Long, Lean, and Lethal

by Heather Graham

  There was a soft tapping on the door that startled them both. “Jennifer, makeup!” Thorne McKay called to her.

  “Whoa, look at the time, will you? You’re on call.” He rolled his eyes. “And I’ve got a meeting with the big boys. But hey, I forgot the real reason why I came.”

  “Oh?”

  “How about an invite?”

  “What?”

  “To Granger House for the holiday weekend.”

  She hesitated. She was disturbed by the fact that Conar Markham was coming. Abby had been acting … strange lately.

  It was true, in her heart, Jennifer was upset. Why did her mother suddenly need Conar? She was her mother’s biological child, she had moved back to be with her—why wasn’t she enough?

  “Hey, kid, I’m talking to you,” Doug reminded her.

  “Doug, you know, I do have my own apartment, and if I were living there right now, you’d be welcome anytime, you know that. But now … you know, I don’t own Granger House. I’m just a guest myself. It’s my mom’s home, and she isn’t doing very well—”

  “You’ll need moral support. Trust me. You need me.”

  “I’m a big girl, Doug—”

  “You still need me.”

  “Look, I’m all grown up and mature—”

  “Nobody’s that mature. I know you have to resent this guy. I resent him coming in here, and I’m not even an actor, and Abby isn’t my mother! See what a good friend I am—I even emote for you.”

  “Doug, I emote just fine for myself.”

  “And if all that is not enough,” he said, coming closer to her, “there’s a rumor going about that you’re having a cocktail party tomorrow night to welcome home the conquering hero.”

  She sighed. Her mother had mentioned a party. Small. Impromptu. Just good old friends and a few folks from the soap. But Granger House was almost as legendary as her mother, at least in these parts of the world, and she wondered if her mother would really be up for a party. They never really knew when a bad spell would set in, even with her medications.

  “Jennifer!” Thorne pounded on her door again. “You may be a beauty, my darling, but I’m a makeup man, not a magician!”

  “I’ll be here when the day’s shooting is over. Luckily, I’ve packed a bag,” Doug said.

  She had to laugh. Maybe she did need the moral support. And Doug loved her mother, and her mother loved Doug. He would be helpful and understanding if they had guests and the stress did prove to be too much for Abby.

  “Okay. Let’s head out the moment my scenes are shot.”

  “You got it,” Doug said.

  He opened the door. Thorne almost fell in. He looked at them both. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “Yes,” Doug said.

  Thorne pointed a finger at him. “But you’re gay.”

  “Ah, but my arm can be twisted. There’s always room in life for experimentation,” Doug said wickedly. He walked on out, leaving Thorne to stare at Jennifer. She tried to keep a straight face, but his eyes were so big, nearly bulging out of his bald head. She had to laugh, and she saw in his return gaze that he knew he’d been taken.

  Back to L.A.

  La-la land, they called it, Conar Markham thought. He hadn’t thought that he’d come back here—certainly not yet. But though he thought that Abby Sawyer was completely off her rocker, he owed her.

  And he loved her.

  And so he was back.

  Arriving at LAX, he was surprised by the reporters waiting as he exited the plane. Not that he didn’t have his share of self-confidence; he did. But he was a realist. There were a lot of big fish to fry out here. For the past two years he had been working the theater circuit, and that was far different from the land of movies, where millions of people saw your face in one shot, and even the worst flick was better known than the best play.

  “There he is!” someone shouted, and the next thing he knew, he was surrounded; flashbulbs were sizzling, he was half-blinded, and a brazen young reporter had one hand wound around his arm, while the other popped a microphone in front of his face.

  “Conar! Conar Markham! Back in L.A.! We’re so excited out here.”

  Always, always, be good to the press, Conar. You never know when they’ll turn on you. Abby had taught him that. So he forced a casual smile to his face. He couldn’t help but look at the perfectly manicured hand on his arm, though, and ask politely, “Do I know you?”

