Last Scene Alive Part 7

I remembered seeing Celia stumble in the parking lot of Great Day.

"It was like she wasn't always in control of her own body. I suspected she was using drugs, for a while, but I'd never seen a recreational drug affect anyone quite like that. And I never saw her using, never."

Her hand flying out to graze Joel's cheek, her horrified face . . .

"So maybe she was ill. Maybe she did die of some natural cause?" That would be great for those of us among the living. Though it sure hadn't looked natural to me. Could she have had some kind of fit?

"The police don't think so. But maybe they just have to act like it's a homicide, until they know different."

"Did you tell Arthur all this that we've talked about?"

"No, he was more interested in establis.h.i.+ng where I'd been all morning. He did tell me he wanted to talk to me again later, not to leave town. As if I would."

I sat forward in my chair, preparatory to getting up to head to the bathroom. Not only did I need the facilities, I needed to rinse out my mouth and brush my hair. I had that sticky feeling I always get when I fall asleep in the daytime.

"Go pour yourself some tea," I said. "I have to excuse myself for a minute." The downstairs bathroom didn't have a window, so I had to switch on the light to examine myself. I looked exactly like I'd just woken from a nap: rumpled hair, smudged makeup, sticky mouth. Yuck. I cleaned up, polished my gla.s.ses, and felt much more alert when I joined Robin in the kitchen. Angel had come in, and the two were in conversation about Angel's previous movie experiences and Robin's loathing of Hollywood.

"I thought you loved it out there," I said, surprised.

"I did at first," he admitted. "I liked being somebody to people I thought were important. I liked being a noteworthy person. Writers don't get that too much, even in Hollywood, where you'd think they'd be revered. Those beautiful faces have to have words to say, after all. When I first arrived out there, I had a desirable property-my unfinished book-that several studios wanted. At first a really famous actress had an option on it. She wanted to play you." He grimaced, an expression I really couldn't interpret. "But then she went into rehab, and the option lapsed, and enthusiasm was cooling. The book actually came out, hit the best-seller list for a month, and interest built back up. A studio optioned it for one of its up-and-coming boy actors. They were going to beef up the role of Phillip."

Phillip, my half-brother, had been staying with me when the murderer was arrested.

"Go on," I said.

Robin looked weary, but he did offer me a little smile. "Then the boy wonder backed out because he got a chance to do the new musical version of Treasure Island Treasure Island, and he wanted some stage credentials. In the meantime, the book went off the best-seller list, naturally. So, after all the hills and valleys, this production company optioned it for a made-for-cable miniseries, and hired Celia for it a few months before she won the Emmy."

"Was that when you met her?"

"Yes," he said, and wiped a big hand across his eyes. "That was when I met her."

"I'm sorry," Angel said. I nodded.

"Like I said," Robin told us, visibly pulling himself together, "it was really over. There was a lot to admire in Celia, a lot of talent, but she also had a full measure of the selfishness actresses sometimes have. And there was definitely something going on with her these past few weeks."

"Someone coming," Angel said.

Then I heard the crunch of the gravel as a car made its way up the driveway.

Arthur was here, as he'd said earlier. I sighed. I just couldn't help it. I wondered how Lynn, his ex, was doing, raising their little girl. I'd heard Arthur took the child every chance he got, but still. . .

By the time Arthur knocked on the front door, Angel was making some coffee and I'd put some cookies on a plate. It was my attempt to soften the edges of an official visit. It didn't work, of course. Arthur was glad of the coffee, turned down a cookie with a pat of his waistline to explain the refusal, and got immediately down to business.

Angel and I went over our morning in detail, including approximate times and whom we'd seen and when we'd seen them. Arthur was particularly interested in my account of who I'd noticed at Celia's trailer door, but I pointed out that I hadn't been watching every second, and I'd only observed the door for maybe ten minutes. You had to figure that the murder had happened after Will, Mark, and the unknown woman (Arthur thought she must be a sort of sub-a.s.sistant director named Sarah Feathers) had spoken to Celia. That would have been while Angel and I were talking to Carolina.

"That Tracy girl who works for Molly's Moveable Feasts had as good a view of the door as I did, and for far longer," I said.

"Yeah, but her attention was constantly distracted by people coming up and wanting juice, coffee, a pastry, to pa.s.s the time of day ..."

I nodded. I could believe that.

Arthur wrote everything down and asked me and Angel a million questions. Robin sat silently and listened. Just when I thought we must be through, he said, "Do you live out here alone, Roe?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

I could feel my eyebrows draw together in a frown. "If I weren't comfortable with it, I wouldn't do it, Arthur," I said, in a final tone.

Because I'm short, some people think I'm helpless, or feeble, or silly. Arthur had known me for years; Arthur had even told me he loved me on more than one occasion. Why he would love a woman who would live in a place that terrified her when she had adequate means to move, I don't know, but he had that little smile that made me nuts. Patronizing.

