Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary
Part One
THE “MARY SMITH” MURDERS
Mary, Mary
Chapter 3
To: agriner@latimes.com From: Mary Smith Arnold Griner squeezed his small, squinty eyes shut, put his hands over his practically hairless skull, and scrubbed his scalp hard. Oh, God save me, not another one, he was thinking. Life is to short for this shit. I can't take it. I really can't take this Mary Smith deal.
The L.A. Times newsroom buzzed around him as if it were any other morning: phones jangling; people coming and going like indoor race walkers; someone nearby pontificating about the new fall TV lineup - as if anybody cared about the TV lineup these days.
How could Griner feel so vulnerable sitting at his own desk, in his cubicle office, in the middle of all this? But he did.
The Xanax he'd been popping since the first Mary Smith e-mail a week ago did absolutely nothing to hold back the spike of panic that shot through him like the needle used in a spinal tap.
Panic - but also morbid curiosity.
Maybe he was “just” an entertainment columnist, but Arnold Griner knew a huge news story when he saw one. A blockbuster that would dominate the front page for weeks. Some one rich and famous had just been murdered in L.A. he didn't even have to read the e-mail to know that much. “Mary Smith” had already proved herself to be one sick lady and true to her word.
The questions attacking his brain were who had been killed this time? And what the hell was he, Griner, doing in the middle of this awful mess?
Why me of all people? There has to be a good reason, and if I knew it, then I'd really be freaking, wouldn't I?
As he dialed 911 with a badly shaking hand, he clicked open Mary Smith's message with the other. Please, God, no one I know. No one I like.
He began to read, even though everything inside told him not to. He really couldn't help himself. Oh, God! Antonia Schifman! Oh, poor Antonia. Oh no, why her?
Anonia was one of the good people, and there weren't too many of those.
To: Antonia Schifman: I guess you could call this anti-fan mail, although I used to be a fan.
Anyhow, 4:30 in the morning is awfully early for a brilliant, three-time academy award winner and mother of four to leave the house and her children, don't you think? I suppose it's the price we pay for being who we are. Or at least it's one of them.
I was there this morning to show you another downside of fame and fortune in Beverly Hills.
It was pitch-black dark when the driver came to take you to “the set.” There's a sacrifice you make that your fans don't begin to appreciate.
I walked right in the front gates behind the car and followed him up the driveway.
Suddenly, I had the feeling that your driver had to die if I wanted to get to you, but still, there wasn't any pleasure in killing him. I was too nervous for that, shaking like a sapling in a fierce storm.
The gun was actually trembling in my hand when I knocked on his window. I kept it hidden behind my back and told him you'd be down in a few minutes.
“No problem,” he said. And you know what? He barely even looked at me. Why should he? You are the star of stars, fifteen million a picture I've read. I was just the maid as far as he was concerned.
It felt like I was playing a bit part in one of your movies, but trust me, I was
