Last Scene Alive Part 8

"I'll see you tomorrow night, then, at six. Please don't be late. You can bring someone if you want."

She always said that.

"I won't be late," I said firmly. I never was: Roe Teagarden, punctual librarian. Didn't I sound exciting? I sighed after we'd said good-bye, pretty much standard ritual after a phone conversation with Aida Teagarden Queensland.

But my mother had always done her best by me, and she loved me. I loved her too. It would have been nice if I hadn't had to constantly remind myself of that. Abruptly, I was fed up with my own whininess, and decided it was high time I went to bed.

This had certainly been a highly eventful Sat.u.r.day, compared with my normal weekend routine. I suppressed the memory of Celia's appearance when she was dead, and instead spun myself a fantasy in which Joel Park Brooks came to my door and begged me to take her place in the movie, and I did so with completely unexpected talent and grace, and some incredibly attractive actor-not anybody obvious like George Clooney or Mel Gibson, but someone more cerebral, like John Cusack-came to my door and begged me to return to Hollywood with him and tan by his pool and be his love G.o.ddess, since I was far more genuine and original than the shallow movie beauties surrounding him . . .

There's no age limit or personality conflict in fantasies, and this one merged pleasantly into sleep.

Next morning was a good Sunday for church. I attend on most Sundays, but sometimes I'm more enthusiastic than others. I wasn't sure what was happening to me, what process had been set in motion this past week, but I was relieved to feel better. I didn't realize how long a dark cloud had hung around me until it began to lift. I slicked my hair back and put it up as smoothly as I manage, and I wore a fall suit of a russet color. I put on my gold-rimmed gla.s.ses, and I had suede pumps and a purse to match. Amber earrings, I decided, and a dab of perfume.

"You look good," I told my mirror earnestly. "Pretty darn darn good." good."

I got to St. Stephen's about nine-fifteen. We had an early service, since Aubrey also preached at another church about thirty miles away at eleven o'clock. I slipped into the pew I usually used, noticed my mother and John hadn't gotten there yet, and slid to my knees to pray. Our church is small and beautiful, and just breathing the air of it makes me feel better. The organist began her playing before I'd finished, and I eased back into the pew and listened with my eyes closed. I don't have much of an ear for music, but I thought I was listening to Handel. The pew creaked as someone sat by me, and I opened my eyes after listening a little longer. Robin was on his knees next to me, wearing a perfectly proper suit and tie. He sat back by me, and began the business of book-marking his hymnal and turning to the proper place in the Book of Common Prayer. When he was arranged to his satisfaction, one of his long, slender hands reached over and patted mine. I turned my hand palm up so he could clasp it, and he gave my fingers a squeeze. His untidy hair was freshly washed and floating around his head in a coppery nimbus, and I averted my face so he couldn't see me smile.

Robin released my hand with another pat, and the processional began. We stood to observe it, and bowed at the pa.s.sage of the cross. I was reminded all over again of how much taller he was than I. As Aubrey, the lector, and the two acolytes disposed themselves at the front of the church, I saw Will Weir, the cameraman, scuttle into the back pew on the other side. He was wearing a sports jacket, a white s.h.i.+rt, and jeans; not standard churchgoing garb in Lawrenceton, but he was a visitor, after all. My mother and her husband had slipped in late, as well.

The sun poured in the windows of the church and I watched dust motes dance in the beams. The ritual unfolded exactly as it ought, and as the congregation knelt and stood in unison, I felt a deep calm wash over me.

Will scuttled out of the church as fast as he'd scuttled in, so he apparently didn't want to meet and greet. Astonis.h.i.+ngly, Robin went through the whole ritual. I gave him every opportunity to detach himself from me, because I was naturally aware that there was going to be speculation. But with the greatest tenacity, Robin stuck to my side and walked me to my car.

"My mother wonders if you'd like to come to dinner tonight," I heard myself saving. Actually, that was true. She'd yanked me aside and ordered me to extend the invitation.

"How would you feel about that?"

I looked up at his small hazel eyes, fringed with rusty lashes. I looked down at my feet. "If you'd like to come, that would be fine, of course."

