Reel Murder (25 page)

“Not fun stuff?” Rafe hooted. “Is this guy for real?”

“Shhh,” Lola said, taking in every word. “Did you hear that, Maggie? He thinks you may need help. Psychological help.”

Funny, that’s what Rafe had told me earlier that evening. Looks like Mom and Rafe are on the same team.

A couple of more minutes of psychobabble and Laura neatly wrapped up the interview. When they cut to a commercial, Lark said, “Well, they certainly didn’t say much, did they? We’re not any closer to understanding why the light fell.”

“There’s no mystery about it,” I countered. “Carla’s trying to make this into a big story and it just isn’t there. It will all be forgotten by tomorrow, I promise you.”

Mom and Lark went to the kitchen to make coffee and Rafe shot me a questioning look, his dark eyes flickering with concern. “You really don’t believe that light was intended for you.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to say that. Maybe it’s someone’s way of telling you to back off.”

Back Off
. My mind lurched with a new sickening thought. That’s what the note had said.

Rafe must have seen my expression change because he said quickly, “Maggie, is there something you’re not telling me?”

Back Off
. I licked my lips, my mouth went dry, and my stomach gave a nervous little flutter and then dropped straight to my feet.

Rafe narrowed his eyes, giving me a hard look. “You haven’t had any threatening phone calls or anything like that, have you?”

“Of course not. Well, not exactly,” I hedged. “Okay, there was a note that came into the station.” I waved my hand in a little dismissive flip. “I suppose it depends on how you interpret it, and maybe it could be called threatening. But I think that’s stretching it a little; I prefer to think it was nothing. A harmless prank, that’s all. Maybe some disgruntled listener.”

Rafe’s eyes were penetrating, locked on mine. “You think it’s nothing? What exactly did it say?”

“The same thing you just did.” My thoughts scrambled and I let out my breath in a soft sigh. “Two words: back off.”

“The two words were written on a sheet of paper? That’s it?”

“They weren’t handwritten; the letters were cut out of magazines. Very retro, like something out of a cornball film noir. Pretty over-the-top, right?” I smiled, to show how amusing the whole thing was.

Rafe didn’t smile back and I noticed he was wearing his stony cop-face, with his mouth drawn into a thin line of disapproval.

“Where’s the note now? You didn’t throw it out, did you? And I hope to God you saved the envelope.” His voice was harsh, the words shooting out of his mouth like bullets. I’d hate to be a suspect being grilled by Rafe Martino; I think I’d cave at the first question.

“Of course I didn’t throw it out,” I said, stung. “It’s tucked away in a folder somewhere at work, and I’m sure Vera Mae saved the envelope. She told me Cyrus keeps a whole file of hate mail.”
Whoa. Hate mail. A big slip of the tongue. That was a little strong, wasn’t it? Too late to take it back now.
Rafe looked like he was ready to jump out of his chair, his hands balled into fists.

“Hate mail.” He gave me a scathing look, shaking his head in disbelief. “You get a threatening note, and you were just going to ignore it; you didn’t even think of calling the police? You don’t worry about putting yourself in jeopardy, do you?”

Hmmm. He had a point
. Rafe has always told me to stay out of police business, insisting that I was putting myself at risk with my sleuthing.

I was feeling a little defensive, so what did I do? Like an idiot, I overcorrected, and came across as way too strident and argumentative. Now I was stuck. I’d been operating on the theory that Rafe was wrong, that there was no danger, nothing to worry about. How could I back down now without looking like a total wuss?

I remembered Vera Mae saying the best defense is a good offense.

“Hey, I’m not the only one who gets these kinds of letters, you know.” My voice was getting a little shrill, and I made a conscious effort to rein it in. “I’m sure it was just a prank, really. This sort of thing happens all the time in broadcasting. It goes with the territory, you know.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, it does.” I deliberately made my tone very cool and casual, even though I had a funny little flip in the pit of my stomach. “I probably offended someone by something I said on my show and they decided to write me an anonymous note. No big deal. Or maybe they were angling to be a guest on the show and Vera Mae didn’t invite them. There are a zillion possibilities, Rafe. You can’t take these things too seriously, can you?” I tried for another smile, but I could feel it dying on my lips under Rafe’s harsh glare.

