The Next to Die Page 6

  Beverly Hills’ finest collected the evidence and called on Leslie Benita Stoddard. But Libby had left for Maui three days before. Avery pressured the police to contact authorities in Maui. When questioned, Libby claimed to have impulsively given the clothes—along with the autographed photo—to a couple of punk boys outside a thrift shop. They’d been asking people for spare change. She’d told them the clothes “weren’t good enough” for Avery Cooper. That was her only contact with the teenagers. She said that except for leaving an angry message a week ago on Avery’s answering machine (which—golly, gee—she now regretted), she hadn’t tried to contact him.

  Avery didn’t believe a word. He’d hoped Libby’s recent brush with the law in Maui had convinced her to back off. But now one of her creeps was on the phone harassing Joanne and him at seven-forty in the morning.

  “Avery!” Joanne yelled from upstairs. “Oh, Jesus…Avery!”

  He ran to the foot of the stairs. Joanne leaned over the upper railing. Her hair was a mess, and tears streamed down her face. Naked, she clutched the robe in front of her.

  Avery raced up the steps to her. “What is it?” he asked, out of breath.

  “In our bedroom—” She let out a gasp, then shook away a small black ant that had been crawling on her arm. Joanne shuddered and started swatting at her hair, trying to flick away bugs that may or may not have been nesting there. “Your sweater drawer,” she cried, trembling. “Someone broke into the house. They’ve been in our bedroom….”

  Avery took hold of her arms. “What?”

  Joanne cringed and backed away from him. “They left something in your sweater drawer.” She took a deep breath, then pointed to the bedroom. “I think it’s from your friend—what’s her name, Libby. Take a look.”

  Stepping over the pillow on the floor, Avery glanced down at four or five ants scurrying along the wheat-colored carpet. They were moving toward his dresser, where their numbers grew. Just minutes ago, he hadn’t noticed a single insect in the room. But now an army of ants crawled up the front of his cherry-stained dresser—all massing on the open bottom drawer.

  Avery felt something tickle the top of his bare foot, and he swatted an ant away. Peering down into the drawer, he found what had attracted the swarm of black, crawling invaders. On top of his Irish knit sweater, someone had left a toy gun and a small baby doll—the kind usually dressed in a little bonnet and frock. But this doll had been stripped of its clothes, and swaddled in bloody, butcher-shop entrails. As the insects honed in on the rotting meat, they seemed to be devouring that cherub-faced toy baby.

  With the police on their way, Avery and Joanne quickly got dressed. He’d managed to calm her down. He’d also taken care of the ant problem, using up a near-empty can of Raid. The smell of bug repellent drifted downstairs, where they now searched the house for anything that might have been stolen. None of Joanne’s jewelry was missing, and all their silverware remained intact. Avery checked the shelves in the living room. Every item was still in place.

  “I think you’re right,” he called to Joanne. “Libby must be behind this. Nothing’s missing. She’s rich. She doesn’t want to steal anything, she just wants to harass us. She must have had one of her punks break in and plant that—that thing. She was always sending me sweaters. Not too subtle leaving it in my sweater drawer.”

  He couldn’t stop wondering how the hell they’d made it past the security system. “Joanne?” he called. “Did you go out yesterday?”

  “We met with Dr. Nathan, remember?” she called back to him. Her voice was still a little shaky.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” he muttered. They’d had an appointment with their fertility specialist. “Did you set the alarm before you left the house?”

  “No, and I’m sorry, okay?” she called back, exasperated. “I’m never home long enough to memorize the stupid code.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Ignore it,” he yelled. “It’s probably one of Libby’s boys again.” He could hear the answering machine in his study.

  “…leave a message after the beep,” the recording said. Then his own voice came on the phone: “Hey, honey…God, look at you. You’re so sexy…”

  He started toward the study. Joanne met him in the hallway. “Avery? What’s going on?”

  In the study his recorded voice kept talking over her: “I’m so hard. See what you’re doing to me? Come here…”

  Joanne clutched his arm. “What is that?” Tears came to her eyes as she listened to the sound of her own laughter.

