Long, Lean, and Lethal

by Heather Graham

  He wasn’t Conar. She knew that.

  She raced down the hall to the Blue Room, where Doug was sleeping.

  What if it was Doug? What if Doug was the killer?

  No, no, someone had come in from somewhere downstairs. The danger was on the staircase now. Lady wasn’t howling; Ripper wasn’t barking. What had he done to the dogs? How had he turned off the alarm system?

  She burst into Doug’s room; the door was unlocked. He was there, in his bed. She ran to his side, frantically grabbing his arm. He didn’t move. “Doug!” She smacked him good in the face. He still didn’t move. He was dead.

  No.

  He wasn’t dead. Drugged. As the cop had been drugged the night before.

  She burst back out into the hallway. The man was almost up the stairs. She ran for the stairway to the attic, but then paused.

  Conar’s gun.

  Standing by the Granger Room, she went to swing open the door.

  Locked.

  She tried again. Locked tight.

  And the footsteps were coming closer and closer.

  Edgar! Maybe he hadn’t gotten to Edgar yet. She flew for the stairs to the attic, reaching the door to his private suite. “Edgar! Edgar!” she cried, banging loudly. “It’s me, Jennifer.” The door was ajar. She pushed it open.

  Near the garret window and television was a rocking chair. He was there. She could see the white cap of his hair. There was an old movie on. The Birds.

  “Edgar!” she cried. He didn’t answer; he didn’t hear her. She rushed over to the chair, circling it, falling to her knees before it.

  A scream caught in her throat; she couldn’t breathe. She gasped for breath, so stunned and horrified that the world began to spin. It wasn’t Edgar in the chair. It was a corpse. Not a stage corpse. A real corpse. Petrified, down to little more than bone and hair and patches of dried-out flesh, all dressed in a velvet smoking jacket …

  “Psycho,” she heard pleasantly from the doorway. “It always was my favorite. But meet Daddy, not Mommy.”

  She stared at the man standing in the doorway, and the scream in her throat tore from her at last.

  Conar dialed the police, telling them it was an emergency. But they wanted to know who he was and where he was, and then why he was so convinced that there was an emergency at an address when he wasn’t even there. Then they wanted to know the nature of his emergency.

  Roaring down the streets and then into winding turns, he started to swear at the emergency operator on duty. “Please, for the love of God! Get someone out there!” He clicked off the line and dialed Liam’s number. Liam was probably in bed with Serena—things seemed to be going in that direction.

  Liam didn’t pick up. Swearing, Conar was about to slam his cellular against the steering wheel, when the phone was answered by a male voice. Not Liam’s.

  “Where’s Liam?” Conar demanded.

  “Detective Murphy is occupied,” the man said flatly. “In case you haven’t heard, mister, there’s another body in Laurel Canyon.”

  Conar swore, dropping the phone, then gripping the steering wheel—he’d almost gone off into the canyon below him.

  His tires screeched on the roadside. He had to get back to Granger House.

  Edgar Thornby’s proper British accent was entirely gone. He stood at the door to his attic quarters with a gun in his hand.

  Conar’s gun, probably.

  He was wearing one of Abby’s hats—a piece she had brought home from the costumes after doing a turn-of-the-century movie years before. He was wearing a long black cloak that looked as if it might have been worn in the early Hitchcock movie The Lodger.

  Jennifer stood, staring at him. She swallowed down the horror from the sight of the petrified body. Edgar. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t understand it. He had knocked out Drew and Doug—to kill them later, she wondered, or were they to take the fall for this?

  “Edgar Thornby,” she said quietly. She lifted her hands. “Maybe I should have known. I don’t get it. Who is this?”

  Edgar smiled. He had a far different look to his lean face. Cunning, sharp. “Edgar Borthny is the real name—Miss Jennifer.”

  “Granger’s … illegitimate son?” she asked. Her fingers were so cold. Her feet were ice. She needed to be able to move. Great waves of darkness seemed to be cascading over her. She was going to pass out. But she couldn’t. She had to fight for her life. She had to keep him talking, and she had to know …

  “Anagram,” she said. Rearrange the letters in Thornby and you get … “Drew knew who you were.”

