Dying to Have Her

  He’d already formed his own company. And he told people about it—on the Q.T., of course. It was tremendously amusing. He had people here all the time now, performing for him.

  It was amazing what people would do if they thought it would get them a part in a movie. Sick, surely, some of the executives at his company would think. But he really didn’t care anymore. He was just about ready to quit anyway.

  Doors throughout the house were already closed. What some of his high-flying guests didn’t know about were the cameras throughout the place. He got some really great stuff on film. Married studio executives with girls younger than their daughters. Sports figures, writers—and a few big-name stars. Maybe he’d write a book one day about the corruptible. And maybe even those who couldn’t be corrupted or compromised. They were actually more interesting. They presented a challenge.

  He excused himself from a pretty young girl who had stopped him, and slipped into his control room, a full bottle of Puerto Rican rum in his hand. He hit the remote control, bringing up the hidden camera screens. Drinking deeply, he started watching what was going on in different rooms. Joe Penny, you bad boy! he thought, catching the first guest room.

  “Ridiculous underwear, Joe,” he said. He watched for a while, then grew impatient. In the upstairs garret, he honed in on two men. Stud types, tsk, tsk. Why didn’t they just come out? The third room had a ménage à trois going on. The girls were pretty, and only performing because the old guy was a director, he thought. Hell, he was keeping these tapes! You never knew when something like this might come in handy.

  He was startled when his door suddenly opened. He had thought that he’d locked it. Careless. Maybe he was getting a little too cocky.

  He turned in his swivel chair. Then he smiled. It was Jay Braden.

  “You asshole,” Braden said.

  “What? You’re no fool. You’ve seen the cameras.”

  Braden shook his head, furious. “You know, it would be one thing if you preyed on those who were already corrupt. But you’re real slime. And you know what? The cops will come after you one day.”

  Kyle shrugged. “The cops can’t touch me.”

  “Then you know what?”

  “No, what? Are you going to threaten me, big boy?”

  “Someday, someone will kill you!” Jay said, and slammed the door on his way out.

  Kyle took another long slug of rum and turned back to his screens. Finally he tired of watching and returned to the party. It was winding down. They had all either gotten what they had come for or decided that they weren’t going to get it.

  At three, he said good-bye to his last guest. He went out to the pool and looked over the water and his beautiful cabana. He looked at the bottle of rum he was still carrying. He’d managed to go through most of it.

  His butler came out, asking to be excused until the morning.

  He waved a hand in the air. God, he was ready to pass out himself. He slid into a lawn chair. Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone. There was someone standing by the shadow of a hibiscus.

  “You? Why don’t you go home.”

  “You made me promises, Kyle.”

  His face ticked with annoyance. “You didn’t do anything you didn’t want to do.”

  “Is everyone in Hollywood a prick?”

  “No. And everyone doesn’t put out and doesn’t get pissed off and screw people because they’re pissed off at someone else. Hey, you’re a gnat. Go home.”

  “You’re mistaken. I’m not a gnat. And you know what, Kyle? You could really hurt the wrong people.”

  “Someone you care about, huh? But you’re a fool. Because no one really cares about you. You’re a gnat.”

  “I’m not!”

  Kyle got up, staggering toward the remaining guest. “You’re a gnat. A roach. A pathetic little bug. Get out.”

  “I’ve entertained you.”

  “Yeah, but you know what? You’re not good enough.”

  “You don’t know how good I am.”

  A hand came out, whacking Kyle in the face. He’d had so much rum, he couldn’t even feel the blow. He reflected on that for a moment, then realized that he couldn’t really feel his feet either, but he was stumbling backward.

  Then he was teetering on the brink of the pool. “Help me!” he cried.

  His guest didn’t make a move, just watched him coolly.

  Kyle keeled over, into the pool. His hands wouldn’t move right. His legs wouldn’t kick.

  “Hey—”

  “I’m just a gnat, Kyle.”

