Reel Murder (33 page)

The sun had set and night was closing in on us as we zipped along A1A toward South Beach. Vera Mae had changed from her work shoes (she has an infinite number of pairs of snowy white Reeboks) into some dress sandals she keeps in her desk drawer for “fashion emergencies.” I’d run a brush through my hair and added a coat of lip gloss. My tan linen pencil skirt and jungle print Ann Taylor blouse would have to do. I switched from my comfy sandals into a pair of cream-colored stiletto sling-backs and hoped I could walk in them without wobbling too much.

Vera Mae had fretted that there was no time to change into party clothes, but I convinced her it really didn’t matter. We wouldn’t be able to compete with the “beautiful people” at the Delano party anyway, so why should we worry about it? We didn’t have to be glam; we were members of the working press. Vera Mae had grabbed a couple of official-looking press passes out of Cyrus’s desk drawer before we headed out.

“Just in case Carla forgot to call the organizers and the bouncers try to stop us,” she explained. “Oh, and I brought batteries for your tape recorder, Maggie,” she said, cramming some triple A’s into the pocket-sized recorder I usually forget in my office. “I really like Carla’s idea of taping some teasers with the celebs. We’ll run them as promos throughout the week. It’ll get the listeners really jazzed, knowing you’re going to have some big Hollywood celebs on the show. Just be sure to keep the sound bites short and snappy.”

“Will do,” I said, cranking down the window to let the soft night air in. I loved driving along A1A, the coast road. The moon sparkled on the glassy Atlantic Ocean to the left of us, and I felt a little thrill of excitement at the sound of the surf pounding on the shore.

“Cyrus will be over the moon when he hears about this,” Vera Mae said happily. “We really do need a boost for this quarter’s ratings, sugar, and this will put us over the top.”

“Just so we come out ahead of Bob Figgs and
The Swine Report
,” I said wryly. It still galled me that the Hogmaster and I were tied for last place, according to the Nielsens.

“We will, sugar, we will. We can’t let a passel of pigs outrank us.”

“Damn straight,” I said, borrowing one of Vera Mae’s favorite expressions.

“Although pigs are actually very intelligent animals,” Vera Mae continued, touching her hand to her towering beehive. Amazingly, the evening breeze pouring in the windows didn’t ruffle it; she must have shellacked it into place. “Some folks believe pigs are smarter than dogs.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re smarter than Big Jim Wilcox, but I wouldn’t want to be quoted on that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” I told her.

We passed two very grand hotels as we approached Miami; the Eden Roc and the Fontainebleau. Vera Mae chatted about all the celebrities that had performed there in the days when everyone drank scotch on the rocks and could name the members of the Rat Pack.

Night had fallen when we approached the northern end of South Beach, but the city was alive with color and lights. South Beach has a continental feel to it, with outdoor cafés, trendy nightspots, and luxurious watering holes. No wonder they call it the playground of the rich and famous.

I started to pull into the circular drive leading to the Delano and slowed to a crawl. It was jammed with cars. Uniformed valets were doing their best, but I figured it would be a good half-hour wait before we could hand over the car and get inside.

“Vera Mae, how about if I drop you off right here? You can get us signed in for the party and I’ll leave the car somewhere close. There’s that public garage I always use. It’s just a block or two away.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Vera Mae said, looking flustered. “You’re really the one Carla invited; I’m just tagging along.”

“Don’t be silly. Get in there and wow them. Look,” I said, pointing past her out the car window. “Isn’t that Matt Damon over there?”

“Oh land sakes, do you think it is? I can’t see with all these people.” Vera Mae squinted into the crowd milling around in front of the entrance.

“If you want to say hello, you better get in there fast.”

“I’ll sign us in and I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” she said, scrambling to get out of the car.

“Wait a minute!” I reached into the glove box and handed her the invitations Carla had faxed to the station. They didn’t look elegant but they’d get us in the door, and at the moment, that’s all I cared about.

“Oh Lordy, where’s my brain?” Vera Mae said, grabbing the invitations. “See you in a bit, hon.”

