THE NEXT TO DIE (10 page)

Steve booked them on the talk shows he’d recommended. And
People
arranged to interview and photograph them at home. All these commitments would be fulfilled in the next seventy-four hours—including a trip to Chicago for
Oprah
.

Avery’s agent reported that her phone was ringing off the hook with movie offers—hot, leading-man roles in big-budget productions. Joanne’s agent in New York described a similar phenomenon at her office. Several publishers wanted them to write their autobiographies—as well as a how-to manual for married couples who wanted to keep the honeymoon alive. There was also an idea for a “tasteful, coffee table book” of them nude and making love, shot by a big-name photographer. They had countless proposals from clothing manufacturers, and cosmetic, cologne, and underwear companies to be spokesmodels. They politely declined all offers. No one could accuse them of cashing in on this scandal. Almost no one.

“I’m Mrs. Richard Marshall, but you can call me Elsie.”

“Hi, Elsie!”

“God bless you,” Elsie said, blowing a kiss to her studio audience. Today, she wore a royal blue First Lady suit and pearls. She picked up a newspaper on the desktop. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m pretty disgusted by all the attention these two—well,
pornographers
—have been receiving the last couple of days.” She held up the front page of a tabloid with the headline:
INDECENT EXPOSURE: AVERY COOPER AND WIFE BARE ALL IN EXPLICIT HOME VIDEO
.

“Can you believe that some people actually consider these two ‘role models for romance’?” Elsie asked. “I’m just a housewife, but it seems to me that decent people—people we’re supposed to admire—don’t make sexually explicit videotapes of themselves and
accidentally
let them get duplicated thousands of times for wide distribution. And they seem just as proud as punch about it! Did you see them laughing and making jokes on
The Today Show
this morning? I could barely eat my breakfast, watching those two snickering about this—pardon me—‘sex tape.’” Elsie shook her head and sighed. “Now, from what I understand, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are supposed to have—what do they call it—a
bicoastal marriage?
” She glanced stage left, off camera. “Drew? Is that right?
Bicoastal?
”

Drew Marshall ambled onto the set to a swelling of applause. He wore a blue Armani suit today. “That’s right, Mom, bicoastal,” he said. He kissed her, then took the newspaper, glanced at it, and shook his head. “It means they’re married, but live on opposite sides of the country. In most cases, it also means they can date other people. It’s like how most of these so-called ‘gay marriages’ are. They say they’re together, but they sleep with other people.”

“Well, that’s not right,” Elsie muttered.

“No, it isn’t. You know, Avery Cooper and Joanne Lane are the ones who do those ads endorsing restrictions on our constitutional right to bear arms.”

“Oh, I’ve seen those commercials. They’re awful!” Elsie said.

Drew chuckled. “Well, at least they have their clothes on in the commercials. We can be grateful for that.”

Elsie frowned. “Wasn’t Avery Cooper the one in that TV movie glorifying an abortion doctor?”

“That’s right, Mom. And in his next movie, he plays a homosexual!”

“Well, all I can say is, ‘It figures.’”

“That goddamn homemade porn video has practically doubled their popularity! What the fuck is going on?”

His voice carried over the cries of seagulls and the sound of water lapping against the docks. A limousine and a rented Ford Taurus were parked side by side in the marina lot. The uniformed driver and another man leaned against the front hood of the Taurus. The second man was forty-five, with dark receding hair and a chalky complexion. He puffed on a cigarette, and glanced over his shoulder at the limo. The back window was cracked open, and he could hear his boss getting chewed out by one of the very-top dogs.

“The idea behind stealing and distributing the video was to ruin their reputations!” the bigwig went on. “But now they’re America’s goddamn fucking sweethearts. Their stupid gun-control commercials are pissing off my campaign contributors. I’ve made promises to them. And you can bet your ass, I’m going to deliver. Now, this porno-flick scheme was your fucking piece-of-shit brainchild. I want you to fix this. I want you to fix
them
. I want that faggot, Cooper, to suffer. I want his cunt of a wife to suffer. I want them disgraced. I want them both to wish they were fucking dead! Do you hear me?”

Propping his foot back against the rental car’s front bumper, the man took another drag from his cigarette. “Just listen to him in there,” he said to the chauffeur, cracking a little smile. “Hell, if old Elsie heard the way her son was talking, she’d wash his mouth out with Lifeboy.”

