Trashed

by Alison Gaylin

  His face relaxed a little. “What are you talking about then?”

  “Emerald’s garbage.”

  “The birds?”

  Simone sighed heavily. “The shoe.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Think about it, even if you don’t believe that was Nia Lawson’s other shoe, and I do. . . . She cuts her throat, and a month later Emerald commits suicide in the exact same way?”

  “Hmm,” said Elliot. “Could be a trend.”

  “A trend? Cutting your own throat?”

  He shrugged. “Hollywood.”

  Simone’s headache was coming back. She closed the Interloper, grabbed the New York Post, the Daily News, LA Times, and USA Today, and handed them all, plus Nigel’s money, to the newsagent.

  As she waited for her change, a delivery truck pulled up, its driver carrying a stack of magazines, which he dropped in front of the counter, then rushed back to the truck to get more. Simone glanced at the stack. It was a new men’s lifestyle magazine, Action. And her sister was on the cover.

  Greta wore an old-fashioned fedora with a press card stuck in the band, a trench coat unbuttoned to the waist with nothing underneath. A bright orange cover line swooned across her hips: Greta Glass: The Journalist We’d Most Like to Be Embedded With.

  This newsstand just got better and better.

  “Los Angeles Police Department, Media Relations, how may I help you?”

  “I’m calling regarding the death of Emerald Deegan.”

  “May I have your name and media outlet?”

  “Simone Glass. I’m with the As—”

  Click.

  Simone sighed. “That’s my fifth hang up in a row.”

  “Welcome to on-the-record interviews,” said Kathy. “I keep telling Nigel we should just change our name to the Ass—it’s all anyone ever lets us say.”

  Elliot chuckled. “I work for the Ass.”

  “You work hard for the Ass,” Matthew said. “There’s no place you’d rather be than right here, in the Ass!”

  The two of them started giggling like third graders, and before long Kathy joined in: “Where else are you gonna get the inside poop?” she said, making Elliot go into convulsions, as Carl the receptionist walked in with everyone’s take-out lunches. “I will not pick up the phone and say, ‘You’ve reached the Ass!’ ”

  Matthew threw back his shimmering head; he was laughing so hard, tears streamed down his cheeks. “God, you kill me, Carl.”

  Simone thought, Could we all use a break or what?

  But a break was not in the offing. The LA staff was holed up in the reporters’ room, working the Deegan suicide story until it wrapped. Since Emerald had killed herself late Tuesday night and the Asteroid closed its issues on Wednesdays, that meant they had just one day to slap together a cover spread.

  Technically, they had less than a day, since it was three hours later in New York. There was no time to think about this frail young woman taking a paring knife out of her own kitchen, bringing it upstairs into her bedroom, and slicing her throat. To them, all that existed was a blank spread—and all they could do was fill it, as fast as possible, and send it to New York.

  After Googling Emerald for the background file, Elliot was now creating a list of other famous suicides via cut throat. So far, the only ones he’d been able to find were a manic-depressive silent film actress, a latently gay B-movie producer from the ’80s, and, of course, Nia Lawson.

  Meanwhile, Matthew, with the help of a psychic he’d interviewed, was crafting a sidebar: CELEB DEATHWATCH: WHO’LL GO NEXT? Kathy had scheduled a phoner with a body language expert for a half-page piece entitled “Was Emerald’s Slouch a Cry for Help?” And Nigel had swung an exclusive with world-renowned herbalist Hilton “Mr. Tea” Kleinberg, who had once mixed up a special ginkgo-anise tincture designed to help Emerald memorize lines.

  Which left Simone to write the straight news story—the meat, as Nigel called it. At first she’d been glad. She could focus on facts. She could get actual, on-the-record quotes from people who mattered. She could organize a real news piece, impress her new boss with her solid reporting skills. But that was before they all hung up on her—Muzzy Schindler, Barry Savage’s office, Keith Furlong’s office, the coroner, the LAPD. . . .

  Simone needed another angle. She cast a quick glance at Nigel, peering over Elliot’s shoulder at his computer screen. “That’s all the cut throats you can find besides Lawson?” he was saying. “The poof producer and the chubby little actress from the Mesozoic era?”

  “Well, there’s Robert Clive.”

  “Who?”

  “British conqueror of India. Cut his throat with a pen-knife in 1774.”

  “Oh, now please.”

  “Sorry. It’s just not a very common way to kill yourself. ”

  Exactly, thought Simone. On her computer screen, she called up Celebrity Service, typed in the Asteroid’s account number, and looked up representation for Nia Lawson. Only one name was listed: her manager, Randi DuMonde.

