Miracle (47 page)

B
ecause Amy still refused to be part of Elliot’s private life, he paraded gorgeous women around the set to annoy her. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that any jealousy she felt was minor compared to her wish that he’d stop harassing her and settle down with one of his playmates.

“Which one is that?” the show’s makeup artist whispered, as they watched a leggy blonde in a black bodysuit stride into Elliot’s dressing room and shut the door.

“Another model-actress.” Amy turned resolutely and walked down the hall toward the office area.

“Oh, one of those hyphenated creatures.” The makeup artist followed, anxious for more information, as was everyone else on the show’s staff. They liked to stay one step ahead of Elliot’s activities and quicksilver moods. “Has she ever acted in anything?”

Amy chuckled. “Sure. She’s starred in several deodorant commercials. I suspect that most of her talent is in her armpits. I just hope she doesn’t give Elliot some strange venereal disease. At her age, it might be diaper rash.”

The makeup artist began giggling. Suddenly the door to Elliot’s dressing room flew open. Amy pivoted warily as he lunged into the hall, bare-chested, his black dress slacks half-zippered and hanging low on his abdomen, a cordless phone clenched in one hand. He looked stunned. Spotting Amy, he yelled, “I want to talk to you
right now
!”

She steeled herself and walked slowly toward him. When
she reached him she smiled benignly. “You bellowed, magnificent one?”

He jabbed a finger toward the phone. “You’re working the clubs at night! You traitor!”

Her stomach twisted. She had known this day would come, but she dreaded what might happen next. “I’m not a traitor. The material I use in the clubs wouldn’t work for you. I’m not taking anything away from my writing for the show.”

“I don’t care! You’re sneaking around behind my back, trying to compete with me, trying to make a fool out of me!”

“You’re doing that without my help.” She laid a hand on his arm. He pulled away. Inside the open door to the dressing room, the blond model-actress lounged on a white sofa, catlike, eyes wide and ears perked. Amy shut the door, then faced Elliot again. “What I do after I leave here every night is my own business.”

“I ought to fire you.”

“Go ahead. I need this job, but I won’t quit working the clubs.”

He paced the corridor. He threw the phone on the floor and shook his fists at her. “You’re gonna push me too far one day, and you’ll be out of here! Just wait until you have to beg for another bank loan to pay your old man’s extra doctor bills. You won’t be so cocky if
that
happens again. And I’ll know when you’re desperate. I’ll know, and I’ll make you squirm.”

She felt as if she’d been punched. “How did you find out about that loan?”

“I hired a private investigator! That’s how I find out anything I want to know about you these days. And believe me, baby, I’m gonna check up on you even more from now on. I’ll know what clubs you work at night, and how much you get paid, and who you’re with when you’re not working.”

Her sense of violation almost overwhelmed reason. She wanted to slap him; she wanted to sink to his level and hurl ugly accusations. It was the way she’d often felt around Pop when she was growing up. Back then she’d hated
herself for being too afraid to fight back; now she realized that she’d misinterpreted some of the fear. She just hadn’t wanted to fight on Pop’s level. It was dignity, not fear, that had kept her quiet.

Calmly she reached out and touched the smear of bright pink lipstick on Elliot’s stomach. “She’s one of the hungry ones, Elliot. Don’t let her eat you alive.”

His mood changed at her touch, and his chin quivered. “I don’t want her. I want you. I want you to love me again.”

She felt white-hot inside. Between clenched teeth she said, “Spyin’ on me is not my idea of romance.”

“Okay. No more private investigators. I swear.”

He leaned forward, and she feared that he’d try to kiss her. At that moment several staffers ambled into the hallway, and Elliot drew back. “Got to get ready for the show,” he said gruffly. He hesitated. “You’re never gonna get anywhere with a stand-up routine, baby. The competition is crazy—you know that. I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.”

Thanks for the encouragement
she thought bitterly. “I’ll take my chances.”

He clamped his mouth into a hard line and went back into the dressing room. Before he slammed the door she glimpsed the blonde hurriedly tucking something into a tiny black purse on the couch beside her. She brushed at her nose and smiled toward Elliot.

Amy stared at the closed door in grim recognition. Then she hurried to her office and began making phone calls to every friend and acquaintance she had. There was no doubt that Elliot would keep spying on her.

She alerted dozens of people, including Jeff Atwater, warning them that Elliot was on a rampage. They promised to sidetrack anyone who asked for information about her.

Even though Mary Beth was in the middle of negotiating the sale of her talk show to a national distributor, she took time to savor Elliot’s paranoia. Amy could almost see her predatory, slit-eyed look of contemplation. “Sugar,” Mary Beth drawled finally, “any private dick who tries to con me for information will get his dick ripped off.”

“A ‘no comment’ will do.”

After she hung up the phone she realized that she felt dirty, and when she examined the feeling she understood why. This must be like going through an ugly divorce, where you kept asking yourself how you ever could have loved the mean-spirited stranger wanting to hurt you. And what did it say about your judgment to have chosen such a man in the first place?

