They were getting ready to call it a day when the desk sergeant called. “I might have something for you. Someone called in from the company that’s filming on the Anstandt. Wanted us to run a check on a missing cast member. Woman thought we should check all the area hospitals for her since she wasn’t familiar with the area.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“The missing person is female, an actress, and working in those chase scenes they’re filming on the Anstandt.”
“What’s the caller’s name?”
“Tansy Lark.”
Marti had mixed feelings as she hung up. She wanted to I.D. the drowning victim, but she liked the feeling of knowing she and Vik were in charge of that case, that there would be no interference or directives from Lieutenant Nicholson. She had to keep reminding herself of that when she was conducting an investigation under the lieutenant’s command. She relayed the sergeant’s information to Vik.
“Tansy Lark,” he said. “Sounds like a nutcase who’s already flown over the cuckoo’s nest.”
“Have you ever been on a movie set?”
“I don’t consider the Anstandt a movie set.”
“Just get a couple of the victim’s morgue shots out of the coroner’s folder, Jessenovik.”
“Right. It’ll be just our luck that this case will be closed by tomorrow and Lieutenant Nicholson will be asking for hourly updates on the old bones case.”
The weather had turned mean again. The rain was steady, the wind off the lake cold. Thunder rumbled. Marti counted to ten- Mississippi twice, then watched lightning do a jagged dance several miles away. The Anstandt ran along the base of a long bluff that had once extended to the lake. Onlookers, behind barriers at street level, huddled under umbrellas and looked down at the action. Or the lack of it. Nothing was happening that Marti could see.
“Looks exciting as hell,” Vik said.
“Literally,” Marti added.
An off-duty officer manning one of the barriers recognized her and Vik. He pointed south, away from the large boards with floodlights that were staggered along both sides of the Anstandt, and let them pass.
Walking south, they reached a curve in the road and saw a bus, a trailer, eight Porta Pottis, and half a dozen vintage cars all well out of camera range. One of the cars had been reduced to salvage. Two men were standing in the rain, smoking.
“Can either of you tell me where I can find Tansy Lark?” Marti asked.
“Trailer,” one of the men said. “Over there.” A cigarette dangled from his mouth and he sounded like he was trying to do an imitation of Edward G. Robinson.
As they walked toward the trailer, Vik said, “Must be a method actor.” He spoke loud enough for the man to hear him.
The wind shifted, blowing rain in their faces. The trailer door was ajar. Marti knocked and entered without waiting to be invited. The interior looked like it was a combination coffee bar and office. The odor of cigarette smoke was so strong Marti felt her sinuses getting clogged. A woman sat at large wooden desk. She looked like an aging Barbie after her breakup with Ken. Expertly applied makeup and fine lines that the foundation didn’t disguise: long blond ponytail secured with a rubber band with dark roots just beginning to grow out; eyes such a startling blue that she had to be wearing contacts. She was red-faced with anger as she screamed into a cell phone.
“Now, Devorah! Now! If you can’t get your ass up here in two hours I swear you’ll never work again!” She reached for a silver cigarette case as she listened, then said, “Savannah isn’t here! I need someone now! Do you want the job or not?” She picked up a cigarette lighter and flicked it as she listened again. “Good. Take a cab to the Metro station right away. There’s a train leaving for Lincoln Prairie in seventeen minutes. It’ll get you here in an hour and twenty minutes . . . What? A cab to Lincoln Prairie? Look, honey, I’ll be sure to let you know when you become a star. This is a two-to-three day job at scale with a free trip to Las Vegas and L.A. for more location shots thrown in. Now move your ass. I’ll send someone to meet the train.”
Smoke wafted in Marti’s direction as she took two deep drags on the cigarette. “So, what can I do for you two?”
“We’re police officers, ma’am,” Vik said. They showed the woman their I.D.s. “Are you Tansy Lark?”
“Yeah, look, hold on for a minute will you. I’ve got a crisis here.” She made another call. “Look, we’ve got a replacement for Savannah.” She spoke in a calmer voice but still sounded angry. “There shouldn’t be a problem with the wardrobe; just pull whatever you’ve got.” She paused, listened, then said, “I don’t give a damn how reliable Savannah is. She isn’t here now. I don’t go into production overruns for has-been actresses in bit-part, non- speaking roles.”
