The DVD Murders
Yes, that was the dominant feature about her: gawkiness. The way she looked, the way she car¬ried herself, the way she walked, everything about her was awkward, like an ugly duckling. How she had ever won an Academy Award and been voted the top box office female star for two years in a row was a mystery. It proba¬bly had to do with this common thing. People’s tastes are all in their mouths.
Movie stars used to be something special, beautiful creatures you could look up to and long to be like. Nowadays they looked like someone who rang up your groceries in the supermarket or flipped burgers in a fast food chain. They were absolutely boring on screen. Why would anyone pay good money to go see them? He continued to watch her until he thought she might become aware of him and then he turned away and pretended to be interested in his book. After all, she was a movie star and he didn’t want her to think he was simply another star-struck fan who was in awe of her because she was rich and famous.
He waited until she went by, and then he closed his book, re¬moved his glasses, and put them into the pocket of his kaki shorts. As he stood up, the pen he had in the breast pocket of his polo shirt fell to the ground. After he picked it up, he followed her up the walk.
She had gone into the sand box and was pushing a little blonde boy about two years of age in a bucket swing. Her son, if he re¬membered correctly from the Web. The nanny stood dutifully by. The actress didn’t have a bad body. He had to give her that. She was slim and had a tight butt that nicely rounded out her jeans. He had read someplace that she had been so bad when she had made her first picture that the director had had to nurse her through the entire shoot, spoon-feed her line readings for every bit of her dia¬logue. That was the film that had made her a box office star. Now a dozen or so pictures later they said she was a spoiled brat, a de¬manding, temperamental bitch who drove everybody on the set crazy. That’s what success can do to you. Just like a lot of them, she quickly forgot how it was and how she had begged and prayed for a part, any part, when she was a struggling, unknown actress.
He kept an eye on her as she let the little boy climb over the mock fire truck, bounce on a painted rocking horse and climb up and go down the winding slides. She seemed like a nice enough mother and looked as if she truly enjoyed her son. But he didn’t want to go there, and he forced himself to think of some¬thing else. Finally, she left the tot with the Latino nanny, walked to the bench where her stroller was parked, took a book from the back and sat.
It was absolutely amazing how no one said anything to her or bothered her in any way. He could tell by the way people stole glances at her that they knew who she was, alright, and were dying to talk to her. He sat there on the bench and acted as if he didn’t even know she was there. He didn’t have to worry. She seemed totally immersed in her book. After awhile, when he began to think maybe it was a lost cause or he might have try something reckless, to his surprise and delight, she got up and called the nanny over. She then went around the perimeter of the sandbox and headed for a hollow where there were a couple of tables and an outdoor grill for picnickers. His heart leaped with joy. He glanced at his Timex: 11:32. Now was his chance.
Instead of following her down into the gully, he went around the curve in the paved walk to where he could see not only what she was doing, but whether anyone was coming or going on the street or the sidewalk, as well as what was behind him. He then sat down and pretended to retie his shoes. He watched her stroll across the grass, sit down at a picnic table, look around and open her book.
All of a sudden he was so nervous he couldn’t tie his shoe. His fingers had stiffened up and the loop kept slipping away from them when he came around with the end of the lace, not once but several times. His heart puttered like a motorboat and his stomach felt as if it was pumped full of hot air. The walk was perfectly clear, not a soul in sight. There was nothing to his right or behind him. He had better hurry while he had the chance. He had better do it if he was going to do it. It was now or never.
He picked up his novel and started down the slope into the hol¬low. It was too steep, however, and he was afraid he might fall. He quickly backtracked and went down the cement walk, the way she had gone.
His mind spun like a whirligig and the hot air from his stomach had rushed up and come to a burning point in the center of his chest. He hated to do it. Yet she didn’t give a damn about him or anybody like him, so why should he care about her? Hell, he did¬n’t even know her. He moved stiffly, put one foot in front of another like a march. When he approached her she half-turned, took him in and then went back to her book. He stole one last quick glance around him. Every¬thing was holding up. It was either her or him.
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