Laura Merrick passed by and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. “Not as fun as I’d hoped this would be,” she said on her way to the bar. “Kind of a pall over the place. It’s as if Allie is here and she’s not here, y’know?” Hitching her chin toward the set of Shondie in the mental hospital, she shook her head. “Macabre, if you ask me. Arnette’s idea of art.” She looked past Cassie and added, “Uh-oh, here comes Picasso now. Talk later,” and with Cherise in tow drifted toward the open bar where a crowd had gathered and two bartenders were busy mixing drinks.
“Cassie! There you are!” In a black suit and matching open-throated shirt, Dean Arnette approached. His smile, beneath his signature glasses, was wide. Friendly. He seemed pumped to be in the room.
“Hi,” she said.
Tall, rail thin with a shaved head and hint of a beard, Arnette gave her one of those almost-hugs. As if he were actually glad to see her. As if he hadn’t been ducking her calls.
As Arnette gave her a little space, Cassie caught a glimpse of Trent returning with their drinks. Walking carefully, agilely avoiding other guests while balancing the half-full glasses, Trent slid around the producer to hand Cassie her drink.
She held up the drink in shades of orange and yellow. “What is this?”
“Tequila sunrise. Signature for the party tonight, I guess. Kind of retro.”
“Shondie drank it in a bar scene,” Arnette clarified, “the character Allie played.” He had the good sense to appear grave for a second, then said, “You’re Cassie’s husband.” Quickly he stuck out his hand. “Dean Arnette. The director of Dead Heat.” He flashed a quick smile as they shook. “I’m surprised we haven’t met before.” He acted as if Cassie were his long lost daughter rather than someone he’d deftly avoided.
“You know,” Cassie said, “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“Oh, right. Right. I know. Sorry. I’m just busy as hell right now.” With a sweeping gesture, he motioned to the surroundings. “You know, putting this together was almost as difficult as filming the damned movie.” As if he’d personally constructed the sets, hired the caterers, and overseen the publicity when he had assistants and minions doing the actual work. He flashed his grin then and it seemed practiced and false. “I’m so sorry your mother couldn’t come. How is she holding up?”
Inwardly Cassie tightened. Suddenly she didn’t want to divulge a word to Arnette. Her skin actually crawled as he studied her intently. As if he cared. “She’s fine,” she lied.
“Well, we all miss Allie. I had hoped she would, you know, show up before tonight. God, it’s awful.” He shook his head, the sweat on his bald pate visible in the light from the chandeliers.
“It is.” Cassie nodded. “I was hoping to talk to you about her.”
“Of course! Any time.” Arnette was already looking around, searching for an escape route, someone more important so he could slither away.
“How about tonight?”
“Tonight?” He tossed her an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Seriously? Like after the party or something?” He swirled one finger as if to include everyone and everything in the ballroom. “Honey, I’d love to, but we’ll both be exhausted. And I fly out tomorrow. At the crack. But I’ll be in LA next week, I don’t start shooting Forever Silent until next month.”
“Dean?” a voice called from somewhere nearby.
He waved across the room to someone Cassie couldn’t see.
“I could meet you in the morning—”
“My flight’s at the crack. No, that won’t work, but don’t worry. We’ll talk!” And then he was gone. Disappearing into the crowd.
“Cassie Kramer?” a woman’s voice called from behind, and Cassie turned to find Whitney Stone not two feet away. Dressed in a long, black dress that sparkled under the lights, she was as beautiful as anyone in the room. Once more Cassie thought about her anonymous half-sibling and once more she saw a resemblance to Jenna in the slope of Whitney’s cheekbones, the arch of her brows, her sleek, black hair with just the right amount of wave. Was it possible? Cassie felt her pulse elevate. Whitney Stone? Her half sister? Whitney had been in LA and Portland and . . .
Don’t do this, Cassie. You’re making yourself crazy.
Alongside Whitney was the goon who had been her cameraman in LA. She offered one of her dazzling but oh-so-cold smiles. “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“I know.”
