“I’ll get you the info, and if you want an updated schedule, I can drop it by.”
“That would be good.”
“What are you up to?”
“Hunting the Great White Leviathan.”
“Going well?”
“I’ve narrowed down the field a bit, but now I’m starting to get some collateral damage.” She told him about the flames from the eliminated candidate. “Apparently people don’t like being caught lying.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I shouldn’t be, but I was thinking of them more like cockroaches. You know—you turn on the lights and they skitter away.”
“This guy may be more the cornered rat type, so be careful.”
“If you feel the impulse to come guard my body, I wouldn’t say no.”
There was a long silence, and Tilda wanted nothing so much as a rock to hit herself in the head. “Just kidding,” she finally said, as lightly as she could. “I know your heart belongs to another. Your other parts, too.”
“Um . . . Right. I’ll get that revised schedule to you soon.”
“That would be very nice.”
They hung up, and Tilda considered going outside to look for a rock. Okay, Nick was a great guy and she wasn’t exactly happy that he’d broken up with her. Even though they hadn’t had time to get superserious about each other because of his travel, she’d hoped it would happen, and seeing him had reminded her of why she’d had those hopes. He was good-looking, smart, kind, and had a great sense of humor.
But he’d been nothing but honest about the state of his affairs. Even though he’d provided an awfully nice shoulder to lean on the night before, that only meant he was a good friend. It wasn’t his fault that his holding her had reminded her of just how good he was in bed.
“Take a cold shower!” she told herself firmly. Nick was dating somebody else, and it was apparently serious, so she had no business thinking of ways to seduce him away from the hated Cynthia. She wasn’t a poacher. The one time she and her sister June had seriously fought was when Tilda had expressed interest in one of June’s dates, and after that, she’d sworn to never, ever poach.
When there was a knock on the door a little while later, she was ready to avoid any suggestive banter, but she needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t Nick—it was Hoover, one of the other guys she’d hung with at the Mexican restaurant. And he’d come with an invitation to dinner.
Before answering, Tilda took time out for two thoughts. One, nothing would convince Nick that she’d moved on like her going out with somebody else. Two, Hoover wasn’t a bad-looking guy. So she agreed, and after a moment to brush her hair and decide against makeup, they took off for a nice Italian place in Glenham.
Dinner was fine, but it became clear to Tilda even before they finished their entrées that she wasn’t interested in seeing Hoover again. Though he was perfectly nice, he missed most of her jokes and clearly knew nothing about classic TV or movies. When they got back to her cottage, he hinted at his willingness to come inside for the night, but Tilda decided to test the waters with a kiss first. It was also only nice, without the first hint of a spark, so she nicely thanked him for dinner and nicely turned him down.
Then she grabbed the graphic novel of Pharos so she could at least take Dylan O’Taine to bed with her.
Chapter 20
Episode 3
Sid and Marty hire a young boy to help set up their show. When some of their equipment goes missing, the club’s manager blames the boy, but it’s not that simple. It turns out he’s the heir to the planet’s throne, and moreover, he’s a girl in disguise. And she’s being framed.
—SATURDAY MORNING SPREE BY CHARLES M. LUCE
WITH Laryea out of the picture for the next couple of days, the film crew was going to be filming establishing shots and background stuff that didn’t much interest Tilda. She spent most of the next day in her cottage weeding out Leviathans. Asking them which city the Leviathan PO box was in got rid of a couple. Then asking for them to send scanned character studies of any of the denizens of Pharos knocked out one more. That left her with five.
On the negative side, two more of the candidates she’d eliminated were becoming irate that she wasn’t bowing down in their virtual presence, including the guy who’d sent the worst excuse for a sketch of Dylan O’Taine that she could imagine. As far as she could tell, he’d traced a picture of Prince Namor the Sub-Mariner, including the Atlantean’s pointed ears. Dylan O’Taine did not have pointed ears.
Dinnertime approached, and as Tilda was trying to decide between eating out or making yet another ham sandwich, there was a knock on the door. She was hoping that it wasn’t Hoover there to try his luck again, and she got her wish in an unexpected way. It was Pete Ellis.
“Hi,” she said, which she later added to her Top Ten List of Lame Greetings.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”
She’d thought he was still in jail, and she really wasn’t sure if she should let him in or not. On one hand, she was the main witness to identify the limo he’d been driving. But on the other hand, the physical evidence had trumped her testimony, so Pete had no reason to blame his arrest on her. Then again, on a hypothetical third hand, if he’d been drinking, all bets were off.
Pete must have seen the complete lack of decision on her face, because he said, “I’ll understand if you’d rather not.”
Tilda didn’t know if he was painfully sincere or really good at reverse psychology, but she said, “Come on in.”
Though Pete couldn’t have been in custody very long, the time had weighed heavily on him. His face was drawn, and the shadows under his eyes hadn’t been there the day Tilda met him.
