The Next to Die

by Kevin O'Brien

  In the morning, he told his friends that Joanne had had a nightmare. It was almost the truth. She didn’t come down to breakfast. She didn’t utter a word all morning—not even when George and Sheila hugged her good-bye at the door. Avery led her to the car. He hated to think that perhaps Joanne was pulling some theatrics here. His actress wife wasn’t beyond “playing to the balcony” at times—as she herself had admitted. How much was a real breakdown—and how much was drama—he couldn’t tell.

  About a dozen reporters hovered around the front gate. They peered into the car, and shouted questions. A couple of them asked about the claw marks on Avery’s cheek. All last night and this morning, Joanne hadn’t even noticed. As they pulled into the driveway, she turned away from the cameras and covered her face. Once inside the house, she plodded up the stairs to their bedroom, pried off her shoes, and slipped into bed.

  That had been over four hours ago. He’d checked on her several times. To be safe, Avery had gone into their bathroom and removed all the razor blades and an old bottle of sleeping pills.

  “Keep a close eye on her,” George recommended over the phone.

  “I’m way ahead of you,” Avery said soberly.

  “Good. Well, call if you need anything. I love you, buddy.”

  “Thanks, George. Love you too. Bye.” Avery hung up the phone, and wearily reclimbed those stairs. He crept into the bedroom. Joanne was still dressed, still in bed—but awake.

  Avery sat down at her side. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Why don’t you go freshen up? I’ll throw something together for dinner. Okay?”

  “Dinner?” she said vaguely. She didn’t even look at him.

  “Yeah,” Avery caressed her arm. “C’mon, Joanne, I’m tired of talking to myself here. Please?” He started to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re scaring me….”

  The telephone rang. Joanne didn’t even seem to hear it.

  Avery sighed and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”

  “Avery? Hi. It’s Steve Bensinger.”

  “Oh, Steve. You know, now is not a good time to talk.”

  “Well, then you’re going to hate me, because I’m on my cellular, in front of your house. I’m sorry, Avery, but it’s urgent I see you.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, give me a minute. I’ll open the gate for you.” Avery hung up the phone. He kissed Joanne’s cheek, then hurried down the stairs and flicked the wall switch for the gate. He met Steve at the door.

  “Holy shit, what happened to you?” Steve asked, gaping at the scratch marks on Avery’s cheek.

  “Tell you later.” Avery closed the door. “What’s the emergency?”

  Steve stepped into the foyer. He wore a V-neck sweater and jeans. “Okay, no song and dance,” he said grimly. “I have a contact in the Beverly Hills police force, and he knows I work for you. He called me an hour ago and asked if I had any clue as to my client’s whereabouts last night….”

  Avery shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “A certain Libby Stoddard was stalking and harassing you last month. I talked to your lawyer about it on the way here—”

  “Yeah, okay, so?” Avery said impatiently.

  “She’s dead, Avery.”

  “What?”

  “Libby Stoddard’s gardener has a key. He discovered the body this afternoon. She’d been stabbed several times. There’s also evidence of rape.”

  “God, no,” Avery whispered.

  “They think she let the guy in,” Steve explained. “It happened last night. Coroner’s still working on an approximate time….” He glanced up toward the top of the stairs.

  Numb, Avery followed his gaze and saw Joanne at the second-floor landing. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. She clutched the banister as if it were the only thing supporting her. She had heard everything. Avery stared at her. “Joanne, you shouldn’t—”

  She began to laugh.

  Avery hurried up the steps to her. As he led her toward their bedroom, Joanne’s laughter became louder and louder. She sounded like a crazy woman.

  He’d just fallen asleep when the telephone rang. Blindly, Avery reached toward the nightstand. “I have it, hon,” he mumbled, trying to focus on the digital alarm clock: 5:13. He cleared his throat. “Yes? Hello?”

