Reel Murder (32 page)

Would my write-it-out technique help me this time? My mental Magic 8 ball said: Signs point to yes.

So I wrote
Adriana
in the middle of a circle and surrounded her with everyone who was involved in her life. I knew that at least one of them was involved in her death.

The names in the outer circle included Hank Watson. Did I really consider him a suspect? The Cypress Grove PD did, but was that just by default? They didn’t seem to have a key suspect and Hank was on their radar screen because he certainly had the technical ability to rig the prop gun. Plus, he’d had some difficulties with Adriana in the past, but I still couldn’t imagine him as a murderer. I was ready to rule him out.

Right next to Hank was Tammilynne Cole, his main squeeze. Adriana’s death was a stroke of luck for her, because the bimbo actress found herself in a starring role. But could Tammilynne really mastermind a murder? I had the feeling she had trouble deciding which lip gloss to wear every day (mocha glaze or sun-kissed bronze?). I put a question mark next to her name.

Was she a murderer? If so, she was the ditziest one I’d ever come across.

Sidney Carter was something of a wild card, and I didn’t really know much about him, except what I’d learned at that wine and cheese mixer at the Seabreeze. Adriana had certainly treated him badly, and starting that AIDS rumor had effectively sabotaged his career. Sidney acted like it had all been a long time ago, though, and seemed to have made peace with the situation.

Sandra Michaels had always been a bitter rival of Adriana’s, but was there really anything there to kill over? It seems like Sandra was moving ahead with her life and career and was full of plans for the future. She had a book deal and a television show in the works. Why kill Adriana when things were going so well in her life?

Marion Summers was probably resentful at always being the second-in-command, stuck in a perpetual “bridesmaid” role with Hank. But they seemed to have a good working relationship and I couldn’t imagine her risking the success of the movie to settle some personal grudge. She wasn’t getting a fair shake in the relationship, but I had the feeling she’d come to terms with it, years ago. I couldn’t see any reason for her to rock the boat.

Lori Taylor had a very good reason to resent Adriana, if her husband, Sam, was really sleeping with the leading lady. And there was that nagging comment from Nick—he’d said Lori had been part of a survivalist group in Utah and was very good with firearms. That gave me pause for a moment. Still, Lori had her plans all laid out—she wanted to move to the Midwest and start a family. As long as Sam acquiesced with her dream, why kill Adriana? It made no sense to me.

Jeff Walker was the person who actually shot the prop gun that killed Adriana. He’d seemed genuinely horrified at what he’d done and I couldn’t come up with a reason why he would want Adriana dead.

Carla Townsend, the Queen of Mean tabloid journalist, certainly had a reason to dislike Adriana. When Adriana decided to jettison her tell-all book, Carla lost her job as co-writer and probably a hefty chunk of change. But plans change and book deals fall through all the time. Was it really worth killing Adriana over a failed book deal? I didn’t think so.

Frankie Domino, the mobster type, was still something of an enigma to me. He had business dealings with Hank, possibly shady, but I didn’t see any connection with Adriana. Whatever Frankie was up to, it had something to do with Hank Watson and the
Death Watch
production.

I looked through the list again and shook my head in dismay. Adriana’s “circle” consisted of all jagged lines, indicating failed relationships, fractured friendships, and long-standing grudges.

It all added up to one dead actress.

Who killed Adriana? I was ready to eliminate Frankie Domino, the mafioso, and Jeff Walker, who had shot the prop gun. Ditto for Marion Summers, his longtime producer, and the two actresses, Lori Taylor and Tammilynne Cole. I dismissed the idea that Hank Watson could have killed Adriana. Her death had thrown the production into a turmoil.

I had three main contenders at the moment: Carla Townsend, who had a long-standing grudge against Adriana; Sidney Carter, who might have been out for revenge over his ruined career; and Sandra Michaels. Why Sandra Michaels? Call it a gut instinct, but there was something about the “formerly fat actress” that just didn’t ring true.

I zipped through my show the next day (“Monica Morgan: Stress-Busting Secrets from the Herb Lady”) and stayed at my desk through dinnertime, catching up on paperwork. Mom had called earlier in the day to say she’d be tied up at the set for an evening shoot, so there was no point in rushing back to the condo.

