Last Scene Alive at-7 Read online

  "But the Joe Pike character, how do you think he measures up compared to Hawk in the Parker books?" Robin asked. I was trying to formulate my reply when I glanced across the table and saw that Celia was silent and intent. She was observing me, and even as I looked at her I saw her hand move in a little hand twist that ended with the palm up. I hadn't realized it was a gesture I made often until I saw Celia imitate it.

  In a flash, I understood the whole purpose of my being invited along this evening. I could only wonder, in that horrible moment, if Robin had known.

  I wanted to get up and walk out of the room and never see any of these people again, because I felt that Celia Shaw had been stealing from me. But in a contrary way, I also wanted to minimize the situation, because I was raised to avoid direct confrontations. Besides, what could I say? "You were copying me?" I hadn't accused anyone of that since the third grade. What could she reply? "Was not!"

  "Just trying to get your flavor," Celia explained, looking Sheepish with a capital S. She was playing someone feeling sheepish, rather than actually feeling that way.

  "I don't know how you've stood it," I said to Robin, with more frankness than tact. Shoving back my chair and scooping up my purse, I excused myself to go to the Ladies‘.

  The ladies' room was supposed to look like a barn, God knows why. There were hay bales and corrals, and each "stall" was only shoulder high. Talk about carrying a theme too far. There was no place to be private in there. I stood by the pay phone when I'd emerged, trying to decide who could come get me without asking too many questions. I'd just look like that dreaded thing, a Bad Sport, I finally decided, and stomped back to our private room.

  Along the way, a starstruck girl asked me to get Celia Shaw's autograph for her and a man who was trying really hard to look like Johnny Depp told me he could give anyone in that room—male or female—an unforgettable sexual experience. I had no idea what to say to either of them, so I just shook my head.

  The food had come while I was gone, and everyone was eating, but there was a testy silence in the room that tipped me off that something had gone wrong while I was out.

  I slid into my place and spread my napkin, hoping this wouldn't be the time I'd spill barbecue sauce on my blouse. I don't think I've ever concentrated so hard on eating neatly. Every sixty seconds one of the servers would circulate around the table, asking each person individually if he or she had enough to drink, was satisfied in every way.

  I was so self-conscious, thinking of the young woman across from me drinking in my every move and gesture, that I couldn't enjoy a thing. I wished I'd just said to hell with it, and walked right out of the restaurant. I could have called Shelby Youngblood or Sally Allison. Had I been under the spell of Hollywood glamour as much as everyone else? Was that why I'd agreed to come out with these people? I put down my fork with as little noise as I could manage, patted my lips with my napkin, and set it by my plate.

  "Ready to leave?" Robin murmured.

  "They're not through eating," I whispered.

  "We can go," he said. "I called a cab."

  "Thanks," I said, realizing as he said it that I wanted to leave more than anything. In a regular speaking voice I thanked Celia for the meal, and though I sounded stiff and hostile I had fulfilled the letter of courtesy. Celia was sulky and on the verge of a tantrum. She muttered something at me. I didn't try to decipher it on the spot; nodding and getting the hell out seemed like the best thing to do.

  Robin slid in the cab with me, told the driver where to go, and stared straight ahead.

  "Thank you," I said carefully.

  "For being there while you were exposed to Celia at her worst?" His voice was dry and brittle. I realized there had been a serious quarrel when I'd left the room. I was petty enough to be glad.

  "I guess she was just doing what an actress has to do," I answered, hoping to make him feel less culpable. "Anyway, that was certainly an experience."

  "They get so used to being the center of the universe," Robin told me. "I don't think I ever see it as clearly until I see them away from L.A."

  I felt uncomfortable. There wasn't a response, so I didn't attempt one.

  "She's gotten worse lately," he continued. "She's absent-minded, and she forgets her lines. She's... it's like she's going off the tracks, somehow."

  I had to tread carefully. No matter if she and Robin had quarreled about how she'd treated me, this woman had been Robin's girlfriend. "Does she use, ah, recreational stuff?" I asked, as delicately as possible.

