3 Malled to Death (24 page)
I drew back slightly, puzzled. Anya wasn’t reacting right. She was furious, yes, but the way she kept babbling about fingernails and lawyers and suing me . . . She didn’t smell perfumey like the notes, either, I realized, breathing in through my nose; she smelled like soap. Maybe we should have given all the suspects a sniff test. But she’d been shooting at Ethan—
Two more shots barked out. I whipped my head around and saw Bree Spurrier, face set, leveling what looked like a nine millimeter Glock at Ethan where he had just rounded the rear bumper of the SUV he’d been riding on. A look of almost comical astonishment on his face, he dove behind a camera dolly. She stalked toward him. No one else moved, except to huddle more securely behind a pillar or cover their heads with their arms.
Oh, my God. How had I been so wrong? I didn’t have time to sift through the evidence and see where I’d misanalyzed the data. Bree Spurrier was trying to kill my father.
“You betrayed me, Ethan,” she said, her voice eerily flat. Her deliberate footsteps slapped against the concrete and the gun was rock-steady in her hands.
Where were the police? Oh, no! What if they thought the gunshots were all part of the filming? “
Real
shots fired. Helland, I need backup!” I said toward my chest mike. “It’s not Vale. It’s Bree Spurrier.”
“I didn’t, Bree,” Ethan called from behind the dolly. He shifted it slightly to keep it between him and the approaching woman. “You’re sick. We can get you help.”
Whang!
A bullet caromed off the dolly’s metal superstructure.
Keep her talking, Ethan, I thought as I edged into position behind Bree. Nothing lay between us except a wide expanse of oil-stained concrete.
“There’s still a chance for us, Bree,” Ethan said. “I’m tired of hiding my feelings for you. I’ve tried to be faithful to Brenda, but the way I feel about you . . . it can’t be denied.”
Despite the soap opera quality of the dialogue, the words thrummed with sincerity and I briefly admired Ethan’s acting. Was it my imagination, or did Bree hesitate a moment? The gun seemed to sag an inch toward the floor.
“All I wanted was for you to love me like I love you, Ethan,” Bree said in a heartbroken voice.
“My passion—” Ethan started.
Taking advantage of Bree’s distraction, I lunged, propelling myself toward her back. My knee gave out with a flare of pain and I found myself on the ground, feet away from her. She half turned toward me, bringing the gun up again, and I yanked Jay’s .22 out of the ankle holster, sighted, and fired.
The force of two bullets plowing into her shoulder propelled her back a couple of steps, and gave me time to low-crawl forward and latch onto her ankle, bringing her down with a powerful yank. The Glock flew out of her hand as she flailed to keep her balance before thudding painfully to the concrete. Blood seeped from the bullet wounds, but her face practically glowed with fury. I knew adrenaline was keeping her going, despite the pain and blood loss. I’d been there.
“He said he loves you,” she grated as I half straddled her to try and stanch the blood. Her uninjured arm flashed up and she raked my face with her nails.
“He’s my dad,” I said fiercely, watching her eyes widen. “You don’t mess with my family.” Her snarl of rage warned me and when she reached to claw me again, I socked her. The punch broke her nose and she looked dazed, whether from my statement, my punch, or blood loss, I didn’t know. Either way, the fight seemed to have gone out of her.
Suddenly, Joel was there, looking grimmer and more grown-up than I’d ever seen him, and he secured both her wrists while I went back to putting pressure on the shoulder wounds. “Catfights aren’t near as sexy as I thought,” Joel said, his face reflecting a certain shock at the violence.
Authoritative voices called, “Police! Make way!” and a sea of dark blue uniforms surrounded us. My hands trembled and I clenched them into fists.
I heard Detective Helland’s voice in my ear say, “You’re bleeding.” He sounded muffled and I knew it was because the close gunshots had temporarily—I hoped—dampened my hearing. I put a hand to my cheek and felt the wetness of blood, but I didn’t have time to deal with it now. Pulling away from Helland’s hand on my shoulder, I struggled out of the knot of people surrounding Bree. There was no one behind the camera dolly. Where was my dad? Was he okay? A horrible thought slammed into me: Had I hit him when I fired at Bree?
“Ethan,” I called.
“Over here.” His voice sounded tight and I hurried around the SUV he’d been clinging to, lurching when my knee buckled again. Ignoring the pain, I limped on, almost sobbing with relief when I saw Ethan bent over an overalled man on the floor, using the heels of his hands to compress the man’s chest.
“Ethan!”
He glanced at me, blood trickling from a scrape high on his temple. “I think Darren’s had a heart attack.” His words were choppy from the effort of thrusting at Darren’s chest.
I yelled for help and an EMT came at a run and took over for Ethan while his partner set up an IV. I guessed Helland had had an ambulance standing by. When they hoisted Darren onto a gurney, I asked Ethan, “Where did you learn CPR?”
“I was an EMT in that series that only lasted six episodes,” he said, raising his brows as if surprised I doubted his ability to revive a dead person. “Remember?”
I shook my head, laughing helplessly from the release of tension, and Ethan crunched me against his chest. “Don’t ever do something like that again, EJ,” he commanded, his voice harsh with fear. “I thought she was going to shoot you.”
