Who Killed the Pinup Queen?

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  Of course, there was still the frightened maiden, Virginia Pure. Sandra hadn’t known what had become of her, but she might still be alive. She looked younger than Sandra, which made it a little more likely. All Tilda had to do was find a model who nobody had heard from for fifty years, convince her to admit that she’d done work she hated, and hope she remembered one guy out of a host of photographers.

  Tilda ran her fingers through her hair. She was losing it, she was totally losing it. Here she was with a fat assignment with a fat paycheck, and the possibility of going full time at a moderately cool magazine, and she was pissing away her day chasing the ghosts of pinups past.

  It was way past time to put this stuff aside and get some real work done. Hoping that out of sight would translate to out of mind, she stuffed all of Bill Hawks’s photos into a manila folder and put it on the back corner of her desk. Then she went back to her list of Cowtown targets to see if there were any other people close enough to Boston that they might consider coming to the Stickler Syndrome Foundation fund-raiser. She came up with three possibilities who lived in cities with frequent plane flights to Boston: one each in Chicago, D.C., and Toronto.

  A little background research gave some likely hooks she could use for the interviews. Of course, the big hook would be Cowtown, but ten nearly identical articles about “How I Spent My Time in Cowtown” would bore the hell out of Tilda, let alone the readers. She made a few notes, then hit the phones.

  First she called Christopher Hale in D.C., who’d switched from acting to writing Western novels. With books to promote, he was happy to give Tilda a phone interview. His memories of working as a stagecoach driver who rescued a group of spunky orphans after the horses ran off were sharp and funny, and spiced with examples of why actors prefer to avoid working with children and animals. He also said he’d be delighted to come to the fund-raiser and help promote the Cowtown resort. The only request he made was that he be allowed to sell copies of his books, and perhaps have them stocked in the resort’s gift shops. Tilda promised to pass on his name and request to the Ambrose brothers.

  Next was Elizabeth Grainger, who’d appeared as a farmer’s wife with a secret that threatened to rip Cowtown apart: a child born out of wedlock. She hadn’t stayed in show business long before getting married and going back to Chicago to raise a family, which distracted a little from her appeal. This was more than made up for by her rose-colored memories of her brief acting career, and the hook was her discussion of the way times had changed so drastically that a child born out of wedlock in Hollywood today was barely even news. Unfortunately, she wasn’t available for the fund-raiser, though she thought a resort appearance might be possible, particularly if she could bring a grandchild or two along.

  The next target was one Tilda had been looking forward to. Emmett Ryker, like the Ambrose brothers, had started out life as a real cowboy. He’d been brought up on a ranch, and had spent many years wrangling horses and doing stunt riding for TV. He’d also had a few speaking parts along the way, though his acting was on the wooden side, but that had worked pretty well for his Cowtown stint. He’d played a laconic bronco buster come to town in search of the Great White Whale of the West—a stallion who’d never been tamed. Fortunately, Ryker was more talkative than his character had been, and agreed to speak to Tilda at three thirty the next day.

  Her cell phone rang as she was halfway through a draft of the Christopher Hale interview, and she answered without looking at the caller ID, assuming it was Cooper.

  “Are you still busy?”

  “Um. Yeah. Hi. It’s Quentin.”

  Tilda smacked herself in the forehead. “Sorry, I was expecting somebody else. Can we start over?”

  He cleared his throat. “Hi, Tilda. It’s Quentin.”

  “Quentin! What a delightful surprise! How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Other than acting like a complete idiot on the phone, I’m peachy.”

  He laughed. “How was your weekend?”

  Since going into an account of stealing files from a dead pinup’s computer didn’t seem to be the best way to shake off that reputation of being an idiot, Tilda said. “Not bad. Spent some time with friends, called the folks, did the laundry—life in the big city. How about you?”

  “I drove to Pennsylvania for my niece’s birthday party. It’s amazing how much noise little children can make. It’s almost inversely proportional to their size.”

  Aha! Now she knew why he hadn’t called. “I think it’s a secret chemical found only in Happy Meals.”

  “Perhaps I should sneak some chicken nuggets into the lab for analysis.”

  “I don’t know, Quentin. It might fall into the category of things man was not meant to know.”

  “Aren’t men putting the chemical into the Happy Meals?”

  “I’m thinking space aliens.”

  He laughed again. “I was wondering if you’re free for dinner some night this week.”

  Before Tilda could answer, she heard Colleen come in without her usual cheery yet inquisitive greeting—instead she stomped her way into her own room. “How about tonight?” Tilda said. “Or would that blow my studied air of nonchalance?”

  “I’ll take enthusiasm over nonchalance any day.”

  This being a second date, Tilda would have been willing to let Quentin pick her up, but since he was currently in Boston without wheels, they decided it made more sense for him to take the T to Malden Center, where she would pick him up in her car. He was about to leave work, so that gave her a chance to perform a quick wash and change.

