P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street (15 page)

“Whose idea was it to make Irish coffee in the afternoon?” I asked.

“You’re not on an episode of
CSI
. Jesus,” she said, brushing me off and walking around me. “The Case of the Sunburn From Hell!”

Ah, Tina. I had only known her for a few days, and her kind, gentle personality made such an impression. I was more than a little happy that she was going to be tingly, flaky and red for the rest of the production.

I went upstairs to the room we’d staked out and saw Cookie sitting on the bed, looking alert while using nail polish to try to stop a run in a pair of stockings. “Did you see Tina?” she asked. “Dumbass fell asleep by the pool.”

“Did you take a nap today?” I asked her.

“Nah. I was drinking Major Rager. Wolf gave it to me. I’m amped. So, did you kiss Patrick?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah,” she mocked me. “That’s all you got? Yeah? Lorelai said Black Santa Claus drove his sleigh off the road and almost killed the reindeer. And you got to touch Patrick’s Gretsch. Touch his Gretsch. Heh
heh.
” She winked at Tortoise and Hare, who were already in the doorway.

“Are you jealous, Cookie?” I asked. Of course she had to be jealous — if she were the stalker. But why would Patrick’s stalker put him in any danger, even if he were in the tank that was a stretch Hummer?

Cookie clapped her hands. “Oh, hell, yes, I am. If you weren’t about the only bitch around here I can tolerate, I’d have kicked your ass by now. He likes you best. I know it. I can tell these things.”

“Should you be this nice to me?” I asked. Maybe she saw through me and was befriending me, just to wipe me out later.

She smiled. “Let’s just say the game’s been changing a little.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Can’t tell ya. Sworn to secrecy.” She put one hand over her heart while she waved around the stockings.

“What else happened while I was gone that you can tell me?” I asked.

“These women are driving me crazy,” she said, leaning in. “Hell, I think they’ve already pushed Andi over the edge.”

“Now what?” I asked. “It’s like the peroxide went to her head.” The mere vision of Andi inhaling almost a whole can of Redi-Whip and hoarding food probably kept me and Topaz from killing each other.

Cookie had no problems building the Andi mystique. “She talks to herself. She was standing by the pool just having this one-sided conversation real loud about Patrick, and she’s asking for wishes to be granted. And you know what? I asked her what she was drinking, and she said water. Just water! When the crew was sleeping, she was just hanging out in the woods, yappin’ away.”

While I had assumed Andi was just too stupid to stalk, much less sabotage a stripper pole, an ability to have fascinating conversations with oneself suggested that Andi might have a much-darker side. And if the dark side of Andi was half as crazy as the light side… I couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of stuff she could pull off.

Then Greg’s voice came over the intercom, summoning us for elimination. I headed downstairs, knowing I was safe. After our kissing in the Bimbo’s bathroom, I wouldn’t have minded if I were the one Patrick liked best. Although this was reality television, I was feeling some real emotions that I didn’t expect.

Chapter Sixteen:
Purple Prose

O
nly ten women remained after the second elimination. Dawn was one of them, and so was Cookie. Unfortunately, Tina’s sunburn and Topaz’s snarl didn’t stop Patrick from giving them lockets. Lorelai, Andi and a few others also got to stay. Apparently Andi’s cross-eyed condition didn’t bother Patrick as much as he claimed.

Lorelai got the first locket, and I got the second. I was a little miffed since I had played a Gretsch, made out with Patrick off camera and prevented a major car crash all in one day, but I had to agree that Lorelai was to be commended for, in Patrick’s words, “keeping cool in a firestorm.” Maybe her promise of good-luck brownies also helped to win him over.

The next morning, just like the day before, Kevin pulled me into the closet as I left the bedroom and gave me the run down. “Something new from the stalker. Turned up on Patrick’s pillow this morning. Right by his head.” He winced and tugged at the collar of his shirt, as if he needed a little more air. He took out another purple sheet of paper, and the purple matched the stripes on his shirt. I smelled the
eau de psycho
, a scent I had been looking for but hadn’t smelled during my whole time in the house. I immediately made plans to start digging through the bathrooms to see if I could find a bottle of the stuff. Then I read the note, which was pasted up from words cut out of a magazine:

What’s it take for a girl to get some attention?

