Chapter 5

It wasn't Claire, of course. This girl was smaller, smaller in every way, several years younger, her face more piquant than Claire's had been. And her hair was brown, not black. Only the enormous gray eyes were the same. She was in gold capris and a white, sleeveless blouse that outlined small, firm breasts.

"Yes?" Her voice had some of the husky timbre of Claire's.

Still unnerved, Wade swallowed. He said the first thing that came into his head. "I was looking for Claire Duncan. Is she home?"

Her face grew still. "Haven't you heard?"

He was stuck with the lie now, and he had to follow through, improvising as he went along. "Heard what? I've been out of town for a while."

"How well did you know her?"

"Not very well. I met her a few times when we worked as extras together." He held his breath, wondering if that would go over.

She nodded as though accepting it. "I understand she'd been working as an extra now and then. She couldn't stay away from the studios, even if she could only go there as an extra. Quite a comedown." Her voice had a bitter twist. Then she tossed her head. "I'm Claire's sister, Lisa. Claire was murdered over a month ago."

He let his face register shock. "Murdered!"

"You haven't heard? The papers, television ... everything was full of it. She couldn't cut it as a star anymore, but she showed them. She went out in a blaze of publicity, even if she had to get herself killed to do it!"

He looked at her warily, at a loss to understand the hostility she expressed toward her dead sister. He said carefully, "I haven't seen a paper until this week. I've been away on a ... a hunting trip."

"She was killed right here. In this apartment." She stood back, motioning him inside, and he had the fleeting notion she was about to ask him to pay an admission and then conduct him on a tour of the scene of the crime. Instead, she closed the door and crossed to the couch to sit down. Wade followed her, his glance darting around the room. It was exactly as he remembered it. But there had been all those pictures in the papers....

The stain was gone from the carpet. He tore his gaze away from the spot and looked at Lisa. She had a cigarette in her mouth and was searching the end table for a match. Wade sprang forward to hold a light for her, lit one for himself, then sat down on the couch, a careful distance from her.

She drew deeply on the cigarette, head back, eyes closed, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes were angry, her mouth set in a thin line. "What were you? A drinking companion? A fellow pot smoker? Bed companion? Or all three?"

Wade was so startled he came close to dropping his cigarette. He had to fumble for words. "I ... well, I did have a drink with her a time or two, yes. But as for the rest ... I didn't know her all that well."

"It wasn't necessary to know my sister all that well." Then she sighed softly and seemed to sag wearily. "I'm sorry. What is your name?"

Since he had two to choose from, he decided to use the one he'd had the longest. "Wade Carson."

"Well, Mr. Carson, I suppose you think I'm some kind of a bitch, talking like this about my own sister. I loved her, you'll have to take my word for that, but I was fed up. That's why I went back home. Her drinking, the drugs, and indiscriminate choice of men had ruined her career. And one of those men finally killed her."

"How do you know that?" He covered up quickly, "I mean ... did they catch him?"

"No, the case is still unsolved. And the police aren't even too sure it was a man who killed her. But I know. And the newspapers hinted at it without coming right out and saying so. The Easter Bunny Murder!" Her voice burned with bitterness again.

"The Easter Bunny Murders?"

"She was found with an Easter bunny clutched in her arms. She called it Bugsy, after Bugs Bunny of cartoon fame. Isn't that just too, too cute?"

It wasn't a question requiring an answer. Her voice had the sound of tears. Wade had to look away in acute embarrassment. She was going on, her voice low, almost dreamy. Afterward, he was never sure why she told him all of it. It could have been because it had all been bottled up in her for so long that it simply had to come out. He liked to think that a spark had ignited between them, a rapport immediately established. Whatever the reason it poured out of her in a torrent.

