had lent him and got dressed, squirming in the damp underwear and socks that he had rinsed out the night before. There was still no answer at the Bel Air house.
Downstairs, he asked for a New York Times .
“Sorry, sir,” the young thing at the desk said, “we don’t get any papers at all on holidays. Will you be having Thanksgiving dinner with us?”
It was that or McDonald’s in the village, he thought. “Yes, of course.”
He ate hungrily, having slept through breakfast; he drank nearly a bottle of wine with lunch, feeling sorry for himself for being alone on Thanksgiving, then had a long after-lunch nap in his room. Later, he forced himself to go for a walk along the rim of the canyon, but he had seen it many times before, and it wasn’t working its charm today; he was too depressed. Here he was on his favorite holiday, far from wife and friends, stuck with no way out until the new parts arrived tomorrow.
He went back to the hotel, bought a paperback novel in the shop, and tried to read it. He was asleep again by nine.
He was wakened in broad daylight by the sound of something sliding under his door. He raised a sleepy head: a New York Times! At least he could start the day with the news. He glanced at his watch: noon. He ordered breakfast from room service, then retrieved the newspaper, scanning the front page. He was about to open the paper and look inside when a small article in the lower right-hand corner of the front page caught his eye:
FILM DIRECTOR AND TWO OTHERS IN TRIPLE DEATH
Oh, God , he thought, it’s going to be somebody I know . He read on quickly. It was somebody he knew.
The film director Jack Tinney of Los Angeles has been found dead in circumstances that police sources are describing as murder.
Wolf dropped the newspaper and put his head in his hands. He took deep breaths, trying to get hold of himself. He tried not to believe it, and he tried not to think of theconsequences. He picked up the paper again, read the same sentence twice, then looked at the masthead. It was truly the New York Times; it was not a joke newspaper; this was not some horrible gag somebody was pulling on him; this was really happening. He swallowed hard, tried to quiet the pounding in his chest, and read on. What came next nearly stopped his heart.
Tinney, 48, was found in a guest bedroom of a house in Santa Fe, New Mexico, belonging to his longtime business partner and producer, Wolf Willett. He appeared to have been killed by a shotgun blast.
He immediately thought of Flaps and how she had wanted to get into the guest wing. But Jack hadn’t even been in Santa Fe, he thought desperately. He read on.
Also found in the room were the bodies of Willett, 53, and his wife Julia Camden Willett, 27, an actress. They appeared to have been killed in the same manner.
This got him breathing hard. He read the words again. They still didn’t make any sense. He continued.
The bodies were discovered by a housekeeper, Maria Estavez, who had been alerted to their presence by a dog in the house. The apparent murder weapon, an expensive twelve-gauge shotgun made by Purdey, the famous gunmakers of London, England, was found in the room. The Santa Fe Police Depart- ment has issued a statement saying that the murders were committed sometime Tuesday evening and that so far they have no suspects. Obituaries on page B14.
Wolf fell back onto the bed, his head reeling. He closed his eyes and clutched the covers, trying to lie as still as possible, fighting nausea. Gradually he restored his breathing to something like normal. Then he tried to think.
He could come up only with this: His wife and business partner and some other unfortunate human being were dead; they had been killed in his house with his shotgun, one of a matched pair; they had been killed at a time when he was obviously present in the house. And he could remember nothing of that day or night.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to scare the shit out of
Downstairs, he asked for a New York Times .
“Sorry, sir,” the young thing at the desk said, “we don’t get any papers at all on holidays. Will you be having Thanksgiving dinner with us?”
It was that or McDonald’s in the village, he thought. “Yes, of course.”
He ate hungrily, having slept through breakfast; he drank nearly a bottle of wine with lunch, feeling sorry for himself for being alone on Thanksgiving, then had a long after-lunch nap in his room. Later, he forced himself to go for a walk along the rim of the canyon, but he had seen it many times before, and it wasn’t working its charm today; he was too depressed. Here he was on his favorite holiday, far from wife and friends, stuck with no way out until the new parts arrived tomorrow.
He went back to the hotel, bought a paperback novel in the shop, and tried to read it. He was asleep again by nine.
He was wakened in broad daylight by the sound of something sliding under his door. He raised a sleepy head: a New York Times! At least he could start the day with the news. He glanced at his watch: noon. He ordered breakfast from room service, then retrieved the newspaper, scanning the front page. He was about to open the paper and look inside when a small article in the lower right-hand corner of the front page caught his eye:
FILM DIRECTOR AND TWO OTHERS IN TRIPLE DEATH
Oh, God , he thought, it’s going to be somebody I know . He read on quickly. It was somebody he knew.
The film director Jack Tinney of Los Angeles has been found dead in circumstances that police sources are describing as murder.
Wolf dropped the newspaper and put his head in his hands. He took deep breaths, trying to get hold of himself. He tried not to believe it, and he tried not to think of theconsequences. He picked up the paper again, read the same sentence twice, then looked at the masthead. It was truly the New York Times; it was not a joke newspaper; this was not some horrible gag somebody was pulling on him; this was really happening. He swallowed hard, tried to quiet the pounding in his chest, and read on. What came next nearly stopped his heart.
Tinney, 48, was found in a guest bedroom of a house in Santa Fe, New Mexico, belonging to his longtime business partner and producer, Wolf Willett. He appeared to have been killed by a shotgun blast.
He immediately thought of Flaps and how she had wanted to get into the guest wing. But Jack hadn’t even been in Santa Fe, he thought desperately. He read on.
Also found in the room were the bodies of Willett, 53, and his wife Julia Camden Willett, 27, an actress. They appeared to have been killed in the same manner.
This got him breathing hard. He read the words again. They still didn’t make any sense. He continued.
The bodies were discovered by a housekeeper, Maria Estavez, who had been alerted to their presence by a dog in the house. The apparent murder weapon, an expensive twelve-gauge shotgun made by Purdey, the famous gunmakers of London, England, was found in the room. The Santa Fe Police Depart- ment has issued a statement saying that the murders were committed sometime Tuesday evening and that so far they have no suspects. Obituaries on page B14.
Wolf fell back onto the bed, his head reeling. He closed his eyes and clutched the covers, trying to lie as still as possible, fighting nausea. Gradually he restored his breathing to something like normal. Then he tried to think.
He could come up only with this: His wife and business partner and some other unfortunate human being were dead; they had been killed in his house with his shotgun, one of a matched pair; they had been killed at a time when he was obviously present in the house. And he could remember nothing of that day or night.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to scare the shit out of
Similar Books
Ghost Wanted
Carolyn Hart
Redemption
R. K. Ryals, Melanie Bruce
Major Karnage
Gord Zajac
The Reason I Jump
Naoki Higashida
Captured Sun
Shari Richardson
Songs of the Shenandoah
Michael K. Reynolds
The Ex-Wife
Candice Dow
Elemental Dawn (Paranormal Public)
Maddy Edwards
Scarborough Fair
Chris Scott Wilson
Scare Tactics
John Farris