The Next To Die Part 12

Yesterday, Tom had stayed inside his tiny apartment, not wanting to miss any calls from friends-or possibly a producer-who had seen the movie. But the phone never rang. So Tom called a few actor acquaintances. One of them mentioned that Harry somebody had just suffered a stroke. He'd been set for a featured role in the new Dayle Sutton movie, and now they were recasting the part. For a while, Tom had such high hopes.

How stupid he'd been, thinking he had a chance.

He looked down at the gun in his hand. It was right that he should blow his brains out here by the HOLLYWOOD HOLLYWOOD sign. Not very original, but appropriate. Plus they'd find him here within a few hours. h.e.l.l, if he killed himself at home, it might be days before they discovered his decaying body. sign. Not very original, but appropriate. Plus they'd find him here within a few hours. h.e.l.l, if he killed himself at home, it might be days before they discovered his decaying body.

He thought about writing a farewell note to Maggie, but didn't want to cause her any bad publicity. Maybe Tom Lance and his films were forgotten, but folks still knew who Maggie McGuire was. She had a plum part in the new Dayle Sutton film, the one for which he'd just auditioned-and lost.

How ironic, since he'd helped start Maggie's career-way back in 1950. He'd starred in Hour of Deceit Hour of Deceit, and had been engaged to Maggie at the time. He'd practically browbeaten the director into giving her the small but showy role as the mistress of an underworld boss. She'd gone on to bigger and better films, and won an Oscar. Meanwhile, he'd floundered in B-movies and low-budget westerns. Then she'd dumped him.

Not long ago, he'd brought Maggie a book, The Ill.u.s.trated Movie Star Dictionary The Ill.u.s.trated Movie Star Dictionary. It was still inside a gift bag on the backseat of his car. Tom dug it out. Over a Thousand Stars Listed Over a Thousand Stars Listed, the book's jacket bragged, between a photos of Sylvester Stallone and Greta Garbo. Lavishly Ill.u.s.trated, Concise Accounts of the Stars' Careers and Their Films. From Bogart to Brad Pitt! From Lavishly Ill.u.s.trated, Concise Accounts of the Stars' Careers and Their Films. From Bogart to Brad Pitt! From It Girl It Girl Clara Bow to Clara Bow to Material Girl Material Girl Madonna! Madonna!

He wasn't listed, not even mentioned. But they gave Maggie a nice write-up, and featured a beautiful glamour shot of her. Seemed like such a waste that Maggie would never get her gift. Then again, he could deliver it to her, and say good-bye. He imagined Maggie wanting to pay him back-not just for this token gift, but for her whole career. She owed him. She might even have some influence in getting Dayle Sutton to change her mind.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires made him glance up. A police car cruised from around the bend a few hundred feet in front of him. Tom quickly stashed the gun inside the book bag. Then he straightened up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. As the squad car crept by, the cop spoke into a mike, and his voice boomed over a speaker: "No parking on this road. Please move your vehicle."

Tom waved and nodded. He started his engine and followed the cop car-keeping his distance. Sweat slithered down his temples, and his s.h.i.+rt stuck to his back. Once they were off the dirt road and the police car went in another direction, Tom loosened his tie.

Driving to Maggie's house in Beverly Hills, Tom imagined a revised edition to that movie book. This one would include him.

LANCE, Tom, it would say, under his favorite early portrait of himself, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled and wavy. (1925-, b. Thomas Lancheski, Chicago, Illinois). Handsome, dark-haired leading man in a number of RKO westerns and crime dramas in the early fifties. But within a decade, he was relegated to guest-star appearances on (1925-, b. Thomas Lancheski, Chicago, Illinois). Handsome, dark-haired leading man in a number of RKO westerns and crime dramas in the early fifties. But within a decade, he was relegated to guest-star appearances on Perry Mason, Ben Casey, Perry Mason, Ben Casey, and and Bonanza; Bonanza; then Lance seemed to fade into obscurity. Hollywood misused Tom Lance, and it is a great travesty that his talent went unappreciated until, at age 76, he took a supporting role in the Dayle Sutton starrer then Lance seemed to fade into obscurity. Hollywood misused Tom Lance, and it is a great travesty that his talent went unappreciated until, at age 76, he took a supporting role in the Dayle Sutton starrer, Waiting for the Fall. Lance made every minute of his screen time count. Critics raved, and he nabbed a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination... Lance made every minute of his screen time count. Critics raved, and he nabbed a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination...

Tom's daydream took him all the way to Beverly Hills. He turned onto the winding, palm-tree shaded road that was Maggie's cul-de-sac. He drove past the beautiful houses and carefully manicured lawns. By comparison, Maggie's ranch house looked rather modest-albeit respectable.

