Book #2 in The Cappalletti Saga
The plot:
Wolves Behind You is the fictional story of the Cappallettis, a wealthy and powerful Italian-American mob family. Just as the aging Cosmo Cappalletti -- the most feared name on the West Coast -- is about to pass his empire to his son, the beautiful call girls enslaved in his Beverly Hills mansion stage a revolt.
Wolves Behind You
by
Carrie Wexford
by
Carrie Wexford
Copyright © 2015 by Carrie Wexford.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual businesses, places, events, or incidents is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wexford, Carrie.
Wolves Behind You / Carrie Wexford
1. Suspense Thriller – Fiction 1. Title
TXu 1-968-927 2015
Printed in the United States of America
Also by Carrie Wexford
The Queen of Shebas
A Cliff Before You
Fab or Flab
Your Every Word
Wexford, Carrie.
Wolves Behind You / Carrie Wexford
1. Suspense Thriller – Fiction 1. Title
TXu 1-968-927 2015
Printed in the United States of America
Also by Carrie Wexford
The Queen of Shebas
A Cliff Before You
Fab or Flab
Your Every Word
The Girl From GALEOP and other stories
Chapter 1
What a horrible way to die. Sam crushed his shoulder blades against the dark window.
Five workmen in paint-splattered coveralls watched him from the flat rooftop across the street. One man shouted an indecipherable message through his cupped hands.
Sam struggled to steady himself in the rising wind. While his left foot was secure, his right scraped helplessly along the narrow ledge.
Small hands seized his denim jacket and slammed him to the safety of the rough stucco wall on the other side of the window.
“Didn’t you hear me? Don’t come out here!” the young woman said angrily.
Sam’s feet were now balanced on a two-foot-wide cement slab. “Thanks.”
Her amethyst-shadowed eyes flashed skyward in disdain.
He was close enough to see the fragility beneath her bravado. She stood no taller than his heart. Her mascara had smudged onto her delicate cheekbones. The wind tossed her bangs and tugged her dark chocolate curls. She quivered beneath the thin straps of her magenta slip dress. A small, bubblegum pink purse, suspended by a silver chain, swung with her movements. One of her bare knees was bruised. Her shoes were missing.
“Are you cold?” Mindful of the narrow ledge, Sam removed his jacket.
She shook her head.
“Come on. Denim’s the new black.”
A corner of her scarlet mouth quirked upward. As she allowed him to place the jacket around her shoulders, he guessed her age at early twenties, not far from his own.
She read something reassuring in his sandy blond hair, warm Pacific blue eyes, and courageous smile. Her gaze hesitated over his gray pullover sweater and blue jeans. He did not look like a cop. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” His hand bridged the eighteen inches between them. “I’m Sam.”
Slowly she raised her eyes. “Hi, Sam.”
Her slim fingers trembled.
“And your name is…?”
She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Oh, no. You’ll pull that psychology voodoo on me, and then they’ll drag me back in there and lock me up.”
Sam slid a glance to the window. Inside the hotel room, a half-dozen police officers watched impatiently for him to work a miracle. “What if I promise that you’re not going to jail?”
“You bet I’m not!” She cast a hostile look at the crowd gathering nine stories below: men in button-down shirts and dark slacks, wrestling the wind for control of their unruly neckties; women in flowery spring dresses, posing as if for a fashion magazine photo shoot; and delivery drivers in khaki uniforms, carrying expedited packages forgotten in the chaos. Endlessly pouring through the glass lobby doors, the spectators aimed their curious stares at Sam and the desperate young woman.
What stories would these strangers tell their girlfriends over drinks tonight, their spouses over take-out meals – Uh-huh, I was there. When it fell, her body didn’t make a sound. But when it hit the pavement, I heard this awful crunch.
He shook his head to delete that terrible possibility from his mind.
The next few seconds would decide her fate. Her bare toes shifted toward the open air beyond their ledge.
“You don’t want to die.”
“Oh, yeah? You don’t know what they did to me!” Her eyes struggled to hold back her enraged tears. “The things they made me do –”
“Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. You can tell me what happened.”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill me. I won’t give them that satisfaction.”
