"They're not actually letting you fire a gun, are they?"
"Just blanks," she said. Then added, "I'm pretty sure."
CHAPTER SIX
An hour later, I'd given my name to the sentry at the front gates to the studio lot and was directed to park in a structure to the right of the sound stages. By the time I walked to the Charlotte's Angels set, I spied Dana in a red latex jumpsuit talking to a couple of guys in pinstriped suits holding fake (one could hope) machine guns. As soon as she spotted me, she waved me over.
"Hey! We just wrapped. Good timing." She waved goodbye to the guys in suits as they headed to the prop trailer.
"Nice outfit," I said, listening to her squeak as she walked.
"I'm roasting. I need to peel this thing off," Dana said.
"Sounds like it could take a while. It looks pretty tight."
"You're telling me! I had to baby powder my thighs just to get into this thing. I swear if I gain a pound it won't fit."
"Luckily you'll probably sweat it right off the next day," I said, looking on the bright side.
She chuckled. "Gimme ten minutes," she said, disappearing into the trailer.
A few minutes later she emerged wearing street clothes—white shorts, a baby blue tank top, and a pair of espadrilles on her feet. "Ready?" she asked, slinging a tote bag onto her shoulder.
I nodded. "So how well do you know Rupert Blick?" I asked as she led the way toward the Bob Hope building.
She shook her head as she pulled a water bottle from her bag. "Not well at all, to be honest. I mean, everyone on the lot knows his name, but I think he's only been by the set once. To wish everyone good luck when we started filming."
"You think he'll talk to us?"
Dana shrugged. "Maybe?"
We opened the double glass doors of the executive's building to a large lobby decorated tastefully but simply with muted colors of grey and purple. One wall consisted of three television sets that were all currently tuned in to today's episode of All My Husbands. There was a closeup of Angela arguing with a blonde in a nurse's outfit.
I turned away from the TVs to find a woman with short salt and pepper colored hair seated behind the front receptionist counter, a headset on. She gave Dana a perfunctory smile.
"Good afternoon, how can I help you?"
"I'm Dana Dashel," my friend offered. "I'm shooting the Charlotte's Angels pilot in studio thirty-three."
The woman maintained her pleasant smile, though no sign of recognition crossed her features.
"I was hoping to speak to Mr. Blick?" Dana went on.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
"Uh, no."
"One moment please while I call up to his office," the woman said, pushing a couple of buttons on her computer before she quietly spoke into her headset mic. After a brief conversation she turned back to face us. "I'm so sorry, but Mr. Blick's assistant says he's unavailable this afternoon."
"All afternoon?" I pressed.
The woman nodded. "I'm sorry, but he's had a lot going on today. Damage control." She licked her lips. "You might have heard about Doggy Z."
Dana and I both nodded, trying to look appropriately solemn. "I was so sorry to hear of his passing," Dana said.
"Yes, well, Mr. Blick's been rather busy fending off the media. We all have, truth be told."
"Have you had a lot of press calling?" I asked, thinking of Tina.
She paused as if not sure how much to share. But considering we were industry people—or at least Dana was—she nodded. "We have. They've been relentless. As if we have any more details than they do about what happened." She shook her head. "So tragic."
"Do you know when Mr. Blick might be available?" Dana asked.
The woman pulled her pleasant smile back out. "No, I'm sorry, I don't. Is there a message you'd like to leave for him?"
"Yes," Dana said. "If he could call me at his convenience, that would be wonderful." She recited her phone number.
The receptionist nodded, typing it in on her keyboard. "And may I tell him what this is regarding?"
Dana shot me a look. "Uh, I have a few concerns about the pilot that I'd like to discuss."
The woman typed it out, seemingly disinterested in the details. Good for us, since there weren't any. "I'll make sure he gets your message, Ms. Dashel."
"Thanks," Dana told her as we turned to go.
We pushed outside into the sunshine again, and I immediately shielded my eyes from the bright afternoon glare off the white stucco buildings.
"So what are you going to tell Tina?" Dana asked as we backtracked through the lot toward the parking structure.
I shook my head. "I don't know. I suppose I could still float her the idea that Rupert Blick had a beef with Dog, but it would have been nice to have something a little more concrete to shove her in that direction."
