Dying to Have Her Page 6

  “Luxuriate in the afterglow later, Doug,” Jennifer commanded dryly. “We’re at a funeral. Going to a grave-site. Remember?”

  Doug cast Jennifer a hurt look. Serena patted his knee. He revved the car again and drove off.

  They arrived at the burial ground to another crowd. The famed old Hollywood cemetery was as mobbed as the church had been. The fabled graves of the stars of yesteryear were rudely trampled as the attendees crushed forward for close spots around the new grave. Serena would have hung back, but Jennifer caught her arm. “Look. The guys have saved us places.”

  They wedged forward. Cameras were flashing. News trucks, reporters, broadcasters, cameramen were everywhere. NBC, ABC, CBS, and cable.

  “She would have loved this! Loved it, adored the attention!” Andy raved, whispering as Serena, Jennifer, and Doug found their places.

  “Just spectacular!” Joe Penny said. He pinched Serena suddenly. “Can you cry?” She stared at him indignantly. “Then look remorseful, please. The cameras are right on us now.”

  The priest began the grave-side service. Serena noted vaguely that even he was a good-looking man, tall, handsomely tanned, with a fine speaking voice. It was Hollywood. Maybe he had come out here to be a movie star—and decided on the cloth instead. She winced, ready to kick herself. When had she gotten so jaded?

  She wasn’t aware when the service came to an end. Close to the coffin, she was handed a rose to toss down upon it. She did so and walked away, feeling Doug’s escorting hand upon her elbow. They were followed by the others in their party.

  “Miss McCormack!”

  As her name was called, she turned around. At first she thought it was the man from the funeral home. Then she realized that it was just someone who looked similar to him.

  “Yes?”

  He handed her a flower. A beautiful red rose in full bloom.

  “I … I set a flower upon the grave,” she said.

  Something almost like a smile touched his face. “No, this one is for you. From a fan. It would be a kindness if you would take it.”

  “A fan?”

  “Someone shy, I think. But someone who very much wants you to know that … you’re watched. Please … as I said, it’s from a fan.”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course. Thank you very much.”

  She took the rose and turned away with Doug once again.

  An odd chill suddenly seeped through her.

  “See? You are adored, my lovely diva of the daytime!” Doug teased.

  But Serena wasn’t really listening. Being in the cemetery had made her uneasy, as if she were being watched.

  She turned back, looking through the crowd for the nondescript man who had given her the rose.

  She curled her fingers more tightly around the stem of the flower she carried.

  “Hey, careful!” Doug warned her.

  She looked down. She hadn’t felt the thorn digging into her flesh. Her hand was bleeding. Doug pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and quickly blotted the wound.

  “It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Just a prick.”

  “Man, it’s bleeding like a son of a gun,” Doug said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Let me help you get the blood off, at least. You’ll ruin that great outfit.”

  She barely heard him. Her eyes were still searching through the crowd for the messenger. He was gone. Gone as if he had never been.

  All that remained was the rose, held in her bloody hand.

  A rose. Just a rose.

  Liam had kept his distance from the Valentine Valley people at the funeral. At the cemetery he’d found a large oak where he could lean back and watch. As he saw the man give Serena the rose, he was troubled. Why? It was a rose, a pretty gift for a beautiful woman. But he saw the troubled expression on her face.

  He left his tree, hurrying across the cemetery. The place wasn’t that big. It was set in the middle of studios and offices, and visited daily by all manner of tourists. The man who had given Serena the rose had headed toward the mausoleums. Liam followed him in that direction.

  He entered the first memorial courtyard. No one. He entered the second, cursing himself for not moving quickly enough. He entered the third, and the fourth, then looked up in the last of them. A wall had crumbled. There was a fair space for a man to have slipped through—and into the stream of the city.

  It was just a rose, he reminded himself, from a fan. Someone taking the opportunity of the funeral to get close to Serena McCormack.