"Claire always had a doll. Of course I did, too, but I gave them up around eight or somewhere in there. Claire didn't. But you'll notice I said a doll, not dolls. I know the psychiatrists' files are full of case histories of women who have kept many dolls around them, even after they married, had children. Even into old age. But Claire was different in that one respect. She only kept one at a time. She would keep it until she grew tired of it, then get a new one and throw the old one away, forget it as though it had never existed. She didn't always keep them until they fell apart. Sometimes she'd get tired of one right away, discard it, and throw a tantrum until Father would buy her a new one.

And that's the way she was after she left home. She always kept a doll. And that's the way she was with men. With one difference. She never kept the same man for long, as she sometimes would a particular doll. She never slept with one man more than a few weeks, usually not more than a night or two. But I'll give her credit for one thing. She never had more than one man sleeping with her at the same time. One doll at a time, one man at a time. Faithful in her fashion, that was Claire." Her laughter was harsh, biting. "When we were girls together on the ranch...."

Wade interjected, "The ranch?"

"I was born and brought up on a ranch in Arizona. Poor Daddy." Her laughter was easier now. "He always wanted sons he could make into ranchers. So he wound up with two kooky daughters. I liked ranch life, however, and became as good around a ranch as most cowhands." She glared at him as though daring him to deny it.

He said, "I was born on a ranch, too. I worked on one or another until a short time ago."

"Is that so?" she said politely, without the least interest. Her gaze was on him, but it was plain she didn't really see him. She was looking inward, looking back into a past that held unpleasantness. "Claire never liked it. To her, ranch life was a prison. Some people are born to thrive in bright lights. That was Claire. She escaped as soon as she could. She entered a beauty contest at the county fair. She won and was offered a piddling movie contract in Hollywood. She was barely eighteen. Father, Mother ... we all argued with her. Even out in Arizona, we knew how small the percentage were of beauty contest winners who made it in Hollywood. Claire wouldn't listen. And she proved us all wrong. Within two years of coming out here, she was a star. Within four years, she was big, very big. I was eight years younger than Claire. I watched her success without envy, hard as that may be to believe. I was perfectly content to spend the rest of my life on the ranch. I had no urge for the city and my name in lights."

"What happened to her? I mean, why did she...? "

"What happened? A combination of things. I could say she went bad, but that wouldn't be strictly accurate. I guess she was one of those people who can't take overnight fame. She was very sweet when we were children on the ranch. Oh, she was always restless, a little spoiled perhaps, but she could be sweet when she wanted to be. And she could still be sweet when I came out here to live with her....

"We never saw her those first years she was away. We heard from her, long letters, expensive long-distance phone calls, and received extravagant presents, but she didn't come back to Arizona until Father died. She came back for the funeral. I think she had started downhill even then. She was hard, brittle, glittering like a diamond. But she was drinking too much and even during those few days she was at the ranch she bedded down with a cowhand. ... Only two days after we buried Father!" Lisa's voice broke and she turned her face away.

Wade lit two cigarettes, held one out to her. She took it with a muffled thanks and drew savagely on it without once looking at him.

In a moment she resumed, still without looking at him. "Mother died two years later. I always read everything about Claire that I tame across, of course, and there had been rumors in the gossip columns about her binges, her fights with directors. The studio broke her contract, exercising a morals' clause, it was rumored. No other studio would sign her after that. She began free-lancing. She did make a couple of pictures after that. One was a smash, the other laid a bomb."

Lisa laughed, a scratchy sound. "Smash! Laid a bomb! I've been around this town just long enough to learn the language. Anyway, Claire disrupted shooting schedules and was always in trouble. Pretty soon not even the independent producers would touch her. When she came home for Mother's funeral, she was drunk when she got off the plane. She begged me to come back with her. She needed me, she said. With me living with her, she would straighten out. That was a little over a year ago. I left the ranch for the foreman to run, and came back with Claire. She did need me, I guess. Certainly she needed someone. Or something. And I think she did make a sincere effort to straighten up her life. But she was too far gone. Either that or I didn't have the strength she needed. She started drinking again when she couldn't get parts. Soon she was back on drugs. She didn't even bother to hide it from me. But when one of the men she'd brought home got out of her bed in the middle of the night and crawled into bed with me...."