“Who?”
“I can’t...”
“How can I help you, if you won’t let me?”
“Nobody can help me.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Her fingers hid a strand of hair behind her left ear. She was trying to trust him.
Her attention turned to something above their heads.
Two stories up, an anonymous hand pointed a cell phone at her.
“You want to watch me jump?” she screamed at the camera. “Are you going to sell the video to L.A. Scandals?”
“Don’t, please!” Sam stretched a hand over the street crowd. “You’ll kill them.”
She switched her fury to him. “If they’re smart, they’ll get out of the way.”
“When they start running, there won’t be enough time. They will be trampled. And do you know what you’ll look like? You’ll be smashed beyond recognition. Even your nose will be gone.”
Her hand flew to her face. Drawing a shaky breath, she recovered her tough girl act. “Stop it.”
“You’ll lie there in unimaginable agony, with every bone shattered. You’ll die before the ambulance arrives. Those will be the longest five minutes of your life.”
“Shut up! I mean it!” The girl’s palms slammed his chest. Her blows knocked him against the windowpane. She stepped back, breathing hard.
His fingers floundered along the stucco wall, searching futilely for a secure grip. “Let’s go in. It’s scary out here.”
An eerie change clouded her eyes. She flipped open her pink handbag. A glimmer of steel emerged.
“She has a gun!” yelled a cop.
Sam gestured at the window to silence the officers. He studied the weapon, a no-nonsense, forty-five millimeter pistol. One shot, lights out. “Think about what you’re doing.”
She raised the gun until the cold barrel touched her temple. “Quick. Painless.” Her words were debris from a wasted life. “I’ll be dead before I hit the ground.”
“No! You’ll clip the back of your head, you’ll lose some brain cells, and you’ll still smash yourself to pieces.” A last-ditch idea struck him. “Wait! Let me show you something.”
His denim jacket rose and fell on her heaving chest. He retrieved the pale blue envelope protruding from the left side pocket.
“If you’ll hand me the gun, I’ll give you this.” He showed her a stack of one hundred-dollar bills.
The girl lowered the pistol an inch. “Where did you get it?”
“I held up a bank.”
She ignored his affable smile. “How much is it?”
“A thousand dollars.”
A midnight black helicopter, emblazoned with an orange radio station logo, swooped low over their heads. The spinning blades snatched one of the hundred-dollar bills.
Sam lunged at the cash. His fingers closed on empty air.
The crisp, green paper fluttered down toward the street.
A happy roar rose from the crowd.
The helicopter lifted into the sky and disappeared over the roof.
“OK. Nine hundred bucks.” Sam returned the envelope to its hiding place. “Still a good deal, huh?”
Her thoughts were far away. Her free hand pulled the jacket’s lapels close to her heart.
“You can do whatever you want with it.”
An hour earlier…
“You can do whatever you want with it.” Lorayne Vanderbrook flung her arms around Sam’s neck. “Happy birthday, my darling.” She kissed his cheek with a loud smack.
The amused reactions from the other diners embarrassed Sam. After his great-aunt returned to her chair, he whispered, “This is a lot of money.”
“Nonsense! You’re not five years old.” She flipped her napkin onto her lap. “How old are you, my boy?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Ohhh!” She straightened her gold silk Chanel jacket and swept back her platinum hair extensions. “Remember: the older you get, the older I get. You must tell everyone that you’re, ah, seventeen.”
He laughed. “Thank you very, very much, Lorayne.” He secured the envelope in his jacket’s side pocket.
“And please stop calling me your great-aunt. Telling people merely that I’m your aunt will take a quarter-century off my age.”
Linen-draped tables-for-two crowded the Bonitage’s patio. New and Old Hollywood mingled at the fabled hotel, discussing screenplays and displaying their toned, suntanned physiques.
At a nearby table, a man wearing a white polo shirt and tennis shorts opened a leather menu. His eyes bulged as they darted over the prices.
Lorayne finished her glass of red wine and signaled the waiter. “I enjoy spoiling you, Sam. You and Pixie are all I have.” She patted the cream Pomeranian perched in the child’s booster chair between them. The chipper little dog was au courant in a daisy print dress with a satin bow.
