Looks to Die For

by Janice Kaplan

His thin eyebrows arched high into narrow half-moons. “I’m sorry, really. We’re not supposed to make jokes at security, so don’t tell anyone, please?”

  I nodded. The cars in front of me had also opened their trunks, but somehow that hadn’t registered. Two bouts of paranoia in one day. The world wasn’t as absorbed with my story as I was.

  I made my way from the sunny parking lot to the main building, trying to calm down and let the network aura work its magic. In the lush lobby, posters of the prime-time stars lined the walls, and I noticed that Roy Evans wasn’t among them . His fluff appealed to the audience, but probably not to the network image-makers.

  A chic, excessively slim receptionist sent me up to the eighth floor, where another chic, excessively slim receptionist told me to take a seat. I perched self-consciously on an upholstered bench and flipped through two issues of Variety and one Hollywood Reporter before a miniskirted blonde with a cleavage-revealing shirt and thigh-high leather boots minced over to me.

  “Mr. Evans can see you now,” she said importantly, draping a well-manicured hand on her hip. “I’m his assistant, Spring.”

  I wasn’t sure if Spring was her name or the only season she worked, but I followed her as she flounced down the long carpeted hallway. She definitely had a spring in her step, and maybe one in her hips — the only explanation for how they swung so vigorously from side to side.

  “Ah, La-cy Fields.”

  A broad-shouldered man in a sleekly cut three-button suit stepped out of his office, pronouncing my name slowly in an alluring baritone.

  “Ms. Fields, let me introduce you to Roy Evans,” said Spring somewhat pointlessly, sidling a little too close to her boss.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said Roy, oozing charm as he reached for my hand with both of his. His fingernails had been manicured and he had an oversized gold signet ring on his little finger. His face still bore traces of bronze pancake makeup. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I assumed he’d recently been on the air.

  “Come in,” Roy urged, taking my elbow and steering me into the office. He gave his assistant a wink that I wasn’t supposed to see, then firmly closed his door. As I sat down, I realized he had the blinds closed, the lights dimmed, and a CD playing softly in the background. He’d set the scene — though I wasn’t sure for what.

  “Do you like this song?” he asked, pausing to listen. “Norah Jones, brand-new. She let me hear it last week when I interviewed her. That’s what I most love about my job, if you want to know — I get to meet everybody.”

  I didn’t really want to know, but I nodded anyway.

  “And now I get to meet you,” he said, with a sincere — or maybe not — smile.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m delighted to finally meet you, too,” I said, as if instead of learning his name a few hours ago, I’d been a fan forever.

  “I can’t blame you,” he said, without any trace of irony. “I talk to people and they never forget me. Courtney Love. Sting. Madonna. I interviewed them, and now they’re all chums of mine. Real buddies. They send me Christmas cards every year.”

  No finer proof of friendship. I wondered if he ever got a lemon cake from Mrs. Beasley’s, too.

  “I know some of the greatest talents in the world,” Roy continued, sounding thoroughly impressed with himself.

  I nodded admiringly. My fears about what I’d say during this meeting had already disappeared, because clearly I wasn’t going to have to say anything.

  “Let me show you this interview,” Roy said, grabbing a tape from his desk and strutting over to pop it into the VCR. “Have a minute to watch?”

  “Of course,” I said. The screen flickered on, revealing a scratched image of Roy interviewing Jennifer Lopez, who was dressed in a simple white shirt, her long hair tumbling over her chest.

  “You looked beautiful at the Golden Globes last night,” Roy was saying to her, sounding more like an infatuated boy than a network reporter.

  “It was nice to see you in the press tent,” Jennifer said. “You gave me such a warm smile.”

  Roy stopped the tape and turned to look at me. “That’s Jennifer Lopez. J. Lo. Talking about my warm smile. How’s that? Should I play it again?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he hit REWIND and then PLAY, crossing his arms and staring triumphantly at the small screen. I could swear his lips moved this time when J. Lo was talking.

