Reel Murder (10 page)

He’d only gone a few feet when I suddenly remembered the
Sopranos
guy lounging outside the makeup trailer.

“Wait! There was something else I meant to tell you.” Rafe turned and ambled back to me, his dark eyes questioning. “I saw someone who looked a little out of place today.”

“Out of place?” He frowned, scratching his chin. He had just the beginnings of a five o’clock stubble, but on him, it looked sexy, not scruffy. Think John Abraham on the cover of
GQ
. Or Hugh Jackman,
People
magazine’s sexiest man alive. “You mean someone who looked suspicious?”

“Not suspicious exactly, but he just didn’t look like he belonged on the set. He didn’t look like anyone from the cast or crew and I’m sure he wasn’t a reporter. It’s probably nothing.” I flapped my arms in a dismissive gesture, wondering if I was making too much out of the whole thing.

“Tell me.” Out came the notebook.

So I told him all about the Steven Van Zandt look-alike and was surprised when he nodded in recognition. “A guy who looks like he’s straight out of
The Godfather
? That was Frankie Domino. He tried to slip through the police lines and hightail it out of there, but we nailed him.” Rafe gave a mirthless laugh.

“That’s his name? Frankie Domino?” I raised my eyebrows. He really did sound like a Hollywood version of a mafioso.

“His real name’s Francis Domenici.”

“And is he . . . what I think he is?”

Rafe grinned. “A mafioso? He’s got a string of arrests in New York, mostly small-time stuff—running numbers, assault and battery, a few shakedowns doing collections. I haven’t figured out what he was doing on the set, and Hank Watson’s not talking. I think something’s up between them, but I’m not sure what. Just a gut instinct.”

He jammed his notebook back in his pocket and then surprised me by touching my upper arm very lightly. Just one finger tracing a white-hot path over my skin. I stayed motionless, wondering what was going to happen next. Was it a caress, a warning, a friendly good-bye?

“Watch yourself, Maggie, okay?” He locked eyes with me, looking very intent and serious. “I know you’re going to be spending a lot of time on the set. And—”

“And let’s be careful out there?” The words came out in a whoosh; I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath. It was a line that Sergeant Phil Esterhaus of
Hill Street Blues
used to say when he finished roll call and I knew Rafe would get the reference.

Rafe laughed, flashing his killer smile. “You got it.” He dropped his hand to his side and reached for his car keys.

Okay, I got the message. Mood broken, back to reality time. No heavy relationship; we’re just pals.

I guess.

We left it on that note, Rafe heading back to the station to do some paperwork, while I zoomed toward Charlie Chan’s. A veggie stir-fry was waiting for me, a soft breeze was ruffling the palm trees, and the sweet scent of bougainvillea lingered in the air.

Life was good, and I tried very hard not to think about the little buzz I’d gotten from Rafe’s touch.

“So it all worked out for the best,” Mom said over dinner. Lark quirked an eyebrow and Mom quickly amended, “Well, except for poor Adriana, I mean.” She clasped her hand to her bosom, bowed her head, and was silent for a beat, eyes shut. I nearly expected her to deliver a eulogy. After a moment, her grieving heart magically healed; she looked up and reached for a hefty portion of veggie lo mein. Never underestimate the restorative powers of carbs.

“Worked out for the best in what sense?” I asked.

“Well, Hank has a new leading lady, the cameras will start rolling again, and things will be more”—she paused delicately—“harmonious on the set. And who knows, Adriana will be more popular with the public than ever. She might even be up for an Emmy!”

“Really? I don’t think she’s in the same league as Meryl Streep or Helen Mirren.”
And I’m not sure she’ll be thrilled to get an award from beyond the grave.

“She might get the sympathy vote,” Lola confided. “That’s the way these things work. Everyone knows you always score extra points if you’re dead.” She paused, twirling lo mein on the end of her fork and her face brightened. “I just had a fabulous idea. Do you think I should accept the award for her? I have the perfect dress to wear. It’s a cross between Bob Mackie and Michael Kors. Cobalt blue and very classic. It’s a little low cut but I think I can pull it off.”

