Reel Murder (21 page)

Hank jumped up, scowling. “What the devil? Who the hell’s responsible for this?”

Maisie shook her head, helplessly. “I have no idea,” she said, her face suddenly turning pale under her California-girl tan. “Thank God no one was hurt.”

“Hank, I have no idea how this happened.” Jesse, the AD, came running over, hands outstretched, palms turned up, all apologies.

Hank shook his head and pushed him brusquely aside. Hank has a reputation in the business for being a tough director and for having high standards. Like Donald Trump and Ted Turner, Hank doesn’t like excuses and he can’t stand incompetence. I knew heads would roll after this incident. It didn’t matter if it was an accident, it shouldn’t have happened and that meant someone’s job was on the line.

“Maggie, are you okay?” Hank rushed to my side, his voice warm with concern. He touched my arm very lightly, his dark eyes worried. “You’re bleeding—you must have been hit with a piece of flying glass.”

“I am? I didn’t even notice.” I glanced down. Hank was right. I must have been sprayed by a shower of glass fragments, because a series of tiny red dots were sprouting on my upper arm. I took a slow breath to ease the tightness in my throat. “It’s nothing, really—”

“Maisie, take her to First Aid,” Hank snapped. He turned back to Jesse, who looked like he was one Valium away from a meltdown. “We’re wrapping for the day. Get everyone back on the set early tomorrow. Make them check the call sheet, tell them to be on time, and no excuses. I want to get some sunrise shots.” He gave the AD a long hard look. “You and I will talk about this later. I want the names of everyone who touched that light. In the meantime, get someone over here to sweep up this broken glass. I don’t want anyone stepping on it.”

“C’mon Maggie; over this way.” Maisie steered me away from the shattered light and dabbed ineffectually at my arm with a tissue. “We’ve got some first aid supplies in the production office.”

“But, it’s nothing, just a tiny scratch. I feel really silly—”

“Hey, there’s nothing silly about nearly getting brained by a piece of lighting equipment.” She lowered her voice. “Let’s just get some alcohol for it and a bandage, okay? Hank will be furious if you don’t come with me.” She locked eyes with me. “Do it for me, please?”

“Okay, but it’s only a scratch. I had to admit I was a little surprised at Hank’s reaction.” I struggled to keep up with her as she crossed the sandy beach at a good clip, making her way to the trailers.

She let out a little sigh. “Things have been really tense today and I think Hank’s coming unglued. The last thing he wants is another accident on the set.”

I nodded. It would be hard not to be upset after what happened to Adriana, I decided. Maybe everyone’s nerves were on edge.

“An accident? I don’t think Adriana’s death was an accident, sweetie,” a familiar voice piped up. Carla Townsend was standing right behind us, flushed with excitement. “And maybe this wasn’t an accident, either. Or didn’t that thought occur to you?” she purred.

“I didn’t know you were on the set today, Carla.” Maisie’s voice was chilly but the celebrity journalist grinned at her and didn’t seem to be the least bit miffed. Maybe she was used to being persona non grata on movie sets; she had a hide like an elephant’s.

“Oh, I’m everywhere,” Carla said. “That’s how I get all the good stories. All the exclusives. I get in first and I get the dirt.” She winked at me. “That’s the only way to be successful in this business. It’s all about the story.”

And if there isn’t a story, you make one up
, I caught myself thinking.

“Well, there’s no story here,” Maisie said flatly. She ushered me into the production office and opened a cabinet with first aid supplies. Carla trotted along with us, and I noticed she’d whipped out a notebook, ready to get down to business.

“Now, Maggie, let’s start with you,” she said in a conversational voice. “How did you feel when the Klieg light nearly killed you?” Her tone was friendly and low-key, and I wondered if she deliberately used a soothing tone, hoping to disarm her subjects. A nice bit of psychology, if it was deliberate. “It must have been quite a shock.” She peered at me closely, standing a little too close, resting her hand on my arm. “You look a little pale, dearie; I think I’ll make a note of that.”

Oh yes, she was flashing a fake-concerned look at me. Another nice touch. Carla was quite a manipulator, up there with the best of them.

“Carla,” I said, bewildered, “what are you talking about? It didn’t nearly kill me. As you can see, I’m standing right here and I’m perfectly fine.” Maisie was busily swabbing my upper arm with antiseptic and I winced as she slapped a Band-Aid on the tiny cut.