I pulled into the parking garage and my mind was buzzing with possibilities. Funny how one connection could lead to something interesting, proving once again the power of networking. I couldn’t imagine getting involved with Carla and her “creative nonfiction project” but I appreciated the chance to mingle with celebs at the Delano. Vera Mae was right; Cyrus would be thrilled.

I drove up to the fourth level to find a space, locked the car, and headed toward the exit to Collins Avenue. It was dark in the garage and my too-high heels were tapping a little staccato on the concrete floor. Funny, but I felt a tiny shiver of anxiety crawling up my spine. Why was I worried about a celeb party? I’ve met enough A-list celebrities that they don’t impress me, and anyway, it was all about work tonight.

My mind was playing over possible interview questions when a car came tearing out of the blackness, rounding the corner like it was at the Daytona 500 tryouts.
Are they drunk? Are they nuts?
A big warning light flashed like a strobe in my brain when I realized the car was headed straight toward me.

My brain seized and I flashed back to a college Physics class. I was seeing the second law of thermodynamics in action. Also known as the Pauli exclusion principle. Two objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time.

What did that mean for me? Simple. Either the car was going to be a hunk of twisted metal, or I was going to be roadkill. Realistically, I’d put my money on the latter.

I have to tell you, no matter what Sylvia Browne says, my whole life didn’t flash in front of me. There was no blurry montage of my first day in kindergarten or my first kiss with Harold Feddermarker, a dweeb I dated in junior high. Trust me, there are some life memories you
want
to forget.

What was going on here? I was pissed off. Big-time. I jumped to the side just as the car whizzed past me. I tried to send a death glare to the driver, but the windows were tinted so I contented myself with shaking my fist in the air.

I decided it would be a good idea to get out of there ASAP, just in case some other Mario Andretti types were lurking around. That’s when I heard it. The screech of brakes, followed by the sound of an engine revving up, pushed to the max. It suddenly dawned on me.

The driver was coming back to take another pass at me.

The good news is that I wasn’t mad anymore. I didn’t have time to be. I was scared out of my wits, and I started running blindly, tripping along in my silly heels. An odd image fluttered in my brain. I thought of a line from a spaghetti western: “He died with his boots on.” In my case, they’d say, “She died with her stilettos on.”

Either way, I’d be dead.

I yanked off the shoes and finally came to my senses. If someone was out to run me over, why was I making their job easier by staying in the center of the aisle?

I ducked back between the parked cars, hoping I could stay out of sight until the maniac driver gave up the chase. I had a better look at the car as it whizzed past again; it looked like a late-model Mercedes. My heart took a painful lurch and a cold knot formed in my stomach. Was this personal or was it some new street game? Kill the pedestrian?

I knew I had to keep my wits about me. After all, I had the edge, I decided, hunkering down next to a navy blue BMW. I was on foot, and my attacker—whoever it was—was stuck in a car. As long as I stayed out of the aisle and out of sight, the game would be over. So eventually, they’d give up and leave the garage.

At least that’s what I was telling myself.

Then there was another sickening screech of brakes and the Mercedes shimmied to a halt, rocking slightly.
Uh-oh.
My heart was hammering in my chest and the skin was tingling on the back of my neck. I hunkered down even lower and watched as the driver’s door opened. I knew I had to stay calm even though my heart was thumping like a rabbit’s.

The driver was getting out. It was a woman, but the garage was far too shadowy for me to make out anything else. She left the motor running and the driver’s door open. Then she advanced on me.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she said softly. This was beginning to have a
Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte
feel to it and I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. A very bad sign. Was this some lunatic, an act of random violence, or was this personal?

“Maggie, I know you’re there,” the voice went on.

Maggie?
Okay, now I finally got the message. This was personal.

“There’s no point in hiding because I’m going to ge-e-e-e-t you. One way or the o-o-o-other.” The voice slithered through my brain, reminding me of every B horror movie I’ve ever seen. She was half singing to herself; clearly she was a wack job. Something was familiar about her voice, but I couldn’t quite place it. An idea bubbled in the back of my brain and suddenly broke the surface. Suddenly I got it. This was a trained voice, a cultivated voice.

