Reel Murder (2 page)

Mom’s voice pulled me back from my reverie.

“Guess again! Who called?” She held up my favorite WYME mug and dangled it just out of reach. WYME is the radio station that I left my Manhattan psychoanalytic practice for—I host a call-in show,
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh.
It has a small south Florida market, and strictly a bottom-rungs-of-show-biz operation, but I love my job and I don’t miss those New York winters.

“Mom, I swear I don’t know.” I sank into a chair at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. I said the first Hollywood name I could think of. “Aaron Spelling?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s already passed,” Mom said crisply. “It would take James Van Praagh to reach him now.”

“Then I give up.”

Mom shook her head. “You give up way too easily.” She paused dramatically. “Okay, that was Hank Watson on the phone.” She waited for a reaction, her blue eyes flashing with excitement, her magenta nails beating a tattoo on the table. “
The
Hank Watson.” She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows for emphasis.

She released the mug and I immediately crossed to the counter and poured myself a hefty cup of coffee. Ah, sweet bliss.

“Hank Watson!! Director Hank Watson,” she added, shaking her head in exasperation. “Don’t you watch
Access Hollywood
? What in heaven’s name do you watch? The History Channel? C-SPAN?”

“I take it he’s a film director.” I sipped my coffee, enjoying that first quick jolt of caffeinated energy flooding my system.

“Not just any film director.” Her voice was gently chiding. “He’s a master of the horror genre. Didn’t you ever see
Night Games
? Or
Highway to Hell
? And what about,
A Night to Forget
? He won the Okaloosa County Film Festival award for that one.”

I frowned. These all sounded like B movies that probably played to three people in Kentucky before going straight to video. Only one name rang a bell. “
A Night to Forget
? Was that the old flick about the
Titanic
?”

“No, that was
A Night to Remember
,” she said with heavy patience.

“Okay, tell me about Hank Watson. And the phone call.” Pugsley jumped into my lap hoping for a piece of croissant that didn’t materialize. Unless Lark had picked up some “bakery,” before she left town, Puglsey and I were both going to be stuck with a healthy breakfast. Kibble for him and high-fiber cereal for me. Blech.

“Well, brace yourself, darling. Hank made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Your mom’s going to be a movie star. Again.” She sat down across from me, her cornflower blue eyes dazzling.

“A movie star?”

“It’s a speaking part,” she said, backpedaling swiftly. I raised my eyebrows. “No, it’s not an under-five,” she added quickly with a toss of her head. “It’s a small role, but you know what they say . . .”

“There are no small roles, only small actors,” I parroted.

She grinned. “I’ve taught you well.” She smiled approvingly. Some of Mom’s recent roles have been the dreaded “under-fives,” meaning she had fewer than five lines of dialogue. As an “under-five,” she’s relegated to lousy pay and the tiniest of bit parts. Last month she was a waitress in a Georgia barbecue joint (“Do you want hush puppies with that, hon?”) and just last week she played an emergency room nurse (“Get the crash cart! He’s flatlining!”)

In an industry rife with rejection (ninety-eight percent of Screen Actors Guild actors are unemployed at any given time) Mom has learned to never turn down work. You never know when another part will come along and the competition is fierce. Five hundred people can turn up to audition for a two-line role.

“Tell me about the movie.”

I rummaged in the pantry, found a five-day-old Entenmann’s crumb-topped coffee cake, and zapped it in the microwave for exactly five seconds. Then I cut a hefty wedge for each of us. Fiber has its place, but you can never go wrong with Entenmann’s. Breakfast of Champions.

“Well, you know Hank and I go way back,” she began. “Years ago, when I was getting my feet wet in Hollywood, Hank was making a name for himself as a director.”

“So the two of you started out together?” I broke off a corner of coffee cake for Pugsley who was beating a staccato on the floor with his tiny feet. He wolfed it down and gave me one of those intent stares that pugs do so well, his dark eyes riveted on my face.

“In a way,” Mom said cautiously. “I’m much younger than Hank, of course.”

“Of course.” I plastered a nonchalant look on my face. According to Mom, she’s younger than everyone in Hollywood, with the possible exception of Dakota Fanning. “So he wants you to fly out to Hollywood to work on his latest flick?”