  Colleen spent most of Tilda’s prep time shut up in her room, but ventured out as Tilda was pulling on her snazzy new coat and coordinating accessories, presumably making sure that her snit had been noticed.

  “Are you going somewhere?” she asked Tilda.

  “Just on my way out. See you later.”

  “Look, about last night . . .”

  “Colleen, I do not blame you for being pissed about my waking you up. I’m not happy about it, either. If I knew a way to stop it, I would.”

  “I know it’s not your fault.” She really did look apologetic, but she blew it with, “Maybe we should talk it all out tonight when you get back. You know, get it out of your system.”

  “I won’t be back until late,” Tilda said, then held up the overnight bag she’d packed, just in case. “In fact, if things go well, I won’t be back until tomorrow, so you’ll be sure of getting a good night’s sleep.” She scooted out the door before more questions could emerge, grinning as she hid the bag in her trunk.

  Tilda introduced Quentin to the Border Café for dinner, and enjoyed being with him so much that she didn’t even notice if the hunky waiter was on duty. First they talked about Quentin’s work, which he did a decent job of explaining to a layperson, only occasionally lapsing into overly technical lingo. Then Tilda reciprocated with stories about strange celebrities. Quentin was more in the loop for news about the Cowtown fund-raiser than she was, and shared some details she hadn’t heard. The topic of costumes for the big night came up, but neither was willing to tell what they’d be wearing. In Quentin’s case, it might very well have been his wanting to surprise Tilda. In Tilda’s case, it was because she’d forgotten she needed a costume.

  They took their time over dinner, and when Tilda drove Quentin home to Woburn, he invited her into his condo for an unspecified “little while.” She was pleased to observe that he was neat without being obsessive, and believed in comfortable furniture. He had plenty of books, DVDs, and CDs, with enough convergences and divergences from her own tastes to provide conversational fodder, and if the pictures on his walls were bland, at least they weren’t pinups.

  She was even happier to discover that he was a much better kisser than he’d had time to demonstrate at the end of their last date. He was skilled at other things, too, and it turned out to be a good thing that she’d packed the overnight bag.

  It would have
been almost perfect if she hadn’t woken him up in the middle of the night, screaming yet again.

  Chapter 24

  The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.

  —THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS BY SIGMUND FREUD

  TILDA managed to get up when Quentin needed to, and played her role as guest as needed: helping him fix breakfast, kissing him good-bye with sincerity and enthusiasm, and wishing him a day as wonderful as their night together had been. But as soon she got back to her apartment, she admitted to herself that she couldn’t let the bad dream situation go on any longer. As a mature, independent woman, she needed to tackle the problem head-on. So she called her big sister.

  By a few minutes after noon, Tilda and June were working their way through a basket of fresh-baked rolls at Bertucci’s. As she’d hoped, June had been happy to get away for Italian food with her, despite the frigid temperatures, and was equally happy to have Tilda pick her up so she could wait a little longer to dig her own car out from under the inch of snow that had fallen while Quentin and Tilda were distracted.

  It didn’t take long for them to talk their way through the usual warm-up topics: June’s kids, Tilda’s work, and the ritual cursing of Massachusetts winters.

  Then Tilda said, “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “It’s about time you got down to business.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I’m your sister, a psychologist, and a mother. It’s what I do.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Besides, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em. What’s wrong?”

  Tilda ran her fingers through her hair, figuring it couldn’t hurt her styling anyway, since she already looked like shit. “I’m having problems sleeping.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “Since you found that woman dead, right?”

  Tilda nodded. “No surprises there, I suppose.”

  “Not to me. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Would it help?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I was hoping that Ph.D. after your name would give you a hint.”

  “Research, not clinical, remember?”

  “Then I was hoping you had researched it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What about motherly knowledge? Ross’s night terrors?”

  June shuddered at the memory. “God, don’t remind me. He’d wake up shrieking, without even knowing what it was that had him upset, and the only thing that would calm him down was to watch cartoons until he fell back asleep.”

  “I tried that.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. At this point, I’m waking up almost every night. I thought the cartoons might work better than guzzling NyQuil.”

  “But no luck?”

  Tilda shook her head. “But I did get an idea for a story about classic voice actors.”

  “Better that than NyQuil, I guess.”

  “Tried that, too. It kept me asleep, but it wasn’t exactly restful. Instead of waking up from the nightmare when Sandra sat up with blood dripping from her head, I spent the whole night running from her. Longest night of my life.”

  “Oh, sweetie!”

  Their salads arrived, giving Tilda a perfect opportunity to dodge her sister’s sympathy. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it—she was just lousy at accepting sympathy.

  Once they’d had time for a taste or two each, Tilda said, “Anyway, I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

  “Sleeping with a familiar object?”

  “June, I haven’t slept with a stuffed animal since I was in junior high school.”

  June took another bite.

  “It didn’t work.”

  “How about visualizing a happy outcome when you wake up? That worked for Ross when he had nightmares about monsters. He’d imagine the monsters in tutus.”

