The Next to Die

Dayle let herself relax, where she snuggled up with Fred in her lap to study a film script, or indulge in some low-fat microwave popcorn and a good video. Of the four fireplaces, the one in this room was used most. The best view came from this picture window: a sweeping vista of the Hollywood hills. The walls were decorated with framed photos of herself with other celebrities and a few of her better magazine covers. It was the only room in the place where she felt comfortable putting her feet up on the furniture. The other rooms were for entertaining. This one was for friends and family. But Dayle had spent the majority of her time in this cozy room alone with Fred. Thank God for the cat.

She poured a half glass of wine, sank back on the sofa, and let Fred curl up in her lap. Dayle reached for the remote and switched on the TV. The news came on. The anchorwoman was talking about a Fullerton couple who had died in a boating accident. Then the picture switched to what looked like a protest demonstration.

“Two weeks after the deaths of Tony Katz and James Gelder, a special memorial service was held in Seattle, Washington, for Gelder, the thirty-two-year-old ‘other victim’ in the still-unsolved double murder,” the newscaster announced.

Dayle stared at the TV, and a line of demonstrators marching in front of a church. There were about a dozen of them, and they held anti-gay signs, the same FAGS BURN IN HELL slogans brandished for Tony Katz’s funeral. In fact, according to the anchorwoman, this demonstration had been organized by the same minister who had masterminded the protest at Tony’s memorial.

“Assholes,” Dayle muttered, shaking her head at the TV.

“I’m grieving my brother’s death right now, and I don’t need to see this,” James Gelder’s older brother told a reporter outside the church. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. Behind him, the demonstrators waved their signs. “It’s wrong,” the surviving brother went on. “Jimmy was happily married. He wasn’t gay. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Oh, so if he was gay, he’d deserve it?” Dayle growled at the TV. She wasn’t mad at him—really. All of it was so wrong. Frowning, she grabbed the remote, switched off the TV, and got ready for bed.

While brushing her teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection. “Gutless,” she said to herself. Was she going to let malignant morons like that minister and those idiot protesters scare her? How could she allow them to influence her career choices? If anything, she wanted to defy them.

Dayle rinsed out her mouth, marched down the hall to her study, and switched on her computer. The film star was dressed for bed in a very unglamourous, extra-large man’s T-shirt. She clicked on to e-mail and sent the following message to Dennis Walsh:

Hey, Dennis:I’ve been rethinking the Portland benefit. Tell Leigh Simone I’d be happy to participate.

Dayle bit her lip, and quickly typed the next part and sent it before she had time to change her mind:

Also, I might have been too hasty on that gay-bashing trial story. Tell Soren Eberhart that I’d like to see the script, especially if Avery Cooper is coming aboard. Keep your powder dry, kiddo. See you in 7 hours.—D.

Dayle Sutton didn’t know that she’d just written her own death warrant.

Two

“I’m definitely interested if Dayle Sutton’s interested,” Avery Cooper grunted between push-ups on the floor of his trailer. He was talking on the speaker phone to his agent, Louise.

“The script’s a little dog-eared, but they’re rewriting it. With Soren Eberhart at the helm and Dayle Sutton starring, you’re in great company.” Louise paused. “By the way, what’s with all the huffing and puffing? What are you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’m doing my crunches,” Avery said, sitting for a moment to catch his breath. The shirtless thirty-four-year- old actor worked hard on his taut physique. Yet fans considered Avery Cooper more “cute” than “hunky.” The handsome, blue-eyed former TV star never made anyone’s Sexiest Man Alive list. Still, he possessed a sweet, beguiling, nice-guy appeal that made him enormously popular during the five-year run of his hit TV sitcom. Those same qualities had landed him a role as the hapless hero who comes to the aid of a hooker in danger, played by America’s new sweetheart superstar, Traci Haydn. The film was called Expiration Date, and he had one more week shooting here in Vancouver, British Columbia (doubling for Seattle), before they returned to the Hollywood studios for interior shots. Avery couldn’t wait to get home.

“Devil’s advocate time,” Louise announced. “You ought to consider the possible backlash to playing this gay man. You just had a controversial role. Maybe you should play it safe for a while.”

“Do you mean that, Louise?”

“Not a syllable, but I had to say it for the record.”

Avery smiled. He loved Louise. She’d been his agent for nine years. She understood him. “This is a good part, Avery,” she said. “But you can make some enemies. The network says you’re still receiving poison-pen letters for the TV movie last month.”

The film, called Intent to Kill, tapped into Avery’s nice-guy image. He played a doctor, paralyzed after being gunned down by protesters outside an abortion clinic. The controversial “network event” won him critical raves—along with piles of hate mail, even some death threats.

Avery got to his feet and grabbed a couple of thirty-pound dumbbell weights. “A lot of the letters were very supportive,” he pointed out.

“And a lot of them were damn scary,” Louise said.

Someone knocked on the trailer door. “C’mon in,” Avery called.

Bob, a studio gofer, stepped into the trailer, and set a package on the sofa. “This arrived for you special delivery a little while ago, Avery. Looks kind of personal. I don’t know.”

Avery put down the weights. “Great. Thanks, Bob.”

Bob ducked out of the trailer, not closing the door entirely.

“What did you get?” Louise asked over the speaker phone.

“I don’t know yet,” Avery said, reaching for the box. He tore off the brown wrapping. “There’s no return address.”

“Well, wait a minute!” Louise barked. “What if it’s a letter bomb or something? You already have all these nuts wanting you dead. Wait—”

“Too late, Louise,” Avery said. The box bore a Ralph Lauren polo insignia. He set the top aside, parted the folds of tissue paper, and found a card resting on a gray hand-knit sweater.

“What it is?” Louise asked.

“It’s a sweater that must have cost a few hundred bucks.” Frowning, Avery read the card insert. “Here’s what the enclosure says: I bet it’s cold up there in Canada. Thought you’d need this. Love, Libby. P.S. Did you like the tie? Why haven’t I heard from you?”

“My Lord,” Louise muttered. “She just won’t give up, will she? You’re too nice. You should let me or someone from the studio write and tell her in a polite way to piss off.”

The sweater was the most recent in a long line of gifts Avery had received from an obsessive woman named Libby Stoddard, who claimed to be his biggest fan. She’d sent the first present a year ago, a book on Bob Hope, because Avery had said in an interview that he was a sucker for old Bob Hope movies. He thanked Libby in a letter and included an autographed glossy. She thanked him right back with a video of Son of Paleface. After that, her presents became more extravagant. Avery started sending them back. He stopped enclosing “No Thank You,” notes with the return packages, figuring they fed something in her. Shortly before Avery had left for Vancouver, he got a call at home, and was stunned to hear a woman on the other end of the line say, “I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you! This is Libby.”