Part 6 (1/2)
Robin looked haggard, understandably enough, since he'd just discovered his former flame had been murdered, and that she'd spent the night before her death with another man. He'd put on dark gla.s.ses and was talking to a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked black hair. Robin pushed his fingers up under his gla.s.ses, and I knew he was brus.h.i.+ng away tears. I pushed my own gla.s.ses up on my nose.
”You and him were tight?”
”Kind of,” I said, feeling unaccountably shy about it. ”But we're talking years ago. Right before I dated Arthur Smith.” I looked down at my hands, and began twisting my wedding band around on the finger it no longer fit.
Angel raised a blond eyebrow. ”So, what happened with Robin?”
”I was really fond of him. I think he was fond of me, too. But when he decided to write a book about the murders, and I realized there was no way he could leave me out of the book, I felt pretty unhappy about it. And when he went to Hollywood with his agent to push the book proposal, our connection just kind of tapered off.”
”He call you?”
”Oh . . . yeah. At first.”
”When did he quit?”
”When I told him I was marrying Martin.”
”And then he moved on to that Celia Shaw?”
”That's what the gossip magazines said. I think they had pretty much called it quits by the time they got here.”
”So he moved from the real you to the play you.” Angel looked amused at my wince. After a second of considering that unnerving idea, I shrugged.
We fell silent and watched the unfolding panorama together. Joel Park Brooks, shaved head flas.h.i.+ng in the sun, was being attended by paramedics, by Mark, and by several other people whose names and functions I had not yet learned. He seemed to feel that the FBI should be brought in to investigate the death of an important actress like Celia Shaw. The Hollywood dispensation, I guess.
Robin had found a chair and sunk down onto it, his hands on his knees, lost in thought. I wondered if I should go to him.
Meredith Askew, still looking properly distraught, was resting her face on the shoulder of Chip Brodnax, the tall young man who was portraying Robin. His back was to me, so I had a good view of Meredith's face. As I watched, I saw her expression change to one of intense speculation. She was staring into the distance, unaware that anyone was observing her. As if she'd turned to me and spoken her thoughts out loud, I could tell that she was wondering if she had a chance of replacing Celia in the main role.
This was depressing. If anyone in this crowd (besides possibly Robin) was simply grieving for Celia Shaw, I could see no sign of it.
”Let's us go,” I suggested to Angel.
”Won't the police get us?”
”I have a feeling I can get around that.”
I made my way through the crowd to Arthur, who was issuing instructions to three other cops. I waited until he'd finished speaking, and as soon as they scattered to do his bidding, I knew he would turn to me.
”What can I do for you?” he asked.
”Can Angel and I go home?”
”Will you stay at your house until I come later? Will you not talk to anyone else?”
”I promise.”
”Okay, then. You and Angel can go.”
”Thanks.” I tried to dredge up a smile for him, but I couldn't.
I trudged back to Angel and gave her the thumbs-up. We made our way to my car and climbed back in. Though it was only nine o'clock, it seemed like a lifetime since we'd gotten to the set. The day was getting hotter by the minute. The car was stuffy. The streets around the movie site were almost chaotic; I had never in my life seen traffic this disordered in Lawrenceton. I figured all the police had been grabbed off traffic control and s.h.i.+fted to the murder scene. It wouldn't take the news crews long to get there, especially with all the busy cell phones on the set. I was willing to bet CNN already knew about it, had maybe aired a bulletin, if Celia rated that high.
I decided not to turn on the radio. I didn't want to hear anything about the murder, I didn't want to listen to any music, I didn't want to know the weather report. I just wanted to get out of here. With Angel helping me avoid cars and people, all going places they shouldn't go, I finally drove out of the area. I made a huge effort to obey every traffic rule. I was so grateful to Arthur for letting us leave, I was determined to be no trouble at all.
Once I got away from the town center, traffic thinned out dramatically. I took the county highway that led northeast out of town, past the very nice suburb where my mother and her husband live. My house is about a mile out of town, on a road that turns into farms pretty much right after it leaves the city limits.
The house waited for me, silent and dim, perfectly clean.
Angel hadn't been out to the house in a while. She looked around, a curious expression on her narrow face. She moved down the hall with her quiet grace, looking from side to side like a cat exploring unfamiliar territory.
”Geez,” she said finally, ”I want to kick the walls just to make a scuff mark. How can you live like this?”
”I don't know how to live any other way,” I said. And it was the first time that way struck me as odd. I stood in the middle of the long hall that runs from the front door and past the stairs down to a closet door, looked to the left into the formal living room, and I felt weirdly isolated. I stood, in my orange knit dress, feeling the coolness of the house, the shadows cast by the bright morning sun streaming in the windows, the sudden lack of contrast when clouds floated across the sun. I felt time pa.s.sing.
”Do you ever have company?” she asked.
”No. At least, very seldom. But you know,” I said, pondering this idea through, ”that's not actually my fault. People don't come to see me. Even when I say, 'Come by and see me,' they don't.”
”You need to move back into town,” Angel said, her voice flat and definite.
I gaped at her. ”Like that would be easy! Like moving isn't incredibly stressful!”
She c.o.c.ked her head, her blond braid trailing to one side.
”Is living like this relaxing relaxing? This place is a tomb.”
I stared at her, shocked.
She was absolutely right.
It was the second revelatory moment I'd had in two days.
”I would help,” she offered. ”I could bring Joan's playpen and set it up, and she'd be good for a while.”
”But this house,” I said, feeling my tears spring up. ”I was so happy here. Martin bought it for me.”
”You think Martin would like you being here by yourself? You think Martin would ever live in a place this . . . dead?”
That cut me to the quick. Martin had surrounded himself with energy, with projects, with life. I felt instantly that I had failed him, yet again.
”You didn't die with Martin,” Angel said brutally.
I gasped in surprise at the way her thought chimed in on what I was thinking. ”This house has so many memories,” I said feebly.
”You have the memories inside you. This house is stifling you. It's too big, it's out of the way, and it's . . . unwelcoming.”