The Next To Die Part 25

"Well, maybe the tide will change," Avery offered, with a shrug.

"Yeah, the tide can change," she said, nodding tiredly. "What the heck? Maybe today's the day we'll find something in those security videos to prove you were set up. You never know."

Avery glanced in his rearview mirror. He didn't see anyone on his tail. But it suddenly hit him. "The 'rental mentals,'" he said. "I never noticed those guys until you told me about them. But on the videos, I've seen cars parked down the street across from the front gate. Haven't you?"

"I a.s.sumed they were your neighbors."

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. I never thought to check the car types or if anyone was sitting inside. Maybe we could prove-as part of a set up-someone was watching me and the house before Libby was murdered...."

"My G.o.d, you're right," Sean muttered. "I made a list of license plate numbers from the rental cars that have been following Dayle. If we match one of those plate numbers with a car in front of your house, we can introduce the conspiracy angle, establish reasonable doubt." Sean patted his shoulder. "We might need certain images from the security video blown up. Do you know someone at the studio who could do that for us?"

Avery nodded. "Yes, it should be easy."

"Except I don't have my copy of the list." Sean frowned. "I took it home for safekeeping-in case those people broke into my office. Only my little girl decided to clean off my desk for me, and threw it away, G.o.d love her." Sean bit her lip. "Hmmm, I faxed the list to Dayle. If I remember right, she gave it to this private detective she hired. We might have to track him down...."

Wasn't there a single Playgirl Playgirl at Spokane's airport? Nick Brock had time to kill before picking up his bags. But the search for his magazine proved in vain. None of the newsstands carried it. Disappointed, he plodded down to baggage claim, then rented a car. The three-hour drive to Opal, Idaho, had scenery right out of a beer commercial, real "Land of Sky Blue Waters" stuff. at Spokane's airport? Nick Brock had time to kill before picking up his bags. But the search for his magazine proved in vain. None of the newsstands carried it. Disappointed, he plodded down to baggage claim, then rented a car. The three-hour drive to Opal, Idaho, had scenery right out of a beer commercial, real "Land of Sky Blue Waters" stuff.

Opal lay smack-dab in the middle of all this mountain splendor. The quaint city center, located three blocks off Opal Lake, seemed like the type of place that shut down by six P.M. P.M. Very clean and friendly. Dull as h.e.l.l. Very clean and friendly. Dull as h.e.l.l.

But on the edge of town, Nick noticed a couple of taverns, a McDonald's (open until the unholy hour of ten P.M. P.M.), and several hotels to accommodate the tourists taking advantage of Opal's natural wonders-hunting, fis.h.i.+ng, hiking, and in the summertime, camping, boating, and swimming.

Nick had made reservations at Debbie's Paradise View Motor Inn. Tackle equipment and mounted fish decorated the lobby walls, and the furniture was made of unfinished logs with Indian-weave cus.h.i.+ons thrown on top-stylized rustic c.r.a.p. A cute, young blonde worked the front desk. Her hair had been teased and curled, and there was a touch of teenage acne on that pretty face. Nick couldn't resist flirting with her. Her name was Amber. "Debbie" was her grandmother, and the old witch had skipped to Reno for the week.

Amber happily gave him directions to the post office. It wasn't yet noon, and the leaser of PO Box 73 probably hadn't picked up the mail today. Nick winked and thanked Amber. Blus.h.i.+ng, she smiled and stepped back. He noticed her spandex miniskirt showed off a great set of legs and a sweet b.u.t.t. He also glimpsed a small magazine rack behind the desk, and there it was: his Playgirl Playgirl.

"Hey, you got it!" Nick said, pointing to the rack. "Check it out, the Playgirl Playgirl. Page thirty-four. You might be interested, honey." He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. Nick glanced over his shoulder at Amber. She was thumbing through the magazine; then she stopped suddenly-on his his page, he was sure. "OmiG.o.d!" Amber squealed, obviously impressed. page, he was sure. "OmiG.o.d!" Amber squealed, obviously impressed.

Smiling, Nick moved on. Made his day.

"I think we found something to prove there's a conspiracy," Sean said on the other end of the line.

The phone to her ear, Dayle sat at the vanity table in her trailer. She'd been touching up her "old" face for a scene in which her character has aged into her mid-sixties. Her hair had been spray-dyed a mousey gray, and they'd added some crow'sfeet, laugh lines, and liver spots. She wore a tweed suit and pearls. "What did you find?" she asked, turning away from the mirror.

