Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (17 page)

Just as I was hurling a few choice epithets at the TV, the phone rang. It was Kandi.

“I saw the news,” she wailed. “Why didn’t you tell me that you almost got killed last night?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“What did they mean—it was no accident?”

“The electrical wires were cut.”

“Oh, no,” she moaned.

“Everybody knows I’ve been investigating Quinn’s death. I guess somebody wants me to stop.”

“You almost got killed, and it was all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Kandi. I think we can safely lay the blame on the person who cut the wires.”

“If you hadn’t been helping me out, this never would have happened.”

She had a point there.

“You’ve got to promise me you’ll stop. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

I have to confess: There was a part of me that wanted to call it quits, that wanted to stay holed up with a rifle and a Doberman pinscher, and never again try anything riskier than anchovies on my pizza. At that moment, agoraphobia was looking like a mighty attractive lifestyle.

I was just about to say,
Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should give up the investigation
, when I heard Kandi’s doorbell ring in the background.

“Oh, gosh,” she said. “I’ve got to go. The cops are here.”

“The cops?”

“Yes, I have to go down to police headquarters.”

My stomach sank. They really did think Kandi was the murderer.

“Are they arresting you?”

“No, they just want to ask me some more questions. But I’m not hanging up until you promise me you’ll give up the investigation.”

“Okay. I promise.”

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Thank God!” she said. “For a minute, I was afraid you were going to do the sensible thing.”

No such luck.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

TAMPATRIBUNE.COM

JEALOUS HUSBAND ASSAULTS SHOPPING HOST ON LIVE TV; ACCUSES HIM OF HAVING AFFAIR WITH HIS WIFE

TAMPA, FLORIDA—Home Shopping Club viewers may have thought they were watching the World Wrestling Federation last night when a jealous husband stormed on stage and started pummeling popular shopping channel host John Koskovalis.

Mr. Hank Austen of Tampa Villas claimed Mr. Koskovalis was having an affair with his wife.

“I came to avenge my honor!” Mr. Austen said, shortly before he was rushed off for emergency dental surgery to replace three broken teeth.

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

SUBJECT: Humiliated beyond belief!

You’re not going to believe this, dear, but Daddy assaulted poor John Koskovalis on national TV. Accused him of sleeping with me! Right in the middle of The Jewelry Showcase! I swear, I’ll never be able to show my face in Tampa Villas again. What’s gotten into him, anyway?

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: The Bright Side

You’ve got to look on the bright side: At least Daddy loves you enough to be insanely jealous. Besides, he’s always been overly excitable. Remember the time he was convinced the plumber stole our toilet plunger, and he filed a case in small claims court, and after he’d spent $900 for legal advice he found the plunger where he’d left it behind his galoshes in the basement?

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

Yes, I do remember, and do you know how long it took before we could get another plumber to come out to the house? We were blacklisted for
months
. That was no picnic, let me tell you, right in the middle of melon season. Really, dear. I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with Daddy. I’m tired of putting up with his nonsense. I’m seriously thinking of moving back to California. How about us being roommates? Wouldn’t that be fun?

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

SUBJECT: The “D” Word

You’re not thinking about the “D” word, are you?

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

Honey, why on earth would I go on a diet at a time like this? I’m way too upset to eat, anyway.

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

Not “Diet”—“Divorce”!

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

No, I haven’t considered divorce. Murder, yes. But not divorce.

PS. Speaking of murder, I heard on
Larry King
that your friend Cookie is the Number One suspect in the murder of Aidan Quinn! Poor thing!

TO: Shoptillyoudrop

FROM: Jausten

Actually, Mom, my friend’s name is Kandi (not Cookie), and the guy who got killed is Quinn Kirkland (not Aidan Quinn).

And thank goodness you’re not thinking of divorcing Daddy. For a minute there you had me worried.

