When they reached the house, Mary was gone, but Edgar was back on duty. He’d made them a Crock-Pot stew, and it was ready in the dining room, and very delicious. Throughout the meal, they talked about the shower scene, having sworn Drew Parker to secrecy. Doug defended their producers, while Jennifer continued to say that they shouldn’t do it.
“Do you think that Hollywood is going to give up the horror film?” Doug demanded. “The mystery film, the suspense? Never. Nor are we going to stop making roller coasters. People want thrills in their lives.”
“I think I’ve been thrilled enough,” Jennifer said.
“That’s why your set was closed and so carefully guarded,” Drew said thoughtfully. Jennifer stared at him. He shrugged. “I came back to see you this afternoon. The guy downstairs—the building guard—was like an old bulldog.”
“You were at the set?” Jennifer inquired.
He nodded. “I was afraid I had upset you this morning. I hadn’t meant to, if I did do so.”
Had he upset her? The whole damned day had upset her.
Just then Liam arrived. He was full of questions about what had happened that afternoon at the studio. After she finished, he excused himself to go make a phone call. “I’ll have some men go over and look around,” he told her.
She had finished eating. Ripper, she saw, was sitting calmly and obediently at Conar’s feet. She felt a twinge of guilt. “I wasn’t upset, Drew,” she lied. “Excuse me, will you?” she asked them. “I’m going outside to see my dog.”
She had forgotten the cop out front. She had barely stepped out to rub Lady’s head before she jumped—alarmed by the sudden appearance of Ricardo Carillo.
“I’m sorry!” he said quickly.
“No, I’m sorry. I should have come and told you I’d be outside,” she said, scratching Lady’s head. Ricardo was looking behind her. She rose to see that the guys had all followed her—all of them—Conar, Liam, Drew, Doug, and Edgar.
And Ripper.
“I guess I’m going back in. Pet Lady for me now and then, will you?” she asked Ricardo.
He smiled at her. “Sure. Good night.” He raised his voice. “Good night, Mr. Markham, and all.”
Sheepishly, the guys staring at her from just outside the den called good night in return. Jennifer went on in.
Drew suggested Monopoly. Even Edgar agreed to play.
At midnight, Doug held both Park Place and Boardwalk and was ruthlessly running everyone out of money. Jennifer realized she was exhausted. She yawned. “I concede.”
“You can’t concede. You have to let me make mincemeat out of you,” Doug protested.”I have to concede. I can’t move anymore. I’m going up.”
Neither Conar, Liam, Drew, nor Edgar seemed ready to give in. Conar didn’t even look up from the board. “Take Ripper with you,” he said.
She hesitated. Had she hoped that he’d follow her?
She picked up the little Yorkie. He licked her fingers and gave her an adoring look. “Good night,” she called, heading from the den and up the stairs. “You know, you’re not so bad,” she told Ripper. “I just feel bad that I have Lady locked outside. Of course, she has a beautiful kennel. Her doghouse is even air-conditioned, my mother loves her, but … Oh, never mind. I’m rambling on and on to a big pile of fur with huge brown eyes and a sloppy little tongue.”
She brought Ripper into her room and locked the door behind her. She instantly checked out her closet and her bath, then set Ripper down.
“We’re going to watch television. Maybe that will help us sleep.”
Ripper barked his agreement.
Jennifer decided not to take a shower that night. She’d had enough showering for one day.
With her makeup off and a Taz cotton gown on, she turned on the news. An anchorwoman was talking about the new fashions being shown in Paris. Jennifer flicked to another channel and found the weather forecast. She flicked again, to the History Channel.
The program was about the use of forensic entomology and how the life span of flies and maggots in a corpse could help solve mysteries.
She flicked off it immediately. She wasn’t sure what channel she hit next, but she was pleased. Humphrey Bogart was saying to Ingrid Bergman, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Casablanca. Yes, she could sleep to that.
She cuddled Ripper to her chest, and closed her eyes.
