“Well, what the hell was going on?” Andy demanded defensively.
“I was testing some new type of stage blood for the shoot, you idiot,” Joe said.
“But the girl in your bed—”
Joe sighed, looking down, shaking his head, looking up again. “It was the waitress,” he told Conar.
“The waitress?” Andy said.
“The waitress from the afternoon when we had lunch,” Conar said softly.
“Yes,” Joe said, turning to Andy. “And she’s alive and well and working tonight—if you want to go see. Damn it, Andy! How long have we been partners? You freaked out and thought that I was a killer?”
Andy looked at him sheepishly.
“But it’s good to know that you were just practicing with stage blood,” Jennifer said. “Hey, guys, come on. We work together. It’s important not to be afraid.”
“You were afraid of me?” Joe said to Andy.
“I am so sorry.”
Liam Murphy chose that moment to arrive.
“Is it me?” he asked, stepping into the dead silence of the den.
“We were just clearing the air,” Conar said.
“Wow. Clear, huh? Feels thick with tension to me, but then, I’m a cop. You people are theater. You’d know.”
“Hugh is … really locked up, right?” Serena said softly, moving to Liam’s side.
“Yes, he’s really locked up.”
“I still don’t believe it,” Jim Novac said. “He was a horror director, but a good guy.”
“Well, he did meet Trish Wildwood at a bar—the bartender saw them together. And—” Liam began, but broke off abruptly.
“What?”
“We found a sheet with Brenda’s blood on it tied up in a knot in his storeroom,” Liam said softly.
“Damn,” Jim murmured.
“But it’s over. We don’t have to be afraid,” Kelly said.
There was silence.
“How’s Ricardo Carillo?” Conar asked suddenly. “He was really knocked out last night.”
“Yeah. You know what it was? His coffee was drugged.”
“Poor fellow,” Jennifer murmured.
“Lucky fellow,” Liam commented. “If Hugh hadn’t been able to knock him out, he probably would have killed him.”
“Yeah, but … it’s amazing that he was able to sneak around Ricardo to drug his coffee,” Jennifer said.
Liam shrugged. “He could have waited until Ricardo went to check something out. Who knows?”
“I think we’re in danger again,” Kelly said.
“Oh?” Jennifer murmured.
“Doug just walked out to the barbecue. If he’s cooking, we’re all in serious danger.”
“I’ll refresh your drinks,” Edgar, who had been standing by, said stoically.
His remark brought laughter, which seemed to lighten the mood again. Conar went on out to rescue the meat and vegetables on the grill. Edgar did refill drinks, while Drew told him the secret of the perfect martini.
Abby Sawyer lay in her hospital bed, half-asleep. They’d given her a sedative. They’d managed to get her into a nice routine. Long nights, lots of rest. One of the most awful parts of the disease worsening had been when she tried to hide it during the day, and she had been awakened by the wild tremors that had so treacherously seized her body in the middle of the night. Rest helped.
But the pills …
Well, the pills did strange things.
They made her see the people in the walls.
Tonight, she saw Hugh Tanenbaum. Over and over again, he pleaded with her.
“Abby, I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it …”
“Please, Hugh! Go away,” she whispered.
“Abby, think!”
“Go away! Go away!”
She didn’t realize that she had shouted aloud until the nurse came rushing in, a syringe in her hand at the ready.
By midnight, Conar had cooked the last of the beef, chicken, fish, and vegetables. The fire was out. Their company was fading.
He saw Jennifer lying back in one of the lounge chairs, smiling, at ease. Andy Larkin looked normal again. He and Jim Novac and Joe Penny were talking, laughing—laying out their new bible for the next week. Liam and Serena were together, their heads close as they talked.
