The Next to Die

He probably should have hung up on her right away, but he was stupid enough to think he could talk sense to her. “Um, hello,” he managed to say. “How did you get my home number?”

She laughed. “I hired someone to find out for me, that’s all. I have a lot of money, you ought to know that from the presents I send. This is so neat! How are you, Avery?”

“Well, ah, Libby, I’m—not too happy about this call. I know you’re probably a really nice person, but this is an invasion of my privacy. The gifts you’ve sent are very generous, but—”

“I thought for sure you’d keep the aviator jacket. It cost a lot.”

“I’m sure it did. That’s why I sent it back to you. This has to stop. I can’t have you buying me all these clothes—”

“But I want to….”

“Well, what you’re doing borders on harassment. And I don’t think that’s your intention.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, in a hurt little-girl voice. “Is your wife there? Is that why you’re saying these things? Should I call back later?”

Avery took a deep breath. “I’m asking you not to call me or send me any more gifts. I’m sure your intentions are good, but—”

“I can’t believe you’d be this ungrateful,” she said. “I must have caught you at a bad time. Listen, it’s okay. I’ll call back later—”

“No—”

“Don’t worry, I still love you, Avery.” Then she hung up.

Avery had left for Vancouver two days later. There had been several hang-ups on his answering machine during those forty-eight hours. His caller ID showed seven of those calls were from “L. B. Stoddard: 555- 1939.”

Now she’d discovered the film location address here in Vancouver. Avery stared at the sweater. “Christ,” he muttered. “Think she’ll ever give up?”

“Highly doubtful,” Louise said. “I told you last year when you left the show—you need someone to run fan interference. The network did it for you for five years. You can’t be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, Avery. Let me handle this Libby character, okay? I’ll have my assistant, Nola, send her a very officious letter telling her to knock it off.”

“I guess you better.” Avery set the Ralph Lauren box on the sofa.

At that moment, someone stepped into the trailer. “Hey, nice…”

Avery looked up and caught Traci Haydn leering at him. The twenty-seven-year-old ash blonde with an angel’s face was smoking a cigarette. Her breasts stretched her blue T-shirt to its fiber limit. The shirt barely came down over her rib cage, exposing her toned belly and a gold ring piercing her navel.

“Traci, hi,” was all Avery could say.

“Where have you been hiding that bod, Avery?”

She tossed her cigarette outside, then shut the door. “Is there a no-shirts policy in this trailer?” she asked. Then with a giggle, she shucked the tiny T-shirt over her head.

Avery backed into his dressing table. “Jesus, Traci…”

A bobby pin must have come out when she tossed off the shirt, because some of the blond hair fell over her eyes, and Traci looked damn sexy. But he loved his wife, and this woman was trouble.

“Traci, put your clothes back on. There are people outside—”

Sauntering toward him, Traci grinned. “If the trailer’s rockin’, they won’t come knockin’.”

“Lord, did I hear her right?” Louise asked over the speaker phone. “Did she really just say that?”

“What the fuck?” Traci’s playful grin vanished.

“Traci, I’m on the speaker phone with my agent,” Avery explained. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “Um, do you know Louise Farrell?”

“Hi, Traci,” Louise piped up.

Traci Haydn rolled her eyes, then deliberately stepped up to Avery. Those firm, beautiful breasts rubbed against his sweaty chest. She stood on her tiptoes, and her nipples grazed his. “I’m going to get you, one way or another,” she whispered. Then she gave his ear a long, slow lick. Backing away, Traci smiled at him.

Avery tried in vain to camouflage the erection stirring inside his jeans. “Traci, how many times do I have to tell you no?” he whispered.

Ignoring his question, she put her T-shirt back on. “Bye, Laura or whatever your name is,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Oh, you too, Traci, dear,” Louise replied.

Avery watched her go; then he sank down on the sofa. He sighed. “You still there, Louise?”

“Honey, I wouldn’t hang up for the world right now. How many passes does that make from your happily married costar?”

“That’s the third one this week, and it was a lulu, about a five-point-five on the Richter scale. I tell you, she’s worse than Libby.”

“Sounded like she said something about ‘no shirts.’ Was she topless?”

“Yes. And my ear is still wet from her licking it.”

“Well, Mr. Avery Cooper. Do you realize what you just experienced? Traci Haydn is the fantasy girl for millions of boys and men, the stuff wet dreams are made of. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I miss my wife,” Avery replied.

“Hi, sweetie. I erased all the other messages, because we maxed out on the machine. Aren’t we popular?”

Avery smiled. He sat at the desk in his suite at the Vancouver Four Seasons. Simply hearing Joanne’s voice on the answering machine at home soothed some of his loneliness.

Joanne Lane was a stage actress. Twice nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, she’d made a name for herself on Broadway. Elsewhere, she was Mrs. Avery Cooper. Her latest play hadn’t fared well with critics. Unless business picked up, the production would close next week, and she’d return home to L.A. Under such gloomy circumstances, Avery tried not to celebrate their reunions too eagerly. Joanne had bouts with depression. She was on medication, but still required kid-glove handling at times. Things were always a little touch and go whenever one of her plays failed, but it also meant they could be together for a while.

They’d met four years ago, during a summer hiatus from his TV show, Crazy to Work Here. Avery had played a “nice guy” who has horrible luck with women. Quickly he’d become the star attraction among the ensemble cast of “wacky” characters employed at an ad agency. Comparisons to Jack Lemmon and Tom Hanks abounded for the former Northwestern drama major and Second City alumni. He was also a favorite guest on the talk show circuit. On Letterman, he stirred the studio audience into a sing-along frenzy with an impromptu rendition of “Wild Thing” on his harmonica. And to Rosie, when pressed, Avery humbly admitted, “I can count on one hand all my sex partners—including the hand.”

That summer away from the show, Joanne Lane became the fifth woman in Avery’s life. With lustrous shoulder-length light brown hair and blue eyes, Joanne had an undefinable star quality. Though no great beauty, she had a sultry voice and a toned, taut body. She oozed sex appeal. The Broadway actress had landed a role in Avery’s first “starring” feature film, a forgettable romantic comedy called Five Feet of Heaven. She played his slutty sister, and outside of falling in love with her screen brother, she found film acting incredibly tedious. Joanne ran back to Broadway, and Avery reluctantly returned to Los Angeles and Crazy to Work Here. But they couldn’t stay away from each other. Avery used his clout to get Joanne some guest shots on the show. He spent summers and holidays on the East Coast; she took breaks between plays to be with him in Hollywood. All the traveling and scheduling became quite complicated. So they kept the wedding simple. They were married in a small chapel in Avery’s hometown of Fairfax, Virginia.

One advantage to Avery and Joanne’s bicoastal marriage was that the relationship never had a chance to grow stale. After two years, they still acted like newlyweds. If anything had grown stale it was all the traveling and the time apart. Before this recent theatrical misfire had lured Joanne back to Broadway, they’d been trying to have a baby—without much luck.

“I made us another appointment with the fertility specialist on Wednesday, the eighth,” Joanne told him on the answering machine. “Also I committed us to another public service announcement for handgun control. They