Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

Shane drummed his fingers on the desk and perused the list, his gaze landing, not for the first time, upon Wes Allen. Carter’s one-time friend. Carter knew from personal experience that Wes couldn’t be trusted, but he tried not to let what happened with Carolyn color his judgment.

He forced his eyes to examine other possibilities. What about Ron Falletti, Jenna’s personal trainer, or Lester Hatchell. Les had purchased two of Jenna’s flicks long before his own wife had gone missing. And he wasn’t the only one, by far. Nearly everyone in the department, including Lanny Montinello and Amanda Pratt, had rented several of the movies and hell, even good old Dr. Dean Randall, Ph.D., had bought Innocence Lost and Resurrection within the last two months.

It seemed as if the whole damned town had a little piece of Jenna Hughes in their homes.

Which wasn’t such a surprise, considering what a splash it had made when she’d moved up here from Hollywood. Everyone for miles had taken a sudden interest in her and her work. A lot of the rentals and sales had occurred within the first six months of her move.

Even he had a few of her DVDs. Which was a joke. His entire collection consisted of Rocky, The Terminator, The Godfather series, and three of Jenna Hughes’s movies. He’d had more CDs and tapes at one time, but he’d donated them to the library when he’d cleaned out Carolyn’s things after the accident.

Aside from a few pictures and the home movies, he’d pitched everything after her death, as if in so doing he could erase her from his life, wipe away the pain, pretend her betrayal hadn’t existed. Hell…

His phone jangled and he picked up the receiver, but he kept one eye on the list. The stalker was on those pages, he was certain of it. Carter just had to figure out how to flush him out.

The rehearsal had been abysmal, Jenna thought, as she hiked the strap of her purse over her shoulder and walked toward the front doors of the theater. Tiffany, one of the girls in the cast, had come down with a case of laryngitis. Madge Quintanna, as Mary Bailey, had shown a range of emotion that vied with the animation of statues on Easter Island. The man playing Mary’s husband, George, had hobbled across the stage on crutches and forgotten thirty percent of his lines. The lights had flickered eerily throughout the first act

, and Rinda had snapped at Wes, who had blamed Scott.

Jenna was dead tired and already thinking about a long, hot bath and a paperback that was boring enough to put her to sleep as Blanche, carrying her satchel of sheet music, walked with Rinda and Jenna to the front door. As if reading the exasperated expression on Rinda’s face, Blanche said, “What Tiffany’s mother should do for that laryngitis is give her hot water with lemon and honey. It beats any of that over-the-counter stuff they sell at the pharmacy.”

“Hot water?” Rinda said.

“With honey. And lemon. I’ve heard that you can add whiskey to it, but I never did with my kids, didn’t believe in that. And they didn’t need it. Would you like me to call Jane? I wouldn’t mind. I know her pretty well, as Tiffany’s been taking piano lessons from me for two…or is it three years?” she asked, seeming confused for a second. “Two, I think it is—anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’d be glad to place the call.”

“If you think it’ll help, go for it.” Rinda looked at Jenna as Blanche, beaming, bustled off. Once the front doors slammed behind her, Rinda said, “I doubt if anything other than divine intervention will help now.”

“Things will get better,” Jenna said, and wrapped a scarf around her neck.

“When hell freezes over.” Rinda glanced to the windows and snapped her fingers. “Well, maybe you’re right. It’s cold enough—I think hell is freezing over as we speak.”

“I didn’t know Blanche had any kids,” Jenna said, realizing how little she knew about her coworkers and friends.

“Scary thought, huh?” Rinda joked.

“Extremely,” Jenna said with a chuckle as she and Rinda moved along the aisle between the row of pews to the front door.

At the front door Rinda paused. “We’re the last to leave, right?”

“No—I think Lynnetta was still working on costumes in the dressing room.”

“Geez, that’s right. Lynnetta!” Rinda called, her voice echoing through the apse. “Lynnetta?”

“Yeah?” a soft voice called back.

“We’re leaving now.”

Which was a blessing, Jenna thought, after that god-awful, miserable, nerve-grating rehearsal.

“Okay.” Lynnetta’s soft voice floated up from downstairs.

“You coming?” Rinda called.

“In a minute. You go on ahead. I’ll lock up.”

Rinda shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Okay,” she yelled back. “I’ll lock the door behind us. You lock it again when you leave. And turn off the lights.”

“Fine, fine,” Lynnetta said loudly, her voice echoing against the high rafters.

“The acoustics in here leave a lot to be desired,” Rinda muttered under her breath. “One more thing to fix.”