  “You’re not capable of this.”

  “Oh, you just don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  He’d gone in at the deep end. The water came over his head. His limbs wouldn’t move right. He struggled, growing desperate for breath. He managed to break the water once again and give out a pathetic cry for help.

  “Damn you, help me—you’ll never work in this town again, if you don’t.”

  “Oh, Kyle, you are just full of Hollywood rhetoric, aren’t you?”

  “Help me! Damn you!”

  The killer watched impassively as Kyle Amesbury drowned.

  He struggled, gasped, turned blue, went down, came up …

  Went down.

  A fitting end to such a man.

  The killer sipped Kyle’s champagne. This had been incredibly easy. An accident, of course.

  The killer smiled. Another one down. Death could be so easy …

  The killer waited a few minutes, then went into the now quiet house. The cleaning staff had already picked up a lot. The killer headed straight for Kyle’s video room. Never a fool, not when it came to being careful, the killer slipped on a pair of medical gloves.

  It took a few minutes to find the right tape.

  The killer took it.

  It was so late then. The killer paused, then drove to see him.

  He was furious.

  “I told you never to come here!”

  “But I have something for you.” The killer produced the tape. He snatched it away. “What is this, where did you get this?”

  “It’s you—acting like an asshole.”

  “Amesbury gave you this?”

  “I took it. Amesbury is dead.”

  He froze. “What? People know you, someone will begin to suspect you.”

  “He was drunk, and he drowned.”

  “Oh, God, now this will never end. I should …”

  The killer was scared. Trying so hard to please, and yet scared.

  “No, you shouldn’t. Because if something happens to me, I’ll see that you’re found out.”

  “Oh, yeah? What if you are dead?”

  “You have to keep me alive! I thought, I thought that you …”

  “That I loved you?”

  His face gave it all away.

  The killer turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  The killer started to run.

  Sharon Miller woke to find that she had fallen asleep with her half-filled suitcase at her side. She glanced at her watch. Well, sleep early, rise early. She still had plenty of time to pack. The dig would be good for her. Get her away.

  She showered, slipped into a robe, and headed for the kitchen. After making coffee, she paused again. She needed to leave, yes. She needed to get away from the city. She was hurting.

  But she still needed to talk to Liam. She didn’t know why she had hung up when the actress had answered the other night. Yeah, she had hung up because it had hurt. Dumb though. She should have talked to Liam then. It was early. Maybe she’d go ahead and call him now.

  She hesitated, though, going out to her bookcase. It was handsome walnut, a center piece that—totally filled with volumes, as it was—created something of a wall between her entry and living room. From the living room side, she looked through the volumes until she found her college yearbook. As she took it down, her doorbell rang. She walked to the door. Without the least thought of danger in mind, she threw it open.

/>   Her eyes widened; she nearly gaped when she saw her early-morning guest.

  “Hi! Got some coffee for an old friend?”

  Cheerfully, her unbidden guest swept on in past her.

  “Sure, sure! Coffee,” Sharon said, hurrying on in, her only thought now to rid herself of this person. The book, the yearbook … what had she done with it?

  “Great place!”

  “Thanks. I’ll get the coffee.”

  Her guest followed her to the kitchen. Sharon poured coffee, nervously saying, “It’s early for a drop by, huh?”

  “Well, you know, we keep saying we’re going to call, we’re going to get together … and then, well, you know. We never do. And I’m working in such a crazy place now … I had hoped that you’d be up, and that you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Mind, of course not.”

  Her guest started toward the living room. Sharon thought of dialing a quick 911. Her uninvited guest turned back to her, smiling, then exclaiming, “Oh, will you look at that! You’ve got the old yearbook out!”

  Sharon followed her guest to the living room. She sat in the chair in front of the heavy wood bookcase. “Yeah, the good old days!” she murmured. Her guest was starting to pick up the book. “I—um—wow, it’s great to see you, and I’d love to take time having coffee, but—I’m going on a dig in about an hour.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s … Murphy. And Serena, right?”