The waiter, a frail man with a goatee and receding hair, refilled her glass with Monterey Belle Chateau. “Shall I leave the bottle, Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Thank you, my good man. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, Madam?”
“What can be done about the wind?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s practically a hurricane!”
“Miss Vanderbrook, it is April.”
Lorayne glowered at him. “This is the finest five-star restaurant in Beverly Hills. My nephew and I expect a spectacular dining experience. The wind is blowing our salads right off our plates.”
“We could move inside,” Sam suggested.
“We’re staying right here,” she huffed. “This is our regular table.”
The waiter looked frantically from Sam to Lorayne before hurrying away.
Behind their table, crimson bougainvillea blossoms overflowed an antique brick wall. Tiny nozzles tucked among the flowers hissed a relaxing mist upon the hotel’s guests. The blackbirds nesting in the abundant foliage chirruped to celebrate their deluxe accommodations.
Lorayne pulled a gold hand mirror from her faux crocodile handbag and checked her reflection. “Is the wind mussing my hair?”
Sam rested his gaze on her face. Skilled surgeons had erased the fine lines flanking her lively hazel eyes. “You look great.”
“You’re a charmer.”
Their waiter returned with two platters: an eggplant linguine for Lorayne and a Chateaubriand steak with roasted potatoes for Sam.
Concerned, she watched her great-nephew divide and conquer his steak; he relished the first bite with the gusto of a castaway accustomed to dining on coconuts and tree bark. “Are they taking good care of you, dear? Do you still have a housekeeper?”
“Yes, Mrs. Dwyer comes in twice a week. She’s an excellent cook. And the freezer is full of pizzas.”
Lorayne twirled her pasta. “In the old days, you would have had a full-time staff. It’s terrible that you’re so short-handed.”
“It’s OK. I don’t mind pitching in wherever I’m needed.”
Female voices rose above the clink of silverware and the murmur of nearby conversations.
“Oh, my God! It’s Lorayne Vanderbrook!”
“Where?”
“Over there!”
Sam sighed. “Here they come.”
“Now, dear, be nice to my fans.” His great-aunt flipped on a pair of enormous sunglasses.
Their waiter hovered nearby. “Shall I tell them to leave, Madam?”
“Don’t be absurd. Skedaddle, and come back later with the dessert cart.”
Two teenagers teetered up to the table on matching five-inch-high espadrilles. One girl was tall and leggy, with short, shiny brunette hair. The fashionably long strap of her leather messenger bag hugged her lean torso; the name Jessica shimmied in sequins on the bag’s flap.
The other girl sported red-rimmed eyeglasses and golden hair wound in a topknot. She hugged a hardcover book close to her Mango Barbarians World Tour T-shirt. “Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Well, hello.”
The taller girl took Lorayne’s hand with awe. “I’m so – I mean – what a rush!”
“Jessica, it is her!” the blonde girl exclaimed.
“Didn’t I tell you, Emily? I knew that if we went to the Bonitage Hotel, we would see lots of celebrities.”
The two girls ran out of dialogue. They watched Lorayne with high anticipation.
To give his great-aunt a moment to think of a witty line, Sam pointed at Emily’s novel. “Would you like Miss Vanderbrook’s autograph?”
“That would be awesome.” The girl shuddered with delight.
Lorayne wrapped her blazing red fingertips around the book. She nodded at the other end of the table. “Ladies…my nephew, Sam. So, have you read my stories?”
“Yes! Of course!” Jessica was as prepared as a game show contestant. “Let’s see: The Count’s New Love, The Yacht Sails at Midnight, A Kiss in the Castle –”
“Oh, that was a good one! It was really, you know –” Emily swallowed her next words.
Lorayne lowered her sunglasses and met the girl’s eyes. “Racy, my dear?”
Glancing skittishly at Sam, Emily squeaked, “Erm –”
“My nephew has read all of my novels. Haven’t you, darling?”
“Absolutely. In fact, the one you’re holding is my favorite.” He tilted his head to read the title. “The Weeping Ghost on the Moors.”
The look his great-aunt blasted at him could have sliced holes in an asteroid.