He sat down in one of the armchairs in the living room while Tilda took the couch and waited for him to talk. She really didn’t know what to say.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions about the night Foster was killed,” he said.
“Sure.”
“The cops said you saw the limo.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you certain it was me driving?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes I black out when I’m drinking. It hasn’t happened in a long time, but it has happened. I remember sitting in my cottage drinking, and then I remember Dom and the cops waking me up. In between is just a blank.”
She must have looked skeptical, because he said, “You think I’m lying, too, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure yet. Tell me what you do remember.”
She knew he must have gone through it many times already, so she wasn’t surprised when he spoke in the monotone that usually meant an interview subject had been asked the same questions one time too many.
He said, “After I went off duty that day, I drove the limo into town to get dinner.”
“Why didn’t you eat at the hotel?”
“It was too crowded, too noisy, too fancy. I found a takeout place and got an order of fish and chips, and ate at an outside table so I could watch the ocean. When I was done, I walked over to a convenience store and picked up some things. Then I drove back to my cottage.”
“And you were alone the whole time?”
He nodded.
“What did you do at your cottage?”
“I turned on the TV.”
“And?”
He looked away. “And I started drinking. That’s what I went to the convenience store for. I wanted beer.”
“Dom said you’re in recovery.”
“I was. I’d been clean and sober for three years this past August.”
“Why did you start drinking all of a sudden?”
“Are you a drunk?”
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t understand.”
“You could explain it to me.”
He took a deep breath. “I know it was a dumbass thing to do. I should never have bought tha
t beer, and once I did, I should never have taken it back to my cottage, and I should never have opened it.”
“And you should never have gone out driving?”
“I didn’t!” He wiped his face with his hands. “Do you know any other drunks?”
“A few.”
“Then you know we’ve all got our justifications. ‘Maybe I drink too much, but only on weekends.’ Or, ‘I never drink before five o’clock.’ Or, ‘I only drink beer, never hard liquor.’ Something we cling to so we can pretend that we’re not completely out of control. My excuse was always, ‘I never drive drunk.’ And I never did. Ever.”
“Until the other night.”
“Did you see me driving?”
“No, the limo was going too fast.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.”
“You really don’t think you were driving drunk?”
“I was drunk—I know that. I just don’t believe I was so drunk that I’d go out in the limo and forget about it. They can’t make me say any different, and they can’t prove that I was driving. Hell, why would I have gone anywhere?”
“Maybe you ran out of beer.”
“No, I had two more six-packs in the refrigerator. I was set for the night.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“All I can figure is that somebody took the limo and went joyriding.”
“How? Did somebody come by your cottage and get the keys?”
“It’s possible. My door wasn’t locked.”
“You didn’t lock the door?”
“I guess I was in a hurry to get that first beer open,” he admitted. “Anyway, Dom said it was unlocked when the cops came by.”
“Okay, somebody came in, saw you passed out, and took the keys. Then he went out joyriding and accidentally hit Foster and Laryea. Realizing what he’d done, he then drove the limo back to your cottage and left it there. And took the keys back inside?”
“The keys were left in the ignition. Which I never do.”
“Yeah, and you never get drunk either.”
“Of course I get drunk. I’m an alcoholic. But even alcoholics have behavior patterns. I have a routine for drinking—at least, I used to have one. I came in, put the keys up, and stuck the beer in the refrigerator. Then I went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt so I wouldn’t fall asleep in my clothes. I left my shoes by the bed, put my socks and shirt in with the dirty clothes, and folded my pants and left them on the chair. Then I got the first six-pack and carried it into the living room, turned on the TV, and started drinking. I kept drinking until I passed out. That’s what I do.”
“Every time?”
“Yes!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the use? You don’t believe me. Nobody believes me.”
“I’m trying to believe you, Pete, but look at it from my perspective. The one time in over three years that you’re passed out, somebody just happens to decide to take the limo.”
“I wasn’t the only one drinking that night, not by a long shot. You’ve seen those film crew guys.”
Tilda thought about all the people she’d seen in the bar celebrating the successful shoot. “They do like to party.”
“And limos are sexy. Dom can tell you how many clients we’ve had who’ve wanted to drive it. So a guy or maybe a couple of guys came by wanting to borrow it. Except they find me passed out, and they see the keys on a hook by the front door. Just like that one.” There was an iron whale by the front door to Tilda’s cottage, with a hook for the tail. “They take off in the limo, ride up and down the road a bit, and then lose control of the thing. A vehicle that long is a bitch to drive when you’re not used to it, and you know how narrow and curvy that road is. You saw the limo lose control, right?”
She hesitated. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“It didn’t look to me like the driver lost control. It was more like he hit Laryea and Foster on purpose.”
“What the hell?”
“I told that to the cops, but they didn’t believe me.”
“Yeah, join the club.”
