THE NEXT TO DIE (25 page)

Dayle faced the press, flanked by Dennis and Ted. About forty reporters and several cameramen gathered outside the soundstage where she was filming
Waiting for the Fall
for this impromptu press conference. In her “old lady” garb, she looked very sweet and matronly. Yet Dayle had modified the makeup a little so that the pretty movie star shined through. Security was tight, with guards stationed every eight feet at a roped-off section around the podium where Dayle addressed the crowd.

“I’m in the middle of making a movie right now,” Dayle announced. “Which explains why I’m dressed and made up this way. I’m sorry I won’t have time to answer questions. But I’d like to make a statement for anyone who cares to listen.” Dayle smiled at them. She needed these journalists on her side. “Actually, I’m not wearing any makeup. I’ve simply aged twenty-five years in the past hour while watching a certain ‘talk show.’”

There were some laughs and titters among the reporters, and she heard Dennis behind her chuckling—almost too enthusiastically.

Elsie’s show had ended only forty-five minutes ago. Dayle had scribbled out a brief speech. She felt a strange calm. The “scandal” was out there now, thanks to Elsie Marshall. That left Dayle with damage control, an assignment the studio brass tried to entrust to their public relations department. “It’s my ass on the line,” Dayle had told a studio bigwig over the phone. “I’ll handle this.”

They wanted to check her speech, but the only person she let read it was Dennis, whose thumbs-up gave Dayle the confidence she now needed.

“I take enormous pride in the fact that I’m on Elsie Marshall’s hate list,” Dayle announced. “Elsie had a guest on her program today, a woman named Cindy Zellerback, who murdered her husband and child thirteen years ago. Now, the widow Marshall—to my knowledge—has never had a murderer on her show—morons, yes, but not murderers.”

A few reporters laughed, but Dayle kept a straight face. “The reason Elsie put Cindy Zellerback on her show was that this particular convicted murderer claimed to have had sexual relations with me a few years before she killed her family. Ms. Zellerback’s story first came to my attention earlier this week, by way of an anonymous note from someone who seemed to have extortion in mind. I chose to ignore it. Obviously, this mudslinger turned to the widow Marshall with this story. So in her attempt to publicly humiliate me, Elsie Marshall has consorted with an extortionist and a murderer.”

Dayle shook her head and sighed. “Well, I’m a little embarrassed, but not humiliated. The story this woman told is indeed true. One night, sixteen years ago, while shooting a movie in Mexico, I went to a beach party and had too much to drink. While under the influence, I experimented with a nineteen-year-old named Cindy. The widow Marshall would like you to believe I corrupted this young woman, but I’d like to point out that I was the ripe old age of twenty-three at the time, and not much of a party girl. I have very little memory of my evening with Cindy Zellerback. I do, however, recall that the ‘experiment’ wasn’t my idea of a good time. I never saw—or heard about—Cindy Zellerback again, not until the anonymous note last week.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dayle shrugged. “That’s the extent of my association with this”—she shook her head—“this pathetic woman who killed her family. I can’t understand how someone who preaches the power of God’s forgiveness can also preach hate toward gays and lesbians. She blamed the murders of her husband and toddler daughter on drugs and her lesbian lifestyle—as if she herself weren’t responsible at all. That’s just not right. I’d feel sorry for Cindy Zellerback if she still weren’t doing harm—this time with her demented moralizing. I’m glad my association with this pitiful woman was so brief, and forgettable—when my mind was clouded with drink. The widow Marshall, however, chose to associate with her in front of a television audience, and seems to consider her a colleague. What’s clouding Elsie’s mind? A powerful dose of hate, I’d say. Listen, Elsie, when you resort to the testimony of convicted murderers to trumpet your homophobic rhetoric, it’s time to reevaluate your beliefs.”

A few reporters started to applaud, and others joined in. By the time Dayle stepped down from the podium, they were cheering her.

