Reel Murder (11 page)

“What’s wrong with it?” Sandra leaned forward, interested.

“Well, lots of things, I’m afraid. You see this part about schizophrenia? Your character, Dr. Tilden, is telling the jury it means someone has a split personality.”

“Isn’t that right?”

“No, it’s all wrong. I’m afraid the writers didn’t do their homework. Schizophrenia is a thought disorder. It’s characterized by delusions and hallucinations, disorganized thinking. It has nothing to do with a split personality; that’s a popular misconception. Someone who’s schizophrenic has seriously disordered thinking. Your character needs to make the jury understand that, if she’s trying to get a reduced sentence for this guy.” I hesitated. “Is it okay if I mark up the script?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Sandra said. “They can type some new sides with your revisions.”

I worked steadily for the next half hour, trying not to get annoyed at Sandra who periodically snapped her gum in my ear. Marion Summers wandered by a few times, giving us a suspicious glance each time before moving on.

“Marion’s not really well liked, is she?” I asked Sandra.

“Hah, that’s the understatement of the year. None of us can stand her. Sometimes I wonder why Hank puts up with her, but there’s obviously more to the story.” Sandra gave an arch smile. “I think she has something on him. Maybe a deep dark secret.”

“Really?” I wondered if Sandra knew something or was just repeating idle gossip.

She nodded vigorously, her blond ponytail bobbing up and down. “There’s a lot of skeletons in this business, you know? And you don’t really get to the top without stepping on some people along the way.” She gave me a dark look. “I think maybe there’s more to Hank than meets the eye and that Marion knows the real story on him. They’ve been together like forever, but I get the feeling he’d like to dump her if he could.” She paused. “Same as Adriana.”

I quirked an eyebrow. Who would have thought little Sandra would have so much information? “He wanted to get rid of her, too?”

“Of course.” She leaned closer. “You know about Tammilynne, don’t you?”

“I know she’s the new star of
Death Watch
. That and the fact that she looks like she’s in high school.”

Sandra snorted with laughter. “She’s barely twenty. Not that age means anything, Mischa Barton started on
The O.C.
when she was eighteen. But Tammilynne is different; she’s never had an acting lesson, never had a vocal coach. Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing except Hank Watson and a lot of promises.” She paused. “You know what I think?” I had the feeling Sandra was going to tell me whether I nodded my head or not. “I think that things came to a head with Tammilynne. She was going to tell wifey back in L.A. that she’s been Hank’s main squeeze for the past two years. And up till now, all she’s gotten from Hank have been promises.”

“You’re not suggesting that Hank did something to the gun, are you?”

Sandra gave me a sly look, tucking her chin and looking up at me under her long dark lashes. “Who am I to say what happened?” She widened her eyes and gave a little shrug. I noticed her arms were tanned and very toned in her clingy tunic top. I reminded myself to ask her about her miracle diet and exercise plan sometime. She took out a root-beer-flavored lip gloss and swiped it across her lips. “But look at it this way, Maggie. Whoever fooled around with that gun knew what they were doing. It’s really hard to kill someone with one of those things. They don’t even take bullets.”

“That’s certainly something to consider,” I said, thinking. I wondered how many people on the set had the technical ability to tamper with the prop gun, and what the report from ballistics would say.

“If ever you want to know anything about what’s going on around here, just ask me. I’d like to help the investigation. I’m into all that
CSI
stuff; I watch a lot of television. I bet I could help out.”

“Oh, I’m not really part of the investigation, Sandra, but I’ll remember that. At the moment, the Cypress Grove PD is handling the case. They seem to have everything under control.”

Sandra gave a lascivious wink. “Did you see that hottie they sent over to interview us? Detective Martino? Wow! He could handle me anytime—maybe even do a strip search!” She let out a raucous chuckle.

I was tempted to say something scathing, but instead I gave a little sniff, pursed my lips in disapproval, and went back to work.

Detective Martino
. It was hard to ignore the little tug of affection I felt just hearing Rafe’s name, the buzz of excitement I felt remembering those smoldering dark eyes and sexy smile. Like the song says, “zing went my heartstrings.”

I wasn’t thrilled at the idea that other women’s heartstrings were zinging too, but what did I expect? As Sandra said, he’s a hottie.

