Murder Take Two (9 page)

“It won't do. You can't make atonement by staying one lousy night. You might ease your conscience, you won't solve anything.”

He kept his voice low. “I only want to do what's right.”

“That's what we all want. The problem is what's right for one isn't right for all. Right depends on viewpoint. What do you think is right? She stays here and everything goes back to the way it used to be? That's not going to happen. She had a stroke, Peter. She's not ever going to be like she used to be, and all your wishing and ignoring the facts isn't going to make it so.”

Eyes closed, he rubbed a hand down his jaw. Fighting with Serena made him feel small and beady-eyed. They'd always stuck together. Growing up as they did, it was the only way to survive. “What do you want to do?”

She sighed, part sadness, part irritation. “You know what we have to do.”

“She's afraid of that very thing.”

“Damn it, Peter, you think I want this?” Serena blew her nose on the other half of the paper towel. “You think I don't ache for her? Wish she was all right?” A high giggle popped out. Yancy smiled.

All right didn't fit with their mother. She'd always had a flexible attitude toward reality.

“That's not the only option,” he said. “We could find somebody to stay with her.”

“Twenty-four hours a day?”

“I could move back, be here at night.”

“That's great. And what will you do when you have to work nights? And how will you pay for it?”

“I don't know. I'll work something out.” He didn't suggest Dallas move in here. In her more lucid moments—as lucid as she ever was or could be—their mother liked Dallas fine. Other times she got him confused with the villains in the grimmer Celtic tales. Besides, Dallas had a larger, more livable place of his own. “And the money for some kind of home?”

“The house.”

Yancy suddenly felt bone-tired; sadness—the kind that clings after grief ebbs—oozed over him like an oil slick. “What about Elmo?”

“I don't know about Elmo. I just don't know.”

“
Peter?
” Their mother's voice came from the other room. “Is that you?”

“You mind if I see her?”

“Stop that!” Serena slapped the cabinet with the palm of one hand, the sound was like the crack of a circus whip. “I won't be the bad guy here.”

“No. I'm sorry.” His hands cupped her head so she couldn't look away. “I don't know what to do. That makes me mean.”

“Peter—?”

Serena poked him in the chest with an index finger. “Go. You always make her happy.”

The house was basically four rooms, kitchen and living room in front, two bedrooms behind, bathroom tucked in between. Their mother's bedroom was on the right of the hallway, Serena's on the left. Until he was eight and Serena ten, they'd shared it. For his eighth birthday, he got to move into the garage. A little nippy in the winter, but all his.

On the floor in the corner, Elmo, the giant schnauzer his mother had rescued from the pound, inched himself up to a sitting position, gave Yancy a swipe with a soft tongue, and inched himself, toenails clicking, back down. Time to trim those nails again. His mother sat in the white wicker rocking chair tucked into bright yellow cushions. Outside the window, a fiery sun was slipping behind the hills, the dark blue sky was smeared with violet and pink and purple. Jasmine scented the night air.

A small fan purred on the table beside her gently lifting the ends of her dark hair. When he was a little kid, he'd thought she looked like Snow White, fairest in the land. At forty-six, Raina Yancy was still lovely, white skin, oval face, brown eyes, air of innocence and wonder. She brought to mind fireflies and moonlight and silvery wind chimes.

She sang quietly to herself in a clear voice, a song about blood and murder as she worked on a quilt square.

“… Then he cut off her head

from her lily breast bone

and he hung't up in the kitchen

it made a' the ha shine.”

Before the stroke, her fingers would dart like hummingbirds over the bright colors; now they were slow and awkward.

“Peter.” A smile lit up her face. She dropped the square of cloth in her lap and held out both hands.

“How are you, Mom?” Squatting beside her, he took her hands and kissed her soft cheek.

“No longer very skillful.” She nodded at the square.

“It's perfect.” He backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. It was covered in a quilt she'd made of white squares with stars of every color and a blue and yellow border.

“I'm so glad you're here.”