  Walking back across the cemetery, he made sure that he could still see the Valentine Valley group. Serena was getting into Doug Henson’s car. Doug was talking to Conar; they were probably discussing somewhere to go for a cup of coffee.

  Liam headed for the hearse and the three tuxedo-clad men from the funeral home who were closing it up. “Hey, do you guys have a fellow working for you who is ash-blond, about five-ten, late twenties, and in a tux?”

  The apparent head of the group responded. “No, sorry, we’re the only ones from the funeral home at this site. You looking for a friend?”

  “Not exactly. Did you notice anyone fitting that description take off around here?”

  “I’m afraid not. But there were hundreds of people here. Lots of fans, you know. We tried to maintain a certain decorum, but … maybe someone wore a tux to look like a mortuary employee in order to rub elbows with some of the elite. This place was a zoo; anyone could have been here, you know.”

  “Thanks for the help.”

  He turned quickly and hurried to his car, aware that Doug Henson had slid into the driver’s seat of his vehicle.

  Moving into traffic, keeping the group in sight, he told himself again that it had been a rose, just a rose. Serena had legions of fans.

  Still, the rose incident bothered him, and he knew why.

  Olsen had shown him the set. The police markings had shown him where the body of Jane Dunne had fallen, the way her arm had been extended … And right where her hand would have been there was a single red rose.

  When it was all over, the killer stood at the gravesite. In darkness and shadow, the killer was just a silhouette, standing before a grave, head bowed, as if in mourning.

  Hands … the killer stretched them out. There was no blood on those hands. No way to see the weapons of a killer. Who would have thought that it could actually work? Well, almost work. Still, these were now the hands of a killer.

  The cops were suspicious, but they knew nothing. It would be harder now. Yet better. Now she would be afraid.

  Serena had seen the note. She was suspicious. Soon she would be scared.

  The killer would watch.

  And wait …

  Chapter 6

  THE SET SEEMED STRANGE on Friday morning when Liam arrived.

  It was his second trip to the studio. Yesterday, Olsen and Joe Penny had accompanied him. He had seen the crime tape and the markings. He also met up with Bill Hutchens for a drink. They’d never been partners, but they’d always worked well together. He wanted to make sure that Bill was okay with him on the case.

  “As long as you’re okay with it,” Bill told him.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Serena.”

  “That’s been over.”

  Bill shrugged. “Hey, you know, I took her out for coffee and stuff after. That was some heavy ‘over’ between you two. But, hey, actresses, huh? They live in a different world.”

  “So it seems,” he assured Bill. They went over a few notes Bill had taken. He learned nothing new, except that he became convinced that if it had been a murder and not an accident, it was definitely an inside job. And a peculiar one at that. No matter how you fooled with equipment, it would be hard to know exactly when it would fall.

  Today Liam was meeting with Emilio Garcia and Dayton Riley, the lighting technicians. Emilio started out not surly but weary. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been through this all with the police,” he told Li
am.

  Liam had met him briefly before, and he liked the man. A big fellow with dark hair and a dark moustache, he looked like the Frito Bandito.

  “I know that,” Liam told him. “And I know that you and Dayton are longtime pros. That’s why this is such a mystery.”

  “Mystery, hell!” Dayton Riley said. He was me opposite of Emilio Garcia—thin as a beanpole, barely thirty, with carrot-red hair and a face full of freckles. “I’m telling you, Emilio and I are never careless. I could almost swear I watched Emilio on the ladder tightening the clamp on that light.”

  “Hey, I know, guys. Joe Penny told me that you have never had so much as an exploding lightbulb before.”

  They both seemed mollified.

  “Since I can change a fuse and a lightbulb and that’s about it, would you mind explaining some of the setup here? I need to understand what happened,” Liam continued.

  “If you look up,” Emilio said, “you’ll see that we have a ceiling light grid that supports suspended equipment. It’s common in smaller studios like this—especially where we have a number of permanent sets. Lamps, or lights, are clipped, clamped, or slung. As you can see, it’s a tubular, lattice structure. See there—at the far ends of each side? Those are the power outlets, fitted right into the workings. There were two Fresnel spotlights on the piece of grid that went down.” He sighed. “Heavy lights. They were focused on the action at the front table. The light beams had softened edges, making the light blend well with the dimmer lamps that lit the background of the set.”