“Now,” she said, looking at Marti, “I called you people so you could check out the hospitals ...”
“That’s not our job, ma’am.”
“Then what the hell is your job and why are you here?”
Before they could answer her, the cell phone trilled the theme song from The Sound of Music. Miss Lark picked up, listened for a minute, then said, “Look, just make sure that the reporter who came out here yesterday doesn’t have any stills of Savannah and if he does, make sure he doesn’t use them.”
The chair squeaked as the woman leaned back and let out a deep breath. When Marti started to speak, she held up her hand, and closed her eyes. “Devorah, wardrobe, PR,” she said, then, “Hotel room.” She consulted a sheet of paper, punched in a phone number, and said, “Midway Productions. Room 206 is assigned to a Savannah Payne-Jones. Change that to Devorah Vaughn.”
Eyes closed, she repeated the “Devorah, wardrobe, PR” mantra, added, “Hotel room,” then, “plane reservations,” then “tomorrow.” She thought for a moment, then looked up at Marti and Vik.
“Look, I’ve got a production schedule to stick to. Is there some law against you making those phone calls?”
“We’re cops, not private investigators,” Marti told her.
“Private . . . no, they cost money. I just need to know if she’s been in an accident or something in case there’s an insurance liability. Just what . . .”
“Look, miss,” Vik interrupted. “We’d like you to look at a photograph, tell us if it’s the woman you’re looking for.”
“A photograph? A mug shot? Of Savannah?”
Vik handed her the photographs.
Lark’s eyes widened, as she looked at one, then the other, then looked at them again. “It is Savannah. But, what’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look like herself at all.”
“That’s because she’s dead, ma’am,” Vik explained.
Tansy Lark’s eyes got very wide. She began gasping for breath. Before Marti could ask what was wrong, Lark reached into a drawer, pulled out a paper bag, and began breathing into it. In a minute or two she seemed all right.
“Savannah Payne-Jones. Dead. I’ve used her in bit parts for years. Never anything big; she didn’t have the voice for it, but she could say more with gestures and facial expressions than a lot of people could say with words.” She looked down at the pictures, pushed them away. “Don’t tell me what happened. Don’t tell me anything. I do not want to know.”
“We’ll need you to identify the body,” Vik explained.
“Look at her? Like that? Dead?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tansy Lark’s ponytail whipped from one side of her face to the other as she shook her head. “No. Sorry. I don’t identify dead people.” She reached for the phone and made two calls in quick succession. Nobody she spoke with wanted to identify Savannah either.
Miss Lark checked her watch, tapped long nails painted orange and yellow on the desktop, thought for close to a minute, then dialed, waited, and identified herself. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we could have a major PR crisis here. Savannah Payne-Jones is dead, sir. How do you want to handle the press release?” She listened, then turned to Marti. “How did she die? Was it an accident? An overdose?”
“We can’t say at this time.”
Tansy relayed that to the “sir” on the other end of the line, then handed the phone to Marti.
“Sir” identified himself as a well-known movie producer. Even Marti had heard of him. He said, “The film crew can finish up there tomorrow night. Can you hold this until then?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but. . .” Marti began.
“Sure, sure, I didn’t expect the police to cooperate. Put Tansy on the line again.”
Tansy lit another cigarette as she listened, then said, “Yes sir, we do have film of her from last night.”
When she hung up, she said, “I can’t believe this! Looks like Miss Savannah might get what she’s always wanted. Star status. For a day or two anyway. Great PR for the film.” Tansy Lark had gone from anger and hyperventilation to near euphoria. She did a tap dance, flipped through some papers, found what she was looking for, and made another call. “Yes, sweetie, Savannah Payne hyphen Jones. I know you’ve never heard of her. Nobody else has either, but you will see to it that they do in tomorrow’s early edition. She’s dead. Suspicious circumstances. The film we shot of her yesterday will be included in the movie.”
She looked at Marti. “Where did you find her?”
“In the Des Plaines River.”
