Dial Emmy for Murder (27 page)

As I took another peek, I winced.

“How did they get the paint right there? Awkward.”

Talk about an assault to the senses. We had just stepped out of the limo and into the most flamboyant, intense party in the world. We were at the infamous Playboy Mansion. I hadn’t been here since I was in my early twenties. The main house was a “traditional” Tudor-style mansion. But tonight was the annual Halloween bash. Tombstones lay scattered across the sprawling lawn and bodies squirmed to free themselves from their graves. There were cobwebs hanging from the windows and doors. Giant ghouls and ghosts (people on stilts) walked the grounds, chasing half-naked women.

In front of the mansion by the driveway was a large haunted house Hugh Hefner set up every year. A line of about forty people waited to get in. I’ve heard it takes a good week to put together but is well worth the wait. Everyone I had talked to said it was the most frightening haunted house they’d ever experienced. I was trying to take it all in when I heard my name.

“Hey, Alex! Nice outfit!” she said, sarcastically.

“Hi, Shana. I know, I know. I ordered it online. Not exactly like the picture.”

I knew I had to get sexy for Hef’s party, so I had found this Little Bo Peep outfit. It seemed like a good idea at the time. How was I supposed to know there’d be so many ruffles? I didn’t feel particularly sexy with a pile of blonde ringlets on my head and the big blue bow on my butt, not to mention petticoats jutting out and knocking everything over in my path. I was carrying a staff, just to finish off the look. George thought it would be funny if he went as a sheep. Get it? Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep? I wasn’t thrilled with the idea but George had really pushed for it. He’s my best friend and hairdresser—he’s brilliant at both. Although sometimes his idea of what is funny can be a little questionable.

First of all, he’s only five feet four inches tall and when not on a diet tends to lean a little toward chubby. He had on a full-body sheep costume complete with a headpiece tied under his chin. It was made of faux fur that was white and tightly curled. His nose was even painted black. He looked like Richard Simmons on acid. He looked like a cotton ball that had been shoved into a light socket. He looked like he was the crazy, gone-wrong entertainment at a kids’ party. He looked like . . . oh, you get it.

Shana Stern, on the other hand, was an old pro. An ex-Playmate, she obviously had been to the mansion many, many times. She was wearing a barely there devil outfit. So were about fifty other women. Bobbing up and down across the lawn was a sea of devil horns. I didn’t personally know any devils who wore thongs but apparently they do at Hef’s parties. Shana was pushing forty but, God bless her, she could still pull it off. Tasteful? I’m not so sure. You know that saying? Just because you can doesn’t mean you should!

“Well, I’m glad you guys could make it! And George, you’ve outdone yourself. But couldn’t you have toned it down a bit? Look around! There aren’t a lot of gay guys here. At least none that are out of the closet.”

“Honey, this place has seen it all but they’ve never seen the likes of me. I figured go big or go home.
Baaa!
”

“Thanks for inviting us, Shana. This’ll be fun.”

Shana was the newest cast member on my show,
The Bare and the Brazen
. She hadn’t been on the show that long but we had become friends despite our personality differences. She had a bit of an inner diva but I liked her anyway. She had a sweet side to her too.

“Let’s go get hammered!” Shana said. She grabbed my hand and I grabbed George’s, uh, hoof and off we went.

 

As we entered the massive foyer, we saw every kind of costume imaginable. Most of the women were in angel, devil, maid or fairy costumes. Sexy was the name of the game and there was no shortage of bare flesh, even if originality was lacking.

Shana dragged me outside to the backyard, which was the size of a football field. It was covered completely by a massive tent.

“Ow! Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry!” My stiff crinoline had taken out some guy, but it wasn’t just any guy; it was actor Matthew Perry. And he was chatting with talk-show guy Bill Maher. Neither looked at each other while they talked. More like scoping out the hundreds of women. I couldn’t fault them, though. This place was very distracting, with a four-to-one ratio of women to men.
Naked
women to
clothed
men.

Music pounded from the multitude of speakers. Four girls dressed only in body paint were dancing on the stage in cages.

“Oh my God! That’s Paris Hilton!” George gasped. I turned and, sure enough, Paris had jumped up on the stage and was doing an impromptu cage dance.

“Wow, she looks . . . cute.” In a fairy costume. Of course.

Just as we were approaching one of five bars on the premises, we heard, “Miss Stern? Miss Stern?” A man pushed a beautifully wrapped gift basket into Shana’s arms.

“Oh, sweet Jesus! Not you again. Security!” Shana yelled. Loudly.

“Wait! Miss Stern! I just wanted a photo with you. Please. One photo.” He held up his camera phone. Real cameras were strictly banned from Hef’s parties.

