by Gail Lukasik
“Depends on what it is.”
“How did you know I accused Nate of killing Danielle?”
There were two ways I could play this: tell her the truth and expose Bob, or lie. I opted to lie. “I heard you. I was there that night in the woods.”
She thought about that for a minute, her fingers pulling at her curls. Then she said, “What else did you hear?”
“I answered your question. Now answer mine. What do you know about Danielle Moyer’s death?” I soft-balled the question, omitting the Nate-killed-her part, so she could tell me in her own way.
“Aren’t you even a little curious why I agreed to meet you? After all, it’s your word against mine.”
I had wondered. It was her word against mine. “Damage control?” I suggested. “You’re going to tell me that you didn’t say that. That I misheard. That your words were taken out of context. Or, as you said, you might deny the whole thing.”
“I thought about saying all of those things. But—and it’s a big but—I’m not going to do that. I’m going to tell you the truth. Here’s the deal.” She looked over both shoulders, which seemed a bit dramatic, since no one was paying the least attention to us. And the jukebox was blaring a Johnny Cash melody that drowned out our conversation. “Nothing goes in that article, get it?”
“I can’t promise that.”
She started to get up.
“Okay, nothing goes in the article,” I agreed, not promising it wouldn’t go in a different article. “Now what about Danielle Moyer?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Poor deluded Danielle. That naive girl honestly believed Nate would leave me for her. She was just the first in a long line of girls who fell for his crap. But then, I don’t have to tell you about him, do I?”
I let that pass. I wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “But you weren’t married to Nate when Danielle disappeared. In fact, you hadn’t even met him yet.”
“She didn’t disappear. I mean, sure, she didn’t tell anyone when she left here. Not anyone but Nate, that is. But she didn’t disappear. She went to Hollywood, thinking she’d break into the movies.”
“Then why all the secrecy? Why didn’t she tell her parents?”
“Beats me. She was always an odd one. It pains me to say this, but she really was talented and beautiful. But some insecurity held her back.”
“And Nate?”
“He finished his season with the BT, went to Hollywood, resumed his relationship with her and became a big movie star.”
“Then why did you say he killed her?”
“Because he did, indirectly. After he married me, he didn’t end it with her. I didn’t find out about it until later when the shit hit the fan, that he’d set her up in an apartment, their own private love shack.” Her words were bitter and angry.
“So she was his mistress and you knew nothing about it?”
“Stupid, right? I was so in love with him then. I never suspected a thing, and I probably would never have found out if it hadn’t been for what she did.”
She was breathing hard and turning her glass around and around, the whiskey sloshing out, making wet circles on the table.
“What did she do?” I asked, sensing a shift in her. That hard edge was gone, and in its place was a crushing vulnerability. She seemed to shrink into herself.
She stopped turning her glass and looked up at me. “Have you ever been hurt, really hurt, by someone you loved and trusted? Someone you’d given your whole self to?” Her protective wall was down. The question was sincere.
“Yes,” was all I said, forcing myself not to think about Tom and all the promise I’d poured into our marriage, and how I’d failed miserably.
She shook her head knowingly. “It sucks, doesn’t it? Makes you do crazy things you’d never normally do. But you want to know about her.” She bit her lower lip. “Here’s the short version. She got fed up with waiting for Nate to leave me, took off in the middle of the night, just like before. She left no note, didn’t take any belongings, she just disappeared. But she made one mistake, and it cost her.” She was talking fast, as if she needed to be done with it. “Where she was headed, no idea. But she decided to hitchhike, got into some lowlife’s car. He raped her and left her for dead by the side of the road in the California desert.”
“How do you know all this?” The story was too awful to have been concocted.
“She called me and asked for my help. Told me everything. She begged me not to tell Nate. Why, I don’t know. Maybe she was ashamed.” Her voice faltered. “I helped, all right. I paid all her hospital bills, wired her some money and told her to never call me again.”
“So she, what? Disappeared again?”
