by Gregg Olsen
“This will be your chance to tell your side of the story, Kevin. Your fans want to hear from you,” Ash had said over the phone.
“I guess,” I answered. I wanted to tell her that my fans were all related to me and had heard my side ad nauseam.
I had agreed to participate, in part, because Murder Cruise was actually showing a little renewed life in the chain bookstores. The chains were always primed for the television effect. Oprah, of course, moved thousands of hardcovers whenever she welcomed an author and endorsed him or her on the show. Sales for Murder Cruise were up. Better, in fact, then they had been when the book was first launched. A third printing had been ordered. For the true crime genre, where books have a shelf life shorter than a gallon of milk, that was good news. Renewed life in a book on death was nearly unheard of.
I also blamed my editor for encouraging me to do the show. He had raved about the Love You to Death material he had seen and I wallowed in his overblown praise.
“This is another In Cold Blood. Another Fatal Vision. It is the true crime book for the new millennium, full of folly, slackers going nowhere...driven to murder over the love of a child.”
“Don't start writing the back cover copy yet,” I said.
“If you go on Rita and play it right you'll come out a best-selling author. Remember, Rita's people have signed a deal that says they'll put a shot of your book on a single card.”
“Single card?”
“All by itself. Single frame, you know, movie talk.”
“Right, movie talk.”
“Kevin, this may be your big chance. This may put you on top!”
“Right over the top,” I said. “Or over the edge.”
After he told me how much he loved what I was writing—“this is your fucking classic”—I thanked him and hung up.
My agent had been no better.
“Kevin,” she told me, “this is your time. The whole disaster was meant to be, meant to take you out of the midlist and give you the best seller you have always deserved.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I have never been surer—excuse me, I've got another call.”
I listened to a treacly version of Katy Perry's “Firework” while I waited for her to come back on the line. When one minute turned to two, then three, I hung up.
Everyone was so sure that I should go on, that I wouldn't appear to be on the program for some self-serving reason, that I felt I had no choice.
Valerie even wanted to go, though she was somewhat reserved in her enthusiasm. She had never seen Ground Zero, the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty. Rita's producers promised us an extra day in New York. My mother would watch Taylor and Hayley while we were away.
Just before the plane touched down at LaGuardia, I turned to Val and lied to her. “I am so glad we're here. I have a really good feeling about this.”
She barely smiled. “I'm glad that at least one of us does.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
Valerie slid her magazine into her carry-on and fumbled for her shoes.
“I'm glad we're coming to New York,” she said. “It's just that I have a bad feeling about the Rita Adams Show. So soon after Mrs. Parker's murder, you know.”
I did. I had turned down Inside Edition for the same reason. But much had changed. For one, in the space of the weeks following June Parker's murder I had been arrested, released, and confided in by the police that the murder was motivated at least in part by someone who wanted to frame me. Above all, among the guests on the show was the person I thought could be responsible. I had it in my mind that I would force the issue on national television.
I would unmask the killer. Or I would look like the biggest fool to ever write a sleazy paperback.
We picked up our things from baggage claim and found an old man holding a sign that read Ryan Limo. It was not a limo, of course. Talk shows always promise a limousine as if the wife abuser from Mississippi or the pregnant cheerleader from Wisconsin wouldn't buckle and agree to go if a limo was not waiting curbside. The mantra of the talk show industry was “pick them up in a limo, send them home on a bus.”
Valerie and I climbed into a Dodge Caravan with a back window decal for the “Cozy Spirit Cab Company.” Our driver didn't know English and we didn't care. It was dark and we couldn't see any sights anyway. The flight from Sea-Tac had been long; a two-hour delay in Minneapolis had left us wandering from gift shop to gift shop. We were tired. He dropped us off in midtown Manhattan at the Park Royale (“How Suite It Is To Be Serving You”) and we went to our tiny quasi-suite to sleep. The show taping was in the morning and we planned to pick up day-of-the-show tickets to see Disney's latest princess-with-a-dead-mother-discovering-empowerment-and-true-love musical. Rest was in order.