“Hi there! I’m Carla. Can I join you?” A middle-aged woman with hennaed hair swooped down on me, pulling an extra folding chair up to the long table set up under the trees. It was midday and I was having a quick lunch with Lola and a few of the cast and crew members.

Hank was still MIA, but Marion had ordered a nice selection of sandwiches and pastries from Joey’s, my favorite deli in Cypress Grove. I’d just finished a cheese and tomato panini, and was doing my best to ignore the double-fudge brownies that were calling to me with their little sugary voices.

Carla looked vaguely familiar. She was in her early fifties, wearing a Tommy Bahamas tropical print blouse and stretchy white pants. The pants were practically plastic-wrapped over her thighs, making them look like a pair of country hams. I gave her a polite smile and tried to scoot my chair to one side so she could squeeze in. It was a tight fit, though, and her chair was teetering dangerously close to mine—another minute and she’d be sitting in my lap.

“Here, you can have my seat. I’m finished.” I tried to get up but she laid a restraining hand on my arm. She had Dragon Lady bloodred nails, worn very long with a squared off tip. She also had a surprisingly strong grip.

“Oh, now don’t go running off, honey. You’re the person I want to see.” She had a hawklike nose and little beady eyes, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a bird of prey. “Well, you and Lola, that is.” She flashed my mom a broad smile, an expectant look in her eyes. Were they old friends? Carla seemed to think so.

“Hello, Carla,” Lola said smoothly. I tried to read her expression and couldn’t. Like most actresses, Lola is so expressive she can’t help telegraphing her impressions of people, but this time she was giving nothing away. I watched and waited, intrigued.

“Long time no see.” Carla’s tone was cheery. She waved her hand in the air and nearly knocked over my iced tea. “Let’s see; how long has it been? Seven or eight years, right? Some sort of shindig out on the Coast?”

Lola gave a thin smile. “Yes, it must have been ten years ago. I think it might have been Swifty Lazar’s Oscar party.”

Carla nodded. “Such a terrific soiree, and what a shame he’s gone now. A great man. He knew how to entertain.” She looked around hopefully. “And this is your daughter,” she said, her eyes skimming over me.

“Maggie Walsh,” I said, offering my hand.

“My, oh my. You’re all grown up now. An actress, I suppose?”

“Not exactly.” I gave her a pleasant smile and didn’t offer any details.

She stared at me for a long moment and then glanced at Lola, a sly look creeping over her face. “Well, I’ve met your daughter. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Lola tightened her lips for a microsecond, a telltale sign that she was irritated. On
Lie to Me
, they’d call this an illustrator, a subtle change in body language that reveals emotion.

“This is Carla Townsend, everyone. She’s an entertainment reporter,” Lola said flatly. Okay, now I was getting negative vibes from Lola. Everyone at the table had stopped eating and was watching us with unabashed interest. “Carla and I knew each other back in Manhattan several years ago—”

“I wrote for Page Six!” Carla interjected. “I covered the record industry. I nearly wrote an unauthorized biography of Madonna!”
No false modesty here
, I thought, covering a smile.

“—and we both moved out to California at the same time.” Mom was determined to get the last word.

“Except you went into acting and I stuck with journalism,” Carla said, eyeing the sandwiches. “Of course, I almost went into the book biz. Remember when I was going to write a big Hollywood exposé, Lola? That was years ago.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Random House was interested, but I got the short end of the stick that time.”

“I remember. The deal fell through, didn’t it?”

“Only because Adriana decided to beat me to it. I never should have opened my mouth. She took my idea and ran with it. She even used some of my best stories.” Carla grabbed a tuna on rye, an egg salad on whole wheat, and a cream cheese on a bagel. Either she’d missed breakfast or she had a “hoarding” disorder.

Since I tend to overanalyze everything, I decided she was just hungry, and judging from her white pants, she had a good appetite. She was giving the brownies a thoughtful look, as if she hoped one or two might jump onto her plate. “Wonder what the calorie count is on these things?” she said, speculating.

“Oh, they’re practically calorie free,” Lola gushed. “No fat, no sugar, and hardly any carbs. Plus they’re high fiber, so that cancels everything out. Go ahead, indulge yourself; you don’t even have to feel guilty.”