She awoke sometime later. She didn’t know why at first. She had turned the television very low, but she could hear screaming. She squinted, looking at the screen. Great. No wonder she heard screaming. The movie playing was the teen horror flick Scream.
“Great,” she muttered to herself. “I couldn’t have left it on Nickelodeon and awakened to The Brady Bunch.”
She pointed and flicked the channel changer. She came upon Bewitched.
“That will do,” she said softly.
Ripper, standing like a little pointer and staring at her closet, growled.
“What is it, boy?”
The dog’s growling made her very uneasy.
“It’s okay, Ripper. You’re growling at my leopard coat. Don’t worry—it’s faux fur. I wouldn’t own a real leopard, honestly.”
The dog jumped off the bed, barking. “What is it?” she said. She sighed. It wasn’t that big a closet. She had checked it out when she and the dog had come into the room.
“All right, Ripper, get over here. I’m going to show you the coat.” She went into the closet and started to take down the coat. The hanger was snagged on an old wood pole and she leaned into the closet, trying to free it. She had too many clothes. She had to clean it out—this was only her room at her mother’s house.
Leaning to reach the pole, she suddenly slipped and went plunging forward into her own clothing.
She should have been stopped by the back wall.
But she wasn’t.
There was nothing there.
“Damn!” she swore, trying to catch herself, trying to understand what had happened. Clothing gave; she heard it rip from the pole, fall from hangers. And, tangled into it, head first, she was suddenly plummeting downward from her rear closet wall and into stygian oblivian.
Before going to bed, Conar had gone out to talk with Ricardo Carillo. He was a good cop. With a wife, a four-year-old, and a new baby on the way, Ricardo needed the time-and-a-half pay Conar was giving him to keep a sharp eye on the house.
“Everything all right?” Conar asked.
“Yep. Got a thermos of hot coffee, and I’m real good friends now with a real big dog,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I won’t sleep on the job.”
“I know you won’t.” Conar assured him. And, just for good measure, Liam was also around. The Monopoly game had run so late, Conar invited him to stay the night.
Back in the house, he double-checked all the doors anyway. Then he went up to his room. He paused in front of Jennifer’s. He could hear her television. He was tempted to knock on the door. No. He had turned her away last night. It was best.
Hell, no, it wasn’t best. Not for him. But he couldn’t stand the look he had seen in her eyes. She did suspect him. Maybe just a little. Maybe she wasn’t quite certain. She had to trust him completely. If she didn’t …
We could sleep together anyway.
That was coming from his lower anatomy.
No. It isn’t right.
That, from his mind.
Who the hell needed right?
Swearing softly aloud, he went on into his own room. He changed into pajama bottoms, then started reading his book on Hollywood murders.
After some time, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the desk. After two a.m. He should get some sleep.
He lay down on the bed, noting that he had gotten into the habit of sleeping with the bathroom light on. It made for shadows in the room.
But shadows he could see. Fingers laced behind his head, he wondered about the way Jennifer had awakened from her dreams, convinced someone was watching her. Was the danger
close, really close to them? What was happening? Was there a killer who had been at it a long time, a killer growing frustrated that his work hadn’t been discovered and applauded?
He frowned, thinking he should talk Jennifer into screwing the job—and coming away with him. Andy Larkin had told Liam that afternoon that he’d seen bloody garments at Joe Penny’s house, and maybe even a body in Joe’s bed. Liam had talked to Joe at some point, and to Jim Novac. And he had asked Conar to slip him onto the closed set so that he could observe what went on during the filming.
Suddenly Conar sat up in bed. He had heard a long, bloodcurdling, high-pitched scream—and it seemed to come from directly beneath his window.
She landed hard. Very hard, and covered in clothing. In a panic, she straightened herself in some tiny little space and pulled the clothing from on top of her. There was more light here. She gasped for breath, looking around. And then she realized that she was in the laundry room. The door to her right led to the house; the door ahead of her led outside.
It was open.
She swallowed hard. Lady was out there somewhere. What had happened to her hadn’t been an attack—she had, after all these years, stumbled upon a secret laundry chute. She’d banged her head, but she was okay. She started to smile.
