Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (15 page)

“Don’t be a stranger,” I said.

He looked at me with an inscrutable expression, which I later learned meant: “I wouldn’t step into your new Joan & David boots barefoot if I were you.”

“Euuu. How gross.” Kandi wrinkled her nose in disgust when I told her about my adventures with Mr. Frog. “Finding a slimy creature lurking in your apartment like that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It brought back memories of my marriage.”

We were sitting at our desks, eating our morning bagels and cream cheese. That is, I was eating my morning bagel and cream cheese. Kandi, still too depressed to eat, was ignoring hers.

“I wonder how it got in your attache case,” she said, absently drawing designs on her cream cheese with the tines of a plastic fork.

“Probably jumped in when nobody was looking.”

“Maybe,” Kandi said. “Or maybe somebody put it there.”

“Why would anyone do something as idiotic as that?”

“You know. As a practical joke.”

It hadn’t occurred to me before, but maybe someone
had
put the frog in my briefcase. Not as a practical joke, but to make things uncomfortable for me. Maybe that someone was the murderer. Suddenly I felt a tiny stab of fear in the pit of my stomach. Which, I’m ashamed to say, I quickly sedated with Kandi’s uneaten bagel.

We spent most of the day writing frog jokes. Then, at about four o’clock, we went down to the stage to see a run-through of my Cinderella script. I say “my” in the loosest sense of the word. At this point, only about five of my original jokes had survived. Which, according to Kandi, isn’t bad for a freelance script. I guess that’s why so many sitcom writers are on intravenous antidepressants.

Luckily, I’d contributed some new jokes in the rewrites, so my ego wasn’t totally destroyed. And the show was looking pretty good. Dale was funnier than I’d ever seen him, and Zach was turning in a lively performance, too. Audrey laughed out loud at some of the gags, and even Stan managed a boozy chuckle. It was hard to believe that less than a week ago, someone had died on that very stage.

After the run-through, the actors went home to loll around and eat bonbons while we writers retired to slave quarters to work on the script. We spent about an hour punching up jokes, and then Audrey called it a day.

Kandi headed off for another session with Dr. Mellman. I decided to hang out in the office until Stan and Audrey left, so I could slip Lance’s treatment on Audrey’s desk.

Maybe Audrey would read it. Maybe she wouldn’t. All I knew is that I promised Lance I’d give it to her. And technically, I was keeping my promise.

I sat at my desk, armed with pad and pencil, determined to make a detailed list of my suspects. I got as far as
My Suspects, By Jaine Austen,
when my mind started wandering.

I couldn’t get over how quickly everyone seemed to have forgotten Quinn. It was show business as usual at the studio. People were laughing and joking and back-stabbing as if he’d never existed. I only hoped that when I died I’d be on
somebody’s
mind a week later, that I wouldn’t be forgotten like yesterday’s fad diet.

I was roused from my reverie by the sound of Stan and Audrey shutting their door and heading down the hallway. When I was fairly certain they were gone, I opened my door and peeked out.

Bianca was still at her desk, gabbing on the phone about a party she might or might not decide to go to. Blah, blah, blah, yap, yap, yap. Really, a most annoying person. Finally, she decided to go to the party and hung up. Good. Now maybe she’d move her fanny and go home.

She was gathering her things, unaware that I was spying on her, when her phone rang.

Damn. How long was this call going to drag out?

“Oh, hi, Danny,” she smiled. “What’s up?” Whatever Danny said wiped the smile from her face. “Oh, come on. You’re not going to get all wussy on me, are you? I thought we made a deal…. Look, don’t do anything until I see you, okay?”

She hung up, looking worried. Then she grabbed her purse and hurried off. Hmmm. Maybe my theory was right. Maybe she
had
made a deal with Danny to supply each other with alibis. It looked like I was getting pretty good at this detective stuff.

Feeling rather proud of myself, I headed next door to the Millers’ office with Lance’s treatment. But when I tried the door, it was locked. I thought of breaking in with my Bloomie’s card, but it wasn’t worth the risk. The cleaning crew would be showing up for work any minute now. I’d have to try again tomorrow.

I turned off the lights and headed out to the parking lot. But not before checking my briefcase for stray amphibians.