“Maybe you can’t take it seriously, Maggie,” he said, the words dropping like stones, “but I can.” Heavy pause, just like Horatio Caine when he nails a suspect in CSI Miami and shoots his trademark badass stare.

“And you can be sure that I will.”

Yowsers. Rafe’s protective instincts were kicking in big-time. Well, that’s what cops do, right? Protect and serve. That’s what it says on all the black-and-whites patrolling Cypress Grove. But was Rafe just being a good cop or was his interest in the case personal?

Rafe left a few minutes later, leaving Lark and Mom sharing the Sweet Dreams treats with Pugsley in the kitchen. I was dead on my feet and tumbled into bed at eleven thirty, still pondering the characters on my suspect list. Who really wanted to kill Adriana, and why? I pulled my lavender Laura Ashley quilt up to my chin and stared at the ceiling, my thoughts racing in a million directions while I reviewed everyone’s MMO. I still hadn’t reached any conclusions by midnight, when Pugsley bounded into bed next to me, and I fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

An early morning phone call from Vera Mae the next day jolted me awake.

“Maggie, are you up, girl?” Her honeysuckle tones melted over the line and I heard a commercial for Wanda’s House of Beauty playing softly in the background. She and Irina start the day very early.

“I am now,” I said wryly. “What’s up?”

Okay, the truth is out: I’m not an early morning person and no one would ever accuse me of being “perky” before I’ve had my daily caffeine infusion. Vera Mae knows this, so I figured something major had happened. She wasn’t calling just to chic-chat about the latest episode of
Dancing with the Stars
, but I knew there was no way to hurry her. Vera Mae would tell me in her own good time.

“Just thought you’d like to know that Sonny Crockett stopped by the station. I think he’s got it bad for you, honey. I really do.” She laughed, pleased with herself. “It doesn’t take a shrink or a psychic to figure that one out.”

Sonny Crockett?
Oh yeah. Vera Mae collects
Miami Vice
memorabilia and is a huge fan of Detective James (“Sonny”) Crockett, the character that Don Johnson played in the police drama. Rafe doesn’t even look like Don Johnson, although he does have bedroom eyes and a sexy swagger. I can’t dissuade Vera Mae, though. She’s convinced that there’s a striking resemblance, as if Rafe and Don Johnson were separated at birth.

She even reminds me that Rafe has the same cute little dimple when he smiles (as if I needed reminding!).

If anyone “has it bad,” it’s Vera Mae, who has the major crush, but I figured this wasn’t the time to tell her.

“We’re talking about Rafe Martino, right?”

I bit back a yawn. The bright sunlight was streaming through the wooden blinds and I heard cicadas buzzing in the bougainvillea outside my window. It was going to be another south Florida scorcher. I glanced at the outfit I’d laid out the night before. White capri pants, espadrilles, and a sleeveless green silk top. It would work for the set and then later for my afternoon show.

My hair was another matter. With ninety percent humidity, I’d turn into a fuzz ball. I’d have to pull it back off my shoulders and fasten it with a tortoiseshell clip. I keep one in the glove box just for bad hair days. And in south Florida, there are a lot of them.

“Of course; who else?” Vera Mae gave a lustful if-only-I-were-twenty-years-younger sigh. “He’s real worried about you; any fool can see that.”

“He is.” I felt a warm little buzz inside me when I thought of Rafe and his bone-melting smile. His long lanky frame, those chiseled features—I quickly snapped back to reality when I heard Vera Mae laughing. “I mean, he is?” I made sure my voice spiraled up in a question, as if I really didn’t know the answer. I don’t think Vera Mae was fooled for a second, but she played along with me.

“You bet he is. You must have told him about that nasty letter you got. He got here bright and early, asked to see it, and he ended up taking it back to the police station with him. I guess they’re gonna analyze it or something.”

“Wow.” I was impressed. “Do you mean for fingerprints? What did he have to say about it?”

“The look on his face said it all, honey. He put on some rubber gloves and he put the letter in one of those little plastic evidence bags, just like they do on
CSI
. My heart was beating like a rabbit’s; believe me. This is the closest I’ve come to a real crime scene investigation. I wanted to ask him about trace evidence, fingerprint whorls, too. I’ve always had a question about those, but he seemed like he was in a big hurry to get out of here.”