Emily said, “I read it on the plane. It’s a real nail-biter! It’s by Maxine LeGuile. Do you know her, Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Yes, I certainly do.” Lorayne’s words stabbed the air with the precision of an ice pick.
Sam smiled wryly as he watched his great-aunt flip through the book.
Lorayne cleared her throat.
“Woooo, woooo,” said the ghost, beckoning the bride closer.
She was afraid. “What do you want with me?” she screamed.
“Woooo, woooo,” the ghost wailed once more.
Sam’s laughter stopped her. “It sounds like a train’s whistle.”
“Hmmph. The ghost took the midnight train on the moors. Do you girls have a pen?”
Lorayne filled the title page with large, flowery strokes:
To my dearest friends:
Wishing you glorious adventures, boundless happiness, grand prosperity, and everlasting love.
She added her name in outrageously huge letters. “Now, if you happen to run into Miss LeGuile, kindly hand her one of my books.”
Emily took the novel with reverence. “Oh, this is – I am so –”
“How about a photo with Miss Vanderbrook?” Sam pushed back his chair.
The girls nodded eagerly. Jessica handed him a glittery silver cell phone.
“I suppose I could grant one picture.” Lorayne scooped up the Pomeranian. With her fans on her left and her right, she pressed the little dog’s fluffy face to her cheek and unleashed her seventy-five-million-copies-sold smile.
Sam returned the phone to the taller girl. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles.” He waved farewell to their visitors and returned to his chair.
Lorayne kissed the dog’s forehead before replacing her companion in the booster seat. For a count of ten, she pretended to be occupied with her linguine. “Are they gone?”
“Uh-huh. That picture has already hit the Internet.” Sam took another bite of his steak. It was getting cold.
Lorayne slapped her fork hard on the tablecloth. “And they’re holding that vile creature’s book!”
“Nope. I cropped it out.”
“You did? Oh, you’re a good kid!” Her fingers – agile and strong from many years of keyboarding – clasped his hand. “Sam, I’m so alone. A Mediterranean cruise one week, a London book tour the next – wealth, glamour, excitement –” Her hand waved in circles; her gold bracelets pranced. “And I have no one to share it with, because that sleazy, scheming, sentence-mangling hack stole my boyfriend.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” she said through her teeth.
“It’s time to move on. You’ll find someone else. You’ll have many good years to replace the empty ones.”
“Oh, Sam.” She touched her napkin to the inner corners of her eyes.
“You know what you should do, Lorayne? You should write yourself a happy ending.”
“You’ll have to write it for me, darling. You have an extraordinary imagination. When you were a little boy, you told me that you had an invisible friend. A medieval knight, no less. I can’t remember his name.”
Sam’s eyes followed sudden movement behind her.
Lorayne turned around in her chair. “Oh, criminy.”
A gray-haired police officer wove swiftly through the crowded patio. He was out of breath when he arrived at their table. He leaned on the back of the Pomeranian’s chair and wheezed into his fist.
“You again,” Lorayne complained. “Officer Powell, every time you show up, someone has been poisoned by toads or trampled by ostriches. Your presence sends shivers through me.”
The policeman mirrored her disdain. “Miss Vanderbrook –”
She cut him off with an imperious toss of her hand. “Whatever it is this time, must you people drag my nephew into it?”
“Officer Powell,” Sam asked, “what’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you, Father Donahan.” The cop pointed above their heads. “We have a jumper on the ninth floor.”
Sam glanced up at the hotel’s windows. He could not see anything past the teal-and-white striped awnings.
“Send in a psychiatrist,” Lorayne advised.
Aware that his uniform was attracting the attention of the other diners, Officer Powell muttered, “We’ve already tried that, ma’am.”
“I should go.” Sam slid his napkin next to his plate. “Thanks for lunch.” He tapped a quick kiss on his great-aunt’s cheek.
As he followed the officer, he heard her say, “Twenty-four seven. Pixie, the world needs more superheroes.”
“Just hand me the gun.”
“What will happen to me?” The girl held the pistol loosely at her side.
“Let’s go inside and talk. We can fix this.”
“It’s too late.” Her voice was flat.
