Crazy

By Ann Werner

Someone is stalking star chef Emily Simonson. That someone wants her dead, but first, that someone wants her terrified. And that someone has figured out the perfect way to do it. Aspiring actresses who bear a resemblance to Emily are being murdered and before each murder, a warning is sent. But those warnings don't tell who, where or when. Who is next? And when will it be Emily's turn to die?

CRAZY takes you into the mind of a fiendish killer who, fueled by Satanic fantasies and a mysterious Guardian, wreaks havoc in Hollywood. There's a lunatic on the loose. Who will be the final victim?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Werner
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310584398

Ann Werner

A woman always in search of experience, Ann Werner has sampled a wide range of occupations: waitress, radio advertising sales, copywriter, voiceover work, cemetery plot sales (she thought it was a dead-end job), event coordinator, packaging design, and wine consultant, to name just a few. She also worked as a professional actor, best known for her portrayal of Eliana, maid to the evil Dimera family on the NBC daytime drama Days of Our Lives. An avid reader, she always had a passion for writing and released her first novel THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR in 2000. Since then she has been busy on her other projects, which include two non-fiction books she compiled with daughter and business partner, Kimberley A. Johnson: THE VIRGIN DIARIES and AIN'T NO SUNSHINE: MEN REVEAL THE PAIN OF HEARTBREAK. In the past several years, Ann also penned three other novels: DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES, CRAZY and COOPER'S GROVE as well as two short stories: THE CHEMTRAIL CONSPIRACY and A VIEW FROM THE MEADOW. Her most recent novel, THE MELT (Book One of the After the Apocalypse), includes the first two chapters of Book Two of the series in her upcoming release, THE AUGURS. She is busy at work on her next novel.

Book preview

A Novel by Ann Werner

Also by Ann Werner

Fiction

Cooper’s Grove

Dreams and Nightmares

The People Next Door

Non-fiction with Kimberley A. Johnson

Ain’t No Sunshine: Men Reveal the Pain of Heartbreak

The Virgin Diaries

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Available in print editions at most online retailers.

Copyright 2012 by Ann Werner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

Published the in the United States by Ark Stories

Cover design by Ralph Faust

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com for your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Kimberley Johnson, my daughter and best critic. To Kathleen Diem Morrissey (who read it twice!), Steve Schultz who thrilled me when he told me how much he squirmed while reading the first incarnation and to all my other friends who took the time to take a peek into my twisted psyche. And a big shout out to our designer, Ralph Faust, for another fabulous cover!

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

JULY

PROLOGUE

THE PREVIOUS JANUARY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

APRIL

MAY

JUNE

JULY

AUGUST

EPILOGUE

Connect with Ann Werner

JULY

PROLOGUE

The shock of hitting the water was made worse by the fact of having been pushed from such a height. And it was cold. Colder than she would have imagined, had she had the time to imagine such a thing.

Emily looked around. The ship was sailing away at a fast clip.

Help!

Her cry went unheard in the inky blackness of the surrounding ocean. A swell caught her and filled her mouth with salty water.

She spit it out, desperately trying to get enough air into her lungs to make a shout loud enough to be heard. But even as she did it, she knew no one would hear. The cruise ship was pulling away fast and she was so far below the lowest deck that she knew her voice would be swept away by the night breeze, not to mention the music of the orchestra playing on board and the sound of the engines as they inexorably propelled the ship farther and farther away.

Oh god, why had she gone on deck alone? Why? When she knew there was some crazy who hated her still out there on the loose. But how could she have known that he would follow her on board? She had no idea who it was. Facing her death and her executioner still a mystery.

Tears of desperation stung her eyes. No! She was still alive and she would find a way to stay that way. She just had to remain calm. She remembered hearing a story on the news several years ago about a sailor who had fallen from the deck of an aircraft carrier. He had managed to survive for three or more days after going overboard. What had he done? Her mind feverishly tried to recall details of the news story. He’d taken off his pants and filled them with air, making a flotation device. Yes! She could do that. She could use her skirt.

