Dead By Dusk (13 page)

“Well,
there's
some excitement for you!” Suzette said, standing near their towels. “Maybe that means we're just supposed to work through the days, no matter what.”

“Ah—or it meant that we were supposed to be right where we were! Hey, good for you, Steph! You are the woman of the moment.”

She shrugged. “I was closest.”

“And good thing you were. Clay can't swim.”

Amused, Stephanie looked at him with surprise. “You—can't swim?”

“I loathe the water,” he admitted.

“Imagine—Mr. Macho, Muscles, and facial-features-to-grace-a-Grecian-coin, can't swim!” Drew said, finding it somewhat amusing—and, apparently, pleasing.

She laughed as well, looking at Clay. “Everyone has different talents. But, hey, good place to be working then—right on the beach!”

“I don't mind looking at the water,” Clay said. “Well, congratulations—you did do great.”

“Doug helped, and hey, you did the CPR.”

“Well, you know, what the heck, we are an ensemble,” Clay said with a shrug.

“Arturo brought us out a special sparkling wine. I accepted it graciously, but was going to save it for later, since we have the afternoon ahead of us,” Suzette said. “The food came out before your glorious rescue—don't go getting the idea that Arturo paused to extol the wine in the middle of a trauma! Anyway, after that, I say we pop the cork on the stuff!”

“Sure,” Stephanie agreed. “How loaded can we all get on one bottle? We can have a pot of coffee brought in to our rehearsals.” She noticed that Clay had a wet towel on his arm. “Hey!” she told him. “Let me take that—you're dressed, and you'll wind up soaked.”

“It's all right. I'm already soaked,” he said.

She reached for the towel impatiently. “I'll take it!”

Apparently, he hadn't expected her to grab at the towel. She took it easily.

Her eyes widened.

His arm looked horrible. As if he had just been badly burned. She gasped aloud. “Your arm! What on earth—”

“What? I didn't see anything wrong with him,” Suzette said.

“Look! You've got blisters—” Stephanie said.

“It's nothing!” Clay snapped out the words, then gritted his teeth. “Honestly . . . a reaction to the sun and salt. It's all right. It will be fine tomorrow.”

“You need to see a doctor!” Stephanie protested.

“I'm telling you, it's just a reaction. Honestly, please don't worry. Listen, I'm not hanging around to picnic anyway. Don't worry about me. I'll put some lotion on it—and I'll change to a long-sleeved shirt. It will be fine, really. Hey, good picnic, guys. I'll see you at one!”

With a wave, he left them, long strides taking him quickly away, toward his bungalow.

“Wow, poor guy!” Drew said.

“Yeah, but. . . .” Doug began

“But what?” Stephanie demanded.

Doug grinned. “I don't know. He's too perfect. So there's his flaw. Get him baked in the sun, and he looks like salsa! I gotta kind of enjoy that.”

Drew sighed. “Irish with freckles—I look like that when I'm not careful, so don't go making fun of skin that comes out like mincemeat, huh?”

“Sorry!” Doug said. But he smiled again. “I, on the other hand,” he said, making his voice very deep, “bronze nicely, and come out of the sun looking just like an Adonis!”

They all laughed, but Stephanie did so uneasily.

Clay Barton didn't just look like he'd suffered sunburn, or even a reaction like a rash. He looked as if he'd charbroiled—and just on the arm.

The arm where he'd had saltwater.

 

 

The police came.

They took picture after picture.

Everyone spoke excitedly—some of the men came close to shedding tears. Maria had been a beautiful young girl.

No more.

“The animals must have gotten to her,” Carlo said, shaking his head sadly.

Grant thought that was a very curious conjecture.

Had the animals chewed her up—and then reburied her?

She'd been ripped to shreds—yes, that much was obvious. But still, how was it that she had been buried in a mound of dirt?

He was certain that the police had to be asking the same questions.

