Reel Murder (13 page)

Vera Mae looked up, startled, and turned down the volume control knob on the board. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? How could Cyrus spring this on me at the last minute? I saw Mom on the set today and she didn’t say a word. I feel like I’ve been blindsided by the two of them.”

The truth is, it was more than the element of surprise that bothered me. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted Mom horning in on my show. Call me mean-spirited, but the last time she was on the air with me, she was a huge hit with the listeners and I could barely get a word in edgewise.

“Now, don’t go gettin’ your panties in a twist, Maggie,” Vera said, her voice low and soothing. “Why, Lola didn’t know a thing about it till a few minutes ago. Cyrus drove out there himself to set it up. He had to talk to that director—”

“Hank Watson?” I stared at her in disbelief. As far as I knew, Hank was still downtown at the station, being “grilled” by the Cypress Grove PD.

“That’s the one. Cyrus figured he’d have to sweet-talk him to get permission but Hank loved the idea right from the start. He said it would be great publicity for the movie and so he gave Cyrus the go-ahead. But he insisted that you and Lola can’t mention anything about the murder. So remember, not a word.” Vera Mae put a finger to her lips.

“We can’t mention the murder? But that’s insane! That’s the one thing people are going to ask about.” I shook my head in disbelief. “They’re going to want to hear every grisly detail about the murder and about the latest in the investigation.”

“But we don’t always have to give the listeners what they want, do we? All we have to do is entertain them. And you know you can do that. When you and Lola did that show together the last time, the ratings were through the roof. Cyrus was practically beside himself with joy.”

Yeah, right
. I winced. Big Jim Wilcox had never let me forget that my mom is a bigger draw than I am. “So today, the topic is—”

“Moviemaking! Cyrus wants you and Lola to talk about the fun parts of the movie business; you know, the clothes, the makeup, the personalities . . .”

“The bodies,” I added glumly.

“Now Maggie, you’ve got to think positive. “Isn’t that what you’re always telling your listeners?”

“Yeah, but I never really believe it.”

“Stand by,” she said, pushing me through the door into the studio. “Live in five, sugar!”

“This is Lola Walsh, and I’m reporting to you live from Branscom Pond,” Lola warbled seconds later. “I’m right smack in the middle of a movie set. When they say lights, camera, action, this is what it’s all about. I’ve spent most of my life on film sets, but I have to tell you, I get a rush of excitement each time. How I wish you could see it, Maggie!
”

I could tell Lola was flashing a big Hollywood smile, even though it was wasted on the radio audience. I was stymied for a moment, wondering how to play this.

Vera Mae scowled at me from the studio and made a quack-quack motion with her hands. Talk-talk. Oh yeah, I had to say something fast before the silence went on too long. The last thing Cyrus—or any station manager wants—is dead air.

“And this is Maggie Walsh, live from”—I was so rattled I nearly stumbled over the call letters—“WYME Radio.” I waited a beat. “We’re doing a joint show today. I’m here in the studio, Lola is out on the set, and we’re both eager to take your calls.” I glanced at the phone lines. All the lights were flashing. “I see that we have a lot of callers, so let’s get—”

“I’m ready to answer all your questions about the movie business,” Lola interrupted smoothly. “As your listeners probably know, I’ve been a film star for”—she hesitated—“well, for quite a number of years.” She gave a girlish giggle.

Please don’t say you started out as a child
.

“I started out as a child, of course.”

Oh no, nostalgia alert! Mom was tripping down memory lane. She was all set to turn this into the Lola Walsh Lifetime Achievement Show, chronicling her years in show biz. I knew I had to act fast. But how?

“I learned pretty quickly that being a child star isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.” Her voice was like warm molasses, smooth and comforting. She was giving the listeners an inside look into her star-studded life. She knows they love this stuff; they eat it up with a spoon.

Hollywood gossip trumps psychological insights any day. Trust me.

“There’s the excitement and glamour of being around celebrities, but of course there’s also a lot of pressure.” She dropped her voice half an octave, sounding an appropriately somber note. “The pressure of knowing your lines, the pressure of spending long hours on the set—”

I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Yes, I’m sure it was quite an—”

“You have to hit the ground running, as they say.”

