Where the Heart Leads (21 page)

M
oira smiled as she walked up the wide steps of the imposing yellow building. Her life had changed a lot since the first time she entered the portals of the Bosque Bend Museum. And it was all for the better.

Her costume had changed too. The weather was springtime-warm so she'd worn a short crimson dress with a stylishly flared skirt. No need for her safari dress or sensible shoes anymore. She was flying high.
Gift of the Magi
was a hit, and she was engaged to Red Rafe.

She walked on up to the third floor and circled around to the theater entrance. Directors often abandoned their casts after opening night, but she planned to attend every performance. The Fontaines and Vashti were huddled together in a corner of the entryway in what looked like an intense, but nonlethal conversation. What was that all about?

The women looked up. Three pairs of eyes focused on her like rifle barrels, and Vashti signaled her to come over.

Xandra's hiss carried in the empty hall. “Are you sure we should tell her?”

Moira went rigid. Had Desdemona sprained her ankle? Or Micaela developed laryngitis?

Vashti nodded once, like a puppet on a string. “Yes. She needs to know.”

Moira walked over to them, telling herself to stay calm, but her apprehension was growing with every step.

“What do I need to know?”

Xandra pursed her lips. “Sister heard something.” She nudged Fleurette to step forward. Moira gave the little woman what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Fleurette looked at Xandra and took a sniffling breath.

“I—I stopped by G&G today for a sit-down lunch and heard someone talking about you in the booth behind me. It was that Rocky woman, the one who always dresses like she's a going to a rodeo—you can't mistake that laugh—and I think she was talking to that reporter who was in town a couple of weeks ago, the skinny one who looks like he's still in high school.”

Moira's smile froze on her face. Boyd Yancey.

Xandra prompted her. “Tell Moira what Rocky said.”

Fleurette swallowed hard. “The reporter kept asking her what you had told people about Colin Sanger, but all she wanted to talk about was how she's your best friend and she loves you to death and is really worried about you because the show is stressing you out and you're about to be fired—which I know isn't true in the least.

“She even had the nerve to tell him that you've been running after a rich rancher, and you two pretended to get engaged last night to boost ticket sales, but actually he's just using you—and we all know Rafe would never do anything like that.” Fleurette's jaw trembled. “And she also said that you're all depressed and suicidal now.”

Xandra jumped in. “Fleurette told me about it the second she came in, and I said we must consult Vashti to see about whether we should tell you or not. Sometimes it's best to let these things go, but that's your choice.”

Moira could feel an anger rising within her, but that wouldn't help the situation. Right now she had to calm the Fontaines down. They had a show to put on, and while Vashti could probably play through a hurricane, Xandra and Fleurette were more high-strung and would transfer their anxiety to Desdemona and Sergio.

She maintained her smile. “Thank you for telling me about this, Fleurette. It's something I needed to know, and you can be assured that I will speak with Rocky about it.”

Rafe turned into the ranch road and stole a glance at Moira to make sure she was still awake. She hadn't said a word since she got in the truck. Maybe she was having a second-night let-down. He parked the truck at the back of the house and reached for his door handle.

Moira jerked to attention, as if she'd just been awakened from a dream.

“Don't get out.” Her voice was somber. “I need to tell you something, and afterwards you may want to take me home.”

What the hell?
He pulled his door shut again, and the cab went dark.

“There's a Hollywood reporter in town. His name is Boyd Yancey, and Fleurette overheard Rocky telling him that that I'm…depressed and suicidal.”

Rocky? That was carrying a joke too far.

Moira continued in a monotone. “I don't want things like that to get around, so I'm going to set up a meeting with Yancey and clear things up.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” He'd fight off all her dragons if she'd let him.

She shook her head. “Thank you, Rafe, but I need to handle this by myself. Pressing her fingers to her temples, she breathed slowly in and out three times. “This interview may turn out to be about…a lot more than
Gift of the Magi
.” Her voice became stronger, as if she were reaffirming a decision. “What Yancey may really want to interview me about is how Colin died, and if he asks, I've decided to tell him the truth.”

She looked over at him. “But I want to tell you first. Maybe I should have told you before, but it didn't seem relevant.”

She looked away again. “The official story is that Colin broke his neck by diving into the pool at night without realizing it had been half emptied during the day.”

Her voice faltered. “Part of that was true. The pool was undergoing repairs, and that's where the police found Colin's body. But he hadn't ended up there on his own, and diving into it wasn't what killed him.”

A chill ran down Rafe's spine, but he kept his voice steady.

“What
did
kill him?”

She looked out the window into the night. “You have to understand the situation. We had separate bedrooms. His had a lock on the inside, and mine had a lock on the outside. They were both released at precisely seven o'clock every morning—Colin did everything precisely—and I was expected to come out of my room dressed to the nines and wait for him, even if he was running late.”

“Wait a minute—your bedroom door was locked from the outside?”

She gave him a quick glance. “Is it a surprise? Anyway, I waited for Colin for about an hour. He'd never been that late before, so I wandered around the dining room, not really trying to find Colin, just enjoying my freedom. Then I got bolder and started checking out all the forbidden rooms.”

“Forbidden rooms?”

“All the other rooms in the house.” She paused as if she was sorting through her memories. “I left Colin's bedroom till last, hoping he'd be gone.”

She wiped her forehead. “I hadn't been in his bedroom since the first month we were married. It was large and beautifully decorated—French, with a lot of silk, curlicues, and gilt. As far as I could tell, everything was in perfect order. The pillows on the couch had been wedged against its arms just so, and his bed was made up so neatly it didn't look like it had ever been slept in.”

He waited for her to continue.

“His closet door was open. I went down the rows of drawers and racks of clothes to the end, where the room turned a corner into small alcove. That's where I found him. Stone-cold, with a noose around his neck.”

