Killing Monica Page 22

  “Hi, I’m Judy.” Judy was pretty, with round cheeks, brown eyes, and long hair that appeared to be natural. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”

  Bemused, Pandy shook the young woman’s hand.

  “If you need anything—” The young woman broke off to tap the piece in her ear as she turned away.

  Pandy leaned back in her chair and shook her head. For a moment, she felt like she’d been thrust into some kind of alternate universe. Where she actually wasn’t Pandy. She closed her eyes briefly and laughed at the idea.

  Then she sat up straight.

  Because the thought was sickeningly scary. Flashing back to the explosion, she could taste the metallic grit of dirt in her mouth, smell the scent of scorched earth and scorched hair. She took a deep breath. The fact was, she very well might have died. But somehow, she had not. And now it was like the universe was playing a joke on her: What would happen if you tried to tell everyone that you were you, and no one recognized you? Who would you be then?

  She reminded herself that she must still be shaky from the explosion. There was SondraBeth talking on the phone. And at the other end of the room, two men in dark suits and earbuds had come in, asking Judy for the bathroom.

  Everything was fine. This was simply a case of mistaken identity. One that Pandy was going to clear up right now. She pushed up from the armchair and went over to Judy.

  “Actually, I’m Pandy,” she said. Judy smiled at her indulgently. Pandy turned to the two bodyguards, who were also looking at her, amused.

  “I’m PJ Wallis.”

  The bodyguards shrugged and looked at Judy, who also shrugged. Pandy rolled her eyes and went outside.

  This was interesting. No one cared if she was Pandy, because all they cared about was Monica.

  Pandy frowned as she took in the scene in the parking lot. Two SUVs were parked next to SondraBeth’s car; black-clad assistants were bustling in and out of them, and a couple of people were on walkie-talkies. If it weren’t for the fact that PJ Wallis had supposedly just died, the scene would be exactly like another boring day on the set of Monica.

  In which case, she might as well have a cigarette. Or two. She inhaled the fresh morning air and detected the harsh scent of tobacco smoke.

  One of the chauffeurs was smoking next to an SUV. Pandy went up to him, giving him her very best smile, and said, “Excuse me. I am PJ Wallis. And I would like a cigarette.”

  The man smiled at her like she was a dotty old thing, which reminded Pandy again that she was bald. Apparently, no one was going to believe that she was Pandy until Henry arrived. The man handed her his pack. He cupped his hands for her to catch the flame from his lighter. “You the sister?” he asked.

  Pandy took a step back, inhaled, exhaled, and smiled.

  “The sister’s lover, then?” the man said.

  Pandy shrugged. It didn’t matter. Henry would come, and everyone would know the truth.

  She took another drag on the cigarette and began wandering down the drive. Perhaps she could meet up with Henry before he arrived, unprepared, at this mess. She strolled past some photographers who were milling about on the lawn. She supposed she and Henry could gather them together and announce that she was indeed Pandy, but this particular breed of press were like herd animals. You had to know how to control them.

  She took another pull on the cigarette, continuing down the drive. The lady reporter and the cameraman were now standing off to the side.

  The woman turned and saw her. “Oh, hi there, Hellenor,” she drawled, as if they were now best friends. “So I hear you’re a big Monica fan?” she asked in a friendly manner.

  Was she kidding? “The biggest,” Pandy said, annoyed. “You could say that I know every sentence and each line by heart.”

  “Is that so?” the woman asked.

  “Actually, yes,” Pandy said. She dropped her cigarette, grinding out the butt beneath her construction boot. “Because the fact of the matter is that I am PJ Wallis—”

  “Hellenor?”

  Pandy turned to find Judy coming down the drive.

  Judy touched her arm. “Listen. Would you mind doing one thing? Can you walk to the place where PJ Wallis blew up?”

  Pandy squinted down the drive. The whole squad of paparazzi had moved down to where the boathouse had been. This really was too much. It was one thing for her publisher to think she was dead for a couple of hours, but quite a different matter to announce it to the world.