  “How could the light come down?” Liam asked.

  “It shouldn’t have,” Dayton said. “The grid is permanent, fitted together. If the Fresnel spotlights were properly clamped, their weight could never have dislodged the fittings.”

  “But it did?” Liam said softly.

  Emilio shook his head. “The way I see it,” he said quietly, “a clamp had to have been loosened!”

  “Unless someone had messed with it,” Dayton said. “Not us. I’m telling you, we’re more thorough here than you can imagine.”

  During the whole conversation Liam had been watching them closely, sizing them up. They both seemed genuinely distressed.

  Dayton said, “This could have meant our jobs. Or God knows we could still be charged with something. Manslaughter through negligence or something like that.”

  “The detective, Hutchens, thinks it was an accident,” Emilio said, shaking his head.

  “Well, I guess it’s kind of hard for him to figure that someone would tamper with lighting equipment. I mean, the studio was open, right?”

  “Yeah, but … this is usually a closed set,” Dayton said.

  “Tell me, who was down here, on the set, when the two of you left that morning?” Liam asked.

  Dayton looked at Emilio bleakly. Then he looked at Liam.

  “No one,” he said.

  “What time was it?” Liam asked.

  Dayton looked at Emilio again. “Seven-fifteen, seven-thirty?” he suggested.

  “About that.”

  Seven-fifteen, seven-thirty. According to Jim Novac, the first scene had been slotted for taping at nine. More than an hour for someone to slip in …

  “You’ve got to find out what happened,” Emilio said earnestly. “Please. I know that Detective Hutchens is doing his job the way he sees best, but …” He paused, lifting his hands. “What he sees is an accident.”

  “I promise, I won’t stop until we know the truth— whatever the truth may be,” Liam assured them.

  Standing by the side of the set, Liam looked down at the tape where Jane Dunne had fallen. He could still see the marker tape that had delineated the actors’ positions. And even from this distance, he could clearly see the name marked on the tape closest to the position of the body.

  Serena McCormack.

  “That one … now there’s a good-looking guy,” Doug said.

  It was Saturday, a perfect day, though it seemed strange that they could be sitting at a cafe so casually, just people-watching, after the week that had passed. But Serena had always enjoyed Doug, and she couldn’t stay in her house forever. Allona had come, too, though Jennifer had begged off—the baby had an ear infection.

  As Doug spoke, taking the “man-hunting” part of their luncheon seriously, he didn’t point. He inclined his head, looking across the expanse of the sidewalk.

  Serena adjusted her sunglasses, looking over the man in question. He was tall, with a head full of sable hair very cleanly cut, and nicely dressed in casual khakis and a print shirt.

  “Yes, very good-looking,” Serena agreed. She studied the man from a distance. He was wearing dark sunglasses—common in Hollywood. He wore them well, but they absorbed his eyes. There seemed to be something vaguely familiar about him, but she wasn’t sure what. She shrugged to herself. Handsome, clean-cut, attractive. Tanned, well dressed. How many men did that describe in Hollywood?

  “I think he’s for me,” Allona said. “Nope, that boy’s for me,” Doug argued. “How on earth can you tell?” Allona demanded. “I know.”

  “I’ll bet you’re wrong. He’s for me.” “Maybe,” Serena pointed out, “he’s married.” Doug stared at her. “I assure you, he’s not married.” “Or,” she added firmly, for Doug’s benefit, “maybe he’s already involved in a serious relationship with a male partner.”

  “Maybe,” Doug argued, “but I don’t think so.” They were on Sunset Boulevard, at a table out on the sidewalk. Tapping the table idly, Serena marveled that it could be such a beautiful winter’s day. There was a tremendous bustle of people going by. At the House of Blues, just blocks down the street, a gospel group was performing. People were out in large numbers, headed for the show, out for brunch, or out just to cruise the many boutiques that lined the boulevard. Despite the beautiful day, she was distracted, uneasy. She had been since Jane’s death, always having the eerie feeling that she was being watched.