“The one that’s flooding. Yes!” Her smile was huge as she spoke into the phone. “They found her in the river, sweetie, the one that is flooding this part of the state. The governor is coming tomorrow. Play it up. It’ll be great for the locals. I can be at the morgue in about ten minutes to identify the body. Make sure someone is there to take pictures.” When she hung up, she said, “The identification will have to wait a while. It’ll be thirty minutes before the photographer can get there.”
“Ma’am, the sooner we can identify her . . .” Vik began.
“1 know, I know, but she is dead. It isn’t like timing will make a difference to her anymore. Who knows, this might even put this town on the map.”
“Where was she staying?” Vik asked.
“That motel not far from the Navy base, right off of that highway that comes in from the city. The . . . ummm . . .”
“Shady Lane Motel,” Vik ventured.
“That’s it.”
He called in and had two uniforms dispatched to prevent entry into the room and requested evidence techs.
“Oh, what luck!” Lark exclaimed. “I can’t believe this.”
“Did she rent a car?” Marti asked.
“Who? Savannah? Maybe.”
“Was she local?”
“Oh no. She lives in L.A.”
“Did she have any friends here? Was she meeting anyone after work?”
Tansy Lark sighed and shook her head. “You two don’t know anything about this business, do you? It’s nothing like what you see on TV We were just doing some location shots here. No happy hours, no cast parties. Just rain, bright lights, and the same boring ride down that road until they got it just right. The guy directing this shoot doesn’t even yell ’Action.’” She pulled a manila envelope out of a drawer, checked the contents, then said, “Well, I can give you next of kin.”
“That’s great, but we can’t notify anyone until we have a positive I.D.”
“And we need that ASAP,” Vik added.
Miss Lark reached for the photographs. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then looked at them. “Okay. Okay.” She checked her watch. “How long will this take? Oh, damn . . . What was Savannah wearing when you . . . found her?”
“A lavender trench coat,” Marti said. “A pink angora sweater, and a black skirt.”
“Damn. The coat would have been hers, but the clothes ... I don’t suppose we could pick up the skirt and sweater when I go to . . . identify her.”
“Sorry, no.”
“It was such a small part. Oh, well, that’s wardrobe’s problem.”
She reached for the cell phone again. “Check yesterday’s takes on Savannah and last night’s shoot. See what she was wearing. A Devorah Vaughn is on her way here to replace her, so wardrobe will have to match it. Makeup will have to check it out, too. Don’t shoot any more with Devorah than you have to. And under no circumstances do we want to see Devorah’s face.” She frowned, then snapped, “That’s your job. Just do it.”
It took Tansy Lark less than ten seconds to identify Savannah Payne-Jones. She didn’t hyperventilate. She did manage to look grief-stricken when the photographer snapped her photo as she left the viewing room. As Marti and Vik were escorting her from the morgue, Miss Lark stopped, turned to them, swallowed hard, and said. “Her voice just wasn’t right. But she could act. She really was a damned good actress. And just kept at it, just wouldn’t give up. This could be the most press she’s ever received and she won’t even be here to enjoy it.” She dabbed at her eyes and turned away.
When Marti and Vik arrived at the Shady Lane Motel, an ambulance was just pulling away. Uniformed officers escorted two sailors and a civilian to waiting black-and-whites. Inside, an Elvis impersonator swiveled his hips on a stage not much bigger than two pallets pushed together. He was singing “Don’t Be Cruel” with more enthusiasm than talent. From the looks of it, the audience was almost evenly divided, hookers and servicemen.
The evidence techs were finished with room 206. Except for the residue from taking fingerprints, there was no indication they had been there. The room was small with a single bed. The curtains matched the faded geometric-patterned bedspread. An orange-and-yellow shag carpet was stained and matted in places.
Savannah Payne-Jones hadn’t bothered to unpack. Enough jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, and underwear for three days were in one small suitcase along with a pair of athletic shoes. Makeup and other personal items were in a carry-on. A Gideon Bible was in the drawer of a nightstand decorated with cigarette burns. A telephone with a local directory was on a desk. The desk wobbled when Marti touched it.
“No purse,” Marti said. “She must have had it with her. And she was wearing the clothes she was working in.”
“That tells us a whole lot, MacAlister.”
“Maybe they’ll be able to figure out where she was when she went in.”