Dana shot me a grin. "You just like the idea of shoving Tina, don't you?"
I laughed. "I don't hate it."
We were almost to the parking structure when I spotted a pink Jaguar pull into a reserved spot up front. An older woman got out of the car, and as she turned toward us, I recognized her immediately. I grabbed Dana's arm. "Hey, is that who I think it is?"
Dana shielded her eyes against the sun. "Looks like Aunty Mae." She shot me a meaningful look. "Dog's costar."
We watched Mae stuff something into her purse and beep her car locked before she headed in our direction. She was wearing a long, floral printed dress in a soft rose color that billowed around her stout frame. It fell just above her ankles and was paired with frilly white socks and canvas sneakers. A bright pink flower was tucked into the side of her hair, which, as she got closer, I could see was shot through with silver highlights.
"Aunty Mae?" I asked, approaching her.
She paused, pulling out a bright perky smile that I'd seen many times on TV. "Well, howdy, that's me."
"It's so nice to meet you. We're huge fans of your show." I extended my hand. "I'm Maddie, and this is my friend, Dana."
Mae hesitated for a second, then brushed a couple of soft fingers against mine. "Well, that just makes my day. It tickles me pink to meet fans."
She started to move on, but I held up a hand to stop her. "We wanted to offer our condolences about your co-host's death. What a tragedy."
Mae's smile faded on cue, and she bit into her lower lip. "Thank you. Yes, it was a horrible shock. We'll all miss Doggy Z terribly. He added a certain flavor to my show."
"No pun intended," I said.
She gave me a blank look.
"Uh, you two must have been close?" Dana asked.
"Close?" Mae frowned. "I don't know what you mean by that, but we worked together."
"On Around the Kitchen with Aunty Mae and the Dog, right?" I said.
Her frown deepened. "It's In the Kitchen with Aunty Mae and the Dog. I thought you said you were fans."
Oops. "Uh, we are. Very big. Huge."
"How long had you known Dog?" Dana asked, thankfully jumping in to save me.
Mae inhaled deeply, as if trying to pull in strength from somewhere before she answered. "I only met him when we started filming the show together. That was two years ago. Before that I had a solo show. Aunty Mae's Kitchen."
"I remember watching that. What made you want to co-host with Doggy Z?" I asked.
"Want?" Mae laughed. "You must not be in the business, sweetie. It's not about wanting. It's about ratings."
"And bringing Dog on boosted those for you?" Dana surmised.
Again Mae sucked in a deep breath. I wondered if it was some anger management technique. "Well, I certainly could have boosted them on my own. But, yes, people seemed to enjoy his antics."
Antics. Not necessarily a compliment.
"It didn't seem like you particularly enjoyed them, though," Dana pointed out, giving me a meaningful glance out of the corner of her eye. "At least not on the show, anyway."
Mae wavered again before answering, her pleasant smile
faltering. "We had our"—more pausing—"creative differences," she finally settled on. "But that's all they were. Not surprising, coming from such different backgrounds as we do."
"So there was no tension between you?" I asked, not quite believing it. The way she spoke of him was careful, as if choosing just the right words to keep from spilling her true emotion on the subject.
"Why would there be?" she asked, her perky smile back in its usual place. "Besides, Dog's contract was coming to an end, and my husband was working on a new show for me where I'd once again be solo hosting. This whole Dog thing had nearly run its course as a novelty."
"Your husband?" I asked, not quite understanding her meaning.
"Yes." She looked from me to Dana, as if we should both know who that was. Our blank expressions must have told her otherwise, as she went on. "Rupert Blick? He's an executive with the network." She gestured toward the building we'd just come from.
"You're married to Rupert Blick?" I asked, shooting a glance at Dana.
Dana shrugged, obviously as surprised as I was.
"Yes." Mae drew herself up to her full height. Which was just barely taller than mine. "Eighteen years. Almost as long as he's been with the network."
Suddenly it made sense. "So, I'm guessing the idea for adding Dog to your show for higher ratings was his?"