He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a white Mercedes. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he suddenly regretted this impulsive visit. He looked grimy and tired. He was about to restart the car and leave, but he heard a dog bark. All at once, the Doberman leaped up toward the car door, its paws on the window. Tom reeled back, clutching his heart. The huge dog growled and snapped at him on the other side of the gla.s.s.

"Tosha, get down from there!" Tom heard Maggie call. He glanced out his rear window. She came around from the side of the house. She wore jeans, a white sweater, and gardening gloves. "Tosha? Tosh, get down! Who's there?"

The dog finally shut up. Tom opened the car door and stepped outside. He patted Tosha's head and smiled at Maggie, who came up to his Volare.

She frowned for a moment. "Oh, Tom..." She pulled off the gloves. "To what do I owe this surprise visit?"

He wasn't too good on his feet today-with his gout flaring up. He tried not to limp as he made his way around the Volare. "Hi, Maggie-"

"Say, listen," she interrupted. "Did you call me last week?"

"Someone called pretending to be me?"

"Someone called threatening to kill me threatening to kill me," Maggie said. "He sounded like you. I wasn't sure. Phoned twice. He said, 'You promote perversion, and thus you will die.' Then he quoted the Bible to me-I forget what exactly."

Tom shook his head. "Why would I say something like that?"

She shrugged. "Forget it. Some crank. I've gotten a lot of crank letters since those cover stories in People People and that gay magazine. But crank calls to my home phone are another story. I just thought-well, forget I asked." and that gay magazine. But crank calls to my home phone are another story. I just thought-well, forget I asked."

"I brought you a present." Tom reached inside the car for the gift bag. It felt a bit heavy, and he remembered that the gun was in there. Turning his back to her, he transferred the gun to his pocket inside his jacket. Her dog sniffed at his crotch. Tom handed Maggie the gift bag.

"Sweet of you. Tosha, stop that," she said in one breath, with an apathetic glance inside the bag. "I suppose I should ask you in. Would you like some ice tea?"

"Oh, I don't want to be a bother."

She laughed. "Yeah? Since when?" She sauntered toward the side of the house and gave him a beckoning wave. "C'mon, it's no bother. I was about to pour myself a gla.s.s." She snapped her fingers at the dog. "C'mon, Tosh."

Tom and the dog followed her to the fenced-in back section of the house. There was a large kidney-shaped pool, and a rock garden. "It's the leash for you, Tosh," she said, grabbing the Doberman by his collar. She led him to a chain attached to a palm tree at the garden's edge. "Tosha, keep still." She dropped the gift bag to fix the dog to his leash.

"I hear you're in the new Dayle Sutton film," Tom said.

"Yeah, sort of an extended cameo."

"That's quite a coincidence, because I've been considering a part in the same movie. Maybe you could put in a good word for-"

"Okay, Tosha, there you go," she said to the dog. "Stay put now."

Tom bit down on his lip.

Maggie retrieved the bag, straightened up, then opened the sliding gla.s.s door to the house. "Okay, here we go. After you, Tom."

He tried not to hobble, but he caught her staring. "What's wrong with your foot?" she asked.

"Oh, I twisted my ankle jogging this morning," he lied.

"Jogging? You?" Maggie laughed. "I'd buy tickets to see that."

Tom was careful of the step up to the recreation room. He loved this room, because it definitely belonged in a movie star's home. The floor was Mexican tile, with a lambskin rug in front of the large stone fireplace. The sofa, love seat and chairs were covered with soft, cream-colored leather. Above the sofa hung an arrangement of framed photographs, Maggie's magazine covers from a Life Life portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of People People. There was Frank Sinatra planting a kiss on her cheek as she clutched her Academy Award; Maggie shaking Princess Grace's hand at some formal reception; Maggie and her ex, Pierre Blanchard, attending a film premiere with Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd; Maggie and President Kennedy laughing over what seemed to be a private joke at some Hollywood political function. Her Academy Award took center spot amid the pictures, the only three-dimensional object on that wall. A sconce held it up.

"I saw you on that Burger King commercial," Maggie said. She was in the kitchen, pouring their ice teas. Her kitchen was incorporated in the large, all-purpose room, separated by a counter bar.

Tom climbed onto one of the tall, cus.h.i.+oned stool-chairs at the counter. "It was a McDonald's ad," he said.

"Whatever," she shrugged, handing him a gla.s.s of ice tea. "I thought it was cute." She lit a cigarette. "Those ads can be pretty lucrative."

"I've had film offers," Tom lied. "They're interested in me for Tom Hanks's father in his next movie."

"Tom Hanks," she said, deadpan.