"Come by and pick me up at the hotel?"

"All right. Five-thirty okay?"

"Sure. Casual dress?"

"Oh, yes. I'll go home and change to pants and a s.h.i.+rt."

"Will you let your hair down?"

"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it," I said, more than a little surprised. I started to ask him why he wanted to know, but reined myself in. I also felt an impulse to ask him if he wanted to come home with me for lunch, and zapped that idea, too. Instead, I gave Robin a small smile and wave, and got in my car to go back to the house.

What an interesting morning it had turned out to be.

Arthur was parked in my driveway when I got back.

"I like the hair," he called.

I sorted through my keys and nodded in reply as I went to the side door. "Come on in," I called, unlocking the door and deactivating the alarm.

Arthur was wearing a suit, and he was clean-shaven, but I was fairly sure he hadn't been at church.

"You're dressed up," I said tentatively.

"I was on the news." He looked embarra.s.sed. "You wouldn't believe how many news people are down at the station."

"I haven't been watching the television. I guess it was everywhere on the news." Arthur nodded. I was standing in the middle of my kitchen, tucking my keys back into my purse, and thinking as hard as I could. "Oh, this is bad. They'll be coming around again."

"Soon as they get directions to your house."

I said a very unladylike word.

Arthur laughed. "You can say that again. You know if it gets bad you can come stay with me."

"I think not," I said, smiling. "Notorious Widow in Cop's Love Shack?"

Arthur took a deep breath. "Listen, Roe, who in that movie crew was especially close to Celia Shaw?"

"Almost anyone would know more about that than I know." I slung the purse onto the counter, slid out of my pumps, and made some fresh coffee. I got a mug out of the cabinet and put it by the coffeepot, and I got out some sugar and milk for Arthur's coffee. Funny, if you'd asked me how he took it, I wouldn't have thought I remembered-but here I was, setting out the things he took.

"I have reasons for asking you."

"I'm sure you do. Well, of course, Robin dated her . . .though there were signs that the relations.h.i.+p was over."

"Like her going to bed with your stepson?"

"Yeah, like that. No, really, there were indications before that."

"Who else?"

"She seemed to be big buddies with Meredith Askew. I'm not sure how two-way that was, but Celia used Meredith to deliver her messages."

"What about other crew members?"

"Will Weir was with her when I ran into them while they were shopping."

Arthur consulted his notes. "He would be the head cameraman. I understand he's more famous in his field that Celia Shaw had gotten to be in hers."

"Well, he has a few years on her."

"Anyone else?"

"When we went out to dinner at Heavenly Barbecue, Mark Chesney went."

"He the a.s.sistant director? The gay one?"

"Right. Well, that is, he's the a.s.sistant director. I don't know about the gay part." Actually, that was a conclusion I'd reached myself. I found that I was unwillingly impressed. There was no telling how many people Arthur had interviewed yesterday. He was definitely on top of this investigation.

"Did you notice anything peculiar about this actress?"

"Peculiar? How so? Mentally?" I'd seldom seen anyone more focused than Celia Shaw.

"Physically."

"Yes, I had noticed some things. She stumbled a lot," I said.

"Stumbled." Arthur looked . . . not exactly excited, but intent.

"Yes, she was a little clumsy on her feet. And once she slapped at the director and looked surprised, like she didn't know she was going to do it."

Arthur looked down at his feet. He didn't want me to see his face.

"So, are you going to explain?" I am as curious as the next person, and this was truly aggravating of Arthur.

"It'll be in the papers," he said, more to himself than to me. He looked up. "No, I just can't. We're trying to keep it quiet as long as we can."

He had done this on purpose, I figured, to punish me for my lack of interest in him.

"Of course," said Arthur, his hard blue eyes fixed on my face, "if you were to b.u.t.ter up the lead detective sufficiently ..."

"Define 'b.u.t.ter up,'" I said, my voice tart. I hoped he didn't mean what I thought he meant.

"A cup of that coffee would be nice."

I flushed, and poured him the coffee. It smelled so good, I decided I'd have more, too.

"You didn't open your paper this morning."

"No, I save the big Sunday paper for the afternoons."