But in a deluxe penthouse suite at the Hyatt Regency in Washington, D.C., the reporters on hand scoffed at Dayle Sutton. Her speech was broadcasted live on the Entertainment News Network. Over thirty supporters of Drew and Elsie Marshall—many of them from the press—crowded the huge suite. Plied with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, they watched the telecast on a big-screen TV. They hadn’t expected Dayle Sutton to respond so soon. The group had originally assembled with their host, Drew Marshall, to watch his mother interview the convicted murderer who had once been Dayle’s lesbian lover.

Elsie’s interview had been a great victory for Drew. The excitement and enthusiasm buzzing through the room had everyone nearly giddy. Dressed in a white linen shirt and jeans, he held court in a stuffed easy chair. He led the group in applause every time his mother got in a zinger against Dayle
Slutton
.

Then a call had come in saying that ENN would provide a live telecast of Dayle Sutton’s response to today’s
Common Sense
segment. Everyone stayed to witness Dayle Sutton’s humiliation. They couldn’t wait to see her squirm.

In reverence to Drew—and out of respect for his mother—several of the guests hissed at Dayle during her speech. But some people seemed uncomfortable, their mood plummeting from the zealous fever of an hour before. A few of them even left the room—very quietly. But the loyal ones stayed on to criticize and ridicule Dayle Sutton. Drew insisted that today was a moral victory for everyone who believed in family values.

With his beer in hand and a confident smile on his face, Drew turned to one of his associates. “Listen carefully to me,” he said, under his breath. “When they shoot that whore next week, I want a piece of her goddamn brain for a souvenir. I don’t care if they have to scrape it off the fucking floor, make sure someone brings it to me.”

Drew caught a reporter’s eye from across the room. He hoisted his beer stein as if to toast him and broke into his charming, boyish smile. “Hey, you’re running on empty, Duane,” he called. “Have another round!”

A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror of the blue ’89 Chrysler LeBaron. It pulled into the Reservations Only space in front of Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Things were slow at the front desk. Amber had her nose in a
Cosmopolitan
quiz, “Are You Getting the Most out of Masturbation?”

She glanced up from her magazine as the driver of the LeBaron stepped into the lobby. With his mustache, receding gray-brown hair, and windburned face, he looked like a cowboy. He wore a denim jacket and tan sans-a-belt pants that rode low under his belly. He leaned against the counter. “I need Nick Brock’s room number, honey.”

Setting down her magazine, Amber consulted the guest file. “Brock?” she asked, snapping her gum. “There’s nobody here by that name.”

“You sure? Maybe he checked in under an alias.”

Amber simply shrugged.

“Good-looking guy, about thirty, my height. Black hair—”

“Omigod, yeah, sure,” Amber said with a smile. “Nick Brock. I remember thinking he didn’t use the same name when he checked in.” She grabbed a
Playgirl
from the magazine rack, then flipped through the pages until she found Nick Brock’s butt shot. She set the open magazine on the counter, under the man’s nose. “Is this the guy you mean?” Amber asked.

Sean felt as if she’d made a couple of friends this evening. Sheila Weber was a salt-of-the-earth type. Sean recalled going through that same stage of pregnancy, and Sheila lapped up the advice. George was cute, congenial, and obviously a wonderful friend to Avery. The Webers insisted that they stay for dinner. Sheila made a terrific chicken pasta.

Sean had to remind herself that the Webers were tight with Avery and his wife. There was no room for a fifth wheel.

Still, tonight had been special, and for a few minutes she’d stopped worrying about respirators and catheters. She hadn’t thought about conspiracies and grand juries. She’d actually fooled herself for a while, and felt like part of a normal couple again.

They were now on their way to the park, where Avery’s mystery woman had scratched his face. Sean had a tiny buzz from the Chianti the Webers had served with dinner. She glanced over at Avery in the driver’s seat, watching the road ahead. She studied his profile, the strong jawline, and those long eyelashes. He was playing a tape of seventies music. He’d brought it to his wife in the hospital, but she hadn’t wanted it.

Out of respect for James Taylor, and “Fire and Rain,” neither of them talked. Sean sat quietly, enjoying the pretty drive along the coast. The cool air smelled sweet through the car window.

