Reel Murder (27 page)

“I am. It’s just one of those opportunities that came out of nowhere and I’m enjoying every minute. Who knows, I may never visit a movie set again, so I may as well make the most of it.”

I looked around the bustling set. Jesse, the AD, was busily herding a dozen extras into a gazebo down by the pond, Tammilynne was prancing out of Wardrobe in a traffic-stopping red minidress, and Marion Summers was barking into her cell phone.

It was giving me a little chill to think that the murderer was probably right here on the set with us. It had to be someone connected with the
Death Watch
production, didn’t it? So many possibilities. I’d narrowed them down in my mind, turning them over and over, and outside of Frankie Domino—who still was the mystery man—all of them had a motive for killing Adriana. Sidney Carter had Adriana to thank for his ruined career. There was no love lost between Sandra Michaels and Adriana, that much was clear. Carla hated Adriana, and blamed her for the loss of a lucrative book deal. And Hank Watson? Adriana’s death certainly paved the way for his young girlfriend, Tammilynne, to step into the starring role. And if Adriana really had been having an affair with Lori’s husband, maybe the actress would have been angry enough to kill her. My head was reeling, and Nick interrupted my jumbled thoughts.

“You know, Maggie, there’s one possibility standing right over there,” Nick said, as if he had read my mind. “I bet you didn’t even consider her as a suspect, did you?”

Her? I gulped in surprise. He was looking straight at Marion Summers. “Marion?” I whispered. “Did you find out anything else about her?”

Nick moved away from the table, which was buzzing with hungry extras. “She has a thing for Hank Watson, but then, that’s no surprise, is it?”

“I’d figured as much. She’s supposed to be one of the best in the business, yet she’s stayed with Hank all these years, and she’s never really gotten the money or the recognition she deserves. So I figured she had to have another reason for staying—she must be in love with the guy.”

“Bingo.”

“But that still doesn’t give her a reason for killing Adriana. She wasn’t jealous of Adriana, and her death hurt the production. So that makes it unlikely that Marion would kill her. Marion wouldn’t want to do anything that would hurt Hank.”

“Marion owes Hank, trust me, but they have a complicated relationship,” Nick said. “It has nothing to do with a romantic connection; it’s something else. Something that goes back a long way. I just heard about it last night.”

“What is it?” We edged under a banyan tree, trying to catch a little shade. The sun had come out in full force and now that the cloud cover had drifted away; the day had turned into a scorcher. I could feel my hair sticking to the back of my neck and my low ponytail turning to frizz.

“There was an accident a long time ago, a traffic accident. Hank and Marion were in the car, along with Steve, Marion’s teenage nephew, and they were driving back from doing some location scouting in Kentucky. They were out in the boondocks and a jogger appeared out of nowhere. The car hit him, and he was injured very badly. The police were called in. The jogger had a head injury and wasn’t sure who he saw behind the wheel. He thought it was Hank—”

“And it was?”

“Yes, Hank was the driver. But here’s the interesting part of the story.” Nick ducked his head and leaned close to me. He smelled like a doughnut factory. “Steve, Marion’s nephew, took the blame for the accident.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because Hank was into alcohol back then and already had some DUIs on his record. Marion told Steve to take the blame because she knew the judge would go easy on him. After all, he was just a kid and he’d only had his license a few months.”

I shook my head. “So she sacrificed her nephew for Hank? What happened next? I assume the whole thing was covered up.”

“Absolutely. The judge did go easy on him, just as Marion predicted, and the cops wanted the case wrapped up so they didn’t do a thorough investigation. It was a clumsy cover-up but it worked. The nephew’s records were expunged, so no one was the wiser. It took some digging to get this. I had a friend in L.A. working on it.”

“Why did the cops play along with it? Usually the cops are hard on celebrities.” I remembered that awful mug shot of Nick Nolte that went viral—he looked wild-eyed and disheveled, an image that could never be erased.