She had to keep moving. Keep warm. She reached down to her waist and undid the button and then unzipped the long skirt she was wearing. Thank god it was long. It would hold a lot of air. Getting out of it was more difficult than she thought it would be, but she finally peeled it away from her body, all the time kicking her feet, treading water. She tried to wring it out but felt herself sinking as she did so and then thought how stupid it was to bother when she was in the middle of the ocean.

She tied a knot at the waistline of the skirt to close off that end of it, then gripped it firmly in both hands, separating the two sides of the garment. Taking a deep breath in case she should sink beneath the water, she heaved the skirt up over her head, gathered in as much air as she possibly could and made a large balloon. Her legs were feeling heavy from the effort of kicking and she took advantage of the buoyancy afforded by the skirt. How long would it last, she wondered.

They would come looking for her. Someone would notice her absence. The maid, when she came to tidy the cabin. But that wouldn’t be ‘til morning. Again, Emily cursed herself for venturing out alone. By then the ship would be miles away. How would they know where to look? Besides, there wasn’t necessarily any reason to suspect that she'd gone overboard. If the maid thought anything at all, which she probably wouldn’t, it would be that this passenger hadn’t spent the night in her own cabin, maybe met someone and started a little shipboard romance. Emily shook her head to empty it of these negative thoughts. They would know. They would have to know!

Who had done this to her? All these months of living in fear. She wanted to escape it for a little while. That’s all. Just a little while and now her worst nightmare had come true. Because there was no doubt in her mind that she was victim number five. Oh, yes. Maybe the method wasn’t the same, but none of the murders had been alike. She knew that whoever had been threatening her all this time—making her life a living hell—she knew that person was the one who had pushed her. Come up silently behind her and shoved her overboard into an unwelcoming ocean. As she was falling, Emily thought she’d heard a laugh behind her but she couldn’t be sure. All she was sure of was that she was alone in the water and her skirt balloon was losing air and she was getting cold and she was more afraid than she’d ever been in her life.

She wondered if there were sharks in these waters.

THE PREVIOUS JANUARY

ONE

Still basking in the afterglow of an appearance on Good Morning America, a visit back home and a Christmas season that had made her year, Emily Simonson hailed a taxi after departing the baggage claim at Los Angeles International Airport. A Yellow Cab pulled up almost immediately. The driver hopped out to open the rear door of the cab for her and stowed her luggage in the trunk.

Where to? he asked when he'd settled himself into the driver’s seat.

West L.A., she answered. Darlington Avenue.

Emily watched the passing scenery as the cab sped from the airport, headed up Century Boulevard and then turned on to the San Diego Freeway North. The day was clear and crisp, a bright winter sun streaming down from a cerulean sky, temperature somewhere in the sixties if she had to guess. All the more beautiful for having just arrived from the East Coast where it had been either snowing or raining for almost the entire time she had visited. How she hated the winters in her hometown of Baltimore! Gray and cold, they seemed never-ending. When she decided to leave and began considering places to live, Southern California won out over New York because of the weather, pure and simple.

New York. Now that had been fun. She smiled to herself and allowed a little laugh. Now she got to be on television. After ten years spent studying, paying to meet casting people and putting herself through a hundred kinds of hell, she hadn’t been able to make much of a dent in the acting business. A couple of small jobs—what were referred to in the industry as under fives, which meant less than fifty words—was all she had to show for thousands of dollars and years of her life.

