The Book Stops Here (8 page)

I reached for my phone and pushed Derek’s number, turning on the speaker so I wouldn’t have to hold it next to my ear. He answered on the first ring.

“Darling Brooklyn, what a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Derek. I just wanted to—”

“Something’s wrong. What happened? Are you all right?”

I frowned at the phone. “How can you tell something’s wrong?”

“Your voice is subdued,” he explained, “and you’re never subdued. Are you hurt? Is somebody dead? Where are you?”

“I’m at the studio. Nobody’s dead. There was a man in the parking lot. He wanted the book. He was a jerk. I’m okay, but he hurt Benny. It was pretty bad.”

“He hurt you, too.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” I admitted. “But I’ll be fine.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Wait. You don’t have to rush. I just wanted to let you know what happened.”

“You’re hurt,” he said simply. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“I love you, Derek.”

“Dear God, Brooklyn. I love you, too. I’ll hurry.”

He ended the call. Derek wasn’t used to hearing me tell him I loved him over the phone in the middle of the day. His reaction was a little frantic, and Derek, the epitome of cool and calm, never sounded frantic.

“He must think I’m dying,” I said aloud, and sighed. I’d finally gotten used to saying those three little words to him, but it had taken a while. I didn’t always trust my feelings because in the past I’d had a tendency to fall in and out of love a lot. Usually with inappropriate men, like my adorable and very gay friend, Ian.

In the beginning, I’d figured Derek was inappropriate, too. To start, his home was in London, so he was geographically inappropriate, to say the least. And his life was so different from mine. Derek had served in the Royal Navy as a commander before going to work with Britain’s Military Intelligence. After a number of years, he left the government to open his own private security company. He had been in dangerous, deadly situations all over the world, while I had been raised in a peaceful, artistic commune in Sonoma County in northern California.

We had met under difficult circumstances when Abraham was killed and I was considered the number-one suspect. Derek had stayed close by my side throughout the ordeal, which would have been terribly romantic except for one little detail: he thought I was a murderer.

I met up with him again in Scotland when I attended the Edinburgh International Book Festival. Unfortunately, other murders occurred during the festival, but this time Derek knew I was innocent. Nevertheless, when we said good-bye, I never expected to see him again.

Then, out of the blue, or so it seemed, he returned to San Francisco and ended up opening a branch office of his security company there. And then he moved in with me. And never moved out.

I was growing more and more used to the fact that he was indeed my one true love.

I looked up and realized I’d left my dressing room door wide open. I got up and crossed to close it, but first took a quick look down the hall.

“Brooklyn! There you are.” Randolph came bounding down the hall and stopped in front of my doorway. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, touching my jaw with one careful finger. “It’s still a little tender.”

“Can I come in?”

“I guess so.”
More questions,
I figured. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve jumped at the chance to chat with Randolph. Given my usual nosiness, I should’ve been itching to ask him about his stalker. But my curiosity had been tempered by the attack of the vicious stranger.

I sat back down on the turquoise sofa, but Randolph continued to stand.

“What’s up, Randolph?”

“First, you should call me Randy,” he said.

“Okay, Randy.”

“But.” He held his index finger up in warning. “Never on camera.”

I nodded. “Got it.”

“It’s bad enough that my name sounds so fake.” He began to pace nervously back and forth from the door to the dressing table against the far wall, a distance of about ten feet total. “I mean, who names their kid Randolph Rayburn? Can you picture me getting beaten up every day after school?”

“Oh, dear.” I tried to bite back a laugh. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “It was touch-and-go for a while, but I’m okay now. The name Randolph has some gravity to it, so it works for someone who’s hosting a hoity-toity antiques show, right? Makes me sound smart. That’s what I like to believe anyway. But Randy
?
Makes me sound like a horny goat.”

“I can call you Randolph if you think it’ll help.”

“No, no, I actually prefer to be called Randy by my friends. But I’m under no illusions. I know what image the name conjures up.”

“Horny goats.”

“Exactly.”

