Hollywood Deception

by Gemma Halliday

  My ballet flats—which perfectly paired with my curve-hugging white linen jumpsuit—tapped quietly today as I made my way over to where he was standing.

  "Henry?" I asked. "Allie Quick from the L.A. Informer. Remember me?"

  "Of course, Ms. Quick." He appeared surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here after…" He trailed off, clearly not sure how to tactfully refer to his boss being found shot in the head.

  I nodded and tried to look appropriately sympathetic and understanding.

  "I heard about what happened to Bobby. I'm so sorry for your loss."

  Henry cleared his throat. "Thanks. But it's not like we were close."

  I raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh?"

  "Bobby wasn't exactly the type to get personal." Then he frowned as if suddenly realizing what he was saying. "Don't get me wrong. I'm sorry he's gone. No one deserves that." He paused, as if mentally envisioning that.

  "I noticed yesterday that Bobby wasn't exactly the warm fuzzy type," I said, hoping to draw a bit more out of him.

  Henry shrugged. "Hollywood. What can you do?"

  "How long did you work for him?"

  "Three years."

  "That's a long time. You must have gotten to know each other pretty well."

  He shook his head. "Like I said, Bobby wasn't interested in getting personal. He didn't know anything about me except that I did all of his grunt work for him."

  While Henry was clearly shaken at the turn of events, he didn't sound all that torn up about Bobby being gone. Then again, who could blame him? From what I'd seen of Bobby, I couldn't say I'd miss him much either if I'd had to do his grunt work.

  "Do you know anyone who would've wanted to hurt him?" I said, asking the obvious question.

  Henry shrugged. "Bobby was…let's say, abrupt…with almost everyone. You couldn't throw a rock around here without hitting someone who'd had a run-in with him at some point. But I don't know of anyone who would've actually killed him, if that's what you mean."

  "Did he have any arguments with anyone on set lately? Maybe more heated than normal?" I added, fearing the answer could encompass just about everyone.

  Henry shook his head. "He might not have been the easiest guy to work for, but he was the reason we all got paychecks, you know?"

  He had a point. I glanced around at the shell-shocked crew. Without Bobby, Bobby Tells All was done for, and they were all out of a job. I didn't know anyone who'd throw away their livelihood simply because the guy they worked for was a jerk.

  I decided to try another avenue.

  "Bobby uncovered a lot of the secrets on his show, didn't he?"

  Henry shrugged again. "I guess so. I mean, that was the whole point—uncover the stuff big business doesn't want you to know."

  "Did anyone he ever profile on the show retaliate? Maybe file a lawsuit or threaten Bobby himself?"

  "Sure. All the time."

  Oh boy. Bobby's winning personality was making the suspect pool hard to narrow down. "Any stand out to you?"

  Henry shook his head. "Not really. Legal handles all of that. Besides, none of them would have a reason to kill Bobby. The shows have already aired."

  "What about shows that haven't aired yet?" I asked. "Do you know what Bobby was currently working on?"

  Henry leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "We had a few shows in production that hadn't aired yet. But they're really no big secret. They're posted on the website."

  I made a mental note to check out Bobby's site.

  "What can you tell me about them?" I smiled, hoping to appeal to his good nature to indulge me.

  He sighed. "Well, there were three that he was developing at the moment."

  I pulled out my phone, hitting the record function to take notes as Henry began giving me the details.

  "The first one just wrapped shooting yesterday—you saw the tail end of it."

  I nodded encouragingly.

  "It was called 'The Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth.' It was a tell-all about oral hygiene. Like, what your dentist doesn't want you to know. The truth about flossing and mouthwash and all that." He shrugged, seeming unimpressed with the show idea himself. "The one we finished before that was called 'Hair Today Gone Tomorrow.' It was another exposé type of show that was supposed to tell the good, the bad, and the really ugly about laser hair removal."

  "And the last show?" I asked.

  "The last show that I know about was still in the research phase. It was called 'Takin' Out the Trash.' It was supposed to uncover the truth about what really happens to your garbage and recycling after it reaches the plant. Where it ends up, how recycling really works, if it's actually environmentally friendly with all the chemicals and water used. Stuff like that. It's supposed to air later this spring."

  None of these shows sounded like they could lead to a man's murder. Homicidal dentist? Angry estheticians? I mean, how bad could recycling be? I tried not to let my disappointment show. So far, my one in with this story was turning out to be a dud.

  "One last thing," I said, feeling I was quickly losing Henry's attention. "Do you know what Bobby's schedule was last night? Where he was going, who he planned to be with?"

  Henry shook his head. "Sorry. I had the night off."

  Fab. But I pasted on a smile anyway and told him, "Thanks, Henry. You've been a big help."

  "Hey, you're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start looking for another job." He gave me a wan smile as he walked away.

