Film Strip (24 page)

“It's about you this time, honey. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

“What do you mean, it's about me?”

Raydean's attention had been diverted to the window. “Did you see that?” she asked.

I looked over my shoulder and saw only the glow of the streetlight. “No, what was it?” Fluffy growled low in her throat, her little body quivering.

“Probably Flemish,” Raydean said. “They're nocturnal critters. Sneak up on you, paralyze your brain, and spirit you off to the mother ship. It's a certainteed fact that most alien experimentation occurs at night. That way the hapless victim don't know if it were a dream or real life.”

I was about to give up when Raydean's thoughts circled back around and came in for a landing.

“What do you think all these killings and attempted killings have in common?” she asked. She sounded like Sister Boniface, my old kindergarten teacher, singsong voiced and cheery.

“I don't know, Raydean. That's what I've been sitting here trying to figure.”

She shook her head, like maybe I'd never learn my alphabet, and spelled it out for me.

“Every time somebody dies, you're there. A lesser friend would think you're the one doing it, but not me.” Fluffy licked her hand in approval. “Them two girls weren't killed on account of not paying up. That flat don't make sense. And then you kill the guy what came to get 'em to see the daylight? Naw.” She shook her head. “And now you got your honey's car blown sky high. Figure it out, girl.”

I still didn't see it. “There's a connection to you,” she went on. “They were killed on account of something you were doing or not doing. What I don't understand is why they haven't come after you yet.”

A cold chill ran up my spine and back down my arms.

“Maybe it has to do with the club,” I said. “Maybe someone wants the club to close.”

Raydean slid two more crackers across the table and molded them into her wall.

“Nope,” she said. “If that were true, they'd kill Vincent and the house dancers, not your visiting team.”

I mulled it over for a second, only to be interrupted by Fluffy breaking away from Raydean, running to the bay window, and barking up a storm.

“Damn,” said Raydean. “Where's Marlena when I need her?”

This time I saw it. Someone moved across the front of the trailer and was heading for the back door. Fluffy didn't hesitate, she hurled herself through the doggie-door and out into the night.

“Fluffy!” I cried, jumping off my stool and running after her. “Fluffy, come back!”

I flung open the door and raced outside, not thinking of anything but my baby.

Nailor stood at the foot of the steps, Fluffy in his arms and a confused look on his face. “What's all the fuss about?”

“You snuck up on us!” I said.

“Of course I did. I didn't know if you were sleeping or not, and I didn't want to wake up that brother of yours.” He smiled and I knew what he was thinking. He'd hoped to sneak in.

“What were you going to do if I was sleeping? Throw a rock against my window?”

He started up the steps. “Exactly,” he said. Then he saw Raydean and the sexy smile faded.

She waved him in, still seated at the table, still spreading peanut butter crackers in a pile that threatened to spill off the tabletop.

“You need to get in on this,” she said.

“I'm not hungry,” he answered.

“Didn't ask if you was. I'm talking about Sierra's situation.” Nailor proceeded cautiously, pulling out a barstool and perching at the table's edge. “She don't realize the danger she's in. That psycho you're after is killing everyone around our Sierra.”

“With all due respect…” he began.

“Horsepatooty!” Raydean said. “That's cop speak for we're not gonna listen to a word you say. I heard enough people asking for due respect in my lifetime to know what's coming.” She hopped down from her stool and took two steps toward him. She was going to give him a piece of her mind, maybe the very last piece of her mind. “Mark my words, alien, it ain't over till it's over, and you'd better stand by her, 'cause she's in danger.”

She didn't wait for a response. She was out the door and across the street before either of us could say a word. Fluffy walked her to the door of her trailer and stood waiting until the door closed. Fluffy waited a minute, crossed back across the street, and walked into the house, past the two of us, and into the living room, where she plopped down on the futon next to snoring Pat. Obviously, she agreed with Raydean.

Nailor reached for my empty glass, poured it full of Pa's Chianti and took a long swallow. His face wrinkled, his eyes squinted almost shut, and he shook his head quickly, as if trying to knock something loose.

