The Next To Die Part 7

"No, I can't," Dayle said. "I understand how you must feel, but if you keep quiet about the threats on Tony's life, the people who killed him could go on killing."

"No, I'm sorry, I can't help you," he said, his voice shaky. "The cops won't believe me unless I tell them about Tony and me. And I'm not doing that, no way."

Dayle said nothing. Brian was right. Admitting his s.e.xual fling with Tony Katz was an unavoidable part of the package. And she couldn't guarantee anonymity for him. Dayle sighed. "Will you at least think about it, Brian?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Sutton," he whispered. Then he hung up.

"I'm Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie."

"Hi, Elsie!" the studio audience replied in unison.

Elsie Marshall blew them a kiss. Today, she wore a purple suit, which showed off a lavender rinse in her hair. Elsie sat on the edge of the desk, the framed photo of Ricky beside her. "Well, isn't it a shame what Leigh Simone did to herself?" she asked her subjects in the studio seats. They all murmured in agreement.

"I'll admit, Leigh Simone was never one of Ricky's and my favorites. But that doesn't mean I'm not praying for her. It's sad, it really is, to see how certain people throw their lives away. Now, the way I understand it, Leigh Simone was at this wild party full of gays and lesbians like herself..."

Elsie hesitated, then frowned. "Gay. Remember when that used to be a perfectly good word? I certainly do."

She shrugged. "I'm just a housewife, and I don't know much about this crowd with their 'lifestyles' of indiscriminate s.e.x and drugs. But I understand this party was connected to some benefit concert promoting special rights for h.o.m.os.e.xuals." Elsie frowned. "What do you think of these people who want special treatment, because they're h.o.m.os.e.xual? I'm sure my son, Drew, has a few things to say about that." She glanced stage right. "Drew?"

Drew Marshall strutted onto the set, wearing a clingy gray crew-neck jersey and pleated black trousers. This was one of the Best Dressed Man's casual days, and a chance to show off his well-toned body-usually hidden under designer suits. Drew had wavy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and cheekbones the camera loved. He seemed like the perfect, All-American hunk-hero. Never mind the rumors that a number of women had been paid off to keep quiet about their furtive one-night stands with the eligible bachelor. The stories-though unsubstantiated-went that Drew's cruelty in bed was matched only by his inadequacies. And the wholesome hunk, so often photographed s.h.i.+rtless while playing football or soccer, was said to be hot-tempered and arrogant on the field; "an incredible a.s.shole," according to several former cla.s.smates at Harvard.

The reports never seemed to hurt Drew's popularity on the show. He always came across as a perfect gentleman. He stepped up to his mother's side and put an arm around her.

"Somebody forget to wear a tie today?" Elsie joked.

"Oh, c'mon, Mom," he said, blus.h.i.+ng. "Give me a break."

The studio audience seemed to laugh on cue.

"Well, did you hear what I was saying?"

"I sure did." Drew nodded. "Y'know, Mom, I have to admit, I liked Leigh Simone's music. I have a couple of her alb.u.ms."

Elsie rolled her eyes. The studio audience responded with a mild t.i.ttering. Elsie moved behind her desk, and Drew sat down in his chair.

"From what I read," Drew continued, "Leigh Simone was into drugs and had some deep problems having to do with her choice of lifestyle."

"Yes, indeed," Elsie said. "If you were listening to your mother instead of combing your hair backstage, you'd have heard what I said about that rally in Portland for h.o.m.os.e.xuals wanting special rights."

"I heard you, Mom," Drew said. He suddenly looked serious. "You know, unfortunate people like Leigh Simone-who promote the h.o.m.os.e.xual agenda and campaign to restrict our const.i.tutional rights to bear arms-have no regard for American family values. We need to protect our homes, our families, and our impressionable youth. These h.o.m.os.e.xuals who want to take away our guns and prey on our children, they pose a direct threat to the American family...."

Police had to control the mob of reporters and fans gathered outside the gated community of Malibu Estates. A parade of limos, Mercedeses, and BMWs slowly pa.s.sed through the guarded entry. Each one carried a film or recording star. None of those famous people gave autographs or talked to reporters. They stayed in their cars-until the guard waved them through to the private cul-de-sac. Photographers still managed to take their pictures, while reporters wrote down what they were wearing and who they were with.