  “Oh, you wicked, wicked girl,” he said on the recording.

  “Jesus, they have our videotape,” Avery murmured.

  He hurried upstairs to the bedroom, still stinking of bug repellent. He headed toward the dresser, where Libby’s errand boy had left that grisly calling card. A few surviving ants crawled amid the dead.

  Avery could hear the police siren drawing near. He pulled open the drawer second to the top. He frantically dug through the underwear. T-shirts and shorts fell to the floor as he searched in vain for the videotape.

  “Oh, God, no,” he muttered.

  The tape of Joanne and him making love was gone.

  Five

  “Thank you for your patience this morning,” the flight attendant announced. “As soon as we’ve reached cruising altitude, we will begin our beverage service….”

  The plane had been delayed two hours. A limo had whisked Dayle to the airport at 6:30 A.M., only so she could wait and wait. She spent the time studying her script and reviewing today’s scenes to the point of overkill. From the VIP Lounge, she was the last person to board the plane; and thanks to first class seating, she’d be the first to leave.

  Her head tipped back and eyes closed, Dayle didn’t dare look at the damn script again. Nor did she feel like chatting with the boring businessman in the aisle seat, who unfortunately recognized her. If she feigned sleep, the guy might leave her alone, and maybe she’d even drift off for a while.

  But she kept replaying in her head that bizarre conversation with the room service waiter. She remembered what he’d said about Tony Katz receiving death threats: He told me these people were calling him at home, saying they were gonna kill him and expose him as being gay….

  Amid all the hate mail pouring in after Dayle had made Survival Instincts, one note stood out. It wasn’t among her fan letters—or even in the mailbox at her apartment. She found this one inside her car.

  They’d been shooting at the studio into the early evening, and it was dark when Dayle went to her green BMW, parked in its spot outside the soundstage. She unlocked the door. The interior light went on, and she saw the piece of paper taped to the steering wheel. The note was printed up by a computer. What it said made her heart stop: WHEN DAYLE SUTTON IS DEAD, EVERYONE WILL KNOW THAT SHE WAS A LESBIAN DEGENERATE, AND THUS YOU WILL DIE.

  She didn’t dare turn the key in the ignition. A police bomb squad came to inspect the car, but found nothing. Dayle had a couple of officers escort her home that night. It remained a mystery how someone could have snuck past studio security and broken into her locked car.

  Dayle decided to start working her chauffeur full time, and had him doubling as her bodyguard. After a couple of weeks, the Survival Instincts backlash died down, and she forgot about that note. She had enough on her mind with career worries. Her box-office clout was slipping.

  The good film roles were going to younger actresses. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but it still peeved her that—in her late thirties—she was considered by the moneymen as too old to play the romantic lead opposite Harrison Ford in one project—and Robert Redford in another vehicle.

  She couldn’t lure the big-name leading men for films made by her own production company. The guys wanted top billing and too much money. So her recent on-screen lovers were mostly second-echelon stars—all fine actors, but somehow lacking the charisma for superstardom. If moviegoers didn’t see much chemistry between Dayle and her last few leading men, that
was why.

  Her leading men off screen weren’t much better. In fact, for someone selected six times by People magazine as one of The 50 Most Beautiful People, her love life was pretty abysmal. It seemed predestined.

  She’d gone to a numerologist once—on a dare, an old Frenchwoman named Rene, who also did tarot readings. Rene must have dug up a few old magazine articles about her, because she accurately pegged Dayle as being an only child from a wealthy family. Perhaps she expected Dayle to be astonished when she pointed to the number nine on a chart, and declared in her thick accent: Dis is how old you are when your father leaves you.

  Dayle nodded. Her parents’ divorce was mentioned in that Vanity Fair cover story a while back. The article covered practically everything Rene was “unearthing”: the years at a private boarding school, the need to escape through movies and books, the desire to pretend she was someone else that led to an interest in theater. You do not trust many people, Rene went on. People like you, but you push dem away. You don’t haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build. You are independent…cautious. You trust only yourself. You will not give up control. The relations in love—Rene shook her head and sighed. Dey are not so good. Maybe dis is because you need control? Or perhaps because of your caution?

