by Amanda Lee
“You see, your mother was designing the costumes seeing Babushka Tru as Sonam Zakaria,” Alfred said. “Right now, she’s unable to substitute another actress into the role.”
“That’s taking it too far, even for the press release,” Mom told Alfred. “I’m a professional. I could design costumes for a donkey if that’s who they put in the role. Stick with that first thing you said.”
“I only want you to appear to be sympathetic in this,” he said. “I want to make it seem as if you liked Ms. Tru.”
“But I didn’t,” she said. “If you try to make people think I did, I’m going to look like a hypocrite. And I’m not. Besides, witnesses heard us arguing on the morning she died. The tabloids have already been going on about that.”
“Still, Bev, people argue all the time, whether they like one another or not,” Alfred said. “Didn’t you like the girl at all?”
“No. Nobody did. I’m sorry she’s dead, but it would be dishonest to say otherwise.”
“What about Carl Paxton?” I asked Mom. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s a cradle-robbing opportunist,” she said.
“Do you think he might’ve killed Babs?” I asked.
“No. She was his meal ticket.”
“I spoke with Ron Fitzpatrick a little while ago,” I said. “He seems to think Babs wasn’t murdered at all. He thinks she stumbled and fell.”
“Maybe she did.” Mom leaned forward. “Whatever happened, let it go, Marcella. It’s not your business to investigate. Just stay out of it.”
“I can’t. You’re my mother.”
“That’s why I’m telling you to stay out of it,” she said. “You and I both need to stay out of this before we both get into more trouble than it’s worth.”
Chapter Sixteen
After Mom and Alfred left, I set up a three-way call with Vera and Reggie. Then I put my phone on speaker mode so I could work on my pillowcase while I talked. I’d finished one of them last night, and I was halfway through this one. I was fidgety when I was nervous, so having something to keep my hands busy was crucial to my well-being.
Reggie answered first. “Tallulah Falls Public Library, Reggie speaking.”
“Hi, Reggie. It’s Marcy. I’m also calling Vera, so we can all talk about the movie together. I promise it won’t take long.”
“We aren’t too busy at the moment,” she said. “We should be fine.”
Vera answered, and I clued her in to what was going on.
“I just wanted to tell you both that Mom has decided not to go forward with the movie,” I said. “We both appreciate your willingness to help with the costumes, and I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the project through to its completion.”
“You said your Mom decided not to go forward,” Vera said. “I heard Henry say in the press conference that he plans to continue work on the movie. Why doesn’t your mother want to pursue it?”
I had to think about that one a second. I didn’t want to tell Vera—and possibly Paul, by association—that Mom didn’t trust Henry. I was afraid it would wind up in some newspaper that Mom was accusing Henry of murdering Babs. Whether she truly felt that way or not, we didn’t need that piece of gossip showing up in a tabloid. I decided to fall back on Alfred’s explanation.
“This whole ordeal has just been too much for her to handle,” I said. “She wants to move on to something new and put this mess behind her as soon as possible.”
“Can’t say that I blame her there,” Reggie said. “I was a little surprised that Henry is continuing on with the movie. I mean, I understand the movie has backers and they have a certain amount of influence, but Babushka Tru’s death had to have impacted the entire cast and crew.”
“I agree.” I finished off a lazy daisy stitch and put a French knot in the center of another flower. “And I do think it will be several months before Henry is able to move forward with the movie. The investigation will have to be completed, he’ll have to hire a new lead, and he’ll have to find another costume designer.”
“Will the costumes your mother has already designed still be a part of the movie?” Vera asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Again, I’m really sorry you didn’t get to realize your dream of being a part of the movie and attending the premiere.”
“Well, I’m not dead yet,” Vera said. “And having a part in a movie is still on my bucket list. Henry might still want you and your chikankari expertise, Reggie. You should ask him.”
“I don’t think so,” Reggie said. “If he is interested in having me continue working with the costumer, he’ll let me know. I don’t want to be pushy.” She paused. “Plus, I kind of agree with Beverly—this movie is tainted now. I couldn’t be a part of it without thinking of poor Babs every step of the way.”
“Do you think they’ll use Babs’ death as a marketing draw?” Vera asked.
“They probably won’t have to,” I said. “People seem to always have a morbid curiosity. Besides, Ron Fitzpatrick, the director of photography, told me that they’d already released some behind-the-scenes footage to get some prerelease buzz going about the movie.”
“I wonder if he shot anything the morning of Babs’ death?” Reggie asked. “I’m sure the police have already asked him about it, but as a police chief’s wife, it occurs to me that there might be something Ron captured that would shed some light on what happened to Babs.”
“You’re right, Reggie,” I said. “I never even thought of that. I’ll have to call Ron back and ask him. Thanks for the tip.”
“I’ll also check with Paul to see if he has access to the footage,” Vera said. “If Ron sent it out over the AP wire, then I’m sure he does.”
“Thanks, guys,” I said.