  “Now, listen, Judy,” Pandy said firmly.

  “I know, I know,” Judy said quickly. “You’re not happy about all this press. But neither is SondraBeth. She wanted this to be private. She was hoping you and she could have a long visit. Reminisce about Pandy. Talk about the old days and the future of Monica. Maybe even plan a special memorial. But then the studio got word, and the press, and now PJ’s death is out of control—”

  Pandy cleared her throat. “Judy,” she tried again. “PJ Wallis isn’t dead. There’s been a huge mistake and I’m PJ Wallis.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Judy said with a knowing laugh. In the husky tones of a former college party girl, she added, “Like what you did back there with the reporters? That was hilarious, fucking with their heads like that.” Judy raised her palm to give Pandy a high five. “You, Hellenor, are fucking crazy. I’m so glad you’re cool. It makes everyone’s job so much easier.”

  She tapped her earpiece and nodded once, then took Pandy’s arm and began leading her firmly down the hill.

  Where the hell is Henry? Pandy thought angrily as Judy pushed through the paparazzi that were circled around SondraBeth like pagan priests around a sacrificial lamb.

  She was standing on a patch of grass near what was left of the structure: a few charred pieces of wood scattered around a large rectangular patch of mud. The piece of fabric Pandy had seen SondraBeth holding earlier was now covering her body like a shroud. She jerked her arm back to take Pandy’s hand.

  Pandy looked around at the camera lenses aimed in her direction like faceless black eyes and decided she’d better go along with the charade. She tore her eyes away from the cameras and looked at SondraBeth instead.

  SondraBeth was staring at her with those shining green-gold eyes. And suddenly, Pandy realized this was going to be just like that time on the island when Pandy had caught SondraBeth in the marsh with the herons. She was going to do what she needed to do, and she was going to act like nobody else was there.

  SondraBeth dipped her head. She pulled Pandy forward a step or two into the mud. Hissing under her breath, she said, “Your sister meant everything to me, Hellenor. The two of us used to be best friends. The best friends two girls could ever be.” She paused and looked Pandy straight in the eye. “And now I’m hoping we can be friends, too.”

  Pandy stared back. Was it possible SondraBeth honestly didn’t know she was Pandy? Pandy decided to try to give SondraBeth a message back:

  “I think that can be arranged,” she said, with a meaningful nod.

  SondraBeth gave Pandy’s hand a quick squeeze before she dropped it and strode, silent and alone, through the mud to the center of the rectangle where the boathouse had been. She raised her arms, and suddenly, the flashes stopped. The crowd held their collective breath, as if wondering what she might do next.

  Into the silence came the lone caw of a crow.

  SondraBeth lay down on her back. She extended her arms and, sweeping them up and down, made angel wings. Then she rolled forward onto her knees, and with her head bowed, slowly stood up. She turned around and began walking back toward the driveway. As she walked, she peeled the fabric from her body, carefully folding the muddy material in her hands.

  Reaching the grass, she stopped for a moment to allow her people to catch up with her.

  “Did you know she was going to do that?” Pandy heard someone whisper as they hurried toward SondraBeth.

  “No,” someone else whispered back.

  SondraBeth turned her head and looked back at Pa
ndy. And then, as if making a sudden decision, she walked toward her.

  “Come with me,” she said. Her voice was quiet and splintery.

  She disappeared into her swirl of assistants, and suddenly Judy was by Pandy’s side. She touched Pandy’s arm in a friendly girl-to-girl manner. “We’ve just heard from PP. He wants you to come back to New York with SondraBeth. He wants to meet you.”

  Judy began drawing Pandy along with her, nodding her head and smiling conspiratorially. “You’ll stay in the basement guest room in SondraBeth’s townhouse. It’s fantastic; it has its own separate entrance.”

  And the next thing Pandy knew, the bodyguards had surrounded her, and she was being bundled into the back of an SUV. I need to call Henry! she thought wildly as the doors slammed shut and the car started forward with a jerk. As Wallis House disappeared around the mountain, she had a startling thought:

  She had just been kidnapped by her own creation.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A GOOD OLD New York City pothole woke her up.