  “I’ve been seeing stars at awards shows for years,” Roy said now, clearly pleased with himself. “When a beautiful actress walks by, I grab her and whisper, ‘You’re going to win tonight. I know you are.’ The losers never remember what I said, but the winners always come back later and say, ‘Oh, Roy! How did you know!’”

  I laughed. He laughed. Okay, we’d bonded. Roy Evans wanted to talk about himself and I was willing to listen.

  Roy regaled me with two more stories about fabulous moments in his career (one involved being hugged by John Travolta, who, as far as I knew, hugged everyone), and then he finally paused for breath.

  “Enough about my career. We should talk about you. And what you want to write about me.” Coming from anyone else, that would have been a bad joke. But Roy was serious. He could move the spotlight only so far. “I understand you’re a star decorator and a decorator to the stars.”

  “I’m a decorator, but my clients are the only stars,” I said, knowing immediately what Roy needed to hear. “Abode has me write about famous people with great style.”

  Roy nodded, unfazed at being put in the “famous people” category and probably pondering his great style. Since his office looked like it had been furnished at OfficeMax with a little help from Staples, I was pondering it myself.

  “I’d love to be in the magazine,” he admitted, in what seemed like his first spontaneous comment so far. “But I’m in a new condo and it’s pretty empty.”

  “Empty is perfect. Just what I was hoping for,” I said, improvising. “I can help you decorate, and then we’ll reveal the wonderful results in the magazine.” The fact that I’d come up with this plan on the spot didn’t make it any less brilliant.

  “A before-and-after?” he asked dubiously. “Isn’t that about you, not me?”

  “All I do is take your personality and express it in your surroundings,” I said, catching the tone in his voice. “For you that might be rich leathers and handsome accessories.” I paused to let the rich and handsome sink in. “When your friends visit, they’ll admire your great taste and never dream you had a decorator — unless you want to tell them about me, of course.”

  He nodded. “I like your style. Let’s do it.”

  I stared at him for a moment, startled by what an easy sell this had been. But then I nodded and said, “Well, good. When do you want to get started?”

  “Right now works for me,” he said. “Only one condition. We have to do this fast. When I see something I want, I have to get it immediately.”

  That obviously applied to more than furniture, but I said, “Not a problem. I know a lovely store on Robertson Boulevard that delivers fast. We can go tomorrow, look around together, and I’ll get on track.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Roy banged his palm against the desk to seal the deal. Our conversation was almost done, and I’d gotten so absorbed in the decorating discussion that I hadn’t managed to bring up Tasha Barlow. No smooth transition now. Oh well, we still had tomorrow.

  Roy stood up and came around to the other side of his desk “You’re terrific, Lacy, I can tell already. We’ll enjoy working together.” He took my hands in his again and gave me the warm, J. Lo–approved smile. Ah, yes, he was good.

  “We’ll have some fun,” I said.

  An obvious exit line, but Roy didn’t let go of my hands. Instead, he looked down thoughtfully and wrinkled his brow ever so slightly. “Lacy Fields,” he said, as if thinking about my name for the first time. “Are you by any chance related to the Dan Fields I read about in the paper? The murder suspect?”

  I too
k a quick breath. “He’s my husband, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I mean, not unfortunate that he’s my husband, but unfortunate what’s happened.”

  “I knew the victim,” he said, dropping his silky voice almost to a whisper. “She worked here.”

  I gulped, stunned that we’d hit on the topic that had driven me to visit Roy Evans in the first place. I pulled myself together. “It’s an awful situation, but Dan had nothing to do with it. I’m sorry about the victim. Was she…a friend of yours?”

  “Not really. I just knew her. We worked together sometimes.” He finally let go of my hands and looked carefully at me. “What’s going on with the investigation?” he asked casually.

  “The police are pulling together all their evidence — whatever that may be. Our lawyer has detectives trying to get to the real story. At the moment it’s all kind of hazy. I just know Dan’s innocent.”

  “How did your husband know Tasha?”

  “I’m not sure he did.”