“I thought she was going to shoot
you
.” I pulled back slightly and smiled up at him.
“That vixen scratched you.” His hand hovered near my cheek.
“I’ll need a rabies shot.” I tried to laugh but it sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I’m so sorry,” I said, giving up the battle against tears. They streamed down my face, stinging where Bree’s nails had gouged my flesh. “It’s my fault.”
“Hush,” Ethan said, cradling me against his chest while I coughed up the story of how we’d planned to trap Anya.
“It’s my fault Bree almost killed you,” I finished. “If I hadn’t tricked you this morning by coming to the trailer and hugging you . . . If I hadn’t been so sure TMD was Anya. I should have realized that the timing, what was in those notes, could have applied to anyone who worked on
Random’s Redemption
with you, not just Anya. I—”
“You set this up without letting me in on it?” he said. He sounded more left out than angry.
“I—”
“I could have helped you plan the operation,” he said. “When I played that Secret Service agent in
Affairs of State
, we had to set up a sting to entice a counterfeiter. We lured him by . . .”
He walked me over to where an EMT stood by to treat my cheek, talking the whole time about a better scheme for tricking Bree into confessing to Zoë’s murder. I laughed weakly. There was no one quite like Ethan.
Thirty-four
• • •
Friday evening found
me back at my parents’ poolside, hands dug into the pockets of my blue fleece jacket to protect them from the chill. It had been a bright April day, but at sunset a feisty breeze had sprung up and it held a definite nip. My parents had the fire pit going. Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Kyra, and I ringed it, leaning in to steal its warmth. Dusk was quickly morphing into night and we were replete with hamburgers the chef had grilled and topped with blue cheese and a mango-pepper chutney, followed by old-fashioned s’mores we made ourselves, using long skewers to toast the marshmallows in the fire pit.
“We should go in,” Mom said, but no one moved.
Kyra leaned back in her lounge chair, stretching her legs in front of her, and said, “I can’t believe I let Bree Spurrier stab me.” She sounded disgusted. “I probably outweigh her by a third.” She’d broached the topic we’d tacitly avoided all evening.
“Never underestimate the strength of obsession,” Grandpa said.
“She’s a sick woman,” Ethan said.
“Well, I, for one, don’t think that excuses what she did,” Mom said indignantly. “She murdered poor Zoë merely because you put your arm around her—and we can discuss that later, buster—and she tried to kill Kyra and you and EJ. I hope she rots in jail for the rest of her life.” She jerked her head downward in an emphatic nod.
“I suspect she will,” I murmured, letting the warmth of the flames seep into me. “Detective Helland says the DA is certain they can put her away for a long, long time.”
“Even though she clammed up and surrounded herself with expensive lawyers,” Ethan said, “Helland—I’m going to use that cold steeliness of his for my next cop role—says they found the knife she used on Zoë in her hotel room with traces of both Zoë’s and Kyra’s blood—”
“And obviously they’ve got the gun she used to shoot at you, Ethan,” I said. “Her plan was pretty clever. She had it all figured so when Anya fired blanks at you, she—Bree—would fire real bullets and kill you. The police would think it was another accident, she hoped. She even had the smarts to place herself in line with Anya so the angle of entry would be right on the bullet wounds when they autopsied—”
“Let’s not talk about an autopsy in relation to this body,” Ethan objected, patting his chest.
We all laughed, and Kyra asked, “How did she kill Zoë?”
“The police figure Bree put on a cop costume from wardrobe—they found it in her hotel room—to avoid being identifiable on the mall’s cameras, followed Zoë to the restroom, and hid in the men’s room, maybe because there was someone else in the ladies’ room.” I carefully avoided looking at Mom. “They don’t know how she lured Zoë into the men’s room, but they’re certain she waited until the coast was clear and then killed her.”
I tried not to think about how close Mom had come to a psychopath in that narrow, out-of-the-way hall. “Part of the reason I was convinced it was Anya was that she didn’t get attacked after filming that love scene with you. I guess Mom and I were right the first time when we figured the killer knew the love scene was fake and so didn’t care about it. I’m still curious about what happened at Colonial Beach, though. The bit in the river where you had to rescue Anya. What was that about?”
Ethan mumbled something.
“What?”
“Publicity stunt,” he said sheepishly. “The publicity team thought it would make a good story. You know: ‘Handsome action star risks life to save beautiful actress from drowning.’ It worked,” he said defensively when we all stared at him with varying degrees of disbelief or amusement. “
Mafia Mistress
was the most googled term the next day. And, ah, speaking of Anya, we’re in talks about her doing another movie for my production company, so you needn’t worry about her suing you, EJ.” He winked at me.
“So you didn’t have a clue Bree was so into you, Ethan?” Kyra asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“What he means is,” Mom put in drily, “that he’s so used to women mooning over him that he takes that sort of behavior for granted.”
Ethan winced but said, “Guilty as charged.”
“Speaking of mooning,” I said, shifting away from the flames, “What’s up with Iona Moss? I thought for a while that she was the note writer, Ethan, because of how she was always hanging around you.”