I grinned.
Trace evidence? Fingerprint whorls?
Vera Mae is a great fan of TV crime shows, and if she misses one because she’s working at the station, she TiVos them to watch later.

“I don’t think he’s going to be able to do much with that note. Just those two words.
Back Off.
Anyone could have sent that, and it isn’t really like a death threat, is it?”

There was a long pause and I wondered if Vera Mae had put the phone down to run another commercial. “Well, honey, the note that you saw might not have been so bad, but the second one, that’s a lot worse.”

“Vera Mae—” I began, but she cut me off.

“Honey, a second note was delivered by hand sometime last night. Somebody must have slipped it under the front door to the station. Irina found it when she unlocked the glass doors this morning. She about flipped out, let me tell you.” She paused while my thoughts zigzagged around my head. “Rafe took that one with him, too.”

“A second note,” I said slowly. This was a surprise and I sat straight up in bed, disturbing Pugsley, who woke up with an annoyed yip. “Was it like the first? Did Rafe think it came from the same person?”

“He wasn’t sure.” A long beat. “I hate to tell you, sugar, but this one was worse, sugar, much worse.”

I bit my lip in frustration. What a way to start the day. “So Rafe has the note with him right now? Damn, I’d like to see it.”

“I figured that, honey, so I made a copy to show you. I wasn’t sure if I should, but I figured you’d want to see it. What time are you coming in today?”

I glanced at the clock. Seven oh five and my day was already in shreds. “I’ve got to be on the set for a few hours this morning, but I’ll see you right after lunch.”

“Be careful, sugar,” Vera Mae said, signing off. “Especially out at Branscom Pond.”

I decided not to tell Mom or Lark about the second note, and after dressing hurriedly, I headed out to the set. Mom didn’t have to be there until early afternoon, so we decided to take two cars instead of driving together.

My mind was reeling with this new information from Vera Mae as I drove down 95 South. I jammed my Phil Collins CD into the player and asked myself: how did all this fit into the bigger picture? Were the notes really relevant to Adriana’s death or was it just a coincidence? If someone was bothering to threaten me, that meant they really thought I was on to something. But what?

A shooting death, a near accident, and two threatening notes.

Could it be that Rafe was right? Was I setting myself up to be the next victim—was someone going to silence me for good? Had I put myself in harm’s way by investigating the case? I felt like my head was going to explode and I knew I had some tough decisions to make before it would all be too late.

The Guitar Heroes were up to their usual antics when I parked in the far lot at Branscom Pond and hoofed my way to the set. They were passing a football back and forth and glanced up briefly when I passed them, gave me a blank look, and then went right back to their game. Not even a nod of recognition.

Either they didn’t remember me or they had nothing to say to me. That was okay; I had nothing to say to them, either. As Maisie reminded me, Hank Watson had hired me and he seemed pleased with my work on the script. I didn’t have to win a popularity contest with these two yahoos.

I was happy with the way the script was turning out and I hoped to catch up with Sandra Michaels for another talk about her lines and delivery this morning. She seemed much more confident since we’d been working together and I knew she’d give a powerful performance in the courtroom scene. She was an excellent actress and just needed a little direction.

I thought about what Nick had told me about Copper Canyon—the secret getaway for stars who needed a nip and tuck—and I wondered how I could delicately bring up the subject with her. Unless I’d been imagining it, Sandra had seemed uncomfortable when I’d asked her about the popular resort area in Mexico. It might be worth bringing it up again to see what sort of reaction I got.

The set was buzzing with activity: the caterers from the craft services truck were setting out a not-so-healthy breakfast spread of doughnuts and pastries, gaffers were trailing loops of electrical cable between the cameras, and Tammilynne Cole was having a meltdown in front of the Wardrobe trailer.

It was like a gory traffic accident on I-95, the kind you don’t want to watch, but can’t bring yourself to turn away from. Tammilynne was holding a flowered dress on a hanger, haranguing Hank and Maisie, who looked tense and unhappy. A small group of extras stood by, listening avidly and trying their damnedest to pretend they weren’t.