  The girl with the deep brown eyes, reporter’s sleek dark haircut, and perfect nails had the grace to blush—moving the microphone as she did so. “No, um, we’ve never met. I’m Vickie Warren from Flick TV, a new cable channel that focuses on popular and commercial entertainment.”

  His smile deepened. “Well, nice to meet you, Vickie,” he said. “It’s good to be home,” he said, fingers closing over the microphone she held, bringing it back toward his mouth. “I love New York, and God, I love Broadway, but I am a California boy, and it’s good to be home.”

  She had been afraid, he realized. This was one of her first big jobs, and she had been petrified but brazening it out—and so now she was grateful to him.

  Abby would have been proud. He smiled, lowering his head as he walked through the crowded airport.

  They stayed with him.

  Reporters were scrambling with their tape recorders and notepads; cameramen were aiming and walking at the same time.

  “Mr. Markham!” His name was called by a man in a wilting business suit, camera crew at his side. “Is it true that you’re going to be receiving an unprecedented amount for accepting your role in Valentine Valley?”

  He should have expected that one.

  “So they say,” he replied cheerfully.

  “How much?” someone else called out. The anorexic blonde to the rear of the crowd who had the pinched look of a nervous terrier?

  “Come on now, folks, I’m not at liberty to say,” he stated firmly, still smiling. And walking. He had to keep walking. It was almost comical, the way they all seemed to be sticking right with him.

  “Are you afraid the other actors on the show are going to resent you?” Vickie asked him the question, her dark eyes grave.

  “I certainly hope not,” he replied.

  “What about your stepsister?” someone else demanded.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should simply say that he’d only met his “stepsister” a few times, and he surely didn’t know what she was thinking—other than that her mother was very ill, and she was very worried about her. “If you all will excuse me, it’s been a really long flight and I’ve got to get home.”

  “Home—how is Abby Sawyer, Conar? Will you be staying with her?” Vickie asked.

  “Is she as sick as they say?” the other woman asked.

  “Will she be returning to films?” someone else asked.

  “Is she dying?” Vickie asked softly.

  “I heard it’s Alzheimer’s!” one of the cameramen commented.

  “She isn’t dying, and it isn’t Alzheimer’s. Abby’s doing just fine!” he heard himself say. His smile was starting to crack. “In fact, I’m sure she sends her love. You know how good she has always been with the media. Now, please, if you will all be so kind …”

  “Do you think that living at Granger House is affecting her mind?” Vickie asked.

  “There’s a story out that Abby is crazy, losing her mind, and that it all started when she bought Granger House,” a young man with bleached hair and a nose ring said. “That she really got sick when she moved into the house.”

  Abby had moved into the house for good when she had realized her illness, Conar knew. But he didn’t say that.

  “You’re looking too hard for a story,” he said softly. “Abby isn’t crazy, she’s one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. And as to the house, come on, people! A lot of places around here come with rumors and stories. This is Hollywood, a land of hopes—and of shattered dreams. Bad things have happened, as they have
happened everywhere. Granger House is just a house, a very beautiful house,” he said.

  “You’re not afraid of staying there, are you?” a male reporter asked.

  “Personally—no! I love it. It’s a really fine, handsome place, modernized, incredibly comfortable. I’m not afraid in the least.”

  “Abby stays there, Jennifer Connolly stays there—” Vickie observed.

  “Yes, but still—” the young man with the nose ring interrupted.

  “There are so many stories!” the older woman finished.

  He hadn’t expected to get into this.

  “Half of L.A. County is haunted, as is the White House, if you want to listen to stories,” he said impatiently. “If you don’t mind, I really am worn.”

  He got past them and fled. Like a pack of hounds following a meat truck, they hurried after him, the sound of the women’s heels staccato against the flooring. Luckily, he saw Edgar Thornby, Abby’s very proper British butler walking toward him now, a worried look on his face. “Mr. Markham, sir, forgive me.” Edgar was white-haired, lean-faced, just a hair short of his own six-two in height. His suit looked as if it had been ironed while on his body. “Your flight came in earlier than expected.”

