Dial Emmy for Murder (2 page)

The Kodak Theatre was a fairly new award venue and part of a very large and expensive attempt to overhaul Hollywood Boulevard. They had done a good job. There were various floors with bars, restaurants and shops connected to the theater.

I gingerly walked down the aisle, being careful not to trip on my train, and found my seat in the front row.

“Hi, Elmo!” Now, that was exciting. Elmo from
Sesame Street
was sitting in my row. Well, the great Kevin Clash and his alter ego, Elmo. I had to get a photo with the famous puppeteer. My five-year-old daughter, Sarah, would be thrilled.

“Hey, Alex.” I looked over and saw Lisa Daley smiling at me from the
Yearning Tide
section.

“Hey, Lisa. How are you?” Lisa was one of the few people on
The Tide
who had remained my friend after I left the show. Some of the other actors, though, guiltily looked away. My feelings had been hurt when I learned how many people had thought I was capable of actually killing another human being. But I guess in hindsight I couldn’t blame them, really. It had looked pretty bad.

The head writer had given me a very hard time, trying to get me written off the show. A shouting match started between us that was witnessed by, um, everyone in the production office. And then that same writer ended up bludgeoned to death with her Emmy. If the situation had been reversed, I probably would have thought the same thing.

“Take your seats, people. We’re counting down to live television! One minute . . . one minute.”

Chapter 2

The stage manager ran up to me in a panic, which is never good with one minute left.

“Ms. Peterson, could you please come backstage and get ready to present? Have you seen Mr. Masters?”

“No. You still haven’t found him?”

I scanned the room. We were presenting the first award. This was cutting it close even for Jackson. I grabbed my train and hustled backstage into all the commotion. Hair and makeup sat me down in a chair facing a portable makeup station complete with fifteen blazing-hot lightbulbs. They gave me the once-over with powder and hairspray.

There was a mad dash as stragglers took their seats. As I moved to the wings, a sudden loud explosion of music enveloped the stage.

“Thirty seconds . . . twenty seconds. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three and we are live!”

I’ve often wondered why they bothered counting down when they never seemed to get to number one.

“Welcome to the thirty-ninth annual Daytime Emmy Awards, hosted by Rachael Ray and Jerry Springer.” Thunderous applause erupted for the two stars.

There must have been at least three thousand fans seated in the theater, and as Rachael and Jerry walked onto the stage, they burst into cheers and applause.

“Welcome,” said Rachael. “Tonight is going to be an exciting evening, isn’t it, Jerry?”

“Yes, Rachael, it is. And it’s my pleasure to be host ing this illustrious event with someone as lovely and charming as you.”

“Oh, thank you, Jerry. Looking out at the crowd, I see the finest in daytime television are here. All the talk shows, game shows, children’s shows, cooking shows and, of course,
the
best of the best in daytime dramas are being represented.”

“Well, then, let’s get to it, Rachael.”

“Yes, let’s. Our first presenters are one hot couple. She’s proven that forty really is the new twenty. And if that’s true, then he’s proof that twenty must be the new embryo. From
The Bare and the Brazen
, it’s two-time Emmy winner Alexis Peterson and the gorgeous newcomer Jackson Masters.”

Who wrote this stuff, anyway? I hesitated. More important, should I go on without Jackson or what? I looked at the stage manager questioningly for direction. The producer of the event, Dave Crane, ran up to me.

“Alexis! Just go without him. Make sure to read his part of the cue cards. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, Dave, of course. . . . I’ll do my best.”

I carefully walked out onto the top step of the epic staircase and into the mouth of this huge theater. An explosive burst of applause and screams greeted me from the balconies and arena seating, where all the fans were going wild. Without Jackson to lean on for support, I knew it would take every fiber of my being not to trip on my train as I tried to make it down twelve perilous steps to finally get to the stage. I took my time as I cautiously felt my way down the stairs, smiling and looking as if I did this in four-inch heels every day of my life. Why did I wear this stupid dress with this stupid train? Oh, yeah: it was worth ten thousand dollars. And it was free.

I took the last step. I made it. I sighed with relief as I approached the microphone that was poking out of the stage floor.