“That’s not true. Come on. Take my hand.”
Her despairing eyes turned to him.
When he dropped his gaze from hers, he saw the pistol’s barrel under her chin.
“No!” he shouted.
Plummeting from the midday sky, a slim, ruby streak struck her forehead with a loud clunk.
The girl yelped. An instant too late, her left arm flew over her head.
Her right hand fell.
An ominously loud explosion tore Sam away from the building. The burning pain in his bicep overwhelmed him.
The sky danced dizzily. The wind’s roar jammed his ears.
Darkness engulfed his eyes.
What a horrible way to die. Sam crushed his shoulder blades against the dark window.
Five workmen in paint-splattered coveralls watched him from the flat rooftop across the street. One man shouted an indecipherable message through his cupped hands.
Sam struggled to steady himself in the rising wind. While his left foot was secure, his right scraped helplessly along the narrow ledge.
Small hands seized his denim jacket and slammed him to the safety of the rough stucco wall on the other side of the window.
“Didn’t you hear me? Don’t come out here!” the young woman said angrily.
Sam’s feet were now balanced on a two-foot-wide cement slab. “Thanks.”
Her amethyst-shadowed eyes flashed skyward in disdain.
He was close enough to see the fragility beneath her bravado. She stood no taller than his heart. Her mascara had smudged onto her delicate cheekbones. The wind tossed her bangs and tugged her dark chocolate curls. She quivered beneath the thin straps of her magenta slip dress. A small, bubblegum pink purse, suspended by a silver chain, swung with her movements. One of her bare knees was bruised. Her shoes were missing.
“Are you cold?” Mindful of the narrow ledge, Sam removed his jacket.
She shook her head.
“Come on. Denim’s the new black.”
A corner of her scarlet mouth quirked upward. As she allowed him to place the jacket around her shoulders, he guessed her age at early twenties, not far from his own.
She read something reassuring in his sandy blond hair, warm Pacific blue eyes, and courageous smile. Her gaze hesitated over his gray pullover sweater and blue jeans. He did not look like a cop. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” His hand bridged the eighteen inches between them. “I’m Sam.”
Slowly she raised her eyes. “Hi, Sam.”
Her slim fingers trembled.
“And your name is…?”
She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Oh, no. You’ll pull that psychology voodoo on me, and then they’ll drag me back in there and lock me up.”
Sam slid a glance to the window. Inside the hotel room, a half-dozen police officers watched impatiently for him to work a miracle. “What if I promise that you’re not going to jail?”
“You bet I’m not!” She cast a hostile look at the crowd gathering nine stories below: men in button-down shirts and dark slacks, wrestling the wind for control of their unruly neckties; women in flowery spring dresses, posing as if for a fashion magazine photo shoot; and delivery drivers in khaki uniforms, carrying expedited packages forgotten in the chaos. Endlessly pouring through the glass lobby doors, the spectators aimed their curious stares at Sam and the desperate young woman.
What stories would these strangers tell their girlfriends over drinks tonight, their spouses over take-out meals – Uh-huh, I was there. When it fell, her body didn’t make a sound. But when it hit the pavement, I heard this awful crunch.
He shook his head to delete that terrible possibility from his mind.
The next few seconds would decide her fate. Her bare toes shifted toward the open air beyond their ledge.
“You don’t want to die.”
“Oh, yeah? You don’t know what they did to me!” Her eyes struggled to hold back her enraged tears. “The things they made me do –”
“Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. You can tell me what happened.”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill me. I won’t give them that satisfaction.”
“Who?”
“I can’t...”
“How can I help you, if you won’t let me?”
“Nobody can help me.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Her fingers hid a strand of hair behind her left ear. She was trying to trust him.
Her attention turned to something above their heads.
Two stories up, an anonymous hand pointed a cell phone at her.
“You want to watch me jump?” she screamed at the camera. “Are you going to sell the video to L.A. Scandals?”
“Don’t, please!” Sam stretched a hand over the street crowd. “You’ll kill them.”
She switched her fury to him. “If they’re smart, they’ll get out of the way.”
