The Bequest (5 page)

Annemarie Crowell entered
her apartment, dropped her
purse on a flower-print couch, and went to the bathroom. With a tissue

and cold cream, she wiped the heavy layer of make-up from her face. It
was not an easy task, given the thickness with which she had applied it in
the first place. She turned on the hot water, which took several minutes to
heat up, then soaked a washcloth and scrubbed off the remnants left by the
tissue. Beneath the mask of make-up lay a face equally hardened, the
harshness merely enhanced by the make-up as opposed to created by it.

A ringing sound interrupted her before she was finished. She tossed
the washcloth in the sink, then returned to the den and extracted her cell
phone from her purse. She eyed the readout then answered with two
words: “It’s done.”

In his darkened apartment office, Spencer West pushed the disconnect
button on his desk phone, and then dialed a number he had written on a
piece of notepaper. After three rings, a woman’s voice answered.

“I need to speak to one of your reporters,” Spencer said. “I have a
helluva story for you.”
After Spencer filled in the press on that helluva story, he sat at his
desk in near darkness, with only a small desk lamp offering any light. His
body rigid, as if in a catatonic trance, he moved only his right arm, and
even that like a robot. He pulled the middle desk drawer open and,
without looking at its contents, took out a .38 handgun.
He held the gun upward and pressed the barrel against the underside
of his chin.
He smiled.
And pulled the trigger.

Teri finished loading
groceries into the back of her Toyota
SUV. She didn’t ordinarily do her own shopping, but usually let her
housekeeper take care of that chore. Some days, though, she just wanted
to feel normal, even if that meant taking care of mundane chores herself
and risking the stares of other shoppers. In her pocket, the strains of the
Magnum
theme announced a call on her cell. She slammed the rear of the
vehicle, extracted the phone, and looked at the read-out: MIKE. She
clicked off the phone and slid in behind the steering wheel.

Back at home, she unloaded the groceries and carried them inside.
The message light on the kitchen phone blinked urgently, but she knew
whose voice was on the message. After all, Mike had left one on her cell,
as well. Still, it could be Mama with news of Bingo.

She pushed the playback button and listened. Sure enough, Mike
Capalletti’s voice.
“Teri, please pick up if you’re there.” A pause, then, “I think this is
what we’ve been looking for. The one to put you back on the map.”
Intriguing. She grabbed the phone and picked up, her finger poised to
dial, but thought better of it. She hung up and unloaded the grocery sacks,
then headed through the den toward her bedroom. On the floor, as she
passed by, lay Leland Crowell’s screenplay. She stopped and looked down
at it. It was almost as if it reached out and grabbed her by the ankle, so
strong was its pull. She picked it up and looked at the cover. No change
since the last time she had seen it: THE PRECIPICE, a Screenplay by
Leland Crowell.
She grasped the cover page between her index finger and thumb,
ready to open it. But she knew that if she did, she might be pulled in, not
by the quality of the work but by the sordid and bizarre set of affairs that
had landed it on her den floor. She dropped it back on the carpet and
continued to her bedroom.

Mona and Teri cleared away dishes from a less than satisfying meal of
spaghetti and marinara sauce, with no support foods other than sliced
cucumbers. Mona opened a wine cooler for herself and a diet soft drink
for Teri then ushered her outside to the deck. The smell of smoke still
hung in the air, but seemed to be dissipating somewhat. Teri sat on a
lounge chair while Mona sought out her usual loveseat.