Nina let out a loud sigh. “She disappeared, all right. About a week after she left the hospital, she slashed her wrists in some seedy desert motel in Darwin, California. The only reason the police called me was they found my phone number in her things.” She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “And you know what I did to protect Nate?”
“What did you do, Nina?” I was almost afraid to hear the rest of her story.
“You have to understand. Nate had just starred in his first major feature film. Things were happening for him. We—I—couldn’t afford for any of this to come out. And really, what would be gained by telling her family how she’d ended her life?”
“They’d at least have closure,” I answered.
“Closure is highly overrated. Believe me, I know. So I told the cops she was a distant cousin with no family except me. She’d been using an alias, Olivia Williams. So no problem there. I paid for her burial, and I got on with my life.”
“Did you tell Nate?”
“Not until the next girl. The news stopped him in his tracks. Of course, it all but ended our marriage. But not before he knocked me around a few times. But hey, I had it coming. According to Nate, I’d helped destroy the love of his life.” Her mouth was a tight, bitter line.
“Then why did he marry you if Danielle was the love of his life?”
“How fleeting is fame,” she said sarcastically. “I guess you don’t remember that Nate and I were the ‘it’ couple that year?” She put air quotes around it. “I’d managed to take my success with the TV sitcom Girl Town and land a string of mediocre light comedy parts. Nate was the hot new star. Danielle’s sad end would have been a scandal we wouldn’t have recovered from. At least not easily.”
“Celebrities have overcome worse things,” I countered. “It was because you couldn’t bear the embarrassment and the guilt.”
She downed the rest of her drink and reached for her purse. “We’re done here.”
“So that’s why you lured Nate to the cabin that night and planted the mannequin. You wanted to punish him.” I wasn’t finished.
She laughed hysterically. “Do you think I care anymore about him or Danielle or the other women? Besides, why would I jeopardize his donation by pissing him off? Nate was a means to an end for me. I wanted a new theater, and the least he could do was help me get it. In return, I’d convinced Alex to feature him in a few plays, so Nate could jump-start his career.”
“Then why were you there?” I wanted to hear her explanation and judge whether what I suspected was true. That someone had lured both Nate and Nina to the cabin.
“Because I got a text asking me to meet him at the cabin. It was signed Nate and the ID read Private Caller.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her. Though in light of everything she’d told me about Danielle’s death, why would she lie about this? “Do you think Nate sent the text?”
“No. He was as shocked as I was when he saw that grotesque thing hanging there.”
If it wasn’t Nate or Nina, then who’d sent those texts? “Did you ever tell anyone else besides Nate about Danielle’s suicide?”
“No, of course not. I told you, I was protecting Nate.”
“What about Nate? Do you think he might have told someone about Danielle’s suicide?”
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Her eyes shifted right, then left. “I don’t know why he would. But he might have, maybe when he was out of his mind on drugs.”
She rubbed at her forehead. “Listen, I’m tired and it’s late.” She grabbed her purse and slid out of the booth. “Remember, we have a deal. This goes no further.” Her nervous wall was back up.
I stood up as well, wanting to be eye to eye with her, wincing as I put weight on my ankle. “Someone else already knows. Think about it. If you really didn’t lure Nate to the cabin, and he didn’t lure you, then whoever did it knows about Danielle’s death and is seeking some kind of revenge. Why else plant the mannequin and the playbill?”
She leaned in close and whispered into my ear. “That’s why I came here. I’m scared.” Then she turned and walked out.
After she left, I went to the bar, ordered another white wine and sat in the booth nursing my drink.
If I believed Nina, the mystery of what happened to Danielle Moyer was solved. Tomorrow I’d follow up her story with a call to the Darwin police to verify. What I couldn’t verify was whether Nina hadn’t lured Nate to the cabin. Contrary to what she said, was she still seething with anger and hurt after all these years? Julian thought so.