She did more anger-managing breathing before answering. "Yes, well, Rupert thought Dog might attract a different demographic to the show. That he'd—how did he put it?—shake things up a bit. Personally, I didn't think things needed shaken up." There was a distinct note of resentment in her voice.
"And Dog?" I asked. "What were his feelings about joining your show?"
"His feelings?" That frown threatened to peek through her perky façade again. "Well, how should I know anything about that man's feelings?"
"You saw Dog the day he died, right?" I asked, changing gears. "You visited him on the Jeopardy! set?"
"Y-yes," she said, blinking at me in surprise. "I'm sorry, were you there?" She looked from me to Dana, and I could see her suddenly wondering who we were and how we'd gotten onto the studio lot.
"My stepfather was competing on the show that day as well. Fernando."
"Oh." She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I didn't realize he was…married." The to a woman hung in the air unspoken.
I ignored that. "You did go visit Dog yesterday, though, correct? In his dressing room before the show started?"
Mae licked her lips. "Yes. I…I wanted to wish him luck."
That was the same story Angela had told.
"You two were close, then," Dana noted.
"Not close. Just…cordial," Mae finally settled on. "My mama raised a Southern girl with manners." She sent us another camera-worthy smile. One that was meant to conjure up images of apple pie, Americana, and all things wholesome.
I suddenly wondered how much of the Aunty persona was real and how much was put on for the viewing public…or in this case, us. I could definitely feel an undercurrent of emotions toward Dog that she was trying to suppress, but whether it was mild distaste or downright hatred it was hard to say.
"Dog had an energy drink with him on the game show set," I said, watching her reaction. "You didn't happen to notice it when you visited him in his dressing room, did you?"
She sent me a knowing smile. "You mean those Invigorate drinks he used to guzzle?" She shook her head. "He had to down at least two every morning before we started filming just to keep his eyes open."
"So he drank them regularly?" I asked.
She nodded. "Every day."
"Did you notice one in his dressing room?" Dana pressed.
"Not particularly, but it wouldn't surprise me if he had one. The taping was early." Mae looked from Dana to me again. "Why?"
"No reason," I said, changing gears. "Do you know what your husband and Dog might have been arguing about?"
"Arguing?" Again an unspoken emotion flitted behind Mae's eyes, though it was so brief I'd be hard pressed to identify it.
"At the Jeopardy! taping. Your husband seemed to be upset at Dog over something."
Mae blinked at me. "I'm sorry, you'd have to ask him about that."
"He didn't mention it to you?" Dana pressed. "Mention how he felt about Dog?"
Mae turned to face her. "No, but Dog was good for ratings. My husband likes anything that raises his viewing numbers."
The note of resentment creeping into her voice again gave me the feeling we were getting a very abbreviated version of the relationship—both between Mae and her husband and Mae and Dog. Clearly she hadn't been Dog's biggest fan. Let alone been excited to have him co-hosting her cooking show. If Blick had insisted on it, I could well see that as a point of tension. I wondered exactly how much Dog had raised those ratings and if it had been worth it to Blick to live with an unhappy wife.
Then again, maybe it hadn't and Blick had gotten rid of the problem.
"Well, look at the time," Mae said, her made-for-TV smile popping back into place as she glanced at her rose gold wristwatch. "I'm late for a meeting."
Without waiting for a response, she quickly power walked in the direction of the Bob Hope building, slipping inside the doors we'd just exited.
"Well that was interesting," Dana said as we watched her go. "I don't believe she and Dog were chummy for a second."
I nodded. "Agreed. She was holding something back."
"Like open hatred?" Dana joked.
"Or at the very least resentment at having to take on a co-host as a gimmick." I thought about that a beat. "Which still makes it seem weird she'd visit him backstage just to tell him good luck."
Dana arched an eyebrow. "You think maybe it was to add a little antifreeze to his energy drink?"
I shrugged. This was Hollywood. Anything was possible.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Since Dana had been up since five and I never said no to caffeine, we hopped into my minivan and made a quick afternoon Starbucks run. Dana ordered a cold brewed, non-fat, extra skinny soy, and I went with a blueberry muffin and a white chocolate mocha with extra whipped cream. Hey, I wasn't the one who had to fit into a latex body stocking.