  Roy didn’t say anything. That was an old trick of interviewers — leave a long pause and somebody would rush to fill it in. But I didn’t have anything to add so the silence lingered in the room. Finally I put out my hand and said, “I hope you’re still willing to work with me. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” Roy said.

  I left his office and managed to get down the elevator, through the lobby, and into the parking lot before I started trembling. However anxious I’d been about being recognized by the deli clerk and the security guard, it never occurred to me that Roy Evans, network reporter, would know who I was.

  Had he made a lucky guess? Or was it more than luck?

  I suddenly felt my knees wobble and grabbed onto a red Porsche convertible to keep from falling over. Sure, Molly Archer’s name carried a lot of weight and, yes, Roy Evans seemed so publicity-hungry that he’d eat a People magazine on rye for lunch. But he’d asked me to be his decorator in a heartbeat, and while I had a good reputation, I wasn’t exactly hosting Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Roy Evans, master manipulator of conversation, had steered our talk around to Tasha Barlow. Maybe the stunningly self-involved star had the same motive for the meeting that I did — he wanted to get information about the murder.

  Because possibly we both knew the police had arrested the wrong man.

  Chapter Four

  On my way to the showroom on Robertson Boulevard the next morning, I stopped for a morning smoothie at Jamba Juice. The line snaked out the door, giving me time to stare at the posted nutrition guide and learn that the Orange Berry Blitz offered 390 percent of the daily allotment of vitamin C — which seemed to be 290 percent more than I needed. Tasty concoctions like Mango Mantra or Berry Pizzazz could strengthen my immune system, promote brain cell activity, and give me a healthy heart and eyes. I wasn’t sure if the drinks came in a tall cup or an IV tube.

  “Strawberry Nirvana,” I said to the young girl behind the counter, when it was finally my turn. Probably practicing for her afternoon acting class, she pursed her heavily collagened lips and flicked her long black hair, revealing a dragon tattoo that wound around her upper arm. If Angelina Jolie called in sick to a set one day, Jamba Girl could be a fast fill-in.

  “Are you trying to promote peak performance?” she asked dramatically, leaning forward on the counter.

  “Actually, I’m just trying to get breakfast,” I said.

  She rolled her purple-gray color-contact-enhanced eyes. “If you need an additional energy boost, we have ginseng and ginkgo biloba to fight fatigue and increase stamina.”

  “Not fattening, is it?”

  She gave a deep sigh. “If you’re worried about weight, you need the Burner Boost with chromium and thermogenic herbs to control appetite and increase metabolism,” she said, proving that she could at least learn her lines.

  “Put in whatever you like,” I said, giving up. I blamed Starbucks for starting it all by insisting that “tall” meant small, and that a “barista” made the coffee. Now we’d moved on to the stage where you needed a medical degree to get breakfast.

  The Angelina-wannabe spent an inordinately long time mixing and stirring, and when I finally took the cup, I tossed a dollar into the tip jar, knowing the bonus she’d really like was Molly Archer’s private email. Back outside, I settled into a café table, flipped through an Architectural Digest, and watched the morning bustle of shoppers. With the sun drenching down and the frothy drink (whatever it was) tickling my tongue, I could almost forget that I had more on my mind than whether crimson or persimmon was the color of the moment. I felt calmer than I had in days. Maybe Angelina had slipped me some Valium instead of the ginseng.

  Ready to face my client, I sauntered over to the chic showroom and told the sullen receptionist that Roy Evans would be coming in soon. She brightened at his name, tossed back her curly blond hair as if all of life were an audition, and agreed to send Roy back as soon as he arrived. In the private display area, I milled around, pondering which of the rosewood dining tables newly imported from Milan would be right for Roy. He definitely couldn’t handle what I’d commissioned for a French director’s mansion in Malibu — a gleaming slab of sinuous steel that reflected the sunlight and sea. It got endless oohs and aahs, but Roy wasn’t secure enough for cutting edge.