  “Well, I do like to go on digs.”

  “Sure.” Sharon’s guest swilled the cup of coffee. “Call me when you get back. We’ll really get together then.” Sharon started to rise.

  “No, no, I know where the door is! Sit, drink your coffee, have a great dig—and call me!”

  “I will!”

  Her guest went around the bookcase to depart.

  Sharon sat still, ready to hop up and get a hold of Liam, one way or another, as soon as the door closed.

  She heard the door close. She started to rise.

  She heard a creaking.

  Then she screamed.

  She tried to leap away, but the chair was behind her. As the heavy mahogany came crashing on down toward her, she grabbed the yearbook as if she could use it as a wall of defense in front of her.

  The bookcase came down upon her.

  Volumes fell everywhere.

  She was only dimly aware of pain before the shelf that caught her in the temple sent her into oblivion, sweeping away all anguish.

  Chapter 22

  THEY HAD TAKEN TO making morning coffee themselves, drinking it on the veranda that led to the beach, then, after a swim, a shower, and time together, wandering to the main house for breakfast, brunch, or lunch—whichever it happened to be.

  That day they both woke early and decided to go to the main house to eat. But as they reached their table, Liam spotted a headline in the L.A. Times that provoked a frown.

  “What is it?”

  He pushed the paper toward her. She read: ADVERTISING EXECUTIVE DROWNS AFTER WILD PARTY.

  She looked up at him, then read the article. Kyle Amesbury had drowned in his home swimming pool. His guests, when interviewed, said that he had been drinking heavily. His blood-alcohol level had been sky-high.

  “My God,” she breathed. She stared at Liam. “But that has to be a real accident. He drowned. Alone, at home, in his own swimming pool.”

  “Yeah, an accident, but he is—or was—the exec for Valentine Valley.”

  “But still …”

  “I don’t like it,” Liam said. “Excuse me. I’m going out for a second to put a call through to Olsen. Find out if it really was an accident.”

  She nodded, sipping coffee, reading the article again. Most of the cast and crew of Valentine Valley had been at Kyle Amesbury’s home that night. She felt a gnawing in her stomach, a rumbling of unease. The last few days had been too perfect.

  “Miss McCormack?”

  She looked up. Their waiter was approaching her.

  She stared at him, surprised that he had used her real name. He winced, showing that he hadn’t meant to do so. He was a handsome young Polynesian, shy and eternally pleasant to them. They’d had him as their server every morning.

  “I’m sorry, but … well, I know that you are Serena McCormack—Verona Valentine.”

  She flushed, wishing that Liam was in the dining room with her. “You watch the soap?”

  “My wife tapes it. We watch it together at night.”

  “Thank you for watching.”

  “The hotel staff … well, a number of people have recognized you.”

  “So much for being anonymous.”

  “You stayed here before, with the cast and crew.”

  “Yes.”

  “We try to be discreet.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “You are really on your honeymoon?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Ah, well … there is a phone call for you.” He had brought a portable phone with him. She stared at him a moment before taking it.

  “Hello?” she murmured, afraid she would hear the husky, whispered voice that had sent her flying out of her house that night.

  “Serena!”

  It was her sister’s voice. Melinda was upset.

  “Hey—”

  “Kyle Amesbury is dead. Serena, even we went to his house that night. Jeff was upset about the sarcophagus, and he insisted he was going to go back to work when you did, and so he decided we’d better show up and talk to a few people.”

  “Melinda, calm down. I saw the papers—it was an accident.”

  “He drowned!”

  “Yes, he drowned. Please, don’t worry. No one will accuse Jeff of anything just because he was there.”

  She didn’t hear Liam when he returned until he pulled his chair out and sat. As soon as she looked up, she knew that something was wrong from his side as well. His expression was a dark scowl. His eyes were accusing.