"Avery and I are here in this editing room at his studio, looking at security videos taken outside his home. We noticed some rental cars parked across from his house."

"They're following him too?"

"Looks that way," Sean said. "We're having a few of the video images blown up and enhanced so we can see the license plates. Here's where you come in, Dayle. Do you still have that list of plate numbers I faxed you? Or did you give it to that Nick character, the centerfold?"

"I still have a copy at my place," Dayle said. "I can fax it to your office when I get home tonight. Would seven-thirty be too late?"

"No. That would be fantastic, Dayle. Thanks a lot."

"We'll talk tonight, okay? Take care."

As Dayle hung up the phone, she heard someone on the steps to her trailer. She went to the door and opened it. Dennis stood there.

He looked startled. "I was just about to knock," he said. "I need to talk to you. It's important."

"All right," she said, mystified. "C'mon in."

Dennis stepped inside, and closed the door. "You better sit down for this. It's not good news."

"Okay." She sat across from him at her vanity. "What happened?"

"Does the name Cindy Zellerback ring a bell? A distant bell?"

Dayle kept very still. "What about her?"

"She-um, recently completed a prison sentence for killing her husband and baby. She claims that she had s.e.x with you a long time ago. Apparently, she's now born again or something. The point is, at this very minute, Elsie Marshall is interviewing her in front of a studio audience. They're taping this afternoon's show."

Dayle felt a little sick. She just stared at him.

"I only now found out," Dennis continued. "The reporters are banging down the studio door for a statement. Publicity wants to talk to you as well."

Dayle reached for an Evian bottle on her vanity. It was empty. Sighing, she pitched it in the wastebasket. "Wouldn't you know, they'd leak the story to Elsie? She'll get lots of mileage out of it."

"Then the story is true," he said quietly.

"Yes, Dennis. It's true." She took a deep breath. "Listen, I need some time alone right now."

"You got it." Dennis started for the door, but he hesitated and turned to her. "You can trust me, Dayle. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded. "I'm counting on it."

"Hi, Elsie!" the studio audience cheered in unison.

"Hi, and welcome back to Common Sense! Common Sense!" Elsie Marshall said. "I know I'm breaking a lot of hearts out there when I tell you my Drew won't be here today. He's in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C."

There was a wave of feminine sighs and murmurs of disappointment from the studio audience. Elsie held up her hands. "But we have an unusual guest this afternoon, and you won't want to miss what she has to tell us!"

The camera pulled back to show Elsie sitting at her desk. She wore a white dress with red piping and a sailor collar. She hadn't yet introduced her guest: a dowdy dishwater-blonde with bad posture. She sat across from Elsie, studying the studio audience with some readable contempt and trepidation. She had on a pale, flowery dress that had gone out of style ten years ago.

Dayle barely recognized Cindy. She watched Elsie's show on a big-screen TV in the studio's VIP visitors' lounge. She was still in her matronly makeup and wardrobe. She'd agreed to work late if they filmed around her for the next couple of hours.

"Today we're talking some common sense common sense with a real survivor," Elsie announced. Then she turned to Cindy with a sudden, phony concern. "I understand you had an with a real survivor," Elsie announced. Then she turned to Cindy with a sudden, phony concern. "I understand you had an intimate, lesbian intimate, lesbian relations.h.i.+p with an established film star when you were only nineteen years old." relations.h.i.+p with an established film star when you were only nineteen years old."

"Oh, Jesus," Dayle groaned. She reached for a memo pad and a pen.

"Yeah, I was nineteen," Cindy said. She leaned toward Elsie. "But I want to make it clear that I've rejected the sinful lifestyle I once had."

With a little pout, Elsie gazed into the camera. "My guest today is Cynthia Zellerback, who was drawn into drugs and the gay scene eighteen years ago. Cindy's here to tell us her story-which included a s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p with film personality Dayle Sutton...."

Elsie paused to give the studio audience a chance to gasp-and gasp they did-while she nodded emphatically. "Yes, it's true!"

People were still murmuring when Elsie turned to Cindy. "Eventually, you tried to reject this lesbian lifestyle and lead a normal, Christian life. But even with a husband and baby, you wouldn't 'go straight,' would you?"

Frowning, Cindy shook her head. "No. And if it weren't for my drug and s.e.xual dependencies, I don't think-it wouldn't have happened." wouldn't have happened."