A number of cars had come, all of them carrying different policemen from different local areas. Word would be put out across all of Calabria, Sicily, and the rest of Italy, and even over to Greece that the police should be on the lookout for a psychotic killer. There had been something of a fierce argument between the lawmen, and Carlo told Grant it was because certain of the officers wanted the body taken as far away as Naples for an autopsy, but the local authorities were adamantly against the idea—her mother was going to be hysterical enough. She was traditional and Catholic, and the body needed to remain in the area.

Grant was sure that the higher state authorities would prevail.

They didn't. Maria's body would remain here.

At first glance, the local coroner—who was an M.D. and a respected medical man—could only tell them that he would assume from the temperature of the body and other signs, it appeared that she had been dead before her mother had even reported her missing or even before she would have been at the job where her mother had certainly thought she had been all day.

And after that . . . ?

And as to the condition of the body . . . ?

There had been so many cars arriving that Grant hadn't even noticed the last arrival. He was sitting on a log with a bottle of water, just feeling the misery of their find, when the person he least expected—and least wanted to see—found a place beside him on the log.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked Clay Barton.

“We had a break. I figured if I drove out, and traffic was good, I'd have about fifteen minutes to take a look at the place before driving back,” Clay replied. He gazed toward where they were just taking the girl's remains from the earth. “So they found her.”

“Chewed to smithereens,” Grant said dully.

“Did you see the body?” Clay asked him tensely.

“See it? I fucking found it.”

“How . . . did she die?”

“Are you kidding? I don't think that an entire forensic team could tell you that. She's chewed . . . in pieces. I don't know what the hell kind of an animal got hold of her—a wild dog, they're thinking—but we're talking . . . limbs barely still attached.”

“Did you see . . . her neck. Her throat?” Clay persisted.

Grant turned to stare at him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was crusted with dried blood—like the rest of her.
Chewed. Gnawed.
What the hell? Are you into practicing some strange form of really demented necrophilia?”

The man was angered by the question, strange eyes flashing a warning sign. Fine. Bring it on. Grant was dying to throw a punch at his jaw. More than that. He was dying to tear into him, beat him to a pulp.

He took a breath, trying to control his temper. Amazingly, he realized that the other man was trying to do the same thing.

“I've heard of other such deaths,” Clay said.

“Maybe you should talk to the police. The place is crawling with them. Carlo can be your interpreter.”

Clay Barton cast him another glance, which seemed to carry contempt. “No need,” he said simply.

To Grant's amazement, the other man walked over to the area where they were bagging the dead girl. He began to speak in Italian, rapidly, and it seemed that his accent was perfect. For some reason, the man's easy use of the language rubbed savagely against the raw edges of his temper.

He was further astounded when the cops and forensics people replied to him, stepped back and away, and allowed him to view the body.

They gave him time, offered him a pair of gloves. It seemed the most natural thing in the world that a stranger—an actor, for God's sake—had asked to see the corpse. And inspect it.

Then Maria Britto was zipped up, and there was shouting, and she was taken to a morgue car, and at last it began to drive away.

Clay walked back to him. “Are you going to the rehearsal?”

“Oh, you bet,” Grant assured him

Grant shook off the lethargy that had gripped him and headed for his own rental car. There was no way in hell he wasn't going to be there—ahead of Clay—for the rehearsal.

 

 

Word reached Stephanie regarding the horrible discovery of Maria Britto as soon as she entered the club through the backstage doors.

Drew was there, and he looked ashen. “They found the girl,” he told her.

“The young Italian girl?”

“Maria Britto.”

She knew, of course, from the way that he looked that they hadn't found the girl alive.

“Where?”

“At the dig.”

“She didn't fall . . . or have an accident?”

“I don't think they know the actual cause of death, but no, it wasn't accidental. You don't die accidentally, and then bury yourself.”

“Who found her?”

“Grant,” Drew said. “They say he's shaken, but . . . I guess he should be here any minute.”

“How do you know all this?” Stephanie asked suspiciously.

The cop, Merc, called Arturo, and I just saw Arturo.”

