Really Dead

  “Kate? Kate Bond?”

  “Who wants to know?” She must not have worn all her piercings when she had the photo taken of herself for the shoot in the BVI. Glenn hadn’t seen any in that photo, but the woman standing in front of him had five studs in her left ear, one in each eyebrow, one on the side of her right nostril, and he caught a glimpse of one in her tongue.

  He fumbled in his pocket, hoping to find one of his business cards to add legitimacy to his visit. “I’m Glenn Cooper.” She read the wrinkled card he handed to her. “I’m doing a piece for the Entertainment section on what it’s like to work on a television show and I heard that you’ve just come back from working on one that was shot in the British Virgin Islands. Have you got a few minutes?”

  “No.” It was hard to believe that such a harsh response had come from the same person who’d sounded so cheerful on her answering machine.

  “No, you don’t have a few minutes, or no, you didn’t work on the show?”

  She started to close the door. “I don’t want to be interviewed, okay?” A black cat bolted out through the almost closed door. “Crap!” She threw the door open and ran after the cat. “Salem! Help me catch him,” she yelled to Glenn.

  Great. Glenn wasn’t a cat person. But if catching the cat would get Kate to open up, maybe even answer a few questions about good old Bobbie, then he’d catch the damn cat.

  They eventually cornered the cat in the stairwell. Backed into a corner, literally, he puffed up and hissed angrily.

  “He’s declawed. He won’t scratch you,” Kate informed Glenn, while staying a good distance away from the cat.

  Glenn was a dog man. Dogs he could understand. Cats not so much. It was hard to like a species when you knew most of them were smarter than you. And black cats just plain freaked him out. If this one had really been declawed why was Kate staying so far away from him? He got his answer when he picked the cat up. Salem still had all of his teeth. His extremely sharp teeth.

  He could feel blood dripping from his hand as he carried the cat back to Kate’s apartment, but he refused to look at it. (What was it with blood in that neighbourhood?)

  “Come in. You can rinse that off and I’ll find you a bandage.” Kate once again stood a healthy distance away from the cat as she held the door open for Glenn.

  Salem flicked his tail three times in short jerks once Glenn let go of him, and then proceeded to curl up on the couch and give himself a bath. He was probably licking off Glenn’s blood.

  Standing at the kitchen sink in the bachelor apartment, his hand under running water, Glenn looked around (instead of at his hand). The place was plastered in movie and television-show posters. There were so many of them that he couldn’t see what colour the walls were painted. One wall was devoted to sitcoms from the eighties. A Kate and Allie poster was smack in the middle of the wall, with the other posters fanned out around it. Glenn recognized most of the shows and smiled when he saw the one for Packham Inn. He and James and their university dorm mates used to get high and watch that show all the time. The pot made it hysterically funny. It had been about a family, kind of like the Partridge Family, who ran a small hotel in LA. They sang (sometimes on key), they danced (those bits were really funny if the pot was strong enough), and each week mayhem and madness ensued with the characters who stayed in their hotel. Glenn and James had decided that most of the visiting characters must have been recent escapees from an insane asylum and often wished Jack Nicholson had stayed at the hotel in character as R.P. McMurphy. They understood why it was a hit in Canada, one of the kid actors was Canadian, but the only logical explanation for the show’s long-running success in the U.S. was that the audience there was just as high as Glenn and James. The guy who’d played the big brother was a teen heartthrob right up until he drowned in his own vomit after a wild night of partying. That killed the show and the careers of the other child actors on it. The little sister went on to an illustrious career in porn. Because of the success of the show in syndication the precocious freckled-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed middle brother had never been allowed to grow up into adult roles. He and his syndicated musical siblings still pretended to play instruments in the wee hours of the morning on television sets all around the world.

  Glenn glanced at a Sabrina, the Teenage Witch poster and then understood why Kate had named her attack cat Salem.

  A scan of the rest of the apartment revealed that the furniture was all pretty ratty, but the big flat-screen TV was new and expensive.