On Friday, November 7, at 5:52
P.M.
, a debate ensued over the Internet Movie-talk line about a film remake:

The following private mailbox discussion took place a minute later:

SCENE 28: INTERIOR: RACHEL’S LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

SCENE 29: INTERIOR: RACHEL’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

“Oh, shit,” Dayle grumbled, quickly closing the manuscript. She was considering the role of Rachel, the fictitious name they’d given to the real-life lesbian lawyer. This was Dayle’s first glance at the script, tentatively titled
In Self-Defense
.

For the past few days, she’d been trying to follow everyone’s advice, and stick to the business of making movies. She didn’t hire a bodyguard, but advised her chauffeur, Hank, that his watchman skills were required. She let him carry a 9-mm Glock. Hank assured her that he’d been practicing his marksmanship, and was ready for any kind of “protective service emergency.” In other words, he was just itching for someone to take a potshot at her so he could put his newly rehoned skills to use.

Nick Brock had called long distance from Estelle Collier’s old hometown, Monoma, Wisconsin. He’d left a brief message on Dayle’s machine: “Greetings from Dullsville, U.S.A. So far, all I got is that Estelle had a fat, miserable childhood. I hear later in high school, she was a pothead and bolted before graduating. Nobody knows where. I’ll try to dig up more. Ciao, Ms. Sutton.”

There hadn’t been any more incidents like the one up on her roof. But if things seemed calm for now, her playing a lesbian in this next film would be inviting trouble back. The trades had already reported her and Avery Cooper’s interest in the project.

Dayle had the script in her lap, open to the sex scene. She sat on the steps outside her trailer while the crew set up the next shot. It was a scene with Maggie McGuire, an Oscar-winning, forty-year film veteran, who played her mother. Maggie wasn’t averse to taking on small, juicy character roles like this one in
Waiting for the Fall
.

Her nose in a crossword puzzle, Maggie sat at Dayle’s side, in a “star” chair with her name on it. For seventy-one years old, the silver-blond actress looked great thanks to a few nips and tucks. Maggie had recently gained media attention by marching with her HIV-positive son in the Gay Pride Parade in Los Angeles. The two of them had landed on the cover of
People
.

Dayle reread the lesbian love scene and sighed.

“The script can’t be that bad,” Maggie said.

“Actually, it’s okay, but—well, here.” Dayle handed her the manuscript, open to the sex scene. “They want me for the role of Rachel.”

Maggie set aside her crossword puzzle and read for a moment. “Huh, I’d buy a ticket.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Dayle plucked the script out of her hands. “I mean, is this scene really necessary? Isn’t it enough that my character’s a lesbian? Do I have to prove it by making love to another woman on screen? Tom Hanks was gay in
Philadelphia
, but outside of a slow dance with Antonio Banderos, he hardly touched the guy. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to get naked and roll around with another woman to get the point across.”

Maggie gave her a world-weary smile. “Haven’t you figured out by now that heterosexual males call all the shots? Otherwise, there would be no wars, and we’d have a cure for breast cancer and AIDS.”

“And I wouldn’t have to kiss another woman’s tits in this movie.”

“Listen, you’ve got a gorgeous body. Why not show it off? As for the character, you’re a method actress, you know what to do. Talk to some lesbian lawyers. I can have my son introduce you to some women—”

“That’s all right, Maggie,” Dayle cut in. “In fact, the film’s based on a true story. This afternoon, I’m meeting the lawyer I play.”

“The breast-kissing Rachel?”

Sighing, Dayle nodded. “Her real name’s Sean Olson.”

“Something else about this movie bothers you,” Maggie said, studying her. She set aside her crossword puzzle book. “It’s not just this sex scene. What is it? Tell your mama.”

Dayle managed a chuckle, then shrugged. “Oh, maybe it’s the subject matter. It really seems to unnerve people. Stick your neck out, and someone always tries to chop it off.”

“No kidding,” Maggie said. “Certain folks have been grinding an ax for me since I appeared on the cover of
People
with my son. I’ve had a ton of hate mail. But that’s when I get on my high horse. No one’s going to tell me to shut up—especially when I’m defending the civil rights of my son. I’m a fighter, Dayle. I think you are too.”