All I want is a mention

A look

A glance

A touch

You’re getting to be too much.

At the bottom was a cutout of Patrick from a magazine. The stalker had cut off his arms and legs, and there was a black hole drawn where his mouth should have been.

“Can you check the tape? Do you have a camera on his bedroom door?” I asked.

“Yeah — and no one in or out after the elimination. I looked at it myself.”

“Then someone else knows about the passage,” I said. “They had to come through that way. Or someone could have swapped the tape — remember, most of the crew was out cold yesterday. Anything could have happened while they were asleep. Where do the passages empty out?” I asked.

Kevin said, “Here, Patrick’s room and the armoire in the hall. Opens up like this one.” He tugged on the dresser. “The bedrooms, too, but I haven’t used them.”

“How’s your shoulder?” I asked.

“Hurts like hell. I got a mark on my back the length of a limo window. It’s real attractive. Besides the letter, I wanted to tell you that you can flunk out of today’s challenge. Patrick’ll keep you, anyway. Looks like we’ll need you around a while longer.” He flicked the corner of the stalker’s letter.

“What’s the challenge?” I asked.

“Drinking weird shit, the nastiest mixes we can find, short of poisoning someone. We did it last season. For some reason, that was one of our most-popular episodes, so we’re doing it again. Never underestimate the power of puke.”

“That’s sick,” I said. My stomach flipped.

“Not as sick as you’d be if you tasted the stuff. So, ditch out early, and take a break.”

“What about watching Patrick?” I asked.

“You can keep an eye on him. The date’s going to be back at the house. The winners will make him dinner — which we’re having shipped in because I know damn well none of you can cook. Easy. What, you miss him already?” He chuckled, and then pulled open the dresser to go through the passage.

I ignored the implication of that last statement and changed the subject. “You sure you don’t need to rest?” I asked.

He stood back up again and smiled: probably the biggest smile I’d ever seen from him. “I got a meeting that’s going to take care of that. I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late.”

I waited for Kevin to leave, and I didn’t think much of his special meeting until after Lorelai rounded us up for that morning’s competition and we saw his body floating in the pool.

Chapter Seventeen:
Spitting and Quitting

T
he Marin County Sheriff’s Department was at the crime scene within thirty minutes. They shooed us away, and most of the women went inside. I sat by a patio table and watched the sheriffs in action. I expected that production would halt and we would all go home. But, with Kevin gone, who was going to protect Patrick? And who would have it out for Kevin? The crew was overworked, and Kevin and Patrick sniped at each other, but all that seemed like typical office stuff, just with more video cameras.

I felt even more need to act because the sheriff’s deputies didn’t have enough hustle for my tastes. They probably thought it was an accident, but I felt that grease by the pool, the grease that made Topaz slip when we were getting Kevin’s body on dry land. I knew Topaz felt it, too. With the stripper pole, the falling stage light, and the rampaging Hummer, even someone who wasn’t a private detective could do the math.

I walked over to the edge of the pool to find out if the police had noticed the grease. I asked to speak to a deputy, and I returned to the patio table.

A bored-looking guy in uniform finally joined me. He introduced himself as Deputy Dunlap. I said, “It seemed too slippery by the pool.”

Deputy Dunlap, one of Marin County’s finest, shot back, “Of course it’s slippery. It’s a pool. And he was a big guy. He probably lost his balance and fell in. The skinny dude already told us the guy couldn’t swim.” The deputy made a vague gesture toward Greg, who was being questioned by another officer.

“Kevin had too much at stake,” I said. “He wasn’t the kind of guy who would risk even standing by a pool. He hated the pool. He didn’t even want to get into the pool when a woman fell in at the first elimination. He told us, ‘I’m like a cat; I don’t get wet.’ He made someone else go get her.”

The officer took only a line or two of notes in response. Then he asked me, “Was he drinking? There’s a lot of alcohol in this house. Enough to shitface an elephant.” He glanced at an empty bottle of vodka that a contestant had left floating in a birdbath.

“Most of it was for us, the women. You know this is a reality-television show, right?” I asked.

“Yeah. I remember this show from last year. Had a case of assault with two of you chicks. Then there was the alcohol poisoning. Then the vandalism. Oh, and arson. PBS it ain’t.”