It may as well have been a star-studded film premiere-instead of the site for a memorial service.

Leigh's will requested a quick cremation and no funeral. Her producer, record mogul Morley Denton, invited a hundred of Leigh's friends to his beach-front mansion to "celebrate the life" of the late pop diva. Dayle was on the guest list. Morley had also invited some press agents and publicists. In addition to the crowd outside the gate, unwelcome tabloid helicopters hovered over Morley's house. Dayle's publicist had alerted the media that Dayle was attending the memorial with her current leading man, John McDunn.

One of the busiest actors in Hollywood, John had s.n.a.t.c.hed up a Best Supporting Oscar three years before. Every one of his forty-six fast-living, hard-drinking years showed on his still-handsome face. Recently divorced, John costarred with Dayle in her new movie. Their steamy love scenes together had already generated some hot prerelease publicity for the film.

In fact, John had been Dayle's relations.h.i.+p number eight during the finalization of his divorce. She went into the affair knowing he had a roving eye. The romance was short-lived, but they remained friends.

John was the solution to Dayle's problems. He had no objections to a few publicity dates with her. They looked so right together, it silenced a lot of the whispered rumors about Dayle and Leigh.

Dayle clung onto John's arm as they stepped into the front hallway-an airy, marble atrium with a waterfall along one wall. She recognized a couple of press agents, staking out the arriving guests. They sized up John and her, then unabashedly scribbled in their notebooks.

"I really appreciate this, Johnny," she said under her breath. "I know there are a thousand other places you'd rather be right now."

John shrugged. "The Lakers game, in bed with you..."

Dayle nudged him. "Not anymore, honey. But thanks just the same."

The helicopters buzzing overhead had driven scores of guests from the terrace into the house. They gathered in Morley's huge living room, with its panoramic ocean view. Everyone still seemed in shock over Leigh's untimely death-and the news about her "drug problem." One of Leigh's noncelebrity friends confided in Dayle that she refused to believe any of the stories. "And by the way, Dayle," she said. "You should know, Leigh was so excited about meeting you. Before her Portland trip, that's all she talked about."

Dayle felt cheated of a friend.

She spotted Estelle Collier by the hors d'oeuvres table. In only six days, Estelle had gone from celebrity-a.s.sistant celebrity-a.s.sistant to to celebrity celebrity. She knew Leigh better than anyone. Agents, publishers, and TV producers were tripping over each other for the rights to Estelle's story. She'd already appeared on several tabloid TV news shows, painting her dead employer as a pathetic, drug-dependent lesbian with a string of nameless, faceless lovers.

How Estelle could face Leigh's friends now was beyond comprehension. She looked like a white-trash lottery winner: too much makeup, too much jewelry, and a tacky purple dress that was too tight for her chubby figure. She loaded up her plate with food, and popped a cheese puff in her mouth.

Patting John's shoulder, Dayle excused herself and started across the room toward Estelle. Leigh's former a.s.sistant saw her coming. She put down her plate and started to turn away. "Estelle, we need to talk," Dayle said.

Estelle swiveled around with a professionally perky smile. "Why, h.e.l.lo, Dayle. I've been meaning to return your calls-"

"Tell me what's going on," Dayle said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Why did you lie to the police about Leigh?"

Estelle nervously glanced around at the other guests. Frowning, she shook her head at Dayle. "I don't have to talk to you," she said.

"You didn't have to talk to the tabloids either, but that didn't stop you."

Estelle's eyes narrowed. "Be grateful I've left you out of it, Dayle. Take my advice and stay out of it."

"Leigh wasn't gay," Dayle whispered. "She didn't take drugs. And she didn't commit suicide. She trusted you. How can you betray her like this?"

"Let's drop it, okay?" Estelle whispered tensely. "You have no idea what you're getting into. Forget about it. Nothing can bring her back."

Dayle numbly gazed at her. "You know who killed her, don't you?"

"Please, leave me alone."

