Reel Murder (18 page)

“I bet,” Vera Mae said sympathetically. “She’s so bright and sparkly, I can’t imagine her just standing there with nothing to say.”

“It’s a pretty thankless job, and sometimes she’d end up standing out in the rain and cold for hours on end. And for very little money. Things aren’t much better now. You might make a hundred and twenty dollars a day if you’re a member of SAG, but if it’s an indie flick, they can pay you whatever they want. As little as twenty bucks a day, or sometimes nothing. I don’t know what Hank’s paying, but I don’t think it’s very much.”

Vera Mae raised her eyebrows at me. “Who’d want to stand around in the rain and cold for twenty bucks a day?”

“You’d be surprised. They do it because they think it’s their shot at the brass ring. A lot of actors think that if they start out as an extra, it will lead to something better. Maybe they have a certain look and they think they’ll catch the eye of a producer or director who’ll hire them for a speaking role. Or maybe they just want to get added to the client list with a casting director. They figure if they play nice and take roles as an extra, maybe they’ll be sent out on auditions for speaking parts.”

“That sounds like a lot of maybes. Does it ever work out that way?” Vera Mae looked dubious.

“Not usually,” I admitted. “Brad Pitt was an extra in
Less Than Zero
and Jeff Goldblum was an extra in a party scene in
Annie Hall
, but those are the exceptions.”

I thought about Tammilynne Cole, Hank Watson’s main squeeze. I remember Sandra telling me Tammilynne had started out as an extra, and then Hank Watson had noticed her, and the rest, as they say, is fodder for the tabloids. But was she impatient with his promises of stardom? Did she wonder if she’d ever make it to the big leagues? Maybe she thought Hank was just stringing her along and that she was on her way to being replaced by yet another Hollywood wannabe.

After all, Tinseltown is full of aspiring actresses, and Hank Watson could have had his pick. He may not have been an A-list director, but he still could deliver the goods and quite a few producers were willing to invest with him.

Could Tammilynne possibly have killed Adriana, figuring it was her one shot—literally—at fame? She wasn’t really suited for Adriana’s role, but did that matter? The Guitar Heroes had juggled the plot and rewritten the script for a much younger woman. If you ignored that Tammilynne had no acting training and no movie credits, she was a shoo-in for the starring role.

I decided to rein in my scattered thoughts and concentrate on the show. One look at the guest folder and my spirits sank like a stone. “We’re having Dr. Natasha Grayson on the show again?” I wailed. “We just had her on last month. What’s going on, Vera Mae?”

“I know we did, sugar, but Lurleen Higgins from the Cypress Horticultural Society had to cancel at the last minute. It was the best I could do.” She flashed an apologetic smile. “And you weren’t available, you know, so I had to fill the slot any way I could. I tried to call you on your cell, but you must have had it turned off.”

“Oh, you’re right! My bad.” After I’d worked with Sandra on her lines, I’d watched a little of the filming, and the AD had ordered everyone to turn off their cell phones. Like an idiot, I must have forgotten to turn mine back on. “Don’t worry about it, I brought this on myself. Maybe I can make her sound interesting.”

“And maybe pigs will fly,” Vera Mae said helpfully.

Dr. Grayson was a major buzz-kill.

Petite, with steel gray hair swept back off her face and a slightly feral smile, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a rat terrier. She always toted a teddy bear around with her, a sort of signature totem, to prove she was in touch with her “inner child.”

“I figured you already know a lot about her, sweetie, so you should have plenty to talk about. It’s not like you have to read up on her or do any research.” Vera Mae glanced at the clock. “Anyway, there’s no time for that. We go live in five minutes.”

I nodded, shuffling through Dr. Grayson’s bio, even though I knew it by heart. A doctorate in clinical psychology from an Ivy League university, followed by a couple of decades in academia writing dusty research articles for obscure publications.

Lately, she’d forged a new career for herself, giving seminars for mental health professionals all across the country. It was hard to imagine her as a mesmerizing public speaker, but maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe her credentials were enough. And maybe her audiences—all clinical psychologists—had low expectations.

