by Joanne Fluke
Since the lights were on in the living room, Brother started his inspection there. The windows were locked up tight and everything appeared to be in order. He stopped for a moment to look at his mother’s portrait hanging over the mantel. It had been done in England, when she was a child. The artist had painted her in the gardens at Danslair, her family estate, and she was wearing a tailored forest-green riding habit. She was staring slightly to the left and she was solemn faced, as if anticipating the duties that would await her as an adult. A small brass plate set into the bottom of the frame was inscribed with the words ELIZABETH SMYTHE-CARRINGTON, AGE TEN.
The portrait was slightly askew, and as Brother reached up to straighten it, the lights switched off. He stood in the inky darkness for a moment and then groped his way to the doorway. A lamp went on in his mother’s bedroom, and Brother felt his heartbeat accelerate. The new timer was completely unnerving. It was almost as if his mother were still alive, leaving the living room to go to bed.
Brother walked down the hall to his mother’s bedroom and picked up the flashlight she had always kept beside the bed. Luckily, the batteries were still functional. She must have replaced them right before she died. If he knew where the electrician had installed the mechanism, he could switch the timer to manual, but it would be quite a task to locate it in the dark. He’d just have to check the rest of the windows with what his mother had stubbornly called her “torch.”
After Brother checked the bedroom windows, the light in his mother’s bathroom went on, so he checked that, too. While he was there, he noticed that the cleaning woman had done a poor job of polishing the mirror. There were streaks on the surface of the glass. Brother took a tissue and wiped off the streaks. He supposed it really didn’t make any difference now, but old patterns were difficult to break. His mother had always been very strict with her employees and insisted on immaculate surroundings.
As Brother made his rounds of the other rooms, he noticed that the cleaning woman was becoming lax without his mother’s supervision. He considered writing a detailed memo with a list of corrections, but as he progressed from room to room, he decided that he had no choice but to fire the woman and hire a replacement. He was muttering angrily to himself by the time he climbed the stairs to his own quarters. Now he’d be forced to conduct interviews with housekeepers and check their references when he should be concentrating on his important work.
Brother poured himself a small cognac and sipped it, attempting to clear his mind of anything except the scene he was soon to film. Tonight’s star could easily play the role. She was a seasoned veteran of a half-dozen low-budget movies, and she’d dropped out of the business to marry into money. Now, after a ten-year absence from the screen, she was in the process of making a comeback. Brother had seen her latest film. She’d played a cameo role in an immensely popular science-fiction feature, and in his opinion, her five minutes on the screen was the only bright spot in the movie.
A current newspaper was spread open on his desk, turned to the society page. His star was hosting a charity gala this evening, and even though the security would be tight, Brother had devised a way to get inside the gates of her Bel Air mansion. When the party was over and everyone had gone home, Tammara Welles would give the finest performance of her life.
Tammara Welles was excited. The gala she’d arranged was turning out to be the charity event of the season. The party people had turned the rolling green lawns of the mansion into an amusement park. One section contained the games of chance, and it was doing a booming business. People were standing in line to try their luck at the shooting gallery with its pop-up targets that were shaped like animals. No one seemed to mind the five-hundred-dollar donation, as long as the proceeds went to charity.
“Tammara, darling!” Mrs. Irving Jacobs rushed up and actually kissed Tammara’s cheek. Tammara stiffened reflexively, but she quickly covered by smiling warmly. Barbara Jacobs was new money, so new that she hadn’t yet learned to kiss the air in the typical show biz greeting. There were rumors that Barbara had been Bouncy Babbs, a stripper in Vegas, before she’d married Irving Jacobs.
A photographer was headed their way, and Barbara quickly rubbed her handkerchief over Tammara’s cheek.
“Sorry, Tammy, I got a little lipstick on you, but it’s gone now. I’m such a ditz about those things. My, but isn’t this exciting? I’ve had my picture taken three times already!”
