Murder Take Two by Charlene Weir Page B

kindness for auld lang syne.”
    â€œWhat do you want from me, Laura?”
    The tears filled her eyes and trailed down her face.
    Oh, shit. He slid over, put his arms around her, and held her close. The cynic that he was pointed out that histrionics were her forte. The mind might twist situations with complications, or worry at them to find the hidden meanings, but the body cut to the chase, and his body responded to hers just as it always had.
    He still didn’t know what she wanted from him; he still didn’t know how much he was willing to give. He didn’t know what Susan would do either, about him being here since she’d told him to keep clear.
    â€œLaurie.” Putting both hands on her shoulders, he looked at her. With a thumb, he rubbed tears from her cheek. “Just talk to me. Okay?”
    She stared back, blue eyes, wide and full of emotions he couldn’t guess at. After a second that stretched thin, she nodded. In confusion, she looked around, then went into the bedroom and came back with a handful of tissues.
    â€œThis is hard for me too.” She stood in front of him.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat would you like to drink? Wine? I don’t know what kind they might have. Scotch? You still drink that?”
    He got up, took her elbow, and steered her to the chairs at a small round table. “Sit,” he said.
    Somewhat to his surprise, she did so without comment, protest, or struggle. He sat opposite her. “Now,” he said.
    â€œMaybe somebody does want to kill me.” Her voice was low but matter-of-fact, with no overtones of great drama.
    â€œWho?”
    She got up, went to the bedroom again, and returned with a burgundy briefcase that she placed on the table, snapped open, and took out two newspapers.
    With a raised eyebrow, he picked up the top one. It was a copy of the Hampstead Herald, dated two weeks ago. Page one had a photo of her getting out of a limo in front of the hotel. With a red ballpoint pen somebody had circled her name in the caption. The second paper also had her photo on the front page, but this time the focus was on Nick Logan, sitting at a picnic table near the old barn where they were shooting. Laura’s back was toward the camera. In the same red ink, a circle had been drawn on her back.
    â€œHow long have you had these?”
    â€œThe dates are on them. The first one the day after I arrived. The second one a few days later.”
    â€œYou handled them?”
    â€œOf course I handled them. I looked through to see if there was anything else in them.”
    â€œWas there?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere did you get them?”
    â€œI always get the local paper on location. I told the person at the desk when I got here. He said it would be at my door every evening. I didn’t know whether I should be worried or not when I saw the first one. I mean it could be a fan. I do have fans, you know.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd then the second one and it’s not exactly—I mean, it’s creepy.”
    â€œWho have you told about this?”
    â€œI don’t know. Nick. I guess my hairdresser. The makeup girl. Mostly it’s letters, you know? This kind of thing, it’s part of the game. I guess any celebrity—some are nice and some are not so nice. This feels threatening. Then—” She took a white envelope from the briefcase and slid it across the table.
    He handled it carefully. Plain white, drugstore variety; Laura’s name and room number. Inside a piece of cheap typing paper with a crudely sketched gun and, in block letters, BANG.
    â€œWhen did you get this?”
    â€œThis evening.”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œNo. And now after Kay—” Laura shivered, crossed her arms, and clutched her elbows. “What can you do?”
    â€œThey aren’t clearly threats.” He watched her like a snake after a rabbit. She could be doing it herself, the papers, the