The Mountains Bow Down (12 page)

“Claire, you can let yourself off the hook. The crystals can't make people want to kill themselves.”

“You're wrong. You watch. Watch me and my third eye. I'm going to break this case wide-open.” Her voice was rising again. “You can make fun of me, go ahead.” Yelling now. “I'm going to find out who killed Judy.”

“Claire, keep it down.”

“And when I'm done, the whole world will know about Claire the Clairvoyant. The FBI won't make fun of me then!”

Shielding their eyes against the stage lights, the movie people peered into the tomb.

Claire stabbed her finger into my shoulder. “Just because you're an FBI agent doesn't mean you can insult me. You cops get so arrogant. But I know all about you, Raleigh. I know how you lie to your mo—”

“Shut up.”

“What did you say?”

I stood up. In three-inch heels, I towered over her. “Shut up or I will—”

“You're threatening me! Again!”

“My life is none of your business.”

She turned to the bartender. “Make a note.”

“Yes. What kinda drink is that?”

Claire turned toward the stage, bellowing, “Charlotte! Your niece the bully is doing it again. She doesn't want me to figure out who killed—”

“Stop it, Claire.” I grabbed her arm.

“Police brutality! Help! She's beating me up!”

Aunt Charlotte practically jumped off the stage. I wasn't holding Claire's arm anymore, but she continued an incoherent screed about police brutality and forces of darkness and she wouldn't go peacefully and I was backing away when I caught my heel on the bar stool. Lunging for the bar, I accidentally bumped Claire's arm.

“She hit me!”

My aunt rolled up like a frantic ball of silk. Sandy Sparks was right behind her, followed by the flock of lemmings.

“She carries a gun,” Claire said, pointing at me.

Their collective gasp sucked every ounce of oxygen from Pharaoh's Tomb.

“I am not carrying a gun,” I said. “And I didn't hit her. I was trying to move away when my heel caught and . . .”

It was no use. Nobody was listening. Nobody cared. And every mind was already made up. Forming a crescent around me, the handsome faces showed disdain, and fear. I glanced at the bartender. He was wide-eyed, a man who doesn't know whether to duck or serve drinks.

“I am not carrying a gun,” I said again.

Claire was sobbing. “She hit me, Charlotte.”

“I did not hit her.”

“You did!” Claire pushed up her sweatshirt sleeve, showing her forearm. “Look!”

The skin
was
red.

“It was an accident,” I said. “I fell.”

Claire tucked her face into Aunt Charlotte, who patted her back. “I know, Claire, I know,” my aunt murmured. “We're all hurting right now.”

The crowd stared, gorgeous zombies waiting to attack, but my aunt's forehead was notched with worry. I knew that expression from my dad. Her brother. This was how he looked whenever my mother's mind refused to reconcile with the real world, a look of pure love—and adamantine resolve.

It meant: stop the suffering, by any means necessary.

“Raleigh, you need to leave.”

“Aunt Charlotte, I didn't—”

She held up her hand, silencing me. “I heard what you said in the dining room.” Her voice was firm, scolding. “This behavior is unacceptable. Now go. Please.”

The beautiful crowd shuffled back, clearing a path for my exit, an angry Red Sea parting so the apostate could be exiled from Pharaoh's Tomb.

Chapter Nine

M
eanwhile, Jack was mano a mano with Milo.

“We're shooting the breeze.” His voice sounded cockier than usual. “You want to stop by? We're in his cabin. Just tell No-No to let you in.”

“No-No?”

I rode the elevator to Deck Fourteen where recessed lights illuminated coved doors that led to the ship's most expensive cabins. The penthouse was farther down the hall. Deck Fourteen was also where Judy Carpenter was hung.

The Ninja standing outside Carpenter's cabin watched me approach, his face blank as a mask.

“Let me guess,” I said. “No-No?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Jack Stephanson told me to stop by.”

As though hearing some password, No-No opened the door.

The deluxe cabin was not as opulent as the penthouse but had a small living room with a couch, two chairs, and a flat-screen television, which was being watched by a beefy fellow whose forehead hung over his eyes like a mansard roof. I'd seen him around the set; he kept the public at bay, some kind of bouncer. But we'd never been introduced.

He lowered his head with suspicion. The heavy brow cast shadows over his eyes.

“Raleigh Harmon, FBI.”

“I know who you are.”

He left it at that, giving no name.

“Is Jack Stephanson here?”

“In there.” He pointed to the closed door. “They know you're coming?”

I nodded.

Milo Carpenter sat cross-legged on a king-size bed, a floral coverlet bunched beneath him like a ruptured garden. With both hands, he clutched a bottle of Jameson's whiskey, half gone. Both bottle and man, half gone.

Beside the bed, Jack stretched out in a chair. Mr. Casual, still.

“Harmon, you're just in time. We need a woman's opinion.”

I glanced back at the man with the mansard forehead. He was absorbed in an ultimate fighting match on TV. I closed the door.

“We were talking about how unreasonable women get,” Jack continued. “Women take everything to the outer edge of reason.”

Milo's blond hair looked dull, like rye stripped by a hard wind. His face was flushed, the workaday charm of it, the thing that drew men into movie theaters, was somewhere inside that bottle. Swigging, he offered it to Jack.

“Thanks,” Jack said, “but no drinking on the job.”

“That stinks, you should become an actor.”

Jack's eyes sparkled. He was enjoying this. The creep.

“So you want to hear what happened?” he asked, before suddenly turning to Milo. “Oh, do you mind if I tell her?”

“Might as well.” Milo pulled a thread on the coverlet, gathering the print into a rayon bouquet. “People are gonna hear it soon enough.”