Dayle took hold of her arm. "Let's go someplace where we can talk. I want to help. If someone is threatening you-and making you tell these lies-"

"Please!" Estelle wrenched free from her grasp. She glanced around. They had an audience. Estelle cleared her throat. "I know how fond you were of Leigh," she said calmly. "We all were. There's nothing we could have done. She had so many problems. We mustn't blame ourselves." Estelle slowly shook her head. "Don't linger on it, Dayle. Let it go."

Seven.

Twelve laps around her apartment building's rooftop track equaled a mile. Dayle was alone up there, twenty-one stories above the street. The heavy smog tonight made for a gorgeous sunset: billowing clouds of vibrant pink, orange, and crimson. But the smog also took its toll on Dayle's lung power. Eighteen laps, and already she was exhausted.

She took to the track whenever she was particularly frazzled, lonely, or blue; which meant she was in d.a.m.n good physical shape lately. She'd hired a private detective agency, Brock Investigations, to check on Estelle Collier. Dayle figured Estelle was being blackmailed or threatened. There had to be some explanation for her lies. John McDunn had recommended the agency. He swore they were good, because his second wife used the sons of b.i.t.c.hes to catch him cheating-and he'd been so careful. Dayle had spoken with Amos Brock three days ago. He'd a.s.signed the case to his brother, Nick, who was supposed to have some results for her soon.

In the meantime, she felt uncertain and all alone with her theories about the deaths of Leigh, Tony, and his friend. h.e.l.l, she felt all alone, period. Though they never had a chance to become friends, Dayle felt an inexplicable void in the wake of Leigh's "suicide."

Last night, she'd started to call Dennis at home-just to chat. But she hung up before she finished dialing. He wasn't on the clock. She had no right to bother him at home simply because she was lonely. Besides, Dennis had met someone, and supposedly he was in love. The way he kept talking about her-Laura this, Laura that-was rather nauseating. Dayle hated to admit it, but she was a little jealous. Dennis had found a life outside his job, he'd found someone more important to him than Dayle Sutton.

She wondered what people would say if she died the same way as Leigh had. Would her memory be marred by rumors and innuendo? Who knew her well enough to rush to her defense? She had no real intimate friends. All she had was her public image.

They'd probably rehash the lesbian rumors. Some enterprising tabloid reporter might even dig up evidence of the one time she'd "experimented" with another woman. It had happened almost fourteen years ago, the first of her two indiscretions while married to Jeremy. She was starring in a satire called Positively Revolting Positively Revolting, about antiwar demonstrators in the sixties. The movie was shot in Mexico with a very hip, young cast and crew. Dayle often felt as if she was the only person on the production who wasn't high on something half the time. One night, during a weekend beach party, she indulged in too many margueritas. Everyone went skinny-dipping, and soon, two-somes and threesomes were ducking into the bushes or cars to have s.e.x. Dayle wound up on a cheesy yacht that belonged to a friend of Cindy something. She didn't know what Cindy had to do with the movie, but she was pretty, with long, curly red hair, blue eyes, and freckles all over her slender body. Cindy also had a little cartoon of Winnie the Pooh tattooed on her a.s.s-along with the words, BEAR BOTTOM BEAR BOTTOM.

The next morning, Dayle felt so sick and hungover as she crawled out of the bunk. She found her damp, sandy clothes amid beer cans and food wrappers on the cabin floor. Pulling on her panties, she squinted out the porthole and was relieved to see that they were docked at a pier with a couple of other boats, and not drifting somewhere in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. But her hopes for a clean getaway were dashed when Cindy woke up and said something about going out for pancakes.

Dayle apologized and said she had to leave. Her memory of the night before was vague. She'd gone into the water with the others, but kept on her panties. Cindy had stripped all the way to nothing. Several of the guys were after her, but Cindy shot each one down, and eventually she swam to Dayle.

Having been married two years to a gay man, Dayle was curious about same-gender s.e.x-and maybe just a tad interested in evening the score on her wandering spouse. She'd felt a rush of excitement sneaking away with Cindy. But by the time they began kissing and touching each other, it seemed silly. Dayle had to pretend she was someone else in order to overcome the awkwardness. The whole experience was like another acting a.s.signment. She didn't enjoy it very much.