Maybe she’d seen Nate leave with Lydia. After all, Bob had seen them leave together. Maybe that sent Nina over the edge and she wanted her pound of flesh. But there hadn’t been enough time for her to arrange that horrid mannequin. And, as she said, why would she jeopardize Nate’s donation as well as her inheritance?
And if it hadn’t been Nina, then who? Other than Nate, the only person here who’d been a cast member the summer Danielle disappeared was Julian Finch. What had been his relationship with Danielle, a young, beautiful, talented actress who’d disappeared, only to reappear in Hollywood as Nate’s girlfriend, then later his mistress? Did Julian know about Danielle’s suicide? I’d have to recheck the dates, but I was pretty sure Julian’s and Nate’s paths had crossed early in Nate’s film career, which would mean Julian might have been in Tinsel Town the same time as Danielle.
But something else I couldn’t remember was buzzing around in the back of my brain like an illusive fly. I closed my eyes, as if that could make me remember. Nothing. Then I opened them and gazed down at my watch. It was almost two o’clock, and I was finally tired.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: SUNDAY, JULY 23
When I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee, Bob was still curled up on the sofa under a brown faux fur throw, his bare feet sticking out. To my relief, I’d found him asleep on the sofa when I got home in the wee hours.
Oh, the untroubled sleep of the young, I thought, trying not to wake him as I ran water into the coffee pot. As exhausted as I’d been, my sleep had been sketchy and filled with disturbing dreams of the Moyer cabin in which the hanging mannequin came alive, her icy blue eyes staring, her finger pointing at me in accusation.
Bob’s head popped up and he mumbled, “What’s going on?”
I shut off the tap and asked, “How’d you sleep?”
He scratched at his head. “Sofa beats sleeping bag any day. It’s nine o clock already,” he said, staring at the kitchen clock. “Man, I must have been racked out. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
I wasn’t used to chitchat before coffee, but I shook off my usual grumpiness. The sight of Bob’s soft doughy face and unruly hair was just too puppy-like, and I was missing Salinger, who was enjoying her African Safari room at the Pet Adventure Hotel where I’d boarded her for the weekend.
“When did you get here? I came by after the play, and you weren’t in the apartment.”
“I don’t know. It was dark. But nobody saw me. If that’s what you’re worried about,” he answered petulantly.
“And you didn’t go anywhere else?”
“Geez, what’s with the third degree?” He wrapped the throw around his shoulders, looking hurt.
“When I didn’t find you here, I went by the cabin. And you weren’t there either.” I rested the heavy coffee pot in the sink, standing on my right foot to take the pressure off my aching ankle.
“Why are you up in my grill this morning?”
“You have to be careful,” I said sternly.
“Yeah, I get it.”
I doubted that he got it. “Did you take the mannequin from the cabin?”
He put his head down. “She was creeping me out. After you left, I dragged her into the woods and sat her under a tree.” He grinned up at me.
As I poured the water into the coffee maker, I wondered if Bob’s impulsive, goofy nature would plague him his entire life. Would he become another Rich, whose sway he’d fallen under? Would he, too, turn his back on his potential and eventually morph into a social misfit? Alex had to take him back. After the weekend was over, I’ll go to Alex and vouch for Bob, plead his case. Or better yet, I’ll have Jake work his magic on Alex.
“Did you find anything out about Danielle Moyer?” he asked.
I put the pot on the heating element, flipped the on switch, and turned around, taking in his open, earnest expression. Should I tell him? I did promise him I’d look into it. “I know what happened to her,” I began.
He jumped up from the sofa as if I’d doused him with cold water and came into the kitchen area. “No way.” He’d slept in the same t-shirt and jeans he’d been wearing yesterday. And from the musky odor he was emitting, he hadn’t taken a shower, but had just collapsed on the sofa and fallen asleep.
“Way.” I couldn’t help myself.
I’d only agreed not to print anything in the BT article, so I gave Bob the factual version of Danielle’s sad and tragic life, leaving out Nina’s attempts to absolve herself of blame. When I finished, his mouth hung open and the coffee was ready.