“Yes, but it was just a matter of blind luck, wasn’t it? I saw what happened. Two seconds later and you would have been smashed like a bug on a windshield.” Carla chortled, showing her back teeth. I winced at the image of myself splattered and bloody. I hate anything gory or gruesome; that’s why I didn’t go to medical school and became a psychologist instead. It’s easier to play around in people’s minds than in their large intestines. “So tell me why did you stand up, anyway? Did you have a premonition?” Carla had her pen poised, all set for a juicy quote.

“Hardly,” I said dryly. “I felt like an iced tea, that’s all.”

Maybe if I stuck to the bare facts, Carla would lose interest and leave me alone. There really was no story here, no sinister plot at work here, right? I felt a funny little tingling along my spine, and willed it away. Accidents happen and I just happened to be sitting in that chair at that time. Certainly no one planned it. So why did I feel a little queasiness in the pit of my stomach?

I gave myself a mental shake. It was an accident, that’s all. If I listened to Carla any longer, I’d end up completely paranoid. Time to rein in my always-too-vivid imagination.

“Maybe not, but it was certainly a lucky break for you,” Carla said casually. Her beady-eyed stare was beginning to unnerve me. “That iced tea saved your life, Maggie. Another couple of seconds and you would have been sitting in the Death Chair.” She paused, deep in thought and then smiled. “You know, I really need to get a shot of that chair before they clean up the broken glass. And I need to make sure I get the words Death Chair in the headlines.”

“The Death Chair?” I asked. This woman was shameless!

“Yes. It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?” Her smile widened; she was clearly pleased with herself. “Death Chair.” She dragged the syllables out in a sepulchral tone. “It’s the kind of thing that could end up on eBay. It would fetch a good price, I imagine. Of course, if you’d been killed, it would fetch even more.”

“The Death Chair?” Maisie turned from the first-aid cabinet to give me a little eye-roll. “Oh Carla, please. Let’s not get all dramatic here. It was an accident, that’s all—a very minor accident. Things like this happen all the time on movie sets, and they don’t make front page news. Even in the tabloids,” she added, giving Carla a little dig.

“Is that so?” Carla was waiting with pen poised. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure. It was just a technical glitch. Apparently someone didn’t tighten the screw enough and the light could have come slamming down from the pole at any moment—” She stopped talking suddenly and glared at Carla. “Oh God, you’re not writing all this down, are you?”

“You bet I am!” Carla chuckled. “A technical glitch,” she said, parroting Maisie’s words. “It doesn’t sound like the production company is showing much concern for the safety and well-being of the actors, does it? Sounds like carelessness to me. You know, Maisie, you’re calling it an accident, but I think my editor will have quite a different take on it.”

“You do?” Maisie asked.

Carla nodded, looking pleased with herself. “Oh yes, definitely. First Adriana, and now another nasty accident on the
Death Watch
set.” She shook her head sadly. “Maybe the set is cursed?” She bit the end of her ballpoint pen, lost in thought.

“The set isn’t cursed!” Maisie tossed her a furious look.

Carla smiled. “You know, that’s another good angle to explore. Paranormal is very hot these days. That would make a good lead. I’m thinking there’s enough here for a three-part special.” She paused. “And I like that line about the screw not being tightened; it’s kind of like someone cutting the brake lines on a car, isn’t it? I’ve gotta remember that.”

Maisie’s eyes flashed, her lips tightening. “I was just guessing when I made that remark about the screw and the pole. Anyway, this isn’t an interview, is it? You tagged along with us into the production office. Uninvited, I might add. I thought this whole conversation was off the record.”

“Really?” Carla was unruffled. “You honestly thought that? That was very silly of you, my dear. With journalists, nothing is off the record. You should know that by now, Maisie. I need a little background, honey; you know, something to pad out the piece.” She licked her index finger and flipped through her notebook. “How long have you been working with Hank? I probably have that in my notes somewhere, but it would be quicker if you could just tell me again. I want to file this story tonight.” She gave us a broad smile. “And of course, I want to make sure I spell everyone’s name correctly.”