  “I’m surprised the daft old idiot didn’t figure it out long ago,” Edgar said.

  “But … you’ve worked for us for years. And years. And—”

  “This house should have been my inheritance. I was the only male issue. Still, my father paid my mother off—gave her lots of money to move to England. But she came back here when I was still a boy. My mother—well, thanks to my old man, she had acquired quite a drinking habit. I think that Granger killed her, that he found her back in L.A. and had her killed. Doesn’t matter. She was half-dead anyway.” He frowned at the memory, then went on. “I wanted to get into the movies. Somehow, he had me blacklisted. The old bastard refused to acknowledge me, and he made certain I couldn’t work. But I got him. He was trying to have a thing with that Celia Marston, that pretty little actress. I laughed so hard the other night. You and your uppity friends. Did she fall, or was she pushed? You and your stupid séance! Hell, she was pushed. I managed to keep my father from getting something he wanted. Ah, yes, and I did have to change things around a little bit. That’s Dad in the chair, not Mom. I could have been a great director, but he didn’t allow it. So I started directing my own scenes.”

  “You worked for my mother for years! Day after day. You tended her, gave her the medications—”

  “Too many sometimes,” he said cheerfully. “Oh, how I loved tormenting her. No one could have directed the story better. They say a director is a puppet master. I wrote her the note, warning that you were going to be murdered. Then I stole the note. It was so easy.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “But they found Brenda’s blood on Hugh Tanenbaum’s sheets.”

  “Now that was some work,” he said. “I had to clean up that bathroom after I killed her and then dispose of the body—and keep some of the blood. The man has an alcohol problem. Wish I could have been there when he woke up to find a sticky pile of blood beside him! And what does he do? Naturally, he tries to hide the sheet. He thinks he is crazy. Does he call the police? Hell, no! He doesn’t know what he might have done.”

  “But Hugh’s arrival here—”

  “He got in my way: Who do you think drugged the cop?” He paused to let this sink in, then chuckled, leering at her. There’s more to your laundry shaft—and far more to the Granger Room. You fools never found the really interesting aspects of the architecture. There’s a secret stairway to the Granger Room, and a passageway to your closet.”

  “So you have … watched.”

  “Yes. Great love scenes, Miss Jennifer. You’re amazingly wicked!”

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  “Yes, probably, but so organized! And we’re out of time. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go?”

  “Yes, my favorite scene is the shower scene.”

  “You think that I’m going with you so that you can hack me to death in a shower?”

  “Of course, it’s only fitting. You’ve already done the scene. We’re going to do it better. You’ll know exactly how you should have acted.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “Yes, you are. Because here are the alternatives. There’s some excitement here, some real excitement. You’ll do what I say, because you’re playing for time. Conar has realized by now that Abby didn’t call him. He’s on his way, maybe suspicious, maybe not. Maybe he’ll walk right into a trap. Maybe he’ll find you on the floor … but maybe you’ll live. If you don’t come
with me, I’ll shoot you here and now through the heart.”

  She stood still. “Where did you get the gun? It’s probably a prop piece, not even loaded.”

  He aimed above her head and shot. She heard the sound of the bullet, and its impact as it smashed into an attic beam.

  “All right,” she said, standing still.

  “Move!” he directed. This time he shot near her feet. So close that wood splinters sprayed her flesh. “Get in front of me.”

  Could she walk? She had to. Her knees were trembling, about to give out, but she had to move.

  Conar was coming back. And maybe he would know …

  She moved too slowly on the staircase on her way from the attic to the second floor. She felt the gun press into her back, and his fingers curled into her hair at her nape.

  “Keep moving.”

  He was shockingly powerful. His entire voice had changed as well as his accent. She cried out in pain as he held on tight. He kept his grip on her hair as he shoved her down the stairs and along the hall.

  “I really am a great puppet master, Jen. I may call you that, I hope.”