Chapter Eighteen

I
t was dusk when I left the Writers’ Building. The last studio tour of the day was grinding to a halt, and tourists with glazed eyes were heading back to their cars. “Hey,” said a plump lady in spandex leggings, “isn’t that Zach Levy-Taylor?”

I looked over to where she was pointing, and indeed it was Zach, hitting tennis balls against the wall of the
Muffy
soundstage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please keep to your right,” the tour guide said, keeping his charges away from Miracle’s teen heartthrob.

The guide had no jurisdiction over me, however, so I trotted over to Zach’s side.

As I stood watching him bat his tennis ball against the soundstage, I couldn’t help noticing his tight, tan young body. (Hey, I may have been celibate, but I wasn’t dead.)

But in spite of Zach’s obvious sexual appeal, he was still just a kid. His long legs were still on the gangly side; and his blond hair, normally spiked into peaks with fistfuls of gel, was flopping boyishly onto his forehead.

These show biz kids, I thought, really do miss out on a lot. This is what Zach should be doing: Playing tennis, skateboarding, joining the stamp club, going to proms. Not hanging out with paunchy, middle-aged grips with hernias and alimony payments.

“Hey, Zach. How’s it going?”

“Oh, hi, Judy,” he said, still batting the ball.

“Actually, it’s Jaine.”

“That’s right. Jane Eyre. Like the book.”

“No, it’s Austen. Jaine Austen. With an ‘i.’”

“Gee, I thought Austen was spelled with an ‘e.’”

I could see our conversation was rapidly turning into a Marx Brothers routine, so I deftly changed the subject.

“Say, Zach, do you have a minute? I’d like to talk with you.”

“What about?”

“Quinn’s murder.”

For the first time since I started watching him, he missed the ball.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, running to get it. “Vanessa told me you were trying to get Kandi off the hook.”

“So can I ask you some questions?”

“Sure,” he said. “But I don’t think I know anything that’s going to help you.”

“How about we go sit down inside?” I said, gesturing to the stage.

We walked into the cool interior of the soundstage. It looked even larger than usual now that it was empty. Our footsteps echoed as we walked over to Muffy’s kitchen set.

Zach went to the kitchen counter and lifted the lid off an old-fashioned cookie jar. He reached inside and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Then he opened it and took a long swig.

So I was wrong about Zach. He was a typical teenager, after all.

“Want some?” he asked, wiping the lip of the bottle on his T-shirt.

“No, thanks.” I smiled weakly. “I’ll pass.”

“So,” he said, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and straddling it backwards. “How can I help you?”

“Did you see anything unusual the night of the murder? Anything at all?”

He plastered a pensive look on his face.

“Nope,” he said, “I don’t think so. But then, I wasn’t really paying attention. Wells had me cornered, and when Wells starts gabbing, I sorta zone out.”

“Did you ever find that aspirin?”

“What aspirin?”

“Wells told me you went looking for an aspirin when he went on stage to do his soliloquy.”

“Oh, right. I got one from Teri, the makeup lady,” he said, shooting me an uneasy glance. “I didn’t get it from the prop room, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Oh, my. For an innocent person, he was awfully defensive,
n’est-ce pas?

“I’m not implying anything, Zach. I was just asking a question. But now that you bring it up, did you happen to see anyone going into the prop room?”

“Only Kandi,” he smirked.

Not the answer I wanted.

“Kandi didn’t do it, Zach.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted. “She doesn’t seem the type.”

“Do you have any idea who might have poisoned Quinn?”

“Hell, no. Everybody loved him.”

If I’d been drinking the scotch, I would’ve choked on it.

“Wait a minute. Surely you’re not telling me
you
liked Quinn?”

“Yeah, I did. He was a great guy.”

“But what about that scene in rehearsal? You said you wanted to kill him.”

“Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “That didn’t mean anything. I was pissed that day. These things happen all the time on the set. If you were a real TV writer, you’d know that.”

Ouch. That one hurt.

“So it didn’t bother you that Vanessa was sleeping with Quinn?”

His Malibu tan turned scarlet.

“No, not really.”

If this kid was telling the truth, I’d eat Helga’s hair net.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said, oozing sanctimony. “Vanessa made hers, and I’m sure she regrets it.”