He reached past her and switched on the lamp sitting on the bookcase. “This might help.”

Light pooled on a white pitcher with blue flowers and a framed photo of himself in uniform brought out the cheery yellow of the striped wallpaper and paler yellow in the tied-back curtains.

“I've been watching the bats leave,” she said.

Other people had birdhouses in their yards; his mother had bat houses, way back before bats were popular. Little differences like this had made his childhood difficult.

“It's just that they're ugly,” she said. “They suffer from bad press. And they do so much good. Think of the thousands of mosquitoes they eat.”

Elmo, supercilious expression, bushy eyebrows, and muttonchop whiskers, stretched his forepaws out in front of him and raised his rear end in the air, then righted himself, moseyed over and butted his head up under Yancy's hand. Yancy obliged. The
Herald
daily ran a picture of a cute puppy or kitten needing a home. Why they chose Elmo, he couldn't guess, but his mother had taken one look and raced right out to save the beast. Elmo hadn't strayed from her side since. He knew lady bountiful when he saw her. After bestowing a lick of appreciation on Yancy, he swung his large head into her lap and looked up at her with eternal love and loyalty.

She stroked his pointy ears. “Tell me about your day, Peter. What happened to make you so late? Serena's upset.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know, dear. I told her to go ahead. What kind of trouble could I get into sitting right here?”

“She didn't want you to get hurt.”

“I'm not a child, Peter.”

“No, you're not, but sometimes you get—confused.”

She laughed. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I've been confused all my life.”

“Well—” He smiled. “Maybe different.” Nobody else's mother put fairy tales and Bible stories in the same bin. He grew up with a steady diet of things in the world that needed doing, missions to accomplish, wrongs to correct, causes to champion. “And what have you been up to?”

“Watching movies.”

“Yeah? What did you see?”

She frowned in thought. “Somebody was trying to kill her. The weapon was hidden in the basket. It broke and fell.”

“What fell?”

“I'm not sure. Remember Lucy Locket?”

“I don't think so, Mom.”

“Of course, you do. She had two eyes on a platter.”

“Oh.”

“Obsession.” She examined his face. “You look tired, love. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Sure, Mom. It's just been a long day.”

“You know, Peter, I've lived here all my life.” Her voice was soft. “Elmo and I like to sit out there under the ash tree.” Her voice grew softer. “Are you going to make me leave?”

“No, Mom. No, I won't.”

8

Susan managed to be at the hotel, the lobby dim and deserted, by ten o'clock. Howard Gilbert, the assistant manager, handed her the stuntwoman's room key—an actual key, not a coded plastic card.

“This is the first time since I've been here,” he said, “that we've had a guest die.”

He didn't look over twenty-five, round face more suited to smiling than somberness.

“Tell me about Kay Bender,” she said.

“Quiet. Tell you the truth, I hardly remember what she looked like. Never any trouble. Not like some of them.”

“Who caused trouble?”

“All of them,” he said darkly. “They're worse than fraternity boys on a weekend drunk. They play football in the hallways, pull down chandeliers. I think they swing on them. Once they took lobby furniture and jammed it all in the elevators. And you wouldn't believe the state of the bathrooms. One maid out-and-out quit, said I couldn't pay her enough.”

“That's showbiz,” Susan said. “Did Kay make any calls? Receive any?”

“Not that got charged for. Maybe local or room to room.”

“Are you sorry this whole bunch is here?”

He grinned. “I'm not and that's a fact. It's the only period in my time that we've turned away guests.”

“Is everybody staying here connected with the movie?”

“All except for two or three. And I have to say they're really something.”

“Who?”

“You know. From California. Making the movie. Laura Edwards. I mean, right here. I'm an extra,” he added proudly.

She congratulated him.

On the third floor, she slipped the key in the lock, opened the door, and flicked the switch. A ceiling fixture with four tulip-shaped globes bloomed into light. She'd never been in one of the rooms. It was pretty much standard hotel room of the past type, which was, she assumed, what the decorator had in mind. Brass bed with floral spread, small tables on each side, two easy chairs with a table between, a low chest with a television set—a bow to modern times—alcove with mirror and vanity table, and a bathroom with the usual fixtures, albeit of a bygone era.