“It was dark, and when they found you were drunk, I figured I’d seen it wrong. But . . . Okay, if you really weren’t driving, then maybe it wasn’t an accident at all.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that whoever was driving that car intentionally hit Foster and Laryea, and now that person is framing you.”
“Are you sure you don’t drink?”
“Oh, I’m supposed to believe you, but you won’t believe me? I’ll admit it sounds a lot crazier than a known alcoholic falling off the wagon and driving drunk, but if you’re sure that didn’t happen . . .”
“It didn’t. I swear it didn’t. But I’m having a hard time getting my head around the idea of murder. Why would anybody want to kill Foster?”
“Because he was a pain in the ass?” She shrugged. “I didn’t really know the guy—he could have had a dozen people gunning for him. I can’t be the only one around that he annoyed.”
“Killing somebody is way beyond being annoyed.”
“True.” She considered it. “Okay, what about this? Maybe Foster wasn’t the target. Maybe whoever it was meant to kill Laryea.”
“Why would anybody want to kill John Laryea?” Pete asked.
“I don’t know. He’s a big star. Maybe he stepped on a few toes on his way up, or stabbed a few people in the back. Maybe one of his ex-girlfriends has a grudge—I know that three of them are right here on the Cape, and he could have a dozen more lurking. Maybe somebody else really wants to play Dylan O’Taine, or doesn’t want Pharos made. What about that stalker Nick has been watching for, the guy from the airport bathroom?”
“I don’t know, Tilda. Sure, Laryea has probably pissed off plenty of people. But murder?”
She looked at him directly, deciding it was time to talk about the elephant in the room. “How about this then? What about a former costar angry at Laryea’s success, maybe even angrier because Laryea didn’t even recognize him.”
He looked down at his hands. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“The police might consider that a really good motive, especially if such a person were here on the Cape. They might think the former costar got drunk enough to go after Laryea. Or they might even think the guy went after Laryea when he was sober, then got drunk afterward to cover his tracks.”
“I guess they might, if they knew. Do you think they’re going to find out?”
She thought about it, and it occurred to her that she’d as good as told Pete that she was the only one around who could provide the police with a motive for him to commit murder. It also occurred to her that she was alone in a fairly isolated cottage with him, and that nobody knew he was there. Dom, she told herself, you better be right about this man.
“Pete, how long have you been working for Dom?”
“Six months,” he said, surprised. “Why?”
That settled it. She just couldn’t accept that Dom could be fooled for that length of time. “I don’t think the cops are going to find out anything else because they aren’t looking. They think you’re the guy. But you’re not.”
“Then you believe me?”
“Yeah, I do. I trust Dom, and Dom trusts you.”
“He used to.”
“He still wants to. So I’m going to trust you for him.” She paused. “Did that make any sense?”
“If you’ll believe that I didn’t go out driving drunk, then I don’t care if you make sense or not.”
“Dude, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
That seemed like a good opportunity to serve drinks—the nonalcoholic kind—so Tilda poured them both glasses of Dr Pepper.
“So the question is,” Tilda said, “what do you do next?”
“Talk to the police, tell them I think it was attempted murder, not just a drunk driver?”
“Why do you think they’ll believe you?�
�
“I don’t, but maybe my lawyer can at least get them to investigate the possibility. He thinks I’m guilty, but still—”
“Your own lawyer doesn’t believe you? Why did you hire him?”
“Dom found him for me and vouched for him. I don’t think it matters if the guy actually believes I’m innocent.”
“I guess not. Then you should talk to him right away and see if he can get the police to do their thing.”
“I could talk to other people, too. Ask around to see if anybody else saw someone in the limo, or if anybody has heard rumors of somebody with a grudge against Laryea. I have to stay in the jurisdiction anyway, and Dom has suspended me until this is settled, so I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“No offense, Pete, but do you really think people will want to talk to you? The film crew is convinced that you killed Foster and nearly got Laryea, too, which would not make you their favorite person.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, chagrined. “And the lawyer did say I should lay low.”
“Do you have a place to stay?” Tilda asked, really not wanting to invite him into her cottage.
Fortunately he said, “Yeah, Dom said I can stay where I was. He’s really doing right by me.”
“Then you better head back there and call your lawyer.”
“What about you? People will talk to you. I mean, I know I shouldn’t ask anything more of you, but . . . You’re the only one who believes me.”
Tilda regarded him with no particular enthusiasm. She had encountered murderers before, but it wasn’t by choice, and she really couldn’t see herself interrogating suspects and looking for clues. But then she thought about Foster, who’d nearly been forgotten. If he’d been murdered, even by somebody going after Laryea, he deserved to have his murderer caught, whether or not Tilda liked him.
Then there was Dom. He’d been so disturbed by the idea of no longer being able to trust his own judgment that he’d talked about quitting the business he loved. If Pete really was innocent, then Dom would get his confidence back. Unless, a nasty inner voice said, the real killer was one of Dom’s other employees. Tilda told the nasty inner voice to take a hike.
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