And she really didn't want to have pancakes with Cindy. Despite her urgency to get the h.e.l.l out of there, Dayle tried to let Cindy down easy. She told her that the previous evening's activities had been a fluke, a drunken experiment. She couldn't get dressed fast enough. "Considering this kind of thing isn't my bag," she heard herself say. "I still had fun with you...."

Cindy stared at her sleepily. Puffing away on a Newport, she lay naked in the bunk, an ashtray balanced on her stomach. "Bulls.h.i.+t," she said finally. "This is is your bag. You're into girls. That's what I heard on the set. You dig girls, your old man is into guys, and the two of you got married to please the Hollywood establishment." your bag. You're into girls. That's what I heard on the set. You dig girls, your old man is into guys, and the two of you got married to please the Hollywood establishment."

Dayle didn't remember how long she stuck around trying to convince Cindy that she was wrong. But she vividly recalled the wavering boat, and feeling so sick. When she finally climbed up to the deck, she braced herself against a light post by the dock, and succ.u.mbed to the dry heaves.

The half-true rumors about her "marriage of convenience" periodically haunted Dayle and Jeremy during the eight years they were together. But the talk never grew above a whisper, and it stayed within the Hollywood community. Ironically, it took Dayle's affair with Simon Peck-along with the divorce, and Jeremy's subsequent remarriage-for the gossip to die down about both of them. Ending in all that mess, it didn't seem so much like a marriage of convenience anymore.

Of course, the tales about Dayle's lesbian leanings were resurrected after the release of Survival Instincts Survival Instincts. And just as the gossip started subsiding, Leigh's "suicide" ignited all sorts of new speculation. What was Dayle's role during Leigh's last hours that night at the Portland hotel? Had a lover's quarrel provoked Leigh's overdose?

The publicity dates with John McDunn had helped take some of the heat off. The former lovers looked so right together, their claim that they were "just good friends" seemed like a smoke screen for some torrid affair. More damage control came from Dayle's publicist, who concocted a story about the meeting with Leigh on that fateful night. According to the press release, the two women had gotten together to discuss Leigh recording the theme song for Dayle's new movie. A lot of people bought the story. In fact, several recording artists expressed interest in taking over the vocal a.s.signment.

Dayle had to look out for her reputation. Nevertheless, the more she thought about having to take these steps in the wake of Leigh's death, the less she liked herself.

She ran harder, pouring it on until she was sprinting around that rooftop track. Her lungs burned, and beads of sweat flew off her forehead.

When she'd started her laps a half hour ago, Dayle had been alone up there. The track encircled a gla.s.s-enclosed pool area-complete with lounge chairs, umbrella tables, blooming plants, and potted trees. There were also rest rooms and a mini-gym around the corner by the stairwell, on the other side of the elevator. The maintenance crew kept this semiprivate paradise spotlessly clean. Still, the place always smelled like chlorine and wet socks.

No one was using the pool right now. As dusk gave way to night, the inside lights-set on a timer-went on. Dayle tallied her twenty-eighth lap and began to slow down. Pa.s.sing by the vestibule for the elevators, she caught a glimpse of someone on the other side of the gla.s.s door. He'd been standing there, watching her-a short, pale, mustached man in an aviator jacket. Despite the darkness, he wore sungla.s.ses. Dayle didn't recognize him as one of her neighbors in the building.

Now that she'd spotted him, the stocky little man suddenly turned away and tried to look interested in the pool area. It wasn't a very convincing show. He opened the other door and stepped into the tropical atrium, but he kept sneaking these furtive glaces at her.

Dayle peered back over her shoulder at him. She veered along a bend in the track, and ran a half lap on the other side of the building. Taking another curve, she saw him again-still in the pool area. He hadn't strayed far from the vestibule door. He seemed to be staking out the elevators.

The distant blare of a car horn made her aware of the traffic several stories below-just on the other side of the chest-high railing. The wind kicked up a little, and Dayle suddenly felt cold. The sweat on her forehead turned clammy.

Warily, she watched him move back into the vestibule. She could tell that behind those sungla.s.ses, the creepy man was staring at her. She must have been frowning at him, because he suddenly turned again, and reached for the elevator b.u.t.ton. But he didn't actually press it, his thumb missed the b.u.t.ton by an inch. The little arrow light didn't go on. Almost too casually, he glanced back at her again. He wasn't going anywhere. He was waiting for her.