Lisa had been sound asleep. As was her habit, she was sleeping in the raw. The first thing she was aware of was the stench of whiskey breath, then a hand squeezed her breast like a vise. Another hand explored her loins, a cruel finger probing her femininity. She came alive, fully awake. In her outrage, she yelled at the top of her voice and began to beat on his face and shoulders with her fists.

"Come on, girlie. Why all the fuss? You're Claire's sister, aren't you?"

Lisa knew then that her cries were a waste of time. She would have to defend herself. She tried to drive a knee into his groin. But she was too late. He was too strong, too big, and he had all the advantage. He drove a leg between her thighs like an iron bar and rolled over on top of her. She attempted to clamp her thighs together. The intruder in her bed hit her a ringing blow alongside the head. Then he struck her again with the other hand, and she tumbled into unconsciousness.

When she came to, he was inside her, pounding at her relentlessly, grunting like a rooting pig. Before she could gather her strength to fight him again, it was all over. He went rigid, his breath leaving him with a snort. He fell onto her with all his weight, and Lisa almost fainted again. He lay on her panting, his hot breath scorching her face. Finally the spasms of his passion ebbed. He grunted again, rolled off her with a groaning effort, then was gone.

"That finished it as far as I was concerned," Lisa continued. "I packed up and went home. That was a week before she was killed. If I had stayed on, maybe she would still be alive. I blame myself. That's why I ... oh!" Her face crumpled, an anguished wail was wrung from her, and the tears came. To Wade's enormous astonishment, she threw herself into his arms, yowling and hiccupping sobs. She burrowed close, tears soaking his shirt front like warm rain, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. The body filling his arms was delightful, curved in all the right places, but he gave little thought to that. It had been so long, so damned long, since a woman had turned to him for comfort. He held her; he patted and stroked and made soothing sounds. After a long time she said in a rusty voice, "Wade ... you know I didn't mean all those spiteful things I said about Claire, don't you?"

"Yes, Lisa. I know. I understand."

And so, as easily as that, it was Wade and Lisa.

After she had pushed herself out of his arms, suddenly shy, after she had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes, she said with a puzzled air, "Did you say you were from Arizona?"

He shook his head. "No, that wasn't what I said. I said I was ranch born and raised. Oh, I've worked ranches in Arizona, as well as most of the other western states."

"Then you're my kind of people!" She sat down on the couch, drew her knees up, and rested her chin oh them. She frowned. "But if you're cow country people, what in the world are you doing out here ? "

"Well, I came out here to get into stunt riding." He scrubbed at his chin with the back of his hand. He felt uncomfortable telling her about it, as though confessing to some dark sin. Possibly it was because of her expressed contempt for the ways of Hollywood. He told her then of the ranch jobs, the lonely winters in the line shacks, his way with horses, his rodeo stints and the hip broken at Pendleton. She listened intently, chin propped on her knees, gray eyes clinging to his face. She listened without comment, the only break coming when he lighted cigarettes for them. It wasn't until she got up to turn on a light that he realized it was dark.

"And did you plan on staying here the rest of your life doing jobs for men who haven't the guts to do it themselves?"

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "I intended staying here only long enough to earn enough money to buy a spread of my own. A small one, one large enough to raise horses. I thought I'd raise them for rodeo work. Buckers, roping horses, and the like. It's good money if you know what you're doing. I guess all rodeo bums have that dream." He added ruefully, "The thing is, it's not all that easy out here. The streets aren't paved with gold like I'd thought."