She remembered the day when she had decided to hell with it. It had been a scary thing to abandon the dream she had cherished for so long and fought for so hard. But one morning she woke up and it struck her that she just couldn’t put up with the crap anymore. She loved to act but hated the feelings of frustration she was living with on a daily basis. She had lain there in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her twenty-eighth birthday was on the horizon and she was hardly any farther along than she'd been when she arrived in L.A., much against her parents' wishes, ten years before. Did she really want to continue to work a string of odd jobs, she asked herself. One day she was selling fragrance in a department store, the next day she was baby-sitting for a service she was signed up with, the next she was working a catering job. She spent half her time tracking down jobs that would allow her the freedom to audition but there were hardly any auditions. She had no medical or dental insurance. She barely made enough to take care of herself and pay for all the necessary tools of the actor. Having a photo shoot alone was a major expense, not to mention having the pictures blown up to an 8x10, then duplicated, then there were acting classes, showcases. The list went on and on. After ten years she thought she’d be making at least a modest living. But no. What would I do, she asked herself, if I turned my back on acting?

That’s when she had what she now had come to consider The Great Idea. One of the jobs that held a fascination for her was catering. Not that she liked being a waitress but the presentation of the food was something that she found fun and interesting. Every time she’d gone on a job she’d found herself thinking, I could have done that better, or I would have done this another way. That train of thought led her to another, namely how she loved the cozy, homey feeling she got whenever she smelled good food cooking. And that led to thinking about how she liked browsing around in shops dedicated to the culinary arts.

Emily had always liked to cook. She just didn’t do much of it because the temptation to eat what she cooked was too great and as an actor, staying fit was a priority, particularly if you were a woman, particularly if you were pretty. And Emily was that. In fact, she was downright beautiful; a fact she was aware of and it sometimes made her a bit uncomfortable. People were always commenting that she looked like a movie star, which was funny, considering that she could barely get an audition in a town that favored youth and beauty over talent ninety-five percent of the time. She knew she had all of the necessary ingredients but that hadn’t helped because she didn’t know the right people.

So she had lain in bed for half of the morning, thinking about what she would want to do were she not an actor and when she was finally ready to face the day, she'd come to the conclusion that she wanted to be a chef. At least for starters. Her store/restaurant would come later. First she had to convince her parents to lend her the money to go to cooking school. No, first she had to check out cooking schools and find out how much they cost. Then she would have to do the convincing. That had been seven years ago and just look at her now.

She was so lost in remembering that it was a surprise when the cab came to a stop in front of her apartment building. The driver carried her bags inside for her and she paid him, including a generous tip.

It was good to be home. Every time she went away she had the same thought. The best part of any trip was coming home again. She went to the windows and opened them, airing out the apartment that had been shut for two weeks. Then she lugged her suitcases into the bedroom and unpacked. It was easy; most of the stuff went straight to the clothes hamper, a few things hung back up in the closet. Then she took the smaller bag, which held her toiletries, into the bathroom and put everything into its regular place. Finally she stripped off her travel clothes and put on her favorite at-home attire. Sweats. The person who invented sweats should get a Nobel Prize, she thought to herself, as she went back out into the living room.

On the end table next to the sofa was a stack of mail her landlady, Mrs. Cheever, had collected for her. Emily picked through it, sorting the bills from the junk mail, the requests for money from various causes and the late Christmas cards.

There was one envelope that caught her eye simply by the anonymity of it. No return address on either side, her name and address carefully printed, block style, in pencil. It was a plain white business-size envelope, so the penciled address looked even more out of place. She held it in her hand, looking at it for a minute, puzzled by its strangeness. Then she opened it. Inside was a letter-size piece of white paper, folded in thirds. Emily opened it. One word greeted her, each letter cut from a magazine or newspaper and taped to the paper. The word was bitch.

For a minute Emily stared uncomprehendingly at the paper in her hand. Then, as the meanness of it got through to her, her fingers began to tremble and it fluttered to the floor. She picked up the envelope and looked for clues of its origin but there was only a Los Angeles postmark.

Why would someone send something like this to me, she wondered. She wasn’t the type of person who made enemies. In fact, being the kind of person who hated confrontation, she went out of her way to be kind and polite, even if someone was trying to get under her skin. A long time ago, in parochial school, one of her teachers had expanded on that old adage if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all by reminding her pupils that sometimes saying nothing was the only way to implement the Golden Rule of treating others as you would have them treat you. It had made sense to her at the time and Emily had carried that lesson with her through the years.