  She bounced and hit the back of the seat. Once again, it felt like her head was on fire.

  It wasn’t, but the place where she had hit her head two nights before, when she had fallen off the couch during the party in her apartment, was suddenly reinflamed.

  That had happened on Wednesday. Was it a mere forty-eight hours ago when she was still innocent? When she was still happy?

  When she was still PJ Wallis?

  “Hellenor, are you awake?” Judy asked. She was seated in the row ahead. She turned and looked at Pandy across the top of the seat.

  The lump on the back of Pandy’s head throbbed. She winced. Pain. Good, sharp, come-to-your-senses pain. There was nothing like it in an emergency.

  “Yes,” she answered, through gritted teeth.

  “Would you like some water?” Judy asked.

  When Pandy nodded, Judy motioned to someone in the second row to hand her a bottle. Of course. Everyone was trying to be nice. Trying to make poor, bereaved, weird Hellenor feel better.

  If only people had treated Hellenor like that before.

  Pandy grabbed the bottle of water and drank thirstily.

  “Hey, I’ve got good news for you,” Judy said. “Your sister’s first Monica book is number one on Amazon’s bestseller list.”

  “Is it?” Pandy asked. She rubbed the back of her head, and nearly screamed when she felt only the slightest stubble. Its texture was like velvet. It would take years for her hair to grow back.

  “I think that would have made your sister so happy. Don’t you?”

  Pandy took a deep breath. “Would you mind if I used your phone?”

  “Of course not,” Judy said. “Please, call anyone you like. But if it beeps, will you hand it right back to me? Because it could be SondraBeth.”

  Pandy nodded. She touched Henry’s number on the keypad, but it went right to voice mail. Of course. Henry wasn’t going to answer his phone, especially from an unknown number. She groaned. He must have arrived in Wallis by now. Looking out the window, she spotted those outlying brown brick buildings in the marshes of the Bronx.

  Judy’s phone began singing: an aria. “It’s SondraBeth,” Judy said, holding out her hand for the device.

  Pandy handed it back. She couldn’t believe that SondraBeth had allowed her former best friend to be taken back by van while she drove her goddamned custom Porsche to Manhattan. If she and SondraBeth had remained friends, Pandy would have been traveling in the front seat with her.

  But apparently SondraBeth either still didn’t know Pandy was Pandy, or had a reason to keep up the ruse.

  Road trip, she thought ironically as she tapped Judy on the shoulder for the phone. Judy looked back at her, mystified, then spoke into the phone to SondraBeth. “I think Hellenor wants to speak to you. Do you mind?”

  Does she mind? Pandy thought. She had better not mind, she thought as Judy handed her the phone.

  “Squeege?” she demanded. “Now listen. I’m happy to see your townhouse. In fact, I’ve been dying to see it ever since it came out in Architectural Digest. But someone needs to get in touch with Henry. He’s probably at Wallis House by now—”

  “Shhhh,” came a soft whisper.

  “Excuse me?” Pandy said.

  “Breathe with me, Hellenor.”

  “I am breathing.”

  “No. I mean, really breathe with me. Inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.”

  “SondraBeth,” Pandy said, in a panic, “is this a yoga thing? You know how much I hate yoga. I can’t even touch my toes!”

  “You sound just like your sister. I have to go now.”

  “But—”

  SondraBeth clicked off, and Pandy was left staring at a blank screen. She handed the phone to Judy, slid down in her seat, and crossed her arms. For a moment, she was truly speechless. How long was she going to have to play this game?

  Pandy looked back out the window and glared. The SUV was now on the Henry Hudson Bridge. Down below, the water was twisting and shining like a Mardi Gras snake. Then it disappeared behind a hump of green, and they were turning a corner.

  And once again, there it was: the Monica billboard.

  Judy leaned across the seat and held up several strings of glittering gold, green, and purple beads.