“What’s the matter, Shana?” I asked.

“This guy’s a stalker. I’ve been getting ten letters from him a week for the last two years. He’s not supposed to be anywhere near me!” As she spoke she put me in between her and the man. Having had my own share of psycho stalkers, I was nervous, so I grabbed George and used him as a buffer.

“Hey, missy . . . I know what you’re do—” Before George could finish his sentence, two extremely buff security guards jogged up.

“Sorry, Miss Stern. We don’t know how he got in!” the tall blonde one said.

“But that’s your job, isn’t it?” she berated them. “Aren’t you supposed to know these things? Aren’t you called ‘security’ exactly for that reason?” I understood that Shana was upset, but it seemed to me she was coming down on these guys a little too hard.

“Perhaps they should call you ‘morons.’ Would that be more appropriate?” The security guards didn’t look too happy, especially since people had started to gather around. It was embarrassing.

“I’m really sorry, Miss Stern. I just wanted one photo. I’m harmless—I swear.” The stalker was still trying to take a photo of her even as he was being led away.

“There are so many weirdoes in the world and too many idiots. Now I really need a drink!” Shana said as she dumped the gift basket into the closest trash bin.

“Three shots of tequila, with salt and lime. Make mine a double. And don’t take too long!” Shana shouted to the bartender. He gave her a look that would have stopped most people cold. Her inner diva wasn’t so inner anymore. It had reared its ugly head. I turned around to face her.

“Hey, I know the stalker thing can be upsetting, but you don’t have to be so rude. And a double? Isn’t that a little hard-core?” I asked quietly.

I finally got a good look at her and could see from her demeanor this wasn’t the first shot she’d ordered tonight.

Shana ignored me. “Hey, George.” She was suddenly slurring. “Could you pleashe go and check out the grotto? It’sh over there behind the buffet. That’sh where everyone usually ends up naked at around three ay em. See if anyone is starting early, huh?”

George looked at me with a raised eyebrow, knowing he was being brushed off. I shrugged, not knowing what was up with her.

“Sure, honey. I’ll be right back. Save me that shot.”

George and I exchanged a glance and off he went, wagging his tail behind him.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked her. The bartender set down the three shots and Shana tossed back her double without hesitation. The movement caused her to stagger.

“Whoa, take it easy.” I put my arm around her. “Are you okay?”

“You have no idea what it’sh like, Alex. No idea. I can’t talk to anyone. And I mean anyone. You think I asked you here just as a friendly invitation?” She brushed away a strand of bleached blonde hair that had gotten stuck in her lip gloss. “I’ve got a big problem. I didn’t know who elshe to talk to. At work, umm, you seem nice. You know, normal?” Now that might be a stretch, but I guess everything is relative.

“Well, sure, Shana. If you’re having a problem, I’m happy to talk to you. Is it about that stalker? I do have some experience dealing with guys like him.”

“No! It’sh not about that stupid jerk.” She spit the
J
in my face. I flinched. “Just listen. I know your boyfriend is a cop, right?” She was referring to Detective Frank Jakes. Boyfriend always sounds strange at this stage of life but he was a boy and he was my friend. Oh, whatever.

“Yeah, he’s a detective with the LAPD. Why? Are you in legal trouble?”

“It’s more than that. Much more.” She was really nervous and kept looking over her shoulder, sucking on her lower lip.

“Okay, soooo—” But before she could answer, a very tall wood nymph interrupted us. I guess she was a wood nymph. She had leaves strategically placed on her green-painted body and a head covered in leaves and flowers. Maybe she was a tree branch. Or a green tomato worm.

“Shana! There’s a photographer taking pictures of all the Playmates from the eighties in the dining room. You were Miss September 1986. We need you!”

“Oh, for chrissakes. Just do it without me, can’t you? I’m busy!” Shana snapped. “I’m talkin’ to someone.”

“You don’t have to be so mean.” Wood Nymph seemed hurt, and yet I got the impression she was used to this side of Shana.

“We need you. We have all the girls from ’eighty-six but you. Except one. It’s important to Hef.”

“Like Hef could give a shit!” Shana clearly didn’t want to go but “duty” called. She took George’s shot and tossed it down the hatch. Geez, she could drink. But could she stand?

“I’ll be right back and I’ll tell you . . . everything.” She had a crazed look in her eyes. She pointed her finger at me and again said, “I’ll be right back! Twenty minutes or so. Okay? Right back.”

She took her fingers and plumped up her teased hair, licked her lips and put on a well-worn Playmate pout. She and Wood Nymph made their way through the crowd on their wobbly stilettos, heading back toward the mansion. I didn’t know then that Shana’s fanny, covered in red fishnet pantyhose, would be the last I’d ever see of her . . . alive.