As soon as the photographer took his picture, Barbara backed away.
“I’ve got to run, Tammy. Irving’s going to meet me at the Tunnel of Love. Since he’s been taking those vitamin shots, I’ve got a seventy-year-old tiger by the tail!”
Tammara laughed. At least Barbara didn’t have a phony bone in her body. And that was more than she could say about most of the women who were here tonight.
The girl at the booth on the left was making cotton candy, and Tammara stopped to watch for a moment. It reminded her of the Boone County Fair in Iowa. In July, more years ago than she cared to remember, she had ridden to the top of the Ferris wheel and pretended that she owned the land as far as she could see. Now her dream was possible. All she had to do was mention her childhood wish to her husband and he’d buy the whole damn county for her.
The girl at the next booth was selling corn dogs and Tammara’s mouth watered. For a moment she almost gave in to the impulse, but she reminded herself that corn dogs were definitely not on her diet. An overweight actress couldn’t expect to get any good parts.
As Tammara wandered past groups of smiling celebrities, she noticed that everyone seemed to have captured the spirit of the evening. Mrs. Geoffrey Bennington, an intimidating old dowager with a particularly acerbic tongue, had actually hiked up her skirt to her thighs and hopped aboard the carousel. Tammara watched in fascination as she rode around and around, sloshing champagne on her expensive hand-beaded skirt, sitting astride a snow-white charger that had been captured forever in the act of rolling his emerald-green eyes.
Even though her husband was rich, Tammara was still awed by the fact that many of her guests had more money than they could likely spend in one lifetime. Little Shirley Kranowski from Luther, a farm town in the central part of Iowa, had worked all summer at the local Rexall drugstore to earn the money for her high school prom dress. The dress was long gone now, but there was still a lot of Shirley Kranowski left in Tammara.
“Hi pretty lady. You look even prettier than you did fifteen years ago.”
Tammara whirled around and smiled her first real smile of the evening. It was Lon Michaels.
“Lon!” Tammara threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. She divided the people in show biz into two categories, fake and real. Lon Michaels was real.
Just then a waiter passed by with a tray of champagne, and Lon reached out to take a glass. “May I buy you a drink? It’s got to be better than that awful stuff we drank at our first premiere.”
“It is. Avery classy lady ordered this champagne. It’s Taittinger.”
Lon whistled. “Over fifty bucks a bottle at the discount places. How many cases did you order?”
“I’ll never tell, but I guarantee there’ll be some left over. What are you working on now, Lon?”
“The last film in the Jubee trilogy, but it’ll only go another week or two. Then, I’m not sure.”
“If there’s a part in your next one for me, will you put in a good word?”
“That goes without saying.” Lon touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To our next feature together.”
Tammara laughed. “A guaranteed blockbuster, where Tammara Welles is brilliant and Lon Michaels makes her look even better.”
Tammara closed her eyes in anticipation as she took the first sip. She loved champagne. Without thinking, she finished the first glass much too quickly and immediately took another. It was best to be photographed with a full glass. An empty one implied heavy drinking, and she certainly didn’t want to be publicized as a lush.
“Come on,
Lon. I’m sick of making the right impression on the right people. Let’s ride to the top of the Ferris wheel and hide from the world.”
Tammara awoke from a deep sleep. By the illuminated face of her bedroom clock she saw it was three in the morning. Something had startled her awake.
She sat up in bed and groped for her glasses. She’d worn contact lenses for years, but her eyes had been allergic to the permanent wear kind and she had to take out her lenses every night to let them soak in their little trays of cleaning solution. As she got out of bed, she staggered slightly on her way to the window. She must have had more champagne than she’d thought. She felt woozy and light-headed as she raised the window and looked out at the deserted grounds.
The amusement park was still there. The party planners had arranged to come and pick up their equipment in the morning. The stands and booths were illuminated by a string of bare light bulbs, and now, at three in the morning, their shadows were harsh and surrealistic. Tammara watched for signs of movement, but she knew it was impossible for anyone to come over the fence without setting off the alarm. Their security system was the best that money could buy.
