THE NEXT TO DIE (36 page)

Tom frowned. “Who’s he with?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Lance. He didn’t say.”

He sighed. “Well, I don’t know this Blanchard fella. Take a message and…” He trailed off.
Blanchard
. Maggie’s first husband. Adam was the son.

“Mr. Lance?”

“Um, yes. On second thought, put him through. Please.”

He heard a click, then: “Hello, Tom Lance?”

“Yes?”

“Tom, you don’t know me, but I’m Maggie McGuire’s son, Adam.”

“Oh, well, hello,” Tom replied, feeling awkward.

“I want to thank you for helping put a stop to this hate group. They killed a lot of good people—including my mother. If it weren’t for you, they’d have gone on killing. Anyway, I’m very grateful to you.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve any gratitude, son.”

“Just the same, thank you, Tom. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’ve seen
Hour of Deceit
several times. I know you helped my mom get her start in films, she told me.”

“She did?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, you’re probably swamped with calls. I don’t want to keep you.”

“How’s your health?” Tom suddenly asked, remembering his HIV status.

“Good, thanks. I’m taking a new drug. It’s supposed to help.”

“Son, I wish more than anything your mom was still alive.” Tom struggled to say the right words. “I—I wrote a letter to the
L.A. Times
, and they’ll probably print it in tomorrow’s night edition. You should know, I meant what I said in that letter.”

There was a dubious chuckle on the other end of the line. “Well, I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand.”

“You will tomorrow night,” Tom said. “I’m glad you called, son. Thanks.”

“Thank you, Tom,” he said. “Take care.”

Tom hung up. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow. In the past few hours, he’d basked in the knowledge that they wanted him again. He was important, a hero to millions of people. But by tomorrow afternoon, his letter—with its full confession—would reach someone at the
Los Angeles Times
. That letter was supposed to be read after his death.

Tom tossed back his glass of champagne, then poured another. Grabbing the remote, he channel-surfed for more news coverage of the assassination attempt, another story about Tom Lance. He had only tonight to savor the glory—before it turned bad.

On one of the movie channels, he paused to watch Robert Duvall walking with another man around a chain-link fence. Tom turned up the volume. It took him only a moment to identify the older, raspy-voiced actor as Michael V. Gazzo from The Actors Studio. The movie was
The Godfather, Part II
. Duvall was explaining to his old Mafia chum how in Roman times, some generals, accused of plotting against the emperor, chose to die with dignity. They’d draw a warm bath, then slash their wrists and bleed to death.

Frowning, Tom switched channels. One of the news shows had a clip of him with Maggie in
Hour of Deceit
. With a sad smile, he watched and drank his champagne. Only two weeks ago, he’d been a forgotten film actor, ready to shoot himself by the Hollywood sign. His death would have gone unnoticed. But by tomorrow, his suicide would make headlines.

Another movie scene came to mind: George C. Scott’s speech in
Patton
, about how—again, in Roman times—during a victory parade, the general would have an aide-de-camp whispering in his ear: “All glory is fleeting.”

Tom had the speech in a book of movie monologues. He’d read it aloud a few times. But he’d never fully understood what it meant until now.

“All glory is fleeting.”

He went into the bathroom and found a disposable razor in the complimentary kit from the hotel. Tom broke off the plastic and took out the blade. Then he ran the hot water in the bath.

Stepping back into the bedroom, he called the hotel operator and asked her to hold all his calls. He poured himself another glass of champagne, and toasted Maggie.

Then Tom Lance went into the bathroom with his glass, a razor blade, and his dignity.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Russell Marshall.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

Elsie Marshall sat behind her desk, surrounded by copies of her book,
A Little More Common Sense
. In the guest chair today sat a balding, pasty-faced man of fifty with a sparse, thin mustache that failed to draw attention from his small eyes and double chin. He wore a pinstriped dark-gray suit.

“If you’re just tuning in,” Elsie chirped. “You don’t want to touch that dial, because we’re talking some
Common Sense
with Mr. Roger Crayton, who decided enough is enough, and got certain filthy books banned from public libraries in his home state of North Carolina. Stay tuned!”