Nick shook his head. “Not this time. The DA’s brother was the mayor and the movie company was bringing in a lot of money to this little backwoods town. They wanted to play nice and keep the production company happy.”

“Makes you cynical, doesn’t it?” I asked after a moment.

“I’m already cynical,” Nick replied.

We went our own ways then, Nick hoping to nail down Jesse, the AD, for a quick interview while I tracked down Sandra, the “formerly fat actress.” I found her in Wardrobe, trying on a clingy halter dress and twirling in front of a three-way mirror.

She smiled and greeted me with a big hug. “Do you like this? I think it’s really hot. A nice change from the suits I have to wear in the courtroom scenes.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I said, sinking down on a low couch. “And you have the right body to show it off. All your dieting and exercise paid off.”

“Yes, it was tough going for a while, but in the end it was all worth it,” she said, her smile fading a little.

“And think how many people you’ll be inspiring with your book and your talk show.”

Sandra nodded, but her neck flushed crimson.
Maybe she’s one of these people who can’t take a compliment?
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” Funny, but she didn’t seem enthused; her voice was flat and robotic. “I love to motivate people and show them that anyone can do what I did. All it takes is knowledge about how the body works and some self-discipline. I’m going to have exercise and nutrition experts on the show. They’ll provide the knowledge and I’ll provide the motivation.”

“You’re certainly the perfect role model,” I agreed.

I stared at her, expecting to see a look of pride or maybe even satisfaction on her face, but it wasn’t there. Mental note:
what’s going on here?

Just for a second, I thought I saw something else flicker across her face, an emotion I couldn’t identify. The bodily clues were there. A tightening at the edge of her lips and a quick downward glance to the side. That downward look was significant.

Was it fear? No, something else. Shame? I was puzzled. Why would she be ashamed of losing weight and looking great in a dress? Sometimes people who lose a lot of weight still think of themselves as “fat,” and I wondered if this could be the case.

Back in my Manhattan practice, I had a few patients with body dysmorphic disorder. They were rail thin, but when they looked in the mirror, they saw a fat person staring back. It’s a complicated disorder, and difficult to treat. Could Sandra have BDD? Or was I simply seeing something that wasn’t there, overanalyzing everything, as Nick says I tend to do.

“Do you need me to work on the script with you?” Sandra asked. Unless I was mistaken, she was eager to get the focus off of her weight loss. “I can change out of this dress in a flash and meet you outside. Or we can just grab an iced tea and sit here and work together. They’ve finally got the AC working in the trailer.” She gave a rueful smile and pushed a golden lock of hair out of her face. “I guess you noticed.”

“I did. No more sweat box.” I pulled out a copy of the script, with my notes, from my tote bag. “Let’s go over a few things right here; it will only take half an hour.”

I never got the chance to ask her about Copper Canyon, and before I knew it, time slipped away and I was heading back to WYME. I made sure I was there early enough to talk to Vera Mae before doing the show. She had the most recent hate note ready for me, and I wanted to give myself time to “process” it, as the shrinks say. She said it was “worse than the last one,” but what exactly did she mean? It couldn’t be that bad, could it?

It could, and it was.

“I wasn’t sure I should show it to you, sugar,” Vera Mae said, all apologies, “but I figured you’d want to see it. If I was in your shoes, I know I would.”

“You did the right thing, Vera Mae.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the piece of paper lying on my desk.

And then my heart slammed into my rib cage and a trail of goose bumps popped up on my bare arms.

It was a montage, and a grisly one at that.

Someone had taken pictures of me—most were publicity shots, including my WYME headshot—and glued them to the paper in neat columns across the page. Then they’d mutilated my face in every gruesome way you can imagine. Some of the pictures were slashed, leaving a split-open smile and bleeding eyeballs, some had a devil’s face with horns, and a few of them had obscene words scrawled across my features.

You get the idea.

This was a copy, of course. I knew that Rafe had taken the original to the Cypress Grove PD and it was probably being analyzed right this minute. I looked away for a moment to compose myself, looked back, and shuddered, my nerves jangled. This was more than a prank, wasn’t it? It practically reeked of evil. It was full of rage, cruelty, a demonic desire to wound, to kill. And especially to shock.