“ ’They’ meaning your fairy godmother on drugs?” Vik asked.
The kids were in bed when Marti got home. She brought Trouble, their guard dog, in for the night and set the alarm system. Then she thought about Ben. He had something important to tell her. She had forgotten all about that until now. He was up for a promotion. It had probably gone through. She wouldn’t wake him if he was asleep. He could tell her about it in the morning.
They lived in a quad-level house. Marti paused at what her two boys called “the middle place” and looked in on them. Big- foot, their beta dog and house pet, slept at the foot of Theo’s bed. Theo was her son by her first marriage. He had kicked off his blanket and was sleeping in an oversized T-shirt. He still looked so much like his father that she almost caught her breath. The model plane they were working on when Johnny died now hung from the ceiling over Theo’s bed.
Like his father, Theo could be silent when there was something he needed to say, but at twelve, with Ben’s encouragement, he was talking more. Sometimes he even let her in on how he felt or what he was thinking. He mumbled something now as she covered him with the blanket, then with both hands under his cheek, was still.
Mike, Ben’s son by his first marriage, had his blanket pulled up to his chin. He looked as much like Ben as Theo looked like Johnny. Fair skin, round face, soft features. Mike used to be a short, chubby bully. Now, seeing him stretched out, Marti realized how tall he was getting. He was slimming down and instead of wearing an angry scowl or pout, he laughed a lot and told silly jokes.
She looked from Mike’s face, relaxed with just a hint of a smile, to Theo’s, somber brown planes and angles, widow’s peak, narrow chin. She thought of all the wounded, neglected, betrayed children she had seen over the years. Children she could neither shelter, nor love, nor protect. How lucky she was.
Upstairs, she looked in on Joanna. She wouldn’t have the boys with her forever, but with Joanna, she was really running out of time. Joanna would be a senior in high school come fall. Practical Joanna, sensible, calm . . . secure here at home with Momma’s guidance and Ben’s protectiveness. She was so confident, so self-assured. How would she fare in the much larger world of college, then work?
Joanna was also a slob. Marti resisted the urge to pick up her sweats and jeans and create order out of the chaos of textbooks and notebooks and papers on her desk; the jumble of lotion, makeup, and cologne on her bureau. What would she do when she could clean this room and stand within its empty order and wait for Joanna to come home from college, and make a mess of it again?
She could hear Momma’s light snore as she passed the closed door to her room. The hallway light was still on, as was the lamp by the bed in the room at the end of the hall. Ben was wideawake.
“I was waiting for you,” he said. He had something to tell her. He didn’t look pleased. He must not have gotten the promotion.
“It’s late,” she said, glad that he wasn’t sleeping.
He moved over as she sat on his side of the bed.
“Remember that test they did at the health fair at church?”
“Mine or yours?” She had let them take her blood pressure, just a little above normal, test her for diabetes, negative. Ben had a PSA, and a ... a PSA.
“The PSA?”
The prostate test, or as Ben called it, “the Past Sixty Angst test.” He laughed when he said it. He was only forty-five.
“I got the results the day before yesterday. It’s fourteen.”
A hot acid bath began in the pit of her stomach. “What does that mean? What should it be?”
“Three, maybe four.”
The acid rushed up her esophagus. She swallowed, tasted bile. “Then it’s . . . you’ve got . . .”
“Antibiotics. I’ll take them for another eleven days and get tested again.”
She put her head on his chest and he patted her back. The acid bath inside did not abate.
“And?”
“And we handle that if and when it comes.”
“What do we tell the children?”
“Nothing right now.”
“Ben, they’ve already lost one parent.”
His hand moved up and down her back in a slow, even rhythm.
“Right now it’s just an abnormal test that could be caused by a minor infection.”
She tried to focus on that. The acid felt like it was burning holes in her stomach.
“I can’t lose you,” she said. “I can’t lose you, too.”
“I didn’t want to tell you yet,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to keep it to myself for two weeks either.”
She felt the weight of his hand. He was comforting her. He needed her to comfort him.
“I will always be here,” she said.
She slipped her feet out of her shoes and got into bed beside him without undressing. They held each other without speaking. Neither of them slept until daybreak.