Rafe shuddered. May Colin Sanger burn in everlasting hell for what he had done to Moira in life and death.

“I got a knife from the kitchen, wrestled a Louis XV chair into the closet, and climbed up to cut him down. Then I wrapped him in a sheet and dragged him down to the pool.” She gave Rafe a quick glance. He didn't look happy, but he hadn't shoved her out of the car so far.

“I tipped him in headfirst, hoping that it would look like he'd broken his neck in a diving accident. That was the only thing I could think of to do.”

Now he looked confused. “But why did you try to hide the way he had died?”

“To protect his image. It was what he would have wanted.”

“But…he'd committed suicide.”

She shook her head. “You don't understand. It wasn't suicide—it was accidental. He was hanging from a clothes rod and…the rest was obvious.”

“You mean…?”

She nodded. “Autoerotic asphyxiation, like David Carradine. I had him cremated, but the police knew. They'd seen that sort of thing before. And when the word started leaking out, the studio came down hard on them.”

“I didn't know that could be done.”

She shrugged. “With enough money, you can do anything, and Hollywood is a showbiz town.” She exhaled a soft, jeering laugh. “You should have seen the funeral. It was a show, a performance. Anybody who was anybody was there, standing room only—like at the Academy Awards. I wore black, of course—a Balenciaga that the studio supplied—and stars who'd never given me the time of day before patted my hand and kissed my cheek and told me what a wonderful person Colin had been.”

She went quiet for a few minutes, then turned to stare out the side window again. Rafe respected her silence, but he had the feeling she was building up to something else.

She removed the ring from her finger and held it out to him, meeting his eyes for the first time. “And if you want this ring back now, here it is.”

Like hell! She wasn't going to get rid of him that easily!

He clenched his hand around hers, and his sparkling eyes hardened into shards of steel. “Moira, what I want is for this ring to go back on your finger and stay there. We're in this together. I love you, and I'll stand by you, no matter what!”

Moira walked into G&G Chicken and scanned the tables for someone who looked like a cub reporter.

She'd called Yancey the next morning, as soon as she located his card in the pocket of her new coat, and they'd agreed on G&G Chicken at two in the afternoon—a time when she knew the restaurant wouldn't have many customers. Discretion was the name of the game, and a fast-food restaurant on a lazy Saturday afternoon was about as discreet as one could get in Bosque Bend.

He rose from a front table when she came in, and she recognized him from Fleurette's description—skinny and boyish.

He recognized her too and greeted her with a big smile and a limp handshake, then insisted on buying her a chicken combo she knew she'd never be able to eat.

They picked up their orders at the counter and took a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Yancey put a pocket recorder on the table. “Thanks for giving me this interview, Ms. Farrar. I know you're really busy with the play right now. How's it going with the play?”

Boyd Yancey's voice was upbeat and his boyish face invited trust, but Moira knew better than to accept a showbiz reporter at face value. Instead, she manufactured a big smile of her own and added a boatload of enthusiasm for good measure.

“Really well! The story is wonderful! The author, Pendleton Swaim, was nominated for a Pulitzer for
Garner's Crossing
, you know—and the music is fantastic!”

“I've been talking around to people and heard a lot of great things about you—the newspaper editor, the mayor's wife…”

Yancey left the end of the sentence open, as if he wanted her to know he'd interviewed a third person who didn't say great things about her.

Rocky.

Moira dropped her smile and looked him straight in the eye. “My personal life is also great.” She flashed her ring. “I'm engaged to a man who loves me, I'm not depressed, and I'm not suicidal, no matter what you've heard.”

Yancey looked blank for a moment—she'd caught him by surprise. “That little woman who was in the booth behind Rocky McAllister and me, the one with the black hair who wouldn't talk to me the last time I was in town—she heard everything the cowgirl said. Right?”

Moira nodded.

His smile faded and his face looked ten years older.

“Look, Ms. Farrar. I'll level with you. I'm not interviewing you for an entertainment magazine or even a tabloid. I've been hired by Solid Gold Entertainment, the studio that's bought up the rights to
The Clancy Family
and also all of Colin Sanger's movies, starting from when he played the junior senator in
Learning the Ropes
.”

He looked around, then hunched forward. “I've been sent here for two reasons. The first is that the studio wanted to be able to assure all of Nancy Clancy's and Colin Sanger's fans that you're okay, that you haven't overdosed or ended up in jail or a mental hospital. Solid Gold Entertainment is aimed at the family audience, and image is everything.”

His voice turned hard. “The second reason I'm here is to find out what you're going to say about the way Colin died.”

Moira's gut cramped. This was it.

She blinked her eyes as if she didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“
The Clancy Family
is already eating up the airways, and the big guns are planning to offer Colin's movies one at a time for limited-run rerelease. They'll be a gold mine—he's got a rabid cult following, especially since he died at the height of his career.” Yancey curled his lip, an ugly look on his choirboy face. “If his fans had anything to do with it, he'd be elevated to sainthood.”

Yancey looked around again, maybe to make sure Fleurette wasn't anywhere in sight.

“Hollywood is a small town, and word gets around. Everyone in showbiz knows how Colin really died, but the studio doesn't want the public to know. Solid Gold is protecting Colin like a mother tiger, but you're the joker in the deck. Colin Sanger had a pristine image, and Solid Gold wants to make sure it stays that way. It wants to be sure you won't talk about the black room—yes, we know about that—and that Colin will continue to have died by diving into that half-empty pool at night.”

Moira took a long second to digest what he had said. Yancey knew. They all knew.

They knew what Colin had done to her and they knew that she'd cut him down from the closet rod and shoved him into the half-empty pool. And instead of exposing her, they wanted her to maintain her lie, the fiction of Colin's life and death.