Everything was neat and tidy. The stuntwoman had left before six in the morning and never come back. The maid had been in around nine. There was no way to be sure, but the room seemed undisturbed by any unauthorized individual; certainly no one had sneaked in and tossed the place.

She checked the bathroom, making sure an ax murderer wasn't skulking behind the shower curtain—she'd actually encountered that once—then pulled on latex gloves and began a methodical search. She missed Parkhurst's help, but all things considered, it was better that he had no more connection with this case.

Osey could be doing this search, and he was a little miffed that he wasn't, holding unspoken resentment that she didn't believe him capable. It wasn't that; he was a good cop with a quick mind and thorough in his work, but this situation was a potential bag of trouble, and she was the most experienced investigator the HPD had, including Parkhurst. Though he came from a fair-sized city, with all the mess and pain and horror and inhumanity that cities have, her background was more extensive. She wanted this death cleared in record time, before anything happened to Laura Edwards, before the media got wind of a threat—if there was one—and got into a feeding frenzy.

Kay Bender had been a neat young lady; nothing was left on tabletops, not even a note or paperback book. T-shirts, shorts, and underwear lay folded in drawers; three dresses hung in the closet—two casual, one for a more fancy occasion; shoes were lined on the floor, two pairs of white Reeboks, one pair of black pumps with medium heels. The bathroom counter held a toothbrush and toothpaste; a neat row of cosmetics, only a few, sat on the vanity table.

One of the drawers turned up a scrapbook and Susan paged through it. Pictures and newspaper articles of Kay Bender in high school. An accomplished gymnast, she'd won competitions and awards, had even been an alternate for the Olympic team. Toward the end of the book were articles and stills about the movies she'd been in, stunts she'd done, pictures of her with the actresses she'd doubled for, both smiling into the camera. She'd been very focused, this young woman, and devoted her entire life to gymnastics, and then movie stunts. Nothing frivolous or frothy. Twenty-one years of life, Susan thought as she laid the scrapbook on the bed. She hoped Kay's dedication had brought her fulfillment, satisfaction, happiness, whatever was most important to her.

The room revealed no more surprises than had Kay Bender's body. Susan hadn't expected it would, but she searched thoroughly. She checked under the bed, between mattress and springs, in the toilet tank, under the lamps, through all pockets and in the toes of shoes. She emptied all the drawers, pulled them out, and checked the bottoms. She'd never found anything taped to the bottom of a drawer, but there was always a first. No cryptic messages, hidden treasures, or meaningful items. It all added up to a picture of a young woman caught in somebody else's hatred. She hoped she wasn't dismissing Kay Bender too blithely.

Peeling off the gloves, she took one last look around before she left, making sure the door locked behind her. She headed for the elevator and poked the button.

The doors slid open, and Sheri Lloyd stepped off. A denim-clad Nick Logan gazed above head level with polite indifference. When he realized who she was, he smiled. “Working late?”

And there she was getting into the elevator with one of the rich and famous. “It's in the job description.”

“Time off for dinner? You pick the place, I'll buy.”

Now, there was a bang-up idea. “Another time. Murder investigation.”

“Murder?”

Watch your mouth, Susan. “Or accident. We're working on it.”

The doors slid silently shut leaving her in a small confined space with a man who took up too much of it. Something about him was so big and so vivid and so directed, it drew you in.

He pulled on an intent look of idiocy. “If you could tell me,” he said as Inspector Clouseau, “where you wear. ‘Wear?' Yes yes, wear. ‘A pin-striped suit, a white shirt and gold cuff links.' No, you idiot. Not the cluths you had on. Where you wear at the time of the murder.”

She smiled. Talented man, Nick Logan. How about that dinner invitation? She could file it under suspect, interrogation of.