  "Drugs? No. Celia might take a hit off a joint if it's going around, but she doesn't buy it herself and she doesn't take pills."

  Somehow, discussing Celia's problems didn't interest me right now, but I felt obliged to listen if Robin wanted to discuss them. Up to a point. But Robin sat in brooding silence all the way to my house, where he told the cab to wait while he walked me to my door. I'd unlocked the door and punched in the security code, he took one step inside.

  For a moment I felt awkward, in that lit-up kitchen with a man, alone. Then I thanked Robin for the ride home and for my interesting evening, and he gave a snort that suddenly made me feel at home with him. He seemed much more like my friend Robin than a stranger who'd been living in a strange land. Robin looped one long arm around my shoulders and stooped to give me a kiss on the cheek.

  "I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

  "No, I have to work."

  "You don't want to come back to the set?" He sounded less surprised than he might have a couple of days ago. Robin was reorienting himself to my life.

  "No."

  Robin looked down at me, his face inscrutable. "Then I'll see you soon," he said finally. I watched as he loped down the steps to cross the yard to the cab waiting on the driveway. There was a car passing by, out on the road, a little unusual for this time of night. Maybe my neighbor Clement had been out late.

  What a strange evening it had been. I fed Madeleine and trudged up the stairs, yawning hard enough to make a cracking sound. As I got ready for bed, going through my usual skin and stretching routine, I wondered if I should have foregone my evening out with the movie people. Then I thought, That's a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Even if I didn't enjoy it at all, it's a good thing to have done. I was glad it was over, though, and as I composed myself to sleep I thought of Celia Shaw's clever, sulky, beautiful face. I wondered if she'd ever win an Oscar; I could say I'd known her when.

  That would be more fun than knowing her now.

  Chapter Five

  Making a liar out of me, the next morning saw me on my way back to the movie set, which today, I'd discovered, was the Sparling County Courthouse. I was still blinking and trying to feel completely alert. Beside me in the front seat was my friend Angel Youngblood: mother, stunt-woman, and former bodyguard. Pregnancy and motherhood had not had any visible effect on Angel's long, sleek body.

  When the phone had rung at the crack of dawn, Angel's was the last voice I'd expected to hear. "Hey, Roe," she'd said, her flat Florida drawl instantly recognizable. "Listen, I need some help."

  "What?" I knew I sounded groggy, and I tried to focus on the clock. It was six, time for me to get up and get ready for work.

  "Sorry I woke you up."

  "No, no, I have to get ready for work anyway. What can I do for you?" Angel never called without a reason; she wasn't a chatterer.

  "Shelby's already at work with his car, mine won't start, and I need to leave the baby-sitter hers because Joan's got a doctor's appointment today. Can you give me a lift to the movie set?"

  I ran a hand over my face, and recalled that Angel had told me she'd gotten work on the set. "Sure," I said. "I'll be there in thirty minutes or less."

  "Thanks." Angel hung up.

  I washed my face and brushed my teeth, pulled on a long, pale orange tee-shirt style dress and a light sweater, slid into some clogs, powdered my face, and clattered down the stairs and out the front door before I had really attained consciousness. I was a little more
alert by the time I beeped the horn outside Angel and Shelby's ranch-style home.

  Angel slid out of the front door like a thief in the night, her Capri-length black stretch pants and her white blouse emphasizing her golden colors and smooth body movements. Her thick blond hair was caught back in a ponytail, and she wore no makeup, which was Angel's norm.

  "How's Joan?" I asked as Angel climbed into the car.

  Angel grinned, and went from looking serious and possibly dangerous to looking like a mother who was proud as hell of the most wonderful baby in the world. "She's into banging on pots and pans," Angel told me, and we talked about Joan's progress for a minute or two. "My neighbor is keeping her today. She has a little boy a couple of months older. Courthouse," she reminded me, and as I pulled away from the curb to go to Lawrenceton's fake-antebellum edifice, she began to tell me about a civil confrontation Shelby had had with Martin's replacement at the Pan-Am Agra plant.

