“Is that typical tabloid behavior? To break into a celebrity’s place?”
Aimee shook her head. “No. They’re usually careful to stay on the razor’s edge of what’s legal.”
“Have you had any problems with fans? Stalkers?”
“Nothing that would worry me.”
“How would someone get inside the house?” Serena asked.
“Half the locks here don’t work. I didn’t really worry about it. Duluth isn’t L.A.”
“Do you want me to get an officer to stay outside and keep an eye on the place?”
Aimee shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t want the attention. I’ll be careful. The crew looks out for me, too.”
“Well, if you spot anything wrong, don’t wait next time. Call 911. And call me, too.”
“Thanks.”
Serena took a piece of paper out of a manila folder in her satchel purse. “As long as I’m here, do you mind if I ask you a question? I was wondering if you recognize this young woman.”
Aimee took the photograph from Serena’s hand and studied it. “Her face is a little familiar.”
“Did you see her at any of the filming locations? Or at any of the cast and crew parties?”
“Not that I recall. She’s pretty; I think I’d remember her. I feel like I’ve seen this photograph before, but I don’t think I’ve met her in person. Who is she?”
“Her name is Rochelle Wahl. Was. She’s dead.”
A shadow crossed Aimee’s face, and then she remembered. “Is she the local girl who was on the news? That’s where I saw her picture.”
“Yes, she was found dead in her backyard last weekend.”
“That’s a terrible thing, but why would you think she had anything to do with the movie?”
“I’m just covering all the bases,” Serena said.
Aimee’s eyes narrowed as if she knew that Serena wasn’t being completely honest with her. “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t see her. Is that all?”
“I do have one more question,” Serena went on. “I was wondering if you’re aware of any rumors floating around the industry about Dean Casperson.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“You tell me.”
“I think I already did tell you once before. I won’t gossip about Dean.”
“Because you’re scared of him?” Serena asked.
Aimee didn’t answer. Her defenses went up like a wall.
“One of my partners talked to an actress who had a bad experience with him when she was starting out,” Serena said.
“What kind of experience?”
“She says Casperson assaulted her,” Serena said. “He drugged and raped her.”
Aimee flinched sharply, as if she’d been struck. “If that’s true, why didn’t she go public about it?”
“You said yourself that Casperson has the power to make or break careers. This woman thought it was smarter to stay quiet.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Casperson gave you your big break a few years ago, didn’t he?” Serena continued.
“That’s right.”
Serena hesitated before going on. “Was there a price for it?”
“What are you talking about?” Aimee asked.
“We both know what I’m talking about.”
Aimee got up from the wicker chair. Her face reddened with anger, and she fought back tears. She extended her arm and pointed her index finger at the front door. “Please get out.”
“I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“Get out, Serena, just get out.”
“Whatever you want.”
Serena headed for the door, and Aimee stayed where she was. When Serena opened the front door, she looked back, and Aimee was still frozen in the living room. The actress had her face buried in her hands, and Serena watched her body quiver as she sobbed. She thought about going back to comfort her, but instead she slipped out of the house and closed the door softly behind her.
Serena wasn’t psychic.
Even so, she knew she was right. Aimee was hiding the truth about Dean Casperson.
Half an hour later, Serena met Guppo at Rochelle Wahl’s house.
She could feel the devastation in the room as they talked to Rochelle’s parents. Her father said nothing and stared down at his lap. Her mother kept a photo album locked in a fierce grip in her hands, as if someone might steal it from her. Condolence flowers filled every table, but they were already starting to wilt, giving a faded look and sour odor to the room.
“I’m not sure what you want to know,” Marilyn Wahl said. “Why are you asking questions about Rochelle? I thought the investigation was closed.”
Serena tried to figure out what to say. She didn’t want to alarm them over nothing. She didn’t want to speculate about their daughter’s death and find out she was wrong.
Guppo came to her rescue. “When a case involves the death of a minor, even an accidental death, we often have senior personnel review the details to make sure nothing was missed. This won’t take long. And trust me, I have five daughters myself. I’m sympathetic to the pain you feel.”
Marilyn sniffled but didn’t object. She was in her late thirties and attractive. Mark Wahl had the lean look of a runner. Their faces were both drawn with grief, but Serena could see the close resemblance to their daughter. She’d reviewed photographs of Rochelle, who had long reddish-brown hair, turquoise glasses over dark eyes, and a bottle-cap nose that was slightly flattened on the end.
“Can you review the time line on Saturday and Sunday for us again?” she asked. “I know you were away.”
“Yes, it was our seventeenth wedding anniversary weekend,” Marilyn said with a glance at her husband that suggested they both knew their anniversary would never be the same. “We had tickets to the Guthrie in Minneapolis, and then we stayed overnight at the Hilton. This was the first time we’d left Rochelle on her own. She was adamant about it and said we didn’t have anything to worry about. She was going to watch a Harry Potter movie marathon in her room and make microwave pizza.”
“What time did you leave on Saturday?” Guppo asked.
“Around one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Were you concerned that Rochelle might have friends over for a party or that she might go out on her own?”
Mark Wahl looked up from his lap. “Rochelle was very reliable and mature. She was fifteen going on twenty-five. She’d never given us any reason not to trust her.”
“Plus she didn’t have many friends,” Marilyn went on. “She painted and wrote and kept to herself. She was very self-contained. We were always encouraging her to find more friends, but she didn’t have a lot in common with girls her age.”
Serena thought about Cat. And about herself. It was easy to understand the kind of girl that Rochelle Wahl was. She also knew that every fifteen-year-old going on twenty-five was still no older than fifteen.
“Did you talk to Rochelle during the day?” Serena asked.
“Yes, she texted us every hour, exactly as she promised.”
“I mean, did you actually talk to her on the phone?”
Marilyn’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t think so. We never really had the chance. Just when I’d think of calling, she would text us again. I was pleased that she was being so thoughtful about it.”
Serena couldn’t help thinking that Rochelle wasn’t being thoughtful. She was being crafty.
“What did she say in her texts?” she asked.
“Nothing much. She was asking about whether we were having fun on our trip. She sent us a picture of the first Harry Potter movie on television that afternoon when she started watching. She was such a huge Dumbledore fan.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“Around eleven-thirty, she texted that she was going to bed,” Mark said. “She sent us a picture of herself in her pajamas in bed. She had this big smile, waving at us, with a little ‘good night’ emoji. Then, in the morning, we couldn’t reach her. That’s when we began to panic.”