The studio audience applauded. Elsie glanced up at the sound booth and made a slashing gesture at her throat, indicating they should turn off the mikes. Then she turned to her guest. “Mr. Crayton, I hope you won’t mention how you tried to ban
The Color Purple
and
A Catcher in the Rye
from the libraries. I for one say
bravo
. But there are just too many bleeding-heart liberals out there who think that—well, if you pardon me—such
crap
has literary significance. Let’s stick to the books you actually had pulled from the shelves—like
Heather Has Two Mommies
, and that other horrible one—”

Mr. Crayton seemed distracted by something going on behind her. Elsie turned to see an Asian woman in a beige suit shaking her head at the production assistant, who was trying to keep her from coming onto the set.

Elsie glared at the intruder, then looked around at all her production people. “What’s going on here?” she demanded to know. “I’m taping a show, for pity’s sake. Somebody get this Oriental woman off my set!”

The audience became restless. A rumbling of whispers rose from Elsie’s subjects. She bristled at the disruption this trespasser was causing. “Who do you think you are?” Elsie said indignantly.

The “Oriental woman” pulled out a wallet and flashed a badge at her. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Linn, LAPD, homicide division,” she said. Then her quiet little smile widened. “Hi, Elsie.”

Judy had invited Avery to share Thanksgiving dinner with her family, but he preferred to stick around the hospital’s intensive care unit. He was still confined to the wheelchair. The press had been allowed to interview him and Officer Pete for an hour yesterday. Now the state patrol worked overtime—with holiday pay—to keep out the reporters. All visitors had to be screened.

A few thousand miles away, the Beverly Hills police had dropped Avery as a suspect in the murder-rape of Libby Stoddard. Their manhunt for Howard “Hal” Buchanan had ended late last night with the discovery of his body inside a rented Ford Taurus in the underground parking garage at a San Diego Ramada Inn. He’d shot himself in the mouth.

Elsie and Drew Marshall denied any knowledge of an organization known as SAAMO. As federal investigations progressed, the Marshalls lost several of their more lucrative
Common Sense
sponsors—but none of their audience. In fact, there was even a small boost in ratings of the syndicated show.

Still, they were now a target of ridicule, and an embarrassment to most conservative politicians who had once backed them. In newspapers and magazines, editorial cartoons showed Elsie and Drew behind bars in prison garb—and made references to Drew’s Best Dressed Man credentials and
The Family That Slays Together….

“The sexiest man headed for San Quentin,” one TV talk show host called him. “Drew Marshall’s a ten, all right. That’s how many years he’ll have to serve….”

Like Tony Katz, Leigh Simone, and Maggie McGuire before them, Elsie and Drew Marshall became the tainted stars of tabloid headlines. Even if they avoided prison, their reputations had been poisoned by scandal.

The strangest development of all was the suicide of Tom Lance. He’d locked himself in the bathroom of his suite at the Beverly Hills Hilton, and slashed his wrists. A hotel maid found him at ten o’clock Wednesday morning. He’d left no suicide note in the suite, but the
Los Angeles Times
published a letter from Tom Lance, confessing to the murder of Maggie McGuire.

From the hospital in Lewiston, Idaho, Avery phoned Glenhaven for updates on Joanne. She was still letting the same nurse feed her, and seemed aware of people addressing her. But she’d yet to say a word to anyone.

Avery’s brother, parents, and George and Sheila had all volunteered to fly out to see him. But he’d told them to stay put. He would be released from the hospital Friday anyway. He didn’t mention his plans to remain in Lewiston—close to the hospital—until his lawyer was off the critical list.

Sean’s infection had developed into pneumonia. Her temperature was still dangerously high. She needed an oxygen mask to breathe. Perspiration from the fever had left her hair in limp, wet tangles. She drifted in and out of consciousness. When not sleeping, her thoughts were muddled. At one point this morning, she’d squinted at Avery in the wheelchair by the foot of her bed. “Dan? Honey?” she’d said weakly. “Phoebe’s school clothes are dirty….”

Avery had become a liaison for her family and the doctors at the hospital. For the last couple of days, they routinely paged him at the intensive care unit desk. One of her brothers was due to arrive later this afternoon. He telephoned from the Boise Airport.