An actor’s voice. But whose?

I didn’t have time to ponder my own question, because when I took another peek, the woman was just a few yards away, moving slowly toward the BMW. I still couldn’t make out who she was, but suddenly that didn’t matter anymore, because something else grabbed my attention.

She was holding a big, shiny gun.

Time for evasive action before this Joan Crawford wannabe blew my brains out. Very quietly, I dropped to my knees and slithered under the BMW. I stayed perfectly still, listening as her footsteps echoed in the parking garage bouncing off the cement block walls.

She wouldn’t think to look under a parked car, would she? I turned my head to the side and nearly gasped. I’d left my shoes, the killer stilettos, next to the BMW. I could have cried in frustration. Instead, I carefully inched one hand out and grabbed the offending shoes, being careful not to scratch them on the concrete floor and laid them on top of my chest.

Success. For the moment at least.

Mommie Dearest was still out prowling around the parking garage, and from the sound of her footsteps, I decided that she’d moved further down the aisle. Should I try to make a break for it?

A tempting idea, but I decided against it. After all, I was perfectly safe where I was, and she’d left her car door open with the motor running. That told me she’d be giving up the search at any moment and exiting the garage. Then I could make my getaway, presumably with my head and brains still intact.

I breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason, I thought of Lark and her theories about cosmic harmony and yin and yang. According to Lark, if the universe gives you a gift (providing me with a cozy refuge under the BMW), it immediately tilts the other way, giving you a challenge or major test. Or maybe even a disaster.

I smiled to myself. Sometimes you have to take things at face value and I didn’t believe any cosmic disaster would happen to me in the next five seconds.

Except it could and it did.

A loud chirp, enough to wake the dead. My cell phone!

I nearly jumped out of my skin, half sitting up and banging my head on the chassis. Why hadn’t I put it on mute? No time to worry about that at the moment, because now I was front and center in Miss Wack Job’s scopes.

“There you are, sweetie!” I heard her heels tap-tapping as she hurried over. She reached under the car and gave my arm a vicious tug. “Do you want to come out, or shall I shoot you right where you are?” A high-pitched cackle, almost maniacal.

“Maybe we could talk about this,” I gasped, wriggling out from the under the car. Hey, I’m a psychologist and I’ve had crisis intervention training. There was a slim chance I could talk Ms. Crazy out of killing me. It was odd that she knew my name, but maybe I could figure out what she wanted, and find a way to talk her out of cold-blooded murder.

“Come out slowly and put your back against the car,” she barked, as I scrambled out.

I wriggled out from under the car, and slowly stood up to face my unknown assailant.

Except she wasn’t unknown.

It was Sandra Michaels, the “formerly fat actress.”

“Sandra?” I said, as if my eyes were deceiving me. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to kill you,” she said, a wide smile spreading across her face. She leveled the gun at me.

So much for my crisis intervention training. I couldn’t think of any deep psychological insights to offer. I could ask her why she wanted to kill me, but I figured that might annoy her, and she might shoot me on the spot. Maybe a diversionary tactic? Could I stall for time?

“You know, a gunshot is going to make a hell of a noise in this enclosed space,” I pointed out. “The sound will go ricocheting off the walls and you’ll be surrounded by security guys.”

“Ya think?” she asked sarcastically. She reached into her bag and pulled out something that looked like a scope. “That’s why I brought a silencer.”

“Good thinking,” I said weakly. “You must have been a Girl Scout.” It’s always a good idea to reinforce a patient’s ego strengths, but maybe I was taking psychoanalytic theory a little too far. “And you’re shooting me because—”

“Because it’s the only way to shut you up.”

“Ah-hah.” I hate it when murderers make perfect sense. It’s so hard to come up with a really good comeback. “Here’s a thought. I could just be quiet, I could promise not to speak again for the rest of my life. I could take a vow of silence like one of those Carmelite nuns. Do you remember Audrey Hepburn in
A Nun’s Story
? She had to have her head shaved, and all that beautiful chestnut hair was falling around her—”