  I hurried back to the golf cart I'd driven to the set and steered in the direction of the visitor parking lot and my car. Then I hopped into my Bug and pulled past the guard shack and onto the 10 freeway in the direction of the Informer. As I went over what Henry had told me, I couldn't help but worry how Tina was faring. It was clear from her presence at the crime scene last night that she intended to try to scoop me. I wondered if Felix knew Tina was trying to steal my story out from under me. Not that he'd care, really. As much as Felix was a hot date and a protective guy when it came to us as a couple, when we were in the office, it was all business. And Felix was in the business of printing the most salacious, scandalous stories he could get—no matter where they came from. If Tina came in with something juicier than I did, I knew he wouldn't think twice about killing my story and going with hers.

  That thought had me pushing the accelerator just a tad harder than I should as I hit the 101 and raced under one of the massive overpasses.

  It wasn't until I spotted the telltale black-and-white of a CHP officer's car at the side of the road that I slowed. Luckily for me, he already had a small sports car, with an angry-looking driver behind the wheel, pulled over at the side of the road. The CHP must have been hiding under the overpass and caught the sports car speeding. I thanked my lucky stars it was him who'd been caught in the speed trap and not me. The thought of having to pay a speeding ticket threw a bucket of cold water on my desire to get to the office any quicker than legally possible.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of the Informer.

  The L.A. Informer offices were housed in a three-story, square, dingy beige stucco building with peeling paint and a rickety fire escape that would probably kill you faster than the fire you were running from. It was located on Hollywood Boulevard, just on the border of where tourist shops selling maps to stars' homes gave way to crack houses selling stuff that could make you see stars.

  I locked my car in the lot behind the building and hurried inside. I rode the sketchy elevator up to the second floor. The doors dinged open, which startled me because they hadn't dinged in weeks. Someone must have sprung for a repair finally. I stepped off into the controlled chaos that was my place of employment.

  I passed by Cam in her cubicle sorting through her shots of Bobby Baxter's extremely dead body, and Tina in her cubicle talking animatedly on the phone while simultaneously clicking her computer mouse. She looked up, saw me, frowned, and then turned her chair in the opposite direction. Great. Sh
e probably had a hot lead, while I had stories about dentists and trash.

  Felix glanced up and spotted me as I passed by. I gave him a small smile. He nodded once at me then bent his head back to the work on the desk in front of him. I ignored his cool we're at work demeanor and continued toward my desk.

  "Hey, Allie." Max Beacon popped his gray head up from his cubicle as I approached.

  "Hey, yourself."

  "You heard about Bobby Baxter?"

  I nodded.

  "Gonna be a hell of an obit," he said. Max was somewhere between 65 and 105, had a balding head of pure white hair, droopy bloodshot eyes, a prickly growth of gray stubble covering the lower half of his face, and a faint aroma of whisky, probably from the flask he kept not-so-hidden in his bottom desk drawer. He wrote the obituary column, and he'd been at the Informer longer than anyone. And he vowed he'd be here until we were ready to print his own obit, which he had prewritten, detailing how he'd died of cirrhosis of the liver.

  "I heard you were supposed to interview the guy," Max said, leaning on the outer edge of his cube.

  "Today in fact," I told him. "Just my luck."

  "Could be worse," Max answered. "You could be Baxter."

  "Very good point." I paused. "You have his obit done yet?" While I was pretty sure it wouldn't contain much I didn't already know, no stone unturned, right?

  Max grinned as he sat back down behind his computer. An ancient one with an even more ancient monitor. Sometime around 1995 Max had refused to upgrade his equipment any further, which suited Felix's frugal nature just fine. "Funny, Tina just asked me the same thing."

  I thought a dirty word. "You give it to her?"

  Max shook his head. "I wasn't done yet."

  "And are you done now?" I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.

  His grin widened. "It just so happens that I am."

  Finally the blonde catches a break! "So, can I see it?" I shot him another eyelash-fluttering smile.

  He cackled deep in his throat. "It's good for my old heart to have pretty young girls fighting over me." He pulled a sheet of paper from his printer and handed it to me. "But know that if Tina asks, I'm not keeping anything from her either."

  I waved him off. That was fine with me. As long as I got it first.

  I took the paper and read it over. "Bobby was married?"

  "It appears so." Max nodded. "Marilyn Baxter is her name. They're separated now, but they hadn't divorced yet, from what I understand."

  That would explain why no one had mentioned a wife to me so far. It also put a whole new spin on who could've killed Bobby. Wasn't the wife always the best suspect?

  "Thanks, Max," I said, turning toward my desk. "I owe you one."

  He grinned at me. "If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

  I hurried to my desk and ran a quick search for Bobby Baxter on a website for public records. As Max had said, no divorce on record. There were, however, two properties in Bobby's name. A large home in the Hollywood Hills purchased two years ago and a condo in Culver City, near the studio that had just been purchased a few months ago. When the happy couple split, perhaps? Putting my money on the Hollywood Hills place as the wife's residence, I jotted down the address, shut down my computer, grabbed my purse, and practically ran to the elevator. As the doors slid shut, I spotted Tina eyeing me. She knew I was up to something.

  The fact that Marilyn Baxter was separated from her husband was interesting. Clearly there was trouble in paradise, and clearly if a divorce was imminent, she stood to have her assets cut at least in half—possibly more if Bobby'd had her sign a prenup. But since her husband died before the divorce became final, she stood to inherit everything.