Avery pulled off the highway to a little alcove with six parking spaces. “This is it,” he announced. He hopped out of the car, and hurried around to open the door for her. The wind had kicked up. Sean rubbed her arms from the chill. Avery dug a flannel-lined jacket out of the backseat, then placed it on her shoulders. They strolled down to the park benches and a little stone wall. The Pacific stretched out before them, rippling and moonlit.

“I watched the sunset that night,” Avery said. “So it was earlier.”

“When we go back to the car, remind me to call the weather bureau and find out what time the sun set on the fourteenth.”

Avery nodded. “I stayed until dark, I remember.” He pointed to a path by the rock wall. “That’s where the woman came from. The trail dips down, then comes up to the other side of the parking alcove.”

“Did you hear a car?”

“Yes. She asked if I was Avery Cooper. I heard the car. Then when I turned for a moment, she scratched my face.”

“Was this car parked where yours is now?”

“Yes. But I don’t recall the car type. It could have been a rental type. I’m not sure. I remember it was white. I was kind of dazed, and I didn’t think to look for the license plate.”

Sean glanced over at the small parking lot. “You couldn’t have seen it very well from here anyway.”

“You look cold,” he said. “Why don’t you put your arms in the sleeves?” Stepping in back of her, Avery helped her on with his jacket again. It carried a subtle musky fragrance she’d come to identify with him. “The zipper’s a little tricky,” he said, turning her around. “Let me help you.”

Sean let him zip up the front of his jacket. He pinched and tugged at it for a moment. The jacket was roomy, its cuffs covering her knuckles. Without thinking, Sean reached up and touched his cheek. “You can barely see the scratch anymore,” she said.

His eyes met hers. Avery hesitated, then smiled. Her fingertips lingered on his handsome face. She was filled with such longing and tenderness. She ached inside.

Sean made herself turn away. She swept back her windblown hair, and gazed out at the water. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. “But there’s something—I don’t know—very lonely about this spot. Didn’t you say you often stop by here?”

Avery nodded.

“It’s funny. Your public persona is one of this carefree, light-hearted guy. But there’s a sadness in you—and I think it’s been with you a long time. These last few days have been like a crash course in getting to know you, Avery. I learned a lot tonight. I really like your friends.” She realized she was babbling, but couldn’t help herself. “They—they’ll make excellent character witnesses.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Finally, Avery turned away and glanced at the ocean. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything else you need to ask me about that night?” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Not right now. We can go if you’d like.”

They went back to the car, and he opened the door for her. Sean touched his arm. “Thanks, Avery,” she whispered. Then she climbed inside.

As he started up the car, the James Taylor song came on again. Avery backed out of the parking spot. Neither of them said a word. The seventies tape serenaded them, and Sean kept her head turned toward the window, so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

They didn’t notice any rental cars following them on their way back to her office. Avery had broken the awkward silence by talking about the case. He kept it all business. They parked behind the hair salon, and used the service entrance into the building. Avery carried Sean’s briefcase for her.

In the dimly lit upstairs corridor, Sean fished the keys from her purse, opened the office door, and switched on the light. She headed for the fax machine. “The photos your friend made for us are in my briefcase—in the blue folder on top.”

On the security video, they’d spotted three different cars parked at various times in front of Avery’s house; rental-company favorites: a Taurus and two Corsicas. They’d enlisted the help of a starstruck, young videophile from production named Jamie. He’d blown up and enhanced three video images, each showing the cars’ plate numbers.

Avery found Jamie’s photos in the blue folder, while Sean examined the latest incoming fax. Dayle had scribbled on the cover sheet:

Sean glanced at Nick Brock’s note to Dayle, scribbled below the list of license plate numbers. He’d traced credit card payments for the rental cars to a PO Box 73 in Opal, Idaho. He was on his way there to stake out the post office. If Dayle needed him, he was registered as Tony Manero at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn in Opal.

“Does the name
Tony Manero
sound familiar?” Sean asked.

Avery shut her briefcase, and bought the photos over to her. “Wasn’t that John Travolta’s character in
Saturday Night Fever?
”