After all, she didn’t have to be Chelsea Handler to do a six-hour PowerPoint presentation on treatment for borderline personality disorder. I’ve sat through enough psychology presentations myself to know that most of them are so dull they give me “butt freeze” (as Vera Mae says) after the first thirty minutes.

I tried to think of a clever hook for today’s show. I knew Dr. Grayson was into dream therapy and maybe I could encourage her to talk about that. Freud always insisted that dreams were significant; he called them “the royal road to the unconscious.”

He believed that all dream material should be analyzed because it opens a window into what the client is really thinking and feeling. He thought dreams represent what we fear and what we strongly desire, although sometimes the message is couched symbolically.

A good therapist should be able to tease out the psychodynamic underpinnings in dreams. At least that’s Sigmund’s take on it all.

I have to confess, I don’t really share his enthusiasm. Whenever my clients would start to tell me about their dreams, I’d practically nod off—that’s how boring they were.

The patients had a different take on them. They loved to talk about their dreams and found them endlessly fascinating. They wanted me to analyze them and they seemed disappointed if I couldn’t find some hidden significance.

I scribbled a few lines on some sticky notes and slapped them on the control board at eye level. They could serve as a sort of cheat sheet during my introduction, in case my brain stalled.

Dream Analysis. What do our dreams really tell us?
I decided to open with that line. Not bad. Maybe the board would light up with calls, after all. Dr. Grayson would be here in another ten seconds, and I had time for just one more quick question.

“Vera Mae, how did we do in the ratings the last time she was here? Do you happen to remember?”

“Oh I remember all right. Did you see the movie
Titanic
?” Vera Mae gave an evil grin.

“Yes, of course—”

“And Jack? Do you recall what happened to him? Remember how he was clinging to a piece of driftwood in the ocean?”

“Yeah, I know. He was holding on by his fingernails and then he slipped underwater and sank like a stone.”

“Need I say more?” Vera Mae slapped on her headphones, just as Irina ushered Dr. Grayson into the studio. “Do you get it, sugar? Sank. Like. A. Stone.”

Oh God
. “Yes, I get it, Vera Mae. I get it. Really nice analogy. Thanks.”

Okay. I was the captain of the
Titanic
and we were headed straight for a giant iceberg. You don’t need to be a three-hundred-dollar-an-hour shrink to figure out how this scenario was going to play itself out.

I whizzed through Dr. Grayson’s introduction and she gave me a tight nod of acknowledgment, baring tiny, pointed teeth. She certainly wouldn’t win any awards for charm, I decided, because she made zero effort to be friendly or even cordial.

I checked her out as she perched on the edge of her chair, clutching her teddy bear (who was stylishly dressed in a little vest and shorts outfit from Ralph Lauren). Her hair was cut in a severe style, almost butch. A little Rachel Maddow-y, but I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate. She was wearing a boxy navy blue suit, a little too heavy for the south Florida weather, with a white shell underneath.

No jewelry, no makeup. Not even lip gloss.

I thought of Wanda, owner of Wanda’s House of Beauty, who once said on the show, “When I see a woman with gray hair and no makeup, Dr. Maggie, I see a woman who’s just plum given up!”

I decided not to share this insight with Dr. Grayson.

I gave the standard introduction, sliding over the boring parts in Dr. Grayson’s bio (practically the whole thing) and read my opening lines right off my sticky notes. Then Vera Mae opened the phone lines, and to my amazement, things were buzzing. Apparently Cypress Grove was more into dreams than I’d realized.

“We’ve got Lucy from Pompano on line three, Dr. Maggie,” Vera Mae said.

“Welcome, Lucy. Do you have a question for our guest?”

“I sure do.” A molasses voice trickled through the line. “Maybe you can tell me what it means when a black crow smashes into your windshield?”

“A black crow? That’s very interesting,” Dr. Grayson said. “I think first we have to address the symbolic significance associated with the color black.” She edged forward, her eyes lighting up. I almost warned her not to get too close to the mike, or there would be that awful popping sound, but I didn’t want to interrupt her train of thought.

“I’m not following you about the color black.” Lucy sounded a trifle impatient, and I thought I heard traffic sounds in the background.