“But—”

Lola skidded right over me, like my Honda fishtailing on dark ice. “I got my start when I played the second female lead in
Corazones Quebradros
, or
Broken Hearts
. I had to memorize ten pages of dialogue every single night.” She paused to catch a breath and I jumped in.

“Oh yes,
Broken Hearts
. I remember that film. What year was that released?”

Hah. That stopped her cold in her tracks.

“Well, it was back in the uh, eighties, I think.”
Eighties? Think seventies
.

“Let’s open the phone lines,” I said briskly. “Vera Mae, who’s our first caller?”

“It’s Stacey, from Dania,” Vera Mae piped up. “And she has a question for Lola.”

“Lola, I love all your movies,” Stacey gushed. “Can you tell me more about your role in
Broken Hearts
? Is it out on video? I’d like to rent it.”

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” Lola said. “It might be available in video, I’m not sure.”
Hah. It went straight to video, and Mom knew it.
“You might have trouble finding it at Blockbuster, though, because it wasn’t really a commercial film. It was more of an artistic film.”

“Really? What does that mean?” Stacey asked.

“Well, let’s just say it received wide critical acclaim, but it had rather a limited distribution in movie theaters.”
Limited distribution? Oh yeah. She must be referring to those three people in Kentucky who happened to catch it at a drive-in.

“
Wow, I’ve never talked to a real-live movie star before.” Stacey sounded awed. “I’ve always wondered if I should take acting lessons, myself. I do impressions for the folks down at the Senior Center, and I’ve won some local talent competitions for my singing. But maybe it’s time to go pro. What do you think my chances would be? Wait; let me do an impression for you. I’ll sing a few lines.”

“Go ahead,” Lola urged. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Stacey!”

A nasal drone filled the studio, starting off slow and building to a caterwauling shriek. “If I could turn back ti-i-i-me, if I could find a wa-a-a-ay . . .” I found myself mouthing the rest of the familiar verse when I caught a glimpse of Vera Mae frantically twirling the volume control. Stacey’s grating voice had probably slammed the meter far into the red zone.

“Very nice,” Lola said, making little applause sounds. “You have a real talent for impressions, my dear. That throaty voice, the elongated vowels, I have to congratulate you. You’ve really captured Cher.”

“That was supposed to be Celine Dion.”

“Oh.” A long beat. “I’m so sorry. It’s probably a bad, um, connection. Over the radio, I mean.”
Nice save, Mom!

Vera Mae rolled her eyes at me as Lola segued into her standard monologue on the vicissitudes of show business (“too many actors, so few parts”). The conversation was moving along at a snail’s pace and I saw Vera Mae heave a sigh.

“But if you really feel the passion, and you have that fire in the belly, I truly think you do have a chance,” Mom said, winding up.

Vera Mae was giving elaborate yawns followed by a throat-slitting motion. Any minute now, she’d get out her MIAS sign, which translates as Move It Along, Sister! This was my cue to jump in.

“Thanks for calling, Stacey. And who do we have next, Vera Mae?”

“Jennifer from Hallandale,” she piped up. “She says she wants to know what’s really going on at Branscom Pond?” She gave me a warning glance. I knew my lips had to be sealed about the investigation so I’d have to soft-pedal this one.

I was debating what to tell her, when Mom jumped in ahead of me. “Jennifer!” she bubbled. “There’s just loads of exciting things going on out here. I’m so glad you asked. As you know, we’re filming
Death Watch
, a Hank Watson production. I’ve worked with Hank before, and I’ve got to say, I think this movie is going to be his best one ever. We’re talking Oscar material.”

Jennifer didn’t take the bait. “I really meant, what’s going on with the police investigation? Is it true that Adriana St. James was really murdered? That’s what folks around town are saying, but there’s not much in the paper about it. I’m sure the gun didn’t go off by itself. I figured you’d have the inside scoop on it.”

I glanced at Vera Mae. She had her finger poised over the MUTE button, ready to propel the inquisitive Jennifer into radio silence.