Free from his duties as chief chef, Conar walked over to where Jennifer was stretched out. She was wearing a casual white cocktail gown that was snug around her breasts and waist and flared at her hips. It looked great against the honey tan of her flesh and the golden red of her hair. Sitting, he found himself thinking about the sleek feel of her flesh, the smell of her hair, the taste of her … Then he reined his thoughts in, managing to note objectively that she had staggeringly great blue eyes and a killer smile. Which she offered him. His heart thudded at that smile. Thud, thud, thud. He’d thought he’d go crazy last night, hearing her scream. He had been half-crazy, tearing downstairs to reach her. Next time, bring the gun, she’d told him.
He’d been in lust … and now, he knew, he loved her. They needed time, but they would have time.
“Think that one’s going to make it?” Conar asked Jennifer, taking a seat beside her.
“I can hear her biological clock ticking from here,” she said with a grin. “Yeah, I hope so. I love Serena, she’s a great friend, and Liam seems terrific as well.”
“Well, we’ll see, hm?”
“Yeah.” She met his eyes, smiling. “We’ll see.”
He reached out, and she curled her fingers around his. He really did love that smile she gave him. He couldn’t even imagine the days when he had thought of her as a spoiled brat.
He frowned suddenly, noting that Edgar was motioning to him from the other side of the pool. “Be right back,” he told Jennifer.
Her smile deepened. She squeezed his fingers. “Mm.”
He rose and walked around to Edgar, who seemed distressed. “Miss Abby has called from the hospital.”
“Has something happened? Is she all right?”
“She’s all right, she’s just anxious to see you. But she knew about the party and she said that you weren’t to come until all the guests were gone, and that you weren’t to tell Miss Jennifer, you weren’t to alarm her.”
“Great,” Conar muttered, staring at Edgar. What the hell was he going to tell Jennifer? How could he keep from alarming her?
As he stood there, Joe Penny gave him a sound slap on the back. “Conar, you are worth your weight in gold. But then, that’s what you’re taking from us, isn’t it? Hell, boy, your weight in gold. But thanks. Thanks for tonight. It was good for us all.”
“Yeah, sure, thanks. You’re leaving?”
“Yeah,” Joe said, and grinned ruefully. “I’ve got to go pick up a waitress.”
“Good for you. And be good to her.”
“Yeah.”
After Joe said good night, Conar saw that Serena and Liam were behind him, ready to say their good-byes. Then Vera Houseman, who was leaving with her soap husband, Hank Newton. Jennifer was suddenly beside him, and they were saying good night to the rest of the cast and crew. And then they were alone, except for Drew and Doug and Edgar and Mary, and they had all started picking up. Frustrated, Conar at last took Jennifer’s arm and pulled her aside into the den. “I’ve got to go out for about an hour.”
“Oh?”
“Your mom called, and she wants to see me.”
“You, not me?”
“I think it might be about what happened. And maybe it’s because it’s night, and she’s on pills.”
“Maybe,” Jennifer said. She tried to smile. There was uncertainty in her eyes.
“I’ll be right back, as fast as I can.”
“Sure. I’ll be fine.”
He started away from her, then turned back. “Lock yourself in.”
She smiled. “Your room is the one with the secret compartments, not mine.”
“Yeah, but yours has a weird laundry chute. Go up with Drew and Dou
g, lock yourself in, just to be on the safe side.”
“How will you get in?”
“I’ll dramatically break down the door with my shoulder.”
“Rather loud,” she said.
“How about if I knock?”
“That should do it.”
“All right, then. I’m going. I’ll try to be back before you’re even in for the night.”
She rose on her toes and kissed his lips. She whispered, teasing his ear, “Mom always liked you better.”
“Jen—”
“I’m teasing, just teasing. Go. And hurry back. You’ve got me worried.”
Mary was in the hall, ready to leave as he was going. “Mr. Conar, can you drop me off home?”
“Sure, Mary. Come on along.”
He could hear Jennifer laughing at something Doug said as he stepped from the house with Mary. As he pulled out on the road, he thought, Saturday night in L.A. Hell, this could be a long trip. He looked anxiously at his watch, wondering why it mattered.
Because he didn’t like being away from her.