  Simone punched in the number, and after one ring, a cheerful male voice answered. “DuMonde Management! ”

  “Yes, hi,” said Simone. “I understand you represent Nia Lawson.”

  There was a long pause, and the cloudless voice went faux somber. “She’s . . . no longer with us.”

  “I know. . . . Listen, I’m a reporter, and I was just doing a story on Emerald Deegan, and I was wondering if I could get a quote from Ms. DuMonde on the parallels. I don’t know if Nia and Emerald knew each other, but—”

  “Who did you say you were with?”

  Simone braced herself. “I’m with the As—”

  Click.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Nigel was glaring at her. “Right,” he said. “Let’s see if the telly can give us anything.”

  Soon the only sound in the reporters’ room was the CNN anchor’s voice, punctuated by the shallow click of keyboards. “Why did one of Hollywood’s most promising young stars decide to end her own life so violently?” the anchor asked no one. “That. Remains. A mystery.”

  “Man, this guy’s a snooze,” Matthew said.

  “Agreed.” Nigel worked the remote even faster than he spoke. How he could hover on a channel for one-third of a second and know for a fact it wasn’t worth watching . . .

  “Legal Tender’s on now,” said Kathy. Simone gritted her teeth. Nigel flipped right to her sister’s show and stayed there.

  Greta wore a suit the color of dark chocolate, a burgundy blouse, and an expression so serious you’d think she’d lost her entire family. “Hollywood was shaken this morning by the mysterious suicide of one of its most promising young stars. Why did she do it? And why so violently?”

  Matthew said, “Now that’s class.”

  “I adore that jacket,” said Kathy.

  Simone glared at her steno pad, at all the potential sources she’d written down and crossed off when they refused to speak to her. “We’ll have Ms. Deegan’s dear friend and publicist, Muzzy Schindler, on in a bit,” said Greta. “But first, via remote, here’s the Los Angeles County coroner to tell us exactly what happened.”

  “Great, just fucking great,” Simone muttered.

  “Talking to me?” said Elliot.

  “Oh, no, I was just—”

  “No need to explain.”

  Greta was speaking to the coroner. “There are obvious parallels with Nia Lawson’s suicide. Do you see this as some type of ghastly Hollywood trend?”

  Oh no, you did not just say that.

  Nigel said, “Finished with that meat?”

  “Huh? No, not—”

  “Get on it, then. No time to waste.”

  Simone sighed. She might not have on-the-record quotes—or any quotes at all—but at least she knew the who-what-when-where of the story. She typed: In the predawn hours of August 25, Suburban Indiscretions star Emerald Deegan, twenty-eight, was found dead in the bedroom of her Hollywood Hills home, victim of an apparent suicide.<
br />
  According to police sources, she had punctured her own throat with a paring knife that came from her kitchen.

  Nigel stood behind her. “What type of style do you call that?”

  “AP style.”

  “It’s abysmal.”

  She turned. “Umm . . . what?”

  “Look at it.” Nigel poked her screen. “All you have here are facts.”

  “But it’s a news story—”

  “I don’t care if it’s the bloody president you’re writing about. I’m not interested in facts. I want details.”

  “Details.”

  “The heartwarming, eye-popping, gut-wrenching details. ”

  “But I can’t get anyone to—”

  “There is no such thing as can’t. If you are unable to get the details from legitimate sources, then make them up . . . within legal limits.”

  Greta’s voice emanated from the TV. “. . . Emerald Deegan was somebody’s daughter!”

  “Like that!” Nigel turned his whole body toward the screen. “Make us cry for her and . . .” He stared at Greta’s image. “Nice tits,” he said, moving away.

  Simone swallowed hard. Details, okay. . . . Deep breath. . . . She typed the words: Emerald Deegan—who was somebody’s daughter—was found dead, victim of an apparent suicide.

  She deleted it immediately.

  “Don’t worry,” said Kathy. “We’ve probably all gotten that speech at one time or another.”

  “How am I supposed to make up details about someone’s suicide?” said Simone.

  “Didn’t you meet anyone at the crime scene?”

  Simone cringed. “Yes,” she said. “I did.” Simone envisioned a line separating what she would and would not have been willing to do for a story just a few weeks ago. And as she took Holly Kashminian’s business card out of her pocket and called the number, she could see herself stepping over that line . . . and erasing it.

  Holly still had that feeling. She’d had it ever since she’d arrived at Emerald’s at four in the morning—with two skinny soy lattes, today’s Suburban Indiscretions script, and newly filled prescriptions for Emerald’s Vicodin and Xanax—ready to prep her boss for her early call to the set.

