his foot tapping impatiently. Was Zelda/Melba some kind of nut? Or was she just putting him on? Whatever, she sure was a great storyteller.
Mel caught his skeptical glance and glared angrily back at him. “Thankfully, yes I did,” she answered primly. Then with a sudden flare, “Dammit, I’m spilling my guts to you, Detective. Do you want to hear this, or not?”
He grinned as he watched her face grow pink with anger. “May as well.”
“Ohh!” Exasperated, she sank back, or at least sank as well as she could in a straight-backed wooden chair. She stared balefully at him. “This man had a gun to my head,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, separating each word as though speaking to a child. “I did not want to be dead. I wanted to be home, with my kid. I wanted to work some more with Harriet, moving families.
I wanted my life.
”
She was looking into his eyes and he stared back coldly.
“So I just said sorry to Aunt Hester, who had paid for my lovely truck—and drove it head-on into a tree.”
Camelia let out a low whistle of admiration. “Good thinking,” he said. “Never thought a woman would think that way, though,” he added, half to himself. “Too worried about a scratch on the new vehicle.”
Mel propped her elbows on the scarred table and rested her aching head in her hands, too exhausted, too gosh-darn bone weary to argue the point.
“Next thing I knew it was two days later. I was in the hospital. And Harriet was sitting by my bed, staring at me with that is-she-going-to-make-it look. . . .”
Harriet’s face swam into view as Mel’s eyes focused. It was like being underwater, everything blurred and opaque—until she blinked twice and there Harriet was.
Her best friend and business partner, Harriet Simons, was in her early thirties. She claimed to be an “ex-actress,” but she wasn’t really “ex” anything yet. Petite, whippet-thin, and with a distinctive gravelly voice, she was still always on the phone to her agent, still hoping for that break.
It had been Harriet’s idea to call their moving company Moving On. She said it fit not only the lives of their clients who were moving house, but also their own, moving on from the unsatisfactory itinerant jobs they had held previously and moving on with life. Except the truth was, Harriet had not really moved on yet. She still hit every audition and every casting call, still read
Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
as though they were her bible.
Mel thought that the only thing unfamiliar about her now was the anxious expression on her face. And that was worrying because it took a lot to scare Harriet.
“Am I all right?” Mel asked in a throaty voice she hardly recognized as her own.
“Of course you are.” Harriet’s face lit with relief as she added tartly, “For an idiot who drove our one-and-only brand-new truck into a tree.”
“Well, there was a hurricane,” Mel explained meekly.
“You’ve been here for two days,” Harriet retorted. “You have a hairline fracture of the skull, as well as a concussion, plus a broken cheekbone. . . .”
Mel put her hand to her face, felt the gauze pad, and suddenly it all came back to her.
“Harriet.” She grabbed her friend’s arm urgently. “He tried to kill me . . . that guy really tried to kill me. . . . He’d already killed someone else, the man in the library. . . .
Oh, God
, I have to get out of here, we have to tell the police. . . .”
She was already half out of bed when Harriet caught her and hauled her back. “Stay where you are, kiddo,” she said firmly. “As they say in the movies, you ain’t goin’ nowheres. Not yet, anyway.”
Mel glared at her, uncomprehending. “
Didn’t
you hear what I said?
The man had
a gun
, he held it to
my
head. . . . That’s why I drove into the tree. . . .”
Harriet’s face registered disbelief, then concern, then the fact that maybe, just maybe, this was not the hallucination of a woman with a recent head injury
Mel caught his skeptical glance and glared angrily back at him. “Thankfully, yes I did,” she answered primly. Then with a sudden flare, “Dammit, I’m spilling my guts to you, Detective. Do you want to hear this, or not?”
He grinned as he watched her face grow pink with anger. “May as well.”
“Ohh!” Exasperated, she sank back, or at least sank as well as she could in a straight-backed wooden chair. She stared balefully at him. “This man had a gun to my head,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, separating each word as though speaking to a child. “I did not want to be dead. I wanted to be home, with my kid. I wanted to work some more with Harriet, moving families.
I wanted my life.
”
She was looking into his eyes and he stared back coldly.
“So I just said sorry to Aunt Hester, who had paid for my lovely truck—and drove it head-on into a tree.”
Camelia let out a low whistle of admiration. “Good thinking,” he said. “Never thought a woman would think that way, though,” he added, half to himself. “Too worried about a scratch on the new vehicle.”
Mel propped her elbows on the scarred table and rested her aching head in her hands, too exhausted, too gosh-darn bone weary to argue the point.
“Next thing I knew it was two days later. I was in the hospital. And Harriet was sitting by my bed, staring at me with that is-she-going-to-make-it look. . . .”
Harriet’s face swam into view as Mel’s eyes focused. It was like being underwater, everything blurred and opaque—until she blinked twice and there Harriet was.
Her best friend and business partner, Harriet Simons, was in her early thirties. She claimed to be an “ex-actress,” but she wasn’t really “ex” anything yet. Petite, whippet-thin, and with a distinctive gravelly voice, she was still always on the phone to her agent, still hoping for that break.
It had been Harriet’s idea to call their moving company Moving On. She said it fit not only the lives of their clients who were moving house, but also their own, moving on from the unsatisfactory itinerant jobs they had held previously and moving on with life. Except the truth was, Harriet had not really moved on yet. She still hit every audition and every casting call, still read
Variety
and the
Hollywood Reporter
as though they were her bible.
Mel thought that the only thing unfamiliar about her now was the anxious expression on her face. And that was worrying because it took a lot to scare Harriet.
“Am I all right?” Mel asked in a throaty voice she hardly recognized as her own.
“Of course you are.” Harriet’s face lit with relief as she added tartly, “For an idiot who drove our one-and-only brand-new truck into a tree.”
“Well, there was a hurricane,” Mel explained meekly.
“You’ve been here for two days,” Harriet retorted. “You have a hairline fracture of the skull, as well as a concussion, plus a broken cheekbone. . . .”
Mel put her hand to her face, felt the gauze pad, and suddenly it all came back to her.
“Harriet.” She grabbed her friend’s arm urgently. “He tried to kill me . . . that guy really tried to kill me. . . . He’d already killed someone else, the man in the library. . . .
Oh, God
, I have to get out of here, we have to tell the police. . . .”
She was already half out of bed when Harriet caught her and hauled her back. “Stay where you are, kiddo,” she said firmly. “As they say in the movies, you ain’t goin’ nowheres. Not yet, anyway.”
Mel glared at her, uncomprehending. “
Didn’t
you hear what I said?
The man had
a gun
, he held it to
my
head. . . . That’s why I drove into the tree. . . .”
Harriet’s face registered disbelief, then concern, then the fact that maybe, just maybe, this was not the hallucination of a woman with a recent head injury
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