The Fan Letter (10 page)

He sat there, just for a moment, behind the wheel of his car. He had conflicting information and was trying to sort it all out in his mind. She had been both gushy teenager-like and all business in her letters to Phillip Beck. She had blushed and gotten nervous when a stranger got overly familiar with her. Then she had sweetly made a group of silly girls look like, well, silly girls without their knowing what she was doing to them.

The investigator chuckled to himself. “I'd like to see her get good and mad at someone! Wow!”

He headed back to his apartment to make some notes for his first report to Sarah Beck.

At ten minutes after six, he rolled his newspaper back into a bundle and put it outside on his door mat. At six fifteen, from the corner of his front window, he watched Leslie walk past their building to the mailboxes. At six eighteen, he opened his door to retrieve the paper he had just set there and startled the disappointed look off Leslie's face as she headed for the stairs leading up to her apartment.

“Hello, again,” he said cheerfully. “That was some performance you gave.”

Leslie was looking at him as if he were a green Martian and had suddenly sprouted wings.

“At your store…earlier today…three high school girls? We met right before that,” he hurriedly explained.

Remembrance flooded back and she blushed at her forgetfulness. “I'm sorry. I…I'm a little preoccupied.”

She didn't hear from the publisher or from Phillip Beck
, Wayne told himself. “Those girls were really something.”

Leslie shifted uncomfortably and glanced up the stairs to the sanctuary of her front door. “Sometimes we get students who really are interested in retailing or sometimes designing. Most of the time we get Fifi and Scooter who go to every store in the mall and then come to us.” She shook her head as if to rid it of the thought and started for the stairs leading up to her apartment.

“Say,” Wayne called, stopping her. As she reluctantly turned back, he indicated inside his apartment with his head. “I have enough Chinese food in there to choke a horse. I didn't know how generous the chefs are here. I have egg fu yong.”

“Appealing as you make it, no, thank you,” as she started up the stairs.

“There's plenty.”

“Then it looks like you'll be having egg fu breakfast,” she called back without turning. She let out a silent breath of air when she heard his chuckle and the door close. “I don't need this now,” she muttered as her own door closed and was quietly locked.

T
en-fifteen a.m. Thursday. Most of the residents of the Brighton Apartments had left for work or had gone out for the day. The gardeners were busy at another section and it was the manager's day off. Wayne Fields had left his apartment at nine-thirty dressed in a dark suit and hat. At ten, he had returned to the complex, parked in the visitor's section in the back, and left the jacket and hat in the car. Under the slacks that he removed was a pair of tennis shorts. The loafers were switched with athletic shoes and a white visor was pulled low over his eyes. Grabbing up a gym bag, he walked unhurriedly past his own door and up the stairs. Using a pick, he entered Leslie's apartment and noiselessly closed the door.

Pausing just inside the door, Wayne set down the gym bag and looked around her living room. He was using different eyes, as it were, than he had used the first time he had broken in. Now he looked for evidence of the two distinct personalities of which he had gotten glimpses. The quiet, almost shy individual was most prominently displayed. Her rooms carried the same Victorian atmosphere as the boutique in which she worked, only not as plush and expensive. The off-white sofa and loveseat had tapestry borders that were highlighted by floral throw pillows. The dark accent tables were cluttered with filigree picture frames, cut-glass vases, porcelain flowers, dried arrangements and crocheted white doilies. The pictures on the walls were inexpensive oils of landscapes and flowers. The largest picture over the sofa was a copy of a pastel garden party done by one of the more-popular Impressionists.

Her one bedroom was more of the same. The queen-sized brass bed was covered with a floral comforter and had lacy pastel pillows at the head. Two old-fashioned prismed chimney lamps hung from the ceiling and were poised over the nightstands. Intricate glass perfume bottles, a gold satin jewelry box, more doilies, stuffed animals, and a Venetian glass cockatoo sculpture were on the top of a triple dresser. The French cradle phone, clock radio, and a small television set seemed out of place in this feminine, old-fashioned setting.

