VC04 - Jury Double by Edward Stewart Page B

dollars. With Kyra’s pills, she might be able to finish that TV movie tonight. She hated to take her sister’s money, but the fact was, Kyra was rich and Anne was flat broke.
    “Please, Annie.” Kyra began crying softly. “I need you.”
    Anne felt the old familiar knives twisting inside her. She realized it wasn’t a question of deciding. It was a question of accepting what had to be done. “Don’t be a silly baby. Of course I’ll help you. On one condition: Could you feed the goldfish and water my plants?”
    “I’ll water them with champagne.”
    Oh, God. She probably will. “Plain water—please.”
    Anne’s mailbox was stuffed with junk mail. Riding up in the elevator, she glanced through the return addresses. She recognized appeals for contributions from spokesmen for orphans, for the homeless, for Channel Thirteen; a half dozen offers of unwanted charge cards; and a slender envelope from the New York City Department of Finance, stamped THIRD AND FINAL NOTICE . Notice was spelled “notce.”
    She let herself into the apartment, hung up her raincoat over the bathtub, and fed the goldfish. One seemed to be trying to swim upside down.
    There was a message on the answering machine—a hurry-up call from her producer. “Where’s the tape? The sponsors want to see the finished reels ASAP.”
    She put the last of the vegetarian lasagne in the microwave and sat down at her worktable. A message on the computer monitor indicated she had e-mail. She called up the file.
Tuesday Sept 17:
Hi Aunt Anne!
It was fun seeing you.
Mom says you’re saving her life. I have a question though: why does Mom’s life always need saving? Yours never needs saving. Not criticizing, just wondering.
Let’s see a movie soon. Just you and me.
Iove you
XXX
Toby
    She entered Toby’s electronic mail address and typed a reply.
Hi Toby-
It was fun seeing you too. “Saving life” is a figure of speech. Your mom has helped me out of some very close scrapes.
I’d love to see a movie with you—I’ll be pretty busy for the next few weeks. How about next month? But please, no more kick-boxing! Hope Max feels better soon.
lots of love
A.
    She entered the command to send. While her modem quietly clicked and buzzed, she loaded her Scoremaestro program.
    The biggest scene still to be scored was the final sequence—the lovers’ decision to part and return to their respective spouses. Renunciation seemed to be a big theme in TV movies this season, like cancer two seasons back. Anne tried different keyboard stops, looking for a sound that suggested faith without being churchy or pompous. Finally she opted for a series of floating hymnlike chords played on an alto harmonica. She edged them in echo and laid a subliminal pulse underneath, like a heartbeat.
    A bell in the kitchen summoned her. She stopped the VCR and took her lasagne out of the microwave. While she ate, she studied Leon’s AT&T bills. The calls highlighted in pink had come out gray on the photocopies.
    She got the phone directory and consulted the map of area codes and time zones. The 203 number was Connecticut, the 912 Georgia. The hands of the electric clock on the wall pointed to eleven-thirty—too late to phone East Coast numbers.
    The 214 number was Texas, probably Dallas. Texas was central time; it was only ten-thirty there. She lifted the phone and dialed.
    Ten rings. No pickup.
    The 312 number was Chicago. Central time again.
    Four rings. An answering machine picked up. The woman’s voice in the recorded message had a young quality. “And please remember to wait for that signal.”
    There was a beep.
    “I’m sorry to trouble you.” Anne’s throat was suddenly very dry. “My name is Anne Bingham. I’m Leon Brandsetter’s daughter. I need to speak with the person who received a nuisance call from my father. It’s urgent.” She left her number. “Thank you.”
    The fifth number—213—was Los Angeles. It was only 8:30 out on the West Coast. She