Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (62 page)

At three o’clock, the studio’s white Lincoln Towncar arrived to take the Vogts to LAX. The bags were loaded into the trunk. Piper hugged her friends and watched them climb into the back seat of the car. Belle lowered the window. “You have our number and our email. Remember the time difference, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try not to call in the middle of the night.”

The car drove down the driveway. Piper walked backwards, waving as she went. Just before the driver pulled away from the house, Belle called out the window. “Piper! Darling, if anything goes haywire in either of the houses, call our handyman, Luke. His number’s on the fridge. He’ll take care of any problems.”

Piper nodded, waved as the car disappeared around the bend, and then started up the steps to the guesthouse. In the yard next door, footsteps crunched on leaves. She hurried up the steps to the deck and looked over the rail into the Squire property. Mr. Moto—her name for him now—stepped into the gardening shed beyond the wall. Moments later he came out with a rake and began clearing away the pepper leaves knocked to the ground from the previous night’s downpour. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She rubbed at the goose bumps along her arms. The man gave her the creeps.

At seven o’clock Judith Avidon showed her into the Squire house. The nurse gave her name only after Piper asked her for it, along with an attitude. Piper followed her into the living room, the large room at the front. The room glowed with late afternoon sunlight. She looked away from the light into the dim expanse of the room.

The expensive fifties furnishings, though faded in places from years of afternoon sunlight, looked in good condition. The various paintings and sculptures, if not genuine, were impressive reproductions. A Jackson Pollock canvas hung on the wall behind the grand piano. From what Nana had told her about Sybil’s taste, it leaned toward the eclectic. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides. One bookcase, divided by a massive open hearth, held the dozens of figurines, the beautifully crafted replicas of European aristocrats by the nineteenth century French artist. She had looked up the Q. Letec collection and was surprised that work so fine and delicate would appeal to Sybil. Yet anyone who loved songbirds would appreciate fine beauty and grace.

Sybil sat in a black mohair wingback chair with ivory piping. Her posture was stiff, wooden, the same unnatural posture she’d displayed that day in the bank. A portable oxygen tank stood to one side of her chair, unused now. On the opposite side was a birdcage on a stand. The bright yellow canary was silent, preening himself.

“They’re beautiful,” Piper said of the figurines, hoping to open their visit with casual dialogue that would put them both at ease. Sybil remained as silent and as inanimate as the figurines lining the bookshelves. Piper cleared her throat, rubbed her hands together nervously, and moved into the room.

Sybil watched Piper approach. Sybil seemed thinner, frailer than that afternoon at the bank. Piper extended her hand. After an uncomfortable pause, Sybil raised a hand and gingerly touched Piper’s palm before placing her hand back into her lap.

“Mrs. Squire, I’ve been worried about you. I hope you don’t think I’m being too pushy. I wanted to see you. To tell you how sorry I am about the fire. I hope you’re recovering okay from the burns.”

“I am, thank you,” Sybil said in a level tone.

Piper knew, without turning, that the nurse was still within earshot. Did she intend to monitor their entire conversation?

“Mick—that’s Mick Vogt, the producer—gave me the footage today for the documentary. The one I was telling you about on film noir. The one I’ll be editing. When I get it whipped into some sort of shape, I’d like you to come over and have a look at it … to give me your opinion, your input. Would you do that?”

Sybil reached over to a table beside her chair and picked up a photograph. A black and white glossy of herself. A publicity photo from the classic thriller,
A Pocketful of Lies.
“Would you like me to autograph this for you?”

Piper was confused and disappointed. Instead of answering her, she offered to autograph a publicity photo, something she had given to countless fans in the past. Did she think Piper was nothing more than an overzealous fan, looking for a celebrity keepsake? Although they’d had only the one meeting, in those few minutes she thought they had shared something more intimate than fan-to-idol chitchat. Sybil had seemed interested in her work, praising her achievements, inquiring about her personal life and encouraging her to be independent.
Where was that kind, caring woman now
, she wondered.