  I checked my watch, then moved into the next room, which spotlighted chairs so gloriously modern they couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I sat down. Right. Forty-five minutes later, I was considering the comfort level of a suede Armani sectional when my cell phone rang.

  “Lacy, can you forgive me?” Roy’s mellifluous voice on the line was sweetly pleading. “I had a long interview with that young singer Abby Jean. What a body.”

  “I’m still at the showroom. I can wait for you,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t,” he said. “But if you have a second, listen to this song from Abby’s first album. She’s going to be big.” He must have held out the phone to his CD player, because I heard the distant, moaning sounds of a female pop singer.

  “Sexy, isn’t she?” he asked, back on the line. “I think she was hot for me. Once I told her she was going to be a big star, she didn’t want to leave.”

  So Roy had been trying to score with his interview subject. The man had no shame.

  “We should reschedule our appointment,” I said, sticking to decorating.

  “Absolutely. By the way, how’s your husband doing?”

  “Pretty well, thanks.”

  “What’s new with the murder investigation?”

  So here we were already. If I were suspicious about Roy Evans, I’d think that was the crux of this conversation. And, okay, I was suspicious of Roy Evans.

  “I’ve been getting a lot of information on your friend Tasha,” I said carefully. I wouldn’t lie, but maybe I could get him worried. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the talk about her at the network.”

  “I haven’t heard anything.” Roy’s voice suddenly had a slight edge to it, as if some of the polish were being chipped away. “Tell me the gossip.”

  “Just the rumors you’d guess,” I said, hoping he’d fill them in for me.

  “She slept around?” Roy asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, she was a cute little piece of pie. Not a surprise if a lot of men wanted her.”

  “I guess not,” I said.

  Brief silence and then he said, “Is there a list somewhere?”

  “Of what?”

  “The men. Do you think the police have a list of the people she slept with?”

  “Could be, but I really don’t know.”

  “Fine,” he said, much too sharply. His voice had gone from edgy to angry, and I pictured him struggling to get back in control.

  “I guess if we’re going to do this decorating thing, you should see where I live,” he said finally. “Can you come over Saturday?”

  I hesitated. I had to see his place if I pl
anned to furnish it, but why did the idea of going over there make me so uncomfortable?

  “Um, sure. Give me your address.”

  “That’s a big commitment. I haven’t given a woman my address since my last divorce became final.” He chuckled, pleased by his own little joke. But he reeled it off, and I had a feeling that this time, he wasn’t going to miss our meeting.

  I headed out of the showroom, pausing by the front door to look at a neo-Victorian mirror with inlays of polished metal. I glimpsed myself in the glass, and my hands reflexively flew to my face.

  “Awful,” I gasped loudly.

  “Everyone hates that piece,” said the receptionist, misinterpreting. She closed her InStyle magazine — which was the only place she’d see celebrities today. “I don’t know why it’s right in front.”

  The mirror frame looked a lot better than I did. My skin seemed mottled, I had bags under my eyes, and what was going on with my hair? Maybe I couldn’t do much about my dark mood, but I could definitely fight back against my dark roots.

  Outside, I pulled out my cell phone and hit *11 on the speed dial. Like most of the moms I knew, once my kids grew up enough that I could take the nursery school number off speed dial, I replaced it with my hair colorist’s. Who wants to get older when you can just get blonder? So many of us worshiped at the peroxide altar of youth that an appointment with Alain was harder to get than a private audience with the Dalai Lama.

  I decided to give it my best shot. When Alain’s assistant, Andre, came on the phone, I outlined my problems. All of them. Hair crisis and personal disaster. I felt a little guilty gossiping about myself, but better me than anyone else.

  “So it’s an emergency,” said Andre sympathetically.

  “Dire emergency,” I said. “If you’re doing triage, consider me the equivalent of a massive heart attack on Oscar night.”

  Andre laughed. “Come right over. I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

  Bless the man. Next holiday season, I’d upgrade his gift from a wool Polo sweater to cashmere. Alain himself took the guesswork out of saying thanks — he stayed registered at Barneys year-round.