Vera Mae was working late, too, so around seven o’clock, we decided to share a pizza.

“I still can’t believe what happened to your momma,” Vera Mae said sympathetically. “I’d like to have died if that had happened to me, and the scary thing is they still don’t know who did it.”

“No, they don’t have a clue.” I told her my own theory about the gunshot, and that someone had used a prop gun to frighten Lola, but they never had the intention to kill her.

“What does Rafe have to say about all this?” She finished off the last piece of pizza and reached for a breadstick. Cinnamon buns were also included as freebies. An odd combination. Six months’ worth of sugar, salt, and artery-clogging trans fat, all on one plate. I resolved to eat salads for the rest of the week.

“He didn’t have much to say,” I admitted. “In fact, he told me that I was hindering the police investigation.” I made a little face to let her know what I thought of that remark.

“Oh, now sugar, I’m sure he didn’t mean that. At least not the way it sounded,” she added, catching my eye roll. Vera Mae has a soft spot for Rafe, and believes that you just have to make a few allowances for guys who are so drop-dead gorgeous. Cut them a little slack; you know? Hopelessly antifeminist thinking, but I’ve never been able to talk her out of it.

“I think he meant it.”

We were silent for a moment, and Vera Mae produced two cans of Arizona iced tea. “Maggie, what do you want me to tell that Townsend woman if she calls you again?” She glanced at her watch. “It’s only four thirty on the Coast and she said she’s going to try to talk to you before she leaves the office. I can keep stalling her, if you want. She’s persistent, I’ll say that for her.”

“She’s a tabloid reporter; I think it goes with the territory.”

Carla had tried to reach me earlier in the day and I’d refused to take her call. I was still smarting over that “Death Chair” feature on the TV news and I had nothing to say to her. She’d left a vague message about leaving the tabloids and starting her own talent management company, but I couldn’t imagine what that had to do with me.

“I think she wants to offer an olive branch,” Vera Mae said thoughtfully. “Maybe she knows her behavior was out of line? Wants to mend a few fences?”

“Carla?” I snorted. “Never. She has skin like an armadillo; she’s lacking an empathy gene. She doesn’t have the sensitivity to realize how badly she treats people.”

Vera Mae considered this. “Well, then I guess she must want something from you.”

“I can’t imagine what it could be.”

As if on cue, Irina appeared. She was working late and came trotting into my office, weaving a little on her five-inch platform stilettos. They were Jimmy Choo knockoffs that she’d scored at a street fair and she looked like she was walking on stilts.

“There is a very rude woman on line three. Carla Townsend. She says she is journalist, and I say you are not journalist, you write tabloid smut. You are not nice person.”

Vera Mae chuckled. “Good for you, girl.”

“So I tell her you are making busy. Then she says she is good friend and needs to talk to you. So I put her on hold.” Irina spotted one lonely cinnamon roll left in the box. “Ah, gravkelaches. I have not seen these since childhood. Very delicious.” She smiled and grabbed the roll before tottering back to the reception area.

“Gravkelaches?” Vera Mae asked.

I shook my head. “No idea.” I punched the button for line three and was greeted with Carla’s nasal whine.

“Maggie, sweetie, how are you?” Carla’s voice was pumped with energy; she seemed to be summoning every ounce of warmth in her black soul. You’d think we were best buds and had exchanged string bracelets.

“I’m fine, Carla,” I said crisply. “What can I do for you?”

“Maggie, honey, you’ve got it all wrong. I can do something for
you
. Did you read
USA Today
this morning?”

“Afraid not, what did I miss?”

“A big piece in the entertainment section on my new career move. I’m not writing for the tabloids anymore. I’ve joined Simon Sheckleberg Entertainment. You’d heard of them, I assume. We have offices in New York, Beverly Hills, and London. And we’re planning to open a new branch in South Beach.”

“How nice for you.”

“It could also be nice for
you
, my darling.”

“How’s that?” Vera Mae shot me an interested look as she scooped up the empty pizza boxes and napkins.