"Do you really think you're safe out here?" he asked, trying ever so hard to sound gentle.

"h.e.l.l, Arthur, I've got a security system that's hooked up to the police department switchboard!" I could feel my face getting hot. Arthur had an amazing ability to make me angry. I was not about to tell him that this very day I had made up my mind to move.

"Okay, okay!" He held up a hand, palm outward, placatingly. "But for a woman alone, living in town is safer."

Much more of this, and I'd feel the steam coming out of my ears. "If you've gotten all you need from Angel and me ..." I said, making sure there was a nudge in my voice.

"I ought to be going, too," Robin said. "They may need me back at the motel. I'm sure Joel is having a meeting this afternoon to decide what to do."

"I have to pick up Joan at the sitter's," Angel said apologetically. "Roe, would you like to come back to town with me? Spend the evening?"

There was no way in h.e.l.l I was going to admit I wanted to be with someone, not while Arthur was standing there looking sorry for me. "I have a lot to catch up on here," I said, keeping my face calm as a pond. "Thanks for visiting, Robin. I'll talk to you later, Angel. Tell me when you need me to take you to pick up your car." Angel patted me on the shoulder. She'd asked Robin for a ride back into town, and he'd seemed glad to oblige. If I'd been him, I wouldn't have been too enthusiastic about getting back to the motel to face Joel Park Brooks, either.

To my dismay, somehow Arthur managed to linger while Angel and Robin left.

"How is Lorna?" I asked brightly, fis.h.i.+ng the little girl's name out of my memory with a desperate yank.

"She's great," Arthur said, his eyes focused on my face. Not too many people look at you so directly, but Arthur had always been a forceful and direct man. Except when he'd been dating me, and sleeping with Lynn Liggett. And asking her to marry him, when she was pregnant. Except for that. "She's in the first grade."

"Oh gosh," I said, the impact of the years that had gone by hitting me between the eyes. I remembered how jealous Martin had been of Arthur, when he found Arthur pursuing me after Arthur divorced Lynn. All that emotional energy, wasted.

"Yes, I know." Arthur laughed a little. "They've moved into Atlanta. Lynn wanted to put Lorna into a private school, so she took a job with a big company that installs security systems for businesses. She's pulling in the big bucks."

"How often do you manage to see Lorna?" I was struggling to keep the conversation going.

"I have her two weekends a month," Arthur said. "And some holidays."

"Did you remarry?" I asked, all too aware that my voice was too bright and social.

"You know d.a.m.n good and well I didn't," he said. He didn't sound angry--just as if he were dusting off my pretense of ignorance. "You would have known. I've dated a lot, come close to being that serious once."

I automatically wanted to know who the close call had been, but that wasn't something I could ask.

"How are you recovering?" he asked.

I bit my lower lip and looked down at the hardwood floor. "I'm probably doing better than I thought I would," I said.

"That sounds pretty uncertain."

I considered that. "I thought I'd really collapse," I said. "Then I thought I was just being brave for a while and I'd collapse after that. But I guess I won't ever."

"You seem surprised."

I nodded.

"He never was . . ." Arthur began, and I held up a warning hand. There was a long silence.

"I'm leaving," Arthur said. He rose wearily from the couch, ran a hand over his pale hair. "Do you . . . would you like someone to stay out here at night with you?"

"You offering?" I was trying to get a little lightness into the conversation.

"I'd do it in a minute," he said flatly, and I was sorry I'd spoken.

"Thanks, but I'm used to being by myself at night." I did appreciate his thinking of my feelings. But the habit of turning Arthur away had gotten so strong I couldn't break it, and it would really be bad for me to begin asking someone to spend the night at the house to keep me company-not to mention what it'd do to my reputation, though I was pleased to find that consideration was strictly secondary.

"If you need me, you call," Arthur said. "But I know I make you rattled." He looked resigned to that. "There's someone who'd love to stay out here with you, and she needs money, if a paying situation would be more comfortable for you. The new young patrolwoman is just panting to meet you. She'd be glad to keep you company, especially if there was money involved."

"Oh, she's on the poor side?" Why on earth would anyone want to meet me? Oh . . . the movie. Someday, I'd quit being completely naive.

"Her husband ran up all their credit cards as high as he could before he left," Arthur said, carefully showing no expression.

"He ran off with someone?"

"Her stepbrother."

I let that soak in for a minute, until I was sure I had understood Arthur correctly. "I guess my own problems aren't too bad," I muttered, and Arthur nodded.

"That does put your life in perspective," he agreed. "Plus, the SOB took their car."

"That's one of the worst stories I've ever heard," I said after I'd thought it over.

