Lethally Blonde

by Nancy Bartholomew

  “I wondered where you went,” he says.

  I know I’ve been crying, not much, but enough that there could be a stray tear or two on my cheeks or my mascara could have run. I hastily wipe my cheeks and shove my cell phone back in my purse before I step away from the car and approach him.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks. He’s looking at me with this expression of what, pity? Compassion? No, I vote pity.

  “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  He’s not buying it. “Bad news from home?”

  I choke off a snicker. What other kind of news would there be from my home? But Sam doesn’t know this and I have the feeling he won’t let the matter rest until I give him something, anything, that explains my minimeltdown.

  “Okay,” I say, with a deep sigh. “I guess I’ve had a bit of bad news.” I hang my head wondering what in the world I’m going to come up with, and hear myself say, “It’s about my father. He’s um…missing.”

  The look on Sam’s face inspires me. He’s hooked. Humans are inexorably drawn to the turmoil of others. That is why soap operas have such an attraction. We love to hang on to another’s tragedy.

  “Your father is missing? Victor Rothschild, missing?”

  Oh, this is too good. I hang my head and am surprised to find tears forming in my eyes, choking my throat, and threatening to overtake my little melodrama.

  “No. You see, Victor Rothschild is not my real father.” I meet his concerned gaze. “I thought my biological father was dead, but it turns out he’s alive and living in California.”

  Sam’s eyes widen. “Really? So that’s why you’re really here. The Oscar party, this thing with Jeremy…”

  I nod slowly. “It’s all a sham so the press won’t get wind of it. I came here to find him, but now…now…”

  I choke, for real this time. I have no idea what to say next!

  “What happened?”

  I hold up my hand, head down, apparently overwrought. “I can’t,” I whisper.

  Sam is by my side now. He puts an arm around my shoulder and offers me his clean white handkerchief. He smells good—spicy and masculine—and his arm is firm with work-hardened muscle that makes me feel suddenly safer than Jeremy’s well-armed bodyguard could. And there is definite chemistry between us, something that jumps like a current between our two bodies, but I have to ignore this. I have work to do.

  “We were so close,” I say, raising my head as the answer comes to me. “I know his name is Lambert Hughes and he lived in Carlito at one time, but the private investigator says that’s all he can come up with. He knows he was living in a trailer a few years ago, but that’s where the trail ends. Now I’ll never know him!” I wail, and collapse onto his shoulder. I am beginning to think I could have a future as an actor.

  Sam pats my shoulder and for a moment I feel guilty.

  “Porsche, this is the job you wouldn’t talk about on the trip down here, isn’t it?” he says softly.

  What? For a moment I have forgotten all about my blunder in the car. Without even realizing it, I have covered up my past mistake. I’m so brilliant. I can take care of my problems without even using my conscious brain! I do a mental victory dance. Sam the cowboy is off my tail!

  “Yes,” I answer softly. “That’s my secret, only I suppose I’ve hit a dead end. I’ll never know my real father.”

  I sigh and square my shoulders bravely. “I guess we should go back inside.”

  “Wait,” he begins, but it’s too late. I’ve turned and when he follows, we both see a sudden eruption by the front door. The bouncer opens the door, grabs the burly doorman and the two disappear inside, leaving only a man with a clipboard to keep the anxious line outside from surging ahead into the club.

  Sam breaks into a run with me right behind him, a gnawing flame of uneasiness churning in my stomach. He reaches the doorway, pulls it open, and the two of us plunge inside the darkened club.

  The band is playing. People are still screaming so, at first, nothing seems to be wrong, until my gaze hits a spot near the back of the dance floor. A group of women, all dressed in long flowing black gowns, have surrounded Jeremy and Zoe. They form an impenetrable wall and as I watch, they close in and Jeremy disappears. I see Zoe’s mouth open in a silent scream before she, too, is absorbed into the sea of black.