“I think it’s a fine name,” I said, trying not to laugh. “I’ll be happy to call you Randy from now on. But not on camera.”

He stopped pacing and peered at me for a long moment. “Wow, you really got nailed.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, touching my chin. It was still sore.

“I mean, you’re beautiful and all, but, well.” He didn’t seem to know what to say, so he began to pace some more. His handsome face was marred by those severe worry lines across his forehead.

I was getting a little dizzy watching him. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about your stalker?”

He stopped in his tracks, stared at me for several seconds, then picked up the pace again. His hands were clutched behind his back and he was gazing at the carpeting as he walked. He looked nervous or guilt ridden—I couldn’t tell which. Finally, he stopped moving. “I’m worried my stalker might be the man who attacked you.”

Now I understood why he was so upset. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Stalkers tend to be more nuanced. They don’t show their faces. They move in the shadows and strike when you least expect it. This guy out in the parking lot was a big, mean creep, over six feet tall and heavyset. He was sweaty and in-your-face, you know? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a nuanced bone in his body.”

I just hoped Randy wouldn’t ask how I knew so much about stalkers.

“Oh.” He nodded. “Okay, good point.” He sat down in the orange chair and crossed his leg so his ankle rested on his opposite knee. “Nuanced. I like that. You’re probably right. Whoever’s after me has been working in the shadows. I’ve never seen him, but I know he’s there.”

“I’m not sure what’s worse,” I said, as I adjusted the slowly melting ice pack. “The devil you know or the one you never see. I just wish they’d all go to hell.”

“I’ll second that. So besides being big, what did your guy look like?”

“I’d rather not think of him as
my
guy,” I said, glowering.
“But like I said, he was about six-foot-four, two hundred fifty pounds, sweaty red face, dirty white T-shirt. Crappy dresser.”

“Don’t think I could miss someone matching that description around here.”

“No, he stands out in a crowd.” I tried to scowl but it hurt too much so I winced instead. “And his eyes give his real nature away. Mean. Soulless. He’s a psychopath. I would hate to meet him in a dark alley.”

“Or in a parking lot in broad daylight, either.”

“No.” With a sigh, I rested my head against the back of the sofa and closed my eyes.

“You poor dear,” Randy murmured. “I should leave you alone.”

“No, don’t go. I really do want to hear about your stalker.”

He sighed and scrubbed one hand across the back of his neck. “Sure, why not? Everyone can use a little schadenfreude once in a while to perk themselves up.”

I heard his contemptuous tone and my eyes flashed open.
Schadenfreude
was a popular German buzzword that had to do with finding enjoyment from another’s troubles. A lot of reality shows seemed to be based on the concept.

“You don’t know me,” I said slowly, “but the last thing I want is for you to get hurt. I know the producers have brushed off your concerns, but you shouldn’t. Have you considered hiring a private security person?”

“You mean, like a bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“No, but I like the idea. I just don’t think Tom and Walter will spring for the expense.”

“Then you should cover the cost yourself.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I can recommend someone very good and very discreet.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you on that.”

“It’s not just you, Randy. If there’s someone skulking around the studio trying to hurt you, all of us could be in danger.”

“I never even thought of that.” His shoulders drooped a little. “I guess I’ve been selfish.”

“You’ve been under some stress.”

“Maybe.” He studied me for a long moment. “I don’t know anyone else who would’ve thought about the fact that everyone else would be in danger. You’re sort of a big-picture gal, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had a few run-ins with some bad people, so I like to know ahead of time what I might be up against in any situation. It helps to be prepared.” I spoke lightly, but I was afraid I’d already freaked him out.

He grunted. “Now you sound like a Girl Scout.”

“That’s me,” I said with a smile. “It’s not a bad thing to be.”

“I guess not.”

“So, tell me about this person who’s stalking you.”

Randy sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The man never sat still. “He’s subtle, like you said.”

“How subtle is he? What makes you think you’re being stalked?”

