Nancy Grace - Death on the D-List

“Ring it up.” She said it through the door and the girl trotted off.

Sookie plopped back down into the soft, deep cushions of one of the massive but delicately flowered chairs. After a few moments of collecting herself, she gathered all her strength to lean forward and zip up her own pair of black, stiletto suede Dior boots. Pulling the zip smoothly up the inside calf, she once again admired her own legs. These Diors would look great with the new red mock-croc mini. It couldn’t be longer than eight inches, top to bottom… perfect.

She exhaled loudly for emphasis, as if someone were listening. Sookie always imagined she had an audience.

What she did for The Harry Todd Show.

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL DAY ON THE LINKS. THE SUN WAS SHINING, THE BREEZE was cold but gentle, and the smell of the ocean carried from the shore all the way to the greens. Scott Anderson strode purposefully across some of the most beautiful grass the great state of New York had ever seen.

The greens and the “rough” as well were manicured to perfection by a fleet of horticulturists, landscape designers, and groundskeepers, and they all would have burst into tears to see Anderson digging his golf cleats into the tender shoots of grass as he headed uphill toward the driving range. Oblivious, Anderson continued off the hand-built path to his next lesson. He didn’t want to be late.

Anderson was finally starting lessons with Fallon Malone. Her personal assistant had been trying for months to schedule times with him, and they had actually had a few lessons planned, written in stone, but for one reason or another, Fallon always canceled or no-showed.

Normally, Scott Anderson would have refused to reschedule a lesson after a no-show, but how often did a golf pro like himself get to teach the game to a movie icon like Fallon Malone? I mean, was there anybody left in America who hadn’t seen her in the car wash scene?

She was a star. And he was going to be her golf guru. And hopefully, more than that. His good looks combined with the manners he’d picked up along the way had served him well. It was no secret Anderson loved the ladies.

It wasn’t hard. The women who took lessons from Anderson wouldn’t leave him alone. The way he saw it, he was doing them a favor.

At the top of the hill, Scott spotted a black limo outside the club house. It had to be Fallon. As soon as he got about thirty feet from the car, a burly, uniformed driver jumped out of the limo and briskly approached him.

“Can I help you, sir?” He stood, nonchalantly but menacingly between Scott and the limo.

“Hello.” Scott beamed his best and friendliest smile, known to disarm cats, dogs, and women alike. It didn’t seem to be working on the driver. He continued. “I’m the club’s golf pro, Scott Anderson. You may have heard of me, twenty-fifth at Pebble Beach three years ago? You a golfer?”

“No, sir. I am not. But I am the driver for Ms. Malone. She’s here for her lesson.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and went back to the limo, opened the back passenger side door, and out she stepped.

Long legs, just like in the movies, swung out of the back seat. The rest of her followed. She took off dark sunglasses and held her left hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. Even without the stage makeup, she was a looker.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson. I hear you’re quite the pro! I’ve simply got to learn to play some semblance of the game for a role I’ve got my eye on. But let me warn you, I’ve never swung anything but a water hose!”

“And I saw that! When you washed the Vette and you swung the hose around like a lasso at the end! You were tremendous! Obviously, I’m a big fan. I still say you were robbed at the Oscars!”

Did he say she was robbed at the Oscars? Those were the magic words to Fallon Malone’s heart. He loved her acting. She beamed up at him and tossed her dark hair back behind her shoulders.

The limo driver rolled his eyes after he turned away from the two and headed back to the car. Here she goes again. He grimaced. He knew where this was headed. Another affair with practically a complete stranger… and in his limo. If he didn’t get paid so much to cart Malone around, he’d demand she and Anderson go to a hotel.

And as it turned out, the driver was right. The mutual attraction was consummated immediately following Fallon’s “coach-led analysis” to better understand her swing and reach her “full yardage potential.” The two never made it to the personal club fitting so Anderson could precisely match Fallon’s clubs to her swing. In fact, they never made it past the pro quarters adjacent to the men’s locker room.

That afternoon led to rendezvous everywhere, from Fallon’s apartment in Manhattan to Fallon’s limo to the back of the local IHOP a few miles from the club. All the meetings were surreptitious, as Anderson was not allowed to “date” anyone he instructed at the club.

Fallon’s driver predicted it. Same thing all over again… the gin bottles and the pantyhose in the back seat again. Gin bottles and pantyhose.

FRANCIS WAS REELING. HE PUSHED HIS DARK HAIR AWAY FROM HIS forehead with both hands, holding them tight against either side of his head. He couldn’t take it in… Prentiss Love … dead?

His chest pounded and his mouth went dry. He didn’t even try to fight back the tears.

The cable news networks were wall to wall with funeral plans. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He hated them. They were totally whoring out the memory of a beautiful, delicate woman that had been one of his great loves. They were dredging up everything, harping especially on her alleged problems with drugs and alcohol, which Francis was convinced were false. Old boyfriends were dragged on and off the screen like it was a parade. Harry Todd especially liked to delve into her romantic past.

But all Prentiss’s so-called “boyfriends” turning up on TV were idiots. They didn’t know her like Francis did. If Todd had a clue, he’d contact Francis. But Francis wouldn’t talk. Not even to Harry Todd. Francis was a gentleman and always would be. He’d rather die than kiss and tell.

Sitting there in the early morning darkness of his mother’s living room, he looked down at his own two hands, stretched out over the expanse of his two knees. They sat there, seemingly innocent. They were hands more befitting a surgeon or a poet… maybe a musician, possibly piano or strings.

These hands could never kill Prentiss Love… Could they ?

True, the last week had been a big blur. He’d had “dates” with both Leather and Prentiss. The overpowering smell of the incense and candles he burned on those special nights still hung in the air. Then after that, he remembered the Jehovah’s Witnesses skulking around on the front porch. He remembered being angry at Prentiss… But then it all seemed to fade away.

When he headed out to Dunkin’ Donuts this morning, he found the gas tank of his mom’s car completely empty, but he had absolutely no recollection of where he’d been. The Post had compared the two. Prentiss shot in Manhattan, Leather out in the Hamptons.

Could he? It was Tuesday morning. GNE said so and he had no reason to believe the network was part of the government’s plan to eradicate him and others like him, those who believed in true and unfettered freedom.

If the cable network was to be believed, over two weeks had passed since his last clear recollection. Francis clicked the remote and changed channels to the TV Guide station.

He sat and thought, his head in his hands. Yes, he had to be honest, at least with himself… He’d had dreams of killing them… powerful dreams. When he’d thought Prentiss had had an affair with a guy on her show, he was devastated and yes, he’d thought of circling her beautiful neck with his hands and squeezing the life out of her. He’d had similar dreams about Leather as well… and other women, too. They’d often coincided with nights he’d argued with his mother. That she-devil from hell.