Avery took the call on one of the phones in the small visitors’ lounge outside the ICU. A fresh box of Kleenex adorned every end table, the sofas were beige, and a TV—on mute—was fixed to a bracket on the wall.

“Tell me what I should expect,” her brother said warily. His name was Jack, and he was younger than Sean. In the background, Avery could hear a lot of people talking—along with flight announcements on a loudspeaker.

“It’s like I explained to you yesterday,” he said. “The doctors aren’t very optimistic about her chances. I’m sticking around, hoping she’ll prove them wrong. Has anyone told the husband how serious it is?”

“Yeah,” her brother replied. “Dan wants to come here, but the doctors won’t let him. And if the medical experts won’t allow him to fly, neither will the airlines—what with all the equipment he needs. He’s not doing too hot lately.” Jack’s voice become shaky. “God, if those two little kids lose both parents so close together, I don’t know what.” He sighed. “So listen, are you okay? I heard you were shot in the leg.”

“I’m fine,” Avery said. “I’ll be hobbling around for a little while, but I should be okay.”

“Well, I’ll be there in a few hours. Where can I reach you later on?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Avery said. “I’ll be right here.”

After he hung up the phone, Avery maneuvered the wheelchair around. He started back down the hall to Sean’s room. He would stay with her until after visiting hours were over.

Fans and paparazzi gathered by the cemetery gates. They had been standing in the rain for two hours just to see Dayle Sutton and Avery Cooper among the mourners.

The showers had ceased, leaving a mist above the wet grass and shiny, dark headstones. The clouds still looked ominous, so people clung to their umbrellas as they assembled at the graveside. A priest recited prayers over the casket. All the surrounding flowers seemed so vivid and colorful under the gray skies—and amid the congregation in their traditionally dark attire.

Dayle spotted Avery Cooper in back of several people on the other side of the grave. He caught her eye, nodded and gave a her a shy smile.

Citing “family obligations,” Avery had bowed out of their film project, now slated to start principal photography in February. The producers—along with Dayle—had begged him to reconsider. They’d even offered to push back the film’s starting date, but Avery couldn’t be swayed. Sniffing Oscar bait, a dozen big-name actors now vied for his role of the gay-bashed man on trial.

Everyone knew his wife was still in a mental hospital. The tabloids really cashed in on
Avery’s Anguish
. He looked lonely and uncomfortable, poised behind so many couples and families at the cemetery plot.

Dayle had already met most of Sean’s family during the wake. The in-laws, Doug and Anne, solemnly clung to each other by the graveside. In back of them stood a couple of Sean’s brothers with their wives. Dan Olson’s favorite nurse, Julie, was there. Dry-eyed and looking rather lost were Sean’s two children, Danny and Phoebe. They stood on either side of their mother. Danny was too old to hold on to her hand in public, but Phoebe had no such qualms. Her little fist clutched at Sean’s black skirt. Dayle had loaned Sean the charcoal brocade jacket she wore.

Sean still looked a bit pale and thin from her hospital stay. She’d been released from Lewiston General the first week of December. She’d had only six days with Dan before his condition had taken a drastic turn. He’d died at home on December eleventh.

Danny and Phoebe Olson each placed a flower on their father’s casket, then were led to a waiting limo by their uncle and aunt. Sean hugged and shook hands with people as they started to wander back toward their cars. A few starstruck mourners approached Dayle to say hello or ask how she knew Dan Olson.

Finally, Sean came up to Dayle and embraced her. “Thanks for use of the jacket,” she said. “And thanks for coming. It means so much to me that you’re here. We’re having a buffet back at the house. Can you come?”

Dayle touched her arm. “Oh, Sean, I’m sorry. I’d like to, but I have a publicity thing in an hour, a magazine cover story. I can’t get out of it.”

Sean smiled graciously. “I understand.”

“Did Dennis call you about the meeting next week? We need our technical advisor there. After all, the movie’s about you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Sean replied. She glanced down the rolling hill of the cemetery, where reporters and dozens of stargazers waited outside the gate. “Dan really would have been pleased at this,” she said, with a sad laugh. “You didn’t know my husband. He was such a film buff. And here it’s his funeral and there are reporters, fans, and two movie stars in attendance.”