TO: Jausten

FROM: Shoptillyoudrop

Oh, no, honey. I wouldn’t dream of going through the bother and expense of a divorce. A legal separation is good enough for me. So how about it, dear? Want to be roomies? If I make my plane reservations today, I can be there in two weeks.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
drove to the studio in a state of shock. I didn’t know what to be more upset over: the fact that someone had tried to kill me, or that my father had attacked a shopping host on national television.

Daddy had clearly flipped his wigwam. And now my mother was threatening to leave him—after forty-two years of marriage. True, they’d been driving each other crazy for forty-one and a half of those years, but I’d always believed that deep down they really loved each other. Had Daddy finally crossed the line and alienated Mom forever?

And what if Mom was serious about moving in with me? Just what I needed. A sixtysomething “roomie” with a closetful of sequinned T-shirts.

Oh, well. At least they hadn’t heard about my close encounter with a klieg light.

I pulled up to the studio gates and saw that the place was swarming with news vans. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly swarming. There were two measly vans, both of them from TV stations with viewerships in the double digits. A couple of bored reporters were standing around exchanging makeup tips.

“Hey,” one of them said, catching sight of my car as I stopped at the gate. “That might be her. The guard said she drove a crummy white Corolla.”

They grabbed their mikes and raced to my side. “Are you Jaine Austen?” they asked, thrusting their mikes under my nose.

“Yes,” I nodded warily.

“Any comment about what happened yesterday?”

“I don’t know why he did it. My father’s been under a lot of stress lately. I’m sure that with the right medication, he can return to a normal and productive life.”

The reporters stared at me blankly, no doubt wondering what the hell I was talking about.

“Actually, I was referring to what happened last night here at the studio.”

“Yeah,” the other one said. “How does it feel to have come
thisclose
to getting killed?”

“Well—”

But Los Angeles was not about to get the inside skinny on my feelings. Because just then a bright red Miata came zooming up behind me.

“Look! It’s Vanessa Dennis!”

I looked up into my rearview mirror, and sure enough, it was Vanessa. And sitting on the front seat beside her, looking awfully chummy, was Zach Levy-Taylor. If Zach killed Quinn to get rid of the competition, it sure seemed to be working.

I wondered if he was sleeping with Vanessa. Obviously the reporters were wondering the same thing because they dumped me like a hot potato and went racing to Vanessa’s side.

Welcome to Hollywood. Where a near murder victim is never as newsworthy as a pretty girl with big tits.

Skippy, the ancient guard, stopped me at the gate.

“I heard what happened to you last night,” he said, a look of concern in his rheumy eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

What a sweet guy. I was happy to know there was at least one compassionate person on the lot.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

“Listen, do you think maybe I could have your autograph?”

“My autograph? Why would you want my autograph?”

“In case anything…uh…happened to you, I could add it to my collection of murdered celebrities’ autographs.”

“What?”

“I’ve got ’em all,” he boasted. “Sal Mineo, Bob Crane, Phil Hartman…”

I gave the old ghoul my autograph and drove onto the lot, pulling into my coveted spot next to the dumpster. Vanessa and Zach sped past me to the A-list parking area. I could see Zach’s arm slung possessively around her shoulder. Why did I get the feeling that Vanessa would soon be reaching for another one of her bedside condoms?

I trekked over to the Writers’ Building, picking up a stale danish from the commissary en route. I settled in at my desk, wondering if the white stuff on the danish was icing or mold. I threw caution to the winds and took a bite. It was icing. I only hoped that the little black things inside were raisins.

I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Audrey summoned me to her office, looking particularly bloodless in a stark white suit and near-black lipstick. Grace Kelly meets Vampira. Stan was at his desk, reading the trades and sipping his morning cup of gin.

“We heard about what happened last night,” Audrey said.

And believe it or not, she actually looked upset. Who knew? Maybe she did have a warm and cuddly side, after all.

“And I want you to know that…” She paused dramatically.