"Tell me about it. So, if you want Susan to stay with you, give me a call." Arthur patted me on the shoulder, walked across the front porch, and opened the screen door. "And call me if you think of anything about this morning, or about last night. Anything that might have happened while you were having dinner with the movie people."

"I will," I said, feeling sure I'd already told Arthur everything that could have a bearing on the murder of Celia Shaw.

I stood in the living room, all alone, and looked at the clock on the table. Amazingly, it was only noon. Equally amazingly, I was due at work.

Breakfast (two pieces of toast) had been an eon ago. I got some chicken salad out of the refrigerator and ate it out of the bowl, with crackers to scoop it up. I was glad I had a job where I was due, glad something had broken into the dreary pattern of my life . . .

Where had that that come from? come from?

I wasn't glad Celia was dead, was I?

No, not really. I was just glad something had happened to change things, jolt me out of my misery, cause people to treat me as something other than pitiful.

Because I wasn't, I told myself crisply. I was not pitiful, and I was not just a forlorn rich widow. I was no tragic figure to be wrapped in cotton batting, either. I was a kick-b.u.t.t kick-b.u.t.t rich widow. I began to feel better and better as I cleared away the cracker crumbs and the gla.s.s, and by the time I got in my car to go back to town, I was in a mood to take on a grizzly. rich widow. I began to feel better and better as I cleared away the cracker crumbs and the gla.s.s, and by the time I got in my car to go back to town, I was in a mood to take on a grizzly.

No one looking at my four-eleven exterior could tell I was loaded for bear, and it was a considerable surprise to Lillian and Perry when I told Janie Finstermeyer that her son had way too many overdue books, that it was getting to be a real habit of his, and that she'd better energize him into getting to the library with those books before the day was over or we'd yank his card.

I turned away from the telephone to find them staring at me as if I'd dyed my hair green.

"Can we even do that?" Lillian asked.

"You just watch me." But it wasn't necessary to put the threat to the test, because Josh Finstermeyer flew into the library as if propelled within an hour, money in hand and an apology on his lips. He even took his baseball cap off in the library.

I tried to be equally gracious.

Chapter Eight.

Of course, I heard from my mother that night. My mother, tall and elegant and reminiscent of Lauren Bacall at her coolest, might as well have been born on a different planet from me; I cannot imagine her carrying me in her womb, no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. I am an only child, and I've seen pictures of her pregnant, so I guess I'm really hers.

I was never much a child of my father, except biologically. He left when I was in my teens, my early teens. My mother, in her excellent vengeance, became a real estate tyc.o.o.n in a modest way-if a tyc.o.o.n can be modest-and lived in more affluence than I ever would have if I'd stayed with my newspaperman father. He'd remarried, and had a son named Phillip, my half-brother. I hadn't seen Phillip in years. My father had decided I reminded the boy of a traumatic incident, and that seeing me was bad for Phillip.

When he got his own computer, Phillip began emailing me. I could tell, in his first messages, Phillip considered himself daring, contacting his dangerous older sister. I replied so calmly and matter-of-factly that it made my teeth ache, but at the same time I tried to make it clear that I was very happy to hear from him. Now we exchanged news once or twice a week. I hadn't had much to tell him since Martin died (Phillip had sent me the biggest, most sentimental card he could find, covered with a glittery substance). That wasn't the case tonight.

When the phone rang I was busy trying to tell Phillip about the excitement of the movie shoot, without dwelling on the death of Celia Shaw. Seeing the movie set and the movie people through different eyes made me feel better about the whole thing, myself.

I picked up the phone absently, my mind still on my composition.

"I hear you met up with Arthur Smith today," my mother said.

"It's the first time I'd seen him in years," I said. "He looked pretty much the same."

"Not dating anyone now," my mother informed me, and I didn't ask her why she'd bothered to find that out. She wasn't giving me information about an opportunity, she was warning me. She'd never forgiven Arthur for dating Lynn while he was dating me, and especially for getting Lynn pregnant while I should have been. Mother's slacked off on the grandkid issue since she has some stepgrand-children through her husband, John Queensland. Especially once I told her that I had a malformation of the womb, and it was very unlikely that I would ever be able to have a baby: I'd tried to keep that to myself as long as I could.

But even if I told her I was dying to present her with a grandchild, she wouldn't want Arthur to be the father- not any more. In her opinion, he'd publicly humiliated me. (Actually, that was true. But I had given up minding.) "So, that poor girl who died was the one who was going to play you in the movie?"

"Yeah, the composite me. Weird feeling."

"Do you know Robin Crusoe is here?"

"Yes, I've seen him."

"How does he look?"

"Much the same. He dresses better. His hair's still red."

"Are you coming to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Oh . . . oh, sure." I rolled my eyes at the computer screen. The last thing I wanted was to go to a family dinner with all John's kids, their spouses, and the children. But I'd agreed a few days ago, guilted out because I'd skipped the last two such gatherings.