Fair Game, page 5
Brent Thornton returned. Apparently having overheard the last part of their conversation, he said, “If there’s one thing Mariana’s good at, it’s shopping.” Mariana looked down, didn’t respond.
For the rest of the meal, Thornton pretty much ignored Kathleen. He didn’t say much to Mariana either, and now that Kathleen thought about it, Mariana hadn’t said too much about him. Maybe theirs was a marriage of convenience, a pairing of two wealthy families, making sure no undeserving poor people got any of the money. Or maybe Mariana had been swept off her feet by the tall, sexy Brent only to find out too late that he wasn’t all that much fun to live with.
Or maybe you’re full of shit, Brown.
Jesus, she thought. I’m starting to think like a romance writer. What’s with this tall, sexy Brent crap?
When it was time for Kathleen to speak, the club president, a chunky bald man with a Gorbachev-like birthmark on his forehead, introduced her, using adjectives like successful, talented, and popular. Kathleen experienced a terrible moment during which she was certain she would be too petrified to speak. But the moment passed. She discussed the elements of a good crime novel and how she juggled them, making every story unique. Her audience seemed surprisingly interested, and when she finished the applause appeared to be genuine.
“You were really good,” Mariana said as Kathleen returned to the table.
“Very interesting,” the stockbroker said.
“Yes,” his wife chimed in. “I never considered how difficult it must be to maintain the same basic ingredients in every book and yet make them different.”
Neither Brent Thornton nor Dennis the Menace said anything. As soon as she could, Kathleen made her escape.
Mariana Thornton stared out the window as Brent steered the Mercedes sedan onto Santa Maria Boulevard and pulled away from the hotel. Neither of them spoke. But then not speaking was normal for them. They’d run out of things to say to each other after the first of the nine years of their marriage.
Mariana had been pushed into the marriage by her parents. Brent was what they’d have come up with if they’d drawn up a list of the qualities they wanted in a son-in-law. He was handsome, he was well-off, and he was from an old, established Magdalena family. His father owned the controlling interest in the city’s biggest bank.
Mariana had been sexually attracted to him—in the same way girls had been attracted to Elvis, she supposed. There was something tantalizingly evil about him, something excitingly risky. And Brent had come on to her. Of course, he came on to nearly every woman he met, but at the time she had closed her eyes to it, allowed herself to be drawn to him.
But she was too smart to marry him. At least she thought she was until her parents began applying the pressure.
In that regard, she envied Kathleen Brown. Kathleen was a free spirit. Unlike Mariana, she resisted the pressures from family and society. She did as she pleased, lived where she pleased. Mariana would never want for anything. She would always have the best food, the most expensive car, the nicest home. She’d done nothing to earn them; they were simply hers for the taking. But she envied Kathleen her freedom. And she envied Kathleen the knowledge that she had earned that freedom.
Mariana shifted her gaze from the window to her husband. “Leave her alone, Brent.”
“Leave who alone?”
“Kathleen Brown.”
“Why would I bother Kathleen Brown?”
“You make a play for every pretty woman you meet.”
Brent sighed, said nothing.
“I mean it. Leave her alone.”
“Mariana, I have a job to do. And I think Kathleen Brown could unquestionably use my services as a financial planner. She’s suddenly making a lot of money, and she’s given no thought to how she’s going to handle it.”
“Come on, Brent, it’s not her money you want to handle.”
“I noticed you throwing yourself at Tony Martin,” Brent said.
“What?” she asked, the sudden turn in the conversation catching her off-guard.
“Tony Martin. You know, dark hair, real curly. Six-one. Broad shoulders.”
“I asked him how Julia’s doing. She broke her leg at Aspen. She’s on crutches.”
“Smiling seductively all the time.”
“I told you that all we talked about was—”
“You know how that makes me look, my wife playing up to the friendly local Buick dealer?” he snapped.
“It doesn’t make you look any way at all—except maybe that you have a wife who cares enough to ask about Julia.”
Brent said nothing.
He still believed in double standards. He could come on to whomever he wished, bed whomever he wished. She, on the other hand, was expected to be his pretty and admiring little wife, always doting, always faithful, never even so much as looking at another man. After all, bedding women was good for Brent’s ego. Having her talk to another man in public was bad for it. And stroking Brent’s sensitive ego was the number one consideration, wasn’t it?
He’s perfect, Mariana’s mother had said. He’s from the right family—he’s one of us. His future is assured. And the two of you make a marvelous couple. And her mother still thought the marriage was perfect. No matter that Mariana and Brent had practically stopped having sex together after three years. No matter that Brent had cheated on her almost from the beginning. No matter that they actively avoided being in each other’s company. As far as Mariana’s mother was concerned, the image was right, the families were right, the money was right, so what else could matter?
Go get ’em, Mom.
A tear trickled down Mariana’s cheek. She turned her head before wiping it away, because she didn’t want Brent to notice.