Extra credit for those of you who guess how she finished that sentence:

A) “Stan and I are thrilled with the work you’ve been doing.”

B) “We feel so bad that you almost got your skull bashed in, we’re going to cut you a generous check for pain and suffering.”

C) “We’d like you to come on board as a permanent staff member.”

Those of you who guessed None of the Above, go to the head of the class.

“I just want you to know,” she said, tapping her nails on her desk in an angry staccato, “that I never
ever
want you bothering the actors again.”

So much for warm and cuddly.

“Several people have told me you’ve been prying into their lives with some pretty invasive questions.”

I wondered who’d squealed on me. Probably Zach. What a crybaby.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave any and all detective work to the police. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Okay, so I didn’t really call her Sarge. I said I understood, and promised never to bother her precious actors again. A promise which I intended to break at the earliest possible opportunity.

At that moment Bianca poked her head in the door.

“
Entertainment Tonight
is waiting for you and Stan down on the stage.”

Audrey nodded.

“Damage control,” she said to me, in a way that implied that I was somehow responsible for the damage.

She got up and straightened her suit, which, of course, needed no straightening. Then she turned to Stan.

“C’mon, Stan,” she said, brushing the lint off his sweatshirt. “Time to meet the press. And remember. Let me do the talking.”

Then she sniffed his breath.

“Jesus, Stan. There’s enough gin on your breath to make a martini. Whatever you do,” she said, herding him out the door, “don’t breathe on Mary Hart.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
lone in Stan and Audrey’s office, I took a look around. Compared to our office, it was the Taj Mahal. Of course, compared to our office, a toolshed was the Taj Mahal.

This was the moment I’d been waiting for. With Stan and Audrey gone, I could easily slip Lance’s treatment on Audrey’s desk.

Well, maybe not so easily, after all. I’d forgotten about Bianca.

There she was, at her post in the reception area, guarding the inner sanctum like a bitchy gargoyle. She’d never let me back in without a probing inquisition. I had to think of some way to get rid of her.

“Hey, Bianca,” I said, strolling over to her desk.

She didn’t bother to look up from her Cosmo Quiz.

“You’ll never guess who’s on the lot today.”

“Who?” she said, still not bothering to look up.

“Brad Pitt.”

“Get outta here!”

At last she made eye contact.

“I heard he’s shooting a public service spot over at the haunted house set.”

“I love Brad Pitt,” she sighed. “I absolutely adore him.”

“Why don’t you go over and watch them shoot?”

“Are you kidding? Audrey would kill me if I left the phones.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll answer the phones for you.”

“Would you?” she asked.

“Sure. It’s no problem.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, smiling a brittle smile. (Hey, she wasn’t used to being nice; it was the best she could do.)

And she sped out of there faster than a BMW in a hospital zone.

The minute she was gone, I retrieved Lance’s treatment from my briefcase. I quickly buried it in a pile of scripts on Audrey’s desk and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness I’d gotten that over with. Now I could say in all honesty, when Lance next asked me, that I’d given his damn shoe saga to Audrey.

I plopped myself down in Audrey’s swivel chair and spun around. What luxury to sit on a chair that didn’t need fumigating. And then, before I knew it, I was peeking in her desk drawers. I couldn’t help myself. This snooping thing can be very addictive.

Audrey’s desk was a gleaming teak affair, a far cry from my wormy woodpile. The insides of her drawers were spotless, as opposed to mine, which were coated with petrified gum and inkstains from the Punic Wars. Her pens were lined up neatly in a pen compartment, along with some lipsticks and an eyelash curler. Her file drawers yielded little of interest. Just some old scripts and a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Too bad. I was hoping for something a lot more incriminating.

I wandered over to Stan’s desk, where I found an impressive supply of gin bottles stashed in his file drawer. The rest of his drawers were amazingly empty for a man supposedly running a television show. All I found was a bottle of Maalox and a brochure for a vacation condominium in Palm Springs.