Seaside Lies

by Sherryl Woods

  Michael finally gave up. “Let’s get over to the hospital. When we get there, though, you go in and talk to Veronica, while I take Meyerson aside. I don’t want them hearing what the other one’s saying. We’ll compare notes later.”

  Molly regarded him intently. “You still think Meyerson’s mixed up in Greg’s death, don’t you? You think he invented this as some sort of smoke screen.”

  “Let’s just say I’ve never been entirely satisfied with his explanation about his arrival in Miami and the length of time it took him to get to the hotel.”

  They drove into the parking lot at Mount Sinai, where the best view of Biscayne Bay was wasted on empty cars. In the emergency room Michael flashed his badge around and the triage nurse sent them back to the cubicle where Veronica was being treated.

  The actress lay on a stretcher, looking a little wan, but otherwise fit. Not one hair was out of place. She took one look at Molly and demanded, “Can you spring me from this place? Jeffrey has this crazy notion that they should keep me overnight for observation. I absolutely refuse to spend one minute in one of those tacky, indecent hospital gowns.”

  “I think it makes sense, dear,” Meyerson said, his tone placating. “You’ve had a terrible fright.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, it’s not as if anything dreadful happened,” she said impatiently. “I fell. People stumble all the time.”

  Before Meyerson could respond, Michael took his arm and steered him out of the treatment area. “Why don’t you explain what happened?” he suggested as he led the man away.

  Molly stepped closer to the stretcher and took Veronica’s hand. It was ice cold. She felt surprisingly frail. The actress’s personality was so forceful, Molly had never really noticed until now just how petite she really was.

  “How do you feel, really?” she asked when they were alone.

  “I’m perfectly fine. Being thrown to the ground like that was something of a shock, but aside from a couple of bruises, there’s no damage done.”

  “Thrown to the ground,” Molly repeated slowly. “I thought you fell.”

  “Jeffrey thought he heard a shot. He grabbed me and pushed me down, then fell on top of me. It was all terribly dramatic and dear of him, but to be perfectly honest, I think he was imagining things. Perhaps he felt guilty for not being here on Saturday and thought a rescue would salvage his pride.”

  “Then you didn’t hear a shot?”

  “I don’t believe so. Of course, Jeffrey was awfully certain.” Her brow creased with worried lines. “You don’t suppose there really was a shot? Who on earth would want to kill me?”

  Molly pulled a chair up beside her. “Let’s think about that for a minute. Is there someone you don’t get along with?”

  “I suppose any number of people find me overbearing and demanding, but I don’t think any of them would see that as grounds for murder. Even that Jonathan Fine person knows there’s nothing personal in the things I say about his script. Everything I say is for the good of the film. I’ve had more experience than the whole bunch of them put together. Not that anyone asks my opinion.”

  She gave Molly a cheerful grin. “I suppose it’s just as well that I’m not the kind of woman to wait to be asked, isn’t it?”

  Molly couldn’t help laughing with her. Veronica had a certain indomitable spirit that she had to admire. No doubt that spirit had stood her in good stead as she’d battled her drinking problem.

  Thinking of that, Molly reluctantly asked, “You hadn’t been drinking or anything when you fell, had you?”

  Veronica’s expression turned sad. “I’m not surprised that you should ask about that, but no, I hadn’t been drinking. Believe it or not, I do know my limits.”

  “Limits?”

  Veronica sighed wearily. “Please, don’t lecture. I’ve heard it all. No, I shouldn’t touch a drop, but I seem to go for long periods when one or two drinks is plenty. Then something happens and, I don’t know, I get crazy. One, two, ten drinks aren’t enough. Do you know anything about alcoholics?”

  Molly shook her head. “Not really, except some people should never take that first drink.”

  “And yet some of us have to, some of us need the booze to dull the pain.”

  As she spoke, a single tear tracked down her cheek. Molly had no doubt at all that it was genuine. Veronica’s hand trembled in hers.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  With her free hand, Veronica reached for a tissue and wiped away the tear. She shook her head. “No. It’s not something I can discuss. Not ever.”

  “Surely you talked about it with counselors when you were in that de-tox program.”

  “No. I couldn’t even trust them with this. If it ever came out…” She sighed. “It simply can’t and that’s that.”

  Molly considered arguing with her, but she could see from Veronica’s intractable expression that it would do little good. Whatever secret she had been hiding, for however long, was going to remain just that: her secret.

  And her torment.

  * * *

  In the end, it was Michael who persuaded Veronica to remain hospitalized for the night. Molly wanted desperately to find out why he was so determined, but all she could do was to stand silently by as he cajoled until the actress finally said “Yes.”

  They stayed with her while she was taken to a VIP suite and settled in, then drove Jeffrey Meyerson back to the hotel.

  “I suppose I must tell Ms. Crain what’s happened,” Meyerson said.

  “Absolutely,” Molly said. “It could affect tomorrow’s shooting schedule, especially if she expected Veronica to be ready for an early makeup call. Would you like me to speak with her and explain that Veronica won’t be available at least until midday?”

