The Next to Die

Dayle rang the bell once more. Estelle opened the door. She’d obviously just gotten out of the tub. Her broad face was framed by dark, damp ringlets. She wore a pink robe, and her feet were bare. She frowned at Dayle.

“Can I come in and talk with you, please?” Dayle asked.

“God, what now?” With a roll of her eyes, Estelle opened the door wider, then plodded to the kitchenette. She poured herself a glass of wine, ignoring Dayle, across the counter from her. “We’ve already been through this at Leigh’s memorial service, Dayle. I have nothing more to say.”

Dayle sat down at the kitchen counter. It was a continental kitchen, the kind incorporated with the living room. Estelle’s apartment looked like a modest suite in some southwestern resort—all brown, beige, and rust colors, with Aztec art on the walls. The only personal touch to her living room was a framed photo of a younger Estelle holding a toddler, probably the son. He didn’t look much like his famous dad. Lucky kid.

“Does Peter know who his father is?” Dayle asked quietly.

Estelle’s eyes widened for a moment. She put down her wineglass. “You can’t prove a thing about Peter’s father. You’re just guessing.”

Dayle sighed. “I know where you spent the spring of sixty-nine, Estelle. Wasn’t Peter conceived during your time at the ranch?”

“I wasn’t at there when those murders happened—”

“I know,” Dayle said grimly. “The Tate-LaBianca murders were in August. You left Spawn Ranch in March. But you lived there nine weeks.”

“Guilt by association, right?” Estelle said. “You’re just like those monsters who were harassing me. They thought Charles Manson was Peter’s father too. It’s so damn ridiculous! I wasn’t one of his women!”

“But, Estelle, amid all that drug use and group sex, can you remember for sure?” Dayle studied her face and sighed. “The truth is, you can’t prove Charlie isn’t the father. That’s how these people got to you, isn’t it? Charlie had targeted dozens of celebrities. Who in the entertainment industry would have hired one of his disciples? Who could trust you?”

“I want you to leave,” Estelle said.

“And in the end, you couldn’t be trusted. Look what you did to Leigh.”

“That’s so unfair! Do you think they gave me a choice?”

“Are we finally talking about the same ‘they’?” Dayle asked. “How did they approach you? Did you meet any of them?”

Estelle took another gulp of wine, then shrugged. “I never met a single one. They started calling me about four months ago. I was in trouble. I’d taken some money out of Leigh’s account to pay my son’s debts. Somehow, these people found out about it, and they called me—”

“You said ‘they.’” Dayle remarked.

“Yes. About five different people phoned me over the next few months. They kept asking how I planned to replace the money from Leigh’s account before someone noticed. They knew I’d spent time at Spawn Ranch too.” She shook her head. “Who would have understood? I was a fat, unwanted teenager. That spring at the ranch was the first time I ever felt like I belonged. You and Leigh, women like you, pretty all your lives. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be repulsive to people, to be that hungry for love. At the ranch, they took me in. And yes, my son was conceived there.” She sighed. “Only I saw how some of the other girls got passed around. So I left. After I had Peter, I worked hard to make a good home for him. The truth is, I don’t know who his father was. And that’s what I told the police and FBI when they rounded everyone up after the Tate murders.”

“These people calling you, how did they get their information?”

Estelle took her wineglass around the counter and sat on the stool beside Dayle. “I heard someone was in my hometown asking questions about me a few months back. A couple of high school friends knew about my time at Spawn Ranch. Maybe somebody got to them. Is that how your man found out?”

Dayle nodded. “I just want your cooperation, Estelle.”

She let out a cynical laugh. “Ha, those monsters only wanted my cooperation too. Oh, they were very clever. They merely suggested I could replace the money I borrowed by selling the tabloids a story about Leigh Simone’s involvement with drugs, and her secret lesbian lifestyle.”

“This was before her death?” Dayle asked.

“Yes, months ago.”

“Did you try to talk to Leigh about this?”

Estelle’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I didn’t want her to know I’d stolen from her. She trusted me! I just kept hoping these people would go away. But it only got worse. They started following Leigh around like stalkers. And they were so blatant about it, as if they were untouchable. They’d park outside her house for hours at a time —”

“But Leigh had bodyguards.”

Estelle shook her head. “Only when she was on tour. Otherwise, she had a retired cop who handled security for the house, and a chauffeur who carried a gun. By the time one of them came out of the gate, the car would always take off. But another car just like it would be back an hour later.”

“Another car just like it? What do you mean?”

“They were rentals, you know, midsize cars, Corsicas, Cavaliers—”

“And Tauruses,” Dayle murmured. “Last couple of days, they’ve been following me around too. What did Leigh do about it?”

Estelle stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Leigh thought they were from the tabloids. She called them the ‘rental mentals.’ Sometimes she’d flip them the bird as she came out of her driveway in the limo. She wasn’t afraid of them. But I was.”

“You had to know they were going to kill her….”

“I thought they were out to destroy Leigh’s career. The night before we left for Portland, I got another call. They knew about the trip. This man told me, ‘If anything should happen to Leigh, her accountants will discover the money is missing. You’ll have to square things with them.’ He said that the tabloids would pay for the inside story on Leigh. I could replace the money very quickly if I gave them what they wanted. He told me, ‘Remember, she was a lesbian, and she used heroin. She was very unhappy.’ I thought at the time, ‘Why is he saying, she was, she was?’”

Dayle frowned. “In the back of your mind, you had to know.”

“I didn’t want to believe it.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even believe it when the police told me she was dead. The cop, right away, he said to me, ‘Did Leigh Simone use heroin?’ And I knew that I had to answer yes.”

Staring at her, Dayle almost felt her pain. “Did they contact you again?”

Estelle nodded. “Two days later, this woman called. She just said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy.’ They used to call me ‘Miss Piggy.’ She said, ‘Good job, Miss Piggy. Now keep your fat mouth shut.’” Estelle refilled her wineglass. “I did what I was told. And I managed to replace the money in Leigh’s account.”

Dayle rested a hand on her shoulder. “Listen. If you’re worried about changing your story for the police, I have a lawyer friend. I think she can swing you a deal. I’ll pay her fee. I asked her to come here tonight.”

“Generous of you,” Estelle murmured, in a stupor.

“Also if you’re worried about a job, you can work for me.”

Estelle let out an abrupt laugh. “But you’re going to die too,” she said, staring at her as if she was stupid for missing something so obvious. “You just said, they have you under surveillance. It’s already started.”

Dayle automatically shook her head.

“They’ve probably already gotten to somebody close to you, Dayle, the same way they got to me. It’s most likely someone you trust, a loyal, old friend, or a new acquaintance. Whoever it is, have some compassion for them.”

“I have compassion for you, Estelle. I want to help. I know a police lieutenant who’s handling Leigh’s case here. She’s a good woman. I’d like you to talk to her. Tell her what you told me.”

“Sure, why not?” Estelle ran a hand through her damp hair, then stood up. “There’s nothing more they can do to me. Go on, call the police. I’ll give them a statement. Let your lawyer friend in. I need to get dressed.”

Dayle watched her plod into the bathroom and shut the door. She heard the hair dryer start. Sifting through her purse, Dayle found Lt. Susan Linn’s business card. Then she reached for the phone.