  Kate came out of the bathroom with a box of bandages and joined him at the sink. “That doesn’t look so bad. One should do.”

  From the pain and the amount of blood Glenn had felt he was surprised to hear that he wasn’t going to need stitches.

  “Thanks for grabbing Salem. He’s a real pain sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it.” Glenn stuck the biggest bandage from the box over the gaping wound on the back of his hand. Then he made the mistake of looking down at the sink. His blood had mixed with the water and there looked like there was a lot of it, an awful lot of it. He quickly looked up and walked away. “I can see why you work in television. This place is like a shrine to TV and movies.” There was a stack of autograph books on the coffee table and from the look of the worn pages they’d been flipped through many, many times. On the table next to the couch there was a digital picture frame. The images kept changing yet, at the same time, remained the same. They were all head and shoulder shots of Kate (minus her piercings) with someone famous; stars like Brad Pitt, John Cusack, Catherine Zeta Jones, George Clooney, Colin Farrell, and Zac Efron. All of them had shot movies in Toronto. “You’ve met all of these people?”

  She nodded as she walked toward the door. “Just because you helped me catch Salem it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer your questions.”

  “Even though I got injured in the line of duty?” Her smile made him hope that he was making some headway. He stood his ground, trying to think of a way to soften her up even more. The next photo in the digital picture frame was of Kate with an old guy who Glenn didn’t recognize. But he sure recognized the guy in the next photo. “That’s James Butler.”

  Kate stood by the door, her hand on the handle. “Who?” She turned and looked at Glenn as she opened the door. “Oh, yeah, him.”

  Glenn didn’t budge. Why didn’t Kate know who James was? She’d supposedly been working for him for the last few months. “Which show was he in? I know his face, but can’t remember the show.”

  If Kate had had an Adam’s apple it would have bobbed when she swallowed hard. “Corner Gas.”

  At least she’d picked a Canadian show. But James hadn’t acted in it. He’d never acted in anything. It wasn’t even a show that James’ company produced. Glenn continued to stare at the picture frame but barely registered the next three pictures of Kate with a man Glenn didn’t recognize but, from his perfectly straight and white teeth and his masterfully manicured dark eyebrows, he looked like a movie star of some sort. The man in the shots didn’t look happy to be in any of them. Glenn wasn’t happy, either. Ria was right — something wasn’t adding up. Then it switched to a picture of a younger Kate with Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter.

  “I guess it’s gone back to the beginning of the loop. That picture was taken years ago, obviously. Anyway, like I said, thanks for helping out with Salem.”

  Glenn smiled. “No problem.” He started to walk toward the door. “Can I ask just one question?”

  “You can ask, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  “Were you lying to me about not recognizing James Butler, your boss from the show you were just working on, or were you lying to the police about being Kate Bond?”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Even though I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I knew from the expressions on their faces and the way they emphasized their words with jerky hand movements that James and Dan were arguing. Sitting at a poolside table, their chairs turned to f
ace each other, they were definitely facing off about something. Whether by choice or by accident, their table wasn’t near any of the other occupied tables. All of the other people around the pool were laughing loudly and obviously enjoying each other’s company. Dan and James were speaking in hushed growls.

  Dan was drinking some sort of frilly Caribbean holiday tourist drink; the liquid was bright red, there was a pineapple chunk slipped over one side of the frosted glass, and a little green umbrella poking up beside a skinny straw. James’ drink was more basic — scotch, neat. I recognized the golden liquid instantly. It had been our father’s anaesthetic of choice (and abuse) during the hellish years after our mother’s death. Seeing James suck back a big gulp of it made me mad, made me sad, made me ill. What was he trying to wash away?

  Their argument stopped when James looked up and saw me walking around the pool to join them. The welcoming smile on his face was in stark contrast to the curious stares I felt scanning me from every other direction. A noticeable hush swept over the pool patio like a wave as I walked to James’ table.

