Who Killed the Pinup Queen?

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Tell them what? ‘I think somebody pushed me down, and somebody stole something from my purse. Only I wasn’t hurt, and I didn’t see anybody, and the pictures weren’t worth anything anyway.’ ”

  “Yes, you could have told them that.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I didn’t decide I was pushed on purpose until I noticed the pictures were missing, and by then, all the witnesses were long gone.”

  “Still.”

  “Besides, I’d feel funny bringing myself to the attention of the cops again. It was disconcerting as hell when Detective Salvatore looked at me at Sandra’s funeral. You know how Mom could make us feel guilty whether or not we’d done anything? It was like that, only I’m worried about jail time instead of getting grounded.”

  “Did I mention that paranoia is a classic symptom of lack of sleep?”

  “So am I paranoid for thinking the cops suspect me, or paranoid for thinking somebody tried to kill me?”

  June opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and filled it with her last forkful of ravioli. Only when she’d thoroughly chewed and swallowed did she say, “I’m not sure.”

  “Me, either,” Tilda said. “So, going back to the bad dreams, do you think it really would help if I did more snooping?”

  “I do not remember saying that. In fact, I’m almost sure I didn’t say that.”

  “But you did say I need closure, and knowing who killed Sandra would provide closure, right?”

  “I remember you trying your twisted logic on Mom, too.”

  “If you can’t win ’em over with logic, baffle ’em with bullshit.”

  “Okay, here’s my considered advice. If you can investigate cautiously, without drawing attention to yourself from either the killer or the police—”

  “I think I already have attention from both.”

  “Then if you can do so without drawing further attention to yourself, it might help with the bad dreams. Of course, now I’ll be having bad dreams worrying about you.”

  “I suggest physical exertion before you go to sleep. I’ll call your husband and let him know.”

  Chapter 25

  “Sure he’s a real cowboy,” Lu squeaked indignantly. “It’s them cowboys out West that ain’t real. Why, last winter we was playin’ in a museum in New York—that’s a dime museum, you know—and they had a big rodeo at Madison Square Garden. Some of them cowboys came to see Bronko’s act and was they surprised! He showed ’em lots about rope-spinnin’ and whip-crackin’ they never knowed about. Why, they couldn’t hardly understand a lot of the real cowboy talk he uses.”

  —MEMOIRS OF A SWORD SWALLOWER BY DANIEL P. MANNIX

  LUNCH took a decidedly nonserious tone after that, and after giving June a detailed report about her evening with Quentin, Tilda barely got her sister back to her house in time to greet the kids and herself back to Malden in time to call Emmett Ryker, the real-life cowboy.

  Ryker was both charming and hilarious as he told about handling not just the horses, but the people involved: a starlet’s first face-to-face encounter with a horse; one poor soul who was so allergic to horses that they had to use a stunt double every time a horse came on-screen; and a guest star who swore up and down that he knew how to ride when he was nothing but a river sand cowboy. Tilda had to ask for an explanation of that last phrase—it meant somebody who’d rented a horse once or twice and then pretended to be an expert rider.

  It was great stuff, but every time Tilda nudged Ryker toward his shared background with the Ambrose brothers, he shied away like a mustang spotting a rattler.

  Finally she asked, “Emmett, am I missing something? Did you have a problem with Tucker and Hoyt Ambrose?”

  He sighed heavily. “No, I don’t have anything against them, but . . . Tilda, can we keep this off the record? I really want a shot at some of that promotional money if they’ve a mind to spend it, but if this gets out, I’ll be out of luck.”

  “Sure. Off the record.”

  “Those boys weren’t cowboys any more than you are.”

  “Are you serious?

  “I can’t tell you exactly where they were from, but I guarantee it was from the eastern side of the Mississippi.”

  “But what about the stories of their being raised on a ranch? Up at dawn, herding cattle, busting broncos, dodging tumbleweeds, square dancing on Saturday night?”

  “They’d spent some time on a ranch somewhere, I’ll give ’em that, but I’m guessing it was the kind you paid to stay at.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “A dude ranch, darlin’.”