“No, something better! He’s going to be filming part of the movie right here in south Florida, in Cypress Grove. How perfect is that? He got a really good deal from the Florida Film Commission, and he can’t wait to start shooting here. You know, the sunlight, the ocean, the scenery—this place is paradise for a cinematographer.” She was as giddy as if she’d taken a hit of Ecstasy. “Just think, Hank and I will be together again, just like in the old days.”

“I’m happy for you, Mom. What’s the movie called?” I wanted to take a peek at the
Cypress Grove Gazette
that was spread out on the table, but I knew Mom was on a roll and I figured I’d better play along. I couldn’t imagine anyone shooting a movie here, but I decided to take Mom’s word for it.

Cypress Grove is a sleepy Florida town, north of Boca, not too far from Palm Beach, and a pleasant ride to Fort Lauderdale. As the Chamber of Commerce says on their welcome sign, “Cypress Grove. We’re near every place else you’d rather be!” I never could figure out if that was said tongue-in-cheek. Maybe, maybe not.

“The film is called
Death Watch
and it stars Adriana St. James. It will be wonderful to work with her again. I haven’t seen her in years, you know.”

I frowned. “Adriana St. James? Mom, I thought you loathed her. How can you stand to be in a movie with her?”

“Oh, that was nothing, a mere creative difference of opinion.” Mom reached down to pat Pugsley, her face melting into a dreamy smile. “You know how it is with us theater people. One minute we’re discussing Larry Olivier and
Hamlet
and the next we’re arguing over whether or not Jeremy Piven really had mercury poisoning when he bailed out of that David Mamet play.” She gave a wry little laugh. “It doesn’t mean a thing, darling. It’s just the artistic temperament shining through. We’re bound to clash from time to time. We always kiss and make up.”

“Mom, you told me Adriana dumped a very large Caesar salad in your lap at Chasen’s one night. She claimed you were sleeping with her husband. The whole story was on Page Six.”

“Oh, yes, the Caesar salad.” Mom frowned. “You know, I never did get that stain out of my Chanel suit. I had to donate it to charity. Just think, some poor homeless person is probably wandering around Rodeo Drive, wearing a vintage Chanel with a really big stain on the skirt.”

“Mom, I don’t think homeless people spend much time on Rodeo Drive—”

Lola cut me off with a wry little laugh. “Well darling, no one could seriously believe I would sleep with her husband. What a dreadful little man! The funny thing is, I was probably the only woman in Hollywood who
wasn’t
sleeping with Marvin.” Mom chortled. “He had so many girlfriends, he made Warren Beatty look like a celibate monk.”

I took at peek at the
Gazette
. Nothing on the front page about the film. I quickly riffled through the sections: local, business, arts-and-entertainment. Zilch. I’d have to call Nick, my reporter pal, the moment I got into work.

“The movie deal isn’t a secret, is it. Mom? Because there’s nothing in the local paper about it.”

“Well, maybe not in
this
paper,” she said. “Hank said the news is hitting the
Hollywood Reporter
today. And the
L.A. Times
and
New York Times
.” She reached over and tapped the
Gazette
with a manicured fingernail. “You’re living in a time warp, sweetie, a time warp. I wonder when the news will make it to this burg?”

 

I strolled into WYME show around noon, with plenty of time to call my favorite reporter, Nick Harrison, at the Gazette. I waved to Irina sitting at the reception desk, before heading down the hallway to my cubbyhole of an office.

Irina is our beautiful blond receptionist, straight from Sweden. Irina is doing her best to master the English language, but she’s making slow progress. Puns, humor, and slang expressions go whizzing over her head, which leads to some embarrassing gaffes and a few double entendres.

Today, she was chatting with Big Jim Wilcox, our sports announcer. “So I said to Gustav, I can’t go back to square zero, no way! It’s time to fish or get off the pot.”

“Time to fish or get off the pot, that’s a good one.” Big Jim chortled appreciatively. He was peering over the reception desk, hoping to catch a view of Irina’s impressive cleavage. Big Jim spends a lot of time hanging around Irina, laughing outrageously at her comments, letting his eyes skim lustfully over her body.

But this time Irina was too fast for him. She jutted her chin, folded her arms primly over her chest, scooting her desk chair back several feet from the desk.

