Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (13 page)

“The kid in the mailroom?”

She nodded. “He thinks he can get me a movie-of-the-week.”

“That’s great! And you said you’d never work again.”

But Kandi seemed strangely unenthused.

“So why aren’t you doing handsprings?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you why. Because the movie’s called
Unjustly Jailed
.”

Uh-oh. Cancel the champagne and caviar.

“His exact words were: ‘The sitcom scene’s looking pretty bleak right now, Kandi, but I think I can get you a movie if they arrest you.’”

She plopped down on the sofa with a groan.

“Between the movie-of-the-week and Ramon’s multimillion-dollar lawsuit, I should be in great shape when they finally let me out on parole.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re not going to jail.”

“Yeah, right. Just remember to bake me a cake with a file in it. Make it a fudge cake with white icing. That’s one good thing about prison. I won’t have to worry about calories.”

“Kandi, I swear. You’re not going to jail.”

“I’ll believe it when you find the killer. Speaking of which, how’d it go with Wells last night?”

“Not very productive,” I admitted.

“Oh.” She sank even deeper into the sofa.

“Cheer up, kiddo. This is just the beginning of my investigation.”

“Oh? Who are you going to talk to next?”

Actually, I didn’t have the slightest idea who I was going to talk to next. But I couldn’t let Kandi know that.

“Uh…Vanessa,” I said, vamping. “In fact, I’m going over to talk to her right now.”

I got up and headed for the door, as if I actually knew what I was doing.

“Lots of luck,” she said, wearily.

“Can I bring you back something for lunch?”

“Nah,” she sighed. “I’ll just suck on some Valium.”

I made my way across the lot, past the Miracle roller coaster, where hapless tourists were screaming in terror, no doubt wishing they’d kept up the payments on their life insurance policies. Over on Santa Monica Boulevard, the hookers were in full flower, shaking their fannies at the johns cruising by.

I hadn’t told Kandi about the Sturm und Drang going on with my parents; she had troubles enough of her own. But frankly, I was pretty damn worried. What the heck was Daddy doing working out with a punching bag? And what was all that nonsense about “avenging his honor”? Had all those years of hanging around strange cooking appliances somehow affected his thought processes? Lord knows what those contraptions were made of. Maybe some electrical currents were leaking out and turning his brain into applesauce.

Just when I was having visions of Daddy locked up behind bars in a high-security mental institution, I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Dale Burton grinning at me.

“Hi, Jaine,” he said, running his fingers through his thick shock of sandy hair. (What was it about these actors? Didn’t any of them ever have bad hair? Was I the only one on the lot, other than Helga, with hair that frizzed in the rain?)

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Fine.”

If you don’t count the fact that my best friend is a murder suspect, and my father’s going bonkers.

“I’m throwing a little party Thursday night, and I thought you and Kandi could stop by.”

Wow. Talk about tacky. What was the theme going to be:
Quinn’s Dead; Let’s Party
?

“I know it might seem a little tacky having a party so soon after Quinn’s death, but I can’t cancel the caterers without losing my deposit.”

“No,” I lied, “it’s not tacky at all.”

“So can you come?”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

And that was no lie. It would be a perfect opportunity for me to do some more nosing around.

“Stan and Audrey will be there,” he said, obviously thrilled to have them on his guest list. “It’ll be great. We’ll schmooze, booze, and knock around story ideas. See you then,” he said, shooting his finger at me like a gun.

Then he bounded off toward the commissary.

If Dale Burton was in mourning for Quinn, he was doing a hell of a job hiding it.

I knocked on the door to Vanessa’s trailer, not exactly brimming with confidence. The kid had all the warmth and charm of a prison warden. I only hoped I’d be able to get her to answer some questions.

“Who is it?” Vanessa called out.

“It’s me. Jaine.”

“Jane? I don’t know any Jane.”

I was heartened to see what a great impression I’d made on her.

“Jaine Austen,” I said.

I heard her whispering to someone inside the trailer. She was probably busy calling Security.

“I wrote this week’s script,” I said.

Or, as you so tactfully put it, this week’s piece of shit.

“Oh, right. Get the door,” she barked to whoever was in the room with her.