“It's because of his affairs,” Jack said. “She found photos. Pictures of Milo with other women. Just devastated her.” He looked at Milo. “Mind if I show her?”

Still gazing at the bedspread, Milo shook his head and Jack stood, picking up a manila folder from the nightstand. I watched a tear run raggedly down the actor's unshaven cheek.

I expected grainy surveillance photos. The sort taken at night from a great distance with a long lens. But these were color. In focus, well-lighted, and all of the women seemed aware of the camera. Dressed in Frederick's of Hollywood, they relished the pornographic “art.”

I closed the folder, feeling disgusted.

“She found them when she was hiding my Christmas present.” Milo's voice rasped. “Wasn't much of a Christmas.”

“How many women were there?”

Milo glanced at Jack, who shrugged.

“What did I tell you? It matters to them.” Jack turned to me. “That was Judy's first question, how many women.”

“It's a legitimate question,” I said.

Milo gave a mirthless smile. “How many? How high can you count?”

“You not only cheated on her, you kept evidence of it.”

“You want to judge me? Fine.” The glass-green eyes were shining. “But you don't know everything. We were living like brother and sister for years. She said she was okay with that. I loved her—” He stopped, seeing the disbelief in my face. “I did,” he insisted. “I loved her. That's why I kept all those affairs secret. I didn't want to hurt her. But she found the pictures, then demanded we go to counseling. And the tabloids ran with the story.”

“Marriage counseling?”
Or rehab
, I wondered.

“Sex addiction. She thought I had a problem.”

Jack cleared his throat. “He finally asked her for a divorce and she came apart.”

“Really?” I said. “But you go on a cruise together.”

“I filed papers,” Milo said. “You don't believe me, check the courthouse in LA.”

“And get a room with one bed.”

Jack scratched his chin. “One bed. That is a good point.”

Milo swigged from the bottle, then drew his wrist across his mouth. “She begged me, okay? Said all we needed was some romance.”

“That's what you call staying in the bar all night?” I said. “Romance?”

He glared at me. “I stayed in the bar because I didn't want to sleep with her.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“Hey, I could've had any woman in that place, but I didn't want to humiliate Judy. And not when she's working on the movie.” He looked at Jack, trying the line again. “I wasn't going to humiliate her like that. You believe me, don't you?”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded. “What time did you come back to the cabin?”

“Around three. I think it was around three.”

“Was she here?” I asked.

“No. And I knew I'd hurt her.” He was almost pleading. “I loved her, I swear. I just wasn't
in love
.”

“So she wasn't in the cabin,” I said, prompting again.

“I decided she was walking around, getting some air.”

“She got some air all right,” I muttered.

He didn't seem to hear me. “I was going to tell her we'd always be friends and some day she'd meet a guy who really appreciated her, loved her the way she deserved. But I went back to the bar because I couldn't find her. I had another drink, then got a bad feeling, and went to the desk to ask them to help me find her.”

The bedroom door swung open. There was no knock. A plain woman appeared. Brown hair the color of tonight's baked potato; skin the color of fat-free milk. I'd seen her around the set and with the zombies tonight in Pharaoh's Tomb. She always held a clipboard and reminded me of a winter sparrow, the way she quirked her head. Her voice wasn't chirpy, though. It was flat, packed down like sandstone.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was invited.”

She quirked her head at Milo. “We just had a scene.”

“One of my scenes?” Milo asked.

“
A scene
.” She pecked her head toward me. “She made a scene. At the crystal seminar.”

I glanced at Jack but his eyes were watching the Bird Girl.

“Sandy's afraid the paparazzi are going to find out. He wants a press release so it doesn't get blown out of proportion.” She lifted the ever-present clipboard, waiting for permission.

“Read it.” Milo dropped his head.

She looked at Jack. Then me.

“Read it, Betsy.”

“‘Judy Carpenter, wife of action-adventure star Milo Carpenter, died early Tuesday morning while on a cruise to Alaska with her husband. Mrs. Carpenter was a music producer of popular bands including recent breakout artists Stress Test and Peculiar Utterance. She committed suicide.'”

He looked up. “That's it?”

“No. ‘Milo Carpenter is devastated by the loss of his life partner and wife of nineteen years.'”

“Twenty-two,” he said. “We were married twenty-two years. Our anniversary's next month.”

She scratched her pen on the paper, then read again. “‘During this difficult time, Mr. Carpenter hopes his many devoted fans will respect his need for privacy. But the public is encouraged to post thoughts and feelings at
www.milocarpenter.com
. Mr. Carpenter plans to read every single note.'”

“What?”

“I'll read them,” she said. “ ‘To honor his wife's dying wishes, Mr. Carpenter will continue with his blockbuster movie
Northern Decomposure
, a sequel to his blockbuster hit
Nice Death
. The new movie will be in theaters later this year.'”

“We have a release date?”

She shook her head. “Sandy says keep it open. You never know with editing and production delays. I'm sending the release to the majors,
Variety
,
ET
. You want to take calls?”

“No.”

She pecked out a nod, then left.

Jack stood up. “We should get going too. Thanks for your time, Milo. It takes a real man to deal with something like this.”

Still playing Bad Cop, I waited by the door while the movie star got up to hug Jack. I was surprised when Milo turned to me with something like apology in his eyes.

“Sorry I didn't tell you all this earlier,” he said. “This whole thing. I mean, she's dead. You know?”

Yeah, I knew. And my father was murdered and I'd spent years dealing with other people coping with violent loss. In all that time, I'd never seen anyone who could've listened to a press release about their next business venture.

He waited for me to say something.

Anything.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm sure this has been quite a shock.”