  “Mr. Cooper? This is Aaron Harvey from Homeguard Securities. Our cameras have picked up some activity in your backyard pool area—”

  “What?” Avery rubbed his eyes. It took him a moment to put everything together. The guy was talking about the cameras they’d installed outside their house after the break-in last month. “What kind of activity?” he asked.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of sending over an ambulance—”

  “An ambulance? What?” He sat up, then swiveled around. Joanne’s side of the bed was empty.

  “I think your wife’s had an accident,” the man said. “She seems to have fallen in the pool.”

  “Wait, wait a second.” Avery jumped out of bed and ran to the double doors to the balcony. He pushed them open and stared down at the pool.

  Joanne’s robe billowed out as she floated facedown on the water’s surface. She barely moved—expect for the water lapping around her. She drifted in the shallow end like a fallen leaf.

  In the distance, he could hear the wailing siren. Avery snatched up the phone again. “Tell them we’re around back.”

  He hung up and bolted down the stairs. In the hallway, he flicked the switch that held open the front gate. Then he ran through the kitchen and out to the pool. Jumping into the frigid water, Avery grabbed Joanne. He hoisted her out of the pool, and set her down on her stomach. She wasn’t breathing. He frantically pushed and pushed on her back.

  He could hear the ambulance down the street, then voices and footsteps. People were coming up the driveway.

  He continued his efforts to resuscitate her, but Joanne didn’t stir. Headlights swept across the backyard bushes as the ambulance came down the driveway. Avery heard more voices: “Something’s happened!” one reporter shouted to another. “I need this on video!”

  Avery wouldn’t give up. He kept trying to force the water from her lungs. The paramedics rushed through the back gate, followed by several reporters and photographers. Camera flashes popped in the murky dawn light.

  Joanne coughed, regurgitating a stomachful of water onto the pool deck. Hovering over her, Avery let out a grateful cry. She was still coughing when the paramedics relieved him.

  Drenched, and clad only in his undershorts, Avery rolled over and caught his breath. He could see Joanne moving. Camera flashes illuminated everything. He managed to stand up, then glared at the handful of paparazzi at his back gate. “You guys are trespassing,” he said evenly—between gasps for air. “You’re blocking the ambulance. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Incredibly, they obeyed him.

  One of the paramedics asked him how it had happened. Avery just shook his head.

  “Your wife seems to have swallowed a mixture of barbiturates and alcohol. We need to move her to the hospital right away.”

  “Yes, of course,” Avery whispered. He gazed down at the other medic inserting a fat plastic tube in Joanne’s mouth. Her eyes were half open.

  Avery began to shiver from the cold.

  He stepped into the dimly lit hospital room. Joanne was asleep. As Avery moved closer to the bed, he saw the restraining straps around her wrists—attached to the bed’s side railings. She looked so frail and sickly. Her damp hair had dried into flat, greasy tangles.

  He still smelled of chlorine from his plunge into the pool five hours before. He’d found the empty bottle of sleeping pills in the kitchen garbage. Joanne had had the prescription filled in New York. She’d washed down the pills with several shots of vodka—before jumping into the pool.

  The doctor had allowed him only a brief visit, so Avery stayed just a few minutes. He gently kissed her forehead. “G’night, honey,” he whispered, though he
knew she couldn’t hear him.

  Outside Joanne’s private room, a slim Asian woman, about fifty, waited by the security guard’s desk in the hallway. She had a pen and pad, and wore a red cardigan with black pants. Avery was a bit disappointed the guard hadn’t chased away this reporter. He frowned at both of them.

  “Mr. Cooper?” She dug into her purse. “I know my timing is awful. But I need to ask you some questions.” She pulled out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, Beverly Hills police. Could I buy you a coffee in the cafeteria? I promise this won’t take long.”

  Avery sighed. “I’ve talked to you people all day. How many times do I have to go over this? My wife wasn’t herself. She’s been through a lot—”

  “This isn’t about your wife, Mr. Cooper. I need to ask you some questions about Libby Stoddard. I believe you knew her.”

  They’d caught the hospital cafeteria during a lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds. Only a handful of other customers were scattered about. A janitor was mopping up; he’d placed chairs upside down on several tables.