No wonder Deputy Dunlap was so blasé.

“So, was the deceased drinking?” Deputy Dunlap asked again.

“I never saw him drink,” I told him. I almost added that I never smelled drink on his breath, but that was pointless. The whole mansion smelled like a distillery.

“Sounds like he was drinking,” the Deputy said under his breath.

“I think he slipped,” I repeated. “Or was pushed.”

Deputy Dunlap took a note, but I could see his eyes moving above his sunglasses, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose. His eyes were following Lorelai’s butt, as she had just stepped out and walked toward the pool. She looked at the body bag, and then she spent some time staring at the point in the water where Kevin had been. She seemed to be crying, and I suspected that Deputy Dunlap was cherishing the thought of comforting a beautiful, vulnerable woman.

“Ahem,” I grumbled.

“Yeah… pushed,” he said. “OK, that it?”

“No. That is not it,” I said, frostily. “There have been at least two accidents that, in light of this death, do not look like accidents. First, a woman got hurt when a stripper pole came loose… would you mind not laughing? You are a professional, aren’t you?”

Deputy Dunlap struggled to put his poker face on. “Yes, ma’am.”

I continued, “Yesterday, a stage light injured a member of the crew when we were shooting in San Rafael. And then our limo driver passed out in San Francisco…”

Deputy Dunlap held up his hand. “You know what, honey?”

“Excuse me, but ‘honey’? Don’t ‘honey’ me.” I was gearing up to talk to his supervisor, and I wished that I could have those SFPD cops from the day before back.

Deputy Dunlap didn’t like women who back talked. “Settle down. You do realize that you are describing stuff that could happen on a reality show, right? These producers, they set up stuff so you react to them. Even the scary stuff. Here’s a tip: It. Is. Not. Real.” He moved his lips in an exaggerated fashion.

I stood up and moved my lips in an equally exaggerated fashion, pointing at the body bag. “That. Dead. Guy. Is. Real. Ass. Hole.” Then I spun around and walked off, suppressing my urge to shout at him lest I get arrested for Disorderly Conduct. The cop wasn’t the one who swam Kevin’s dead weight out of the pool, nor was he the one who felt Kevin’s lifeless skin.

After my underwhelming conversation with Marin County’s Finest, I kept thinking of my comment to Kevin on the first day, when he drove me to Marin. Was I supposed to be protecting Patrick or the show? Was I really supposed to be protecting Kevin the whole time? If so, why didn’t he tell me? And why didn’t I take more action after The Attack of the Stripper Pole? Had I been that dumb around Patrick?

Greg had finished his questioning, and he was fishing a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his shirt. I walked over, and he said, “I don’t think it could get any worse.”

“At least you’re going to be home soon,” I told him.

“We’re not stopping,” he said, flipping open the cigarette pack.

I noticed that Greg’s hands weren’t shaking. With Kevin gone, Greg had been promoted to the head of production, making Kevin’s death convenient. And, as a senior crew member, Greg had access to everything, from the stripper pole to the coffee maker.

“What?” I asked as he lit up. “Look, this is serious. Kevin’s dead — that’s like doing a show without a pilot! You are an admirable co-pilot, my friend, but —”

Greg cut me off. “You don’t know TV. If we have Patrick, we have a show.” He looked up at the sky. “I don’t know why Kevin was by the pool. He couldn’t swim.” Then his expression changed, almost like he willed himself to pretend to be Kevin. “Okay! Okay! I can do this! We are going to shoot this footage! Everyone to the pool!” He began waving the cigarette around in the air.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I told him. “The cops are still there.”

“We’ll make it look like they came out because someone gets sick. Katherine, do you want to be the one who gets sick?”

“No! I don’t want to shoot it at all!” I protested.

“Just a few takes — we’ll just show you spitting and quitting. Where were all those shots we mixed yesterday, and where the hell is Patrick?” Greg ran around, generating a frantic form of energy.

The crew herded all the women back to the pool area. “Can’t we wait until we get the body bag out of here?” Deputy Dunlap groaned. Hare stuck a camera in his face and got a shot of him arguing with Greg.

In a matter of minutes, the crew rolled out a long table with a series of opaque mugs.