Death of a Blue Movie Star

to get up. I made breakfast.” She was about to add, Like a good wife, but figured why give Cheryl a plug? “We do the final cut of that House O’ Leather job today. The one I told you about? I’ve got to be at work in an hour.”
    “Rune,” Healy called again, “come here. There’s something I want to show you.”
    “I burned toast just for you.”
    “Rune.”
    She hesitated, then stepped into the bathroom and brushed her hair, then sprayed on perfume. Rune knew a lot about men in the morning.

 
    CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
     

    She didn’t intend her life to be violent. She certainly didn’t intend to die violently. But Shelly Lowe was an addict—addicted to the power that the films she made brought her, addicted to that raw urge that perhaps all artists feel to expose herself, in every sense, to her audiences
.
    And just like for all addicts, Shelly ran the risk that that power would overwhelm her
.
    She understood that risk, and she didn’t back away from it. She met it and she lost. Caught between art and lust, between beauty and sex, Shelly Lowe died
.
    Carved into her simple grave in a small cemetery in Long Island, New York, is the single line: “She lived only for her art,” which seems a fitting epitaph for this blue movie star
.
    FADE OUT To:
    CREDITS
…
    “What do you think?” Rune asked Sam Healy.
    “You wrote that?”
    Rune nodded. “It took me a hundred tries. Is it too, you know, flowery?”
    Healy said, “I think it’s beautiful.” He put his arm around her. “Is it ready to go?”
    “Not hardly.” Rune laughed. “I’ve got to find a professional announcer to do the voice-over, then spend about three weeks editing it all together and cutting about ten hours of tape down to twenty-eight minutes. Shooting was the fun part. Now the work begins…. Hey, Sam, I was thinking. Anybody ever done a documentary about the Bomb Squad?”
    He kissed her neck. “Why don’t you call in sick today. We can talk about it.”
    She kissed him quickly, then rolled out of bed. “I’m already in the doghouse with Larry and Bob. I didn’t bring in fresh croissants the other morning.”
    “This is for House O’ Leather? Is that name for real?”
    “I just make the commercials. I’m not responsible for the client’s poor taste.”
    She finished her coffee. She sensed him looking at her.
    No, it was more of a stare.
    No, it was worse than that; it was one of those sappy gazes that men give women occasionally—when they get overcome with this
feeling
, which they think is love though it usually means they’re horny or guilty or feeling insecure. You can die of suffocation under one of those gazes.
    Rune said, “Gotta go.” And started toward the door with a coquettish smile that sometimes had the effect of throwing cold water on men who were sloppy drunk on love.
    “Hey,” he said in a low way that made him sound like a cop.
    I’m not going to stop. Keep it cool. Keep the distance. There’s no hurry.
    “Rune.”
    She stopped.
    What I’ll do is wink at him, on my way out the door, all flirty and bitchy.
    “Come here for a minute.”
    Wink, girl. Come on.
    But instead she walked back to him slowly. Deciding that she wasn’t really
that
late….

     
    Rune sensed it the moment she walked into the office, and what she noticed was not a good feeling.
    Rune hung her coat up on the peeling, varnished rack and glanced around.
    What was it?
    Well, first: The mail was still on the floor. Larry usually carried it to Cathy’s desk—well, Rune’s desk now—and looked through it.
    And there was the coffee machine, which Larry always got going right away, but which was now unplugged and wasn’t giving off its usual sour, scorched smell.
    And there was Bob.
    Who was already in the office—at 9:45! Rune could see him though the bubbly-glass partition.
    Something big was up.
    Two heads moved, distorted by the fly’s-eye effect of the glass. Larry was in too but
that
wasn’t unusual. Larry always got in early; he was afraid client checks would dissolve if he didn’t pick them up early.
    “It’s ‘er.” The voice was soft, but came clearly over the partition.
    Her
. That tone was not good.
    “Right. Less ’ave a talk.”
    The door opened and Larry motioned to her. “Rune. You come in for a minute?”
    She walked into the office. They both looked tired and rumpled. She began an inventory of recent screwups. It was a long list but included mostly minor infractions.
    “Rune, sit