gate. Several of them carried signs: KILLER COOPER, BEVERLY HILLS BUTCHER, and AVERY COOPER: PRO- ABORTION, PRO-GUN CONTROL, PRO-RAPE, PRO-MURDER! This last wordy placard was held by a middle-aged woman in a pink sweatshirt that identified her as a FOXY GRANDMA. Avery caught a closer look at Foxy’s handiwork when she slammed the sign against his windshield.
Riding the brake, he tried to ignore the angry shouts, the people spitting on his car and pounding on the hood. Avery crawled through the crowd, then picked up speed. He watched them growing more distant in his rearview mirror. But a white Taurus emerged from the throng, one of the “rental mentals,” Sean had told him about. Avery had to cut someone off, then speed through a yellow light to elude the car. By the time he reached Sean’s office building, he figured he’d lost him. He parked in back of the hair salon.
Sean appeared tired when she met him in her office doorway. She wore houndstooth check, pleated pants and a clinging black, crew-neck sweater that showed off her figure. On their way to Avery’s car, she admitted she wasn’t in a good mood. She’d slept on her office sofa last night, and had to find out this morning that her husband’s respirator had gone on the blink at three A.M. He’d been turning blue from lack of oxygen. It had taken the nurse on duty fifteen minutes to find the blockage in his tubes and fix it.
“At least we avoided another trip to the hospital,” Sean said. “But I should have been there for him. I would have known what to do, because it’s happened before.” She put on her sunglasses and rolled down her window. “So how about you?” she asked. “Did you phone this Glenhaven place yet?”
“I’m waiting until this afternoon,” Avery said, eyes on the road. “I called my friends, George and Sheila, and they’re expecting us around six.”
“I hope my mood improves by then,” Sean said. “I feel eight different types of lousy this morning.”
“Well, maybe the tide will change,” Avery offered, with a shrug.
“Yeah, the tide can change,” she said, nodding tiredly. “What the heck? Maybe today’s the day we’ll find something in those security videos to prove you were set up. You never know.”
Avery glanced in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see anyone on his tail. But it suddenly hit him. “The ‘rental mentals,’” he said. “I never noticed those guys until you told me about them. But on the videos, I’ve seen cars parked down the street across from the front gate. Haven’t you?”
“I assumed they were your neighbors.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. I never thought to check the car types or if anyone was sitting inside. Maybe we could prove—as part of a set up—someone was watching me and the house before Libby was murdered….”
“My God, you’re right,” Sean muttered. “I made a list of license plate numbers from the rental cars that have been following Dayle. If we match one of those plate numbers with a car in front of your house, we can introduce the conspiracy angle, establish reasonable doubt.” Sean patted his shoulder. “We might need certain images from the security video blown up. Do you know someone at the studio who could do that for us?”
Avery nodded. “Yes, it should be easy.”
“Except I don’t have my copy of the list.” Sean frowned. “I took it home for safekeeping—in case those people broke into my office. Only my little girl decided to clean off my desk for me, and threw it away, God love her.” Sean bit her lip. “Hmmm, I faxed the list to Dayle. If I remember right, she gave it to this private detective she hired. We might have to track him down….”
Wasn’t there a single
Opal lay smack-dab in the middle of all this mountain splendor. The quaint city center, located three blocks off Opal Lake, seemed like the type of place that shut down by six P.M. Very clean and friendly. Dull as hell.
But on the edge of town, Nick noticed a couple of taverns, a McDonald’s (open until the unholy hour of ten P.M.), and several hotels to accommodate the tourists taking advantage of Opal’s natural wonders—hunting, fishing, hiking, and in the summertime, camping, boating, and swimming.
Nick had made reservations at Debbie’s Paradise View Motor Inn. Tackle equipment and mounted fish decorated the lobby walls, and the furniture was made of unfinished logs with Indian-weave cushions thrown on top—stylized rustic crap. A cute, young blonde worked the front desk. Her hair had been teased and curled, and there was a touch of teenage acne on that pretty face. Nick couldn’t resist flirting with her. Her name was Amber. “Debbie” was her grandmother, and the old witch had skipped to Reno for the week.
Amber happily gave him directions to the post office. It wasn’t yet noon, and the leaser of PO Box 73 probably hadn’t picked up the mail today. Nick winked and thanked Amber. Blushing, she smiled and stepped back. He noticed her spandex miniskirt showed off a great set of legs and a sweet butt. He also glimpsed a small magazine rack behind the desk, and there it was: his
“Hey, you got it!” Nick said, pointing to the rack. “Check it out, the
Smiling, Nick moved on. Made his day.
“I think we found something to prove there’s a conspiracy,” Sean said on the other end of the line.
The phone to her ear, Dayle sat at the vanity table in her trailer. She’d been touching up her “old” face for a scene in which her character has aged into her mid-sixties. Her hair had been spray-dyed a mousey gray, and they’d added some crow’sfeet, laugh lines, and liver spots. She wore a tweed suit and pearls. “What did you find?” she asked, turning away from the mirror.
“Avery and I are here in this editing room at his studio, looking at security videos taken outside his home. We noticed some rental cars parked across from his house.”
“They’re following him too?”
“Looks that way,” Sean said. “We’re having a few of the video images blown up and enhanced so we can see the license plates. Here’s where you come in, Dayle. Do you still have that list of plate numbers I faxed you? Or did you give it to that Nick character, the centerfold?”
“I still have a copy at my place,” Dayle said. “I can fax it to your office when I get home tonight. Would seven-thirty be too late?”
“No. That would be fantastic, Dayle. Thanks a lot.”
“We’ll talk tonight, okay? Take care.”
As Dayle hung up the phone, she heard someone on the steps to her trailer. She went to the door and opened it. Dennis stood there.
He looked startled. “I was just about to knock,” he said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“All right,” she said, mystified. “C’mon in.”
Dennis stepped inside, and closed the door. “You better sit down for this. It’s not good news.”
“Okay.” She sat across from him at her vanity. “What happened?”
“Does the name Cindy Zellerback ring a bell? A distant bell?”
Dayle kept very still. “What about her?”
“She—um, recently completed a prison sentence for killing her husband and baby. She claims that she had sex with you a long time ago. Apparently, she’s now born again or something. The point is, at this very minute, Elsie Marshall is interviewing her in front of a studio audience. They’re taping this afternoon’s show.”
Dayle felt a little sick. She just stared at him.
“I only now found out,” Dennis continued. “The reporters are banging down the studio door for a statement. Publicity wants to talk to you as well.”
Dayle reached for an Evian bottle on her vanity. It was empty. Sighing, she pitched it in the wastebasket. “Wouldn’t you know, they’d leak the story to Elsie? She’ll get lots of mileage out of it.”
“Then the story is true,” he said quietly.
“Yes, Dennis. It’s true.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, I need some time alone right now.”
“You got it.” Dennis started for the door, but he hesitated and turned to her. “You can trust me, Dayle. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m counting on it.”