“Well, I think we have to agree that throughout history, black has connoted evil, dangerous spirits, or something sinister. Like the Black Death, which of course was the Plague. And of course, it makes you think of funerals. What do you wear to a funeral? Red? Yellow? Of course not! You wear black. Always black.”

Dr. Grayson chuckled at her own cleverness. Rosie O’Donnell, watch your back. Natasha Grayson’s in town!

I glanced at Vera Mae, who rolled her eyes with one finger on the mute button. She saw my look and reached for a marker pen. Uh-oh. It was time for another one of Vera Mae’s famous signs.

“But this was a crow. I think they only come in black.”

“Oh, but a crow is never just a crow, is it?” Dr. Grayson threw her head back and gave a tinny little laugh. There was something odd about her, something a little off-kilter. Funny, I hadn’t noticed it the first time she’d come on the show. But now that I was taking a closer peek, she had the look of a glassy-eyed zealot, someone who’d be the first in line to drink poisoned Kool-Aid with Jim Jones down in Guyana.

“I beg to disagree,” I cut in. “You know what Freud said: sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Her smile instantly faded. “You’re wrong. I’m sure Freud would agree that a dead crow is a symbol of some underlying psychic problem.”

“Really?” I kept my voice deliberately neutral. No sense in antagonizing the guest. Not yet, anyway.

“Yes, really.” She gave me a hard look. “He’d say that there’s a certain element of danger or negativity present, both from the color black and, of course, from the fact that the bird was smashed against the windshield.” She waited to let this sink in. “Tell me, Lucy, are you going through a difficult time right now? Any personal problems in your life you’d like to discuss?”

“Personal problems? No, nothing like that.” A pause. Another second and it would be the dreaded dead air.

I was just about to jump in but Dr. Grayson beat me to it. “Are you sure?” she prodded. “No marital problems, financial woes, work-related disputes?”

“No, nothing.” Another pause. “So what do you think it means?”

“I think your dream means that you are probably in an emotionally fragile state—”

“My dream? What are you talking about?”

“Your dream, my dear,” Dr. Grayson said smoothly. “Your dream about the dead crow.”

“My
dream
? This isn’t a dream. I’m driving down 95 South from Boca and a dang crow just smashed into my windshield. I called up to see if I was going to have bad luck all day long. Isn’t this the show on superstitions and bad luck?”

“Oh honey, you’ve got the wrong station,” Vera Mae piped up. “You’re probably looking for that show over on WXVW,” she added helpfully. “They have that psychic lady on today; I bet that’s what you want. Her name is Sylvia Trent and she’s into all that good luck—bad luck stuff.”

“Yeah, Sylvia Trent! That’s who I was thinking of.”

“It’s a bunch of hooey as far as I’m concerned, but she’s real popular with some people. Get on over to twelve ten on the dial and you can hear her, sugar.”

“I will, thanks! I want to find out if a dead crow means the same thing as breaking a mirror. Or walking under a ladder.”

Dr. Grayson suddenly sputtered to life. “Really, these superstitions are ridiculous and not the least bit scientific. Can we please get back to the subject at hand?” She was perched on the edge of her chair, her face flushed bright pink, her voice quavering, her beady little eyes dilated in anger.

“Let’s take another call,” Vera Mae piped up. “How about Nadine from Briny Breezes? You’re on the air with Dr. Maggie, Nadine.”

“I’d like to tell your guest about my dream,” Nadine began in a sultry voice. “I have this recurring dream about Hugh Jackman and Russell Crowe. The details are sort of fuzzy, though.”

“I’d like to hear more,” Dr. Grayson said.

“Well, here’s the problem. Every time I start to think about it, it slips away. One minute it’s real clear, just like watching a movie, and then the next minute, it’s clouded over and foggy.”

“Here is what I would recommend.” Dr. Grayson lowered her voice to a hypnotic whisper. “I want you to sit very still. Now close your eyes and picture Russell Crowe and Hugh Jackman. All three of you are together in the same picture. Just like watching a movie. Everything is clear; nothing is fuzzy. The whole scene will come into focus, if you concentrate.”

A pause. I heard Nadine give a breathy little sigh.

“Can you see the picture clearly?”

A long pause. “I’m doing my best. Uh, yeah, okay, I think I can see them. They’re coming right into focus, just like you said.”