  I was listening with great interest, when I stood back and gave myself a hard look. Was I that dreary cliché, the hometown honey? I found the Hollywood people boring, compared to Angel's fascinating account of little Joan's first crawling. Maybe I was pulling a double cross on myself, pretending enthrallment with family scenes of the Youngbloods to hide my secret lust for the Hollywood way of life?

  It was both a relief and a slight disappointment to touch the bottom of my well of self-absorption and find I was absolutely sincere in my preference for the small details of home. And I was definitely getting a little too fond of my own navel, I concluded. So I concentrated on listening to every single thing Angel told me. I even volunteered to baby-sit Joan one evening so Angel and Shelby could go out together. Angel rolled her eyes at me doubtfully, but agreed to talk to Shelby about my offer.

  Today the trailers and cables and cameras—all the paraphernalia I'd seen yesterday—had been set up in a new location, the front yard of the courthouse. Even the Molly's Moveable Feasts van was there, with its table set up and attended by the same auburn-headed young woman. (If she was actually Molly, who was doing the cooking?) Today the table was spread with pitchers of juice and doughnuts, and a plate of fruit. I wondered, for the first time, how long the movie people would actually have to stay in town.

  Robin had told me that most of the shots filmed in Lawrenceton would be exteriors. Sets would be built back at the studio for interior scenes. So maybe scenes dealing with the trial were being shot today? I wondered why on earth they'd need a stuntwoman, and decided maybe it would be better not to ask.

  For the first time, as Angel scanned the street for some safe parking spot, I thought of how difficult it would be to be an actor, to have to imagine how your character would've changed as a result of scenes you hadn't shot yet. You'd have to figure out how the character would react after some of the events in the film, before you'd ever emotionally experienced them. There was more to this acting than met the eye.

  I had intended to drop Angel off and go on my way, but she knew one of the women working in the crew and wanted to introduce me. The friend, Carolina Venice, was one of the makeup artists working in a big trailer a little west of the courthouse. Angel's friend looked as exotic as her name. Easily five feet eleven, Carolina Venice had a smoking habit, cornrowed and beaded hair, and multiple piercings. The lip and tongue decorations made me a little queasy, I have to confess, though the woman was as warm and welcoming as she could be.

  "Give me fifteen minutes," she said. "I have to finish this woman, and then I'll be with you. Here, settle into these chairs." There were two cheap lawn chairs on the rolling platform (with steps built in) that had been pushed up to the makeup trailer.

  I perched on one, looking around me to see if I could spy Robin. I felt a certain need to explain why I was where I'd said I would never go again. I was just yards away from Celia's trailer—at least I was pretty sure it was the same one Celia had used the day before. Will Weir, pulling on a lightweight jacket, was saying something over his shoulder to (I presumed) Celia, nodding, as he shut the door. Everyone I saw had the Styrofoam cups of coffee and juice that Molly's Moveable Feasts was handing out. Mark Chesney went to the door of the trailer and knocked, but hurried away after a moment. I wasn't close enough to hear what response he'd gotten. A young woman I didn't know darted up to the door, cracked it slightly, and called something inside. Then she darted away as quickly as she'd come. I was interrupted in my study of movie location movement patterns by the emergence of Carolina, who'd had time to get pumped up about talking to her old friend.

  She hugged Angel, shrieked at pictures of the baby, asked after Shelby, and behaved exactly like a happily reunited friend, gold hoops or no gold hoops. After a minute, it was easy to forget her bizarre appearance and respond to her warmth and cheer.

  When the two were deep into reminiscence, I decided I could use some orange juice. I strolled over to the laden table.

  "Can I pour you some coffee?" asked the young woman. She had discarded one white coat and was pulling on another. I was willing to bet that white coats had a high turnover. While I picked up a cup of juice, I noticed that she was prettier close-up. Her dark red hair was thick and smooth, her skin was clear, and her eyes were a nice blue. It was her heavy jaw that threw her face off balance and prevented her from being really attractive. The embroidered name on her white jacket read "Tracy."