Just when Tammara had made up her mind to go back to bed, the sound she’d been hearing registered in her mind. It was the sound of water running, and it was coming from the east lawn, where the party people had set up the Tunnel of Love. They must have forgotten to turn it off.
Tammara had her hand on the telephone to call the groundskeeper before she reconsidered. He was an elderly man, and she didn’t have the heart to wake him. She’d watched the party people set everything up and there was no reason why she couldn’t shut it off.
Dressing was more difficult than she’d thought it would be. Something had raised havoc with her coordination, and she found she had to sit down on the edge of the bed to pull on her slacks and sweater. Tammara slid her feet into the soft-soled moccasins she used as bedroom slippers and got up again with difficulty. It would be so easy to just crawl back under the covers and ignore the whole thing. She turned to give her bed a look filled with longing as she went out the door.
Tammara walked down the circular stairway, wondering if she was dreaming. It seemed to take hours to get to the bottom, walk through the hallway, and let herself out the back door.
The grass was wet with night dew, and Tammara felt the moisture seep into the soles of her moccasins as she made her way in what seemed like slow motion across the huge lawn.
The night was quiet, still and peaceful. Not even a dog barked in the distance. The air smelled tantalizingly fresh, much different from the smog of the daytime, and best of all, there was a perceptible chill in the air. Tammara could almost believe that autumn, with its brilliantly colored leaves and cold north winds, was right around the corner.
The water tumbled and roared in the distance, and Tammara walked slowly around the house to the east lawn. The stars wheeled crazily above her, but at last she was there.
Tammara’s breath caught in her throat as she saw the Tunnel of Love. The brightly painted boats were circling endlessly, at evenly paced intervals. Red, blue, yellow, over and over again. There was something terribly sad about watching them, but her mind was too foggy to think of the reason.
As she stood, wavering slightly at the edge of the water, she found herself longing to climb inside. She would lean back against the cushioned seat and trail her fingers in the cool, moon-drenched water until the tips of them tingled deliciously.
The little boats stopped, as if they could read her mind, and a man dressed in black seemed to materialize beside her. Now she knew she was dreaming. He bent from the waist in a courtly, old-world bow and held out his hand.
Tammara moved closer to take the man’s hand and he helped her into the boat. There was a video camera clamped to his side, and it jarred her briefly but she quickly dismissed it. Of course there was a camera in her dream. She was an actress. She turned to look directly into the lens and curved her lips in her most inviting smile.
The man, her dream man, climbed in beside her, and the little boats started again. Tammara had the urge to ask who he was, but she didn’t want her voice to shatter the fragile shell of her illusion. Instead, she leaned toward her companion, peering intently into his shadowed eyes as the boat carried them steadily toward the tunnel. He was wearing some sort of hood. Only his eyes were visible through the slits. Was it the hood of a falcon? No, that wasn’t quite right. A hood like this had been paired with a costume on the racks at the studio. But what kind of a costume?
The boat entered the tunnel, and Tammara found herself in total darkness. She huddled a little closer to the man as her dream began to take on ominous overtones. Now the pulsing hum of the machinery had turned into something frightening, something uncontrollable, like the heartbeat of some predatory, mechanical beast.
There was a bright pinpoint of light, and Tammara’s eyes dilated as she stared into the flame of a silver lighter. At that exact instant her numbed mind dredged out the memory that had eluded her. The hood had been hanging with an executioner’s costume. This was not a good dream. She had to wake up.
Tammara cried out sharply in terror as the executioner moved toward her. She heard her scream echo off the walls of the tunnel, but the dream didn’t disappear. There was no reassuring burst of light as she reached out in panic to turn on her bedside lamp. There was only the icy shock of the water as her fingers brushed its surface.
Tammara tried to scream again as her groggy mind reeled in terror.