Arthur slipped off the rubber band and unrolled the paper. Celia's murder was the below-the-fold story on the front page. I blinked at the amount of coverage. The picture of Celia was one taken at the Emmys, when she'd been hanging on Robin's arm. She looked fabulous, and very young. Robin looked awfully mature, compared to Celia.

I motioned at a chair at the table, and Arthur sat. I slid into the chair across from him and began reading. The more I read the hotter my cheeks got. There were several references to the age difference between Robin and Celia. There were several references to Barrett. You didn't have to be Miss Marple to read between the lines.

When I'd finished, I couldn't look up at Arthur. This time it was I who didn't want him to read my face. I was wondering who was responsible for the slant of the story. Was it this individual reporter? Was this the way Arthur had read the situation, and had the facts he'd released to the papers been selected because they followed Arthur's reading? Or had this reporter been talking to Barrett?

I was willing to bet on some combination of all these elements. There were details about the evening at Heavenly Barbecue that had "Barrett" stamped all over them, especially the inclusion of my name. It could easily have been left out of the story, and my presence at that awful meal clearly had no bearing on Celia's death-or at least, none that I could fathom. Barrett wanted to cause me discomfort and inconvenience, and he had.

The phone rang while I was thinking, and before I could answer it, Arthur picked it up. I felt rage p.r.i.c.kle at the backs of my eyes while I waited for him to hand over my own telephone to me.

"Sure, she's right here," Arthur was saying, and as he gave me the receiver he got a good look at my face. I don't think he'd quite realized that he was upsetting me, but he sure knew now.

"Roe?" It was Robin.

"Yes."

"Have you . . . are you too busy to talk?"

"No, not at all."

"You sound kind of funny."

"I'm in a mood," I said, with self-control.

"Yes, I can tell. With me?"

"Oh, no."

"Have you read the paper?"

"Yes. It was just brought to my attention."

"Do you . . . are we still on for tonight?"

"Definitely."

"Good." He sounded flatteringly relieved. "This may be hard to arrange, because I'm besieged here at the motel."

"Let me think. I'll call you back."

He gave me his room number, which he'd forgotten to do at the church, and I said good-bye. I hung up and swung around to face Arthur.

"Don't answer the telephone in my home."

"I apologize. I was out of line. It was a reflex. I should have thought."

"Now, I need you to go. I have things I have to do this afternoon." I wondered what I would do if Arthur wouldn't leave, but I pushed that thought down into a corner as hard as I could. It wouldn't do to sound the least uncertain.

"All right," he said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you." Now he was getting all stiff and huffy. Screw it. No more Ms. Nice Widow.

I stared at him, unrelenting, until he stuffed his pad back into his pocket and stomped out. I set the alarm behind him. I watched from the window as he drove away. Again, I felt the isolation of this house. It was definitely time to move.

I wondered, as I turned away from the window, what big secret he had been going to tell me. I was proud of myself for not softening, but at the same time it was irritating to be left hanging that way.

As Robin and I had eventually arranged, I picked up a key at the desk and then pulled around to the back of the motel about two hours before my mother's dinner. We'd allowed plenty of time in case something went wrong.

Though they weren't in the front, where the office was, there were lots of reporters camped out in the side parking lot of the motel, and some television news vans. It had been easy for them to find out where the movie crew was staying. The men and women of the media were milling around on the pavement. Some of them had brought deck chairs, and some of them were playing cards.

I shook my head. I would not make a living as a reporter for any amount of money. No one could pay me enough to sit in a motel parking lot just in case someone should stick his head out of a door long enough to be photographed or interviewed.

I still had my hair up and I was wearing dark gla.s.ses, a rudimentary camouflage move. I scooted up the stairs to a room on the second floor, not even glancing out over the railing to see if I was being observed. I had noticed Shelby's car parked two slots down, and that was one big relief. Shelby had rented the room I'd just entered under his own name, and left the key at the desk for me.

I called up to Robin's room. Shelby answered.

"He's ready," Shelby said when he recognized my voice. He sounded amused.

"Okay. The door's unlocked."

Shelby hung up; he was a man of few words.