“God, I hope so. I’m good for about fifteen minutes out here, and
then I have to go back inside. I hate losing my outdoor time.”
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments.
“Have you heard anything from Mike?” Mona asked.
“He called, but I haven’t called him back.”
“You going to?”
“I don’t know yet.” She paused then asked, “Would you?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“That’s what I thought. And I’ve still got my invisible WWMD
wristband.”
“WWMD?”
“What would Mona do?”
“If you’d been wearing that, you’d have dumped his ass years ago.”
Teri laughed. “Yeah, I should have been listening to you all along.”
“Does he know about the nutcase who left you his script?” Mona
stood and went to the rail. She set her wine cooler on top and turned to
face Teri. “It’s just the kind of thing he’d get all hot and bothered about if
he knew.”
“That’s why I haven’t told him.”
“Have you read the script yet?”
“No. And I don’t intend to.”
Mona leaned against the rail and polished off her drink. “What if it’s
good?”
Teri looked hard at her business partner for a moment, and then
burst into laughter. Mona joined in, both of them laughing until tears ran
down their cheeks.
The ringing of the doorbell from inside the house interrupted their
laugh-fest. “Wait here, I’ll go see who it is,” Teri said.
She left Mona on the patio, grabbed the deadbolt key from the coffee
table, and went to the door, surprised to see that the alarm had been
turned off. She looked through the peephole and sighed heavily. She stood
stock still, as if hoping the person on the porch wouldn’t hear her and
would go away. The doorbell rang again, followed by banging on the
door.
“Come on, Babe,” Mike called. “My key won’t work.”
Because I had the lock changed, Teri thought. Too bad I didn’t think
to change the security code, too.
The knocking continued. “I won’t go away until you let me in,” Mike
said.
Mona appeared at the edge of the entryway, wine cooler in hand.
“Are you going to let him in?”
“I have to.”
Mona put her drink down on an end table. “Then I’m leaving. I don’t
want to say something I’ll regret tomorrow. Or won’t regret.”
Teri unlocked the door and opened it. Mike Capalletti breezed in as
Mona rushed out beside him, two ships passing at breakneck speeds in the
night.
Mike continued into the den, straight to the stack of scripts on the
coffee table, and began rifling through them.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?”
Mike looked over his shoulder at her as she entered the den. “My key
doesn’t work, by the way.”
“I changed the lock.”
His expression never changed as he stared at her for a moment, then
he turned his attention back to the stack. “Where’s the script the dead guy
gave you.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Not from you, that’s for damn sure.”
He grabbed a script, read the title, and tossed it on the couch. “Is it
one of these?”
“How do you know about the screenplay?”
Mike ignored her, still frantically sorting through the stack. She
grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“Mike, I asked you a question.
How
do
you know
about the
screenplay?”
“My phone’s been ringing off the wall. I’ve had reporters calling all
day. You’re happy enough to let them know, but not your agent.”
“I haven’t told anyone but Mona. And I just told her about a half hour
ago.”
“Well, someone did. It’s already on the Internet. And when it breaks
in the trades tomorrow, it’s gonna snowball. It doesn’t matter how bad it
is—it is bad, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll get one of our writers to do a rewrite then
we’ll have the studios begging us for it. It’ll be a bidding war to end all
bidding wars. The buzz’ll freaking blow up the box office.”
He turned away from Teri and started shuffling through the scripts
again.
“Stop,” Teri said.
“What?”
She grabbed his arm again. “I said stop.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Somebody died, Mike.”
Mike straightened, bowed his head, and put his hand over his heart.
“Yes, let’s have a moment of silence for the dearly departed.”
After two seconds, he went back to shuffling the scripts. So far, he
had failed to notice the screenplays on the floor by the sliding glass door.
“Now let’s see if we can’t save your career before it dies, too,” he
said.
She grabbed his arm again and yanked hard, spinning him around. His
eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked at her hand on his arm, fingers
white with tension from her grip on his bicep. She let go.
“Get out,” she said.
“You’re kidding, right? Just still a little pissed?”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“You’ve been pissin’ and moanin’ about something to put you back
on the map, and now it’s dropped right into your lap. And what do you
do? You want to ignore it.”
“I don’t want to take advantage of someone’s death.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Mike said. “This guy killed himself, and he gave
it to you in his will. He knew what he was doing.”
“You just said it, Mike: He killed himself. Does that sound like
someone who knew what he was doing?”
“Look, Babe, he was looking for a way to get his script in your hands.
He also had to know what a firestorm this would kick up. Dead man wills
famous actress his screenplay. Yeah, I think he knew exactly what he was
doing.”
“But he’s dead, so what good does all this do him now?” she asked.
“It’s like a posthumous medal of honor. Or like John Kennedy
Toole’s Pulitzer for
A Confederacy of Dunces
. That only got published
because he killed himself. Maybe this guy was a Toole fan.”
“It just doesn’t feel right.”
“As your agent—”
“You’re not my agent anymore. Remember?”
“Did you ever get a formal termination letter from the agency?”
“No.”
“Read your contract. We’re still your agents until that happens. And
as your agent—”
Teri walked to the front door. Opening it, she said, “I want you to
leave.”
“And I want that script.”
He tossed the last script on the couch and scanned the room. His eyes
fell on the scripts scattered on the floor. He took one step that way, but
Teri ran across the room. She snatched up the scattered scripts and held
them to her chest.
“Get out, Mike. Now.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“What was your first clue? Maybe when I told you I was serious?”
“Come on, Babe, don’t be an idiot.”
She marched back to the front door and stood silently. After a
moment, Mike headed that way, refusing to make eye contact with her. As
he brushed past and out the door, he said, “Better read your contract.”
She slammed the door after him. She tried to blink the tears away but
with no success. She looked at the scripts she held. The top one was
The
Precipice.
She dropped the others on the entryway floor and stared at it.
Maybe she should read it. Just a few pages, anyway. Didn’t she owe at
least that much to the man who bequeathed it to her? Her fingers flicked at
the cover. She tried to will them to open it, to reveal the first page, but it
was as if they had a mind of their own.
She carried the script to the fireplace and tossed it inside. Ashes
puffed and fluttered from the last fire she had started months earlier on a
winter’s day when the temperatures had plummeted into the 50s. Okay,
so maybe it wasn’t Texas, with its freezing winter days, but she always
loved a crackling fire, and any excuse would do to start one. Maybe even
burning a screenplay.
She knelt and turned the key to start the gas. She grabbed a fireplace
match from the container on the hearth, struck it on the bricks, and
opened the screen. The gas was flowing, the noise a soothing sound. She
extended the flaming match toward the gas.
Almost unconsciously, she turned the key and extinguished the gas,
blew out the match, and closed the screen, leaving the script, possibly
along with her career, face up on the ash heap.