  She cried out again, staggering, as they both tripped over Drew’s prone body in her bedroom doorway and went down. The air was slammed out of her as she fell. Gasping, she saw the white-heeled sandals she had worn that night, discarded at the foot of the bed. She reached out for one of them. Edgar crawled to his knees, attempting to reestablish his hold on her hair. She grabbed her shoe, turned, and slammed it against him with all her might.

  He let out a howl of pain, grabbing his face. She had caught him in the eye. He rose to his feet, staggering. She jumped up, about to run.

  A bullet exploded into her bedroom door. She went dead still and turned. His left eye was blackened and swollen; blood streamed down his cheek. But he was standing steadily, and his gun was aimed at her.

  “The shower, Miss Jennifer.”

  Where the hell was Conar? Her heart was beginning to sink. She longed to cry out, but she’d heard no car in the driveway.

  “Let’s go.”

  She walked slowly through the bathroom doorway. He followed, the gun on her. Never shifting his remaining good eye from her, he turned on the water.

  “Warm, you like it warm, right?”

  What was in the shower? Shampoo, conditioner, soap. A razor? What harm could she do with a plastic razor?

  “Warm …”

  She heard the water run and run … a mist of steam rose.

  “Slip out of that nightie, Miss Jennifer. Don’t worry, we haven’t time for a rape scene, and this is Psycho, not Frenzy. Out of the gown and into the water. You step into the shower, and I’ll get rid of the gun.”

  She slipped the gown over her shoulders, more quickly than she had intended. But she wanted to keep her eye on him.

  She dropped the gown to her feet.

  “In, Jennifer.”

  “The gun, Edgar.”

  “You first! Now! I’m the director here!”

  She stepped hesitantly over the rim of the tub, clutching the shower curtain. She thought of the scene she had filmed, the terror she had felt even when she had known that it was Conar coming after her and that the knife he had wielded was rubber.

  Edgar smiled, his face a grotesque mask, lean—cadaverous almost, half his face a bloody pulp from her assault.

  She felt the spray.

  He tossed the gun aside.

  Conar jerked to a halt beyond the driveway, terrified of what could be happening, of what might have already happened.

  But he didn’t want Edgar hearing him drive up.

  Edgar. Why?

  No time to analyze—hell, who cared what was in the man’s sick mind? He had to get to Jennifer.

  He left the door open and ran to the house. He had his key out, but the front door was unlocked. He burst into the foyer. He heard nothing, nothing at all.

  And then …

  Faintly, from upstairs, he heard the sound of running water.

  The shower …

  Edgar got rid of the gun. “Soap, Miss Jennifer. Remember, she was a thief in the movie, a once good girl gone bad. She’s washing off a mountain of sin. Come on, don’t be shy … You want every last second of life, don’t you? Then I’ll close the curtain over …”

  She soaped herself. Looked up to the spray.

  “You are a fine little actress, Miss Jennifer. I know how well you do this scene. I watched you the other day.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” She was amazed she spoke, she was so terrified. But talking was good. It took time. “So you were there. In the studio the day we filmed. You were on the closed set.”

  “Everyone knows I’m your mother’s butler. They didn’t stop me. I was hiding behind the Prima Piatti bar,” he told her.

  “I knew you were there.”

  “Of course you knew I was there. I meant you to know I was there. You would have been better if I had directed you. But we’re fixing all that now, aren’t we?”

  “You really are totally psychotic.”

  “Turn around. Slowly. And don’t look so petrified. You don’t know you’re in danger. Not yet.”

  “Like this?”

  She was playing to his sick mind! No …

  But yes, she wanted every second of life. She wanted to live, to survive. She wanted to find out if she did really love Conar, if he loved her. She wanted the children her mother had suggested. She wanted to be there for Abby, understanding that she had to take a chance and live life to the fullest …

  Edgar grinned at her. “Good girl, good girl. Yes, lift the hair … good.”

  He dropped the curtain. Through it she could see him reach into the cloak for his knife.

