Fade to Black (13 page)

Even though it’s not her name at all.

“Yes?” she responds, stepping into the hall and seeing him in the kitchen doorway. “Do you need something?”

“I don’t suppose I could bother you for a glass of water?”

“Sure … that’s fine. Help yourself. The glasses are above the sink....”

But if he helps himself, you can’t go into the kitchen and talk to him
.

“Or,” she continues, “there’s some iced tea made, if you’d like some of that.”

“Iced tea would be great,” he says, and there’s that grin again, with a dimple popping up at each side of his generous mouth.

“Okay,” she says, and walks toward him. “It’s in a pitcher in the fridge.”

As she passes the doorway to the living room, she glimpses the disarray and remembers, all at once, why Harper Smith is there.

He’s there to change her locks because someone broke into her house while she wasn’t home.

Someone who stole her keys and obviously had intended to come back later.

It might have been a bunch of harmless kids, as Frank Minelli had suggested, planning to rob her when she isn’t home.

Or it might have been someone who schemes to come back when she
is
at home, to catch her unaware, in her bed, asleep, the way he had last time....

“How are the locks coming along?” she asks Harper Smith tersely as she joins him in the kitchen.

“So far, so good. The back door’s done and so is the basement. I had a bit of trouble removing one of the cylinders on that broken lock, but now you’re all set. I can work on the front door as soon as I finish my iced tea.”

She nods, taking down two glasses, then changes her mind and puts one back. If she pours some tea for herself, it’ll seem too chummy, like she’s planning to sit and visit with him while he drinks his.

“Aren’t you having any?” he asks.

She starts to shake her head, then, inexplicably, finds herself nodding and saying, “Yes.” She takes out another glass, fills them both, and hands him one.

“Thanks,” he says, and takes a long drink. He leans against the counter and sets the still-half-full glass down, keeping his hand around it as if to prove he’s not dawdling and will finish it in a moment.

At least, that’s what she thinks he’s doing. As if he knows that she’s wary about them standing there together, in this suddenly semisocial setting.

“How did you find me?” he asks, and she blinks.

“What?”

“Did someone refer you to me, or …”

“Oh. Oh, I found you in the yellow pages. Aaron’s Locksmith. Who’s Aaron?”

“Nobody. I just figured, when I came to town last year, that there were quite a few locksmiths already established here in the East Bay. I wanted to be the first one listed in the yellow pages, to help bring in some business. You can’t get ahead of a name that begins with a double A.”

“No, you can’t,” she agrees, smiling. “And it worked. I called you because you were the first listing I came to.”

“See? Pretty smart, huh?” He taps his forehead with a fingertip and grins again. Then he asks, “How about you?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty smart too.”

He laughs. “I don’t doubt that, but I meant … what do you do? For a living?”

“Me? I … I’m a writer.”

“A writer?” He’s all interested. “What do you write?”

“Just … technical stuff. Not … screenplays or anything.”

“Screenplays? Is that what you want to do?”

Damn, where did that come from?

“No,” she says quickly, and it’s the truth. She had never wanted to write screenplays. Just act them out.

“Then why …?”

“I just said that because whenever you tell someone you’re a writer, that’s the conclusion they jump to. People think everyone wants to get rich and live in Beverly Hills.”

“Not everyone wants that,” he says, wearing a veiled expression she can’t read. “What kind of technical stuff do you write?”

“Annual reports … company newsletters … that sort of thing.”

It had seemed the perfect fictional occupation when she’d first moved there five years before. What else would keep her at home, alone, seven days a week?

But now she realizes that he might ask to see something she’s written. What will she do then?

She quickly changes the subject, asking him, “Where did you move here from?”

“Me? West Coast,” he says, his tone suddenly terse. He lifts his glass to his lips and drains it, giving her the distinct impression that he doesn’t want to talk about himself any more than she wants to talk about herself.

She finds that unsettling for some reason.

“Well, I’ll get busy on the front door,” he tells her, setting his glass in the sink and running water into it.

“You can leave that. I’ll put it into the dishwasher,” she tells him.

He nods, picks up his toolbox, and leaves the room.

She’s standing at the sink, when she hears a knock on the back door. She jumps and sees Frank Minelli standing there.

“Just checking in,” he says when she opens the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m having the locks changed.”

“Why?”

She decides not to mention the stolen keys. He might press her into reporting the incident, and the last thing she wants is a big commotion with the police involved.

She shrugs and says, “I just feel safer that way.”

“You’re using the guy from Aaron’s Locksmith down on Center Street?” His voice is low, as though he doesn’t want Harper to overhear.

“How’d you know?”

“I saw the truck in the driveway.”

She nods.

Something in his expression makes her ask, “Is there something about him you don’t like?”

“Not per se.” He leans against the door frame, his hands in the front pockets of his khaki Dockers. “He’s new in town though. I don’t know if a stranger is the best person to trust with your locks.”

A chill sneaks over her.

“There are a number of locksmiths in town who have been established for years,” Frank says quietly. “I would have been glad to recommend one.”

“It’s okay. This is fine,” she tells him in what she hopes is a convincing tone.

Inside, the uneasy feeling she’d had earlier today is back full force.