She knows I'm lying, Tom thought. "It's nothing definite yet," he said. Playing father to Kevin Costner or Tom Hanks was one of his fantasies lately.

"Tom Hanks," Maggie repeated, then she shook her head. "Well, that's just terrific. I'm thrilled for you." She took a drag from her cigarette, then reached for the gift bag. "I may as well open this-before you head out."

"I hope you don't already have it," he said, grinning.

She pulled out the book. "Oh, look, one of these things," she said, glancing at the cover. "They reduce your whole career to a couple of brief paragraphs. Hope you got it on sale."

"You don't like it," he murmured.

"Actually, I'm a sucker for these books," Maggie said. She flipped through its pages, and Tom noticed her stopping in the M's.

"'...But her career never fulfilled its early promise,'" Maggie read aloud, sneering. "Well, isn't that sweet? Thank you for buying this for me, Tom."

"That's just their way of saying Hollywood didn't do right by you. I think it's a nice review. The only thing they failed to mention was the guy who helped get you started. I should have gotten some credit. I mean, if it weren't for me, you'd still be-"

"I'd still be a c.o.c.ktail waitress," she finished for him. Maggie rolled her eyes. "I don't have to see it in print. I hear it enough from you-practically every time you come over here on one of your surprise visits: 'You'd still be a c.o.c.ktail waitress!'" She laughed. "Don't you think that by now, Tom, I'd have been promoted to hostess?"

"I don't bring it up that often," Tom argued. "And I don't drop by that often either. Lord, you make me sound like a pest."

"Huh, no comment," she mumbled over her ice tea gla.s.s.

Wounded, Tom gazed at her. "Is that what you think I am? A pest?"

"Every time you come over here, you make me feel like I owe you something. And I'm sick of it, Tom."

"I don't mean to make you feel that way, Maggie." Yet he liked the idea that she still felt beholden to him after all these years. He reached a hand over the counter toward her. "I'm proud to be the one who helped you-"

"May I remind you for the umpteenth time that I wasn't exactly on poverty row when you 'discovered' me? I'd done some modeling and commercial spots. I would have made it into the movies with or without you-eventually."

Tom stared at his empty hand, palm up. She didn't seem to notice that he'd been reaching out to her. He climbed off the stool, and pain shot through his foot as soon as he put some weight on it. He grabbed the counter to keep his balance.

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes narrowed. "Should I call you a taxi?"

She thought that he was drunk. Tom shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm all right. Sorry I bothered you."

"Oh, Jesus, the martyr role now." Maggie reached for her Merit 100's.

"Do you feel even an ounce of grat.i.tude toward me?" he asked.

"Now that's a laugh." She lit her cigarette. "I only lived with you and put up with your c.r.a.p for practically three years. If that ain't grat.i.tude, I don't know what."

"I thought it was love," Tom murmured.

Maggie shook her head and sighed. "Good exit line, Tom. Now, just let that hang in the air as you make your way to the door. And you can take this book with you." She pushed it too far across the counter-over the edge. The book toppled to the floor, just missing Tom's sore foot.

Clutching the stool, he bent down to retrieve the unwanted gift. The .380 fell out of his pocket. Tom wondered if she saw it. Quickly, he stashed the gun back inside his jacket. Then he retrieved the book and pulled himself up. "Do you know why I came here, Maggie?" he asked.

"Obviously, to bring some suns.h.i.+ne and happiness into my day."

"No. It's because I thought you were the only one who would miss me. I wanted to say good-bye to you before I killed myself."

She started sorting through some mail left on the countertop. "Oh, Tom. Give me a break, will you?"

"I'm serious, for G.o.d's sake!" He pulled out the .380.

But she wasn't looking at him. "Yeah, you're serious all right," she said, studying her phone bill. "Like that business about playing Tom Hanks's father. Sure Sure. See you in the movies, Tom. You're pathetic, you really are."

"And you're an uncaring b.i.t.c.h," he whispered.

Maggie looked up from the phone bill. Her eyes widened at the gun in his hand. "My G.o.d, you stupid-"

The moment the gun went off, Tom felt a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. He felt powerful. The shot still echoed in his ears, and an electriclike jolt rattled his hand. He blinked and looked down at her.

Maggie's thin body twitched and convulsed on the kitchen floor. Blood covered her face, yet her eyes remained open. She still wore that baffled, openmouthed expression from when he'd turned the gun on her. The spasms in her arms and legs halted. But blood continued to leak from her forehead. Wedged between her fingers, the cigarette she'd been smoking still smoldered.

"Maggie?" he whispered.

He heard the dog barking outside.