  Dayle didn’t remember Rene saying anything in particular that suddenly won her over. And maybe the old medium was merely conjecturing what might concern most single career women in their late thirties when she talked about Dayle’s fear of growing old alone, her ticking biological clock, and the whole this-is-your-last-chance business. But by the time Rene started flipping over the various tarot cards, Dayle was busy taking notes.

  Her love cards always looked so bleak: a man lying facedown with dozens of spears in his back; a sword piercing a heart; a couple of paupers in the snow outside a locked castle. She and Rene finally began laughing over the utter hopelessness of it all.

  Old Rene’s cards didn’t lie. Dayle felt cursed. The love of her life was Jeremy Caughlin, a brilliant young movie director, responsible for igniting her career. She was twenty-four and still a relative unknown when he picked her to star in The Ivory Collar, the film version of her off-Broadway hit. While shooting on location in Maine, Jeremy became Dayle’s companion and confidant. He was a better friend than lover, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  They were a great-looking couple, favorites of the press, photographed wherever they went. Her future with Jeremy looked very promising indeed.

  Jeremy told her that he was gay a few months before they got married. Dayle was smart enough to know that she couldn’t change him, but Jeremy could change her—and make her into a major star. He was also a hell of a nice guy, her best friend, and he needed a wife for public appearances. He was very discreet with his boyfriends, while Dayle kept busy with her career. In seven years, she strayed only twice, the second time being the marriage breaker. Her affair with leading man Simon Peck made the tabloids. Jeremy was the one who filed for divorce.

  Maybe she was looking for a way out with Simon Peck. He was sexy, yes, but she never really loved him. His real name was Simon Piccardo, and he admitted to stealing Gregory Peck’s last name. That wasn’t all he stole. Every time Dayle went to a party with Simon, he’d come back home with whatever item tickled his fancy at the host’s house: a letter opener, paperweight, candy dish, or a CD. It was the same routine whenever they went shopping together. The studio had even established an understanding with various stores on Rodeo Drive that they would cover the cost of any items Simon stole. The store clerks merely had to keep tabs of the missing merchandise. Despite these precautions, Dayle still had to bail Simon out of jail twice. After the third arrest, she left him.

  It was more or less the same scenario with her other show business boyfriends. She had a low tolerance level for their secret dysfunctions: the cokehead, the sex addict, the alcoholic, and the workaholic.

  None of the men in Dayle’s life really knew her very well—except maybe Jeremy. He’d remarried—another one of his leading ladies. As far as Dayle knew, he was still seeing his boyfriends on the side. His career had peaked during his time with Dayle. He lived on the East Coast now, and directed the occasional TV movie. They still kept in touch—holidays and birthdays mostly.

  For lack of any competition, Dayle continued to think of Jeremy as one of her best buddies. Old Rene had called it pretty accurately: You don’t haff many close friends. I see walls dat you build….

  The people who really knew her best were Bonny and Dennis. She was thinking about that last night, when Leigh Simone mentioned, “My best friend is my assistant, Estelle. And I pay her salary.” Leigh said it was the same way with her band and backup singers—to a lesser degree. No matter how close she felt to them, they were still her employees. “Oh, the dilemma of being a diva!” she’d declared—before bursting into laughter.

  Dayle kept her eyes closed as the plane encountered a little turbulence. Nothing severe. She smiled at the thought of Leigh Simone, and her offer of friendship. Here was someone very much like herself. How silly of her to worry about what people might think.

  She opened her eyes. The boring businessman in the aisle seat didn’t wait a beat before starting in: “The flight attendant came by for your drink order, but you were asleep. I ordered a Bloody Mary. What the heck, it’s free. My wife’s not going to believe I sat next to a movie star—”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Sutton,” the flight attendant interrupted, God bless him. “May I get you something to drink?”