A mousy, middle-aged woman with watery blue eyes answered the door. She smiled tentatively.

“Come in, won’t you?”

Oh, well. At least someone in the trailer had manners.

Vanessa was stretched out on a mauve chenille sofa which, unlike our vermin-infested model, looked like it was fresh from the showroom. She sat pecking at a salad and reading
Vogue
, a pair of oversized hornrimmed glasses perched on her tiny nose. The big glasses on her fine boned face made her look oddly vulnerable.

“Hey, Jaine,” she said, “you got a cigarette on you?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”

She turned to her mousy assistant.

“Why the hell can’t you ever remember to get me cigarettes?”

“Sorry,” the mouse said, eyes downcast, looking as if she wished the floor would swallow her right up, “I didn’t realize you’d run out.”

“And this salad,” Vanessa said, plucking a glob of cheese from the greens, “it’s got blue cheese. How many times do I have to tell you, I hate blue cheese?”

The mouse sprinted over to retrieve the offending salad.

“Shall I get you another one, dear?” she asked, desperate to please.

Remind me never to get a job as a personal assistant in Hollywood. It’s slave labor—without the room and board.

“Oh, forget it,” Vanessa said. “Just get me a Hershey bar and a carton of Virginia Slims.”

Why did I have the feeling that it was the Hershey bar she’d wanted all along, and that she’d gone through the charade of ordering a salad just to drive her poor assistant crazy?

The mouse grabbed a worn cardigan sweater and scampered out the door.

“And hurry it up, willya, Mom? I’m starving.”

Mom???
The mouse was Vanessa’s mom? How heartwarming.

Vanessa popped a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.

“So what do you want?” she said, wasting no time on idle chitchat.

“I’d like to interview you for a cover story I’m doing for
TV Guide
. On Teen Stars.”

Yes, I know it was an outrageous lie, but if I told her I was investigating Quinn’s murder, she might not want to talk to me. This way, I’d appeal to her vanity. There was no way she was going to turn down a cover story in
TV Guide
. I was feeling quite proud of myself for thinking up such a clever ploy, when Vanessa popped her gum and said:

“Bullshit.”

Huh?

“
TV Guide
never gives cover stories to freelancers.”

Wow. Somebody wasn’t half as dumb as she looked.

“You’re investigating Quinn’s murder.”

“How did you know?”

“Wells told us at rehearsal. Besides, I read in the papers about how you solved that murder in Westwood last year.”

I blinked in amazement. Not that she knew about the case, but that she’d actually read a newspaper. It looked like she had more than a few brain cells bouncing around in that lovely head of hers.

“You’re right,” I confessed. “I am doing some investigating. Right now Kandi seems to be high on the cops’ suspect list, and I’m trying to get her off the hook. So is it okay if I ask you some questions?”

“I don’t care,” she shrugged, trying her best to look nonchalant.

“You have any idea who might’ve killed Quinn?”

“Of course. It was Audrey.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, you saw how pissed off she was when she caught Quinn and me in the sack together. Quinn told me she threatened to get rid of him. He never figured she meant permanently.”

“Did he tell you he’d been having an affair with her?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“And you didn’t mind?”

“Hey. I’m a big girl.” She stuck her chin out defiantly, like a B actress in a film noir. “And it’s not like I wasn’t screwing around with other guys.”

She was trying so hard to be tough. But I wasn’t convinced. I don’t care how many guys she claimed to have slept with (and I suspected there weren’t that many), she was still just a kid. A kid who might have been devastated to learn that her grown-up lover had been cheating on her. Maybe Quinn had been as callous with Vanessa as he’d been with Kandi, and she went a little bonkers. After all, unlike Kandi and the rest of us mere mortals, Vanessa Duffy wasn’t used to being rejected.

And maybe she assuaged her hurt feelings with a dose of rat poison.

It all made sense. The way I saw it, any kid capable of treating her mother like a scullery maid could easily be capable of murder.

I asked her some routine questions and got some routine answers. She’d seen nothing and heard nothing the night of the murder.

I thanked her for her time and was just about to leave when her mother came rushing in, breathless.

“Here are your cigarettes, dear, and your Hershey bar.”