“Do you have a minute?” she asked, as if they were best friends, two women in “the industry” out on the town.
“I really don’t.”
“So, I’m curious, what do you think of the decorations?” she plowed on. “A little macabre, don’t you think? All these scenes with the mannequins dressed like Allie.”
“Like Shondie,” Cassie corrected.
Whitney tilted her hand. Samey-same. “It’s a bit bizarre, don’t you think? The life-sized dolls. They’re really not all that different from the wax figures of your mother ten years ago, are they?”
Cassie felt her insides begin to shred. What was this?
“You were involved then, too. Right? You were in the killer’s lair where he had all the images.”
“Look, I think I made it clear before, in the park in LA. I don’t want to talk to you.” With a fragile hold on her patience Cassie added, “So, please, just leave me alone and give my family some privacy.”
“Your family,” Whitney repeated. A nasty little gleam appeared in her eyes. “It’s a little bigger than you thought, isn’t it?”
Oh, God, she knows. Crap!
“Did you know you had a half sister? An older sister?”
So there it was. If Whitney Stone knew, the whole world would soon enough. “No comment,” Cassie said succinctly and saw the goon smile as if he were satisfied that she’d finally gotten a little of her own back.
“How’s the toe?” she asked just as Trent placed an arm on her shoulder. Yeah, she hadn’t actually run over it, but she had to make her points.
The cameraman’s smile fell away and Whitney pulled a face reminiscent of the reaction of someone sucking on a lemon. Then she zeroed in on Trent and her cool facade fell easily into place again. “The husband,” she said. To Cassie, “So the divorce is off? You’re ignoring those rumors about Allie and him?”
“We’re done here,” Trent said, his fingers tightening over Cassie’s arm and rotating her toward one of the sets from the movie, a scene where Shondie, terrorized, was cowering in a dark library, books scattered on the floor around her. “Haven’t you learned your lesson? Avoid her.”
Cassie tried to take a sip from her drink and felt someone bump her from behind. She jumped, though some of the cocktail splashed on her. “Ooh!”
“Sorry,” Lucinda said as she backed up her wheelchair and looked up at Cassie without a drip of remorse. In fact, Cassie wondered if the “accident” had been intentional. Lucinda went on, “I just can’t quite get the hang of this thing.”
“I thought you were walking,” Cassie said, remembering Lucinda struggling at the rehabilitation center.
“Oh, I am. But when I go out, I use this.” She patted the arm of the wheelchair as a couple Cassie didn’t recognize squeezed past.
They sloshed drinks and, giggling, muttered “sorry” several times as they tried to maneuver around Lucinda and her chair.
“Morons!” Lucinda said to Cassie. “So I hear you’re writing a screenplay or a script or something. About the film and Allie’s disappearance.”
How did she know this?
“I’m thinking about it, but really, I’m more interested in finding my sister.”
“Aren’t we all?” Lucinda said, pointedly eyeing Trent. “I sure would like to talk to her and find out why she bailed on the very day that I end up getting shot. You ever consider that, huh?”
Cassie nodded, sipping the drink.
“It could have been any one of us. You. Allie. But I’m the one who got lucky.” Her lips, painted a shiny peach, tw
isted bitterly. “Wonder how that happened? Your character was supposed to be the one running behind, then the scene was rewritten and on the day of the final take for the reshoot, Allie just vanishes and I end up with a bullet in my spine. What’re the chances of that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m really sorry.”
“Sure, sure. Everyone’s sorry.” Lucinda waved in the air, as if she were shooing away an irritating mosquito, but her face changed slightly as she looked up at Cassie. For an instant, she almost appeared evil. Or was it, again, Cassie’s mind playing tricks on her? She didn’t think Lucinda could be her half-sister, but there was something about her, a familiarity she noted once more.
It’s all in your head. Cassie’s fingers clamped over her drink and the headache that had been threatening began to pulse behind her eyes.