Because lust had turned to love?
Something more …
Instinct. Intuition.
He just didn’t like being away.
Crazy? Yeah, completely nuts. He pressed harder on the gas pedal anyway. He was going to get back as quickly as possible.
The house was quiet as Drew Parker returned to his guest room. It had been a satisfying night. He hung up his trousers and folded the silk knit shirt he had been wearing—aging might-have-beens needed to take care of their clothing. In a pair of cotton pajamas, he started to crawl into bed, but changed his mind. He walked over to the dresser where he had set up his brush and cologne, belt, extra watch, and books. He loved to read and had a voracious appetite for books, scripts, plays, even manuals. He had brought a Tom Clancy military thriller, a well-worn copy of Captain Blood, and a dogeared copy of an old book called Hollywood Underside. It was a possession he was quite fond of. There were few copies in print, since some of the material had been so scandalous that threatened lawsuits had caused the publisher to pull them off the shelves. There had been libelous suggestions regarding unprovable “facts” about the Kennedy brothers and Marilyn, the Mob and a number of Italian heartthrobs, and more. There had been a few crazy suggestions, such as aliens causing the strange deaths of some Hollywood personalities.
Drew didn’t believe in aliens, but it was still a fun read. He’d frequently shown Abby pages from the book, and they’d laughed together over them. He’d even shown her the section about David Granger and the house, and they had speculated together.
Now he took the book to bed with him and flipped to that section. He had read it over and over again. Granger himself had died about thirty years ago, in his own bed, in his own room.
“Might have gotten a fright from those masks of his,” Drew muttered.
He’d been hale and hearty, but his death had been deemed natural. The house had been left to his wife and daughters, though, and after he had been cremated, suspicions arose that his wife had poisoned him at the end. Despite the fact that he had gone out and bought her a beautiful stained-glass Tiffany window, she had never quite forgiven him for the scandal regarding Genevieve Borthny and the birth of her illegitimate child. Near the end of Katherine Granger’s life, she had turned the house over to a trust for her daughters. At their mother’s death, the daughters had been anxious to sell the house. “Though Granger had passionately disclaimed the existence of any illegitimate children during his lifetime,” the book reported, “the girls apparently remained concerned that a bastard branch of Granger’s family, the issue he was purported to have produced with Genevieve Borthny, would crawl from the woodwork to make a claim to the property.”
No DNA checks back then. Granger had bought his wife the Tiffany window, and the Borthny woman had been paid off and packed off. Years later, it was rumored, she had reemerged in California, broken and destitute, and died on the street near Sunset Boulevard.
Drew set the book down, feeling a funny little surge in his stomach. He looked at the page again. The words were scrambling in front of him. Strange feeling, strange … as if he had been drugged.
As if he had been drugged.
He looked at the book again, still not quite certain what was nagging him, what it was he had needed to know. Words scrambled, unscrambled.
Suddenly, visions of Rosemary’s Baby spun before him.
“The name is an anagram, Hutch!”
The name …
His thoughts were unclear. He envisioned Mia Farrow frantically playing with a Scrabble board.
He knew one thing. He had to get to Jennifer—warn her.
It was the greatest effort in the world to rise’
Somehow … somehow … he must do so.
He staggered to his feet. The house. This wretched house. No, not the house. Houses weren’t bad, no matter what they said in The Haunting.
Only people, jealous, cruel, bitter, cunning …
And patient.
He made it to his feet, staggered, fell to the ground. He couldn’t rise again. He crawled, inch by inch, fighting the waves of darkness that threatened to sweep over him. Her door. Just a few feet away. It seemed so very, very far …
Keep crawling, keep crawling! he implored himself. Keep crawling …
Chapter 20
JENNIFER OPTED FOR SEXY. She didn’t have that many great negligees, thanks to her Tweetie Bird habit. She hated the feel of scratchy lace against her skin. But she had one great little navy blue baby-doll silk nightie, and she slipped into it, brushed her hair, crawled into bed, and reached for the television clicker. She was concerned about the fact that Abby wanted to see only Conar, but not overly. Nor did it disturb her that her mother relied on him. She was never, never going to analyze what her feelings had been. She was just going to trust in the way she felt now, the way she knew he felt … and they would see. For the moment, though … damn, but she was in love with him!