A slight frown etched itself into her face and she could feel the corners of her mouth turning down. With a resolute shrug she straightened her shoulders and wiped the frown from her face. Someone was just messing with her. Someone whose sense of humor wasn’t very developed. There was nothing to do about it, so she decided to ignore it. Chances were it wouldn’t happen again. She picked up the paper from the floor, balled it and the envelope and tossed it across the room at the wastebasket in the corner.

She sorted through the rest of her mail.

TWO

A little before five, Emily walked into her pride and joy, the Kitchen Witch. She co-owned the stylish bistro in the trendy Melrose Avenue shopping district of West Hollywood. Adjoining it was the Kitchen Witch Too!, a gourmet cooking shop that was Emily’s alone. The front window of the retail side of the establishment showcased her new cookbook, Recipes From the Kitchen Witch. It was the cookbook that had earned her the interview on Good Morning America.

The restaurant was nearly empty at this hour of the day but the staff was busy gearing up for dinner and the ever-present tourist trade that would be filling the place in the next couple of hours.

Hey everybody, it’s our resident television star! Phaedra Bauer, the manager, announced when Emily walked in.

In a flash the entire staff was out in the dining room giving Emily a round of applause. The lone customer looked on, puzzled, not having seen the Today episode.

Laughing, Emily took a little bow and gave her best Elvis impersonation. Thank you! Thank you very much!

I taped the show and we all watched it after work the day you were on, Phaedra told her as the rest of the employees went back to their tasks. Those last couple of days before Christmas were really busy. I don’t know if the show had anything to do with it, but I do know that we had a hell of a holiday season.

Emily smiled at her and walked through the connecting door leading to the Kitchen Witch Too!.

Well, it never would have happened without you, Phaedra. Thank you so much for shouldering all the responsibility for the store while I was gone.

Phaedra shrugged dismissively but was obviously pleased with the praise.

And to show you how much I appreciate all your hard work, I think a bonus is in order.

Emily went back into the office, sat at her desk and opened the checkbook and made out a check for five hundred dollars, then handed it to her hard working manager.

When she saw the amount, Phaedra’s eyes widened. Oh, Emily, you don’t have to do this. You and Chris already gave me my Christmas bonus . . .

Emily cut her off. I know. I know. But you know that old saying, ‘good help is hard to find’? Well, you’re the best and I want to make sure you know I know that. Besides, that was from both of us. This is for taking over the store in my absence. I only wish it could be more.

Well, thank you. I really do appreciate it. There’s a flip side to that saying. Good employers are even harder to find and I’m glad I found you.

Both women smiled at each other for a minute, then felt the awkwardness of the mutual admiration thing start to intrude.

So, how’s the book doing? Did the show help sales?

I don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to talk to my agent yet but I’m sure she’s been monitoring events in my absence. I hope it did.

Let me know what she says. It really got them moving out of here. As a matter of fact, we sold out. The ones out there now are a shipment that just came in yesterday. Phaedra looked at the clock on Emily’s desk. I’d better get out there and make sure I’m worthy of the extra bonus. She headed for the door, then turned back. Good to have you back. Oh, Happy New Year!

Emily smiled up at her. Happy New Year to you!

After Phaedra left, Emily busied herself going over the receipts and bank deposits for the time she’d been away. It was true, she mused to herself, Phaedra was a jewel and she was glad she’d found her before anyone else did. The business was doing well and she knew it was due, in large part, to the energy and enthusiasm her manager brought to the job. Phaedra was great with the other employees and a whiz at numbers, in addition to having an eye for design that always translated to the most amazing window displays. It had been Phaedra who’d come up with name Kitchen Witch for the restaurant. The name derived from a little herbal charm hung in kitchens to bring good luck. The minute she and Chris had heard the name, they knew it was the right one for the restaurant. Emily thanked the Fates for everything she had. She was a lucky woman.