  “The Cowboy Kings are dudes?” Tilda couldn’t decide if she was appalled or amused. “Those stories were phony?”

  “Like a wooden nickel.”

  She finally came down on the side of amused, and burst out laughing. After a few seconds, Ryker joined in.

  When she got her breath, she said, “I can’t believe they pulled that off. Didn’t anybody notice?”

  “Not that I know of, but you’ve got to remember, they weren’t scissorbills,” Ryker said.

  “They weren’t what?”

  “A scissorbill is somebody who doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the back. The Ambrose boys could both really ride, and Hoyt was damned good, but when it came to working with cattle, or in a barn, or anything like that, they were useless. Besides, their accents wouldn’t have fooled anybody except a bunch of Hollywood yahoos who didn’t know any better.”

  “They fooled me,” Tilda admitted, “but then again, I’m a Massachusetts yahoo.”

  “Oh, they’ve improved considerably, just by listening to people who had authentic accents.”

  Tilda still couldn’t get over it. “Here I thought I was as cynical as they come, and it never occurred to me that they weren’t real cowboys.” Then, thinking of another Cowtown icon who wasn’t quite what she seemed, she added, “Next you’ll be telling me Cynthia Barth wasn’t a virgin.”

  “Now don’t you go bad-mouthing Miss Barth,” Everett warned, with a bit of an edge in his voice. “She’s a fine lady—you didn’t often see anybody like that in Hollywood.”

  Obviously he didn’t know about Morning Glory, and Tilda saw no reason to enlighten him. Instead she asked a few more questions, and he gave her more great stories.

  Afterward, Tilda wished she hadn’t let Ryker go off the record before he told the truth about Tucker and Hoyt. It would make one hell of a story. Admittedly, now that she knew, it wouldn’t be too hard for her to find evidence elsewhere of where they were really from, but if they wanted to remain the Cowboy Kings, who was she to depose them?

  Her next job was to get back to work on the Christopher Hale article she’d interrupted in order to go to dinner with Quentin. At five on the dot, Cooper called.

  “Did you get the issue put to bed?”

  “Just barely,” he said with a groan. “We had a last-minute addition which caused a last-minute meltdown.”

  “Did somebody have a baby, file for divorce, or get caught doing something they shouldn’t have?”

  “All three, and I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to switch to your side of the industry, Tilda—your people never cause last-minute changes. They’re stable.”

  She wished she could have told him about the Cowboy Kings just to prove him wrong, but her lips were sealed.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry to have blown you off yesterday and I was too wiped to call you back last night.”

  “That’s okay. I was out getting laid anyway.”

  “Seriously, what did you call about?”

  “You remember the mysterious missing pictures?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I got copies from the amateur photographer in Medford.”

  “And?”

  “And each one of these pictures shows a particular guy, apparently one of the other photographers?”

  “And?”

  “And I haven’t got a clue who he is,
or why Lil deleted these pictures from the file.”

  “Damn, girl, you got me worked up for nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing,” she said, irked. “I haven’t given up. I’ve just been busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Working, for one. Getting laid, for another.”

  “You really got laid?”

  “It does happen now and then.”

  “Then what are you wasting my time for? Who, what, when, where, and why?”

  “Who: Quentin. What: I think that’s obvious. When: I already told you—last night. Where: His condo. And if you have to ask why . . .”

  “What about how?”

  “Again, if you have to ask—”

  “I mean how was it?”

  “Nice.”

  “Just nice?”

  “I’d go so far as to say ‘very nice.’ Playing doctor is every bit as much fun as it’s rumored to be.” She decided not to mention her bad dreams—it would only lessen the value of the gloat.

  “My little Matilda, boinking a doctor,” Cooper sighed.

  “I believe we agreed that you would not use that form of my name. Ever.”

  “Sorry. It just slipped out.”

  “Sure it did. Other than the last-minute meltdown, how’s tricks at the office?”

  “Why don’t we just change the name to Cowtown central and be done with it?” Cooper groused. “Shannon and Nicole are spending more time on that fund-raiser than they are on their jobs, which is part of the reason for the meltdown. Plus Nicole made Shannon cry.”