“Good evening. I’m here to present the award for Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Drama Series.” I looked behind me one last time. No Jackson. “Unfortunately, my costar is nowhere to be found! Probably somewhere doing push-ups, ha-ha! You think he was born with that six-pack?” Not so great but the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Give me a break! I was thinking on my feet. I quickly looked at the next cue card and read Jackson’s lines.

“The nominees for Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Drama Series are . . . Jamie Martin,
The Best Days Are Ahead
.” I paused as they ran a quick clip of each actor’s work. “Thad Weber,
The Depths of the Sea
. Don Duncan,
The Tears of Tomorrow
. Roman Stroud,
The Yearning Tide
. Vance Mckenzie,
Too Late for Yesterday
. And the winner is . . .”

As I began to open the envelope, I felt something drip on my nose. I knew I was sweaty, but this was ridiculous. I quickly brushed off my nose. Weird. My fingers were red. I glanced at them quizzically and then it registered. Blood! I looked up. Something was hanging in the rafters far above the stage. Slowly my mind wrapped around what I was seeing. A body.

And a dead one at that.

Just as the horror set in, the body disengaged from whatever it was hanging from and dropped several feet. Poised in midair, still attached to a chain, it began to spin around and around . . . and then it dropped again.

Right next to me.

Right where Jackson was supposed to be. The crowd sat stunned. I tried not to but couldn’t help looking at the distorted, bloated face.

It was Jackson!

Chapter 3

This wasn’t at all how I had foreseen the day going that morning when I started to get ready for the Emmys.

It had been a beautiful Friday morning in Venice Beach. The beach wasn’t yet crowded. Even though it was the middle of June, people hadn’t quite started the mad rush. My new show,
The Bare and the Brazen
, had gone dark, meaning we didn’t have to work that day. This allowed actors time to get ready for the biggest show of the year. And believe me, it took some time. I had begun the day around ten a.m. by going down Washington Boulevard, around the corner from my place, to a little nail salon. Two of the girls, Ki and Luann, gave me a mani-pedi. As I was having my feet massaged, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. This was a luxury I just didn’t indulge in very often, I guess because I liked to think of myself as fairly low maintenance. Maybe I needed to rethink that! By noon I was back home, standing in my bikini in my living room, slowly going around in a circle as one of the makeup artists from the show, Bobby, sprayed me with a tan. Yeah. Cancer free, takes five minutes, instant gratification, California tan. Sort of. Bobby worked on the show as a makeup artist and also free- lanced as an airbrusher. You need a tan quickly? Call Bobby. It cost about a hundred bucks, but, hey, I could write it off. And it looked so good in photos.

Once Bobby finished with the spraying, and we finished coughing up the fumes, he took out his makeup kit and started dabbing on some foundation with a sponge. One-stop shopping. Tan and makeup all in one. We decided to go with smoky eyes. A little dark liner under the eye and dark shadow blended on the top, and a pale lip. Very Brigitte Bardot. Or, if not done properly, very Rocky Raccoon. I thanked Bobby and wrote him a check for four hundred dollars. He wished me luck, saying he’d be watching tonight’s show. As he was leaving, George was walking up. Georgie is my best friend. He had also been my hairdresser on
The Yearning Tide
.

“Here he is, the Emmy Award-winning hairdresser himself.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now maybe you’ll give me some respect.”

George had just won an Emmy the week before for Hairstyling at the Creative Craft awards held at the Sheraton in Universal City.

“I am so proud of you. You certainly deserve it,” I said as I hugged him. “Now, enough about you—what about me? Or rather, what about my hair?”

“It’s got to be up, sweetie. It’s so fucking hot outside! Wait, I have something for you.”

George had a case I thought was for curlers and spray, but instead of hair products he pulled out a little martini shaker and two glasses.

“You have got to be kidding. Martinis, at two in the afternoon?”

“What? It’s the Emmys. It’s basically just one big party. And besides, the show tapes early in LA and live to New York, which is three hours ahead. That means it’s really five o’clock. Cocktails!”

I hesitated before saying, “Oh, what the hell. I’m not driving,” and grabbed a glass. “But just a little.”

I sat down and Georgie started to work his magic.

