“Huh, no comment,” she mumbled over her ice tea glass.
Wounded, Tom gazed at her. “Is that what you think I am? A pest?”
“Every time you come over here, you make me feel like I owe you something. And I’m sick of it, Tom.”
“I don’t mean to make you feel that way, Maggie.” Yet he liked the idea that she still felt beholden to him after all these years. He reached a hand over the counter toward her. “I’m proud to be the one who helped you —”
“May I remind you for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t exactly on poverty row when you ‘discovered’ me? I’d done some modeling and commercial spots. I would have made it into the movies with or without you— eventually.”
Tom stared at his empty hand, palm up. She didn’t seem to notice that he’d been reaching out to her. He climbed off the stool, and pain shot through his foot as soon as he put some weight on it. He grabbed the counter to keep his balance.
“Are you okay?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Should I call you a taxi?”
She thought that he was drunk. Tom shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all right. Sorry I bothered you.”
“Oh, Jesus, the martyr role now.” Maggie reached for her Merit 100’s.
“Do you feel even an ounce of gratitude toward me?” he asked.
“Now that’s a laugh.” She lit her cigarette. “I only lived with you and put up with your crap for practically three years. If that ain’t gratitude, I don’t know what.”
“I thought it was love,” Tom murmured.
Maggie shook her head and sighed. “Good exit line, Tom. Now, just let that hang in the air as you make your way to the door. And you can take this book with you.” She pushed it too far across the counter—over the edge. The book toppled to the floor, just missing Tom’s sore foot.
Clutching the stool, he bent down to retrieve the unwanted gift. The .380 fell out of his pocket. Tom wondered if she saw it. Quickly, he stashed the gun back inside his jacket. Then he retrieved the book and pulled himself up. “Do you know why I came here, Maggie?” he asked.
“Obviously, to bring some sunshine and happiness into my day.”
“No. It’s because I thought you were the only one who would miss me. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I killed myself.”
She started sorting through some mail left on the countertop. “Oh, Tom. Give me a break, will you?”
“I’m serious, for God’s sake!” He pulled out the .380.
But she wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah, you’re serious all right,” she said, studying her phone bill. “Like that business about playing Tom Hanks’s father.
“And you’re an uncaring bitch,” he whispered.
Maggie looked up from the phone bill. Her eyes widened at the gun in his hand. “My God, you stupid—”
The moment the gun went off, Tom felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. He felt powerful. The shot still echoed in his ears, and an electriclike jolt rattled his hand. He blinked and looked down at her.
Maggie’s thin body twitched and convulsed on the kitchen floor. Blood covered her face, yet her eyes remained open. She still wore that baffled, openmouthed expression from when he’d turned the gun on her. The spasms in her arms and legs halted. But blood continued to leak from her forehead. Wedged between her fingers, the cigarette she’d been smoking still smoldered.
“Maggie?” he whispered.
He heard the dog barking outside.
Beneath her head, a pool of dark blood bloomed on the tiled floor. The cigarette was burning down to her fingers, but she didn’t move. He’d done this to her. His heart beating wildly, he gazed at the gun in his hand. He’d meant to take his own life today. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Tom glanced toward the sliding glass door. Had anyone heard the shot? Were her neighbors calling the police right now? The dog continued to bark furiously. It was as if the dumb animal knew what had happened to its master.
Tom began to tremble.
With the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, Tom slid open the glass door. He clutched the bag to his chest. As soon as he stepped outside, the Doberman lunged at him. Then, with a yelp, the animal abruptly stopped a few feet shy of him, restrained and choked in midjump by the chain attached to his collar.
Tom hobbled around the side of the house. The dog’s barking started up again—like some beastly alarm that alerted the entire neighborhood. Tom expected to see a police car blocking his Volare in the driveway. But there was no one. He climbed inside his car, fumbled with the keys, then started up the engine. He crept out of the driveway. Reaching the palm-tree-lined street, he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear a police siren either. But the dog’s barking still echoed inside his head.
They had a huge whirling fan trained on her. Dayle’s hair fluttered in the breeze. Shadows of trees, phone poles, and headlights raced across her face and reflected on the windshield of her mock convertible sports car. That was the front screen projector working. The rear screen had the seaside road on which Dayle’s character drove while intoxicated. Clutching the steering wheel, Dayle rolled her eyes ever so slightly. She’d been “drunk driving” on and off for about two hours now.
During one of the off moments, she’d retreated to her trailer and telephoned Nick Brock. He was still digging around Estelle Collier’s hometown. Dayle caught him in his room at the Holiday Inn in Madison, Wisconsin.
“Nothing new on the father of Estelle’s kid,” he told her. “I’ll have to pick up the pieces in San Francisco. But this you’ll be interested in. I’ve talked to about twenty people, just casually fishing about our Miss Collier, and it turns out I’m not the first person to come here with a lot of questions about Estelle. This one yokel told me that a guy calling himself a reporter was digging around here four months ago with the same kind of questions.”
“You mean, before Leigh’s death?”
“At least three months before,” Nick said. “I think you’re right about a blackmailer. Somebody was looking for a skeleton in Estelle’s closet.”
“They must have found something,” Dayle said. “Listen, Nick. I need to know more about that ‘unknown’ father. It’s what they must have used to get her to lie. Maybe we can use the same thing to squeeze the truth out of her.”
Once Dayle had clicked off, she phoned Sean Olson’s office and left a message on her machine—relaying what Nick had just told her. In only two days, Sean had become her confidant. Concerning this conspiracy, no one else took her seriously except Sean.
“Cut!” the director yelled. “Beautiful, Dayle. Let’s break for lunch.”
Dayle sighed and let her hands drop from the steering wheel. Dennis helped her out of the mock sports car. A tall, stunning redhead stood behind him. She wore a lavender suit that showed off her jazzercised-thin figure and long, shapely legs. “Dayle,” Dennis said. “I want you to meet Laura.”
“So you are
“Oh, I love it!” Laura exclaimed. “It’s so exciting!”
Dayle gave her shoulder a pat. “Someone once said that your first day on a movie set is an incredible thrill. And your second day is so dull it couldn’t cut butter. Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Laura. My big question for you is—how do you put up with this character?” She nudged Dennis.
Laura just giggled nervously.
Bonny handed Dayle her Evian water. Dayle winked, then turned and toasted Laura with the bottle. “Nice meeting you,” she said, heading to her trailer. “Keep this guy out of trouble.”
Laura giggled again. “Sometimes I call him Dennis the Menace!” she called. “You know, Dennis the Menace?”
Dayle looked back and nodded. “Yes, that—that’s very cute. Well, see you around, Laura.” She continued