After a few more minutes of perusing the balance sheets, Emily got up and headed for the restaurant kitchen where she knew she’d find Christopher Jennings slaving over a hot stove.

THREE

I wonder what she thought when she got my little belated Christmas card.

A sound that's more grunt than giggle rises up from deep inside.

She thinks she’s so fucking great. Miss Perfect. Miss I’m On Television. Miss Grab All The Attention When She Walks Into A Room. Well, we’ll see just how perfect you are when your mascara is running down your cheeks while you cry for mercy.

The mirror reflects back a maniacal grin and narrowed eyes.

I wonder what she did when she saw it.

A laugh, small, almost like a bark, erupts from the throat of the one in front of the mirror.

Was she scared? I hope she was terrified. But that was just the beginning, baby, just the beginning. You think I don’t know but I know. I know what you’ve done. You tried to hide it, tried to make me believe you weren’t even interested, but of course you were. It was all just an act. Miss Actress. Miss Failed Actress.

Now the breathing comes heavier and the hands clench into fists.

Well, we’ll see, won’t we? We’ll just see who has the last laugh.

Now the rocking begins, back and forth, back and forth, the body rocking back and forth in an unconscious rhythmic motion.

What can I do next? Got to be something just a little bit more. Got to build the suspense. Make her real nervous.

A silent laugh escapes thin lips pulled into a wide rictus grin. Little clicking sounds emanate from the throat as the laugh goes on and on, as new ideas float around in a mind seething with unreasoning hatred.

A voice calls from the other room and halts the reverie.

FOUR

Mmmm. This is delicious, Emily said as she tasted the coq au vin simmering on the stove. I’ve got some real competition here. Before you know it, you’ll be writing your own cookbook.

"Yeah, I’ll call it Recipes From the Kitchen Witch - Warlock Style."

Emily laughed at her partner, Chris. Not a bad title. You could do it, you know.

He shook his head in response. I don’t want to be sitting in front of a computer writing down my recipes and giving away all my secrets. Besides, you’re the one who’s the big celeb, not me. I don’t want to go on any television show. No way, no how. Just leave me in the kitchen.

She'd met Chris at cooking school and they’d hit it off immediately. Each found they had what others might consider an offbeat sense of humor. There were things they found hysterical while others just couldn’t seem to get the joke. She remembered the first conversation they’d ever had. There had been a heavy rainstorm the previous day and the window in Emily’s apartment had been leaking. When she called the manager of the building to complain about it and ask to have it fixed, the manager told her that he’d get a workman out when the rain stopped and, in the meantime, she should plug the hole with a raisin. The whole concept of such a solution was so bizarre that Emily just had to relate it to someone and Chris just happened to be standing next to her in class the following day. While they waited for the class to start, she’d told him the story, to which Chris responded, You should have hit him with his own logic and told him that you were saving all your raisins to make a dress.

The way he’d said it was so deadpan that it took Emily a second to realize he was joking and, when she did, she started laughing, which started him laughing and they found they couldn’t stop, even when the instructor walked into the room. They had just about gotten themselves under control when the instructor announced that the lineup of desserts they would be preparing that day included a raisin tart. It still brought a smile to Emily’s face whenever she thought of it. Chris’s knees had actually buckled and he’d slumped over the counter space in front of him, convulsed in laughter, while she had unsuccessfully tried to maintain her composure as tears streamed down her face and she gasped for breath in a fit of mirth that completely overwhelmed her. They were asked to leave the room by the angry instructor who later looked at them as if they were from another planet when they’d composed themselves enough to tender an apology and an explanation.

After the classes were over for the day, she and Chris had gone out for coffee together and found they had a lot in common. Both had studied acting. Each of them had suffered the same disenchantment, although for different reasons and they both had a thing for food. Emily laughed when Chris recounted to her the food fantasies he would indulge in as he worked out because those fantasies matched hers almost exactly. It had been the start of a beautiful friendship.