Without waiting for an answer, Sybil said, “Hand me that pen, dear, the one on the table.”

Piper handed her the pen. The closest seat was the matching black couch, far away on the other side of the large oval coffee table. Piper bent down at her feet, squatting on her heels.

She signed the photograph with a shaky hand. Piper took it, thanking her.

“Do you have a smoke?” Sybil said under her breath.

Piper turned to see if the nurse was still in the room.

“She’s gone.”

Piper patted the breast pocket of her blouse. She reached inside and pulled out a slip of paper. It was the fortune from her birthday dinner.
Beware of false icons.
She dropped it back into her pocket. “I’m sorry, I left them at home. I’m really not a fulltime smoker. Maybe one or two in the evening, on the deck.”

“Sometimes three.”

That surprised her. Sybil had been watching her, as she watched Sybil.

“Do you have
Sins of the Family
?” Sybil asked.

“Sins of the Family? Well, no, but—”

Sybil cut in, “What’s your favorite?”

“Of your films?”

She nodded.

“
Black Ribbon,
” Piper said without hesitation.
Sins of the Family
was not one of Sybil’s films. Why had she mentioned it? Maybe confusion or a ploy to test the validity of her admiration as a fan?

“May I offer you something to drink?”

Piper declined; afraid she would summon one of her aides.

Sybil lifted the rock glass at her elbow, put it to her lips, and threw back the amber liquid. Then she began to rise.

Piper stood and reached for her glass. “I’ll get that for you.”

Taking the glass, Piper stepped to the bar cart on the other side of the lamp table. It wasn’t hard to figure out what she was drinking. The three bottles lined up were all scotch, the brand unfamiliar to her. She poured a shot, neat. Just the way Sybil had been drinking it. The canary twittered. Sybil twisted to the side and began rooting through a full ashtray on the end table. After snagging a butt, she carefully straightened it, lifted the crystal lighter and tried to light it. Piper took the heavy lighter from her trembling fingers, clicked it and held it out to her. Sybil leaned in, squinting one eye as the flame caught the end and flared. Ashes and sparks flew in the air, landing on her gauzy dress, singeing it in several places.

The bird began to sing. It had a strong, clear tone.

“He sings beautifully,” Piper said.

“They don’t sing as much since the fire. The smoke and soot, I guess.”

Piper saw more evidence of the fire that had sent Sybil to the hospital. To the left of her chair a portion of the carpet had been cut away but not replaced. A space on the other side of the lamp table, where the burned matching chair had sat, looked oddly bare and unbalanced. The empty curtain rods held a fine film of soot.

“Belle has a handyman she highly recommends. I can give you his number when you’re ready to renovate.”

Mr. Moto came into the room. He sized her up and smiled a smile that was anything but friendly. He inspected the oxygen tank to make certain that it was turned off. Sybil did not acknowledge him. In fact, she seemed to avoid eye contact with him. Yet Piper swore she’d caught a spark of emotion in her eyes when he first entered the room: fear, anguish, hostility? Sybil sipped her scotch, picked absently at the tiny burn hole in her dress. Mr. Moto took his time, strolling around the room adjusting the blinds, an ashtray, and a magazine here and there. For one moment, she thought he might ask if Sybil wanted anything, but he didn’t. Instead, he approached the birdcage, looked down at the publicity photo, and with the toe of his shoe flipped the picture over. The bird had stopped singing the moment he’d entered the room. Now it began to flap its wings. He reached for the cage. The bird flew around the cage wildly, crashing into the bars, dropping to the bottom of the cage. Moto slowly pulled his hand away, turned, and left the room.

Piper watched him go. When she no longer heard his footsteps in the hallway, she turned back to Sybil. Her eyes were closed. “Mrs. Squire?”