Bob Mackie?
I bet it had feathers, sequins, or both.
And low cut?
I tried not to picture Mom in a Jennifer Lopez gown that plunged to her belly button, because I knew the visual would stay with me for days.

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” I said firmly.

Pugsley was doing his starving dog imitation and I gave him a tiny nibble of my egg roll. He had already polished off his heart-healthy dumpling, but he begged for more, his little feet tap-dancing on the polished floor.

“I suppose you’re right. We all have to concentrate on
Death Watch
and make sure it’s the best film it can be.” She heaved a sigh as if she wasn’t really sure how good
Death Watch
would be, even with everyone rooting for it.

“How’s it going?” Lark asked.

“Pretty well, I guess. I was chatting with the producer right before I left the set today. She’s trying to be optimistic, but of course she has to be. That’s practically part of her job description, you know.” She gave a low chuckle. “Keep everyone’s spirits up and keep the money flowing in. A lot’s riding on how well it does at the box office. I think Hank’s had trouble getting backers lately, and if this show is a bomb—phfft! It could all be over for Marion.”

My ears perked up. “Marion Summers?” I remembered what I’d read in
Vanity Fair
about Hank’s production chief.

“She’s all business,” Lola said, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t really think she’s into the artistic side of film. But you have to hand it to her; Hank has done very well with her at the helm. She handles all the boring production details for him and I think she’s very good at it.”

“Do they get along?” Lark asked. “Sometimes it’s hard to work with someone night and day, especially if they have very different auras.” Lark is into all things New Age: chakras, karma, auras, and I-Ching. She believes that we’re destined to meet every single person we encounter in life, either to learn something from them or to teach them something.

I wondered how Big Jim Wilcox would fit into her view of the cosmos.

“A good point, my dear. There’s been some talk on the set about a few bitter rows in the past, but I think they’re going to put their differences behind them now. After all, we have to pull together for the good of the movie. And God knows, Tammilynne is going to need all the help she can get. The poor thing doesn’t even know her lines.”

“Tammilynne?” I stared at her.

“Tammilynne Cole,” Lola said smoothly. “The new star of the show.” She gave me a knowing look. “She’s never acted a day in her life, but she has a special relationship with Hank Watson, if you know what I mean.”

I knew exactly what she meant. It was special all right. The kind of relationship a fifty-something man has with a girl barely out of her teens.

“So they’re not going to bother auditioning anyone else? Tammilynne is stepping into Adriana’s part, and everything else is just the same?”

“Yes, dear, it’s just the same. They may change a few lines here and there, since Tammilynne is so much younger than Adriana, but it won’t be any big deal. They have the writers on the set right now, churning out new pages for tomorrow. Hank’s going to hand out the new sides so people can start memorizing them.” I remembered the two young guys in jeans, wearing baseball caps backward as they played air guitar.

“And Hank still wants me there, as a consultant?

“Yes, I know he does,” Lola said warmly. “He said he’s very happy you’re on board. Having a psychologist as a consultant will bring a lot of credibility to the movie, you know. They’re really going to play that up with the media. And he wants you back at work first thing tomorrow.”

“I thought the production was closed down for forty-eight hours.”

“The actual filming is, but there’s still plenty of behind-the-scenes work to be done. Hank’s expecting you there at nine sharp, actually both of us. I have a wardrobe fitting so I thought we could ride over there together, if that’s okay.”

“So the show must go on,” Lark said, reaching down to pull Pugsley onto her lap.

“Oh heavens, yes.” Mom nodded her head. “The show
always
goes on.”

 

Marion Summer’s pale eyes flicked over me, like a lizard’s. She was tall and thin, a bony woman in tailored beige pants and a long-sleeved white blouse, rolled up to the elbows. No frills or color anywhere on her. She was mid-fifties with wispy blond hair pulled back in a silver clip, and she sported smart-girl glasses with black frames on a chain around her neck. Her burnished leather loafers were expensive, Dolce and Gabbana, her only nod to fashion.

“Hank’s been called into town,” she said abruptly, “but I can get you started right away. He’d like you to meet with Sandra and then spend some time with the writers. Follow me, please.” I could see she wasn’t going to waste any time on social niceties.