“Damn, Sierra! How do you drink this stuff?”

I ran my hands up over his back and across the tops of his shoulders. “Quickly,” I answered. “I drink it quickly.” I waited for him to drink more before saying anything else. When half his glass was gone, I continued. “Raydean says that every time someone has died, I've been there, the only common denominator. She thinks this has something to do with me.”

Nailor relaxed his body against my hands, letting me knead his shoulders. This was another conversation that he didn't want to have.

“So why would someone want to kill off people in front of you or near you?” he asked. He reached for my hand and pulled me around to face him, bringing me inside his legs as he sat on his stool drinking his wine. “If Marla wanted to kill off those girls and Barboni to send you a message, I fail to see what it was. What was she doing, killing off the competition? And why kill Barboni?”

Killing off the competition? Then what was Barboni?

“Come on, babe, let's go to bed. I'm exhausted,” he said.

Nailor didn't stand on ceremony. “Exhausted?” I said softly, running my fingers in between his thighs. “I don't think someone's very exhausted.”

Nailor sighed as I traced an outline with my fingertip. “Now that you mention it,” he said, gripping my wrist and standing, “I don't feel quite so tired. Maybe I should take you back here and show you what I mean.”

He was walking across the living room, switching off lights as he went, pulling me along by the hand, and heading for the bedroom. I was in danger, all right, immediate, wonderful danger.

We tiptoed past the guest room. Francis lay tucked under the covers. He wouldn't be moving for hours.

I yawned when we reached my room. “Maybe you're right,” I said. “Maybe we should get some sleep.”

Nailor laughed softly and pulled me to him. His fingers started unbuttoning my blouse, but his eyes never left my face. There was no mistaking what the man wanted, and no doubt at all that he would get it.

Twenty-nine

I woke up wrapped in my sheets, the room filled with bright sunlight. Nailor was gone. For a moment I lay there, my eyes closed, my head on the pillow where he'd slept, remembering. I had to admit that Nailor had a great deal of potential. A shiver ran through my body and I felt him once again, everywhere and nowhere. I was developing a serious appetite for that man.

I lay there for a few more moments, then forced myself to think. Marla the Bomber was sitting in a jail cell, Vincent Gambuzzo was in danger of losing his club, and I was in danger of losing my life if Raydean was right about the killer. My eyes flew open and focused on the alarm clock. Ten o'clock. That's why Nailor was gone. Marla's arraignment was this morning. I had to get there.

I flew out of bed. The chances were that I'd missed it, but I needed to see for myself. I pulled on a pair of black rayon pants and a champagne-colored shell, struggled into a pair of black slingbacks, and ran out the door. I was figuring I could do my makeup in the car and pull my hair back into a bun when I arrived at the courthouse.

Francis was still sleeping as I passed his room. Pat was gone, Fluffy probably with her. I ran out the back door, down the steps, and hopped into my car. An arrangement of yellow roses sat in the front passenger seat, the now familiar white card attached. My throat went dry and my heart started pounding. I knew they weren't from Nailor.

I looked around, saw no one, and touched the roses. They were still cool from the delivery car's air-conditioning, or perhaps the florist's cooler. I stretched out a hand and gingerly plucked the card from the greenery.

Roses are red

Violets are blue,

There isn't a flame

Holds a candle to you.

“Damn!” I swore, and started up the car. What in the hell did that mean? I pulled out of the driveway, the yellow roses filling the car with their scent.
There isn't a flame holds a candle to you.
The phrase ran around in my head, distracting me as I drove, confusing me. I finally had to stop the car at a convenience mart and buy a large coffee, just so I could gather my thoughts before I got downtown. I reached the courthouse and was walking up the steps and into the building by ten-thirty, but Marla was gone.

Ernie Schwartz, the Tiffany's legal counsel, came rushing toward me, his briefcase bulging, not noticing me on account of his hurry. He would've passed me by had I not reached out and grabbed his beefy little arm. He stopped, looked up at me through thick Coke-bottle lenses, and smiled.

“Sierra, what a pleasure!”

“Good to see you too, Ernie, but I don't have time for small talk. Where's Marla?”