Mom caught up with me just as Carla and I were walking out of the production trailer and heading across the set. Carla was still trying to weasel a blow-by-blow account of the Klieg light episode out of me and I was doing my damnedest to get rid of her. After all, what could I possibly have to say to her? I hadn’t seen a thing. I knew that wouldn’t stop her and I dreaded seeing the tabloids tomorrow.

“Honey, are you okay? I ran back to wardrobe to get another pair of shoes and I just heard there was an accident. I’m afraid I missed all the excitement.” Mom gave me a quick embrace, her eyes looking teary. Thirty-two years old but I’m still her baby. Her blue eyes widened in alarm when she got a look at my bandaged arm. “Oh Maggie, you’ve been hurt! No one told me.”

“Hurt? She was nearly killed,” Carla said flatly. “And I don’t think it was an accident, do you?”

“It wasn’t an accident?” Mom looked baffled.” I heard that one of the lights fell down, that’s all. I figured it was some sort of technical problem.”

“Really? Then you don’t know the half of it, sweetie.” She gave Mom a calculating look, her mouth twisting into her trademark sneer. “Maybe you have a comment for me, Lola? I’m filing the story in half an hour and I just need a few good quotes to punch it up. Something from the mother of the victim would be good. Readers always like that. It tugs at the heartstrings, as my editor always says.”

“The victim?” Mom’s eyes widened and I rested my hand lightly on her arm. “Does she mean you, Maggie?”

“It’s nothing, Mom. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Oh, a little mother-daughter discussion; that’s good, too.” Carla whisked out her notebook and pen, her eyes bright with interest. “The daughter being brave and stoic but the mother sensing the deadly game being played out.” She put on a somber announcer’s voice like she was doing a voice-over on the Discovery Channel. “Very protective, I like that. Just like a momma bear with her cubs.”

“Carla—” I said warningly.

“This is nice, very nice.” Her eyes were gleaming with excitement. “Who knows? I might even win a local Emmy for this story, especially if it’s an exclusive. You’re not talking to anyone else, are you?”

She gave us both a hard look and I gave her a stony glare. “Of course we’re not,” I said coldly.

“No? I didn’t think so,” she said, returning to her scribbling. “That’s a relief. Now, Maggie, sweetie, let’s get down to business. You need to tell me your thoughts on all this. Don’t hold back; let it all out. Isn’t that what you shrinks tell your clients to do? I can write it in shorthand, or if you want, I have a pocket tape recorder we can use.”

“Carla, I told you I have no comment for you, none at all. I don’t want to talk about this, and I certainly don’t want to be quoted in some rag.” I motioned to Mom to collect her things—the sooner we got out of here the better.

Carla flashed me a hard look, her eyes flat and shiny. There was something cunning, almost predatory, about her features that I hadn’t noticed before. “Well, maybe you don’t want to be interviewed for the story, Maggie, but I bet your mother does. She understands the value of publicity. Now, Lola,” she said, softening her tone. “I need something catchy for the headline. How about: ‘My Desire for Fame Nearly Killed My Daughter’!”

“Ohmigod.” Lola looked stricken, her face turning pale. “I nearly
killed
you?”

“I don’t believe this,” I said through gritted teeth.

Carla spread her hands at eye level as if she was picturing the words in sans serif font splashed across the tabloids. “I can see that on the front page, can’t you? It’s a real attention-grabber. This is the kind of thing that would make it onto
Access Hollywood
. Can’t you just picture Mario Lopez reporting the story, flashing those cute little dimples of his? The audience will eat it up!”

“You’re insane,” I said, half under my breath.

“Well, Lola, what do you think?” Carla raced on, ignoring me.

“My desire for fame nearly killed my daughter?” Mom asked, finally springing to life. “Carla, this is simply ridiculous. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“What’s ridiculous about it?” Carla asked calmly. “Maggie was sitting with Maisie and Hank because you wanted her to watch you in a scene, right? I happened to overhear that little conversation you had with your daughter, so there’s no point in denying it.” She gave me a naughty little wink as though we were coconspirators. “So you put your own daughter in harm’s way.” She wagged her finger at Mom. “Not good, sweetie, not good at all.”

“But I certainly never intended to,” Mom said, clearly flustered. “And Maggie was on the set because she was hired by Hank Watson. She was just doing her job.”