By the time we’d finished up our conversation, I’d completed another large portion of the pillowcase and had decided I needed to talk with Ron some more. But first, I needed to stretch. I got Angus’s leash from behind the counter, locked the door, and took him for a walk up the street. We walked all the way up to the town square where the black wrought-iron clock stood.
I’d just noticed that the clock read three twenty-five when I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see Carl Paxton coming my way.
“You’re away from your shop quite a bit for someone trying to maintain a business, aren’t you?” he asked.
“And you’re awfully dense for someone who should be able to take a hint.” I felt Angus stiffen at my side. “I thought leaving before we’d had lunch today should have clued you in to the fact that I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
“Yes, well . . . I wanted to come back and thank you for lunch. Despite the lack of companionship while dining, the salad was delicious. I’m sorry you took what I said to you as an insult. It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Nevertheless, you have to admit, it wasn’t flattering,” I said.
“Agreed, but it was the truth. I did have a chance to call some of my contacts, and they’re interested in a book on your mother’s Hollywood experiences.”
“That’s great. I need to get back. Would you like to walk with me back to the shop?”
“Of course,” he said.
We walked back down the street, which proved to be a daunting task for me because I was trying to keep Angus from snuffling Carl. It was apparent to Angus that I wasn’t comfortable and was, in fact, a bit irritated by Carl’s presence, so he was trying to get over to the man to check him out and form his own opinion.
“The key to whether or not my contacts are interested in the book is content,” Carl said as I unlocked the door.
“Naturally,” I said. “Are you talking photographs? Mom has plenty of those.”
“Photographs are nice, of course, but it’s the controversy that will sell. People want to read juicy gossip.” He walked
over to the counter and leaned against it nonchalantly. “Take her dislike for Babushka Tru, for example. Some venomous comments on the young starlet would be a good start.”
I gaped at the man until I felt like an idiot and closed my mouth. Then I counted to three and said, “Babs was your client. Her mother is your client. Why would you want my mother to say something nasty about Babs in her book?”
“Three reasons—because Babs was my client, because her mother is my client, and because your mother will be my client,” he said. “Publicized fighting between the two living clients would mean increased book sales for both. It’s a win-win.”
Before I could respond, Ted walked into the shop. He looked from me to Angus, who was still on his leash and standing slightly in front of me and between Carl and me. “Is there a problem here?”
“Um, no . . . not really,” I said. “Ted, this is Carl Paxton, Babushka Tru’s manager. Carl, this is Detective Ted Nash.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Detective,” Carl said. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Are there normally problems here, or do Ms. Singer’s friends share her propensity for overreacting?”
Ted placed his hands on his waist. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Ms. Singer, you have my number. Should you decide there’s enough vitriol in your mother’s recollections to make them worthwhile for the rest of us, please give me a call.” He nodded at both Ted and me. “Good afternoon.”
As soon as Carl left, I unleashed Angus and sank against Ted. “Man, am I glad to see you.”
“What was that creep doing here?”
I gave him an abbreviated version of my excuse for talking with Carl, my walking out on Carl at lunch, and then him locating me in the town square. “I guess I was hoping talking to him could provide me some information on Ms. Trublonski or Babs . . . something that would absolutely clear my mother of any wrongdoing.”
He kissed the top of my head and then walked me over to the sofa. Angus stayed right on our heels, although he kept an eye on the door to make sure Carl wasn’t coming back.
As we sat on the sofa facing away from the window, I blew out a breath. “It’s sad, really. Babs had been Paxton’s client for all those years, but it seems she wasn’t important to him at all as a person. He doesn’t seem upset about her death. He’s convinced Ms. Trublonski to move forward with a tell-all book about Babs’ life, and he even agreed to represent Mom in a book deal if, basically, she’d trash Babs, among other stars.”
“That’s not Bev’s style,” Ted said. “Even in the short amount of time I’ve known her, I can’t imagine her writing a book just to profit from spreading malicious gossip about someone else.”
“You’re right. I don’t really know what I was hoping to find out from Carl anyway. I don’t know how often he visited the set, if ever.”
“I’m not trying to be a buttinsky, but you and your mom need to sit down and have a heart-to-heart,” he said. “Whether she wants to or not, she needs to talk with you and tell you what she either knows or thinks she knows.”
“I agree. She and Alfred came by here earlier today. She told me that she isn’t going to continue working on the film because she doesn’t trust Henry.” I placed Angus’s leash on the coffee table. “I told her I’d spoken with Ron, the photography director, and that he thinks Babs might’ve simply fell on her own, hitting her head and causing the blunt-force trauma herself.”
“What did she think of that idea?”
“She said she doesn’t know what happened but that I need to stay out of it.” I looked up at Ted to gauge his reaction. Her advice sounded almost identical to some Ted had given me in the past.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m inclined to agree with her, but the fact that she said it makes me think she knows more than she’s saying. I believe you should find out what she knows, and then pass it along to me so I can look into it.”