♦
Monday, September 30
THERE I WAS. READY FOR RITA'S make-up people to gloss, fluff, cream, matte, blush. Whatever it took. The green room was neither green, nor much of a room. A tray of fruit and white powdered Hostess donuts were spread out on a small, black lacquered buffet table. A trail of powdered sugar pointed to the person who had consumed most of the donuts—Davy Parker, Danny's brother. I smiled at him. He turned away and I returned my gaze to the platter. I ate a donut and asked the woman powdering my forehead to make it look shorter.
“Don't follow you, babe,” she said, slapping a puff on my cranium.
“I don't want to look so—you know—receding on the hairline,” I said softly.
“Honey,” she said, pausing to look directly in my eyes through the mirror in front of us, “You are what you are and we gotta go with what you got.”
I nodded and slipped lower in the chair.
Ashlee, the producer, tapped on my shoulder. I had never met her in person. She didn't look like an Ashlee at all. She was short, round, and dark. Her black hair was held high on top of her head by a butterfly clip, cinched tightly and overflowing like an oil gusher on the top. Her eyes were sharp and unfriendly. She was one of those people who was better on the phone than in person.
“We've got to go upstairs to talk about the new show,” she said.
I pulled the plastic drape off my neck and followed her down the hall past a photo gallery of the talk show elite: Tom and Katie before her divorce from him and Scientology; Taylor Swift looking surprised after winning an umpteenth award; Kirstie Alley after her reality-show blitz; two shots of Lindsay Lohan (one happy, the other happier); and a photograph of the entire cast of an ABC show starring a Sally Field as a sexy grandma.
“Rita guested on Sally's show two years ago,” Ashlee said.
“Sorry, I missed it. Does she plan to act again?”
“Kevin,” Ashlee deadpanned. “She acts every day.”
At the end of the hall, in a black velvet-draped case with a halogen light shining on it as though it was one of the crown jewels was Rita Adams's Emmy for best talk show host. The winged gold creature stretched her arms outward and spun slowly on a turntable. It reminded me of a music box of a ballerina Hayley had when she was a preschooler...the tune mechanism had long since given up the ghost, though the ballerina pirouetted forever.
I followed Ash upstairs to a little room even colder-feeling than the green room.
“Strategy time,” she said. “Let's run through the show. We want to see fireworks! We're taking a chance on this story and we're relying on you to give us the fireworks.”
“How so?” I asked.
“You've got to confront these people! You've got to flush out Mrs. Parker's killer! Only you can do that. Coffee?”
“No coffee, but how about some Tums?” My stomach started somersaulting and I knew that I was about to feel worse.
“Let's run down the list of guests and you tell me how you're going to back up Rita and give us the fireworks we simply have to have. Have to have. Got it? First we'll have you and Anna Cameron and Davy Parker on the set. Rita will use you to frame the story ofLove You Forever—”
<
br /> “To Death,” I corrected.
Ash looked confused. “Huh?”
“No. Love You to Death is the name of the book I'm writing.”
“Whatever. You are Rita's safety net. This is very important for you. It is your job to see that Rita doesn't flounder. She has to look like she's totally in charge of the show. You have to jump in and keep things rolling. Now, what are you going to say to Davy?”
“Well, seeing that I was arrested for his mother's murder, I guess I'll tell him that I didn't do it and how very sorry I am for his loss.”
Ash made a face and looked ticked. “Can't you say something with a little more sizzle than that? Come on, Kevin, you're a writer. You've got to be creative. Spontaneous, in a planned way, of course.”
If I had the coffee she had offered I would have dumped it in Ash's lap. Instead, I went on with it. I had read the fine print on the show contract. If I walked out, if I wasn't cooperative, I would have to pay for my way back to Seattle. Valerie and I would have to beg Visa to raise our credit limit for that.
“It'll come to me when I'm there. I'm good at this. I've done this before. This show, I mean.”