“So,” Lucinda was saying, “if you end up writing the script, will I be in it?”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t want to be portrayed in a bad light, y’know. Be sure to run it by me. Or my lawyer.” Her smile was intact but her eyes glittered. “The way I see it, this”—she swirled her hand to encompass the room, the guests, the scenes from the movie, and everything else in the room—“this is my story to tell. To write. I’ve been approached by a publisher, so I’ll let you know if the book will be turned into a movie. My movie.” Again she patted the arm of her chair. Her saccharine smile never faltered. “I figure I’m owed.” She turned and hit a button, the wheelchair whirred into motion.
“Sweet gal,” Trent observed as Lucinda, chair and all, was swallowed by the crowd.
“She has a reason to be pissed.”
“I guess, but it seems like she’s milking it.”
Cassie glanced around the noisy room. Conversation was a hum punctuated by laughter, the score of Dead Heat playing in a loop, a musical undercurrent to the cacophony of voices rising from every corner of the expansive room. “Everyone here has an agenda, including me. I guess Lucinda has a right to hers, bitterness and all.”
More and more people had arrived, the room was getting crowded, the temperature rising, a few people becoming tipsy and louder than the rest.
Cassie was well into her second drink. She and Trent had wandered out to the cool night air of the verandah. Her throat was a little raw, her nerves stretched thin, and she was certain she’d waded through enough small talk to last her a lifetime. Her headache was a low thrum and she thought if she had to answer one more question about Allie or fend off questioning looks aimed at her and the husband she’d accused of being unfaithful, or just keep a damned smile pinned on her face for another second she might explode. Worse yet was her clash with Brandon McNary. To her surprise, he’d accosted her as she’d left the ladies’ room half an hour earlier.
“Thanks a lot,” he’d said, pulling her into a pillared alcove.
“For what?” She’d yanked her arm away from him.
“For the cops, and what you told them about the text message. From Allie.”
“I told them about a message you received, that you thought was from Allie. Who knows who it’s really from, but don’t blame me.” She’d been furious, already sick of the party. “I had to tell them. God, where have you been? Brandi Potts was murdered that night. Not far from where we’d met.”
“And I had nothing to do with it. Didn’t even know the woman. Was she involved with the movie? I don’t know.” He’d shrugged. “The extras? Come on. I had no reason to kill her and I don’t even think I should have to explain it.” He’d shoved stiff fingers of both hands through his hair in frustration. “The deal is that I don’t need some detective crawling up my ass. I’m on a publicity tour, for fuck’s sake.”
“Whoa. Wait! Aren’t you the guy who said, ‘There is no such thing as bad publicity’?”
“I wasn’t talking about murder. Jesus Christ, Cassie, use your brain, would ya? I’m already a major suspect in her disappearance.” When she’d looked at him as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, he’d added, “Oh, fuck! You didn’t know that? Come on! The on-again, off-again boyfriend who had public blowups with the missing woman? Of course I’m a suspect. That’s basic. Homicide 101.”
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought. That you were suspect numero uno, and maybe you are, I don’t know, but what I do know is that I’ve been up on Detective Nash’s popularity list, too. In fact, she’s been calling me day and night.” Furtively, he’d looked around the pillar to the heart of the party. “You know, I’m surprised she isn’t here right now, trying to interrogate me. You’ve met her, right?” he’d asked, his gaze holding hers. “The ice-queen cop?”
“You know I have.”
“It was a rhetorical question, but, listen, just so we’re on the same page? Where the cops are concerned, keep your damned mouth shut about me.” His eyes had burned with a quiet fury. “Got it?” he’d asked through clenched teeth, but he hadn’t waited for a response, just turned on his heel and made a beeline to the bar. As he’d leaned into the bartender to give his order, two blondes in miniskirts had descended out of thin air to hang on his every word.
Pathetic.
She took another sip of her drink.