"For the studio audience and our friends at home, Cindy," Elsie said in a whisper. "What exactly happened?"

"I killed my husband and baby daughter," she answered with hardly a tremor in her voice. "I was convicted, and I spent twelve years in prison...."

More gasps and murmurs from the studio audience. Dayle took notes, scribbling furiously while Cindy described the murders as if someone else had committed them. Cindy said how much she missed her husband and her two-year-old, Suns.h.i.+ne. She even cried a little. If only she hadn't been doing drugs and having gay s.e.x. She discovered the "power of G.o.d's forgiveness" in the federal pen.

Elsie patted her shoulder, and chimed in to announce a commercial break. "When we return, we'll talk some more common sense common sense with Cindy about her lesbian affair with none other than Dayle Sutton. Don't go away!" with Cindy about her lesbian affair with none other than Dayle Sutton. Don't go away!"

Dayle didn't go away. On her cellular, she phoned Dennis to let him know that she would read a brief statement for the press after Elsie's show.

"Hi, Elsie!"

"G.o.d bless you," Elsie chirped, coming back on and blowing a kiss to her audience. Now that everyone had Cindy Zellerback identified as a reformed drug-addicted, child-killing lesbian, Elsie didn't waste any time linking this survivor survivor with a certain with a certain liberal actress liberal actress. After less than a minute of chitchat with the audience, she turned once again to her guest.

"Cindy, you were only nineteen when you met Dayle Sutton. That's a young and impressionable age, isn't it?"

Cindy shrugged. "Sure."

"What was it like, meeting a movie star?"

"It was pretty cool," Cindy answered. "I was in Mexico with some friends, and heard they were shooting a movie nearby. So I started hanging around the set. I even got to be in a couple of crowd scenes."

"You also met Dayle Sutton," Elsie said. "Tell us, Cindy, were you doing drugs at the time?"

She sighed. "Yes, I was."

"Were a lot of people on this movie set doing drugs?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Including Dayle Sutton?"

Cindy nodded. "Sure, I guess."

"And Dayle Sutton was married at this time, wasn't she?"

"I think so," Cindy replied.

"Who initiated this-gay s.e.xual encounter?" Elsie asked, with a sour look, as if it pained her to discuss this sordid business.

"It was mostly her," Cindy said. "I could tell before this, y'know, particular night that she was interested in me. And it was kind of exciting, because she was a movie star and all that. Plus, I heard people talk on the set about her being a lesbian...."

Dayle studied Elsie's face, and as much as the old b.i.t.c.h tried, she couldn't contain a smile.

Dayle faced the press, flanked by Dennis and Ted. About forty reporters and several cameramen gathered outside the soundstage where she was filming Waiting for the Fall Waiting for the Fall for this impromptu press conference. In her "old lady" garb, she looked very sweet and matronly. Yet Dayle had modified the makeup a little so that the pretty movie star s.h.i.+ned through. Security was tight, with guards stationed every eight feet at a roped-off section around the podium where Dayle addressed the crowd. for this impromptu press conference. In her "old lady" garb, she looked very sweet and matronly. Yet Dayle had modified the makeup a little so that the pretty movie star s.h.i.+ned through. Security was tight, with guards stationed every eight feet at a roped-off section around the podium where Dayle addressed the crowd.

"I'm in the middle of making a movie right now," Dayle announced. "Which explains why I'm dressed and made up this way. I'm sorry I won't have time to answer questions. But I'd like to make a statement for anyone who cares to listen." Dayle smiled at them. She needed these journalists on her side. "Actually, I'm not wearing any makeup. I've simply aged twenty-five years in the past hour while watching a certain 'talk show.'"

There were some laughs and t.i.tters among the reporters, and she heard Dennis behind her chuckling-almost too enthusiastically.

Elsie's show had ended only forty-five minutes ago. Dayle had scribbled out a brief speech. She felt a strange calm. The "scandal" was out there now, thanks to Elsie Marshall. That left Dayle with damage control, an a.s.signment the studio bra.s.s tried to entrust to their public relations department. "It's my a.s.s on the line," Dayle had told a studio bigwig over the phone. "I'll handle this."

They wanted to check her speech, but the only person she let read it was Dennis, whose thumbs-up gave Dayle the confidence she now needed.

