Marilyn squeaked.
«I'm sorry, Marilyn, but you can't be squeamish. Not now. We're going to win this. They know it. We know it. It's only a matter of how much and how soon. It's no compensation for losing Susan — who, I might add, was a role model for me from Meet the Blooms — but at least the money is something. »
Money was flowing into Marilyn's life from many directions at that point, and each new development, or each new recently discovered baby photo of Susan was carefully brokered with all facets of print and electronic media. She bought two new cars, a Mercedes sedan for Don, and a BMW the color of homemade cherry wine for herself. She also took out a mortgage on a Spanish mission—style house and indulged herself with clothing and jewelry, her prize being a pair of genuine Fendi wraparound sunglasses which, not five minutes after buying, she wore as she snapped arms off the fakes she'd bought years ago at a Laramie swap meet. Marilyn spent like a drunk in a casino gift shop. There was no overall scheme to her buying — she simply thrilled with the burst of power each time a piece of loot that once belonged to somebody else suddenly belonged to her.
Yet for all this, Don and Marilyn didn't speak much about Susan, mostly because long before the crash, back in 1990 after her TV show was canceled, Susan had eliminated them from her life with a finality that approached death. Marilyn truly saw no reason why Susan should be as angry about the money as she was. Hadn't Marilyn done half the work?
They'd read of Susan's marriage to Chris in the Arts & Lifestyle section of the local weekend paper. They met Chris only once, at a midnight vigil for Susan that Marilyn had staged in a Cheyenne town square (exclusive continental European photo rights to Paris Match, UK rights to Hello! magazine, U.S. and Canadian rights to the Star, film and TV rights reserved, as live footage was to be inserted into a possible A&E special about Susan to begin production the following year). Marilyn and Chris hugged for the cameras, lit candles, and bowed their heads for the cameras. All the while, Chris's young fans chanted from across the square. Afterward, Chris left and didn't speak with Marilyn again. («Guess what, Don — I think Sir Frederick Rock Star is an asshole.»)
Then came Julie's phone call one morning: «Marilyn, come to New York. It's over.» When Marilyn found out the amount, she whooped with pleasure, then immediately apologized to Julie for whooping in her ear. She tried to find Don, and did, passed out in the back corner of his favorite seedy sports bar. So that afternoon she left for Manhattan without him. The next day, with Julie, she walked down the courthouse steps and spoke with the press. That afternoon she spent $28,000 while shopping on upper Madison Avenue.
The next day Marilyn went home to Cheyenne, and the day after that she got the call from a sparkle-voiced airline PR woman about Susan's return to the living. She hung up the phone and reached for half a Shitsicle Don had left beside the phone book. Susan would be home the next morning.
Chapter Thirty-three
Back in Cheyenne's outskirts, Marilyn lurked inside her motel room with the drapes closed, the TV blaring. Vanessa and Ryan were standing behind the rental car keeping sentinel on her, while Ivan and John headed to the lobby.
Ivan called Cheyenne's airport about the jet's overnight parking and then rented rooms for the group in case they had to watch Marilyn into the evening. John was looking out the window covered in grit and credit card stickers, also scoping the door to Marilyn's room. The group reconvened at the car, where Ryan said, «I'm starved. We didn't eat lunch.»
«Me, too,» said Ivan. «I'm going to go make a burger run. There's an A&W a quarter mile back on the road.»
«Well, you can't use the car,» said John.
«What?» said Vanessa. «As if Marilyn's going to vamoose right now or something? We're all sugar crashing. It's a worthwhile risk to get ourselves properly nutrished. Get me a large fries — make sure they use vegetable oil, no lard — and an iced tea.»
John was too hungry to fight and he gave Ivan his order. As he left in the rental car, Vanessa walked up to the door of number 14, and knocked loudly. Even from a distance, the sound of blaring cartoons and commercials tumbled from the room, the windows rattling as if they possessed stereo woofers.
Vanessa's unexpected charge shattered John and Ryan's complacency, and they dive-bombed behind Marilyn's BMW.
«Hellooo …» said Vanessa, and she knocked again, louder this time. «Hellooo — Mrs. Heatherington? Fawn Heatherington?» Vanessa rapped the windowpane and then a slit in the curtains, which were yellowed, nicotine-soaked and threadbare, fluttered open. The room's door opened a crack. «Yes?» Bugs Bunny shrieked from within.
«I'm Mona. My uncle runs this place. Did you leave a twenty-dollar bill lying on the counter by mistake?» She held up the bill.
The door opened a notch wider. «Why yes, I did — how thoughtful of you.»
«Think nothing of it, Mrs. Heatherington. Wyoming hospitality.»
Marilyn plinked the bill from Vanessa's fingertips and mumbled the words «Wellthankyouverymuchgoodbye,» to Vanessa, but Vanessa stuck her foot in the door so it couldn't close. «Excuse me?» said Marilyn in a forced huff.
«Sorry to disturb you even more, Mrs. Heatherington, but — »
«Fawn. Call me Fawn.»
«Sorry to disturb you even more, then, Fawn, it's just that …» Vanessa's eyes saw the aged curtains. «It's just that for the past year I've been trying to get my uncle to buy new curtains for the units. See how ratty these are?»
«Well, I suppose, yes.»
«Exactly. If you could just mention this when you check out, it would sure help me build a stronger case. He's kinda cheap.»
«Absolutely,» said Marilyn.
The door shut and Vanessa strode over to her room, number 7. She was followed by John and Ryan, who scrambled out from behind the BMW, then beneath Marilyn's window. They came into the room and Vanessa said, «She's not alone.»
«How can you tell?» asked John.
«I heard someone rattling about in the bathroom. Even through the cartoon noise.»
«Did you see anything else in there? Clothing? Books? Magazines?»
«No. It looks like an unoccupied room.»
Ryan asked if the room was the same configuration as the one they were in, and Vanessa suspected it was. «Then come back here with me,» Ryan said. «Let's see if there's some kind of escape route we should watch for.» They walked back to the bathroom and inspected the window beside the sink.
«I don't know if that window is crawl-out-of-able,» said John.
«I think it is,» said Ryan. «Watch me.» He hoisted himself up, his stomach resting on the dusty and blackened aluminum slide rail.
«Ryan,» said Vanessa. «Get down from there.»
«No. I just want to see if — » He was cut short by the sound of Marilyn's BMW charging out of the parking lot and left, westward, onto the highway.
«Shit,» said John. He kicked a hole in the door of number 7.
«Don't be so melodramatic,» said Vanessa. «Ivan'll be back soon enough. Let's sit tight.»
«I bet she saw us behind her car,» said Ryan.
They waited outside for Ivan, and John was visibly falling apart. Vanessa asked him if he was going to be okay, and he wasn't sure if he would be. The sun was still above the foothills off to the west, but only just. Wind whistled by, and John recalled the wind, back when he'd been lost. He remembered how it never leaves the air.
Ryan tried to atone for his having distracted the trio away from Marilyn's exodus. He went up to the door of 14 and tried turning the knob. It did and the door opened. He inspected the room but found no clues.