“She wants Delia’s job,” he said. “I think she was trying to show me how efficient she could be.”
“Uh.” I threw my head back in disgust that I hadn’t figured that out. “Are you going to hire her?”
Ethan looked at Mom, who said, “If she passes the background check your grandpa’s running on her.”
“So far she’s clean,” Grandpa said. “Boring, in fact. Nothing but a couple of antiabortion marches in college.” He sounded disappointed that she didn’t spy for the North Koreans or work as a mule for a drug cartel.
We settled into silence for a moment and I heard a water bird call from the Potomac. After a second, Ethan said, “Hey, EJ, why don’t you help me clean up?”
I looked around, puzzled. The staff had already cleared the dishes and, I was sure, washed them and put them away. The only things left to clean up were our bamboo skewers and the glasses holding the dregs of our drinks. “Okay,” I said, moving away from the fire pit reluctantly. I collected the Godiva wrappers that had held the s’mores chocolate and the half-full bag of marshmallows, and headed for the bright lights of the kitchen as Ethan rounded up the skewers.
When we got into the granite and stainless steel custom kitchen, Ethan chucked the skewers in the trash and I set the marshmallows on the counter beside an open box of milk chocolate bars. Pouring us both glasses of water, Ethan said, “I wanted to talk to you, EJ.” His voice was more serious than usual and I arched my brows.
“So, talk,” I said, leaning back against the counter.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other day, what you said about how I don’t take you seriously. I’m sorry about that.”
Guilt niggled at me and I was glad he’d brought it up. I’d done a lot of thinking since we’d had our argument. “Me, too, Ethan,” I said. “I’m sorry I said what I did about acting. Movies make people happy, entertain them, take them away from their cares and worries for a bit. That’s every bit as valuable as what I do. Heaven knows we could all use an escape now and then from wars and the economy and news of famine and disasters.”
He smiled that famous smile. “I’ve always thought so.”
“So we’ll just forget—”
“Hear me out.” He held up a hand. “I accept that being a producer isn’t for you, that it wouldn’t make you happy, even though I know you’d do well at it. So, I’d like to offer you the job of chief of security for Mercury Wing Studio and Productions. We employ about two hundred security personnel, give or take. They work at the studio and protect our movie sites around the world, do employee background checks . . . all the usual security stuff a medium-sized corporation needs. You’d be the boss. How about it?”
He beamed at me, as if he’d handed me the keys to a Porsche, instead of a huge dilemma. I couldn’t tell him now that Coco had let me know this afternoon that she was quitting the director of security position to take a job for half the pay with some NYC designer and she was over the moon about it. I knew I’d get the head cheese job this time; maybe they wouldn’t even bother advertising the position and holding interviews. As Fernglen’s director of security I might be able to give Jay some real assistance looking for his lost diamonds.
But I couldn’t spurn my father’s offer. To tell the truth, running a security operation that size had some appeal, even though the thought of moving back to la-la land made me cringe. Especially now that Jay and I . . . Ethan must have seen the indecision in my eyes because he said gently, “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it.”
“You know,” he continued in a casual tone, “I’ve been talking to an orthopedic specialist in LA—he’s in the same building as my plastic surgeon—and he says there’s a new surgery that might help your leg. I’ve noticed you’re limping more. You’ve always said you’re satisfied the military docs know what they’re doing, but Dr. Samuelson is the best in the country. He’s performed this surgery on Olympic athletes who thought their careers were over, and that football player who broke his leg in three places and ruptured his knee and then went on to get a Super Bowl ring. I won’t push you.”
I was momentarily stunned that Ethan had noticed my knee was paining me more, but then it made sense. His business was all about appearance and gesture and movement; of course he’d noticed that I was moving less easily.
“Thanks, Ethan,” I managed to say. “I will. Think about it.”
He looked at the marshmallow bag I’d put on the counter and fumbled a marshmallow out. “Nothing but sugar and gelatin,” he said, popping it in his mouth and chewing. “Pure poison. Want one?”
He tossed a puffy white cylinder to me and I caught it automatically. My gaze lit on the leftover chocolate bars. Ethan was apparently thinking along the same lines I was because he said, “Think we could fish those skewers out of the trash and reuse them?”
“Absolutely. The graham crackers are still out there.”
Ethan retrieved the skewers, I clutched the marshmallows and chocolate, and we headed back to the pool deck. Throwing an arm around my shoulders, he said, “Did I tell you I’ve been offered the lead as a homicidal dentist in the new Demme film? I’d be playing against type, of course, and they want me to gain a few pounds, which’ll be hard for me—I’ve put a lot of hours in on this bod—but I’ve been thinking it’s time to stretch myself with less heroic parts. What do you think?”
“You can’t help but be a hero, Dad,” I said, as we came up to the others near the fire pit. A log split, sending up a column of gold and red embers that grayed to ash and drifted to the deck. Ethan squeezed my shoulders and the flickering flames ruddied his face, revealing a gloss of wetness in his eyes. It was probably an ember, I told myself, knuckling the corner of my eye where I seemed to have a similar problem.