  “Would you, my dear? That would be so helpful. This entire ordeal has exhausted me. And I must call Rome and explain that my arrival has been delayed.”

  “It must be the middle of the night there,” Molly protested.

  “My friends tend to party until the wee hours. I’m sure they will be awake. Even if they are not, they will forgive me when they hear what has happened to Veronica. She absolutely enchanted them when they visited Hollywood last winter.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Michael said. “She’s a charming woman. Have you known her long?”

  “We met several years ago, under less than ideal circumstances. We knew immediately that we were kindred spirits.”

  “What were the circumstances?” Molly asked.

  “It was one of those addiction treatment programs. She was trying to get off booze and I was having a little problem with some pain-killers my doctor had prescribed for a back problem.”

  “Then you didn’t know Veronica from her film work?”

  “I knew who she was, of course, but no, that was not a circle in which I traveled.”

  Molly promptly jumped to all sorts of conclusions that were based on Jeffrey Meyerson’s explanation and her own growing distrust of the man. He was too polished, too slippery. And for some reason he had lied about Veronica’s hearing the shot. It might have been a minor discrepancy in their stories, but it also might be an indication that there had been no shot at all.

  Why, though? What did Jeffrey Meyerson have to gain by setting up some fake rescue attempt? Molly’s best guess wasn’t particularly flattering. Chances were he was a man who’d seen Veronica as a meal ticket and latched on for the ride. He certainly seemed to make more of their relationship than the actress had actually admitted to. Veronica had never confirmed that there was any engagement.

  “What about Greg Kinsey?” Michael asked. “Did you know him?”

  Meyerson shook his head. “Never met the man. I wish I had. From everything I’ve heard, he was a great talent. What a shame to lose him before he could do his greatest work.”

  He sounded sin
cere enough. Molly wondered, though, if the extraordinarily protective Meyerson had found Greg’s treatment of Veronica too demeaning. Would he have seen that as grounds for murder?

  At the hotel, he hurried off to his room and Molly made a quick call to Laura’s room. The producer wasn’t in, so she left a message with Jerry Shaw.

  “Is that going to foul up the morning schedule too badly?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. We can juggle a couple of scenes. Shoot around Veronica, then do her pickups when she gets here.”

  “Terrific. Thanks, Jerry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When she’d hung up, she found Michael on a pay phone across the lobby. “Yeah, that’s right. Meyerson, Jeffrey, and Weston, Veronica. Do what you can for me and fax it, okay? Thanks.”

  “Who were you calling?” Molly asked.

  “An investigator I know in L.A. He owes me a favor. He’ll dig around a little and see what he can come up with.”

  “Is he checking on anyone else?”

  “Not yet. He’s been working on Kinsey a couple of days, but he hasn’t come up with anything much beyond his official bio. The guy wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal or, if he was, his record had been wiped clean.”

  “How about GK Productions? Can he take a look at how the company was set up?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just curious about what happens now that Greg’s dead. I know Daniel owns a piece of the company, but I’m not sure about Hank and Laura. They may have been employees or they could be co-owners. It would make a difference when it comes to motive.”

  Michael nodded and reached for the phone. “Les, it’s me again. Check into a film company for me, while you’re at it. GK Productions. I need to know the setup. Who gets it with Greg dead? Who owns a piece? Yeah, a GK Productions without GK doesn’t make much sense to me either, but who knows. There’s a Daniel Ortiz, who reportedly owns a chunk. He’s the director of photography on this picture, probably on all Kinsey’s other films as well. Listen, if you come up with anything tonight, I’ll be at this number.”

  He reeled off Molly’s home number, then hung up.

  “You’re coming to my place? Am I cooking?” Molly asked.

  “No. It’s ten o’clock at night. Let’s go for Cuban.”

  Molly tried to hide her surprise at the offer to take her onto his turf. She was even more surprised when she realized the tiny Little Havana restaurant was owned by an uncle, who greeted Michael boisterously, seated them with a flourish at a formica-topped counter, then brought them huge platters of palomilla steak smothered in onions, along with black beans and rice and sweet, fried plantains.

  Tio Pedro, his pristine white apron stretched taut over an impressive belly, his black hair shot through with gray, and his black eyes alive with laughter, stood over them as they ate. He nodded approvingly as Michael finished every bite on his plate, then polished off her leftovers.

  “Where you been?” he demanded of Michael when he was satisfied that his nephew would not starve to death. “Elena and me, we not see you for two, maybe three weeks now.”

  “Working, Tio. You know how it goes.”

  “Not working too hard to have dinner with a pretty woman, I see. Your mama has met the senorita?”

  Michael chuckled. “You ask too many questions, Tio. You are embarrassing Molly.”

  Tio Pedro didn’t look the least bit contrite. “You bring her for Sunday dinner. I invite the whole family.”

  Molly held her breath, waiting for Michael’s reply. She had no doubt that Sunday dinner was a major event in his large Cuban family. To be asked was probably significant, something reserved for a girl friend of some importance.

  Michael looked at her. “What about it? You feel like braving the inquisition? You can bring Brian.”