Ashlee tried a smile on for size. She meant it to be reassuring, comforting. “We know. That's why we've put this together. It's riding on you.” She looked down at her clipboard. “Anna. Anna Cameron. How will you handle her?”
“Don't worry. I know how to handle her. Can we skip this session? It's making me nervous.”
I didn't tell her that I considered Anna Cameron at the top of my short list of possible murderers of June Parker. I hadn't told anyone outside of Valerie. But when I considered hostility as a proponent of murder, I thought of Deke's mother. She was utterly consumed by bitterness and hatred. She hated the Parkers. She hated me. She had told me so in no uncertain terms. She thought my book would portray Danny Parker as a victim. And though I hadn't yet come to that conclusion, as a writer, I knew that it was a reasonable route to go. And while I couldn't fathom how she would have retrieved the Weasel-Die, or the note with my supposed name on it, she did have the opportunity to take my fingerprints.
At Dairy Queen, that first meeting, she took my Styrofoam coffee cup by mistake. Or had it been on purpose?
Ash shook her head at my faltering cooperation. “Don't you know what they are saying about you? You know, I'm not supposed to say anything. We have a talk show code of ethics here at Rita. But, listen, you're gonna be ambushed by these yokels.”
My heart picked up its already rapid pace. Sweat rolled down the insides of my shirt sleeves in monsoon-heavy droplets.
“Who?” I asked.
“Anna and Davy...all of them...they all think you're the killer but your cop friend is covering up for you.”
I was stunned. And I was sick. I stood up and sat back down like a yo-yo. I couldn't believe that anyone would do that to me.
“Martin Raines? They are going to drag Marty through the mud, too?”
Ash nodded. “If you let them. It's up to you.”
I pondered my Visa balance once more and wondered if I begged, pleaded with the service rep in Omaha or Pakistan answering their 800 number, if he'd give my credit line a little breathing room.
A voice came from the hallway. “Four minutes!”
My editor had said this show would be good for my career. My agent, too. I wondered what in the hell they knew. They hadn't even bothered to come to sit in the audience. I hoped that I was wrong, that they were just lazy and not a part of the sham of a show.
The voice called again.
“Ash! Where's Cameron and the Parkers?”
“Marlene's prepping them. Can you take Kevin to the set? I've got a couple of incest survivors in the other room to prep.”
Anna Cameron and the Parkers were being prepped. I had been prepped. Even the incest folks were being prepped. Prepping, I guessed, was something like pouring gas on a campfire and inviting all of America to come over for S'mores.
I would never be prepped again.
Chapter Thirty-five
Still Monday, September 30
RITA ADAMS WAS AS THIN as an alley cat, with unnaturally black hair, feral eyes and fingers as long as Freddy Krueger's. She had a smile as rubbery as a bicycle tire. When she sauntered up to the stage, she did so in such a low walking stride, it seemed as though she was going to squat and mark her territory. The lady owned the stage. She owned the chairs we sat on and for a moment I was certain that because we had taken her free trip to New York City, she owned us. For the hour at least. A silver charm bracelet dangled from a wrist so thin I was glad for the viewers' sake that the camera added ten pounds to a person's weight. Rita could use it. She smelled of cigarette smoke and a mocha.
I was in the middle. On my left was Anna Cameron, on the right was Davy Parker. I saw Val in the audience smiling at me. She didn't know. She hadn't a clue.
The music came up and Rita spun around to the camera, her bracelet jangling against the cord of her microphone.
“We've got some old friends here today. Old friends tied together by the bloody ropes of a terrible murder. Meet Anna Cameron. She was with us not too long ago. Anna is the mother of a man who married the woman who had him shot. Say hello to Davy Parker. Davy is the brother of the man who shot Anna's son....do you all follow me?
Most of a tour group from a Connecticut senior center nodded.
“Davy's also the son of June Parker. June was murdered on August 19 of this year, after she agreed to an interview with our next guest...or did she?”
The red light pointed at me and I felt sweat collect under the layer of foundation and powder the makeup woman had puffed on me. Perspiration beaded under my TV-trimmed mustache.