  The club erupts into a frenzy of motion as the club bouncers, Jeremy’s security people, and Sam and I try to reach the movie star. I watch, realizing there are too many people to break through to Jeremy. As I watch, an all-out battle begins to take place between the black-clad women and the men trying to rescue Jeremy Reins. I haven’t seen Mark or Andrea anywhere, but when I begin edging along the wall toward the stage, I find Andrea. She is standing in a small alcove, chewing her bottom lip and staring out at the dance floor, mesmerized by the action.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. “I have an idea and I’m going to need some help.”

  This seems to snap her out of her stupor, because she nods, more alert than I’ve seen her since the night before.

  “We need a couple of those black robes,” I say, “and a hat or some sort of headpiece.”

  Andrea doesn’t ask why. Without another word, she wades into the fray, seizes a woman at random, and rips the robe off her body. The woman, about Andrea’s size, starts to fight back but Andrea pitches her on her ass easily and tosses the robe to me. The woman on the floor looks up at Andrea, smiles and sticks her tongue out, making a licking motion and running her hands over her scantily clad body. I recognize her. She was the stand-in for Zoe’s sacrificial scene with Jeremy.

  I pull on the robe and, while Andrea is scoring her second gown, I reach out and pluck a peacock-feathered headpiece from a passing transvestite. The women around us are chanting something over and over. “Reymundo!” they cry. “Reymundo!” They move now, in a horde, and seem to be carrying a swell of people with them, toward the exit of the club. If something doesn’t happen, and fast, they will leave taking Jeremy and Zoe with them.

  The band has stopped playing. The house has realized something has gone wrong, something unplanned and not part of the normal course of abnormal club behavior.

  I look at Andrea and signal to her to join me on the stage. Together the two of us make our way up the narrow steps and into the middle of the platform.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” I ask her.

  “What?”

  “A cigarette. Do you have a cigarette?”

  Andrea stares at me like I’m crazy, but finally nods. “Yeah.”

  “Light it, please.”

  “There’s a smoking ban…” she starts, but when she sees me grab a roll of duct tape and a microphone stand, she seems to see a plan forming and does as I tell her. When the cigarette is lit, I grab it from her, tape it to the end of the mike stand, lit end up, and raise the pole above my head. It is inches from a sprinkler and within moments the system works as it is supposed to, showering the club and its patrons with a sudden burst of cold, cold water.

  From where I stand, I can see the group of women trying to move toward a side exit with their captives, but the shower has momentarily disoriented them.

  “Come on!” I cry, and grab startled Andrea. “There they are!”

  The two of us blend into the group of black-hooded women and while Andrea uses her martial arts skills to carve a path, I use the sharp spikes of my stilettos to kick, poke and pierce my way through the human barrier.

  Soaked by the sprinklers and startled by the sudden painful attacks, the hooded women trip over each other, falling in their attempt to avoid my heels and Andrea’s violent moves. We reach Jeremy and Zoe just as I hear the shrill piercing sound of police whistles coming from the entrance to the club.

  Scott and his men appear, finally able to locate their boss by following the path Andrea and I have cleared. They surround us and we move, fast, toward the back of the stage. The police waste no time surrounding and securing the dance floor, sealing off access to the s
tage.

  “Jeremy, what in the hell is going on?” I ask once we are safe behind the curtain of LAPD’s finest.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “They seem to think I’m Reymundo. What a bunch of crackpots! That was three years ago!”

  “Let’s keep moving, folks,” Scott says. “We’re taking the back exit.”

  We don’t have much of a choice in the matter. The LAPD is behind us and Scott and his two men are corralling us forward. In less than a minute we are outside the club in an alley where Sam is leaning against the open door of our limousine.

  Andrea and I throw off our ridiculous robes and leave them lying in the street. We clamber into the back of the car and in seconds are on the road. Jeremy is the only one speaking. The rest of us seem to be in various states of shock.

  “We need tequila,” he cries. “Come on! Everybody!”

  With maniacal abandon, Jeremy pours tequila into shot glasses and starts handing them out like tonics. For the first time I realize Diane has followed the others into the limousine and is sitting next to a very uncomfortable Mark. Andrea is sitting as far away from them as possible, against the far side of the car, next to Scott, who shields her with his sheer bulk. She has retreated back into her still, trancelike state and I wonder if she’s taken tranquilizers or is merely overwhelmed.