“Do you really want to spend your life in that little backwater burg? I’m in a position to help you. As you know, we represent some of the biggest names in the business. We can take your career to the next level, Maggie.”

A sales pitch. I knew something was coming, but I hadn’t expected this.

“And we do a lot of packaging, so we can work on some projects together, as well. You can be a triple threat—a talk show host, a celebrity shrink, and a best-selling author.”

“A best-selling author?” I raised my eyebrows and Vera Mae pointed to her ear. I punched the button for speaker, and Vera Mae smiled and sat back down. I knew she’d enjoy hearing whatever crazy plan Carla had concocted.

“That’s right, sweetie. I’m fielding offers right now from five major publishing houses. They want me to write a creative nonfiction book for them. Do you know what that is?”

“Something like a memoir.” It suddenly occurred to me that if Carla wrote a memoir, she could blow the lid off Hollywood. She knew where all the bodies were buried. “So they want you to write a memoir. What does this have to do with me?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Maggie. This will probably surprise you, but I’m not much of a writer.” She gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “Oh, I’m okay at knocking out some quick columns and celeb pieces but I don’t have the stamina for the long haul. I can’t churn out three hundred and fifty pages without some help. So I need a coauthor. Someone with some credentials. The book is going to be more than a memoir. It’s going to be more of an inspirational book for women, based on my own life and the people I’ve known.”

“Sounds like quite an undertaking,” I said mildly. “But it’s not anything I’d be interested in pursuing.”

“Now, Maggie, don’t say no without hearing me out. I’ll make you a deal. You know how you’re always looking for guests for your show?”

“Yes, but—”

“There’s a private party at the Delano tonight. The big hotel in South Beach; you know it, right?”

“Of course I know it.”

“It’s going to be fabulous, packed with A-list celebs. The Hilton girls will be there, of course, both Paris and Nicki, are flying down from the Hamptons. And rumor has it that Brad Pitt will be there, without Angie. Possibly Nicole Kid-man and definitely Hugh Jackman. Is that enough to get you interested?”

“Wow. I’m interested, all right.” It slipped out before I could stop myself.

“I thought so,” she said smugly. “Patrick McMullan is taking photos and I can get you interviews with all the hot stars. Everyone’s in town doing promo for the Fall television season. Bring a tape recorder and do a few minutes of stand-up with them. You can use them as teasers for
On the Couch
and then I’ll schedule them for a whole hour on your show. Your listeners will eat it up.”

It was a tempting offer. I had to hand it to her. Carla, for all her annoying habits, is a genius at self-promotion and at getting A-list actors to talk to her. Vera Mae was nodding her head up and down, her towering beehive waving from side to side. This would be a ratings bonanza.

“SAY YES,” Vera Mae scribbled on a piece of paper.

“All these actors are really going to be there tonight?”

Carla laughed, a tinny sound that sounded like a gargle. “Of course they are.” She rattled off a half-dozen more names that made my pulse quicken. When she mentioned Simon Baker of
The Mentalist
, Vera Mae leaned back, clutching her chest as if she was in the early stages of a coronary.

They were all major celebs, people I would love to have on the show, guests who would bump me up in the ratings.

“And all I’m asking is that you let me fax you some notes for my book next week. Take a look and see if you want to be involved with the project. If you decide you don’t want to do it, no hard feelings, Maggie. This is a win-win situation. You’ll have a fabulous time at the Delano tonight and you’ll have access to some A-list guests for your show. From what I’ve been hearing, you could really use them, sweetie.”

I thought of today’s guest,
Monica Morgan, the Herb Lady.
Maybe it was time for a change, and after all, I wasn’t really committing myself to anything. Just a celeb event at the Delano with movie stars and mojitos. What’s not to like?

I glanced at Vera Mae, who had shot out of her chair and was doing the happy dance around my cluttered office, waving her arms above her head like a televangelist.

Carla was right; this was a no-brainer.

“You’re on, Carla.” I glanced over at Vera Mae and had a sudden inspiration. “Can you make that invitation for two guests? I’d like to bring my producer.”

“No problem, sweetie. I’ll fax you two invitations right now and I’ll call the people hosting the party.”