“If you need anything, I’m right next door,” Frank reminds her. His brown eyes are so reassuring, so kind and caring that she almost asks him if his earlier offer—to spend the night—still stands. Suddenly, she finds great comfort in the thought of having an armed police officer under her roof tonight.

But now Frank is no longer leaning; he’s heading for home, calling over his shoulder, “Have a good night, Elizabeth.”

“I will,” she calls after him. “Thanks for coming by.”

She returns to the bedroom and finishes making the bed, then straightens the bottles of lotion and perfume on her dresser top. By the time she’s finished with that, she hears him repacking his toolbox and his footsteps in the hall.

“All set,” he calls when she pokes her head into the doorway.

“Already? That was fast.”

He nods. “It isn’t very complicated.”

He shows her how the new locks work, and hands her two sets of keys for them. “Do you need any more, or do you live here alone?”

“Oh …” It hadn’t occurred to her that he didn’t know that. But how would he? For all he knows, she has a husband and a bunch of kids. She contemplates telling him that, but only briefly, before she admits, “I live here alone.”

He nods.

She’s trying to read his expression, when the phone rings, abruptly cutting into her thoughts.

Her heart begins to pound.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Harper asks when it rings again.

“I—yes. Of course.” She goes into the living room and picks up the receiver, grasping it so tightly that her hand hurts.

“Hello?”

“Elizabeth?”

“Manny!” She lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. “Is everything okay?”

There’s the slightest pause before he says, “Uh-huh.”

“Manny … are you sure about that?”

“Yeah. But I was just wondering, um, if you had a chance to get the material and stuff for my costumes?”

“I bought it this morning, but I haven’t had a chance to start working on them yet. I’ll get busy first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, good,” he says, sounding a little distracted.

“Manny, are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m positive.”

But something’s wrong. She can hear it in his tone.

“How are your grandparents?”

“They’re fine,” he says quickly.

“What about your mother? She hasn’t been there again, bothering them for money, has she?”

Again the slight hesitation before he answers. “No, she hasn’t been around. Well, I’ll be seeing you, Elizabeth. Thanks again for making my costumes.”

“No problem, Manny. And remember … you call me if you need me. Okay? If you need anything at all. I’m here.”

“Yeah, I know. Are you going to the park tomorrow for a walk?”

“I’m … not sure yet.”

“If you do, I’ll probably be there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says with a smile.

“Thanks, Elizabeth. For the costumes, I mean,” he says before hanging up.

She replaces the receiver, wondering what happened to him. Something caused that hollow tremor in his little-boy voice.

A sound from the hallway causes her to look up and see Harper Smith, still standing there with the keys in his hand.

“Oh,” she says, “sorry about that. It was just …”

What business is it of his who it was? Why is she about to tell this stranger her personal business?

She cuts herself off, saying only, “Two sets of keys will be fine, so how much do I owe you?”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

“But I can pay you right now. Just tell me—”

“I have to figure it out when I get back to my shop. It’s okay. I’ll bill you. You can send a check or drop it off at my place. It’s on Center Street, just past Pine.”

“All right,” she says reluctantly. But she won’t be dropping by his shop. She’ll send a check.

“So, I’ll be going …”

She nods. “Thanks again.” Had she thanked him before?

She suddenly feels awkward, torn between wanting him to go and needing him to stay for some reason she couldn’t fathom.

She can’t trust him.

He is a stranger, new in town, from the West Coast....

What if …?

No. He can’t be the one.

She turns and walks to the door, opening it for him.

He has no choice but to walk out, turning on the step to look back at her. “It was nice meeting you, Elizabeth. You give me a call if you have any trouble with those new dead bolts.”

“I will.”

“Or you can page me … I can give you the number—”

“That’s okay. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

“I’m sure it will,” he agrees.

Then he leaves, getting into his white van and driving away with a wave.

She secures the locks on her door, the locks he just installed....

Locks he would have keys to open.

R
ae Hamilton gets into her one-bedroom Burbank apartment at four in the morning to find the red message light blinking on her answering machine.

She kicks off her high heels and pauses to turn on a lamp before padding over to the phone in her bare feet.

Just a moment earlier she had been exhausted from a full night of club hopping.

Now she feels renewed energy at the thought that there might be a message from her agent, calling to say someone from one of her dozens of recent auditions wanted to see her again.

Sure enough, Buddy Charles’s recorded voice greets her ears after she presses the button.

“It’s me, sugar. I wanted to be the one to tell you before you heard it somewhere else—it’ll be all over the papers in the morning. The part in that new TriStar comedy is going to Gwyneth. Cameron decided to go with a Name after all. Sorry, sugar. Something else will pan out though. Hang in there.”

There’s a double beep, meaning not just that the message has ended, but that it’s the only one.

Cameron decided to go with a Name....

She curses and savagely yanks first one, then the other of her clip-on earrings from her earlobe.

That’s how it’s always been. They’ve always wanted a Name. But not hers.

Sorry, sugar
.

“What the hell kind of agent are you?” she mutters at an invisible Buddy Charles.

She’s had it with him. Everyone in the business knows that he’s antagonized one too many influential directors with his abrasive personality. For all she knows, he’s the reason she lost this latest role to a Name.