It was in the shadowbox and in the collage picture frames that one began to see another side of Leslie. Here the whimsy was evident, the humor. The shadowbox, at first glance, continued the feminine ambiance. But a more careful scrutiny caused one to see items that didn't seem to belong. A large silver sheriff's badge, a brass sailing ship, a wind-up kangaroo that did flips, and a “Time Police” badge all fit neatly into the wooden spaces but didn't exactly blend in with the miniature white ducks, Tiffany-style lamp, small antique music boxes trimmed in gold, and porcelain thimbles.

On one of the walls he noticed two picture frames that held a total of thirty-five snapshots. They appeared to be of family and friends and vacations. But, mixed in were pictures of a popular singer in concert, the cast members of “The Time Police,” and a close-up of Phillip Beck in costume. What made Wayne stop and reconsider was that these were not pictures cut out of magazines. They were not publicity photos signed at conventions—they were taken by a personal camera. Since the quality of the pictures was the same as those of the family pictures, Wayne had to assume that Leslie had taken them herself. But how? It seemed obvious that the parties involved had never met. Had Leslie somehow gotten onto the set to take pictures? How could she sneak through security? Or did she follow Beck somewhere and take his picture without his knowledge?

With a quiet, “Hmm,” Wayne turned his attention to Leslie's roll-top desk. Here he found the ivory-colored stationery she seemed to favor—the same paper Sarah Beck had shown him when she interviewed him. In the bottom drawer he found her “Time Police” collection of magazines, newspaper articles, Phillip's letter, an answering machine tape labeled “Phillip Beck— Keep,” copies of all the letters she had mailed to him, and a collection of more pictures like the ones in the collage on the wall.

The double-drawer on the left contained her rejection letters from agents, a list of potential agencies, sample letters she had typed, outlines of the two finished novels, sample pages from each book, and the two spiral-bound copies she had printed for herself.

Wayne glanced at her clock. Time was rapidly passing. He wanted to read both books and look over the rewrite that was waiting under the sofa. He just didn't have time right now. He had to send off his first report to Sarah that afternoon.

He heard the clicking of heels on the sidewalk that wound through the complex. The person walking had hesitated at the turn to these particular apartments but then continued towards the manager's office. Hurrying to the living room, he barely moved her lace curtains aside to peek out. It was Leslie heading for the mailboxes. So that was why she hadn't taken a lunch that morning. She must have the afternoon off. Crap!

Wayne's mind started rapidly going over his options. He had approximately two minutes before she returned from the mailbox. Back in the bedroom, he quickly looked around. He hurriedly closed the desk drawers. The closet door…. Had it been open or closed? Open, he decided. Grabbing up his gym bag by her entry door, he quietly opened the door and turned the lock. Now he had to get back to his apartment.

Hearing her heels again as the sound echoed through the quiet complex, he knew he would be seen coming down the stairs and going into his rooms. As her door clicked shut, he pulled out his notebook and a pen and quickly flipped past the notes he had made inside her rooms. Head down, he started writing.

Leslie's mind was on her current chapter in her rewrite and had given the mail an uninterested glance. She stopped abruptly at the base of the stairs. There was a man standing at her door writing something in a small pad. Taking a step back, she looked around. Two empty apartments and the rest were quiet. Wondering if she should just go back to her car, she again looked up at the man who appeared to be dressed to play tennis. “Can I help you?” she called up in a voice that sounded calm.

The man turned as if surprised by the sound of her voice. “Oh, there you are. Hi, again. It's just me,” Wayne replied easily as he bounded down the steps. He noticed Leslie had taken another step backwards. She didn't recognize him. “Wayne,” he pointed to his door. “Your new neighbor?”

“Oh, right,” she answered, looking visibly relieved. “I guess I didn't recognize you. Again,” she added with an apologetic grin.

As she didn't say anything else, Wayne indicated his notebook that she had looked at with narrowed eyes. “I was just leaving you a note to see if we could have dinner tonight. Or tomorrow. I didn't think you would be home until later.”

Leslie momentarily looked down at her feet and ignored the invitation. “I usually only work half day on Thursdays,” she told him and gave a small smile as she headed to the stairs.

“What about dinner, then?”

“Well, I am pretty busy with a project. Maybe some other time.”