Mom had been whisked away to Wardrobe and I’d knocked on the door of the production trailer, hoping to find Hank. Most of the area around Branscom Pond was still considered a crime scene, but they’d set up a few extra trailers at the entrance to the park, marked with hand-lettered signs, Production, Wardrobe, Cast and Crew. I glanced over to the lake where CSIs were milling around on the beach and idly wondered if Rafe was there with them.

Sandra was waiting by some long picnic tables set up under a canopy. I hadn’t seen her since Adriana’s death and I wondered how she had taken the news. Very well, considering the bright smile on her face.

“Let’s sit out here, okay?” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “The air-conditioning inside the trailer isn’t very good.” She was wearing a sunny yellow tunic top over tight white jeans, which showed off her terrific figure. No doubt about it, her personal diet and exercise plan was certainly working. “I grabbed some iced tea and cookies for us; thank God they still have the craft services tables set up. I think we’re going to be stuck here all day, even though there’s not that much to do. The van picked us up at the B and B this morning at eight a.m. and the driver’s not coming back until five.”

“Thanks.” I nibbled on a sugar cookie. “You’re staying at a B and B?”

“Yes, it’s a cute little place, the Seabreeze—do you know it?”

“I live right next door. And the manager, Ted Rollins, is a good friend of mine.” I didn’t bother telling her that Ted would like to be more than friends. He’s the proverbial “nice guy,” but for some reason, I’m always drawn to “bad boys,” the kind the nuns warned me about. You know, the ones who play havoc with your emotions and always keep you guessing.

Think Rafe Martino.

Sandra was prattling on, her voice light and breezy. She sounded like she didn’t have a care in the world, so obviously Adriana’s death hadn’t impacted her very much. “Oh, wow. It must be fun living here. It’s such a quaint little place, like something out of a movie set, you know?”

“Sometimes it seems that way to me, too.” I remembered that I’d gone through some serious culture shock when I’d first closed up my Manhattan office and moved to Cypress Grove. Everything was so laid-back and slow paced, it took some getting used to. For the first month, I felt like everyone was talking to me under water.

And sometimes the locals still ask me if all New Yorkers talk as fast as I do. For the most part, though, I’ve settled in and have made some good friends.

We sat down side by side at the picnic table and Sandra pulled out a script. “I’d love to just chat with you about your job, but we better look busy, in case the Bitch-on-Wheels comes by.” She opened the script and pretended to be reading it, her forehead furrowed in concentration, one hand shading her eyes. I must have looked surprised, because she whispered, “I hope you weren’t taken in by that cow. She’s friendly to your face but she can knife you in the back in two seconds flat.”

I smiled. “If you mean Marion, she wasn’t even friendly to my face.”

“She’s probably jealous,” she said promptly.

“Of me? Why?”

Sandra popped a wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other. She looked very young and pretty in the bright sunlight, her sleek hair swept back in a ponytail. “She’s jealous of anyone who Hank admires. I think she has a thing for him, ya know?”

“She has a thing for Hank? It’s hard to imagine them as a couple.”

Sandra shrugged. “I heard they were an item a long time ago. There aren’t any secrets on a movie set, you know. Hank and Marion shared a room once when they were on location in Mexico. Everybody knew about it, but no one said anything. It probably meant a lot more to Marion than it did to Hank.”

I must have looked unconvinced because Sandra laughed. “Marion was a lot younger back then.” She sipped her iced tea. “And the moment you came on the set, Hank was telling everyone about you, how smart you are, and how you had this big private practice in Manhattan.”

I groaned inwardly. Lola must have been bragging about me again.

“That’s my mom’s doing,” I said.

Sandra grinned. “You can’t blame her for being proud. It must be cool being a psychologist.”

“I’m a radio talk show host now,” I reminded her.

“But you still know all this psychology stuff, right?” She riffled through the script until she came to a courtroom scene. “Take a look at this scene. Is this really what you would say to the lawyer if you were on the stand?”

I scanned the page and my heart sank. The dialogue was wooden, and the tone was all wrong. Sandra’s character came off as harsh and shrewish, not calm and composed, and worst of all, she was spouting psychobabble. “Not exactly.” I whipped out a pen. “Let’s see if we can tighten up this dialogue a little.”