  “Wasn’t there a spell in one of the Harry Potter books that worked that way?”

  “Yes,” June admitted, “but it’s still a good idea.”

  Tilda considered it. “I’m dreaming about a dead woman reaching for me. I don’t think a dead woman in a tutu would be much of an improvement.”

  “I see what you mean. How about relaxation before bed, like a hot bath or soothing music?”

  “Tried it.”

  “What about the other direction? Physical exertion before bedtime to wear yourself out?”

  “I tried that last night. My exercise partner was not pleased when I woke him up in the middle of the night.”

  June choked on her lettuce, and several minutes were required to get her breathing well enough that she could ask, “Who?”

  “Trust you to have your eyes on the prize. His name is Quentin, and he’s a doctor.”

  “No, seriously, who was it?”

  “Seriously, he’s a doctor.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “I picked him up via an online ad.”

  “Tilda!”

  She rolled her eyes. “Jeez, you’d believe anything. I met him through work. Did I tell you about the series of articles I’m doing to promote that Western resort? The resort team is sponsoring a charity fund-raiser, and Dr. Quentin Beaudine is a researcher for the charity.”

  “Is he cute?

  “Why would I exercise with a non-cute person?”

  “I could provide examples from your past—” June started to say, but fortunately, their orders of ravioli arrived in time to stop her.

  Once the waiter was gone, Tilda said, “I will be happy to tell you about sleeping with Quentin, but for now, I’d like to figure out how I can actually sleep with him.”

  June shrugged. “Trauma-induced bad dreams usually fade in time.”

  “According to my loving and supportive big sister, the only thing that’s fading is my looks.”

  “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Let’s look at the root cause of the bad dream.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got that one. I found an old lady murdered. Simple.”

  “Not simple. Are you upset by her death, or because you’d just been there and it could just as easily have been you?”

  “Both, I guess. But I’ve been around scary, dangerous things before, and had no bad dreams. Or at least not dreams that played over and over again like Brady Bunch reruns.”

  “Then let’s look at other causes. Physical problems? New medication? Stress? Unresolved issues?”

  “Physically, just lack of sleep,” Tilda said, ticking off the answer on her fingers. “The only medication is that one night of NyQuil. Stress . . . The new assignment is a big deal, but the deadline isn’t too bad, and having money coming in is more of a stress-reliever than a stress-causer.”

  “Unresolved issues?”

  “Maybe . . . Did I tell you that Jillian hinted at hiring me full time at Entertain Me!?”

  “No! That’s wonderful.” June looked at her. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “It’s flattering, but the jury is still out on wonderful-ness. We haven’t talked money yet, and that would make a difference.”

  “But it’s sure to be better than what you make as a freelancer.”

  “Probably, and even if it’s not, there are benefits. Vacation, sick time, and insurance so I can pay a psychologist to help me deal with bad dreams instead of bugging my sister.”

  “But?”

  “There’s no but. I just don’t want to count on anything until I get a formal offer.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” June said, eyeing Tilda suspiciously. “Anyway, we’ve got emotional trauma, an important deadline, a possible job offer, and a new relationship. Sounds like a perfect recipe for bad dreams to me.”

  “Great. I’m the Emeril of nightmares.”

  “On the good side, knowing what the problems are is half the battle, and all of
these issues are going to reach some sort of closure. The deadline will pass, you’ll either get the job or not, and the relationship won’t be new for long. As for the emotional trauma, it really should fade.”

  “If the cops would find Sandra’s killer, that would help considerably.”

  “Has there been any progress?”

  “Not really. Of course, the cops aren’t telling me anything.”

  “You aren’t a suspect, are you? I read that the police always look at the person who finds a body.”

  “I don’t think so. They haven’t questioned me since that night. Cooper gave me an alibi, and the waiter at the California Pizza Kitchen probably remembered us because it was so quiet that night. I couldn’t have done it, even if I’d had a motive.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Anyway, I called the detective who questioned me, but got nothing.”

  “Don’t you have a source in the department?”

  “Why would an entertainment reporter have a source in the department?”

  “I thought all reporters had a source in the department.”

  “I’ll see about getting one, but in the meantime, all I know is what I read in the papers. They don’t know why anybody would have killed Sandra, and the MO doesn’t match any known serial killers. The last time I spoke to Lil, they were still looking at her, probably because she was Sandra’s heir and was in business with her. I bet they’re thinking embezzling or something like that.”

  June eyed her. “You aren’t thinking about taking a more active role in this investigation, are you?”

  Tilda turned her attention to her ravioli.

  “You’ve already taken a more active role, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been moderately active,” Tilda admitted.

  June sighed. “Let’s hear it.”

  Tilda told her how she’d copied the files from Sandra’s computer, realized some were missing, and visited Bill Hawks to get the full set. Unfortunately, June was sharp enough to figure out that Tilda must have had some reason for thinking pictures were involved, so Tilda had to describe the incident with her being pushed into the street.