MARY CLARK - The Cinderella Murder

“Sounds like it.”

“Do you know who else is in?”

“Susan’s mother, Rosemary. Nicole, wherever she disappeared to. Apparently her last name’s Melling now. And the person I think you’ll really be interested in: Frank Parker.”

When Keith heard that Madison had landed the role in Beauty Land, he had shown up outside her dorm. He was drunk and yelled, “How could you? That man killed my Susan, and everyone knows it. All you ever will be is a cheaper, lesser version of her!” It was the only time he had made her cry.

“I’m surprised they got anyone to go along with the show, other than Rosemary,” he said.

“Well, I for one am doing it. If we play our cards right, it could help us both. Millions of people watch that show. It’s exposure.” She didn’t add that she also hoped to persuade Frank Parker to find a role for her in his next project.

“I’ll think about it. Is that it?”

“What I really need, Keith, is your word.”

“And what word might that be? A secret, magical word?” The playful smile had returned.

“I mean it,” she said. “No one can ever know about us.”

“It was twenty years ago, Madison. We were all kids. You really think anyone will care that you and I played footsie on occasion?”

Was that all I was to him? she thought. “Of course they’ll care. Susan was—perfect Susan: smart, talented, the whole package. I was—how did you word it? The other beauty, but a cheaper, lesser version . You know that the producers will portray Nicole as the good, loyal friend. I’ll be the rival drama queen.” Madison knew that the friendship between Susan and Nicole hadn’t been nearly as perfect as the media had made it seem in the aftermath of Susan’s death. “There are still people on the Internet saying I must have killed Susan or at least faked an alibi for Frank Parker, so I could get the role in Beauty Land. If the world finds out I was sneaking around with Saint Susan’s boyfriend, they’ll really think I did it.”

“Well, maybe you did.” She couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or serious.

“Or maybe you did,” she sniped, “just like Susan’s parents always thought. It won’t look good that you had something going with your girlfriend’s own roommate.”

“Mutual destruction,” he said, staring at the empty glass he was now spinning in his hand.

“So I have your word?”

“Word,” he said, pointing at her. “We never happened. Forget all our cozy little get-togethers. Our secret dies with us.”

12

Once Madison was out of view, Keith pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket, scrolled through his favorite contacts, and tapped on the entry listed as “AG.” Very few people had this particular phone number. Keith had gotten it five years earlier, and that was after fifteen years of dedicated service. At the time, his career was on a roll. He chose to believe that it was the decade and a half of loyalty, not the fleeting appearance of fame or the financial rewards that came with it, that had led to this privilege.

“Yes?” the voice on the other line said. All these years later, and Keith still thought this voice was one of the strangest he’d ever heard. High-pitched like a child’s, but completely confident and controlled.

“I have more information about the television show I told you about.”

“Yes?”

“Apparently they are going forward with production. My understanding is that everyone else is getting pulled in: Frank Parker, Susan’s mother, Madison Meyer, Nicole.”

“Nicole. You’re certain?”

With a source like Madison, how could Keith possibly be sure? That woman would lie, steal, cheat—maybe even kill—to get what she wanted. Wasn’t that why he’d been drawn to her back then? She was dark and dangerous—everything Susan was not. But, as much as she’d been trying to manipulate him, seeking him out here at Teddy’s, he didn’t think she was lying about other people’s signing on to appear on the show. “Yes, I’m almost positive.” He knew to include the word “almost.” You didn’t get access to this phone number by withholding any tiny kernel of truth.

“Did they say anything else about Nicole?” the voice asked.

“Her last name is apparently Melling now. That’s all I know.”

There was a pause before the voice continued. “It will be better if you participate.”

Keith had been afraid Martin would say that. Money in Keith’s pocket meant more tithing, not to mention the help Keith could give to the church’s reputation if he were back in the spotlight. Keith reminded himself that the church focused on fund-raising to advance its mission of helping the poor, but he really didn’t want to do this show.

“Susan’s mother has always suspected me of killing her daughter. I can only imagine what she’ll say about me. And I’ve been public about my religion. It could make the church look bad.”

“You’re an actor. Charm the producers. And be sure to report back with any new information on Nicole.”

“She’s been off the radar for twenty years. Why the curiosity?”

“You let me worry about my own enemies.”

When the line went dead, Keith Ratner was glad that he hadn’t made an adversary of the man on the other end of the line. He intended to keep it that way at all costs.

13

Three hundred fifty miles away, in downtown San Francisco, Steve Roman’s cell phone rang. The screen identified the caller as “AG.”

He felt himself smile. The directive that Steve move to the Bay Area was a sure sign that he was trusted, but he missed seeing Martin Collins in person. Maybe the church would ask him to return to Los Angeles. Or perhaps Martin would be coming north for another big revival.

“Steve Roman,” he answered. Steve, like Steve McQueen. Roman, like a gladiator.

“You’re well?” Martin never identified himself during phone calls. It wasn’t necessary. Anyone who had witnessed one of Martin’s sermons knew the distinctive sound of his voice. Steve had first heard Martin’s voice when a friend brought him to a revival in the basement of a Westwood tattoo parlor fifteen years earlier. Since then, he’d listened to Martin’s preaching for hours—in person, on cassette tapes and then CDs, and now via streaming audio from the Internet.

Over the years, Steve had worked his way closer and closer to the inner circle. Advocates for God used a circle metaphor for a member’s relationship to the church. It wasn’t a hierarchy. Martin wasn’t the top; he was the center . And through the center, the word of God could be heard.

“Yes,” Steve responded. “Thank you, as ever, for the opportunity.”

When Martin decided to expand AG’s reach beyond his Southern California megachurch, he had dispatched Steve here. Even though Steve preferred the sunny glow and glitz of Southern California to the gloomy, windy Bay Area, he always expressed gratitude to AG for the opportunity. The church had found a studio apartment for him above Market Street and secured a job for him with a home-alarm company, Keepsafe.

Mostly, he was thankful for his new identity. He no longer used drugs. He didn’t hurt people anymore. With the help of Martin Collins and AG, he was on a path to find himself by serving the Lord and the poor. He had even transformed himself physically. Before he ventured into the basement of that tattoo parlor, he had been skinny, with long straggly hair, often unwashed. Now he did a hundred sit-ups and push-ups every single day. He ate healthfully. He kept his hair shaved close to the scalp. He was hard, lean, and clean.

“Do you need something?” Steve offered.

Steve thought of himself as Advocates for God’s own private investigator. He gathered dirt on former church members who tried to sully AG’s reputation, often by slipping in and out of the homes of Keepsafe’s customers unnoticed. When Martin got wind that a federal prosecutor was looking into the church’s finances, it was Steve who had conducted the surveillance to prove the lawyer was cheating on his wife. Steve was never certain how Martin handled the crisis, but once he gave Martin photographic proof of the affair, the murmurs of an investigation disappeared.