  “San Geronimo festival,” she said as she lowered the beads over Pandy’s head. “Welcome to Manhattan.”

  “Thanks.” Pandy turned her head to stare at Monica until she once again disappeared.

  She fingered the beads around her neck.

  Monica was still missing her leg.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, the van arrived at SondraBeth’s townhouse: a white cube famously designed in the 1960s by a now-forgotten architect. Located on East Sixty-Third Street, it could be reached via a parking garage a block away, thereby allowing its resident to avoid detection by the paparazzi. It was this route that the van took, pulling into a space under the townhouse marked PRIVATE.

  Judy led Pandy to an inconspicuous metal door with a code pad. The door opened into a short cement corridor. At one end was another door; across the landing was a flight of steps leading up to the first floor of the townhouse.

  “The basement,” Judy said, pressing a metal card onto the lock.

  The door buzzed open, revealing what appeared to be a sort of bachelor pad. The carpet was an industrial gray, as was the fabric on the large, squishy couch and two overstuffed armchairs. On the wall was a large-screen TV; neatly arranged on the shelves below were a variety of clickers and gaming consoles. Two heavy glass ashtrays were stacked next to a digital clock.

  “I think you’ll be really comfortable here,” Judy said. Her headset beeped. “SondraBeth will be back in fifteen. In the meantime, Peter Pepper would like a word. He’s the head of the studio.”

  “I know who he is,” Pandy snapped. “And in the meantime, I would like to use the facilities.”

  Annoyed once again by this Hellenor business, Pandy stomped down the hall to where Judy had pointed. She passed through a bedroom with the requisite king-sized mattress and even larger TV and into a bathroom the size of a small spa. Good old PP, Pandy thought, looking around at the sunken Jacuzzi tub, steam room, and separate his-and-hers toilet stalls.

  Now he was an interesting development, she decided, going into the “his” stall. She supposed his presence made sense. Naturally the head of the studio would need to be on-site to stage-manage any potential situations concerning Monica. On the other hand…

  Pandy went to the sink and washed her hands. Patting her face with water, she shook her head.

  He might be here because of the clause in her Monica contract.

  It stated that in the event of the death of PJ Wallis, the rights to Monica would revert back to her sister, Hellenor. It had been Henry’s idea to insert the clause, his worry being that if Pandy happened to die young, like her parents had, there would be no preventing someone from someday be
ing able to do whatever they wanted with Monica—including using her to sell soap.

  She and Henry had dubbed it “the Golden Ticket.” But in any case, it didn’t matter. Because she wasn’t dead. And she certainly wasn’t Hellenor.

  “Hellenor?” Judy asked, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you ready?”

  “I guess so,” Pandy said, glaring at her still-unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.

  Now all she had to do was convince everyone else.

  * * *

  PP was waiting for her upstairs, seated on a stool in front of a long island in the center of an open-plan kitchen.

  “Hellenor,” he said, springing to his feet. He clapped her right hand in both of his and squeezed. Hard.

  “Ow,” Pandy said.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’ll take a glass of champagne,” she said sarcastically, taking the stool next to him.

  “That sounds good. Chookie?” PP called out. A guy wearing a white chef’s uniform came through a swinging door. “Would you mind getting Ms. Wallis and me a glass of that nice pink champagne SondraBeth always has lying around? And something to eat, perhaps.”

  Chookie nodded and vanished into the kitchen, but not before surreptitiously giving Pandy a horrified look, reminding her that she was still dressed in Hellenor’s clothes.

  It didn’t matter. PP, she was sure, would soon understand that she was Pandy.

  Glaring at Chookie’s retreating back, she turned to PP. He, too, was looking at her curiously, beaming with the sort of forced grin people slapped on their faces when they didn’t know what to think. “Tell me about you, Hellenor,” he said. “I’m told you live in Amsterdam?”

  Pandy smiled sardonically. Apparently PP had been briefed about Hellenor. “You know I do. So why are you asking?”