  “What for?”

  “Shannon is arranging swag bags for the VIPs—and no, you do not get one.”

  “Did I ask?”

  “Anyway, Shannon ordered engraved iPod shuffles, and by the time Nicole found out, it was too late to cancel them.”

  “What’s wrong with iPods?”

  “According to Nicole, they’re trés passé. Everybody gives them out now, even regular businesses. I’ve got three or four myself.”

  Obviously Tilda hadn’t been getting the right swag bags—the only iPod she owned had been a Christmas gift from June. “Tell Shannon to check into getting the iPods preloaded: the theme from Cowtown, cowboy songs, and so on. That would make them different.”

  “That’s brilliant! Hang on.” Cooper covered the phone, but Tilda could still hear him. “Shannon, Tilda has an idea. Get the iPods downloaded with the theme for Cowtown and cowboy songs!”

  Even at a distance, Tilda winced at the resulting squeal, which was followed up by Shannon saying, “Tell Tilda I love her.”

  Cooper returned to the phone. “Shannon loves you.”

  “My life is complete.”

  “Seriously, original thinking is just what we need around here.”

  “It’s not that original. My niece won an iPod from the Disney Channel that was filled with soundtracks and Hannah Montana.”

  “Whatever. We hadn’t thought of it.”

  Tilda heard Shannon calling Cooper’s name.

  “I’ve got to go. Shannon wants me to help pick out songs. Let me know what you find out about the mysterious man.”

  “Will do.”

  “And if you get laid again.”

  “You’ll be the third to know. Unless it’s a threesome—then you’ll be fourth.”

  “You wish!” He rang off.

  Tilda continued working on the article, but at the back of her mind she was speculating about how she could identify the mystery photographer. Searching for Virginia Pure was still ridiculous, of course, but there had to be another way.

  After all, she knew two people who’d been around New York camera clubs back then. First there was Louise Silberblatt. Though she hadn’t been present at this particular shoot, maybe she’d known the photographer from a different one. Second was Cynthia Barth, aka Morning Glory, but Tilda didn’t think she was going to suddenly open up to her. She hadn’t even been in touch to set up an interview about Cowtown, let alone her pinup past. Louise was the better choice, but she was skittish, too, so it wasn’t a question Tilda could ask out of the blue. She’d have to devise an approach.

  In the meantime, she finished the Hale article, and after a break for dinner, wrapped up the Grainger piece. Deciding that she’d done enough for one day, she spent what was left of the evening watching TV companionably with Colleen. She even answered her roomie’s nosy questions about her date the previous night, as long as she asked them during commercials.

  After that, she slept the whole night through, without a single bad dream to disturb her sleep. She knew it was probably because of her talk with June, but she had to wonder if continuing to nose around Sandra’s murder was part of the reason, too.

  Chapter 26

  I never minded the bondage stuff. At every other shoot, it was all “Look this way,” or “Put your leg up on the chair” or “Lean over and touch your toes.” But once I was tied up, all I had to do was look scared. It was kind of restful.

  —SANDRA SECHREST, QUOTED IN “QUEEN OF THE PINUPS” BY TILDA HARPER, NOT DEAD YET MAGAZINE

  TILDA was up early, at least by a freelancer’s standards, meaning that she was working away on the article about Emmett Ryker by nine o’clock, and had it finished by lunchtime. She e-mailed it and the previous day’s pieces to Jillian, along with suitable artwork, and was in the living room with a ham sandwich waiting to be eaten and an episode of 30 Rock on DVD ready to be watched when her cell phone rang.

  “Jillian wants to know how much longer she’s going to have to wait for the Cowtown stuff,” Nicole said, wasting no time on the needless demands of etiquette.

  “I just sent in three pieces. That makes—”

  “She means the Cynthia Barth article. That’s the cornerstone of the series.”

  “Miss Barth was supposed to be in touch with me about scheduling.”

  “Is that how you find people? By waiting for them to call you?”