“What the hell is this thing?” He had picked up a hair dryer I had brought out. It kind of looked like Buck Rogers’s ray gun.

“What? I got that from the Emmy gift room the day before yesterday.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. What else did you get?”

“Oh, nothing. Well, just some perfume. And two pairs of designer shoes. Oh, some underwear by Spanx. A juicer and a George Foreman Grill.”

“Is that it?” he asked with a smirk.

“Actually, no. I also got a gift certificate to a Beverly Hills spa, a six-month gym membership, a vacuum cleaner and a five-day trip to Cancun.”

“Unbelievable! The people who need the least get the most.”

He was joking. I thought.

“Now, c’mon. Don’t be bitter. You’re just jealous! Besides, I think we have to pay taxes on these ‘gifts’ now. And I do share. In fact you can take that fancy hair dryer with you, if you’re nice to me.”

“It’s a deal!” He grabbed it and put it in his case.

We laughed and talked about this crazy business we were in until the doorbell rang. I got up and there was my stylist, Mara, holding a humongous garment bag and a smaller bag from Van Cleef & Arpels.

“Ooh, I wanna see!” Georgie shouted as I unzipped the bag. It was a true unveiling. I slowly lowered the zipper and carefully pulled out the padded hanger, revealing a caramel-colored silk chiffon creation of fabulousity.

“Wow! That is gorgeous.” I was truly blown away. “And the Jimmy Choos. Oh, my Lord.” I would tell you about them, but how do you begin to describe a pair of shoes of such sublime beauty? Thankfully I didn’t have many addictions anymore. I’d given up cigarettes years ago and bad boys shortly after that. But shoes? Never! The jewelry was gorgeous as well. A big gold diamond cuff for my wrist and matching diamond drop earrings. Kind of nerve-wracking wearing them. I’d have to sell the house if anything got lost.

I wrote yet another check to Mara for finding the shoes and for making arrangements for the loan of the dress and jewelry. Jeez. Getting stuff for free was expensive.

“Remember, Alexis! I’ll be backstage after the show to get the jewelry. I have to return it to Beverly Hills tonight.”

“You got it, Mara. Unless I try to make a run for it. Ha-ha.” She wasn’t laughing as she walked out the door.

“You are a vision!” George said as he led me to the mirror. “Now, put the dress on. What time is your limo coming?”

Just then I heard a knock at the door and Connie came bursting in.

“Doll! We gotta go. We’re gonna be late. We don’t want to miss the red carpet. All the press is there but they close the doors of the Kodak Theatre at four thirty. The traffic. Ahhh. It’s gonna be bad.” My manager and date for the evening took a much needed breath before noticing I was still in a fluffy pink robe. “Oh, my God. What are you doing? Get your dress on.”

George and I looked at each other and then he went over to her and firmly placed what was left of his martini in her hand.

“Get a grip, Connie. You have lots of time. Drink up.”

Connie started to protest and then thought better of it and took a gulp. “Wow. That’s nice.” She put the glass down. “Let’s go.”

I went into my bedroom, carrying the dress and shoes, and quickly threw them on. As I walked backed out into the den, I tripped over the train. A sign of things to come.

“Wow, Al! Nice,” Connie said. “Really gorgeous. What a gown. I see best-dressed lists in your future. We got to go!”

“You look great, sweetie. And your hair.” George put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.

He turned to look at Connie and frowned.

“You, on the other hand . . .” He quickly grabbed a rat-tail comb, and within thirty seconds Connie went from looking disheveled, hot and sweaty to a mixture of a Kim Novak and Amy Winehouse look-alike with a gorgeous French twist. “Now, about the makeup—”

“I’ll touch up the makeup myself.”

“I’m not talking about touching it up, darling,” he said. “I’m talking about toning it down.”

“Nobody tones me down, sweetie,” she said, “so don’t even go there. Thanks for the help with the hair, but back off.”

“Gladly,” George said, holding up his hands. “Wouldn’t want to offend Miss Congeniality.”

“Aww, sweetheart,” she said, smiling up at my friend, “jealous ’cause you want to wear my crown?”

“There ain’t one inch of you I’m jealous of . . .
sweetheart
,” George shot back, “especially those extra inches on your butt.”