“Let’s go,” she said finally. Trent was leaning over the balcony, staring down to the street. Cool air ruffled his hair and the scent of the Willamette River was discernable in the dampness in the air. Below, on the sidewalks, pedestrians in coats with hoods or tucked under umbrellas moved quickly, while cars and trucks rumbled along the streets.
She was tired and the party had been a struggle. She hadn’t learned anything that would help her find her sister. Her younger sister, she reminded herself, still adjusting to her new reality. She’d just have to walk through the giant room with its ridiculous sets featuring Allie as Shondie one more time, then she and Trent could drive home, which is what she was beginning to think of his ranch.
Home. The word had a nice ring to it.
She was turning to step inside the ballroom when, from the corner of her eye, she saw a movement on a balcony a few floors overhead. Pausing, she saw that a woman was standing, almost posed, looking into the night.
Cassie’s heart clenched.
She squinted and her throat closed.
Was it? Could it be? Dear God, the woman looked like Allie!
No way! It’s the drinks. The imagery of the sets! The lifelike mannequins. All of the talk about the missing star of Dead Heat. She looked again and the woman had disappeared into the night.
“Stupid,” she whispered.
“What?” Trent asked. “Ready?”
“Yeah, just remind me the next time I want a tequila sunrise, that it’s a bad idea. Make that a very bad idea.”
“You got it.” Trent’s thin lips curved into that bad-boy smile that still got to her.
As she headed for the door, she glanced up one more time and the woman reappeared on the balcony. She was wearing a gray dress and raincoat that billowed away from her, a coat similar to one that Cassie had seen Allie wear several times last year.
It couldn’t be!
The woman looked down; smiled that Allie signature smile.
Cassie stared. Disbelieving. Her brain screaming at her that what she was seeing was a fake, a distortion, her mind playing tricks on her. “Holy shit,” she whispered, her mouth suddenly devoid of spit. “Allie,” she whispered.
And the woman stepped out of sight again.
No!
“What?” Trent said.
“I saw Allie.” Her voice sounded odd, even to her own ears.
“Allie? No. Wait a second.”
“Up there! On that balcony.” A jumble of emotions tore at her and she was jabbing her finger in the air, pointing wildly at the seventh-floor balcony. “The corner room! Five floors up.”
Trent tilted his head, his gaze scouring the side of the building. “I don’t see anything.”
“That balcony right there, with the . . . the damned
door is open, the curtains billowing. I’m telling you it was Allie!” she said, nearly hysterical. Frantic, she headed for the doors. “We have to go. I have to find her.”
“Cass—” His voice was reproachful. “There have been tons of sightings and none of them panned out, you know that. I think your mind is playing tricks on you.”
“Then let’s find out!” she said angrily, knowing he was right, rational thought arguing with what she was certain she’d seen. “I know it sounds crazy, Trent, but I’m telling you it was Allie!”
He grabbed her shoulders, concern in his gaze. “I think you’ve had a drink or two and all this talk about Allie, seeing her on the screen or—”
“She’s here!” Cassie peeled out of his grip. “And I’m going to find her.” She didn’t wait, just flung herself through the doorway and tore through the ballroom.
“Cassie?” someone called after her as she jostled first one group of people, then another. She felt as if she were swimming upstream, fighting the current, trying to pass rocks and logjams. “Cassie Kramer!”
She didn’t stop to see who it was, just plowed through the throng, her heart pounding, her head screaming that she was hallucinating. Again. The weird scenes of Shondie Kent, no, Allie Kramer, closed in on her, the eyes staring as if to find her soul. She had to get out. Gasping, the world spinning out of control, she somehow made her way up the steps, through the open doors and out of the ballroom. Somewhere behind her, Trent was following, but she couldn’t wait, had to know if she’d really seen her sister! As she rounded a corner, she cast a look over her shoulder to the ballroom to see that Whitney Stone and her cameraman had stymied Trent. Obviously the reporter was trying to engage him, blocking his path.
Cassie didn’t wait.
She had to find her sister.
Allie! Dear God, where have you been?
Why are you here?
Why would you hide, in this hotel?