  Both Doug and Allona were still studying the man.

  “Cute. Very cute,” Allona said. “I’d like to write for him. In fact, I’d like to write myself right into the scene.”

  Serena groaned, stirring her coffee idly. She didn’t know why she was stirring it; she drank her coffee black. “Why doesn’t one of you just get up, go over to him, and ask him for a date?”

  “You can’t just walk up to someone like that,” Doug said.

  “Why not? Neither of you is overly shy,” she said, her sarcasm subtle and teasing.

  “Is she insinuating that we’re brash!” Allona asked Doug.

  “Oh, she wouldn’t!” Doug said.

  “Well, if you’re that interested, just go talk to him.”

  Doug looked at her, a smile on his lips. “And what if he comes over here and realizes despite that school-marm’s bun into which you’ve twisted all that glorious red hair of yours—and the deep, dark shades you’re wearing—that you’re the Verona Valentine of television’s most popular soap?” Doug demanded.

  “What if handsome over there—ordering an iced cappuccino, skim milk, please—is a reporter?” Serena inquired. Maybe that was why he was familiar to her.

  “He’ll pin you to the chair. Maybe he’s just a fan, and he’ll scream your name, and all these people will come running over?” Doug taunted in return.

  Serena pulled her glasses down, eyeing him coolly. “If Clark Gable arose and came walking down the street, people would come running over. I just saw the kid from that new teen band that’s got the entire country in his hands walk on by, and no one screamed and came running over. I think a soap actress is fairly safe in a city of hundreds of top box office performers, don’t you?”

  “You never know,” Allona said. “One-hit wonders and instant stars shine and fade—a soap star lives in the heart of the American household forever.”

  “Or at least while the show is on top,” Doug said cheerfully.

  “If he’s a reporter, he’ll pin the both of you to chairs as well,” Serena said. />
  “I doubt it. You’re the performer. We merely put our words of incredible depth and wit into your mouth,” Allona said. She waved a hand in the air. “Writers. We’re a dime a dozen.”

  Serena pointed past him. “Your golden boy is about to tip the waiter and leave.”

  “Do something, Doug!” Allona demanded. “He is about to get away. At the least, we have to know if he was my prospective date—or yours.”

  Doug started to rise.

  “Wait just one second,” Serena said. She touched Doug’s arm. “Is he familiar to either of you? I could swear I’ve seen him before.”

  They both sat still, watching the man again. Then Serena shrugged. “Maybe, but …”

  The man took his coffee from the waiter at the counter, and turned toward them. “Doug!” he called, walking their way.

  “I don’t believe he’s yours,” Serena murmured to Allona, still confused as to who the man was as he came toward their table, smiling now.

  “Kyle!” Doug stood, ready to greet him.

  The man reached the table and shook Doug’s hand, and Doug looked down at Allona and Serena, smiling. “Girls, it’s Kyle Amesbury, with Haines/Clark.”

  “Oh, of course!” Serena said. Kyle Amesbury—how could she have not known? She hadn’t seen him in some time, perhaps, and he had changed quite a bit. He was in the publicity department at the company that was the main sponsor of Valentine Valley. Haines/Clark produced soap products; just as it had been at the very beginning of soap opera days, they were sponsored by a soap company. Haines/Clark made products that cleaned just about everything, from the human body to clothing, floors, appliances, rugs, drapes, and furniture.

  The last time Serena had seen Kyle, his hair had been much longer, and his clothing hadn’t had such an expensive cut. He’d rubbed her the wrong way then, she suddenly remembered. He didn’t like her, and she knew it, though she wasn’t sure why. The one time she’d been at his place, he’d wanted to show her all the bedrooms, and he’d suggested that Andy come along. She felt he was always up to something. What, she wasn’t sure.