  “A full twenty minutes,” he agreed. “It’s fine, Edgar.”

  “Oh, sir, I should have been there to get you through the wolves.”

  “Edgar, I’m a grown man, and like Abby says, without the wolves, we wouldn’t have jobs.”

  “But you must be tired.”

  “Jet lag is worse going the other way, Edgar. I’m fine. Now, tell me about Abby.”

  Edgar’s lean face went, if possible, leaner. “Ah, Abby,” he said sadly.

  “The disease is progressing?”

  “It’s degenerative, sir. You know that.”

  “Of course, but she’s still relatively young. People have it for years, and there are medications and …” His voice trailed off. “Edgar, it’s not supposed to affect her mind, is it?”

  Edgar didn’t answer right away. “Let’s collect your luggage, sir, and get on out to the car. The ‘wolves’ are still behind us. I wouldn’t want them listening in, if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Edgar. If you’ll just stop calling me ‘sir’ every other sentence.”

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

  Conar sighed. “There are my bags, Edgar, right there. Grab the small one; I’ll get the larger.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Edgar, I’m twenty years younger than you. Do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And stop—”

  “Calling you sir. Yes, sir.”

  He glanced sidewise at Edgar. Edgar didn’t notice. He shook his head, picked up his bag, and they headed out of the airport and for the car.

  They were on the freeway when Edgar suddenly answered him. “It’s the drugs, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The drugs she takes. Her medicine. The prescriptions. She doesn’t think clearly on them; she doesn’t see clearly. She talks to people who aren’t there.”

  “But other than the drugs, is her mind clear?”

  Edgar seemed to hesitate. “I think so.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, I think that sometimes, when she’s drugged, she thinks that she sees or hears things … and then they follow into her rational mind. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  Edgar looked at him through the rearview mirror. “Like this thing with … with someone trying to murder Jennifer.”

  Conar was quiet for a moment. “So she’s told you that she believes someone is trying to kill her daughter.”

  “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I had a great job offer. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, yes, right. Is that what Jennifer believes?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what she believes,” Conar said, staring straight ahead at the road. “I hardly know her.”

  “I wonder if she’d be angry if she knew the truth,” Edgar mused, more to himself than to Conar.

  Conar replied anyway, almost repeating his original answer. “I don’t know. Like I said, I hardly know her. But tell me, what do you think? Is Abby—” He hesitated, then asked bluntly, “Edgar, is Abby losing her mind?”

  Edgar slowly went crimson. “Most of the time she’s fine.”

  “But is she imagining things? She sounded … different.”

  “It’s not for me to judge—”

  “Oh, come on, Edgar. You’ve been with Abby for years. Since she bought that house, before she ever lived in it. You’ve been more loyal than any husband. What do you think?”

  The butler’s carefully shielded expression was suddenly haggard. There was deep sorrow in it. “I seldom leave her anymore. She insists that I take my days off, but frequently I just pretend to leave. When I do, I try to make sure that one of the day maids is with her. What do I think? I think that she didn’t deserve this. I think that the disease is horrible and cruel, dehumanizing, and she didn’t deserve it.”

  “But is she losing her mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Edgar said, and it sounded like a groan. “I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to have to see her for yourself.”

  Conar was thoughtful. “Well, she has always been a bright woman. Medications affect people, but she seemed pretty good when you came to New York last year.”

  “She’s changed in the last year,” Edgar said quietly.

  “Is it the house, do you think?”

  “The house?” Edgar said, startled.

  “Well, it has a reputation.”

  “Abby loves the house,” Edgar said flatly.

  “I know.”

  “Houses aren’t evil,” Edgar said.

  “Edgar, I didn’t suggest that the house was evil. I think it’s a wonderful, handsome house, with a bit of sad history.”