And then executioner’s hands were around her neck, strong fingers squeezing, bruising her tender skin. Tammara’s glasses slid off, and she heard them clatter as she kicked out with all of her strength. The same padded cushion that had cradled her moments ago now served to smother her pitiful defenses as the executioner’s fingers tightened into bands of fiery pain. And then the darkness of the tunnel rolled back to reveal the deeper blackness that claimed her.
6
Monday, July 12
Oliver “Sam” Ladera stood on the crest of the east lawn and watched his men scurry back and forth below. A violent murder. A beautiful actress. And Sam was willing to bet a week’s salary that they’d run into the same brick wall again. He didn’t know how it was possible to actually record a murder in progress without leaving some visible clues, but the Video Killer had done it once. And Sam had no doubt that this was a repeat performance.
“Do you want us to dust the switch that controls the boats, Chief?” Zeke Jackson, Sam’s young black assistant, tapped him on the sleeve to get his attention.
“Go ahead, Zeke, but I don’t think you’ll get much. The groundskeeper turned off the boats when he spotted Miss Welles.”
Zeke nodded. “And the Video Killer probably used gloves again, right?”
“Right.”
Sam frowned wearily as Zeke raced off to instruct the fingerprint men. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he felt ten years older than his actual thirty-six. He’d been up since the call had come in shortly after four this morning, and he’d gotten a grand total of five hours’ sleep in the past two days. His ex-mother-in-law used to tell him that he looked like Sylvester Stallone when he had dark circles under his eyes, and Sam had gone into a rage every time she’d made the comparison. Sure, he had a cleft in his chin like Stallone’s. Lots of people had clefts in their chins. It was also true that he had dark hair and brown eyes, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. Sam was six feet tall.
“Chief?” A young female officer held out a steaming cup of coffee. “It’s fresh. The housekeeper made it when she came in at seven. She asked to make certain we returned the cups. They’re lace porcelain, imported from Europe. That’s twenty-four-karat gold around the rim, and the roses on the cups are all painted by hand. I’m pretty sure they’re close to a hundred dollars apiece.”
“Thanks, Judy. Would I be up for a sexual harassment charge if I asked you to collect them and take them back when the guys are finished? I coul
d always ask Donovan to do it but . . .”
Judy laughed. “I’ll do it, boss. Donovan’s got hands like meat hooks. Besides, I want to take another look inside. I might spot something the guys missed.”
Sam sipped the strong brew, not even minding that it had no cream or sugar. It was delicious. Maybe coffee tasted better when you drank it out of a hundred-dollar cup. As he finished the coffee, he looked down and saw his officers standing in tight little groups, handling their coffee cups with the utmost of care. Judy must have warned them. And Donovan, that big Irish oaf, was actually holding his little pinky out in the air.
Sam couldn’t help it. He started to shake with repressed laughter. This whole situation was incongruous, L.A.’s finest milling around on this lush, green lawn at the crack of dawn, sipping coffee out of porcelain cups just like they were attending a social function.
Damn, but he missed his ex-wife Katy! His description of Donovan putting on social manners would have driven her into absolute hysterics. A glum expression settled over Sam’s face, but it had little to do with the Video Killer. It was missing Katy, not the way she’d been at the end, a desperately unhappy woman who’d wounded him with her sarcasm, but the earlier Katy, the Katy he’d married.
He’d met Katy Brannigan in college. He was there on a scholarship, but he still had to work part-time to earn the money for books and supplies. The student job center had assigned him to the college cafeteria. The day he’d met Katy the menu was a familiar one, rolled turkey roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, grayish-green canned peas, a scoop of stuffing, and ice cream with chocolate sauce and a cherry. Four students helped on the assembly line. Sam had nicknamed them according to function. Knife, Scoop, Ladle, and Plunk. The trays had three compartments, a large one on the bottom for the meat and potatoes and two smaller ones on top for vegetables and dessert.