Then she heard something. Footsteps on the grass just outside …
She reached out, trying to find a way to stand. Her palm hit the washing machine. She clutched a water hose and staggered to her feet. Someone was coming.
The cop, she tried to tell herself. Carillo.
But it wasn’t the cop. The footsteps weren’t certain, assured. They were slow … stealthy.
Furtive.
She looked around wildly in the shadowy darkness.
Her eyes fell on a bottle of bleach. Her fingers curled around the handle.
A figure stepped into the doorway. Dark, tall, a man, wielding something, a weapon …
He stepped out of the shadows …
“Look who’s here,” he said, and stepped toward her, raising his hand. “You. Just the girl I’ve been looking for.”
Chapter 18
“JENNIFER!”
He stepped toward her, and no longer afraid of alerting a killer to her presence, Jennifer screamed for all that she was worth.
That brought Hugh Tanenbaum rushing in on her. She couldn’t see what he held in his right hand. It had to be a knife, she thought, trying not to panic.
“Jennifer, stop, don’t scream!” He grinned drunkenly. “I should have used the front door, huh? Is it late? Are you surprised to see me here?”
His words were slurred. He was truly insane, she thought.
“Hugh, get out of here.”
“Jennifer—”
“Go—”
“You’re the best. The brightest and best. I have to have you.”
“No!”
He reached out for her. The weapon he’d held in his hand fell to the floor. She had a chance. She screamed again, bashing him as hard as she could in the head with the Clorox bottle.
He staggered back, holding his head. She hit him again in sheer panic. He crumpled to his knees.
She jumped over him, dropping the Clorox bottle in her haste, and tearing for the exit to the patio and yard. She screamed again as she turned back. He was up.
“Jennifer, please—”
She saw a mop and grabbed it, striking out at him. He reeked of alcohol, but he was still strong, reaching out to fight her for the mop handle. He looked at her with dazed, chilling eyes. “No, no, Jennifer. Let the mop go. I can make you famous. I can make you really famous. Forever.” He smiled. A half-lip, strangely curled smile.
She let the mop go—and picked up a gallon jug of Downy fabric softener. She wrenched off the cover and threw the Downy into his face. He cried out, throwing up his hands, but when she turned to run again, he was after her. She reached the grass on the right side of the patio. He flew at her, tackling her to the ground. She tried to scream again, but he was all over her.
“Jennifer, Jennifer, please, you don’t understand.” His hands were big. They were fumbling over her face, covering her throat. “I just need—”
Another cry of terror ripped from her lips. Suddenly, Hugh’s blue-covered face rose above hers in surprise. She heard a growling sound, and then a cry of pain. The director was violently wrenched away from her. She staggered up, hands on her throat. Feet away from her, Hugh was on the ground, and Conar was over him—bashing him in the face.
“All right, Conar, stop!”
Liam raced across the patio to catch Conar’s shoulder and pull him off of Hugh Tanenbaum, who lay in the grass, curled into a fetal position. Conar landed a few feet away on his knees in the grass.
Edgar, Drew, and Doug had come out of the house. Drew had brought a silver letter opener, Doug carried a hockey stick, and Edgar had brought out a frying pan.
Ripper, who had latched onto Tanenbaum even before Liam, was still growling. Lady, in her fenced kennel, was howling.
Conar eyed the prone Tanenbaum, who moaned with a low, keening sound. It might have stirred pity in Jennifer’s heart if she hadn’t been shaking so badly. Conar’s jaw remained locked, but he stared at the man with lethal fury in his eyes.
Over her, Jennifer realized.
Sirens blared. Liam came to Jennifer. “Are you all right?”
Edgar was hurrying over. “Miss Jennifer, Miss Jennifer!”
She threw herself into Edgar’s arms. He held her. She kissed his cheek. She wrapped her arms around Liam, pressing her head to his chest. Then she pushed away, going to Conar. She fell down in the grass by his side. His fingers plunged through her hair on either side of her head, his eyes met hers with a blaze of silver fire. “My God, Jennifer.” He pulled her against him, then he pushed her away. “What in hell were you doing out here?”