  Tilda took a bite of sandwich, and swallowed it along with the reply she wanted to make. “You’re right.”

  “Don’t argue with me—What?”

  “I’ll call that Barth woman right away and demand that she see me. So what if she’s a major investor for the resort project?”

  There was a pause. “Look, if she’s being hesitant . . .”

  “No, no, I realize now that I’ve got the power of Entertain Me! behind me, and I’ll use that power to force her to talk. Thanks, Nicole, this has been the inspiration I needed to get the job done.”

  Tilda hung up, counted the seconds until Nicole called again, and let it go straight to voice mail. Then she finished her sandwich and laughed at 30 Rock.

  Once she was finished with both lunch and the show, she admitted to herself that Nicole did have a point, even if it had been presented badly. She needed face time with Miss Barth, whether or not Miss Barth wanted to face her.

  She looked up the actress’s contact information, but just in case she was dodging Tilda’s calls, used her landline, which had blocked caller ID because of complex issues with a former roommate. Miss Barth picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Barth. This is Tilda Harper calling.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize it was you. I’m afraid I’m on my way out and—”

  “This won’t take a minute. I just want to schedule a time when we can get together for me to interview you about your experiences on Cowtown and since.” That should make it plain that she wasn’t going to ask about the pinup stuff.

  “Oh yes, but I’m so dreadfully busy—”

  “I know the resort work must be eating up time, and I’ll keep our talk as brief as possible. We could even do it by phone, if you can supply pictures.”

  “Pictures?!”

  Tilda could have kicked herself. “If you’ve got something recent, that is. I’ve already got some wonderful shots of you from your Cowtown days.”

  The woman was still hesitating, and Tilda wracked her brain to come u
p with something convincing. Damn it, she had to stop thinking of Miss Barth as Cowtown’s official virgin. The woman was an actress with her best days long behind her, and Tilda had never found a bait more appealing to the formerly famous than flattery.

  So she said, “Of course, I’d really rather sit down with you personally. I can get a lot of the facts from other sources, but that’s no substitute for personal contact with the woman who was the heart and soul of Cowtown.”

  “You’re sweet,” Miss Barth said, starting to warm, “but it really was an ensemble.”

  “Oh, absolutely. The whole cast was strong. But when it came to expressing the show’s meaning, it was always Arabella Newman. You personified the Cowtown Code!” Tilda faked an embarrassed laugh. “I mean, Arabella did. That’s how I see the show, anyway.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, dear. I’ve never quite thought of it that way before.”

  “I’d love to get your perspective, if you can squeeze me in.”

  “Of course I will,” Miss Barth said, as if she’d never considered anything different. “What about tomorrow morning? We could meet at my suite at the Park Plaza at ten.”

  “That would be perfect,” Tilda gushed. “Thank you so much.”

  They hung up, and Tilda sent a quick text message to Cooper.

  Tilda: Is Nicole on the phone?

  Cooper: Yes. Why?

  Tilda: I need to leave her a message.

  She called Nicole’s number, and when it went to voice mail, said, “Nicole, this is Tilda. I called that Barth woman and told her that if she wants the press, she damned well better make time for me. She folded like knockoff Manolos. I’m meeting her tomorrow.”

  Then she hung up. She knew she was going to pay for her fun eventually, but she was pretty sure it would be worth it.

  There were plenty of working hours left, so she went back to her list of Cowtown stars. She’d interviewed six so far, which left four to go, plus Miss Barth.

  Frankie Adams was easy enough to find—she’d continued to work in television as she aged from ingénue to young bride to mother to grandmother to feisty old lady. Tilda had seen her enthusiastically chewing scenery as a bag lady on Law & Order a month or two earlier. Since she was still working, she had an agent, and since Tilda rarely ran into an agent who wouldn’t happily point her toward a client if said client could get a few inches of press, in fifteen minutes she had Frankie’s phone number and a selection of head shots e-mailed to her. After Tilda prepared some questions—not a struggle, since she was using the same set for all the Cowtown interviews—and researched Frankie’s background, she was ready to make the call.