around her. When she closed her eyes, she heard the scream, high-pitched and chilling. The perfect movie scream. Had there actually been a scream, or was it merely a figment of an overactive imagination?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The next morning she called Detective Bower and told him about the scream in the night and Sybil Squire’s strange appearance at the window. “Until last night, I haven’t seen much of her at all. Before these people moved in, she was very visible. She swam every day, walked the grounds, and though she didn’t go out much, she wasn’t a total recluse, like now. Something’s wrong, Detective Bower. I don’t know who I can talk to about it. I’m freaking here. Can’t you do something…anything?”

  “Mrs. Lundberg, the Wade death is no longer an open case. If there’s suspicious activity at the Squire house, you should be talking to the Hollywood PD.”

  She pulled the drapes aside and gazed out at the mansion. When she heard splashing, she looked down and saw a nude Sybil Squire doing the sidestroke in a swimming pool littered with leaves and pink rose petals. She wore the goggles and something new, a tight fitting swimming cap. She looked healthier and more robust than when she last saw her in the pool weeks ago, in an ermine coat and a swollen black eye. “She’s in the pool,” she said without realizing she had spoken aloud.

  “What?”

  “She’s swimming in the pool. I’m looking at her right now. She looks like her old self.”

  “Well there you go. See, things have a way of working themselves out.” The line was silent. “Mrs. Lundberg, take my advice and give it a rest. If something does come up—something that you feel requires the attention of the police, the Hollywood precinct can handle any—”

  “Goodbye, Detective.” She disconnected and tossed the phone on the bed. What was going on? With the telescope leveled through a crack in the drapes, Piper spied on her until she exited the pool five minutes later. Leaves adhered to her thin body. She draped the robe over her shoulders, not bothering to dry herself first. Moments later, she was gone.

  Sybil was swimming again. A robust and healthy Sybil, looking like she did the day Piper first saw her in the pool, before the fire, before the new caregivers.

  What the hell?

  #

  With the sunshine and good weather, Luke resumed working on the chimney. Any apprehension she’d felt about him the night before gradually dissipated as the morning wore on and she watched him busy at work. His movements were smooth and swift. He was a gifted handyman.

  At noon, when she crossed the driveway to the main house, he smiled and waved but made no move to talk to her or to climb down from the ladder. Relieved, she watered the plants, cleaned Dr. Jekyll’s cage and gave him his fresh fruit and seed.

  The bird demanded more and more of her time each day. He missed the Vogts, particularly Belle, and hated being alone. He loved to cuddle and be the center of attention. Since the quake, she’d been visiting him twice a day, letting him out of the cage to exercise and explore. She quickly became his surrogate mother. He called out “’Lo, Mommy” whenever he saw her or heard her voice. She considered moving him in with her, but realized his screeching and rooster crowing would be too distracting while she worked. For company, she had put the portable TV next to his cage and kept it on a cartoon channel every day until the sun went down.

  After an hour with the bird, she locked up and returned to the guesthouse, her footsteps climbing the staircase in sync with the tapping of Luke’s trowel handle against brick. On her doormat lay a bound screenplay. The copy looked as if it had been carried around extensively, shopworn. The limp pages curled inward, smudged with dirty fingerprints and flicks of god-knows-what. She imagined it rolled and unrolled many times. She turned to see Luke on the ladder watching her. Holding up the script, she waved it in the air and retreated inside.

  Piper had asked for it and he had delivered. Now that it was in her hands, she knew he would be eager to hear her thoughts on it. She silently prayed it wouldn’t be as bad as the majority of scripts submitted by the thousands to Hollywood agencies and production companies. She brewed a cup of coffee and sat down to read Searchlight, a screenplay by Luke Monte. At the conclusion of the first act, she was hooked. It was a damn good piece of work; the story of a man in search of his identity and self-worth after kicking a life-long heroin addiction. When she reached the midpoint, she was interrupted by one of Mick’s assistants calling on her cell phone from nearby Sunset Boulevard. Leslie needed help to root through Mick’s projects for a copy of a pre-production script that had been misplaced or lost. There
were handwritten notes on the script that he had to have. She pulled into the driveway minutes later.

  Leslie looked so much like Connie Chung that Piper unconsciously called her Connie twice before she was sharply corrected. Piper led the way up the stairs and into Mick’s relocated office and pointed to a waist-high stack of scripts on the floor against the wall. “You take those and I’ll take these.” Already hunkering down to tackle a pile in the corner. Mick saved everything. “That’s what assistants are for,” he said when he couldn’t find anything in the clutter of his two offices.

  Calls from Mick every twenty minutes asking for a progress report didn’t help expedite the operation. To make matters worse, Belle got on the extension and wanted a word with Dr. Jekyll. Leaving Leslie on her knees in the corner, Piper enabled the speaker on the cordless phone, trotted down the stairs to the kitchen and held the instrument up to the cockatoo’s cage. He flapped his white wings and fanned his top crest, but refused to talk. “Take him out of his cage,” Belle said. “You know how bullheaded he can be when he feels like a caged bird. Have you been letting him out to spread his wings?”

  “Every day, sometimes twice a day.”

  “Do you talk with him?” she asked. “If he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, he forgets words.”

  “Yes, I know. We chat on a regular basis. He does most of the talking, so you don’t have to worry.” He had even picked up a few words from Scooby Doo but Belle didn’t need to know that her precious was being babysat by cartoon characters.

  “You’re a sweetheart. I’m so glad we have you to watch over things. We usually get a house sitter when we go off on these long shoots. Thank you, Piper, for being there.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m the one who’s in your debt.” She opened the door of Dr. J’s cage. She didn’t have to coax him out. He loved his freedom. He hopped onto her arm, then to his T-bar. He strutted up and down, bobbing his head, feathers fluffed. He began to mutter “Scooby Doo”.

  “What’s he saying?” Belle asked.

  “He says the economy and the national debt are in horrendous state. He’s pondering a position in politics, but fears the repercussions of campaign reform.”