He chuckled but there was no humor to it. “You mean, what makes me think I’m important enough to be stalked? Is that what you were going to ask? Am I just a diva?”

“I didn’t say that. If you think you’re being stalked, I believe you.”

He looked confused. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s a first.” He’d been fidgeting with the paper rim of his empty coffee cup and now there were shredded bits everywhere.

He didn’t seem to know where to begin, so I started the conversation rolling. “What has he done to you? Is it something specific? Have you been physically attacked? Has something important been damaged or destroyed? Or do you just feel like you’re being watched?”

Randolph sucked in a big breath and let it go slowly. “Wow, you really do believe me.”

I lifted my shoulders philosophically. “Like I said before, I’ve met some bizarre people in my life so I know they’re out there.”

“I hate to admit I’m relieved by that comment, but I am.”

“Good. So, tell me what this guy has done.”

He thought for a moment, seemed to measure his words, then said, “About six months ago, dead animals started showing up on my porch at home.”

I tried not to react, but that was horrible. “Were they your pets?”

“No, I don’t have any animals of my own because I travel too much. But every time I’d come home from being on the road, I’d find something. First there was a dead squirrel and a month later, a snake. Right there on my doormat. Then a rat. But I figured one of the cats could’ve killed them. We’ve got feral cats all over the place. But recently I found a dead cat, too.”

I shuddered at the thought of discovering a dead creature on my front porch. Anyone who did that to an animal in order to scare another person? It went beyond evil.

Randy was still talking. “At first I didn’t think much about it, because I live in a wooded area and there are plenty of wild creatures running around. But after I found the dead cat, I started to wonder.”

“Yeah, I would, too.”

“And while traveling with the show, I’ve noticed other things happening. The wrong breakfast order shows up at my hotel room. Sometimes I’ll hear knocking at my door in the middle of the night and when I go to check, nobody’s there.” He tore another piece off the coffee cup and let it fall to the floor. “Once, I came back to my room and it had been ransacked.”

“Was anything taken?”

“No.” He grimaced. “It was almost more chilling to realize that nothing was missing.”

“I know what you mean.” I watched Randy as he talked and recognized that he was a man on the edge. And who could blame him? If someone had been harassing me for six months, I would have been a complete mess by now. “Has anything happened here in San Francisco?”

“Yeah.” He blew out a breath and needlessly smoothed his perfect hair. “Yesterday morning, a bouquet of dead flowers was delivered to my dressing room.”

I shivered. Dead flowers were damned creepy. “Wait. Was that the delivery you received just before we taped our short teaser segment?”

“Yeah.”

“The production assistant came out onstage to tell you about it.”

“Right. You’re awfully observant.”

I shrugged. “I notice things.” I made a mental note to talk to the assistant. I felt like a cop. A good cop, of course. “Was that the first time an incident ever happened at the studio?”

“No. Scripts have disappeared, and once in a while a weird page has been slipped into my script book. I made the mistake of memorizing one of them and recited it on camera. We had to stop taping. Everyone must’ve thought I was nuts. Anyway, things don’t happen every day, so Tom and Walter always chalk it up to human error—mine, of course—or plain old happenstance.” He scowled slightly. It had to sting, knowing that none of his coworkers believed him.

“The script mishaps have happened three times. Once in Raleigh last month, and twice in Chicago the month before that. And then there’s all the dead-animal stuff that happens at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Minneapolis. I’ve got a place outside of town.”

“So, he’s been moving along with the show,” I surmised. Then I added, “And I’m only saying
he
because it’s easier to pick out a gender and stick with it.”

“I get it.” He stood and began to pace again, clearly out of nervous habit. “And, yeah, he’s showing up wherever we tape the show.” He stopped walking and blinked a few times. “Holy hell, he’s probably someone I know.”

He sat down, looking like the wind had been knocked out of him. Apparently, that thought hadn’t occurred to him until this moment.

“Is there any chance it could be a woman?” I asked, since I’d brought up the subject of gender. “There are plenty of twisted female stalkers out there.”