  I set the shot Jeremy hands me aside, sink back against the overstuffed seat cushions and close my eyes. I have to think. Since landing at LAX, all I’ve done is react rather than act. A good psychologist carries a mental map in her head, outlining her patient’s strengths, weaknesses and issues. She always has a plan of intervention. The problem with me is, I have no plan. Hell, I don’t even have a map. I have not done a thorough assessment of Jeremy, nor have I assessed the cast of characters who surround him. I have no hope of making a determination about the threat to my client until I have completed the basic groundwork. I’ve been too busy putting out fires and dealing with every crisis to even put one together.

  I take a deep breath and let my body relax. In the background I hear Jeremy’s voice above the others, coaxing them into a second shot, probably in an attempt to keep everyone from feeling the amount of anxiety he feels. I open my eyes for a moment and watch him in action. I know by now not to watch his body language or listen to the content of his speech. Jeremy Reins carries his true feelings in his eyes. Right now, his eyes dart everywhere, but they land on Scott and Sam with the most frequency. He is scared.

  So far, Jeremy has not been harmed, not seriously. Why, then, is he scared? Was it just the lack of control over the group of women or was it more than that? I close my eyes again and think back over everything I have learned about the man. I mentally review every piece of gossip I’ve heard, every article I’ve read, and the background report thoughtfully provided for me by Renee’s staff the morning I left New York.

  He is 28, never been married, was raised in Montana by a single mother with two other, older, siblings. The baby of the family, according to the Adlerian theory, is often protected and may become spoiled. They want to be bigger and may have huge plans for their future that may or may not work out. But Jeremy’s career has panned out. He is quite successful. Why go to the trouble to “create” more publicity. Was he not voted People’s Sexiest Man Alive this year? What else could he need or want by generating more publicity? Would he not be in danger of becoming overexposed to media attention and thus become yesterday’s news?

  I open my eyes again and survey the occupants of Jeremy’s limousine. If Jeremy doesn’t stand to gain from this publicity, then does someone genuinely want to hurt him? This option seems more viable, but I wonder why and who? Could it be someone riding along with us tonight, or a total stranger? I study the current pool of suspects and wonder if any of them would have a motive for wanting to hurt the star.

  Zoe is sitting next to Jeremy, so I think about her first. She and Jeremy are working on a project together, Zoe’s first as executive producer. If she hurts—or worse, kills off—the leading man, wouldn’t that mean her project would fail? Of course, she and Jeremy do seem to have shared a past and there is always an undercurrent of animosity between the two. Hmm. Doubtful, but it bears further investigation.

  Diane is sitting next to Zoe. As far as I can tell, she has very little to do with Jeremy. She has no history with him that I know of. She doesn’t seem to be angry with him, and she was too busy entertaining Jeremy’s agent under the dining room table last night to have been the one shooting out the French doors and leading the others on a merry chase.

  Her alibi, Mark, sits beside her. Ditto, his alibi, but wasn’t he the one who said Jeremy would be worth far more dead and immortalized than living? Mark would still earn his 15 percent agent’s fee whether Jeremy was alive or dead. He could be a wealthier man if Jeremy suddenly became the James Dean of his generation.

  Any of these people could’ve hired someone to do the actual shooting, I think. Greed is a superior motive for murder, but only if the attacks on Jeremy were meant to kill him. So far, I wasn’t sure at all of the attacker’s true intent.

  I felt rather certain I could discount Mark’s wife, Andrea. After all, wasn’t she the one who called Renee and wanted the additional help? If she wanted to hurt or frighten Jeremy, she wouldn’t have summoned help in protecting him, would she? But then, she wasn’t in the dining room when intruders were spotted on the estate property and she was nowhere to be found when Dave was electrocuted and Jeremy hit in the head. If she stayed married to Mark and Jeremy indeed brought in more money as a dead idol, then she’d gain from his death as well. Still, my gut feeling was that she was innocent.