Ernie smiled, puffed out his pinstriped chest, and looked back over his shoulder. “Out breathing her first taste of unconfined air, I reckon. I got bail!”

“How in the world did you do that?”

Ernie looked disappointed in me, like I should've known he did it with his customary legal brilliance, but an accused triple murderer never got out on bail.

“I got them to acknowledge that they could only charge her with the Barboni murder, and even that was circumstantial. She didn't have any priors. She's clean. They didn't have enough to tie her to whacking those girls, anyway.” Ernie liked to use tough words like
whacking,
but in reality he'd grown up in Boston, graduated from Harvard Law, and never known a tough guy. He lived in a Victorian overlooking the bay with his new wife, Cheryl. His biggest fear in life right now was probably that I'd somehow get to Miss Junior League and tell her about the time me and Ernie got drunk and he sang the Oscar Meyer Wiener song in his birthday suit.

“So where'd they set her bail?”

Ernie's clear blue eyes twinkled. “Five hundred thousand,” he breathed.

“That's it?”

Ernie nodded. “Gambuzzo put up the club. I told him he was being an idiot and he popped off on me. Said he wasn't paying me to have an opinion.” Ernie sniffed. “I understand loyalty,” he said, “but to a bimbo with a fifty-two-double-D cup? Hell, that boy's thinking with the little head.”

I figured Ernie was really feeling like big stuff.

“How's Cheryl?” I asked. “You never bring her around. I'd love to meet her.”

Ernie pulled back and looked over his shoulder again. “Aw, you know how it is with women,” he said. “They're so insecure.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Better yet, tell me about Marla. What are our chances?”

Ernie cleared his throat. “It would help if she'd be more cooperative. That jackass of a boyfriend keeps giving her bad advice. Told her not to trust anyone. Said I'm just Vincent's mouthpiece and that he didn't know for certain that Vincent wasn't involved. Like Gambuzzo would sabotage his own club and kill off his own dancers!” He shrugged. “Well, I gotta get going. I'm speaking to the Rotary Club in Panacea.”

“Do you know if she was headed home?” I asked.

We turned and started walking through the hallway out into the warm mid-morning sunlight. Ernie was fishing in his pockets for his keys, frowning like maybe they'd moved on their own.

“That stupid boyfriend of hers took her off to celebrate. God knows what his definition of a celebration is. He probably took her off to his trailer for an afternoon of beer drinking and passion.” Ernie coughed like the very idea was making him sick.

“Little Ricky lives in a trailer?”

“That's his name?” Ernie asked. “Little Ricky? No wonder.” Ernie shook his head and looked over at me, then around the parking lot. “She told me she's got information that can help clear her. Of course, I can't tell you all the times some potential convict's told me that very same thing and it's turned out to be nothing, but you never know.”

Ernie stopped by his Jaguar and fumbled in his briefcase for his keys. “I got her to promise she'd be in my office by three. You can see her there then, if you really need to talk to her.”

“I do really need to talk to her, Ern. Thanks.” I kissed him on the cheek and walked off to my Camaro. The roses were beginning to wilt in the steamy heat of the enclosed car. The odor was stronger than ever.

I started the car and sat there thinking. What could Marla have that would help her? Stupid bimbo, couldn't she see this was no time for a celebration? We had work to do. Something was wrong with the way I was looking at things, I knew this.
There isn't a flame holds a candle to you.
Someone wanted me away from the investigation. Raydean's angle was that it was all somehow about me in the first place. I sat there, twisting the facts as I knew them over and over. It just made no sense.

I looked at the clock on the dash. It was only eleven. The club wouldn't open for another hour. Somehow the club was involved.
Flame.
Maybe something was going to happen involving more fire. After all, John's car had been torched in the parking lot. Maybe the next step was to torch the club. Or maybe Vincent hadn't given me all the facts. Maybe Vincent didn't owe the IRS; maybe he owed someone else and didn't want me to know. I put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot, heading down Fifteenth Street, toward the Panama City Police Department. Maybe it would help to hash it over with Nailor. Maybe it would just help to see Nailor.