She nodded gravely. "Our ranch is small as ranches go. Dad stocked the place with Black Angus cattle a few years back. We're doing very well with them. He also raised horses for rodeo work, even a few Brahma bulls. The trouble is, we could never find a man who knew rodeo stock. Not one who would stay around very long. Soon as rodeo season rolled around he was off. I just had a thought! If you're through with following the rodeos and think you could handle it...." She expelled a thick cloud of smoke as though to hide an attack of embarrassment. "If you could handle the job, it might work into something good for both of us. If you'd be interested, that is."

"I would be interested...." He let his voice trail off. Now wasn't the time to talk about it. Whatever was growing between them was too new, too fragile, to risk pressures until they knew each other better. Wade knew he couldn't make any promises to this girl until his own problems were solved. And he was in an impossible situation, made so by his not telling her the truth in the beginning. How could he now tell her that he was-likely wanted for killing her sister? Or, worse yet, how could he tell her he might even be a whack? He got to his feet abruptly as he resumed, "I think I would be, but why don't we wait? Would you have dinner with me?" The invitation came out sounding more formal than he had intended.

Lisa cocked her head to one side as she considered it, her lovely face grave. Then her smile came. It was sudden, sweet, dazzling, and he realized this was the first time he'd seen her smile. "I'd like that very much, Wade. Give me ten minutes to change!"

With most women, he knew, ten minutes meant at least a half hour, but Lisa was true to her promise. She was ready within the ten minutes. She had put on a yellow sheath dress of some webby material, long white gloves, sheer hose on long lovely legs and white shoes with high heels. Her gray eyes were outlined with a trace of blue shadow and her full mouth was shaped with a pale lipstick.

Under his gaze she smiled again and turned around once, coming up on her toes. "Will I do, sir?"

"You'll do," he said gruffly, swallowing. "You'll do very well, indeed."

And that set the tone for the evening. During dinner, they carefully avoided talk of Claire or anything within several hundred miles of Hollywood. Lisa did most of the talking, telling Wade of the ranch. Her face was incandescent as she talked of it, talked of horses and cattle, talked of the scent of sage after a hard, slanting rain had pounded across the mesas, talked of cold mornings on fall roundups when breath escaped like smoke and hot coffee had the flavor of nectar.

She talked and Wade listened, and knew he was hopelessly in love with her. It was crazy, impossible-and unbelievably wonderful.

He had taken her to the same Italian restaurant where he'd had dinner with Sylvester. He had some vague idea that the surroundings would trigger some memory that would be of help to him; perhaps he'd even had the crazy hope that Sylvester would be there. But he drank red wine like water, ate meatballs and spaghetti without tasting it, while he drowned in those great gray eyes and heard only the husky throbbing of her voice. He forgot everything else.

The restaurant was two blocks from the boulevard. Afterward, they walked that way arm in arm. A block away from the restaurant Lisa stumbled and fell against him. "Hey, I lost a shoe!"

He supported her while she stooped to work the shoe back on. Inadvertently, he turned and looked back the way the had come. And he saw, about fifty yards behind them, a man turn his back as though to light a cigarette against the wind. But there was no wind. The night was warm and still. Chill fingers danced along his spine. They were being followed. Some time during the evening his shadow had found him again. But how was that possible? Had he been followed all day without being aware of it? It was a disquieting thought, not only because it meant he had been under observation all day but it also meant that Lisa was now involved in whatever was happening to him.

Lisa straightened up with a laugh. "There! I'm all shod again! Wade ... what is it? What's wrong?"

He tore his gaze from the man back there and forced a smile to his face. "Nothing, Lisa. Nothing at all." He took her arm and hurried her along to the boulevard. He looked both ways along the street and spotted a cruising cab. He motioned it into the curb, hustled Lisa inside, and gave the driver the address to Claire's apartment. As the cab pulled away from the curb, Wade glanced back through the window and saw the man following also hail an empty cab. The second cab fell into line two cars behind them. The man on the street hadn't necessarily been following them. His being there, his stopping when they did, could have been a coincidence. Now there was no longer any doubt.