Like Kathleen’s place, their house was on a ridge overlooking Magdalena. Unlike Kathleen’s house, this one was a huge Victorian place that was typical of the homes of wealthy Californians in the late 1800s. It was white, with a lot of Gothic-looking woodwork, towers with cone-shaped roofs, a veranda that went all the way around the place, a paved drive the length of a football field.
Brent pressed the remote control, and one of the detached garage’s four doors opened. He pulled the Mercedes inside and switched off the headlights. “We’re home,” he said.
This time it was Mariana’s turn to sigh.
They went upstairs together, then separated, each heading for a different bedroom.
Kathleen lay in bed, unable to sleep, her mind awhirl with all the new developments in her life. She still had an amazing number of things to do. Her house still had two unfurnished rooms, several that were barely furnished, and she still had no curtains. She hadn’t had the chance to even look at computers. And she needed a new car.
Somewhere in there she had to find time to finish the outline of her next Melanie McCrossen novel, especially considering that it was Melanie who was paying for all the things she was buying.
A car passed by on the street below, the glow from its headlights making shadows move across the walls. It was much more peaceful here than it had been in L.A. This neighborhood was so quiet she could probably sleep with the bedroom windows open, which would have been impossible in her apartment because of the traffic noise and all the other night sounds of the city, not to mention other tenants coming and going at all hours, closing doors, taking showers, arguing with each other.
As she had several times before since getting home, Kathleen found herself thinking about Brent Thornton. The man was spoiled—rich, handsome, and conceited, the sort who considered himself God’s gift to women. Kathleen sighed. Brent Thornton was also Mariana’s husband. They were totally different. How could Mariana marry someone like that? The man gave her the creeps.
But maybe she’d misread him. She was out of her element with rich people. Perhaps she simply didn’t understand them. Yeah, perhaps. But Kathleen didn’t believe it. She was fairly sure the Brent Thorntons of the world were the same regardless of their socioeconomic status.
She was still turning this around in her mind, hoping the friction between her and Brent wouldn’t harm her relationship with Mariana, when the phone rang. Rolling over, she groped in the dark, her fingers finding the bed table, then the phone. She wondered what time it was as she said hello.
“I’ve got my dick in my hand,” a male voice said.
Jesus, she thought. I’ve had the phone one day, and I’m already getting obscene phone calls. “That’s nice,” she said. “How’d you like to take it and stick it in your ear?”
She started to hang up, then hesitated. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice.
“The last two nights, you didn’t get undressed by the window, but the first night you made a lovely silhouette. Your breasts are perfectly shaped.”
Kathleen was stunned. This guy had been watching her house for the last three nights.
“I’m angry with you,” he said.
“I’m going to call the police,” Kathleen said. “And if they find anyone nosing around my house, I’ll press charges.”
“I’m not afraid of the police. But you should be afraid of me.”
The line went dead.
Kathleen hung up the phone. Her hand was shaking. Calm down, she told herself. It’s just some crazy making it all up; he hasn’t really been watching you. And yet she had started undressing farther from the window, not because she thought anyone could see her, but because the house was new and she was still adjusting, developing new routines.
She got up, went to the window, peeked out beyond the sheet.
The street was empty.
Should she call the police? What good would it do? The officer would look at the same empty street she was seeing, take a report, and go on his way, advising her to keep her doors locked. There was no way to catch a person like that unless he phoned repeatedly and the police could make arrangements with the phone company to have the call traced.
Kathleen went back to bed.
She felt cold and alone and vulnerable.
CHAPTER 4
Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, Kathleen sipped her coffee and thought about the obscene phone call. As the memory of the voice faded, she was becoming less and less certain that she’d heard it before. Lying awake in bed last night, she’d thought of everyone she’d met since coming here, and none of their voices seemed to match the one on the phone.
Some sicko saw the newspaper story about her and got her number from information. If the calls continued, she could get an unlisted number.
The thing that bothered her was that the guy had apparently been watching the house. Obscene callers usually didn’t go that far. Did he pose any danger to her? Was he going to try to grab her as she left the house—or even try to break in to get her? The tall bougainvillea-covered walls kept the neighbors from seeing into her backyard. What if he cut the phone line, came in to … to what?
Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. If you hear from this guy again or if you spot anyone watching your house, you can call the police.
I’m not afraid of the police.
That statement was as hollow as the man’s warped mind. Pure bravado. If the police caught him, he’d be exposed.
Everyone would know what he did, know how sick and slimy he was.
But you should be afraid of me.
A threat. She’d had obscene phone calls before. She got four in L.A. And one in Sioux Falls when she was a teenager. They said stuff like “I’m picturing you naked while I masturbate” or sometimes they just breathed hard. But not one had ever threatened her before.
Should she take it seriously? No, she decided, she shouldn’t. This sleaze had already cost her a night’s sleep, and she had no intention of allowing him to affect her life any further. She’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
She took a swallow of coffee. The first order of business was to buy some curtains, good thick ones no one could see through. Forgetting about the rest of her coffee, she got a metal measuring tape from a drawer beneath the counter, went upstairs, and got the dimensions of the bedroom window. Then she got the phone book and wrote down the addresses of places that sold curtains. Two minutes later, she was in her car, on her way to the nearest of the addresses she’d noted.