Dayle spotted Avery Cooper across the way. “Have you—talked to Avery yet?” she asked quietly.

Sean shook her head.

“Maybe you should at least say hi. You know, back when he found out that you’d gone to Opal, he went crazy. I was with him, and I could tell there was something—special between you two. I—” Dayle saw the pained look on Sean’s face, and she sighed. “It’s none of my damn business. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing ever happened,” Sean explained. “But the feelings were there just the same.” She smiled. “I’m glad you said something, Dayle. I didn’t like carrying around that secret all alone, especially today.”

Dayle gave her hand a squeeze. “Go talk to him.”

Sean nodded, then turned and started down the hill toward Avery.

The other movie star at Dan Olson’s burial was now retreating toward his car. Sean’s young nephew, Brendan, had stopped Avery to ask for an autograph. Avery scribbled his name on Brendan’s church program, then shook his hand. As the boy moved on, Avery glanced back and saw her.

Sean stepped toward him. The wind suddenly kicked up, and she swept back her hair. For a moment, she was once again on that ocean-view bluff, snuggled in his jacket, wanting so much to kiss him. She put aside those feelings now—just as she’d tried to ignore them back then. Crossing her arms to keep warm, Sean managed to smile at him. “Thanks for coming, Avery.”

He nodded. “How are—you holding up?”

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I miss him. I miss the sound of his respirator. I—”

“Sean?” a woman interrupted, passing behind her. “We’ll see you at the house. All right, dear?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. “You bet, Lisa. Thanks.” Sean waited until her friend moved on; then she turned to Avery again. “How’s your wife? How’s Joanne?”

“She’s doing much better. In fact, I’m on my way to see her now.”

“That’s nice,” was all Sean could think to say. “Um, since you quit the movie, I guess I won’t be seeing you for a while.” She took another step toward him. “Avery, I don’t mean to pry. But if Joanne’s showing signs of improvement, and they’re shooting most of the picture around here, why did you quit? All these actors are fighting for that part now. Why would you give that up?”

He glanced down at the ground and sighed. “You know why.”

“Because of me?”

“We’d be working together—sometimes very closely. I couldn’t handle that, Sean. You know how I feel about you. But I still love my wife too. I can’t leave her—no more than you could have left Dan while he was sick. I wouldn’t like myself very much if I did that. I don’t think you’d like me very much either.”

Sean let out a tiny, grateful laugh. She took hold of his hand. “Thank you, Avery Cooper.”

He shook her hand and smiled. “Take care, Sean.”

She forced herself to turn away from him. Walking toward her car, Sean imagined him tonight in that place—at his wife’s bedside.

From a couple of weeks ago, when she’d been so sick and feverish in the intensive care unit, she remembered Avery in the room with her, a constant, comforting presence. He would be there for his wife tonight—and for as long as she needed him.

Glancing over her shoulder, Sean saw him walking alone down a grassy slope toward his car. He was still hobbling a bit.

Sean figured it was all right to cry. She wouldn’t have to explain her tears to anyone right now.

She turned and spotted Dayle, waiting for her. Dayle pulled a Kleenex from her purse and offered it to her. Sean blew her nose with the tissue. “Thanks,” she muttered, her voice a little raspy. “Aren’t you going to be late for your publicity thing?”

“The hell with it,” Dayle said. “I think you need me around today. And that’s more important than some lousy magazine cover story.”

Sean wiped the tears from her eyes. She hadn’t expected Dayle to come to her rescue. Yet nobody else really understood what she was dealing with today—except for Dayle. At a time when she felt all alone with her pain, she had Dayle Sutton coming through for her. “You’re giving up a shot at some major publicity?” Sean said. “That doesn’t sound like a movie star to me. Sounds more like a true friend.”

“I hope that’s what I am,” Dayle said. She took her hand and squeezed it. “Your kids are going back with your in-laws, right?”

Sean nodded. “I thought I’d want to go back alone, but—not anymore.”

“Well, then I’ll send my driver home, and ride with you.” Dayle glanced down toward where the cars were parked. She nudged Sean. “Only first we have to make it down this damn hill in our high heels.”

Sean smiled and put her arm around her friend’s waist. “We’ll make it, Dayle,” she said. “We’ll just lean on each other.”