  Avery sipped his Coke. “So what did you want to ask me?”

  Susan Linn frowned. “Well, first you should know that—um, you’re not required to answer any of my questions. You’re entitled to counsel, and anything you say might be used against you.”

  Avery gave her a wary look. “Am I a suspect?”

  Lieutenant Linn shrugged. “It’s standard jargon. You’ve seen the cop shows. Hell, you’ve acted in the cop shows.”

  Avery nodded. “I’ll let you know if I feel the need for a lawyer. For now, go ahead, ask away.”

  “The scratch,” she said, unwrapping her prepackaged Rice Krispies Treat. “How did that happen?”

  Avery touched his cheek, then shrugged. “I was at this little ocean-view park last night, just to—well, collect my thoughts. Suddenly, this nut—this woman—came out of nowhere, and she scratched my face. Then she ducked into a car and drove off.”

  “When did this happen?” Linn asked.

  “Around five-thirty. Joanne and I were staying with friends. I was on my way home to pick up some things, and I swung by this park.”

  Lieutenant Linn nodded pensively. “Your friend, George Weber, concurs—you left his house at five-fifteen. One of the reporters outside your front gate saw you come home at seven-twenty. You spent a lot of time at this scenic spot, collecting your thoughts. Did you go somewhere else?”

  Avery shook his head. “Only the park. I had a lot on my mind. My wife had just had a miscarriage—”

  “I know all about that,” Lieutenant Linn said, over her coffee cup. “You were filming a talk show when your wife had to be rushed to the hospital. Were you wearing any stage makeup for this television appearance?”

  Sipping his Coke, Avery nodded. “A little.”

  “Did you have a chance to wash it off before this trip to the park?”

  “No, I didn’t.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  She put down her Rice Krispies Treat. “Can you believe these things are low-fat? They’re so sweet. Only a few more questions.” She scribbled on her notepad. “Um, what’s your blood type, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, not looking up.

  “Type O.”

  “Hmmm.” She kept scribbling. “Between the time you left the Webers’ and arrived at your home, did you meet up with anyone besides this scratch-happy woman in the park?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Avery straightened in his chair. “Am I a suspect in Libby’s murder?”

  Lieutenant Linn sighed. “Well, I’ve done my homework. I know Libby was your ‘number-one fan’ as well as a thorn in your side. According to her attorney, you threatened Libby at an arbitration hearing last month.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Avery said quietly.

  Lieutenant Linn flipped through her notebook and scanned a particular page. “Um, on top of being your number-one fan, Ms. Stoddard was also a very rich young woman. With no evidence of a break-in, and not a single item missing from her home—we can eliminate robbery as a motive. So it looks like a crime of passion or revenge. Libby was stabbed eleven times. The coroner estimates the time of death was between five and eight o’clock.” Lieutenant Linn glanced at him for a moment. “Apparently, Libby put up a fight. There’s evidence of a struggle. We know she scratched her assailant, because skin fragments were found under her fingernails. We also found traces of stage makeup mingled in with the loose skin tissue. Ms. Stoddard was also raped. We were able to draw a semen sample, and determine the blood type.”

  “Type O?” Avery whispered.

  She nodded.

  Avery swallowed hard. “Why is this happening?” he murmured.

  “Would you agree to giving us a semen sample?” she gently asked. “It might eliminate you as a suspect.”

  “I can’t say right now.” Avery muttered, shaking his head. “I think I need a lawyer. I better not say anything else.”

  Fifteen

  Dayle turned off the duel shower heads, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the stall. Patting herself dry, she moved through a cloud of steam and wiped the condensation from the mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep last night. Thank God for Oil of Olay—or the stuff she called Oil of Olay. It was from some clinic in France, and worked just like Oil of Olay on wrinkles—only it cost seventy bucks an ounce.