“Oh? That’s not the impression I got when I talked to her. I think she was crazy in love with Quinn. In fact, I think she still is.”

Score one for
moi.
Zach glared at me with ill-concealed anger.

“Wow,” he said, checking his watch and doing a very bad impression of someone who’d lost track of time. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I really gotta go, Judy.”

He untangled his legs from the chair rungs and stood up.

“Well, see ya,” he said, flashing me what was meant to be a disarming grin. “And good luck on your investigation.”

As I watched him walk away, I wondered how on earth he’d ever made it this far in show biz. The kid was one hell of a lousy actor.

So there I was, alone in Muffy’s house, like a burglar on a heist. And suddenly, I was overcome by a ridiculous urge to snoop. Of course I knew I wasn’t going to find anything. It was a make-believe house, with nothing stored away—except for some scotch in a cookie jar.

Nevertheless, I wandered around, opening empty drawers and peeking into fake closets. I plopped down into the big, overstuffed living-room armchair, the one that Muffy’s dad sat in when he watched TV or chewed the fat with Mr. Watkins. I looked out the window onto a painted backdrop of a grassy suburban street. If I squinted my eyes, it almost looked real. Any minute now, I expected Ozzie and Harriet to walk in the front door with tutti-frutti ice cream.

I got up and wandered into Muffy’s bedroom, the scene of Vanessa’s sexcapade with Quinn. Now it was an innocent teenager’s room again, with white lace curtains and fuzzy stuffed animals propped up on a recently dry-cleaned chenille bedspread. I picked up one of the stuffed animals, a soft puppy with big brown glass eyes. I sniffed it. It smelled of Juicy Fruit gum.

Then I reached over to Muffy’s white wicker night table and idly pulled out a drawer. Rattling around inside was a half-empty bottle of water and a giant economy-size box of condoms. Strawberry scented, yet. What would they think of next? Chocolate G-strings? I opened the box and saw that there were just a few condoms left. Obviously Vanessa’s recent boff-a-thon with Quinn hadn’t been the only time she’d used Muffy’s bed for X-rated purposes.

I took a closer look at the water bottle and saw that it was Evian. A crazy idea popped into my head. On an impulse, I opened the bottle and sniffed. Just as I suspected:

It was gin.

I sank down on Muffy’s bed, dumbstruck.

Did this mean that Stan had been sleeping with Vanessa? While Audrey was cheating on Stan with Quinn, had Stan been cheating on Audrey with Vanessa? Was this one of those unsavory Hollywood daisy chains that you read about in a Jackie Collins novel?

But, no. It couldn’t be. I simply couldn’t picture Stan and Vanessa in the same bed together. And besides, didn’t Vanessa say she’d rather sleep with a hat rack than Stan? Maybe someone had stolen the bottle from Stan’s private stash. After all, Stan’s drinking was an open secret. Anyone could have nipped into his office and filched a bottle or two.

By now my head was spinning. I practically need a scorecard to keep track of the sexcapades on the
Muffy
set. And what was worse, I still had absolutely no idea who killed Quinn. The possibilities were endless. There was only one thing to do: Sit down and make a detailed list of my suspects.

I headed back to Muffy’s kitchen and took out my legal pad. I cleared a place on the perfectly set kitchen table, and started writing. I’d gotten as far as…

My Suspects

…when suddenly it occurred to me that I really ought to call Detective Incorvia and tell him about the Evian/gin bottle in Muffy’s night table. It might be an important piece of evidence. I grabbed my cell phone and called his office. I got his voice mail. Where the heck was he? Probably at the beach, writing his screenplay.

“Hi, Detective Incorvia. It’s Jaine Austen. I’ve just found something that might interest you. Please call me when you get back.”

Now that was taken care of, I could get down to business. I picked up my pen and started writing. I got as far as…

My Suspects

By Jaine—

…when I realized I was hungry. It had been ages and ages since the puny white-rubber-cheese sandwich I’d had for lunch. From sheer force of habit, I got up and looked in the refrigerator. Of course there was nothing there, except an old script called “Muffy Gets a Zit.” I rummaged around the bottom of my purse and found a linty Lifesaver, which I dusted off and popped into my mouth.

Okay,
now
I’d get down to business. I managed to make it to…

My Suspects