Dayle couldn't quite catch her breath-even as she slowed down to a trot. Her skin felt p.r.i.c.kly.

She kept her eyes trained on him-until she rounded another curve in the track. She jogged past the mini-gym, the rest rooms, and a stairwell on the other side of the gla.s.s. At the next bend, there was a door to the pool area. She hoped to duck inside and make it to the stairs before he saw her.

Approaching the pool entry, Dayle took a more deliberate stride. She didn't want to burst through the door and call attention to her flight. She couldn't let him know she was scared. Like a dog scenting her fear, he'd give chase if she ran. She pulled open the door and walked at a brisk clip toward the stairwell. The humid, chlorine-stagnant air hit her, but she didn't slow down. Navigating around the pool, she spied him-still by the elevators. He was talking on a cell phone. Dayle couldn't tell if he'd noticed her yet.

Then, as she neared the stairs, Dayle caught a glimpse of the door to the vestibule swinging open. She didn't look back. She heard his footsteps on the tiled floor-and him whispering some kind of urgent directions into his portable phone.

Dayle ducked into the stairwell and hurried down a few steps before she suddenly froze. She gaped over the banister. Two flights below, a figure pulled back from the stair railing and retreated into the shadows-along the cement wall.

Someone else was waiting for her.

For a second, Dayle was paralyzed. She turned and raced back up the stairs. She didn't see the stubby man with the sungla.s.ses. She didn't even stop to look for him as she emerged from the stairwell. Everything was a blur. She found the ladies' room door, pushed her way inside, then locked it.

Catching her breath, Dayle leaned against the door. She couldn't stop trembling. She was covered with perspiration, and her jogging-wear clung to her body. She listened to the footsteps outside-then whispering. It sounded as though one of them said, "She's in there."

Dayle backed away from the door-toward the toilet stalls. One of the men outside began tugging and wrenching at the k.n.o.b over and over-to no avail. Finally, a thin file slipped through the crack by the lock, and it started moving up and down.

Dayle frantically glanced around the lavatory, looking for anything she might use to defend herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move in the reflection of the mirror.

Gasping, she spun around. A shadow floated across the tiled floor-over by the corner stall. Was someone hiding in there? Did they have a third man working with them?

Dayle tried to scream, but no sound came out. Instead, the scream came from outside-from the pool area. It was the sound of a little girl. Dayle heard a woman and man talking, then water splas.h.i.+ng.

Dazed, she stared at the door. The file wasn't there anymore. She didn't hear their whispered voices. They'd gone.

Dayle glanced back at that corner stall, then unlocked the rest room door and pushed it open. She peered out at the five people who had unwittingly saved her. Two children were splas.h.i.+ng each other in the shallow end of the pool, while three adults-in their street clothes-settled down at an umbrella table. It looked like a young couple with a friend-one of Dayle's neighbors, probably an uncle to those kids.

She still didn't feel safe. Dayle stole one more glance at that stall in the corner. If someone was in there, he'd hidden himself well. And she wasn't going to start looking for him.

Dayle hurried out of the rest room.

"Then what happened?" Lieutenant Linn asked.

"I asked my neighbor over by the pool if he could escort me back to my apartment." Dayle spoke in a whisper. She glanced around the restaurant for a second, then sighed. "I told him that a reporter had somehow gotten into the building, and he was bothering me. Anyway, my neighbor rode down in the elevator with me, then walked me to my door."

Despite the noisy crowd at Denny's this Halloween morning, Dayle was certain someone would hear her. Already, a couple of loud, overly friendly women had come up to the table and asked for her autograph. They kept shrieking and laughing, like contestants on The Price Is Right The Price Is Right. The women had left a few minutes ago, but people were still staring.

When Dayle had called her last night, Lieutenant Linn claimed that this particular Denny's was where she had all her breakfast meetings. A cardboard and tissue jack-o'-lantern centerpiece decorated their window table. The waitress, an older woman with gla.s.ses and a pink rinse in her hair, had seemed far too busy to notice that the order for dry toast and orange juice came from a bona fide movie star. Lieutenant Linn had ordered a Grand Slam.