When they graduated, they stayed in touch while each went about the task of finding work in their new profession. It became immediately apparent that it was almost as hard to break into cooking professionally as it was to break into show business, at least if you wanted to work in anything other than a fast-food place or low-end restaurant. That’s when Chris came up with the idea of catering and invited Emily to partner with him. Then it was more odd jobs while they searched for clients but, sooner than they both thought it would happen, their small business took off. After only a few years there was enough money saved that they could open the Kitchen Witch, with a little financial help from both sets of parents. Their establishment had become one of the trendy places on Melrose and was doing a great business. After only a short time Emily had saved enough money to rent the adjoining space and had opened up the Kitchen Witch Too!, a kitchen accessories store that was hers alone. Phaedra managed both businesses for the partners.

I met this really great guy the other day, Chris announced as he went to the refrigerator to gather the ingredients for his next creation.

Dumped Steve in my absence? Emily asked.

Shaking his head, Chris answered. Oh, no, Steve and I are just fine. No. This guy is straight. I was thinking of you. He shot her a sly look from under his brows. He’s a lawyer, he said, in an effort to entice her.

Emily rolled her eyes and made a sour face. Who died and made you Cupid?

You don’t get out enough, girlfriend, he shot back.

With an exaggerated sigh Emily looked at him. Are you ever going to stop this?

He smiled back. Not until I see you safely ensconced in a torrid romance.

I keep trying to tell you there’s nothing safe about romance and I’m not the least bit interested at this point. Maybe I don’t even have a point anymore.

Just because you had a bad experience with . . .

Don’t even say his name! Emily cut him off. It gives me hives.

Not all men are control freaks, Chris said, thinking of Emily’s former boyfriend.

No, she agreed. Some of them are dead and the others are gay.

That’s a rather sweeping statement. And there are plenty of gay control freaks, thank you very much.

Why couldn’t they all be like you? Emily asked, inserting a lighter note into the conversation, which was now bordering on the dangerous.

Why, indeed. A question I’ve often asked myself.

He busied himself with chopping the vegetables in front of him and decided that the lawyer would have to wait until such time as Emily was more receptive.

I think you’re a little cranky after your flight. You’re still on East Coast time, so it’s later than you think.

This last was said with a twinge of irony that was lost on Emily who was fatigued by a day spent traveling.

You’re right, she conceded. I think I’ll go home, take a nice hot bath and get into bed.

Don’t forget I’ll be out of town for the next three days, Chris reminded her as she was headed for the door. Steven and I are going to San Diego for a little vacation.

She smiled at him over her shoulder. A well-deserved one.

You got that right, honey, he said and turned back to his task as Emily left the kitchen.

After she’d gone, Chris paused a moment and stared at the space she’d vacated. It just wasn’t natural for a beautiful woman like her to spend her nights alone and he couldn’t understand why she rejected all his offers of help. He shook his head, then sighed and returned to the task at hand.

FIVE

Mid-January ushered in a late rainy season that was wreaking havoc on Southern California. All of the local television stations had their own version of Storm Watch or Storm Track or whatever other different title they could come up with to document the woes of a populace accustomed to unrelenting sun and the myth that it never rains in Southern California.

Emily drove slowly down her narrow street, nearly blinded by the torrents of rain smashing into her windshield. It looked as though someone were aiming a fire hose at the front of her car. Windshield wipers had little effect against the deluge pouring from the heavens this night. It was just after nine. She’d closed up early for lack of customers and sent everyone home during a lull in the intermittent heavy downpours.

With a sigh of relief she turned into the driveway of her apartment building and parked in her assigned space. She was almost faint with fatigue. It had been a long day, beginning with an appearance on a local morning show. Her agent, Monica Porter, had called soon after her return from the East Coast and happily related that things were definitely popping since the Good Morning America appearance. The book was selling at a brisk pace and people had responded enthusiastically to Emily. All those years of training, she thought to herself as she made the dash from the car to the front door, and I wind up pushing a book on a talk