Halfway up the stairs, he called up to her, “Then, how about Saturday? Hey, you have to eat sometime!” he reasoned with a friendly grin.

“Ask me Saturday,” was the noncommittal response.

“Okay, I will. Remember, I know where you live,” he said with a laugh and unlocked his own door.

That last remark, meant in a humorous manner, caused a nervous shiver to travel up Leslie's arms. And she didn't know why. Rubbing her arms as if cold, she knew she had made that crack herself to friends who had borrowed something. But, this man wasn't a friend. He was
trying
to be friendly. That much was obvious. He had never been anything but pleasant.
So, why the strange reaction?
she asked herself. Not being able to explain, she set down her purse and the mail and rubbed her arms again.

After kicking off her shoes, she made a sandwich and wandered back to the sofa to eat it. Her wandering glance fell upon her shadowbox and the sandwich froze halfway up to her mouth. Something was different. The box didn't look right.

Leslie knew this wasn't her imagination at work—vivid as it was. No, an old boyfriend had played a game with her each time he would come over. He always, half jokingly, called her a perfectionist. To prove his point that she wouldn't tolerate something out of place, he would rearrange or hide one of her little knickknacks whenever she momentarily left the room. She would always notice, usually immediately, and find or rearrange the item to its proper place. He had always laughed at her and declared he was right. She gave a small grin as she thought about him. He had ended up unhappily married to a woman who worked full time and never touched a vacuum or dust cloth in her life.

It was the tin sheriff's badge that Leslie had bought years before in Tombstone, Arizona. She had described it as a prop in her Western novel. Now it was leaning over and about to fall off its shelf. As she righted the badge she also noticed one of the music boxes didn't match the dust pattern under it.

Heart pounding, she quickly looked around the living room and then went into the bedroom, her forgotten sandwich still in her left hand. Her desk. The bottom drawer wasn't closed all the way. It was just a fraction off, but…. She pulled it open to look. It was its usual cluttered mess. Slowly closing the drawer, still looking around, she could see nothing else disturbed.

With a look of confusion on her face, she went back to the sofa. Within moments, Leslie upbraided herself for being ridiculous. “Burt was right. One little thing out of place and I fall apart. Hmph. I probably just slammed the door too hard when I left this morning and the badge fell over.”

Thus dismissing the matter from her mind, lunch was finished and she changed out of her work dress and into comfortable jeans and a polo shirt. Pulling her lap desk out from under the sofa, she reread what she had written so far and delved back into her own little world of Rex and Jane.

W
ayne took the earpiece out of his right ear. It had been wirelessly connected to a listening device in inside Leslie's apartment. He heard her go suddenly into her bedroom and then open a desk drawer. He wondered what he had overlooked in his hasty retreat. He relaxed when he heard the sofa creak and figured she was writing again. Turning off the small receiver, he realized she apparently was no longer worried, so neither was he.

After briefly referring to his latest notes, he began his first report to Sarah:

“
Mrs. Beck,

As according to our agreement, I have met the third party in question and have had two occasions to briefly examine the residence of said party. A more thorough search cannot be conducted before Monday.

Regarding said third party: I have seen two separate personalities indicated. I am attempting to form a more personal contact to get a clearer picture, but this takes time.

Regarding the residence: A comfortable, homey, feminine atmosphere. I have found letters to and from your second party. There is also some question in my mind about the origin of some photographs of the second party. It will require further investigation.

As the third party is employed locally and busy with another ‘project,’ there is no cause for concern at this time.

I will continue my reports and the surveillance.

Have a nice day.

W.F
.”

A
t the airport, Phillip Beck just stood there on the curb next to the black limo. The driver was unloading a mountain of bags and directing the porter. Sarah had just kissed him good-bye setting off a wave of flashbulbs from the media circus that followed her every move. Davey had been distracted from his tearful hug by a whispered promise from Marty to look for a model airplane like the one they would be boarding. Davey tottered off holding “Uncle Marty's” hand and had forgotten to turn and wave one last time to his daddy. The flock of hovering, ready photographers had pushed by Phillip as Sarah regally strode into the terminal. He had been officially forgotten.