  I looked at Scott next. He was hired to protect Jeremy, but he certainly hadn’t done a very good job so far. Tonight was another perfect example. When Jeremy had needed help, Scott and his “crack” team hadn’t been able to protect him. Why hadn’t Jeremy fired him? After all, fans mob stars all the time. Scott should’ve handled this little “Occurrence” without any trouble.

  The relationship between the two seemed to have taken on a new dimension last night as the two men cavorted around in the pool. Was Jeremy too besotted with the man to realize he wasn’t doing his job?

  While Scott might not have a reason to want Jeremy frightened or hurt, Dave certainly would. He stood to lose Scott to Jeremy. Yet, if that were the case, then why sabotage a pool and jump into it? He had to know he was risking serious injury or death by doing that, if he was the one responsible for booby-trapping the pool.

  I considered Sam last. The Great Unknown. The man who followed Jeremy to Hollywood after introducing him to drama in high school. The man who functioned as a quasi-parent, shepherding his charge off to bed when he has an early call the next morning and, in general, watching over the bad boy actor. Would he want Jeremy hurt or worse, killed? What motive would he have? Was there some secret from his past that drew the two men together?

  Sam suddenly looks away from Jeremy and catches me staring at him. He meets my gaze and holds it, not in a challenging manner but as if he is curious to find me studying him so intently.

  “Jeremy, I’d like to go home,” Andrea says quietly.

  Sam’s attention turns instantly to Andrea.

  “Yeah,” Mark adds. His eyes are pathetically hopeful. “We’d better call it a night.”

  Andrea ignores him, keeping her gaze on Jeremy’s face. “I’m at the Wilshire,” she says, and I watch Mark’s shoulders slump.

  “I want to go home, too,” Zoe says. “My nerves are shot.”

  When we return to Jeremy’s penthouse condominium, Sam, Jeremy and I ride up in the elevator with Scott and his two auxiliary security guards. We ride to the top floor in silence and step out into a gleaming marble-tiled foyer. Two LAPD police detectives are waiting for us. They step forward, flash badges and introduce themselves.

  “We need to ask some questions about what happened at the nightclub,” one says. He is tall and skinny with no discernable chin. “We got a re
quest from the local boys in Sam Jacinta. They want us to follow up—just in case the incident at the club is somehow tied to the trouble out at your estate.”

  Jeremy smiles pleasantly, but defers to Sam and Scott. “Gentlemen, if you would give me a few moments to rejuvenate myself and make sure that Miss Rothschild is comfortable, I’ll be glad to answer questions later. Perhaps my manager and security consultant can answer some of the preliminary questions?”

  Jeremy isn’t taking no for an answer. He walks off into the penthouse without waiting for a response. Thick cream carpeting cushions our steps as I follow him into the living room, drawn by the bank of glass that completely encloses the room with a wall-to-wall view of downtown L.A. the Hollywood hills and surrounding Beverly Hills. I catch my breath at the sheer beauty of it all and hear Jeremy chuckle by my side.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it, lovey?” he says quietly.

  I say nothing. I am drawn to the vista before me, suddenly homesick for a home I’ve never had. My life has been filled with sumptuous suites, palatial condos and estates, but never a home. The lights twinkling on the nearby hills are a winking reminder that some people live in regular homes—comfortable, lived-in nests where things stay the same and memories accumulate because of the steady, reliable routines of the families that live inside.

  “You’re a thousand miles away, lovey,” Jeremy observes. “What are you thinking?”

  I pull back from my selfish longings and turn to meet his gaze. His eyes show me nothing other than genuine curiosity and a softness that I have not seen before.

  “In the past two days intruders have broken into your estate, people have been hurt, including you, and tonight…God, I have no idea what tonight was about! Do you enjoy this?” I ask. “Because you certainly don’t seem upset by all of it. Do you enjoy the attention, the endless stream of paparazzi following your every move, tracking your ups and downs? Is this what being a movie star means to you? Do you not get that someone out there could really want you killed? Or is this all part of the Hollywood ‘spin’ game?”