After lightly touching Sybil’s hand and getting no response, she removed the smoldering butt from between her fingers. For the first time she noticed the angry scars from the deep burns on both of her hands. The exquisite diamond ring sparkled.

Piper sat on her heels staring into her face. She lightly stroked the back of one burned hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Piper spotted the nurse’s dark silhouette at the end of the hall, arms folded across her chest, watching her. She rose to her feet, picked up the photo, and let herself out.

What have I accomplished?
she asked herself. She still had no idea what was going on in that house, whether she was being properly cared for or not. By the amount of liquor Sybil had consumed, she was clearly not being deprived of any alcoholic fortification. She didn’t seem to be in any great distress; no secret notes passed to her, no whispered pleas for help and no frantic eye movements. In fact, so unfazed was Sybil that she had dropped off to sleep. Yet something at the back of Piper’s mind wriggled and squirmed uncomfortably. Mr. Moto’s presence in the room was threatening to say to least. Had she feigned sleep? Why had she mentioned a movie that wasn’t hers, and why give her a publicity photo without being asked for one?

Two things came to mind. Either Sybil was mentally unbalanced, as the nurse had said, or she was trying to tell Piper something.

CHAPTER TEN

The Star Tattler
—
October 1945 [Archive]

Nineteen-year-old actress Sybil Squire, touring with the USO troupe, wowed our service boys on military bases both at home and overseas. Look out movie America, this platinum bombshell is on her way!

—Cricket Summers: Columnist to the Stars

Twice that week the Vogt’s security alarm in the main house went off in the middle of the night. Both times a patrol car came to check it out, but found nothing. The three main doors were motion activated. A good stiff breeze, or the Vogt’s cockatoo, loose from his cage, could have triggered the alarm. After the second incident, she made certain Dr. J stayed in his cage and that the cage door remained latched—a form of punishment that pissed him off royally—and it didn’t happen again.

She fell into a daily routine of feeding the Vogt’s bird, watering the plants throughout the two-story house, and going to the mailbox to fetch the newspapers and mail. Sorting through the mail, faxing or scanning items to Mick and Belle in Hong Kong, watering the never-ending plants—all were time-sucks when she had other priorities. Usually socializing with Dr J was a welcome break to stretch her legs and rest her eyes from the screens, both TV and monitors. Piper squeezed in her own networking phone calls to line up her next job. In this town, you had to get your next gig while the iron was hot, while you were still in demand, while you had a job.

The day flashed by like a blur, and by late afternoon, she was hard at work on the documentary. Sticking to her self-imposed schedule of seven hours on the documentary, she realized she needed to put in some additional research. She thought she knew the films, but the tiny details were illusive. She needed to watch them again with a fresh eye. Mick's notes and clip list sometimes lacked emotional specifics even though the time specifics made the clips easy to find. He'd write something like....”that scene at the 22 minute mark where she looks screen right, use fifteen seconds then cut to...” Piper needed the time slots, but as the editor, she needed to understand the bigger picture of all of the films together, what emotional core linked them and made them the greatest of the film noirs.

Drawn to Sybil’s classic movie,
Black Ribbon,
editing it was like a secret indulgence. She was being paid to do something she enjoyed. The Oscar-nominated thriller was the story of deep family ties. Of love, loss and sacrifice. A story that mimicked Sybil’s own life.

No matter how many times Piper watched that final scene, tears filled her eyes and a lump rose in her throat.

#

A week after Piper’s visit with Sybil, she saw Judith Avidon coming out of the bank. Preoccupied with counting a thick wad of cash, Avidon walked right by her on the sidewalk and into the drugstore. She was alone. Piper looked for and found the big black Lincoln parked in a lot across the street. Mr. Moto was nowhere around it. She waited a moment and then, like an amateur sleuth, followed the nurse into the drugstore. She lurked behind a display of sunglasses while the pharmacist filled four prescriptions, then rang up her other purchases of duct tape, a bottle of cheap Scotch, and a length of nylon clothesline.