“Well, my dear, I do have the inside scoop . . . on a lot of things,” Lola added hastily. “But I think we should focus on the positive, happy parts of the movie business. That’s what makes our hearts sing and the world go ’round.” Dear God, now she was channeling Julie Andrews. In a minute she’d be talking about raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and a few of her favorite things.

“Yes, but I really want to know—”

“Oh, I’m sure you want to know all about the fabulous costumes the wardrobe mistress whipped up for us. You know what I always say is the first lesson of survival on the set: make friends with the wardrobe mistress. Your future could be in her hands!” Mom gave a lilting laugh. “Now, Hank Watson always uses Rhonda Patterson, and let me tell you, she’s dressed all the A-list stars.”

Mom prattled on about the wonders of wardrobe design, and I glanced over at Vera Mae. She’d turned the volume all the way down to zero on the call line, so that explained Jennifer’s silence. I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

A few more callers asked about the murder but Lola deflected them, always drawing the listener back into the spicy world of Hollywood gossip. After the first half hour, I could hardly believe that there really was a murder investigation going on.

Lola had managed to captivate the audience with tales of anorexic starlets (“I’ve known her for five years, and I’ve never seen her eat anything except romaine lettuce and Tic Tacs”), working with animals (“never get close to a chimp wearing a diaper!”), and Hank Watson (“he’s not appreciated in the U.S. It’s sort of like Jerry Lewis. Only the French really understand his genius”).

When the show was over, Vera Mae scooted around to the studio and gave me a high-five. “Nice work, girl! I think this is the most calls we’ve ever gotten; Cyrus is going to be beside himself. And you didn’t give away anything about the murder investigation.” The phone rang and Vera Mae grabbed it. “You did a real nice job today, sugar. You boosted the ratings big-time.” She put her hand over the receiver. “It’s your momma. She needs a ride home from the set.”

“Tell her I’m on my way,” I said. I grinned. I put on my best Desi Arnez voice. “And make sure she knows she’s got some ’splaining to do.”

“Really, I didn’t mean to hijack your show, Maggie,” Lola said, a touch of humor in her voice. “Cyrus came out here and pitched the idea to Hank, and he just ate it up. There wasn’t time to check and see what you thought about it. One minute Hank handed me a headset and the next minute I was on the air.” She flashed me an unrepentant grin.

“I know. I was just teasing you. You were great, Mom, really. You kept things going and the listeners really loved you.”

Things were quiet on the set and most of the cast and crew had headed into town for dinner. Mom was collecting her things from the Wardrobe trailer and showed me the outfits she’d be wearing once filming resumed.

Each outfit was hung in a plastic see-through garment bag with accessories—belts, scarves, and jewelry—stashed in a separate bag on the same hanger. Every bag had “Lola Walsh” written on it, along with the date she’d be wearing the outfit and the scene number. Her shoes were neatly bagged and tagged the same way. The whole setup was so perfect, it reminded me of a Martha Stewart display.

“Very nice,” I said. I was thrilled to see that there were no Lindsay Lohan thigh-high minis or skintight knits. Lola would be wearing mostly simple cotton skirts and colorful tops with huaraches, very south Florida.

“It’s okay, I suppose.” Mom wrinkled her nose. “If you like ‘age appropriate.’ This is the kind of thing you might wear to an Early Bird Special at Applebee’s. I’m surprised they didn’t throw in a pair of Dr. Scholl’s bunion plasters.”

“Oh Lola, thank God you’re still here!” Carla Townsend bustled into the trailer and then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me. “And your darling daughter is here as well. How’s it going, Maggie? I came here to congratulate you. Heard the two of you did a killer radio show today, no pun intended.” She guffawed.

Mom’s gaze briefly met mine, then flicked away again. “You’re putting in a long day, Carla.” Her voice was as impassive as her face. I knew she didn’t like the gossip columnist, and made a mental note to ask her about it later.

“Oh well, you know what they say, a reporter’s work is never done,” Carla said airily. “I figured I might get in some face time with Hank”—she lowered her voice—“now that the police have finally released him.” She paused, a sly look creeping over her face. “I never thought he had what it took to be a killer. Do you? Of course, that’s what people always say in these situations.” She made a dismissive hand gesture. “You never know what’s going on beneath the surface, do you? Still waters run deep.”