  The pool, like James’ drink, was basic; a large rectangle. The far end of it melded into the infinity of the Caribbean blue beneath it. I weaved my way through the two rows of padded lounge chairs that faced the shallow end near the door I’d come out and then walked a straight line behind the rows of lounge chairs that ran the length of James and Dan’s side of the pool. I kept my eyes on James, not wanting to meet the questioning eyes of the lounging tanning people on my left who’d turned their heads to watch me, or the people seated at the tables on my right under the awning that ran the length of the pool. I wished James and Dan had chosen to sit on the other side of the pool — there were fewer people over there. Only the tables and lounge chairs closest to the doors were occupied. The table directly across the pool from James and Dan had been blocked off by a line of orange plastic cones that were spaced out on the flagstone patio. That lone table had been set with silver and crystal on linen for one diner, but the diner wasn’t there.

  As I took the chair that James pulled out for me I saw that the pool was set on the edge of a cliff. Below us was a marina that looked much more businesslike than the solitary wide dock Malvin had brought me to when I’d arrived on the island. It had multiple rows of docks that were big enough to classify as wharfs. A barge was tied to the end of one wharf and people were scurrying in and out of the large container on it. They went into the container empty handed, they came out in pairs, their hands working together to unload the heavy equipment that the container contained: massive lights, coil after coil of what looked like thick black electrical cable, silver metallic boxes the size of trunks (some of them on wheels). The movie crew was moving in.

  “What’ll ya have?” James handed me a menu.

  “What I’d really like is a Diet Coke, but apparently I’m not allowed to.” I looked at Dan.

  “Pepsi, Coke, they’re all the same.” He lifted his glass and held it out for me to take. “Try some of this. It’s a Soursop Shirley Temple.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.” I turned and made a point of looking at James’ glass. “What are you having?”

  “The crab salad.” He deliberately lifted his glass and gulped down another mouthful of scotch. “It should be here any minute.”

  “Cue the waiter!” Dan yelled and snapped his fingers.

  Dan had powerful fingers. The reverberations from his snap had barely dissipated when a waiter carrying a tray on his shoulder came out of a side door and headed for our table. He delivered James’ crab salad (and a second glass of scotch), Dan’s steak, and took my order (James’ crab salad looked delicious).

  “So, Mz Butler,” Dan sounded like a bee as he emphasized the z, “why are you here?”

  “Because James invited me to join him for lunch?”

  “That’s not what I …” Dan didn’t finish his sentence; his attention was focused somewhere else.

  I turned around in my chair to see what he was watching so intently. The ghost lady was floating along the pool patio, following a waiter who was showing her to the empty table directly across the pool from us.

  The hush over the entire pool area didn’t come in a slow moving wave for her entrance, it landed like a lead anvil. It was as if everyone around the pool was momentarily frozen in time, slow-motion time. She melted into the chair the waiter pulled out for her and then slowly removed her large sunhat and gloves.

  “That’s star power,” Dan said admiringly. From the tone of his voice I could tell that Dan wasn’t seeing a product, he was seeing a star.

  “Is that Ariel Downes?” I wasn’t a big movie star fan, but even I felt a quick trickle of excitement run through me.

  “Yup.” James polished off the last ounce from his first glass and then picked up the recently delivered refill.

  “What movie are you making, Dan?”

  “Did you ever read Rebecca?”

  “Yes!” Daphne du Maurier’s book was one of the few books that I actually re-read just for the sheer pleasure of it. I must have read it at least ten times and still hadn’t been able to decide if Rebecca had been a villain or a victim.

  “We’re doing an updated version, based on that book and mixed in with another book called Rebecca’s Tale.”

  I hadn’t heard of that book. “Did du Maurier write that, too?”

  He shook his head. “No, some broad named Sally Beauman wrote it. It’s a continuation, of sorts, of du Maurier’s book.”

  “Dan’s going through a Hitchcock phase,” James interjected in a less-than-impressed way. “First The Birds —”

  “Which was based on a short story by du Maurier,” Dan added.