Beneath her head, a pool of dark blood bloomed on the tiled floor. The cigarette was burning down to her fingers, but she didn't move. He'd done this to her. His heart beating wildly, he gazed at the gun in his hand. He'd meant to take his own life today. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Tom glanced toward the sliding gla.s.s door. Had anyone heard the shot? Were her neighbors calling the police right now? The dog continued to bark furiously. It was as if the dumb animal knew what had happened to its master.

Tom began to tremble. Fingerprints Fingerprints. He shoved the gun back inside the bag, then pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped the edge of the counter, the bar stool, every place he'd set his hands. He rinsed out his ice tea gla.s.s, then put it away. He found the gift bag and stuffed the book inside it.

With the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, Tom slid open the gla.s.s door. He clutched the bag to his chest. As soon as he stepped outside, the Doberman lunged at him. Then, with a yelp, the animal abruptly stopped a few feet shy of him, restrained and choked in midjump by the chain attached to his collar.

Tom hobbled around the side of the house. The dog's barking started up again-like some beastly alarm that alerted the entire neighborhood. Tom expected to see a police car blocking his Volare in the driveway. But there was no one. He climbed inside his car, fumbled with the keys, then started up the engine. He crept out of the driveway. Reaching the palm-tree-lined street, he didn't see anyone. He didn't hear a police siren either. But the dog's barking still echoed inside his head.

They had a huge whirling fan trained on her. Dayle's hair fluttered in the breeze. Shadows of trees, phone poles, and headlights raced across her face and reflected on the winds.h.i.+eld of her mock convertible sports car. That was the front screen projector working. The rear screen had the seaside road on which Dayle's character drove while intoxicated. Clutching the steering wheel, Dayle rolled her eyes ever so slightly. She'd been "drunk driving" on and off for about two hours now.

During one of the off moments, she'd retreated to her trailer and telephoned Nick Brock. He was still digging around Estelle Collier's hometown. Dayle caught him in his room at the Holiday Inn in Madison, Wisconsin.

"Nothing new on the father of Estelle's kid," he told her. "I'll have to pick up the pieces in San Francisco. But this you'll be interested in. I've talked to about twenty people, just casually fis.h.i.+ng about our Miss Collier, and it turns out I'm not the first person to come here with a lot of questions about Estelle. This one yokel told me that a guy calling himself a reporter was digging around here four months ago with the same kind of questions."

"You mean, before Leigh's death?"

"At least three months before," Nick said. "I think you're right about a blackmailer. Somebody was looking for a skeleton in Estelle's closet."

"They must have found something," Dayle said. "Listen, Nick. I need to know more about that 'unknown' father. It's what they must have used to get her to lie. Maybe we can use the same thing to squeeze the truth out of her."

Once Dayle had clicked off, she phoned Sean Olson's office and left a message on her machine-relaying what Nick had just told her. In only two days, Sean had become her confidant. Concerning this conspiracy, no one else took her seriously except Sean.

"Cut!" the director yelled. "Beautiful, Dayle. Let's break for lunch."

Dayle sighed and let her hands drop from the steering wheel. Dennis helped her out of the mock sports car. A tall, stunning redhead stood behind him. She wore a lavender suit that showed off her jazzercised-thin figure and long, shapely legs. "Dayle," Dennis said. "I want you to meet Laura."

"So you are the the Laura," Dayle said, shaking her hand. She wondered what this woman saw in good old pudgy Dennis. Snuggling alongside him, Laura stood an inch taller than Dennis. She had a sweet, nervous smile, and seemed starstruck in Dayle's presence. "Dennis has told me all sorts of nice things about you," Dayle said. "How does it feel to be on a movie set?" Laura," Dayle said, shaking her hand. She wondered what this woman saw in good old pudgy Dennis. Snuggling alongside him, Laura stood an inch taller than Dennis. She had a sweet, nervous smile, and seemed starstruck in Dayle's presence. "Dennis has told me all sorts of nice things about you," Dayle said. "How does it feel to be on a movie set?"

"Oh, I love it!" Laura exclaimed. "It's so exciting!"

Dayle gave her shoulder a pat. "Someone once said that your first day on a movie set is an incredible thrill. And your second day is so dull it couldn't cut b.u.t.ter. Glad you're enjoying yourself, Laura. My big question for you is-how do you put up with this character?" She nudged Dennis.

Laura just giggled nervously.

Bonny handed Dayle her Evian water. Dayle winked, then turned and toasted Laura with the bottle. "Nice meeting you," she said, heading to her trailer. "Keep this guy out of trouble."

Laura giggled again. "Sometimes I call him Dennis the Menace!" she called. "You know, Dennis the Menace?"

Dayle looked back and nodded. "Yes, that-that's very cute. Well, see you around, Laura." She continued toward her trailer.