“Ah.”

“Depressing, huh?” Drew said.

“Scary!” Suzette announced, coming in through the back, and evidently hearing their words, or simply certain of what they had to be talking about.

“Horrible!” Doug said, coming in behind Suzette.

“Yeah, kind of makes the concept of rehearsing a comedy show rather rude,” Stephanie murmured.

“Ah, Steph . . . it's a small town, but none of us ever met this girl,” Drew reminded her. “And we're under contract. And I imagine it's going to be bad enough for the place, once word of the girl's death gets out. They need tourists. We're supposed to help draw in American money.”

“Right,” Stephanie murmured. “Except that I just went by to see Lena, and she looks a little better, but the doctor went to see her and he suggested she seriously needed some bed rest, that her pulse was barely beating.”

“Man, that's bizarre!” Drew said, shaking his head. “She was fine last night.”

“She might have gotten a strange insect bite, or something like that?” Suzette asked.

“According to the doctor,” Stephanie said, “she needs red meat, and lots of rest.”

“We're in some serious trouble, then,” Suzette said. “We're supposed to put on a show this Friday night.”

“We could cancel,” Drew said gloomily.

Stephanie was quiet for a minute. “We'll ask Arturo. I have a number for Reggie, too . . . but this is his home. I think that this has to be Arturo's call.”

As she spoke, the rear door to the café area of the club opened and Grant came in. He looked extremely grim.

“Hey!” Drew said to him quietly. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Grant said. “It's a sad business, though. Really horrible.”

“So . . . how . . .” Drew began awkwardly.

“Who do they . . . suspect?” Suzette asked.

Grant shook his head, walking straight for the coffeepot. He was streaked with mud and looked like hell, hair a mess, shirt ripped. “I don't think they have a suspect. I'm sure they'll talk to the boyfriend again, but . . . I don't think he's much of a suspect. Actually, according to Carlo, there hasn't been anything like this here . . . ever. This area never even got caught up in any of the Mafia wars, so . . . the last history of horrible violence here goes back centuries.”

Clay came in the same way that Grant had.

Drew watched him come in, studying him curiously for a minute.

“You went out to the dig?” he asked.

“Yes. It wasn't what I was expecting,” Clay said.

Grant stiffened, but held his silence. “Stephanie, why don't you get started. I'm going to go and take a shower.”

“We were just wondering if we should be rehearsing,” she murmured.

He looked her in the eye. “Do you know how many murders there are in Chicago in a year?” he asked her.

“A lot, but . . . that's Chicago. This place is so small!”

“Whether the show goes on Friday night or not, we'll wait and see. But as far as the rehearsal goes . . . yeah. We should do it.” He had drained the coffee in a swallow. He set the cup down by the pot. “I'll be right back.” He started out through the back, but then paused. “Where's Lena?”

“Sick,” Stephanie told him.

“Sick?” Grant said suspiciously

“Really sick. The doctor said she had to have bed rest.”

“Down another cast member?” Grant said, and seemed deeply disturbed.

“Yeah, and Steph's already taking Gema's part, so . . . she can't do both. Well, being Steph, she probably can, but it really all works around a cast of six.” Drew grimaced. “If one of us guys were down, you could fill in, Grant, and we could all be doing props, lighting, and stage management. But . . . what do we do about Lena?”

“She's just ill for a few days—she doesn't need to be replaced,” Stephanie said sharply.

“Actually . . . I may have a solution for you,” Clay said.

They all turned and stared at him.

“A friend of mine is in town. She's a writer, so she's doing kind of a lazy trip through Italy, and came here to wish me a ‘break a leg' for opening night. She's done some theater work, and she isn't looking to steal anyone's job—she has her own. I'm sure she'd be willing to step in until we see how Lena's doing.”

“You just happen to have a friend, huh?” Grant said softly.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Stephanie demanded.

Grant looked away and shrugged, but he was still tense as piano wire. Stephanie ignored him and mulled the matter.