Trace - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 26
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"I've had a trespasser, ma'am," Lucy replies. "I think you might want to know what's happened next door at my house."
"You said you're the police," the unfriendly voice accuses, and the accent is deeply southern.
"I'm both."
"Both what?"
Both the police and your neighbor, ma'am. My name's Tina. I wish you'd come to the door."
Silence, then in less than ten seconds, Lucy sees a figure floating toward the glass doors from the inside, and that figure becomes a woman in her forties dressed in a tennis warm-up suit and jogging shoes. It seems to take her forever to get all the locks undone, but the neighbor does and deactivates the alarm and opens one of the glass doors. At first, she doesn't seem to have any intention of inviting Lucy in, but stands in the doorway, staring at her without a trace of warmth.
"Make this quick," says the lady. "I don't like strangers and have no interest in knowing my neighbors. I'm here because I don't want neighbors. In case you haven't figured it out, this isn't a neighborhood, anyhow. It's where people come to be private and left alone."
"What isn't?" Lucy warms up to her task. She recognizes the tribe of the self-consumed, curdled rich and plays a little naive. "Your house isn't or the neighborhood isn't?"
"Isn't what?" The woman's hostility is briefly supplanted by bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"
"What's happened next door at my house. He was back," Lucy replies, as if the woman knows exactly what she means. "Could have been early this morning, but I'm not sure because I was out of town most of yesterday and last night and just landed in Boca on the helicopter. I'm sure I know who he's after but I'm worried about you. It certainly wouldn't be fair if you got caught in the wake, if you know what I mean."
"Oh," she says, and she has a very nice boat docked off the seawall behind her house and knows exactly what wake is and how unfortunate and possibly destructive it is to be caught in it. "How can you be police and live in a house like that?" she asks without looking in the direction of Lucy's salmon-colored Mediterranean mansion. "What helicopter? Don't tell me you have a helicopter too."
"Lord, you're getting warm," Lucy says with a resigned sigh. "It's a long story. It's all connected to Hollywood, you know. I just moved here from L.A., you know. I should have stayed in Beverly Hills where I belong, but this damn movie, excuse my French. Well, I'm sure you've heard all about
what happens when you make a movie deal, and all that goes into it when they plan on filming on location."
"Next door?" Her eyes open wide. "They're filming a movie next door at your house?"
"I really don't think it's a good idea for,us to have this conversation out here." Lucy looks around cautiously. "Do you mind if I come in? But you've got to promise this is all between us chickens. If word got out… well, you can imagine."
"Ha!" The woman points a finger at Lucy and gives her a toothy smile. "I knew you were a celebrity."
"No! Please don't tell me I'm that transparent!" Lucy says with horror as she walks into a minimally furnished living room, all in white, with a two-story-high glass wall that overlooks the granite-paved patio, the pool, and the twenty-seven-foot speedboat that she seriously doubts her spoiled, vain neighbor knows how to start, much less sail. The name of the boat is It's Settled, the port of call supposedly Grand Cayman, a Caribbean island that has no income tax.
"That's quite a boat," Lucy says as they sit on white furniture that seems suspended between the water and sky. She sets a cell phone on the glass coffee table.
"It's Italian." The woman smiles a secretive, not-so-nice smile.
"Reminds me of Cannes," Lucy says.
"Oh yes! The film festival."
'No, not that so much. The Ville de Cannes, the boats, oh the yachts. Just past the old clubhouse you turn on Quai Number One, very near the Poseidon and Amphitrite boat rentals out of Marseilles. Nice fellow who works there, Paul, drives this bright yellow old Pontiac, a strange sight to see in the South of France. You just keep walking past the storage units, turn on Quai Number Four, and go to the end toward the lighthouse. I've never seen so many Mangustas and Leopards in my life. I once had a Zodiac with a pretty muscular Suzuki engine, but a big boat? Who has the time? Well, maybe you do." She gazes at the
dry-docked speedboat. "Of course, the sheriff's department and Customs will nail you good if you go more than ten miles an hour in that thing through here."
The lady is clueless. She is pretty but not in a way that Lucy finds appealing. She looks very rich and pampered and addicted to Botox, collagen, thermal treatments, whatever new magic is offered by the dermatologist. It may have been years since she was able to frown. But then, she doesn't need negative facial gestures. For her face to look angry and mean would be redundant.
"As 1 said, I rn I ma. And you arc…
"You can call me Kate. That's what my friends call me," the spoiled rich lady replies. "I've been in this house for seven years and never once has there been a problem, except with Jeff, who I am happy to report is off living his life in the Cayman Islands, among other places. I guess what you're telling me is you're not really a police officer."
"I really apologize if I slightly misled you, but I didn't know what else to do to get you to come to the door, Kate."
"I saw a badge."
"Yes, I held it up so you would. It's not real-not really. But when I'm in training for a part, I live it as much as I can, and my director suggested that I not only move into the house where we're shooting, but go ahead and carry a badge and drive the same cars the special agent does, and all the rest."
"I knew it!" Kate shoots that finger at her again. "The sports cars. All! It's all part of your role, isn't it?" She settles her long-legged thin body back into the depths of her big white chair and plumps a pillow in her lap. "You don't look familiar, though."
"I try not to."
Kate attempts a frown. "But I would think you would look at least a little familiar. And I can't think who you are, anyway. Tina who?"
"Mangusta." She offers the name of her favorite boat, fairly certain the neighbor won't directly connect Mangusta with earlier comments about Cannes, but rather will think that Mangusta sounds familiar, somewhat familiar.
"Actually, yes, I have heard the name. It seems. Maybe," Kate says, encouraged.
"I haven't been in much, not big roles although some of the films have been big. This is my break, you might say. I started out on off-offBroadway and then made the jump to off-off-movies, whatever I could get. And I just hope it won't drive you crazy when all the trucks and everything roll in, but fortunately that's not until summer, and it may not happen at all because of this crazy person who seems to have followed us here."
"What a pity." She leans forward in the big white chair.
"Tell me about it."
"Oh dear." Kate's eyes darken and she looks worried. "From the West Coast? That's where he followed y'all from? You said you have a helicopter?"
"I'm pretty sure," Lucy answers. "If you've never been stalked, you can't really understand what a nightmare it is. I would never wish it on anyone. I thought coming here would be the best thing we ever did. But somehow he found us and followed us. I'm sure it's him, pretty sure. God help me if we now have two stalkers, so I hope it's him, oddly. And yes, I travel in helicopters when needed, but not all the way from the West Coast."
"At least you don't live alone," Kate comments.
"My roommate, another actress, just moved out and went back west. Because of the stalker."
"What about that good-looking boyfriend of yours? Actually, I wondered early on if he might be an actor, someone famous. I've been trying to figure out who he is." She smiles wickedly. "Hollywood is written all over that one. What's he been in?"
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