"That's all right," Editor Gray said mildly. "Perhaps she needs professional help. Have you considered that, my dear?"
But Amanda was staring at Bass. She stared at his penetrating eyes, his broad shoulders, at the curl of hair combed low over his forehead. The curl was swirled left, not right.
The tweedy man took her arm, guided her from the building and nudged her into the car.
Do they curl a dead actor's hair differently, she wondered. She had killed them. Why weren't they dead?
When they reached her house, it was completely dark. Either Dell and Kippie had gone to bed or the Wall had been replaced and was playing.
"I'm sorry I had to bring you away so abruptly," the tweedy man said. "We can't afford to have the press print unfavorable reports about the force, you understand." He fingered his pipe. "Now, Mrs. Davis, get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll realize it was all a bad dream. You wouldn't kill the stars."
Woodenly she walked up the front walk. Hearing Bass's mellow voice from the Wall room, she knew Kippie and Dell were up.
She entered the room. Kippie sat curled on the Wall seat.
Amanda stared at the handsome face on the Wall. Bass McDowall, Wall idol. Why wasn't he dead?