She put her head in her hands. The truth was that she’d never loved Elliot, that she’d always been drawn to his work more than to him, that she wouldn’t have put up with his problems for so long if he hadn’t been the key to the career she wanted. Her sacrifices on his behalf couldn’t obscure the fact that she had used him as much as he’d used her.

Sebastien leaned against one of the fieldstone columns that supported the veranda roof. Filling his lungs with night air, he absorbed the scents of freshly turned soil, forest, grape vines, and mild winter air. This small California valley had been poured full of everything that was good about the earth, and living here for the past two months had helped him find what was good about himself.

There were still dark moments when he felt shut away from his emotions, but he tried to have the same patience with himself that he allowed the neglected vineyards. He was much slower to flourish than they.

Tonight he felt restless and more than a little worried. He slid work-roughened hands into the pockets of khaki trousers stained with dirt. He’d dug holes for new trellis posts all day, and his body hummed with a comfortable fatigue that he had hoped would quiet his thoughts.

The wall phone in the kitchen rang with echoing urgency. Sebastien bolted indoors. “Yes?”

“Harry Brown, calling from Atlanta.”

“Have you learned anything new?”

“Well, I found her old college roommate. Name’s Liz Vandergard. Hosts a TV show in Atlanta. Sweetest little lady you’d ever want to talk to. We musta talked for thirty minutes. Just as open as you please.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She says that Ms. Miracle moved to Alaska five years ago to do social work with the Eskimos. Hell, I didn’t even know there were any Eskimos left in Alaska. Anyhow, that’s where she is, somewhere north of Nome. Ms. Vandergard says that Ms. Miracle was married twice—once to a rodeo cowboy named Bill Hickok and once to a Greek olive farmer named Hercule Poirot. But as far as Ms. Vandergard knows, Ms. Miracle is single right now. But she’s been dating an oil-rig worker in Nome for the past few months. Some Russian defector named Ivan Jackov.”

Sebastien leaned against the kitchen wall and shut his eyes.
Bill Hickok? Hercules Poirot? Ivan Jackov
? Harry Brown’s credentials hadn’t mentioned his incredible stupidity. “That is the most preposterous fable I have ever heard.”

“Huh?”

“Give me Liz Vandergard’s phone number.” When Harry complied, he memorized it distractedly, already thinking of new tactics. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. Your services won’t be needed anymore. You may send me your bill.”

“You don’t want me to follow this Nome lead?”

Sebastien looked heavenward. “No.”

As soon as Brown hung up Sebastian placed a call to Liz Vandergard’s office in Atlanta. He glanced at the digital clock atop the refrigerator. Late, but undoubtedly that ambitious woman would be in her office. Biting back his impatience, he worked his way through a receptionist and a secretary at the television station where Liz Vandergard worked.

“You just don’t give up, do you, Harry?” she said, by way of greeting. Her voice was butter-smooth and slightly amused.

“I beg your pardon. This is Dr. de Savin, as I explained to—”

“Right, sugar, right. Good accent. You sound like Charles Boyer with a stick up his ass.”

“I am
not
Harry Brown—”

“Brown, huh? The last time, you were Harry Garfield. The
pect. So now you’re Dr. de Savin, huh? And you want to grill me about Amy Miracle.”

Sebastien gritted his teeth. “Didn’t she ever mention my name?”

“Oh, sure,
Doctor
, she mentioned it to a lot of people. I’m sure she even discussed it with your boss, the guy who hired you to do this bullshit job. And he’s so paranoid that he’d stoop to any kind of lie to get information on her. What’s the point?”

She sighed coyly. “Oh, wait, I get it. You’ve been told to find out if she ever played around on Mr. Big. So you wanta know everything she’s done over the past few years. Well, let’s just say this. The only thing she ever did wrong was put up with a lot of bullshit from him. And if he thinks he’s going to pester her, or hurt her, because she’s left him, why, you tell him that I’ll come out there and make him sing soprano. How would his fans like
that
?”

Sebastien gripped the phone. “Is she in danger? This singer, he wants to hurt her? How? You have to tell me. I assure you, I’m Sebastien de Savin—”

“Who dumped Amy ten years ago and never looked back. Yeah, right. You picked the wrong alias, Harry, if you wanted to get on my good side. Tell Mr. Big that he fucked up when he told you to con Liz Vandergard.”

“I’ll come to Atlanta and meet you in person. I’ll
prove
to you that I’m who I say I am.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t let you through the door. I won’t buy your dog-and-pony show. I’m not meeting with anybody who wants information about Amy.”

“At least send her a message for me.”

“From
Doctor de Savin
? And upset her with your stupid hoax? Hell, no. Harry, stop taking your cues from those private-eye shows on TV. They suck for authenticity.”

“I will do whatever it takes to win your confidence. You
cannot
assume I’m lying to you. If Amy needs help, I want to know about it.
I have to know about it.
”

“Right. Tell Mr. Big that he can help her by leaving her the fuck alone. And
you
leave
me
alone.” She hung up.

Sebastien stared at the phone and cursed viciously. Amy was in some kind of trouble, and this maniacal friend of
hers was contributing to it with her misguided secrecy. Cold chills crawled down his back. He grabbed a phone directory. This time he would hire a dozen investigators and follow-up their leads in person.