  She reached for a large plastic container of creme rinse. It was all she had.

  The shower curtain ripped open.

  And there he stood. Right hand raised, injured face a repulsive mask of pure madness. He stood poised, head thrown back, body arched, knife gripped in his hand.

  Jennifer let out a cry of fury, slamming the conditioner bottle against his face.

  His knife slashed against air.

  He raised it again. She screamed as he lunged toward her.

  There was the sound of an explosion. She screamed again. Edgar was poised over her, the knife still raised. Yet there was something odd about his remaining eye.

  Then she saw blood, spilling into the water as it raced toward the drain.

  Blood gurgled from his lips.

  Then he fell forward, crashing into her. She screamed again and again, but the knife didn’t strike. Edgar crumpled to her feet. She looked past him.

  Conar was in the doorway. He had the weapon Edgar had discarded.

  He was staring at her, his face as white as her own. “You did tell me to bring a gun next time, didn’t you? I forgot, but thankfully … Edgar left his.” He stared at her. The water continued to run. The blood pooled in the tub.

  “Jesus, sweet Jesus!” Conar whispered, his voice tremulous, his body shaking. He set the gun down. She crawled over Edgar’s fallen body and into his outstretched arms.

  Hugh Tanenbaum was released from jail that same night.

  Despite the hour, he came to Granger House. Conar and Jennifer were alone; Drew and Doug had both been taken to the hospital by paramedics to make certain that there were no ill effects from the drugs they’d been given.

  Hugh wasn’t angry. He was amazingly humble and quick to forgive.

  He was joining Alcoholics Anonymous in the morning.

  He loved Abby, he told them. He loved the both of them, he hoped to work with them in the future. For the moment, he was shelving all his projects and taking a long vacation in Tahiti.

  Conar insisted that they take a room in a hotel near Abby’s hospital. The police would have Jennifer’s bathroom cordoned off for some time, and she didn’t think she could ever sleep there again anyway.

  The next day Conar talked to Joe Penny, Andy, and Jim Novac as well. He and Je
nnifer needed time off. A week. They could work around them or sue him for breach of contract.

  They were given the week.

  Doug came to see them, hugging them both.

  “The whole thing was very, very Hollywood,” he said.

  “How so?” Jennifer asked him.

  “It’s pure Agatha Christie. I mean, how many times do you get to say, ‘The butler did it’!”

  Abby was released on Sunday with all her tests complete; she was eligible for surgery. The three of them went for the week to Montana. It was cold there already. Very different. Drew accompanied them, anxious to help keep an eye on Abby. He felt guilty, as if he should have known more about the old place.

  Abby frankly told him, Bosh! He was still her very dear friend.

  They stayed at a private ranch belonging to some of Conar’s friends. He and Jennifer looked after Abby, and then left her on the porch with Drew and went riding every afternoon.

  “Next time we come, I’ll be joining you on those horses,” Abby told them.

  “Damned right, Mom.”

  Liam called one evening to tell them that apparently Edgar had been killing people in a controlled manner for a long time. He had killed Celia Marston, pushing her over the cliff. His next murder had been ten years later—he’d strangled a woman he’d married and cut her body up to dispose of it. Rear Window. They weren’t sure of what else yet. Maybe they would never have all the answers.

  “But here’s the interesting thing—we’ve been through lots of old court documents. The reason old Granger wouldn’t acknowledge the boy is he really didn’t believe that Edgar was his son. Seems Genevieve slept around long before she became a prostitute. There were many possible fathers. Likely as not, Edgar wanted to be Granger’s son but wasn’t. Since he’d dug up the body, we took some samples from the hair follicles. We’ll know one way or another in about three weeks.”

  To Conar and Jennifer, it didn’t matter. He’d been sick, he’d cost many people their lives, and he was dead.

  They had the future.

  She headed out one afternoon a few hours before Conar, riding Snowy, an even-tempered Appaloosa. She’d brought a book down to a stream, and was just watching the way the sun played on the water, grateful to be alive.