“I came down the laundry chute.”
“What?” he said incredulously.
His hold on her hurt. She smiled anyway, ready to laugh and cry. “I came down the laundry chute. I didn’t know there was one. Ripper started barking. He must have heard Hugh on the property. Ripper was barking at the closet. I tried to show him that there was nothing in the closet. I found out I was wrong. The back wall must have some kind of a secret panel. It gave … and I wound up by the washing machine.”
The wailing of sirens seemed to be right on top of them. Uniformed men streamed into the yard. Someone was reading Hugh his rights. Hugh was still crying.
An officer lifted him to his feet. He couldn’t seem to stand. He tried to jerk free in front of Jennifer, and was powerful enough to hold the officers there as he tried to talk.
“I didn’t do anything. I came to see Jennifer, to get her to be in this movie … I’m losing my mind—”
“Losing it?” Liam said harshly, coming up to stand in front of him. “You fool, don’t you understand? You’re accused of the murder of two women. You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life if I have anything to do with it!”
“Murder?” Hugh said, shaking his head. “No … no … I didn’t murder anyone. I wanted to see Jennifer.”
“Yeah!” Doug said, stepping forward—still holding tightly to his hockey stick. “You wanted to see Jennifer—at three in the morning?”
“I was … drinking,” he muttered. He looked like hell, blinking against the still dripping blue pool of fabric softener that contorted his features.
He looked at Jennifer. His eyes were suddenly clear and expressive against his still handsome features. “No, no, they want it to look as if I’d killed someone. Because I like Hitchcock. I’m being framed. You know that I wouldn’t kill anyone. Did Hitchcock kill anyone? No. I’m a director I drink too much. I like women, yeah, so sue me. I didn’t kill anyone, I swear, Jennifer—”
She rose. Conar protectively pulled her back. “What were you doing in my mother’s yard at this time of night? Why were you trying to break in?”
“I told you, I was drinking. I w
anted to see you.”
“You attacked me!” Jennifer cried.
“I didn’t mean to,” Hugh said. “I wanted you to stop screaming. I wanted you to listen.”
“Jennifer, Conar … you’ll have to give a report, answer a few questions. But, Conar, you can take her on in for now. My guys will be out here for a while. Doug, Drew, Edgar, you can go on in, too. Edgar, maybe you wouldn’t mind making some coffee for the men. And for you … time to go,” Liam said quietly, nodding to the officers who held Hugh between them. They started to drag him away.
Conar’s hand moved soothingly through her hair, then halted. “Where’s Ricardo?” he asked.
No one answered. He tried to press Jennifer toward Doug, but she clung to him. He started around the yard, after the cops leading Hugh away.
In their rush to reach the backyard, the cops hadn’t noticed the door to Ricardo’s car standing slightly ajar. Jennifer was left behind as Conar rushed forward, wrenching the door the rest of the way open.
Ricardo flopped out in an unconscious heap.
Conar swore, lifting the man, instantly checking his pulse. He sat back, exhaling. “He’s alive,” he quickly informed Liam. “His pulse is strong, his breathing regular.”
“Drugged?” Liam said.
“I assume.”
Paramedics were already there; they had accompanied the rush of police cars.
What Jennifer thought that she would remember the most about that night was not her terror, but the constant blue and red flash of the police lights, going around and around.
And Lady howling …
Ricardo was taken to an ambulance. The police stayed around awhile longer, taking all evidence from this crime scene.
It had been a long day.
It became a longer night.
Edgar did make coffee. Liam came in with his notebook and another officer. They all talked and he took notes.
“It’s all so sad,” Doug said.
They all looked at him. “Well, what he did is horrible, and I’ve actually always been a proponent of the death penalty, but …” He broke off and shrugged. “He did look crazy as a loon. As if he doesn’t believe he did all this himself!”
“I’m sure his defense will be a plea of insanity,” Liam said.