“Meet Kevin Ryan. Kevin has been on our show before, too. Kevin is a true crime writer and some say he killed June Parker because she wouldn't give him an interview.”
I saw Valerie. Her brown eyes were popping out of her head, but she pretended to smile. She tried to send me a word of encouragement. I thought she mouthed: You're flocked.
The music rose again and the announcer boomed: “True Crime Writer or True Crime Killer? Today's Rita.”
The show was a nightmare. My defenders were Janet Kerr and Connie Carter once more via satellite from Riverstone prison. Jett, who had planned to come on the show but didn't feel well and canceled at the last minute, spoke over the telephone to support me.
“Can you be certain he didn't kill Mrs. Parker?” Rita asked her.
“I am positive. Kevin is not a killer. I know he wanted to interview Mrs. Parker real bad, but he would never kill her.”
The cameraman zoomed in on the talk show host.
“And your sister and mother—are you certain they are innocent, too?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“No one is to blame for the shooting of Deke Cameron and the plot to kill Paul Kerr? Look where they are, Miss Carter. They aren't in prison for nothing,” Rita said.
The audience laughed a little. There was no doubt that the poor girl was blind to the truth. She was the type that figured there was good in everybody. One of the old women from a New Jersey retirement home popped a Certs and shook her head in sympathy for the poor girl on the phone.
I looked up at the monitor at one point to see my face and I almost bolted from the stage.
Visa. Visa. Visa. It rang over and over. No money on Visa.
The producers made a split screen image of me: a front view and a side view. Underneath were the words: Having the crime of his life?
Amid audience gasps of sympathy, Dwight Parker was wheeled out during the final segment. I thanked God he didn't have anything to say. I thanked God—and his surgeon—that his larynx had been removed. No one wants to be derided on national television by a man in a wheelchair. He had continued the long slide to become even more of a shadow of his former self. Mr. Parker's left hand had been amputated the month before and part of his nose had been removed, the result of melanoma.
&nbs
p; At the end of the show that bitch Rita got up and spouted something about how I had been released and a phone call to Martin Raines had verified that I was absolutely no longer a suspect, but the victim of an unfortunate incident. What good would that announcement do then? By that point in any Rita show all of America was going to the bathroom. Two old ladies in the audience were thinking of shopping at Abercrombie & Fitch for their grandkids followed by drinks in the Rainbow Room.
“It got better at the end, honey,” Valerie said as we walked out to the taxi.
I was numb, Novocain from head to toe. I couldn't think of anything to say. It was almost like a nightmare that had been described it to me in such vivid detail that I could imagine it. A single thought came into focus as we rode a cab back to the hotel.
“Did they show the Murder Cruise cover?” I asked.
Valerie griped my hand and faked a hopeful smile. “Twice, Kevin. Two very long times.”
That afternoon I numbly took Valerie to see the Empire State Building. Big building. After that we saw the Statue of Liberty. Big statue. I tried to be enthusiastic for my wife's sake. I tried very hard. We skipped Ground Zero. I was already as low as I needed to go.
As evening came, we dressed, ate an overpriced meal at the hotel, and saw that Disney musical. It was such a perfect choice, given the Rita debacle that morning. I had never seen a more “uplifting” production in my life. When it got down to it, the heroine's mother was dead. Her dad was an oblivious dork. Her only friends were animals. No wonder she hooked up with the first guy she'd ever kissed. She wanted out of that damn castle. Her misery made me happy.
There was hope yet for someone with a made-for-TV miserable career like mine.
♦
Tuesday, October 1
THERE WAS A GOD AND IT TOOK only twenty-four hours for Him to answer my prayers. Ashlee from the Rita Adams Show called to tell me that the show we taped would not be airing during sweeps. In fact, it would not be airing at all. The producer who had left Oprah for the top spot at Rita's show had a new direction mapped out that no longer included what that newly anointed guru of gab called the ABCs of daytime talk: Assholes, Bimbos, Cretins.