The last thing I heard as I headed out the door was:

“Shit, Mom. It’s got nuts. You know I hate nuts.”

Chapter Sixteen

I
started back to the office, but I hadn’t gone very far when I stopped in my tracks. There, standing before me, was Quinn’s trailer, festooned with big yellow
Do Not Enter
police banners.

Now I know what you’re thinking: Any sane person would have read the banners and thought,
Hey, maybe I’d better not enter
. But not me. I decided to break in.

Actually, it’s not nearly as reckless as it sounds. I looked around the backlot and saw there wasn’t a soul in sight. The coast was most definitely clear. How tough could it be to nip in and look for clues?

I sprinted up the steps and tried the door. It was locked, of course. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I reached in my purse and got out my Bloomingdale’s charge card. I’d seen TV private eyes open doors this way a million times. Surely it would work for me.

I was standing there, jiggling my Bloomie’s card, wondering if I’d remembered to pay last month’s bill, when suddenly I looked up and saw a cop approaching. A big burly cop with deltoids the size of watermelons.

Gad, she was scary.

What the heck was I going to tell her—that I thought Bloomie’s had opened a branch in Quinn’s trailer? My mind was racing, trying to think up a plausible lie, when I saw her reach into her back pocket. Good Lord, she was going for her gun! She was going to shoot me! She’d probably claim I threatened her, that she fired in self-defense. Any minute now, my blood-soaked body would be sprawled on the Miracle lot. Just another victim of police brutality.

I was frantically trying to remember the words to the Twenty-Third Psalm, praying that God would let me into heaven in spite of all my unpaid parking tickets, when I saw that it wasn’t a gun the cop was taking out of her back pocket, but a script! Then I noticed heavy pancake makeup on her face. Thank heavens. She wasn’t a cop…she was an actor! Probably a member of the
PMS Squad
.

She ambled past the trailer, studying her script, totally unaware of my existence.

After waiting for my heart to stop bouncing around in my chest, I decided to abandon my plan to break into Quinn’s trailer. It wasn’t worth a coronary. But when I tried to pull out my Bloomie’s card, it was stuck. Oh, great. Now the police would find my credit card in the door. This whole thing was turning into a major nightmare. I was yanking at the card, swearing a blue streak, when I heard a clicking noise, and the door swung open.

I suppose I should’ve grabbed my card and run, but I couldn’t resist the lure of that open door. I tiptoed in and looked around.

Like Vanessa’s trailer, Quinn’s was furnished quite nicely, with tasteful modern furniture. I don’t know what I expected. Early Brothel, perhaps.

The first thing I noticed was a Steuben bowl, filled to the brim with chocolate kisses. How fitting, I thought, that the studio lover should have kisses in his trailer. Seeing the chocolates reminded me that I hadn’t had lunch, and that I was hungry. Yes, I know I was on a diet, and the last thing I needed was more chocolate clinging to my thighs, but I reached for one anyway. For crying out loud, it’s only twenty-five calories. And all I had was one.

Okay, okay. So I had twelve. Are you happy now?

I was just unwrapping my thirteenth kiss when it occurred to me: A) Not only was I eating potential evidence, but B) What if Quinn’s killer had also poisoned the kisses?

Aaack. Suddenly I felt a searing pain in my chest. Good heavens, I was right. The kisses were poisoned! For the second time in less than five minutes, I was about to cash in my chips. I was clutching my chest, wondering what sort of turnout I’d get at my funeral, when relief came with a ladylike belch.

It was only gas.

I sank down onto Quinn’s sofa, weak with relief. I’d really have to do something about my tendency to panic, if I ever intended to have any success as a private eye. While I was on the sofa, I decided to check under the cushions. I might find a valuable piece of evidence the cops had overlooked. Either that, or some spare change. As it turns out, all I came up with was a fistful of lint.

I rummaged around the rest of the trailer, but found nothing of interest except for a pair of leopard-print thong briefs and a T-shirt that said
Love Instructor: First Lesson Free
.

I was just about to call it quits when I decided to give the sofa another try. As the only bedlike surface in the room, it had probably seen a lot of action. I squeezed my fingers into the seams of the sofa, deeper than I’d poked them before.