The Last Cheerleader

“Nice office,” he said, folding his arms and looking around, taking in the view. “You must be doing well.”

“I do okay. And I worked for it. No one handed it to me.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to be defensive about it. I know.”

“You know?”

“Sure. I’ve been checking up on you. I know how you started out and that you just moved here to the high-rent district a couple of years ago. I know you bought a home in Malibu, too, at about the same time. Pretty nice digs.”

I tried not to show how flustered I was. Standing, I moved away from him and crossed to the other side of the room, where I had a sofa and coffee table. I sat on the sofa, crossing my legs and folding my arms—an automatic defensive posture, I realized suddenly. I never would have done this in front of an editor, as it would have weakened my position.

Carefully, I unfolded my assorted limbs, leaning back against the cushions and forcing my spine to relax.

“I do all right,” I said coolly. “Is there some purpose to this, Detective? Is it going somewhere?”

“I’m just kind of curious about your relationship with Tony Price. It seems you and he went out a lot. You even went on trips together.”

“And?”

“And Price’s murder looks as if it might have been a crime of passion.”

I laughed. “You think I killed Tony in a moment of passion?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Well, you’re wrong. If anything, Tony’s death will hurt me, especially in terms of financial loss. The best thing for me would have been if he’d lived to be a hundred.”

“And kept writing till then, of course.”

“All right, what are you getting at?” I snapped. Reaching for the cordless phone on the coffee table, I said calmly, “And is this supposed to be a formal interview? Do I need my lawyer here?”

“Nah, relax. This is off the record. I’ll let you know when you need a lawyer.”

He came over and stood above me, hands in his pockets. “The thing is, if Tony Price wasn’t writing well, if he hit a wall and couldn’t get going again, or if he’d decided to drop you as his agent—”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” I said, putting the phone down. “None of that is true.”

I stood again and walked over to the windows, giving him my back while studying the traffic below. It was a negotiating technique, one I often used to gain time and balance. I noted that the freeways were jammed with commuters winding their way from one end of the city to the other. It was late June, and I knew it was hot out there. I could picture the drivers without air-conditioning loosening their ties and belts, or the buttons on their blouses. Almost everyone would be swilling down bottled water so they wouldn’t dehydrate on their three-hour commutes home to where the rents were reasonable.

I’d probably end up as one of them, now that Craig was gone, too. Even if Lost Legacy got published and I received my fifteen percent commission on it, that wouldn’t last long after taxes and my current expenses. And Craig wouldn’t be around to finish Under Covers.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I said finally, turning back to Rucker. “I’ve lost two valuable authors and an ex-husband I actually still liked. This hasn’t been a red-letter day for me. If you’re arresting me, just say so. I’ll call my lawyer. If you’re not arresting me, this is over. Now.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re a pretty tough cookie, aren’t you?”

“I can handle myself,” I said.

I went back into the workout room, picked up my purse and took out my keys. “Especially with men like you.”

Damn, Mary Beth. I bit my lip. Had that sounded like the tough message I’d meant to send—or a challenge?

When I turned back he was standing only a few feet behind me. “I have no doubt of that,” he said.

I thought a minute, then made a rapid decision.

“Look,” I said, glancing at my watch, “I have to eat dinner. Would you like to join me?”

The eyes widened. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Absolutely not.” I gave my laugh the tiniest bit of a scornful edge. “Get hold of yourself. I just thought that if you insist on pummeling me with questions, it might be better if we do it where I don’t feel like I’m going to be thrown in a cell at a moment’s notice. Tony and Arnold were important to me. So was Craig. I’d like to help find their killer.”

“Uh…okay,” he said, his tone sounding suspicious. “Where would you like to go?”

“My house,” I said, handing him my personal card with the address and cell-phone number on it. Which, come to think of it, he probably already had, since he knew so much about me.

“Wow,” he said, “gold-plated lettering for a gold-plated address. Malibu, California…home of the stars.”

I sighed irritably. “Are you going to hold that against me?”

“Not at all. The view should be great.”

“Eight o’clock, then,” I said, sailing out the door. “Don’t be late.”

Better to be on your own turf and in power, I’d decided. The last thing I needed was to be summoned by the police again, just to sit and repeat, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Besides, I had plans for the good detective. Before this night was over, Detective Dan Rucker was going to tell me everything he knew about all three murders.

At home I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and took a cup of coffee down to the beach. Gulls came and settled near me, hoping I had food. They soon left, though, and went back to dipping up and down over the waves.

It was seven o’clock and the sun had begun its downward slide toward the sea. The sky was blood-red from all the smog that had been blown west from what had, over the past few hours, become an unseasonable Santa Ana wind—hot, heavy and dangerous, blowing trees into houses and causing all kinds of havoc, according to the drive-time news.

Here at the beach, though, it made the evening air balmy and gave us some of our best sunsets. The smog blows westward from inland when pushed by the Santa Anas—Devil Winds, as they’ve been called for years—and the setting sun filtered through the smog is incredibly beautiful.

Too much of the Santa Anas, however, can make a person crazy in the head. When they go on for days I become irritable and off my feed. Some days I want to kill everything in sight—even my authors.

Fortunately, that’s only a temporary aberration. I’d never really wished for any of my authors, including those three men, to be murdered. And now that they had been, where did that leave me? Grieving aside, that is.

And I did grieve. Now that I had time to be alone, I grieved for Arnold and Tony, both of whom I had loved so unsuccessfully, and for Craig, who deserved better and almost got it. He had worked hard to sober up and stay that way, and from the manuscript I’d seen on his desk in the motel, he was doing good work. Unexpectedly good work, even though the topic had been done before.

Why on earth would anyone want to kill him? Craig had been divorced for several years, and his ex, Julia, owned a successful antiques shop in New York City. Craig had told me Julia had never needed or asked for alimony.

Was it the new book, then? If I’d had time to do more than scan the pages, would I have found that he had tremendously damaging information against someone important? Information that was only lightly fictionalized?

But then the killer would surely have taken the manuscript with him.

Unless Craig had been clever enough to put a floppy disk or CD-Rom in a safe-deposit box, or some other secret place.

I sighed, drawing my knees up and leaning my chin on them, watching the neighbors walk by with their dogs or make their last run of the night. I usually made time each evening to run, but I hadn’t been able to lately. I did work out three times a week, and sometimes more. Working out gave me an endorphin high, and I felt afterward as if I could take on the world.