“When they start running, there won’t be enough time. They will be trampled. And do you know what you’ll look like? You’ll be smashed beyond recognition. Even your nose will be gone.”
Her hand flew to her face. Drawing a shaky breath, she recovered her tough girl act. “Stop it.”
“You’ll lie there in unimaginable agony, with every bone shattered. You’ll die before the ambulance arrives. Those will be the longest five minutes of your life.”
“Shut up! I mean it!” The girl’s palms slammed his chest. Her blows knocked him against the windowpane. She stepped back, breathing hard.
His fingers floundered along the stucco wall, searching futilely for a secure grip. “Let’s go in. It’s scary out here.”
An eerie change clouded her eyes. She flipped open her pink handbag. A glimmer of steel emerged.
“She has a gun!” yelled a cop.
Sam gestured at the window to silence the officers. He studied the weapon, a no-nonsense, forty-five millimeter pistol. One shot, lights out. “Think about what you’re doing.”
She raised the gun until the cold barrel touched her temple. “Quick. Painless.” Her words were debris from a wasted life. “I’ll be dead before I hit the ground.”
“No! You’ll clip the back of your head, you’ll lose some brain cells, and you’ll still smash yourself to pieces.” A last-ditch idea struck him. “Wait! Let me show you something.”
His denim jacket rose and fell on her heaving chest. He retrieved the pale blue envelope protruding from the left side pocket.
“If you’ll hand me the gun, I’ll give you this.” He showed her a stack of one hundred-dollar bills.
The girl lowered the pistol an inch. “Where did you get it?”
“I held up a bank.”
She ignored his affable smile. “How much is it?”
“A thousand dollars.”
A midnight black helicopter, emblazoned with an orange radio station logo, swooped low over their heads. The spinning blades snatched one of the hundred-dollar bills.
Sam lunged at the cash. His fingers closed on empty air.
The crisp, green paper fluttered down toward the street.
A happy roar rose from the crowd.
The helicopter lifted into the sky and disappeared over the roof.
“OK. Nine hundred bucks.” Sam returned the envelope to its hiding place. “Still a good deal, huh?”
Her thoughts were far away. Her free hand pulled the jacket’s lapels close to her heart.
“You can do whatever you want with it.”
An hour earlier…
“You can do whatever you want with it.” Lorayne Vanderbrook flung her arms around Sam’s neck. “Happy birthday, my darling.” She kissed his cheek with a loud smack.
The amused reactions from the other diners embarrassed Sam. After his great-aunt returned to her chair, he whispered, “This is a lot of money.”
“Nonsense! You’re not five years old.” She flipped her napkin onto her lap. “How old are you, my boy?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Ohhh!” She straightened her gold silk Chanel jacket and swept back her platinum hair extensions. “Remember: the older you get, the older I get. You must tell everyone that you’re, ah, seventeen.”
He laughed. “Thank you very, very much, Lorayne.” He secured the envelope in his jacket’s side pocket.
“And please stop calling me your great-aunt. Telling people merely that I’m your aunt will take a quarter-century off my age.”
Linen-draped tables-for-two crowded the Bonitage’s patio. New and Old Hollywood mingled at the fabled hotel, discussing screenplays and displaying their toned, suntanned physiques.
At a nearby table, a man wearing a white polo shirt and tennis shorts opened a leather menu. His eyes bulged as they darted over the prices.
Lorayne finished her glass of red wine and signaled the waiter. “I enjoy spoiling you, Sam. You and Pixie are all I have.” She patted the cream Pomeranian perched in the child’s booster chair between them. The chipper little dog was au courant in a daisy print dress with a satin bow.
The waiter, a frail man with a goatee and receding hair, refilled her glass with Monterey Belle Chateau. “Shall I leave the bottle, Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Thank you, my good man. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, Madam?”
“What can be done about the wind?”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s practically a hurricane!”
“Miss Vanderbrook, it is April.”
Lorayne glowered at him. “This is the finest five-star restaurant in Beverly Hills. My nephew and I expect a spectacular dining experience. The wind is blowing our salads right off our plates.”
“We could move inside,” Sam suggested.
“We’re staying right here,” she huffed. “This is our regular table.”
