“Sure, but I left before any trouble set in. Really, everything was fine at first. School was over and everyone was in a good mood. The cabin had a swimming pool and we were in and out of it, playing music and cooking hamburgers and doing stuff like that.”
She used the X-acto knife to tease an area of dark blue from the postcard from Arizona. I could see that she was re-creating the photograph of Sloan in pixels of color, but the image wasn’t clear at such close range.
“Why didn’t you party at Austin’s house? Didn’t he live in Horton Ravine?”
“He wanted privacy. He’d bought a keg of beer and a lid of dope and he didn’t want his parents to know.”
“Who invited Sloan?”
“He did. The way I heard it, she was jogging that morning in her neighborhood. He was with Troy in Troy’s pickup and asked if she wanted to join them. She said she had to take care of her dog and get cleaned up from the run, so Troy said he’d swing by later. Iris and I got there before they did, which was one forty-five or so.”
“I thought Sloan was being shunned,” I remarked, nudging the conversation back to the point.
“She was, but Austin agreed to call it off.”
“Where were her parents all this time?”
“They drove to Arizona to pick up her stepbrothers. The two of them spent summers here with their dad.”
“When you saw Sloan, did she seem frightened?”
“Not at all. It was a party. I didn’t think she was in danger and neither did anyone else.”
“Who was there?”
“Bayard and Troy and a few other guys.”
“Any other girls besides you?”
“Maybe four or five. Iris for sure because I gave her a ride up.”
“You’re talking about Iris Lehmann?”
“Right. She was my best friend at the time.”
“But not now?”
“I see her now and then,” she said cautiously.
“What about Fritz?”
“He was a show-off. He got everything he deserved.”
All-righty then, I thought. “So it wasn’t a big party; just a dozen or so.”
She shrugged, but offered nothing more. She’d reverted to her former caution and I wondered if something had happened that day that she didn’t want to talk about. I’d have to coax her back into the conversation before she shut down altogether. In the adjacent dining room, I noticed an old-fashioned Underwood typewriter with a rolling desk chair pulled up to it. The surrounding tabletop was covered with books, files, and typing paper, some of it wadded up and cast aside—the universal symbol of writerly angst.
I indicated the poster board. “Is this what you do for a living? I should have asked you earlier.”
Her eyes strayed to the typewriter. “I’m working on a screenplay.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Well, no. Not really. This is a movie about the murder.”
Her cheeks had acquired a pink tint and her expression was earnest. “People are always telling me I should put it down on paper since I was there and saw it firsthand. I don’t mean when she was killed.”
“Are you writing a fictionalized account?”
“Well, it’s not a documentary, so I guess you could call it true fiction or something along those lines. People swear a movie like this could be a box office smash, especially if I include a starring role for a big-name actor, which I intend to do.”
“Whose part do you see as the starring role?”
That was a stumper. She shrugged. “Austin’s, I guess.”
“Really.”
“He’s, you know, the antagonist and now that he’s a fugitive from justice, it makes him kind of an outlaw. Like an antihero.”
“In other words, someone the audience admires,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You have a literary agent?”
“I don’t need one. A couple of months ago, I met someone who works for a Hollywood production company and she promised to show the script to her boss as soon as I finish it. That way I don’t have to pay the agent’s ten percent off the top. She says in the film business, it’s all about who you know.”
“So I’ve heard. How far along are you?”
“Page twenty-six. It’s harder than I thought. You have to know all these technical terms.”
“What, like fade out, fade in?”
“Exactly.”
Talk about no hope. Her stepmother had loved telling me what a poor student she’d been, so the notion of her writing anything worth money seemed farfetched. “What are you calling the screenplay?”
“I was thinking about Yellowweed,” she replied. She paused long enough to study me. “Do you have siblings?”
“I don’t. I’m an only child,” I said, wondering where she was going with this.
“You’re lucky. You have no idea what it’s like growing up in a house where your sibs think they’re so smart. All my family ever cared about was money and prestige.”
“I understand your mother walked out about the time Sloan was killed.”
Her expression darkened. “Right. Thanks a lot, Mom. Way to go. My sisters were out of the house by then. They acted all hurt and upset, but what was it to them? They had their own lives. I was the one stuck at home. My family’s never had a clue who I am or what I care about. Forget creativity or the arts or anything original. They’re all science types.”
“You seem to be doing okay. This place is great.”
“My dad pays the rent, which irritates the shit out of Loretta because it’s money she could be spending on herself. She doesn’t say so, but I know she sees me as a big old loser. When my screenplay sells, I’ll at least have enough money to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I think it’s nice that they’re willing to pitch in financially,” I said, trying to inject an optimistic note. Meanwhile, I was thinking that her denying Sloan had given her the tape might be a big old lie. What if she’d had it in her possession all these years? If the tape had triggered the end of her relationship with Troy, wouldn’t she take pleasure in getting back at him? He hadn’t been approached for money, but if the tape became public knowledge, he and Fritz would be tarred with the same brush. Nice belated revenge for his betrayal of her. I pictured what she might do with twenty-five thousand bucks. Thumb her nose at Loretta, at the very least.
Miss Mopey was saying, “All they care about is getting me out of their hair. Emotional support would be nice, but I guess that’s too much to ask.”
I didn’t want to foster additional lamentations, so I shifted the subject. “Have you had a chance to talk to Fritz since he got out?”
“He’s stopped by a couple of times, which I try not to encourage. He acts all goofy, like he has a crush on me. Wouldn’t you know it? Cute guys won’t give me the time of day. Doofus like him is all over me.”
“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions about Sloan? It might be helpful going back over events. Since you’re hard at work on the script, this might stimulate your memory.”
Mollified, she said, “Like what?”
“It must have been a shock when you heard she was dead.”
“A big shock. Horrible. I didn’t believe it at first. Iris found out before me and she called, crying so hard I couldn’t understand a word she said. Then when I got the point, I thought she was making it up.”
“When was this?”
“When we heard what happened? Three days after the party, I think. Something like that.”