  “— now this.” James began impaling pieces of his salad with his fork.

  “What part’s Ariel going to play?” She certainly didn’t seem right for the part of Mrs. Danvers, the weird housekeeper who worshipped Rebecca in a psycho sort of way, and she had too much presence to play the mousy unnamed second Mrs. de Winter.

  Dan carved a paper thin slice off his steak. “Rebecca, of course.”

  “But Rebecca isn’t in the book. She’s dead.”

  “Well, she’s alive in the movie.”

  “Who’s Chris Regent playing?” I could see him as Maxim, Rebecca’s husband.

  “His character is based on the Terence Gray character.”

  I’d read Rebecca so many times that I knew every character’s name by heart, even the minor ones, and there wasn’t a character named Terence Gray in du Maurier’s book. He must have come from the other book Dan mentioned. “Why are you shooting it here? The story was set in Cornwall.”

  Dan finished chewing another sliver of steak and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before answering. “Cornwall Schmorm-wall! It’s too fucking cold and wet and depressing there.”

  Personally, I’d always liked the climate of Cornwall, which was only sometimes cold and wet, and never depressing.

  “Besides, what kind of press could Check-Out Time give my movie or your hotel if we shot in Cornwall? You don’t own a hotel in Cornwall, do you?”

  “I don’t own any hotel anywhere.”

  “Which brings me back to my question — why are you here?”

  James put down his fork, leaned back in his chair and watched me closely. My answer had to be good.

  “Vacation.”

  “Interesting,” Dan’s eyes closed to slits. “You were travelling for your work, but then decided to take a vacation by travelling some more. That doesn’t sound like much of a vacation to me.”

  James smirked, ever so slightly, but I caught it.

  “It sounds like a vacation to me. I can relax. No one’s expecting an information-packed, entertaining, well-written article, with photos, when I get home.”

  “So, it’s a vacation because you don’t have to do any research?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” My crab salad arrived and I chose to look at it, not Dan or James.

  “Ye
t, when I saw you in the office, you were doing research and I have to ask myself why — why were you researching information on Rob Churcher when you’d just spent almost an hour with him at your villa?”

  Little brother’s partner was watching me a little too closely. I chewed a piece of crabmeat so long that it turned to pure mush, but I kept on chewing — desperately trying to think of an answer that would sound believable.

  There was a scurry of activity behind me, feet running along the stones of the patio.

  “Mr. Shykoff,” Ted said breathlessly as he ran up to the table, followed by the ubiquitous television crew, “we might have a problem.” He stood beside Dan’s chair, but turned just enough to be facing the cameras.

  “What sort of problem?” Dan asked.

  “Miss Downes ordered a —” Ted stopped himself and thought for a minute or two, “— she ordered a brand of soda pop that the hotel doesn’t currently carry.”

  “So?” Dan didn’t look very concerned.

  “Well, I know how some movie stars are and I wanted to make sure that there’s nothing in her contract about it.”

  Dan’s eyebrows rose up. “Good point. Where’s Winnie?”

  “I believe she’s in her office.”

  Dan bent over and reached for something under the table and I thought I heard James whisper “Plug your ears.”

  Before I knew it, Dan was holding a megaphone in front of his mouth and the sound person who’d been standing beside my chair was madly fiddling with the dials on his equipment.

  “WINNIE!” Dan bellowed to the sky. “I NEED YOU! NOW!”

  I looked over at Ariel Downes to see how she was reacting to Dan’s blast. She’d lowered her sunglasses just enough to get an unfiltered view of Dan over the top of them.

  Dan looked at his watch and started to tap his fingers impatiently on the table. “What part of now do you think she didn’t understand?”

  So little time had passed since Dan’s blast that Winnie, whoever she was, couldn’t have made it to our table even if she’d been sitting at one of the tables across the pool from us (unless she was capable of transporting herself from one location to another like a character from Star Trek).