The waiter looked frantically from Sam to Lorayne before hurrying away.
Behind their table, crimson bougainvillea blossoms overflowed an antique brick wall. Tiny nozzles tucked among the flowers hissed a relaxing mist upon the hotel’s guests. The blackbirds nesting in the abundant foliage chirruped to celebrate their deluxe accommodations.
Lorayne pulled a gold hand mirror from her faux crocodile handbag and checked her reflection. “Is the wind mussing my hair?”
Sam rested his gaze on her face. Skilled surgeons had erased the fine lines flanking her lively hazel eyes. “You look great.”
“You’re a charmer.”
Their waiter returned with two platters: an eggplant linguine for Lorayne and a Chateaubriand steak with roasted potatoes for Sam.
Concerned, she watched her great-nephew divide and conquer his steak; he relished the first bite with the gusto of a castaway accustomed to dining on coconuts and tree bark. “Are they taking good care of you, dear? Do you still have a housekeeper?”
“Yes, Mrs. Dwyer comes in twice a week. She’s an excellent cook. And the freezer is full of pizzas.”
Lorayne twirled her pasta. “In the old days, you would have had a full-time staff. It’s terrible that you’re so short-handed.”
“It’s OK. I don’t mind pitching in wherever I’m needed.”
Female voices rose above the clink of silverware and the murmur of nearby conversations.
“Oh, my God! It’s Lorayne Vanderbrook!”
“Where?”
“Over there!”
Sam sighed. “Here they come.”
“Now, dear, be nice to my fans.” His great-aunt flipped on a pair of enormous sunglasses.
Their waiter hovered nearby. “Shall I tell them to leave, Madam?”
“Don’t be absurd. Skedaddle, and come back later with the dessert cart.”
Two teenagers teetered up to the table on matching five-inch-high espadrilles. One girl was tall and leggy, with short, shiny brunette hair. The fashionably long strap of her leather messenger bag hugged her lean torso; the name Jessica shimmied in sequins on the bag’s flap.
The other girl sported red-rimmed eyeglasses and golden hair wound in a topknot. She hugged a hardcover book close to her Mango Barbarians World Tour T-shirt. “Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Well, hello.”
The taller girl took Lorayne’s hand with awe. “I’m so – I mean – what a rush!”
“Jessica, it is her!” the blonde girl exclaimed.
“Didn’t I tell you, Emily? I knew that if we went to the Bonitage Hotel, we would see lots of celebrities.”
The two girls ran out of dialogue. They watched Lorayne with high anticipation.
To give his great-aunt a moment to think of a witty line, Sam pointed at Emily’s novel. “Would you like Miss Vanderbrook’s autograph?”
“That would be awesome.” The girl shuddered with delight.
Lorayne wrapped her blazing red fingertips around the book. She nodded at the other end of the table. “Ladies…my nephew, Sam. So, have you read my stories?”
“Yes! Of course!” Jessica was as prepared as a game show contestant. “Let’s see: The Count’s New Love, The Yacht Sails at Midnight, A Kiss in the Castle –”
“Oh, that was a good one! It was really, you know –” Emily swallowed her next words.
Lorayne lowered her sunglasses and met the girl’s eyes. “Racy, my dear?”
Glancing skittishly at Sam, Emily squeaked, “Erm –”
“My nephew has read all of my novels. Haven’t you, darling?”
“Absolutely. In fact, the one you’re holding is my favorite.” He tilted his head to read the title. “The Weeping Ghost on the Moors.”
The look his great-aunt blasted at him could have sliced holes in an asteroid.
Emily said, “I read it on the plane. It’s a real nail-biter! It’s by Maxine LeGuile. Do you know her, Miss Vanderbrook?”
“Yes, I certainly do.” Lorayne’s words stabbed the air with the precision of an ice pick.
Sam smiled wryly as he watched his great-aunt flip through the book.
Lorayne cleared her throat.
“Woooo, woooo,” said the ghost, beckoning the bride closer.
She was afraid. “What do you want with me?” she screamed.
“Woooo, woooo,” the ghost wailed once more.
Sam’s laughter stopped her. “It sounds like a train’s whistle.”
