Edwards shifted in his upright chair and gasped as a shooting pain shook him. His left arm was in a sling and taped to his body. Every movement hurt but at least it wasn’t like the initial pain he’d had, when he couldn’t move and every breathe was agony. Time the doctors said and suggested that he try physiotherapy. He had to move his arm so it didn’t stiffen up and cause further damage. The sooner he began, the better.
Well, to hell with that. The painkillers would have to do for now. Doug examined the bottle. He’d already had 3 and he knew he shouldn’t have another. He hated to have his intellect impaired, and they did slow down his thought processes but…it hurt! And he had things to do. He tried to get rooms for Sonny and Rachal but the desk claimed that they weren’t taking reservations. They’d both come to the hotel for instructions when it was clear that no one could get near Waverley with that damned policeman tramping around. His best photographer, Sonny, well, now that Vic Torronte was out of comission, his best photographer was Sonny, who claimed that he couldn’t get a good shot. He’d shown up with some long shots of the women sitting in the sun talking! Vic would have made something happen. That reminded him. He made a mental note to call the hospital and find out what was happening with Vic. The fool. To get himself shot and to lose the camera as well. Still, he was better than Sonny. Sonny was hopeless. Who cared if Annie had apparently adopted Sandra Latimer? He’d almost fired him on the spot!
They needed something big, something exciting. The Shot. Doug swore again and glared at the empty garden below. They’d moved him to the back of the hotel, the rotten so and so’s. He’d sent Rachal and Sonny to stake out Todd Jackmans studio, see if there was anything there. Keep an ear open on the police band width so that they could be there if anything happened.
Useless! If they could only get that cop away for a few minutes. He’d heard that Rick Saunders had a reservation this weekend. He was coming up to see Annie, no doubt to talk to her about the movie. And Sandra was there, like a spider in her web, weaving a spell around everyone. He had to get her out of Waverley somehow. Create some excitement…
Doats went through the abandoned car with a fine tooth comb. There was no obvious damage where you’d expect if the car had been involved in the accident. But there was no way of telling this long afterwards. It was true, it had been registered to Monty Rawlings but none of the info requests he'd sent out had returned anything. He hadn't used his Social Security number since he left. Which meant he wasn't working. Not under his real name anyway. But it wasn't that easy to get decent wages without a Social Security number and there was no damned reason to hide. Arlen was past the age to require support and Ava didn't seem to want to pursue it. She never had before, he doubted she would now. Maybe Monty came back to Gibson's Cove with a chip on his shoulder. But why? There was no reason. Why disappear? So either Monty Rawlings was back after living under an assumed name for the past 15 years or…he was dead.
And if he was dead…was it murder?
Porter sat in the kitchen sunk in gloom. Sabina had taken over what little there was for him to do. She'd unpacked all the luggage, started the washing machine, gathered dry cleaning, arranged the shoe tree she'd brought, made lunch and it looked as if she were just getting started. Whenever Porter tried to do anything remotely resembling lifting, carrying or cooking, she'd appear at his side and take it away.
"It is not proper." Was all she'd say. Porter opened his sandwich and looked inside. It looked great. Ham and cheese, one of his favorites. But he wasn't hungry. He wanted to be doing something. Chief must have forgotten he was out here. He was convinced that he was forgotten. There was an investigation going on! Mitch and Dave were probably in the thick of it and here he was…out on Point Diablo in a house full of women. Well, almost.
He looked at Sandrino fussing over Sandra's hair. Seemed like a strange job, to him. He couldn't make much money at it, surely. His mom went to the salon every couple weeks, so did Shelley Rodriguez, he'd seen her there through the window. He was pretty sure everyone in there was a lady. There weren't any men working there. In fact, no men even went there to get their hair cut. Not that he knew of. Just like there were no girls at the barber shop. He tried, briefly, to imagine Sandra sitting in Leo's chair and couldn't. But he knew things were different in Hollywood. Still, to have a guy come up to shampoo your hair…Marla coulda done it.
Porter dismissed it as an unknowable situation and looked at Annie. She was laughing with Sandra and Sandrino. She looked really pretty when she laughed. He sighed.
To think the shooter took three shots at Ms. Sparks and he'd been right there. Sure they missed. But if he'd stuck by her as he should have he may have seen him. Or got shot himself.
Annie hadn't been told yet that Chief suspected she'd been the target of the gunman. They were trying to get a bead on this Hurley character but he seemed to have vanished into the ether. And he didn't seem to be the shooter. If he'd wanted to kill Annie Sparks there were better, more discreet, ways to go about it. Hell, they didn't even know why. The more they dug into Annie's past the more they realized that she'd done nothing, had no enemies. According to Ben Ridder, she'd received no threatening mail and it wasn't common knowledge that she'd killed the characters. In fact, it was something of a joke, Porter had heard. It wasn't even the real ending. Porter knew that the Chief was frustrated but there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for the attacks on Annie. Looking at the tapes of the house didn't help much. Two people, two different people, in the house, one stole the computer, this Hurley character, and the other…Porter shivered. It was creepy. Whatever was going on, he hoped that they'd catch who ever THAT was.