We took the drinks to an outside table in the shade where I contemplated my phone and whether to call Tina with what we knew so far.
"You think she'll go for the Blick angle?" Dana asked, sipping her cold brew through a straw.
I shrugged. "Or we could float Mae? Let's face it, she won't be sharing her show with him anymore."
Dana nodded. "I like the idea of wholesome Aunty Mae going bananas. And it was a mixed beverage that killed Dog. Who better to whip up a deadly recipe than a cooking show host?"
I snorted, narrowly avoiding choking on my latte. "I don't think it takes a culinary degree to add antifreeze to an energy drink."
Dana grinned. "Still. It's possible."
"Possible—yes." I swirled my flavored coffee in my cup. "But I just don't know how likely."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if Mae was telling the truth about Dog's contract being up and her husband putting together a new solo show for her, it leaves her with a pretty thin motive to kill Dog. I mean, why not just wait it out? Especially if her husband and Dog were arguing already."
"Arguing about what, though?"
"Ratings?" I floated. "Something that happened on In the Kitchen with Aunty Mae and the Dog? Maybe a dispute over that ending contract?"
Dana pursed her lips and sucked more. Finally she shook her head. "I dunno. None of those feel strong enough to want someone dead."
"Killjoy," I said, shoving muffin into my mouth.
She grinned. "Sorry."
"No, you're right." I chewed and swallowed. "But if Dog was poisoned, someone had to have killed him." I paused. "Someone other than Fernando," I emphasized.
"That goes without saying," Dana agreed. She eyed my muffin as she took another sip of her non-fat, flavorless drink. "You know, didn't we see Dog's son at the taping?"
I nodded. "We did. With his girlfriend."
"Maybe it was someone closer to home who killed Dog," Dana said with a gleam in her eyes that made me fear she hadn't totally left her private eye alter ego on the set of her pilot. "Maybe the son had some feud with his dad? Or maybe wanted to cash in on an inheritance early?"
I pointed my drink at her. "I actually like the sound of that."
Dana grinned and pulled out her phone. "Let's see what Google knows about the son."
As it turned out—not a lot. John Delmoore was twenty-four and had recently graduated from UCLA with a degree in business. The few pictures we found online were of him at school, and he looked like any other straight-laced, average college student.
"Check this out," Dana said, scrolling through an article on a music blog from a few years ago. "According to this, although Dog's son goes by John, the legal named listed on his birth certificate is Lil' Dog Z."
"Seriously?" I asked, leaning in to read over her shoulder.
"Looks like he was born just after Dog's first album went platinum. I guess Dog wanted to capitalize on the publicity."
"I think we found our murder motive," I joked.
"Well, it looks like other than being born to the creator of bagpipe rap, Dog's son seems to have kept a low profile. There's not much else here on him."
"Any idea what Lil' Dog Z might inherit with Big Dog Z's death?" I asked.
Dana did a little more clicking and scrolling. "Well, Big Dog lives in a six-bedroom in Brentwood." Dana switched to a photo of the large, modern style home surrounded by palm trees. "That's gotta be worth something."
"I guess crude lyrics and screeching bagpipes pay," I mumbled.
"For a while," Dana said, pulling up another page. "Looks like it's been a few years since he recorded anything."
"So maybe his career needed a shake-up with the cooking show just as much as Aunty Mae's did?"
Dana nodded, pulling up an article that detailed Dog's rise to fame.
His real name, as it turned out, was Donald J. McDougal. He'd been born in Glasgow to working class parents and had apparently spent more time busting out rhymes than term papers in school, as he'd never finished. He'd found an agent at the age of eighteen, moved to the US, and started opening at venues for more popular artists. It hadn't taken long until he'd had his first hit, with several gold records to follow. His celebrity status seemed to have peaked in the early 2000s, his bad-boy persona fizzling along with his hits as marijuana became legal and gangster rap's original fans became middle-aged. It wasn't until recently that he'd found a renewed audience with his cooking show, suddenly selling merchandise and endorsements, this time to the wanna-be-hip housewives across America.
Jeopardy in High Heels (High Heels Mysteries Book 12) Page 6