"I take enormous pride in the fact that I'm on Elsie Marshall's hate list," Dayle announced. "Elsie had a guest on her program today, a woman named Cindy Zellerback, who murdered her husband and child thirteen years ago. Now, the widow Marshall-to my knowledge-has never had a murderer on her show-morons, yes, but not murderers."

A few reporters laughed, but Dayle kept a straight face. "The reason Elsie put Cindy Zellerback on her show was that this particular convicted murderer claimed to have had s.e.xual relations with me a few years before she killed her family. Ms. Zellerback's story first came to my attention earlier this week, by way of an anonymous note from someone who seemed to have extortion in mind. I chose to ignore it. Obviously, this mudslinger turned to the widow Marshall with this story. So in her attempt to publicly humiliate me, Elsie Marshall has consorted with an extortionist and a murderer."

Dayle shook her head and sighed. "Well, I'm a little embarra.s.sed, but not humiliated. The story this woman told is indeed true. One night, sixteen years ago, while shooting a movie in Mexico, I went to a beach party and had too much to drink. While under the influence, I experimented with a nineteen-year-old named Cindy. The widow Marshall would like you to believe I corrupted this young woman, but I'd like to point out that I was the ripe old age of twenty-three at the time, and not much of a party girl. I have very little memory of my evening with Cindy Zellerback. I do, however, recall that the 'experiment' wasn't my idea of a good time. I never saw-or heard about-Cindy Zellerback again, not until the anonymous note last week."

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dayle shrugged. "That's the extent of my a.s.sociation with this"-she shook her head-"this pathetic woman who killed her family. I can't understand how someone who preaches the power of G.o.d's forgiveness can also preach hate toward gays and lesbians. She blamed the murders of her husband and toddler daughter on drugs and her lesbian lifestyle-as if she herself weren't responsible at all. That's just not right. I'd feel sorry for Cindy Zellerback if she still weren't doing harm-this time with her demented moralizing. I'm glad my a.s.sociation with this pitiful woman was so brief, and forgettable-when my mind was clouded with drink. The widow Marshall, however, chose to a.s.sociate with her in front of a television audience, and seems to consider her a colleague. What's clouding Elsie's mind? A powerful dose of hate, I'd say. Listen, Elsie, when you resort to the testimony of convicted murderers to trumpet your h.o.m.ophobic rhetoric, it's time to reevaluate your beliefs."

A few reporters started to applaud, and others joined in. By the time Dayle stepped down from the podium, they were cheering her.

But in a deluxe penthouse suite at the Hyatt Regency in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., the reporters on hand scoffed at Dayle Sutton. Her speech was broadcasted live on the Entertainment News Network. Over thirty supporters of Drew and Elsie Marshall-many of them from the press-crowded the huge suite. Plied with drinks and hors d'oeuvres, they watched the telecast on a big-screen TV. They hadn't expected Dayle Sutton to respond so soon. The group had originally a.s.sembled with their host, Drew Marshall, to watch his mother interview the convicted murderer who had once been Dayle's lesbian lover.

Elsie's interview had been a great victory for Drew. The excitement and enthusiasm buzzing through the room had everyone nearly giddy. Dressed in a white linen s.h.i.+rt and jeans, he held court in a stuffed easy chair. He led the group in applause every time his mother got in a zinger against Dayle s.l.u.tton s.l.u.tton.

Then a call had come in saying that ENN would provide a live telecast of Dayle Sutton's response to today's Common Sense Common Sense segment. Everyone stayed to witness Dayle Sutton's humiliation. They couldn't wait to see her squirm. segment. Everyone stayed to witness Dayle Sutton's humiliation. They couldn't wait to see her squirm.

In reverence to Drew-and out of respect for his mother-several of the guests hissed at Dayle during her speech. But some people seemed uncomfortable, their mood plummeting from the zealous fever of an hour before. A few of them even left the room-very quietly. But the loyal ones stayed on to criticize and ridicule Dayle Sutton. Drew insisted that today was a moral victory for everyone who believed in family values.

With his beer in hand and a confident smile on his face, Drew turned to one of his a.s.sociates. "Listen carefully to me," he said, under his breath. "When they shoot that wh.o.r.e next week, I want a piece of her G.o.dd.a.m.n brain for a souvenir. I don't care if they have to sc.r.a.pe it off the f.u.c.king floor, make sure someone brings it to me."

Drew caught a reporter's eye from across the room. He hoisted his beer stein as if to toast him and broke into his charming, boyish smile. "Hey, you're running on empty, Duane," he called. "Have another round!"