  “You took the phone and called your sister,” he said.

  She paled. A totally involuntary action. It hadn’t been wrong to call her sister. “Yes.” She made no attempt to lie or hedge.

  “I told you not to.”

  She swallowed hard. “My sister is on the phone now.”

  He took the phone from her. “Hi, Melinda. How did you get this number?”

  He nodded gravely at her reply. Then, to Serena’s astonishment, he began to reassure her sister. Apparently Melinda didn’t even ask to say good-bye to her.

  “I used your cell,” she told him, dismayed to feel so defensive. “I didn’t tell her where we were—”

  “And you didn’t tell me that Valentine Valley had used this hotel when filming in Hawaii on a location shoot.”

  “You should keep up with the soaps better,” she murmured in an attempt to be light. She winced. Bad mistake.

  “Serena, you compromised everything I was trying to do.”

  She didn’t reply. She was afraid that she had done just that:

  “What did Olsen say about Kyle Amesbury?”

  “Definitely a drowning. And he was definitely drunk. He had consumed most of a bottle of 151-proof rum.”

  “So it was an accident,” she said.

  “Apparently.” He nodded, stretched his hands before him, and said, “Serena, you weren’t supposed to call your sister, because that’s how word gets around.”

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go back to the room and pack.”

  “Pack?”

  “There’s no reason to stay here any longer. The whole world knows you’re here.”

  “Liam, we’ve got to go back anyway,” she told him, suddenly earnest. “Running away isn’t solving anything. Amesbury is dead. You thought he was involved, but it must be someone else. Don’t you see? I want my life back. If you were receiving threats, you wouldn’t run from them. You’d be more determined than ever to find out the truth.”

  “Serena,” he sai
d, shaking his head, not rising yet. “I was trained to be a cop.”

  “I’m not hiding out any longer,” she insisted. “I’m scared, and I never should have told Melinda where I was. But please, Liam, let’s go back. We’ll never—I’ll never have a life, a real life, again, until this is solved.”

  “I was planning on going back,” he said quietly.

  “Oh?” she said, startled that he had agreed so easily.

  “You’re right. Another person has been killed. This person is not going to stop.”

  He wasn’t just angry with her for what she had done; he was deeply upset about something else, she realized.

  “What happened?”

  “Sharon Miller was found in her house by a grad student from UCLA. She was supposed to have been joining them for a dig.”

  Serena inhaled a gasp. “What—what happened?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Apparently, a bookshelf fell on her.”

  “Is she … ?”

  “No. But she is in the hospital. In a coma.”

  “Liam, I am so, so sorry!” she whispered. “Of course, you want to get back. But—”

  “But what?”

  “How can that … possibly be related to … Valentine Valley?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not. But she went down to the police station. And she tried to call me. I never reached her return. I just … I just have a sick feeling. One that I have to look into.”

  Serena nodded.

  They packed; they made arrangements with their pilot to get back home. But long before they boarded the plane, Serena knew that they had left paradise.

  As it happened, their return put her back at work only a day earlier than planned. Liam went in with her, talked to Joe, then departed. She found out, however, that he had brought in another off-duty cop to watch over her as well.

  Everybody on the set itself was talking about Kyle Amesbury—and all the videotapes that had been found at his house.

  “My God, what a scandal!” Kelly told Serena, curling up on her couch, delighted to have her back and eager to talk. “The police found tapes … so many tapes! He was a regular voyeur, tricking people into doing things … all kinds of things. I wondered if he planned on selling some of them in the porno market! Am I glad I’m basically your corn-fed Midwestern girl! The tapes haven’t gone anywhere, of course, it’s all under police investigation, but … there’s rumor afloat. This is worse than any scandal that’s come before. Kyle Amesbury seemed so quiet, so well dressed, so … regular when we first met him, remember? Becoming a big executive must have gone right to his head.”