  I needed to talk to the wife.

  I hopped off of the janky elevator, jogged across the lot, and once inside my Bug, sped off in the direction of the Hollywood Hills.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Half an hour later I'd wound my way up into the swanky Hollywood Hills that separated the Valley from Hollywood proper. The hills were a little piece of paradise, nestled between the graffiti-filled basins, that were ripe with mature trees, spectacular nighttime views, and celebrity neighbors on all sides. It took me another fifteen minutes of searching the lush, private neighborhoods to locate the Baxter residence.

  Once I did, my hopes of talking to Bobby's wife plummeted. Half a dozen cops and paparazzi had already beaten me here.

  I parked against the curb across the street and two houses down from the Baxter place and took a minute to survey the surrounding area.

  The home was nice but not overly decadent. Long, paved driveway, two-story house with a Spanish tiled roof, and landscaping that looked impeccably well cared for. It spoke of money—but TV money, not movie star stuff.

  The gates leading up the drive were standing wide open, and three police cars were parked in front of the house.

  Apparently the authorities had the same idea about the wife that I did.

  I started the car, drove about a block away, and parked against the curb in a turnaround. Then I got out of the car and started walking toward the Baxter residence. I figured that there was no way to talk to the wife alone with the police there, but I could still look around. I was at the edge of the wrought iron fence surrounding the property when I spotted an older Hispanic woman in an apron coming around the side of the house, pulling a large green trash bin behind her.

  Mrs. Baxter had a housekeeper. I quickened my steps just a bit, glad I'd decided to wear ballet flats instead of my usual heels.

  "Good morning," I said with a smile.

  The woman looked up at me, surprise on her face. "Good morning."

  "I'm Allie. I just moved in down the road a ways and was out checking out the neighborhood."

  The housekeeper nodded, her tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair bobbing as she did. "I'm Marta, and welcome. This is a very nice neighborhood."

  "Have you worked here long?" I motioned in the direction of the house.

  "A couple of years."

  I scrunched up my face like I was thinking hard and asked, "Isn't this where that host of that tell-all show lives? What was his name…" I snapped my fingers and looked away as though trying to remember.

  "Bobby Baxter," Marta said. "But he doesn't live here. Only Mrs. Baxter is in residence. And I stay in the guest house."

  "Oh? They split up?"

  Marta nodded.

  "Did you work for them when the couple was together?"

  Again she nodded, bobbing her curls. "Si. I've been with them since they moved here."

  "That's so sad. Did they argue a lot?"

  Marta wiped her hands on her apron. "All of the time."

  "About what?"

  Marta paused, eyeing me suspiciously. Oops. Too far?

  I cleared my throat. "I mean, well, between you and me, my husband and I just separated. It's…not pretty." I looked down, pretending to wipe a tear.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry." Marta sounded so sincere I almost felt bad for lying to her.

  Almost. "Thanks. It's been rough. I, well, I just imagine it must have been rough for Mrs. Baxter too."

  Marta nodded. "Yes. Divorce is never easy. But I'll tell you one thing—cheaters always get what they deserve in the end."

  My ears pricked up at that. Now we were getting somewhere. "Cheating? That's why they broke up?"

  Marta paused. "I shouldn't say anything. Not with Mr. Baxter gone." She made the sign of the cross over her chest then leaned in and whispered, "He was killed last night."

  "I did hear something about that on the radio this morning," I lied. "I can't imagine how Mrs. Baxter must have felt when the police showed up at her door last night."

  "I don't think she knew until this morning," Marta said. "She wasn't in when the police came last night."

  "Wait—Mrs. Baxter wasn't at home last night?"

  Marta blinked at me, suddenly realizing maybe she'd said too much. "I, uh, I don't know. She wasn't in when I went to sleep.
"

  "What time was that?"

  "A-around one thirty," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the house.

  Bingo. The wife didn't have an alibi. I was liking this more and more.

  "Do the police think that she did it? Is that why they're here?" I pressed.

  "I don't think so," Marta said, suddenly in a hurry to secure the lid on the trash bin. "Mrs. Baxter might argue and yell, but she wouldn't kill someone." She paused. "She wouldn't do anything that might get her hands dirty."

  The way Marta's expression shifted on that last note told me Marilyn Baxter might not be a model employer. Maybe not even a nice person.

  "I have to go," she said, turning back to the house.

  "It was good talking to you!" I called after her. "It's a nice neighborhood." But I wasn't entirely sure she still believed my story at this point.

  I turned and jogged back up the block. A teenager on a skateboard was trying to execute some sort of complicated flip thing near my car. He looked up as I approached, and moved to shove off.

  "Hey, wait a minute," I hailed him.

  He put his foot down and kicked his board up into his hands. The kid was about sixteen or seventeen, had copper colored hair, fair skin dotted with a smattering of light freckles, and green eyes. He wore a black beanie, a T-shirt sporting the name of some gaming site, and jeans.

  "'Sup?" He nodded at me once then let his eyes run me up and down. He must have liked what he saw, as his mouth turned up in a crooked smile.

  "Do you live around here?" I asked.