  Dayle smiled gratefully. “Yes, may I have a Diet Coke please?”

  “I’d think a big superstar would order champagne and caviar,” the man beside her remarked.

  “I have a long day ahead,” Dayle explained patiently. She glanced at her wristwatch, then reached for the air phone. “You’ve been very nice to let me sleep, thanks.” She started dialing, then turned her shoulder to him.

  “Oh, well, no problem,” she heard him reply.

  Dennis answered on the third ring. “Dennis Walsh speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s me. I’m calling from the plane, which was delayed two hours. So—favor number one, let them know on the set that I’ll be late. Favor two, call your buddy, Estelle, and see if you—”

  “Estelle?”

  “Leigh Simone’s assistant, Estelle. Between you and her, maybe you can figure out some time when Leigh and I can get together this week. I figure—”

  “Jesus, you don’t know,” he interrupted in a whisper.

  “Know what?”

  “I thought you sounded too damn cheerful.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s bad news, Dayle. Um…Leigh’s dead.”

  Dayle told herself that she didn’t hear him right.

  But Dennis had confirmed it through a friend at Associated Press. Leigh had died from an apparent drug overdose in a rest room at the Imperial Hotel. “More bad news,” Dennis went on. “Someone on the plane ID’d you and called somebody else. Long story short, you’ll have a capacity crowd waiting for you at the gate—including our friends from the press.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Dayle muttered, rubbing her forehead.

  “I’ll get some extra security over to the airport for you.”

  “Thanks, Dennis,” she said, her voice quivering. “Better have my lawyer there too. And for God’s sake, see if you can get any more information about what happened to Leigh.”

  Camera flashes went off as Dayle emerged from the jet-way. Photographers elbowed and shoved each other for a good shot. Reporters screamed questions at her: What was her reaction when she heard about Leigh Simone’s death? How well did she know Leigh? Did Leigh seem depressed last night? Did she know Leigh was taking drugs?

  Dayle kept her gaze fixed directly ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. The extra security people controlled the crowd at the gate. Hank, her driver and part-time bodyguard, held the mob at bay with an intimidating look. A big guy with a blond crew cut, Hank was fifty-t
hree. Without his glasses, he could have passed for an Aryan version of Oddjob, the deadly henchman in Goldfinger. In reality, Hank was a pussycat.

  “Dayle, don’t you have any comment about Leigh?”

  On an impulse, she stepped up to the nearest microphone. “I don’t believe for one minute that Leigh Simone took her own life,” she announced. “Leigh didn’t use drugs. When I saw her late last night, she was doing just great. I hope the police thoroughly investigate Leigh’s death, because this overdose was not self-inflicted.”

  “Ms. Sutton are you saying Leigh Simone was murdered?” one reporter asked. Then about a dozen others yelled out questions.

  “I have no further comment,” Dayle said.

  “Thank God!” It was her lawyer, Ross Durlocker, who came to Dayle’s side just as she turned away from the microphone. Balding and middle-aged, Ross compensated for his bland looks with frequent tanning sessions, eighty-dollar haircuts, and expensive designer suits. He hadn’t come alone. Behind him were three men in not-so-expensive suits, who just had to be police. Neither Ross nor the plainclothesmen seemed too happy with her. “Dayle, sweetheart,” Ross whispered. “The detectives here would like to talk to you before you say anything else to the media.”

  Dayle threw him a strained smile, then nodded. Hank went to claim her bags. The policemen led Dayle and her lawyer through the crowd, into an elevator that had a sign posted on the doors: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. They went up to the third floor, then followed the cops down the corridor to a narrow, windowless conference room with a long oak table and a dozen chairs. Blown-up aerial photos of the airport decorated the walls.

  A thin, middle-aged Asian woman sat near the end of the table. She looked haggard. Her red jacket and skirt ensemble were slightly wrinkled. She gave Dayle and Ross a weary nod as she flipped open a steno pad.