“Hmmph. The ghost took the midnight train on the moors. Do you girls have a pen?”
Lorayne filled the title page with large, flowery strokes:
To my dearest friends:
Wishing you glorious adventures, boundless happiness, grand prosperity, and everlasting love.
She added her name in outrageously huge letters. “Now, if you happen to run into Miss LeGuile, kindly hand her one of my books.”
Emily took the novel with reverence. “Oh, this is – I am so –”
“How about a photo with Miss Vanderbrook?” Sam pushed back his chair.
The girls nodded eagerly. Jessica handed him a glittery silver cell phone.
“I suppose I could grant one picture.” Lorayne scooped up the Pomeranian. With her fans on her left and her right, she pressed the little dog’s fluffy face to her cheek and unleashed her seventy-five-million-copies-sold smile.
Sam returned the phone to the taller girl. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles.” He waved farewell to their visitors and returned to his chair.
Lorayne kissed the dog’s forehead before replacing her companion in the booster seat. For a count of ten, she pretended to be occupied with her linguine. “Are they gone?”
“Uh-huh. That picture has already hit the Internet.” Sam took another bite of his steak. It was getting cold.
Lorayne slapped her fork hard on the tablecloth. “And they’re holding that vile creature’s book!”
“Nope. I cropped it out.”
“You did? Oh, you’re a good kid!” Her fingers – agile and strong from many years of keyboarding – clasped his hand. “Sam, I’m so alone. A Mediterranean cruise one week, a London book tour the next – wealth, glamour, excitement –” Her hand waved in circles; her gold bracelets pranced. “And I have no one to share it with, because that sleazy, scheming, sentence-mangling hack stole my boyfriend.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday,” she said through her teeth.
“It’s time to move on. You’ll find someone else. You’ll have many good years to replace the empty ones.”
“Oh, Sam.” She touched her napkin to the inner corners of her eyes.
“You know what you should do, Lorayne? You should write yourself a happy ending.”
“You’ll have to write it for me, darling. You have an extraordinary imagination. When you were a little boy, you told me that you had an invisible friend. A medieval knight, no less. I can’t remember his name.”
Sam’s eyes followed sudden movement behind her.
Lorayne turned around in her chair. “Oh, criminy.”
A gray-haired police officer wove swiftly through the crowded patio. He was out of breath when he arrived at their table. He leaned on the back of the Pomeranian’s chair and wheezed into his fist.
“You again,” Lorayne complained. “Officer Powell, every time you show up, someone has been poisoned by toads or trampled by ostriches. Your presence sends shivers through me.”
The policeman mirrored her disdain. “Miss Vanderbrook –”
She cut him off with an imperious toss of her hand. “Whatever it is this time, must you people drag my nephew into it?”
“Officer Powell,” Sam asked, “what’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you, Father Donahan.” The cop pointed above their heads. “We have a jumper on the ninth floor.”
Sam glanced up at the hotel’s windows. He could not see anything past the teal-and-white striped awnings.
“Send in a psychiatrist,” Lorayne advised.
Aware that his uniform was attracting the attention of the other diners, Officer Powell muttered, “We’ve already tried that, ma’am.”
“I should go.” Sam slid his napkin next to his plate. “Thanks for lunch.” He tapped a quick kiss on his great-aunt’s cheek.
As he followed the officer, he heard her say, “Twenty-four seven. Pixie, the world needs more superheroes.”
“Just hand me the gun.”
“What will happen to me?” The girl held the pistol loosely at her side.
“Let’s go inside and talk. We can fix this.”
“It’s too late.” Her voice was flat.
“That’s not true. Come on. Take my hand.”
Her despairing eyes turned to him.
When he dropped his gaze from hers, he saw the pistol’s barrel under her chin.
“No!” he shouted.
Plummeting from the midday sky, a slim, ruby streak struck her forehead with a loud clunk.
The girl yelped. An instant too late, her left arm flew over her head.
Her right hand fell.
An ominously loud explosion tore Sam away from the building. The burning pain in his bicep overwhelmed him.
The sky danced dizzily. The wind’s roar jammed his ears.
Darkness engulfed his eyes.
# # #
