[Concluding the epilogue... and the novel]
“You’re not recording our conversation, are you?” he asked.
Hughes stared at him a second, then laughed. “No, of course not. You’ve got nothing to worry about. She’s here to take notes for making cuts to the picture. I’m still not happy with the way it looks.” He paused again, still looking at Casey, as though trying to get up the nerve to do something.
“I think I probably owe you an apology, Casey,” he finally said. “In addition to the thanks for what you two did for Jean. I”—he paused, swallowed—“I have been told I’m kinda too proud for my own good. I let my own hurt feelings get in the way of my good judgment, back—well, you know.” Casey nodded.
“Well, I should never have fired you. I saw the work you did in that piece of—that movie Straebo made. No offense, Miss Farrell,” he added to Desiree. “You surely know how to fly a Tommy. That crash on fire was just the damnedest thing.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Desiree said. Casey said nothing. It had been nearly Christmas before his ribs stopped hurting whenever he coughed.
“I was just as much at fault, sir,” Casey said. Part of him thought it ridiculous that he should say “sir” to a man half a decade younger. But he’d known squadron leaders younger than any of the men they commanded, so perhaps it wasn’t all that ridiculous. “I could have just ignored Buckley when he tried to goad me into showing off.”
“Ah, yes,” Hughes said. “That’s another reason I invited you tonight, and seated you here. I’ve got some news about Michael Buckley.”
Now Casey was all attention. The one thing that had frustrated him more than anything else during the months following Eve’s attack on Miss Harlow—not to mention her shooting him—was the way Michael Buckley had just … vanished after flying away from Caddo Field. Grey’s interviews with Eve had made it clear that Buckley hadn’t actually laid a finger on Lily Cross; killing her had been Eve’s plan, and Eve’s deed.
But Buckley, seemingly smitten with Eve’s blond apparent-innocence, had been the one who had delivered Lily to Caddo Field, early on the Sunday morning after Alan Marshall’s party. Eve had claimed that Buckley hadn’t known of her plan to kill Lily. But after Eve had strangled the girl and browbeaten poor Hal Telford into dropping the body from a height into the Los Angeles River, it had been Buckley who’d followed her back to Hollywood to deliver the bad news to Jerry Straebo, while Eve performed her masquerade to hide the time of Lily’s death and provide herself with an alibi. If Buckley wasn’t guilty of murder, he was certainly an accessory.
Casey shifted in his seat so that he could look at Hughes. Desiree turned as well; she and he faced each other for a second before turning to Hughes. “What news?” Casey asked. “Have the police found him?”
“Yes.” Hughes drawled the word, a small, reserved smile touching his lips.
“Please tell Ben McMahon,” he went on, “that the late Mr. Buckley will not be making any embarrassing allegations now, or in the future.”
“How can you say that?” Casey began.
“Wait a minute,” Desiree said. “The late Mr. Buckley?”
Now Hughes’s smile broadened, just a bit, before he bit down on it again. “Yes,” he said. “I am saddened to have to tell you that Michael Buckley was killed in an automobile accident in West Texas early yesterday. I only learned the news this afternoon.”
“My God,” Desiree breathed.
“His parents must be upset,” Casey said carefully. He looked at Hughes, trying to look as if he wasn’t.
“I imagine they are,” Hughes said. He looked, eyes slightly glazed, past both Casey and Desiree out into some middle distance in Grauman’s auditorium. “Fortunately, he was alone in the car at the time of the accident.”
“That was fortunate indeed,” Desiree said. She sounded distracted, as though she was concentrating especially hard on something. Like not laughing, Casey thought. Or resisting the urge to scream for a cop.
The orchestra down front struck up an overture, stirring music to go with the subject matter of Hughes’s mad movie. “Well,” Hughes said, “here we go.” As if to signify that he was returning to work, he dropped his hat onto his head.
“Nice to see you here,” he said to Casey and Desiree, dismissing them. “Stay in touch. Casey, we should talk about airplanes some time. I have some ideas I’d be interested in hearing your opinion about.”
“Glad to help, Mr. Hughes,” Casey said. But Hughes had huddled with his secretary, and if he heard Casey’s words he didn’t bother with them. Casey and Desiree turned back to face the curtained screen.
Desiree leaned into him; Casey smelled the sweet spice of her perfume, and felt a delicious jolt as her lip brushed his ear. “Just,” she said, “when I thought I’d seen and heard everything that Hollywood has to offer.”
“My God,” Casey said. “Remind me never, ever, to do anything more to annoy Howard Hughes.”
“You have nothing to worry about, Casey,” she said. “You’re a pilot. He likes pilots.”
The curtains pulled back and the lights dimmed.
“Now shut up,” she said, “and let’s watch the movie.”
THE END
Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Epilogue
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