  Trying to match his casual note, she nodded. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  Michael chuckled at that. “Fun is not the way I would describe one of the family get-togethers, especially when you are on display.”

  “Display?”

  “To see if you are suitable for the most eligible bachelor in the family.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to give me odds on getting a satisfactory approval rating.”

  He winked. “I wouldn’t worry about it. My opinion is the only one that counts.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Less than seventy-two hours after the death of Greg Kinsey, the entire cast and crew, with the exception of the still-hospitalized Veronica, assembled at the same oceanfront location where the murder had taken place. The production trailer was parked on the same side street. Veronica’s impounded trailer had been replaced by one slightly smaller awaiting her arrival. Duke Lane’s trailer with its special dark-tinted windows had been parked around the corner. Despite the brilliant glare of the sun on sand and sea, the vibes were very dark.

  Molly found Laura Crain and Hank Murdock in the production trailer just after 8:00 a.m. They were already immersed in a stack of script pages with little yellow flags marking key sections scheduled for filming that morning.

  “We’ll finish up here by one o’clock and break for lunch,” Laura was saying. “Then I want everything set up in that fake fishing village over on Virginia Key no later than two.”

  Hank was already shaking his head. “It won’t work, not unless Veronica gets here before noon. I can’t get her shots done in an hour. She has three pages of dialogue in that scene with Duke. You know damn well she’ll never get it in one or two takes. She’ll probably spend that long arguing with Jonathan about her lines. Is he on the set, by the way? We can’t waste time chasing him down every time she complains. I want him in here all day.”

  Laura nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” She glanced at Molly. “Think you could get him for me?”

  Molly reached for a cellular phone.

  “I said get him, not call him,” Laura snapped.

  Molly considered reminding the producer that she was not her errand girl, but decided it wouldn’t accomplish a thing. Laura seemed to consider everyone connected with the film, with the possible exception of Hank, and before him Greg, as her personal lackey. After listening to Laura tell Hank what to do just now, Molly wasn’t sure the hapless director didn’t fall into the same category.

  “Stress,” she mumbled under her breath as she shut the trailer door behind her. Everyone on the set was bound to be under incredible stress this morning. Between the murder itself and anxiety over Hank’s ability to fill Greg’s shoes, it was no wonder everyone was edgy. By afternoon, she hoped, things would settle down or there could well be another murder on the set.

  Molly was halfway back to the hotel when to her absolute astonishment she spotted Vince coming toward her. The last time her boss had actually bothered dropping by a film on location in south Florida, the star had been the previous month’s Playboy centerfold. They couldn’t have ejected him from that set with dynamite. Usually he preferred golfing with the studio execs or ogling the starlets at the lively wrap parties that concluded the film company’s stay in south Florida.

  “What brings you by?” she inquired warily. He was actually wearing a jacket, formal attire for a man who preferred lime-green golfing pants and knit shirts in a rainbow of pastels.

  “Politics,” he said in a rare display of total honesty. “I figured I’d better try to smooth things over, offer my condolences, et cetera. Where are you headed?”

  “Laura just sent me in search of the screenwriter. They want him on standby.”

  “She’s in the production trailer?”

  “With Hank. She should be trying to bolster his self-confidence. Instead, she seems intent on making him panic over the shooting schedule. If I were Hank, I’d tell her to get the hell back to the hotel and stay there. He won’t do it though. Maybe you can get her out of there.”

  Vince regar
ded her blankly. “How?”

  “I’m not suggesting you use your usual technique. You don’t need to seduce her. Just ask to meet everyone. Play the role of local dignitary to the hilt. You can ooze charm when you want to.”

  Her boss seemed to consider that a compliment. He waved distractedly as he marched off to impress Laura Crain. He was obviously completely confident he could do it.

  Molly found Jonathan Fine in his room, still half asleep. To answer her knock he’d dragged on a pair of pants for decency’s sake, but wore no shirt. He was so thin she could practically count his ribs.

  “Hank needs you on the set,” she told him.

  Without his glasses, the writer squinted at her. “Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was up most of the night making the changes Laura wanted. Does he need me now?”

  “He says he does.”

  Jonathan sighed heavily. “Wait a sec. I’ll come with you. See if room service can bring up a pot of very strong coffee on the double.”

  Molly nodded and made the call while Jonathan retreated to the bathroom to shower. He emerged in minutes, wearing shorts and yet another brilliantly flowered shirt. His glasses were in place, but his eyes still looked vague. He hadn’t shaved and a faint stubble shadowed his jaw.

  “Coffee?” he murmured desperately, blinking at her.

  “On its way.”

  “Thank God.” He sank down on the side of the bed to wait.

  “You worked all night?”

  “Until five this morning. What time is it?”

  “Eight twenty.”

  “Shit.”

  “Was it just last night’s hours or are you not a morning person?”

  “Mornings are fine. I just prefer six or seven hours of sleep before they arrive.”

  A tap on the door announced the arrival of the coffee. Jonathan gratefully drank down an entire cup, poured a second cup and said, “Let’s do it. I should live.”

  They got back to the location just in time to hear Laura scream, “I want you off of this set. Now! Am I making myself clear?”