  She had an interview with Premiere magazine in ninety minutes. It was just a one-page fluff piece—with an accompanying full-page photo that had been shot in a studio over a month ago. But she still had to look good for the interview—to be held over an intimate lunch at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They always reported how she looked, what she was wearing, and what she was eating during these things. Dayle planned to pin her hair up, pick at her Cobb salad, and on her bed, she’d already laid out the black Givenchy short-sleeve dress that always made her look thin.

  Dennis had already let them know that she wouldn’t be answering any questions about Leigh Simone or Estelle Collier. She’d hibernated inside her apartment all day yesterday, screening her calls.

  Dayle dried her hair and fixed her face. With the towel wrapped around her, she stepped out to the bedroom, and glanced over at her dress on the bed. She suddenly froze. A chill raced through her. Pinned to the dress was a page torn from a magazine. Someone had just been in her bedroom. For all she knew, they could still be in the apartment.

  For a moment, Dayle stood paralyzed. Then she took a step toward the bed and gazed down at the calling card they’d left. The magazine clipping was of a woman on a sailboat. It looked like part of an ad for a vacation getaway. In black marker, they’d scribbled across the top of the page: WE FOUND CINDY ZELLERBACK.

  Dayle didn’t know what it meant. She backed toward her nightstand, reached for the phone, and called down to the front desk.

  “This is the lobby, Ms. Sutton.”

  “Hello, Todd?” she whispered urgently. “I’ve had a break-in….”

  “Hey, Mom, your cell phone’s ringing!” Danny called from the front door.

  “Well, find out who it is, sweetie!” Sean was loading her collection of law books into the car. She planned to haul them over to the office this afternoon. Shoving another box in the back, she straightened up and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She glanced over at her son.

  Danny stood in the doorway, the cellular phone to his ear. The color seemed to drain from her son’s face, and his mouth dropped open.

  “Who is it?” she asked, hurrying up the front walkway.

  Danny covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Dayle Sutton!” he exclaimed.

  Sean laughed. “It’s okay, honey. Thanks.” She took the phone, and gave him a thumb signal to go play. “Hello, Dayle? How are you doing?”

  “I’ve had better days,” Dayle said. “Could I possibly come see you?”

  Sean hesitated. Watching Danny run out to the front yard, she thought about the people who were following Dayle around. Except for three
reporters who had called her office, there had been no backlash from having her name mentioned in that news story yesterday; no calls at home, and no strange cars parked on her block. She wanted to keep it that way. “Um, rather than you come out here, I’d just as soon meet you in the city.”

  “Will I be dragging you away from your family?”

  “No. Actually, I’m dropping off some things at my office at four-thirty. I’ll be a couple of hours. Could you meet me there?”

  “Yes, your office would be great. Thanks.”

  “Are you okay? You sound tense.”

  “I just need a friend right now.”

  “If it’s any help, Nick, this woman spent some time in Mexico years ago. My guess is that she’s back in California now.” Dayle fought the inclination to whisper into the limousine phone. She stared at the back of Hank’s head. The glass partition was up, but she wondered if he could still hear her.

  They weren’t far from Sean’s office. Dayle had been with Hank for the last four hours. He’d arrived while the police were still searching her apartment. They didn’t find anything, and nothing was missing. In fact, there was no evidence of a break-in. Todd, at the front desk, said he couldn’t understand how somebody might have slipped past him. The cops probably had her pegged as a total paranoid.

  Dayle didn’t show them the note. Once she’d remembered Cindy and their one-night stand on the boat, she didn’t want to explain the message to anyone. She lied to the police and said she’d discovered the front door open after emerging from her shower. Actually, she hadn’t dead-bolted the door—in case Hank came early to pick her up for the interview. He had his own key to the apartment. He was the only one with a key—besides her.

  She’d been a half hour late for her interview—and terribly distracted through the whole ordeal. She kept thinking about the “positively revolting” shoot down in Mexico so many years ago, Cindy something with the Winnie the Pooh tattoo, and that sailboat. Dayle barely touched her Cobb salad, and twice she had to ask the interviewer to repeat a question. Nevertheless, by the time it was all over, she’d still managed to charm the guy.