“So,” he said enthusiastically, “whoever planted that mannequin knew all this stuff about Danielle Moyer. That’s why her name was circled on the cast list. But what I don’t get is why? It’s like what, thirty years ago she disappeared?”
I opened the cupboard looking for coffee cups. “Actually more like twenty-five years. You want coffee? Got some donuts too.” I picked up the box to show him.
“Sure. Black’s good. And I never say no to donuts.”
I took out two cups, poured the coffee, and handed Bob a cup. Then I grabbed the package of donuts and my cup and hobbled over to the sofa.
“What’s up with your foot?” Bob asked as he sat down beside me.
“Ankle,” I responded. “I fell over a piece of wood inside the Moyer cabin last night when I was looking for you.”
“I didn’t leave it there,” Bob said defensively.
“Have a donut,” I said, opening the box and offering it to him. “Relax. I wasn’t accusing you.”
We sat silently sipping our coffee and munching on our donuts.
Suddenly, Bob burst out, “Ryan was murdered. It all makes sense. And it was because of Danielle Moyer.”
I cocked my head at him quizzically. Not because the thought hadn’t occurred to me, but because now I knew how I looked when I was making what the police and my friends considered wild accusations based on nothing but a gut feeling—dilated pupils, raised voice, a slight flushing of the face and a little spittle at the corner of the mouth. Not a pretty sight.
“What?” he asked. “You don’t find it suspicious that he died after Nina and him had it out in the cabin? I mean, like the very next morning.” He bit into another powdery donut.
“Coincidental—yes. Suspicious—maybe. We have to go by the facts.” Did I really say that? I should be jumping at Bob’s idea wholeheartedly. Here was a kindred spirit. What was holding me back?
“The medical examiner hasn’t signed off on the cause of death yet. He’s still waiting on the tox results.” I wasn’t going to tell him about the barbiturates in Ryan’s system. “And until he does, the cause of death is undetermined. Lydia’s convinced he had a heart attack. And she should know. She’s a nurse.”
“She was like in the mi
ddle of a life-and-death thing. She couldn’t know for sure what was going on with him,” he countered, sounding more and more reasonable. Maybe there was hope for Bob after all. Just point him in the right direction.
The nagging feeling that Lydia hadn’t told me everything returned. I shifted uncomfortably, resting my left foot on the table to ease the throbbing in my ankle. “She’s trained to deal with crises.” I was purposely playing devil’s advocate, wanting to see where Bob’s leaps of imagination would take him.
“I give you that. But did you know that certain poisons can cause a heart attack and they’re really hard to detect?”
“Now you’re scaring me,” I joked half-heartedly, thinking back to Nate’s vomit. Poison might cause a person to vomit, but so might a heart attack. “How do you know that?”
“Rich and I were talking about that woman who killed her two husbands with antifreeze and how she almost got away with it.”
“Antifreeze? How’d she get them to drink antifreeze?”
“Put it in their Gatorade and Jell-O, which masked the sweet taste of the antifreeze. But it couldn’t have been antifreeze, because Ryan dropped dead suddenly and these dudes lingered, big time.” He nodded his head, raising his eyebrows.
“Why were you and Rich talking about some woman killing her husbands with antifreeze?” I asked.
“Rich warned me not to let Dixie go near the theater garden because some of the plants are poisonous. Then he kids me about how I should poison Alex with one of the plants. He says no one would know, ’cause it would look like a heart attack. After that he starts telling me about this woman who almost got away with murder.”
“I’ll look into it,” I said to appease him. The last person I wanted to talk to was Rich. Even if Rich was joking, his bragging about heart-attack-mimicking plants was downright disturbing. “Right now we have to go with what we know, which isn’t much.” I sounded like the university instructor I used to be.
Bob looked crestfallen. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I didn’t want to encourage Bob. But I’d research poisons that mimic heart attacks, then see if any of those plants were in the theater garden. “I still have to call California today to verify Nina’s story. I also need to recheck the dates Julian was in Hollywood.”