I smiled. “Thank you. You’re wonderful.”
Ted gave me a slow, lazy smile. “Prove it.”
I gave him a kiss that thoroughly supported my opinion.
Before Ted returned to work, we decided that I’d talk Mom into agreeing that the three of us would go out to dinner that evening in Lincoln City since I didn’t have a class. He’d give me plenty of time to go home and talk with Mom, and then she and I would get ready for dinner, and he’d pick us up. After we returned home, Ted and I could sit on the porch in the moonlight, and I could tell him what I’d discovered.
As soon as Ted left, I called Mom. She answered on the first ring, but she sounded cautious.
“Hey,” I said in my brightest voice. “Ted is taking us out to dinner tonight in Lincoln City. Won’t that be fun?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t think I’d be much company this evening.”
“Nonsense. You have to eat, and Ted and I aren’t company. We’re family,” I said.
“Hmmm . . . an interesting choice of words,” she said. “In that case, I guess I’d better go along.”
I debated on telling her not to read too much into what I’d said, but since she’d agreed to go, I decided not to press my luck. “Great. Angus and I will be home shortly after five o’clock. I think Ted is going to pick us up around seven.”
“All right, darling. See you then.”
Good. Mission accomplished. And since I’d almost accomplished another mission—the set of mauve pillowcases—I searched the shelves for another project to do. I found a beautiful stamped cross-stitch kit that replicated one of Monet’s prints. I decided to embroider the print for Mom . . . to show her that something good could come out of the adversity we were currently facing.
• • •
Angus and I got home at about fifteen minutes past five. I didn’t see Mom anywhere, so I called to tell her we were home.
“I’ll be down in a few!” she called.
I went ahead and fed Angus, and then went into the living room to wait for Mom. I picked up the remote, switched on the television, and curled up in the chair. The local news was on.
I nearly nodded off listening to the droning voices of the news anchors until I heard a deep male voice say, “ . . . released this footage of Babushka Tru as Bollywood star Sonam Zakaria.”
My eyes popped open, and I sat up straighter.
In the film clip, Babs was doing a scene from the movie. Then Henry yelled “cut,” but the camera kept rolling to get the behind-the-scenes coverage Ron had mentioned. Babs looked to someone off camera and winked. Then she giggled. When she noticed Henry and the male lead watching, she turned and flounced away in the opposite direction.
Did Babs have a boyfriend on the set? Had it been Carl Paxton she was flirting with? It had certainly not been Henry.
Mom came downstairs, and Angus greeted her at the landing.
“Has he already eaten?” she asked. “Would you like me to put him out for a few minutes before we leave?”
“Sure,” I said. I turned and saw that she’d already gotten dressed for dinner. She was wearing gray slacks and an ivory silk blouse. “No, wait. Let me get him. He might get your clothes dirty.”
I went to the back door, opened it, and called for Angus. He loped through the kitchen and into the yard.
“You look great,” I told Mom.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve decided I’m going to try to start putting this disaster behind me. I’m going to enjoy dinner tonight, and I’m not going to think about Babushka Tru or Henry or the movie or any of it.”
I pressed my lips together.
“What?” she asked. “You’re not okay with that?”
“I am,” I said. “Just, I think we should talk before you stop thinking about it. And then maybe we can both stop thinking about it.”
She headed back toward the livin
g room. “What do you want to know?”
“First off, I want to know whether or not you believe Henry killed Babs,” I said, resuming my spot on the chair and shutting off the television. “I’ve never known you to drop out of a movie before, and you’ve admitted it’s because you don’t trust Henry. If you have evidence that could help the police, you need to tell them.”
“I don’t have any evidence, Marcella.” Mom sat on the sofa. “I don’t really even believe Henry killed that girl. I don’t know that he didn’t, but I don’t think he did. What bugs me to my very soul about Henry is that I thought he was one of the good guys.” She looked down at her hands. “In Hollywood, you find that a lot of people have their own moral codes—or, rather, their own immoral codes. Henry wasn’t like that. He was a stand-up guy . . . always doing the right thing, always faithful to his wife of thirty years. . . . At least, that’s what I believed until I found out Babs was pregnant and started investigating the rumors that he was having an affair with her.”
“Well, they were just rumors,” I said. “You’ve said yourself that things aren’t always what they appear in La La Land.”
“I know, but when I saw him hugging up to her in those photographs and then remembered how he’d told me to get along with her no matter what. . . .” She shook her head. “He was in love with her, Marcella. He adored her. I’ve known Henry and his wife, Eileen, for years. Eileen is devoted to Henry, and I’d always thought he was devoted to her too. I feel I don’t even know Henry Beaumont anymore. And that’s why I can’t work with him.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Of course not,” she said. “We gave him Alfred’s response. And what Alfred came up with is true—this trauma has affected me deeply. Only, it’s the trauma of losing the man I believed Henry Beaumont to be—not the death of Babushka Tru.”