Frowning, Dayle glanced down at the script in her lap.

Maggie started to reach for her crossword puzzle book. “I’ve made you uncomfortable, I can tell.”

“No, it’s okay. Really. You’re helping me figure this out, you are.”

Maggie sat back. “Well, then here’s my two cents. You’re a big star, Dayle. You could help launch this film. I know what the script’s about. It’s a movie that might make a difference for people like my son. If I’m picking away at you, that’s why. I have a personal investment in the subject matter. People will talk, and it’s a risk. I know you have an image to maintain, Dayle. But you shouldn’t rationalize your way out of doing this film.”

Dayle felt herself blushing. Maggie McGuire could see right through her. She shrugged. “Well, maybe I’ll feel more of a personal investment myself once I meet Sean Olson this afternoon.”

“I hope so,” Maggie said with a knowing smile.

“They’re still back there,” Dayle said to Hank, glancing out the rear window. “What’s it been—twenty-five minutes?”

“More like fifteen, Ms. Sutton,” he replied, his eyes on the road ahead. The glass divider between them was down.

He was driving her across town to Sean Olson’s office. A white Corsica had persistently remained two cars behind the limo ever since Hank pulled out of the studio gate. Dayle couldn’t quite see their faces, but two men sat in the front. “Do me a favor and keep a lookout, okay, Hank? I’m getting a crick in my neck.” Dayle turned forward.

She didn’t know this Sean Olson. Dayle almost hoped to be unimpressed by her; then she could turn down the film role. Why risk her career, her reputation, and even her life to play this stranger? She had no personal investment in Sean Olson at this point, and she wanted it to stay that way.

Sean Olson’s law office was above a HairCrafters salon on Hollywood and Vine. Hank announced that they’d eluded the white Corsica at about the time he started searching for a parking place. Usually, he’d just double-park, and escort Dayle to the door. But he didn’t leave her side nowadays, so they had to park the limousine in a lot down the block.

Two flights above HairCrafters, they could still smell the perfumed hair products and chemicals. The doors along the hallway were old fashioned, with windows of bubbled glass. On the door numbered 307 someone had taped a sign, written in green marker:
SEAN OLSON, ATTORNEY—COME ON IN
!

She and Hank went on in. They heard a woman singing “Moon River,” along with the radio. The small waiting room was a shambles. Paint-splattered plastic tarp covered every piece of furniture, and there was more of the same beyond the open door to the office. Dayle cleared her throat loudly.

“Who’s out there?” someone called.

“Us,” Dayle said, stopping in the office doorway.

The woman stood barefoot on a stepladder with a paint scraper in her hand. She wore jeans and a frayed T-shirt that had
WORLD’S GREATEST MOM
written across it—along with a photo of herself. She was a very attractive woman, slender and tall with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. A red bandanna covered her hair, but from the tacky photo on her T-shirt, it appeared wavy, chestnut-brown, and shoulder length. Dayle guessed she was in her early thirties. Poised on the ladder, she put a hand on her hip. “And who is ‘us’?” she asked, staring at them.

“I’m Dayle Sutton,” Dayle said. “I have an appointment with Ms. Olson.”

Stepping down the ladder, the woman scrutinized Dayle, then let out an embarrassed laugh. “Ha! Well, hi. I’m Sean Olson.” She tore off a work glove and shook Dayle’s hand. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“Our appointment was for today, Monday,” Dayle pointed out.

Sean Olson shrugged. “Well, move aside some tarp and pull up a chair.”

“Um, nice meeting you,” Hank said quietly. Then he touched Dayle’s arm. “I’ll be out by the stairs, reading the latest, Ms. Sutton.”

“Thanks, Hank. Let me know how it is.” Dayle waited until Hank left, then gave Sean Olson a cool smile. “He’s a big fan of true crime and detective novels. Looks like I caught you at a bad time.”

“Oh, don’t sweat it.” Sean pulled back a piece of paint tarp to reveal a minirefrigerator. “What can I get you? I have Evian, Evian, Diet Coke, Evian, Lemonade, Evian, and Evian.”

“Evian, please.”