She flicked on the television and starting changing channels. There was an old movie on TBS—good, she’d switch back to it if she didn’t find something else. She changed over to a network where a late-night talk show was on. A comedian had just begun his routine when a late-breaking news flash projected across the screen.
The terse newscaster was standing by the roadway south along the canyon; Jennifer recognized the spot. “Despite the fact that director Hugh Tanenbaum remains in custody for the murders of actresses Brenda Lopez and Trish Wildwood, another body has been found.”
Staring at the television, Jennifer stiffened. As he spoke, the newsman was pressing his ear, receiving further information from someone at the other end of the headset he was wearing. “This just in—with her next of kin notified, we’re able to tell you that the woman is indeed another actress, Ms. Lila Gonzalez.”
Jennifer gasped, leaping from the bed. Panic swept through her—and guilt. Had Lila been killed for seeing for her? Were they wrong, was the murderer still at large? Had Andy been right—was Joe Penny the best liar in the world? Or had Hugh killed her before he had been arrested? Yes, that had to be it …
The newscaster was still talking. She couldn’t make head nor tail of his words.
Then, suddenly, she heard a scraping at her door.
Her eyes darted from the television to the door. She heard the scraping sound again and then her name. “Jennifer … Jennifer …”
The call was so faint that it might have come from the grave. Old David Granger himself might have been calling out to her.
“Help … me …”
Drew. It was Drew Parker. There was another body. What if …
The newsman was still talking. Preliminary reports at the scene of the crime suggested that the young actress might have lain on the canyon floor for a few days.
Drew. He was old. Maybe he’d had a heart attack.
She hurried to the door. “Drew?”
“Jennifer, please …
”
She opened the door. He was on his knees. He was ghastly white. “Drew! Drew, oh, God, I’m going to get you help. I’m going to call 911!”
She tried to drag him into her room, but she couldn’t manage his weight. His mouth was open; his eyes were on hers. He was trying to form words. He couldn’t seem to do so.
“Anagram,” he mouthed, or something like it.
“What? Drew, you just try to breathe.”
She left him, rushing to the phone. She picked up the receiver.
Dead. Dead as a doornail. How could the lines be dead?
Her cell phone was in her purse. She ran across the room for it. She dumped the contents of her purse on the bed.
No cellular.
From downstairs, she heard a door open and close. And then the sound of stealthy footsteps on the stairs.
He reached the hospital very late. “After midnight, please use emergency room door,” a sign advised. Hospital personnel barely acknowledged him as he strode quickly through Emergency and to the elevators leading to the fourth floor and Abby’s wing of the facility.
He entered her room only to find her dead asleep. He came by her bed. “Abby, Abby, it’s Conar, you wanted to see me.”
Abby didn’t move. He touched her cheek, a feeling of panic surging through him for a moment: She wasn’t dead asleep—she was dead. But no, there was warmth to her flesh. He felt for her pulse. Strong and sure.
Her nurse entered the room.
“Mr. Markham?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?” The young woman seemed perplexed.
“She called me; she asked me to come over.”
“Well, she’s been asleep for some time now. And the sedative she’s on … she has morphine in her medications. You won’t have much luck waking her.”
“You’re right; I’ll come back in the morning,” he said.
He left hurriedly, nearly knocking the young nurse over. He had his cell phone out of his pocket as he raced down the hallway. He dialed Granger House.
The line rang. And rang.
And rang …
Maybe Conar had made it back.
Jennifer stepped over Drew and rushed to the top of the stairway, looking down. She saw a shadow heading up the stairs. Shrouded in black. A hat, a cloak … what? He looked like the character from Masque of the Red Death.