  “It’s a good house!” Edgar said, showing more passion than he had in all of their conversation to this point. “I’ve lived there, working for Abby, for years now.”

  “Edgar, I’m very fond of the place myself,” Conar assured him.

  Edgar wasn’t assured. “Strange things happen, and bad things happen to people, but houses aren’t evil.”

  “Of course not,” Conar agreed.

  Edgar turned to him suddenly, a strange tension about him. “But people can be evil, Mr. Markham. People can be very evil, indeed.”

  Chapter 2

  “SO, AM I INVITED?”

  Since Jennifer, dressed in nothing but flesh-covered body strips, had just crawled into bed with Andy Larkin, both producer and actor on the show, in the role of hunk and general trouble causer Dale Donovan, she couldn’t avoid him—or the question. They were just about ready for the take.

  She sighed, shaking her head.

  “Hey, watch that world-weary and distasteful look you’re giving me,” Andy teased. “We’re in the middle of high passion here.”

  “Andy, this whole thing is getting out of hand—and damn you, Andy, watch your hands, will you?”

  “Jen, you moved, not me. And quit trying to get out of this. I’m invited, right? Hey, I’m not just an incredibly good-looking man who acts with you on the show—I’m one of your two producers as well. A man you need, a man you want to impress.”

  “Well, hell, Andy, if you put it that way, of course, you’re invited.”

  “Thanks. That was so gracious.”

  “Andy, I’m very good at my role. If you’re not impressed with me by now, you’re not going to be.”

  “Are you going to give me a speech about being a great actress and tell me that you get dozens of jobs and you don’t need me?”

  “No, I like working on the soap. I really enjoy it.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He grinned, then told her, “And, of course, this is part of the plot here—not a casting couch.”

  “Thank God. I
didn’t think you wanted sex, just an invitation.”

  He laughed. They were surrounded by people. The director, makeup man, set designer, two of the prop staff, three camera operators, one caterer, and a few of the other actors, chatting off set, waiting for their cues.

  In fact, others could probably hear their conversation. Andy didn’t seem to mind. Not much bothered Andy, and he wasn’t at all after her, she knew. If he was interested in sex with anyone on the show, it was his real-life ex-wife, Serena McCormack—and her Valentine Valley sister character—who would be breaking in on them at any minute.

  “If you hadn’t invited me, I’d have gotten Conar to have me over,” Andy told her. “He’ll be living there as well, you know. Abby insisted. It will be his home, too.”

  “Really, I had thought that he’d be a guest in my mother’s house, the same as I am myself,” she murmured.

  “Oooh, I think some cat claws are showing there, Jen.”

  She didn’t get a chance to reply.

  “And we’re on in five, four, three …” Jim said, mouthing and denoting the two and the one with his fingers. Jim was a good guy, easy to work with. In his mid-to-late thirties, he was laid-back but very good at what he did. He wore jeans and. cotton tailored shirts to work and his sandy hair was usually falling over his forehead as he checked out a camera angle. The soap usually had a second director, but Harry Osterly, an older man who had worked with them previously, had suddenly retired, and as yet Andy Larkin and Joe Penny hadn’t found anyone they liked enough to replace him.

  “Action, baby,” Andy whispered against her ear, then grinned, leaned over, acted out a passionate kiss.

  The set door burst open.

  Serena McCormack, playing Verona Valentine, the oldest of the three sisters on Valentine Valley, entered the caretaker’s cottage dramatically, with the shadow of a man behind her.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried out.

  Andy broke away. Jennifer sat up, grasping the covers to her chest.

  “Oh, my God!” Serena repeated. “Look, they’re together!” she said, outraged. Serena was beautiful. In her mid-thirties, she was the epitome of elegance with wickedly long legs, classical features, auburn hair, and eyes that were almost a true aqua. The shadow-man behind her moved slightly—he was Jay Braden in real life and Randy Rock in the soap—Jennifer’s character’s current Valentine Valley husband, a tall, lean, dark-eyed man with ash-blond hair.