“Well, in that case—” Carla, said, loading three brownies onto her plate. Lola winked at me and I realized my first impression was correct. I was right; she was no fan of Carla Townsend.

Mom methodically went around the table introducing everyone to Carla, who whipped out a notebook and started jotting down their names.

“Jeff Walker?” Carla pursed her lips. “You’re the shooter, right?” she said carelessly.

“Carla—” Mom said, a warning note in her voice.

Carla made a little dismissive motion. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean to make it sound like Columbine.” She turned to Jeff, who’d already pushed his plate away and stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked over his chair. A hot flush had crept from his collarbone up to his neck and his face was tight with anger. “Relax, sweetie, it was an accident; we all know that.” She flashed him a high-beam smile and he shot her a flinty look. “I’m hoping we can talk privately later, Jeff. Maybe you can explain to me how a prop gun works.”

“I don’t think so,” Jeff said coldly. He tossed his napkin on his empty paper plate and stalked away.

“Hmm. A little bit touchy, isn’t he?” Carla looked around the table, flashing an amped-up Hollywood smile. “These creative types always have a dark side, don’t they? Now, who else saw the shooting? I’d love to get a firsthand account.” There was dead silence while she glanced at her notes and then people began clearing the table and drifting away.

In less than a minute, Mom and I found ourselves alone at the table with Carla. We exchanged a long look. “And I can’t forget Maisie, the script girl,” Carla continued under her breath as if nothing had happened. She was ticking off names in her notebook, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone had deserted us. “Now there’s someone I really need to see.”

“She’s not here,” Mom piped up. “I think she’s going over some script changes with Marion.”

“Too bad; I bet she’d have some tales to tell.” She paused and looked up. “I wonder how long Hank will be? The cops must still be grilling him right this minute. I bet the whole thing just seems a little too coincidental to them, you know?”

“Coincidental? What exactly do you mean, Carla?” Mom’s voice had an edge to it. “And what’s this about the police grilling Hank? I thought he’d gone into town to pick up supplies.”

“Oh please.” Carla sat back, drumming her fingers on the paper tablecloth. “That’s just a story Marion made up. Of course they’re grilling Hank; he’s been down at the station all morning. The backers are trying to keep the questioning quiet and discreet, but I’ve heard he’s the lead suspect.”

“What?” Mom’s voice wobbled. “That’s impossible.”

“He’s got motive, means, and opportunity,” Carla said.

“But what’s his motive?” I asked. I immediately wondered how much Rafe knew and what he’d tell me.

“Easy.” Carla gave a little self-satisfied smirk. “Here’s what happened. Or at least, here’s the theory. Hank wanted to dump Adriana and put Malibu Barbie in the lead, and now it’s all going to work out perfectly for him. Funny how the universe suddenly tilted his way, isn’t it?” She gave a wry laugh.

“Is that what you think happened?” Mom asked.

“You bet I do!! If he’s innocent, he must be thanking his lucky stars that someone knocked off Adriana. The movie’s going to go forward, and his bimbo girlfriend will have a starring role. Of course, if he’s guilty, that’s another story.” She flipped through her notebook. “My biggest problem is trying to figure out what to go with for the lead. This story is going to be bigger than I thought. I doubt Hank will talk to me, so I’ll have to go the ‘confidential sources’ route.”

“Your story? You mean you’re here on assignment?” I asked, surprised. I didn’t think Hank and Marion would allow journalists on the set while Adriana’s death was still being investigated. Nick had told me he’d called earlier that day for an interview and been politely given the brush-off.

And how did Carla know that Hank was down at the Cypress Grove PD? Was he a suspect? A person of interest? My mind was exploding with possibilities. I’d have to call Nick as soon as I could get away from the set.

“It’s more like an undercover assignment,” Carla said, lowering her voice. “I told Marion I was doing a piece on the problems associated with on-location shooting.” I raised my eyebrows. “I think she must have been preoccupied, because she actually believed me. Either that, or she thinks I’m an idiot.” She gave a little chortle. “On-location shooting. That would be a snooze, wouldn’t it? But at least it got me on the set. And now I can write whatever I want.”