  "So you're not Molly," I remarked.

  She laughed. "No, no. Molly's the genius. I'm just the server. When I clean this table up, it'll be time for Molly to come with the bag lunches for the crew. Then when I clear those away, it'll be afternoon snack time."

  "You must get to know everyone who works here."

  "By sight, anyway," she agreed. "They're all pretty cool. In this kind of weather, this is a great job." Kind of a deadend one, I would have thought, but on a beautiful clear day in October in a lovely town like Lawrenceton, with an interesting scene to watch, the idea didn't seem so terrible.

  "Who do you like best?" I asked idly.

  "Oh, the writer." Tracy's face, already high-colored, flushed a deeper red. "I've read everything Robin's ever written. I've got first editions of every book, all signed."

  She sounded like an ardent reader to me. "He's good," I agreed, trying not to smile.

  "I saw you talking to him yesterday," Tracy said. "You known him long?"

  "Yes, several years," I said. "Of course, Robin lived here at the time of the murders, and so did I."

  "You wouldn't be ... you couldn't be ... Aurora Teagarden?" She looked absolutely dazed.

  "Yes, I am," I said, trying not to flinch.

  "OhmiGod, this is amazing," she shrieked. "To actually meet you!"

  Oh, boy. High time to haul ass out of there, I figured. I finished my cup of juice, thanked Tracy, and tossed my cup into the large, lined garbage can, brimming over with identical cups and napkins and paper plates. Tracy immediately bundled up the contents, secured the bag with a twisty, and tossed it into the back of the catering van. By the time I went to say good-bye to Carolina and Angel, she had already relined the can and bundled her dirty coat and some dish towels into the van as well.

  The two friends were still on the porch. They'd laid claim to the lawn chairs, and people who moved in and out of the makeup trailers had to work around them. Carolina was on her second or third cigarette, and she was telling Angel something between puffs. Angel was listening with some intensity. I was a little shy about interrupting, even though all I wanted to do was tell Angel I was leaving, so I looked around me, trying to look like I was content rather than impatient.

  I was surprised to see Meredith Askew tripping along in my direction. She was smiling, a sort of conciliatory wincing lifting of the lips.

  "Ms. Teagarden," she said while she was still a few feet away. "Celia told me last night that if you showed up today, she hoped you would come talk to her a second." She came to a halt below the porch.

  "You're her messenger, now?" I asked, noting that my voice was appropria
tely cool.

  Meredith's smile might have twitched a little, but she kept her composure up. "Just doing a friend a favor," she said, her voice level. "Celia would like to apologize for her... for last night."

  Over Meredith's head I could see Barrett going into Celia's trailer. He'd knocked while he stood on the top step, and if he'd gotten an answer I hadn't been able to hear it from where I stood, maybe eighteen feet away. He looked puzzled, knocked again. He cracked the door, called "Celia?" loudly enough for me to hear. He opened the door and stepped in, his face troubled.

  I was just congratulating myself on Barrett's not noticing me when he stumbled right back out of Celia's trailer, his hand over his mouth. When I saw Barrett, I lost track of the conversations going on around me. I know trouble when I see it.

  I glanced around the set, hoping someone else would come to Barrett's aid; he was so obviously sick, and something terrible had so obviously happened. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me I wouldn't be getting to work on time today. As I watched, Barrett groped his way to the end of the trailer and bent over, one hand supporting himself against the side, retching.

  For a second of blazing anger, I wondered if all these people weren't acting as though they hadn't seen Barrett. For all their attention to each other and their jobs, not one person appeared to have registered that there was a problem.

  I went down the steps, bypassed Meredith, and approached my stepson warily. "What's happened?" I asked him.

  He didn't seem surprised to see me, or angry, so I knew with even more surety that something was very wrong.

  "She's dead in there," he gasped, and he began heaving again.

  "Celia ... is dead?" I could hear my own voice sharpen and rise with incredulity. I started to say, "Are you sure?" but then I realized that was pretty damn insulting.