Mariana couldn’t go shopping with her again until Tuesday. Which meant Kathleen would have to use her own judgment as to color and style. It didn’t matter. Kathleen had no intention of waiting until Tuesday. She wanted those curtains today.
But she didn’t get them.
Her windows weren’t standard size, which meant the curtains had to be made. No one could have them ready in less than a week, two or three weeks if they had to order material. At one place, Kathleen even offered to accept material they had on hand and pay double, but the answer was the same.
After visiting half a dozen stores, Kathleen stopped to collect her thoughts. Then she drove to a hardware store and bought some canvas. The stuff was bright blue and thick, impenetrable to light. She drove home, cut the material to the right size, and tacked it over the bedroom window.
“All right, Mr. Sleazeball Jerk, try to see through that,” she said, looking at her handiwork.
Then she went into the bedroom she was going to use as an office and sat down at her worn IBM Selectric. The machine, the battered metal stand on which it sat, and her chair were the only things in the room. A desk was yet another item she would have to buy. Had success spoiled her? She’d written quite a few books in her cramped apartment, using nothing except this chair and typewriter and metal stand. Now she needed a desk, a computer, all the things that had once seemed luxuries. What next? Would she hire a secretary?
“You’re getting too big for your breeches, Brown,” she said to the empty room.
Her notes, the outline she’d been working on, and typing paper were on the floor by her feet. She got a piece of paper, slipped it into the machine, and set about completing the outline for her next book. She finished the rough draft late that evening, read for a while, and went upstairs. She peeked out the windows. No one was watching the house.
There were no obscene phone calls.
“This meeting of the Magdalena Murder Club will come to order,” the man at the head of the table said. It was a standing joke, the way they always began their get-togethers.
The three of them were in the paneled room in which they always met. There were a few landscapes on the walls, the sort of thing you might find at a cheap motel. Mass-produced art, created by painters on an assembly line, Joe doing the green, Tom the brown, Rex the blue. Other than the table and paintings, the only things in the room were a TV set, a VCR, and a long wooden cabinet that could be locked. In the center of the table was an open plastic bag of cocaine.
“Any thoughts about what we’ve been doing?” the man at the head of the table asked.
“I like the new approach,” the man on his left said. “Picking up hitchhikers, it’s … well, more interesting than doing derelicts. And then there are the souvenirs. I like the souvenirs.” The gleam in his eyes said he liked it a lot. “Eventually this will get old too,” the man on the right said. He said it casually, disinterestedly, as if he were discussing the baseball standings or the weather. But it was just his nature to act this way. There had been times— many of them—when he too had had the gleam in his eyes.
But then that’s why they did it. It was an excitement, an electric jolt, a feeling none of them could get in any other way. It was the thrill of doing something that was evil and forbidden and irreversible. It was a tingling that was vaguely sexual, and yet it went beyond sex, way beyond it.
“Yes,” the man at the head of the table said. “We will get used to doing hitchhikers, and we will need something more … entertaining.”
“Stockbrokers?” the man on the right said.
“Be serious,” the man on the left said.
“There’s always children. We could hang out at the grade school, grab them when they come out.”
The other man looked at him as though he were uncertain whether the words had been said in jest. Apparently concluding they were serious, he said, “I would never harm a child. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“The kind of person who gets his kicks killing people.”
“But not children.”
“Right. Life is so much less important to adults.”
“That’s not the point.” He literally spat the words out, spittle filling the air around him in a fine mist. “Those people are bums, vagrants, useless, of no value to society. Children could turn out all sorts of different ways. They could be future presidents, CEOs of the major corporations, scientists. You have to give them the chance to see what they become.”
“Wow,” the other man said, clapping gently. “What a speech.” Knowing he had the other man going, he allowed himself a smirk before saying, “Some of those children will also turn out to be welfare mothers, child molesters, bank robbers, and burglars.”
“But we don’t know, don’t you see? How can we do something like that when we don’t know?”
“I like that. A lecture in morals from a thrill killer.”
“So what are you? What are we all?”
“Ah, but I don’t pretend to have any morals.”
“Well—” He shook his head. “You just wouldn’t understand.”
“I withdraw the suggestion about doing children. It wouldn’t be moral like doing vagrants and hitchhikers.” Satisfied that the exchange had run its course, the man at the head of the table said, “I have an idea that might be interesting. Does anyone have any misgivings about doing a woman?”
“We’ve done a woman before,” the man on the right said. “But this one’s not a hitchhiker.”
The other two men exchanged glances, then shifted their attention back to the man at the head of the table, waited for him to go on. “I have a game in mind, something more complicated, more challenging. I believe it would be much more rewarding than what we’ve been doing.” He paused for effect, then pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline read, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR MOVES TO MAGDALENA.