“Is Gustav your boyfriend?” Big Jim asked. He was ogling her, with his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth like Jim Carrey in
The Mask
.

“Boyfriend?” Irina gave a sardonic laugh. “No, not boyfriend; he is landlord. He is . . . how you say, filthy old man. He is at least forty years old. I would have to be cuckoo to be interested in old man like that.”

“Oh. I see.” Big Jim’s face flushed and he backed away. I knew Big Jim had hit the big four-oh at least five years ago. “Well, that’s very interesting, Irina. I better get back to the sports desk now,” he added, beating a hasty retreat. It was obvious how his mind was working. If Gustav was a “dirty old man” at forty, that made Big Jim—out of the running!

Score one for Irina. Zero for Big Jim.

Vera Mae, my producer, scurried out from the control room to meet me in my tiny office. “Hey girl, did you have a good weekend?”

I tossed my oversized hobo bag on the desk and riffled through the listener mail. “Lola’s back in town.” I arched an eyebrow, waiting for Vera Mae’s response. “Need I say more?”

“Oh Lord,” she said, sinking into my visitor’s chair. “And I have the feeling she has more on her mind than shopping at the Sawgrass Outlets.” Vera Mae patted her towering beehive, which she’d lacquered like a Ukrainian Easter egg. My producer hails from Georgia and she’s of the firm belief that “the higher the hairdo, the closer to God.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but she told me she’s got a part in a movie being filmed here. Some schlockmeister flick called
Death Watch
. Have you heard anything about it?”

“A movie? Being filmed here in Cypress Grove?”

I nodded. “Someone named Hank Watson is the director. Lola actually has a speaking role.”

“I haven’t heard a thing about it. We could check with Cyrus. He’s still head of the Chamber of Commerce, far as I know. If there’s any filming going on, he’d be sure to know about it. “

“Good idea.” I gave myself a mental head-slap. Of course, Cyrus Still, the station manager at WYME, would know about
Death Watch
. I’d talk to Nick first, and then Cyrus.

Vera Mae reached for a pack of cherry Twizzlers I keep in my desk drawer and helped herself to one. Vera Mae has been trying to give up smoking since I joined WYME a few months ago and she’s going through at least twenty Twizzlers a day.

“We could do a show on it, you know? Maybe you could interview the stars, or you could even do a remote broadcast from the set? Cyrus would like that. Ratings are down this month.” She lowered her voice. “He thinks we need to jazz up the show a little, get some exciting guests, some more controversial topics. I think he’s gonna bring it up at the next staff meeting.”

“I’m not sure what he expects me to do. It’s not like we’re going to lure any big names to WYME,” I reminded her. “How bad are the ratings?” I asked after a moment. I hated to ask, but I had to know.

“Well, you know how you and Bob Figgs on the
Swine Report
used to have identical ratings?”

“I sure do. We always tie for last place.” Bob Figgs calls himself a “radio personality” in all his publicity; so I do, too. It was embarrassing to see my show,
On the Couch with Maggie Walsh
, linked with his.

Vera Mae leaned closer and whispered, “I hate to tell you, sweetie, but Bobby’s inching ahead of you.”

“Ohmigod, you’re kidding!! I’m losing out to a show about hogs?”
And to think I left a nice, cushy psychoanalytic practice in Manhattan for this
, I added silently.
What was I thinking?

“It looks that way, hon.”

“If we can’t change the guests, maybe we should change the title,” I suggested. “O
n the Couch with Maggie Walsh
. It doesn’t really pop, does it?”

“Now, I wouldn’t go messin’ with the title. You know Cyrus loves that title. He thought of it himself. He thinks it’s sort of cute and sexy.”

I rolled my eyes. “He probably doesn’t even know it’s a reference to Freud, a play on words.”

“It is?” Vera Mae put her Twizzler down to stare at me. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. What’s Freud got to do with it?”

“Freud used to have his patients lie on a couch while he analyzed them. He thought it helped them free-associate as he delved into their unconscious.”

“Well, you got me on that one, girl. Sounds mighty impressive, though. I don’t think you should change it.”

At that very moment, Kevin Whitley, our college intern, popped his head into my cubicle.

He’s annoyingly cheerful, as effervescent as a club soda.