Someone hates me enough to do this, but who?

“Rafe wanted to talk to you this morning, honey, but I said you’d be tied up on the set, and then you’d be dashing in here to do your show.” She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes till air time.

“Maybe I should give him a ring.”

“He said he was working on another case today, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he drops by anyway. You could always talk to him during the commercial break, or during the news segment.”

I nodded and stared silently at the photos. It was shocking to think that someone wanted me dead. Or mutilated.
What sort of warped mind would create this?

The same kind of warped mind who plans a murder
, a little inner voice reminded me.

“This is all that was inside the envelope? No message, just these awful pictures?”

Vera Mae nodded. “This is it—except for the message at the bottom right.” She tapped the paper with her magenta-colored fingernail. “Looks like he couldn’t resist getting in another little dig.”

I followed her eyes and saw the tiny words block-printed at the bottom of the paper, where an artist would place his signature. A chill danced down my spine.
Back Off. Or Lola won’t like what she gets.

“It’s him,” I breathed softly. The lines from the old song buzzed through my head. Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. “And now he’s threatening Lola.”

“Or her,” Vera Mae corrected me. “It could be a woman, you know.”

It was hard to concentrate on my work that afternoon. My scheduled guest was Shirley Dawson, a motivational speaker from Dania. She was hawking her new book,
Open Your Heart to Magic
, and she was getting an amazing amount of local buzz.

It was one of those “feel good” books, the kind of psychobabble that clogs the media with its nutty message. Perfect health, unlimited wealth, and lusty sexuality, it’s all there for the asking. Knock and the door shall be opened. Ask and the universe will tilt your way.

“Hey, sign me up!” I muttered under my breath. I’m never a fan of “magical thinking” and I certainly wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense today.

I took a peek at the back cover copy. It was annoyingly optimistic—almost to the point of being delusional. Did the author really believe this tripe, or was she giving the public the quick fix, the magical solution that they craved? I’d soon find out when we opened the lines and started taking questions from the listeners.

I tried not to groan as I forced myself to flip through the pages and skim through the press packet her publicist had thoughtfully provided. Are you looking for the secret to finding money, sex, and happiness? All you have to do is tap into your inner “heartsongs” and the rest is easy.

I checked out the table of contents and the first chapter jumped out at me. “Stick a rose between your teeth and have an awesome day!”

The last time I saw someone walking around with a rose between her teeth, she was snowed on Haldol and committed to a locked psych unit.

And I don’t think she was having an awesome day.

I found myself wondering who would buy a book like this ($24.95 and available only in hardcover from Shirley Dawson Enterprises). Maybe it was self-published and Shirley Dawson bought all the copies herself? That was the only possible explanation.

I raised my eyebrows, tilted back in my Aeron chair, and tossed Vera Mae a speculative look. Call me cynical but I bet Shirley Dawson had some strong financial ties to Cypress Grove and maybe even to the station.

“Did you look at this?” I held up the cover, which was plastered with a giant sunflower.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cheesy, I know. I tried to read a little last night, but I gave up.”

“It’s more than cheesy; it’s insane. It says all you have to do is tap into your heartsongs, and all good things will come to you. What in the world is a heartsong?”

“A heartsong? You got me, sweetie. I don’t know; maybe it’s something like whale songs.” She’d opened the mike to talk to me and her liquid caramel voice trickled into the studio.

“Whale songs?” I asked incredulously.

“Whales make music, you know. People record them and everything. Do you suppose it’s something like that?” She was thumbing through the commercial log for that afternoon and she sneaked a quick look at the clock. Vera Mae is the ultimate multitasker. She stopped and stared at the ceiling, her face scrunched up in thought. “Or, wait a minute. Maybe I’m thinking of dolphin sounds. Yeah, that could be it. They make those squeaky noises, but I guess you could call them sounds.”