“Sorry about the looks of the place. I just moved in. Kind of a dump, but at least I won’t have to go far to get my hair done.” She handed a bottle of Evian to Dayle. “Everything has gone to hell because of this move. Some of my law books are still in Eugene. But I’ve passed the California state bar, thank God.”

Dayle raised her Evian bottle to toast her. Pushing aside the tarp, she found the corner of a gray leather sofa and sat down. “I like your T-shirt,” she lied. She wondered to whom Sean Olson was The World’s Greatest Mom.

Sean glanced down at the photo of herself. “Isn’t it awful? I’m going straight to hell for wearing it while painting. My kids gave this to me, and for the last few months I’ve been forced to wear it on practically every family outing. I figure after this week, I can say it has too much paint on it. They’ll probably run out and buy me another just like it—except in pink.”

“How many kids do you have?” Dayle asked.

“Two.” She reached under the tarp covering her desk, then pulled out a framed photograph and handed it to her. “Danny, eleven, and Phoebe’s seven.”

The sweet, gawky, dark-haired boy and the little redheaded girl were quite cute, and Dayle said so. The screenplay hadn’t mentioned any children or an ex-husband. Maybe the kids were adopted, or conceived by artificial insemination. Sean offered no explanation.

She took the framed photo back, then sat on the edge of her desk. “So are you here to check me out?” she asked.

“Well, yes. Also I might ask the director to take you on as a technical advisor—that is, if you’re interested.”

Sean frowned. “Depends. Would I advise you movie folks about how true-to-life everything is?”

“Probably,” Dayle answered, puzzled by a sudden edge in Sean’s voice.

“Well, I’d probably last two hours on that set before you guys kicked me out on my butt.” She took a swig of Evian, then shook her head in resignation. “You know, for years I’ve watched this story get twisted inside out, soft-pedaled, commercialized, and bastardized by Hollywood and I’m fed up. How can you even stand this business? You want the truth, Ms. Sutton?”

Dayle laughed. “Do I have a choice?”

“I think you’re all wrong to play me. You’re a glamorous superstar. This part requires a serious actress, maybe someone from the theater. I’m not trying to insult you—”

“It’s comforting to know that,” Dayle said, sitting straighter. “For the record, Ms. Olson, I’m a serious, working actress with theater origins—”

“Are you going to play me as a lesbian?” Sean interrupted.

“Yes, I was planning on it.”

Sean put down the Evian bottle and folded her arms. “I’m so sick and tired of this Hollywood hypocrisy. Talk about a bunch of phonies. Are there actually lesbian sex scenes in this latest script?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dayle heard herself say, suddenly defending them. “The scenes are thought-provoking, and necessary to the story line.”

Sean rolled her eyes. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Dayle stood up. “Your slams against Hollywood don’t impress me. They’ve paid you a lot of money. I think you’re the hypocrite, Ms. Olson. You’re also rude.” Dayle headed for the door.

“Listen, I should explain…,” Sean started to say.

But Dayle kept walking and pretended not to hear.

She hated asking Hank to escort her up to the apartment. Lately, she even had him come inside until she’d turned on the lights. Of course, Hank loved playing her protector. But Dayle found it humiliating.

They stepped into the lobby together, and the doorman greeted them. The spacious atrium was decorated with a modern cubic fountain sculpture, several tall potted Fichus trees, and three long, leather-covered sofas.

Sean Olson sat on one of the couches, reading a book. Dayle’s first instinct was to breeze toward the elevator and simply ignore her—as she had her two phone messages since their awful meeting yesterday. But Sean sprang up from the sofa. “Dayle? Do you have a minute?”

She stopped and gave her a frosty stare usually reserved for obnoxious reporters. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry if I offended you yesterday, Dayle.” Groveling wasn’t her forte. The apology had a brisk and businesslike tone.

Still, Dayle’s stony expression softened a bit. Sean Olson cleaned up nicely. She wore a pale green suit, and in her beige heels, she stood close to six feet tall. Her shiny, chestnut brown hair was casually swept back.

Dayle patted Hank’s shoulder. “I’m okay, Hank. Go home, get some rest.”

He nodded. “G’night, Ms. Sutton.”

Sean watched him lumber toward the door, then she turned to Dayle. “About yesterday,” she said. “You’re right. I was rude to you. I apologize.”