  Holly had been wondering how Emerald’s Asteroid interview had gone ( fucking Keith and his fucking birds) when that feeling had crept up her spine, as light and deliberate as spider tracks.

  Someone is watching me. . . .

  It was nearly twelve hours later. Emerald was dead, and Holly was at home, but if anything, the feeling was more powerful. Holly dug through her messenger bag until she found what she wanted. She ripped open the white paper bag from the pharmacy and looked at both bottles of pills. Vicodin or Xanax? Painkiller or antianxiety?

  Holly had closed her window shades as soon as she’d gotten home, but still she sensed eyes—unseen eyes, watching those shades, waiting. . . .

  Antianxiety it is. She read the instructions on the Xanax label: .5 milligrams. Take one tablet, three times a day. Holly walked into her kitchen, filled a glass of water. She took one pill, but still her heart pounded. Still she felt eyes, still she wanted to scream, Leave me alone!

  She took another Xanax. Then one more.

  Holly walked back to the couch. She picked up today’s script and thought about reading it—Emerald’s last lines ever—but she couldn’t focus. She closed her eyes and found herself remembering what that cop had shown her in Emerald’s master bathroom. You knew about these, didn’t you, Ms. Kashminian? Why didn’t you tell us?

  Holly’s jaw clenched up . . . but then a new feeling swept over her—like warm, soapy water, washing most of the tension away. Xanax. No wonder Emerald liked this stuff.

  Holly’s phone rang. She checked the caller ID and saw the New York cell number of Emerald’s new tennis pro. “Hi, Simone.” Holly’s voice was as mellow as a jazz deejay’s.

  “Hi. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  “No,” she said. “Just taking care of a few things.” Holly took a breath, and her eyes started to well. She assumed it was the pills at first, but then she remembered crying on Simone’s shoulder, back at Emerald’s house. What was it about this woman that made her comfortable enough to cry? Positive energy. That’s what Emerald would have said. “I’m glad you called, Simone.”

  “Listen, I can’t stop thinking about what you said. About Emerald not being the one who killed herself?”

  Holly’s thoughts went to Emerald’s cut throat, to the knife she’d seen in her hand, so familiar . . . then, to the note. “I still don’t think she killed herself.” She grabbed a Kleenex out of the dispenser on her coffee table, wiped her face.

  “Why?”

  “She . . . was not that kind of person. I mean . . . Emerald was into Kabbalah. And suicide’s a sin in Judaism. ”

  “That’s the only reason?” Simone sounded disappointed.

  Holly said, “Listen. Um . . . I’ve got to—”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Holly’s mouth was dry from the Xanax. Her top lip kept sticking to her teeth. “Yeah?” she said.

  “I . . . I have a friend. Brittany. She was an extra on Suburban Indiscretions yesterday. She told me that Emerald invited her into her trailer.”

  Holly wanted to get herself a glass of water, but her legs felt weighted. “I didn’t meet anyone named—”

  “It was while you were gone. You were taking Emerald’s clothes to a PETA auction.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, she said she went into Emerald’s bathroom and she saw blood in the sink. You have any idea what that could—”

  “No!” Holly snapped—those words, “blood in the sink,” cutting through the medicated calm and echoing. That had been the wrong reaction, she knew. But finding the right one was hard. For a moment, Holly felt kind of desperate, as if she were clawing her way up a cliff that was crumbling. “I mean . . . uh . . .” Find a reason, find a reason. . . . “Nosebleeds.”

  “Huh?”

  “Emerald. She got nosebleeds all the time.”

  “Into a sink?”

  “If she couldn’t find a tissue, sure,” said Holly. “She had a very delicate system.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Maybe she was wrong about Simone, the positive energy. These intrusive, accusing questions . . . Was it the medication, or was this tennis pro—this stranger—even worse than Detective Bianchi? “I’ve got to go.” Holly started to hang up the phone.

  “Wait, Holly,” said Simone. “I’m really sorry. It’s just . . . the only person I’ve ever known who died was my grandpa, and that was when I was a baby. Seeing Emerald’s body like that. . . .” Simone exhaled. Holly could hear her breath trembling. “I’m just looking for reasons, I guess.”

  Holly’s pulse slowed a little. Some of the calm came back. She thought, Maybe it’s just a New York thing. “I understand.” She heard a rustling outside her window. Something moving through the bushes. A stray cat, a squirrel.

  “Holly,” said Simone, “this may sound a little weird, but . . . you think it would be okay if I called Emerald’s parents and expressed my condolences?”

  Shit. Emerald’s dad. He knew by now, of course. The cops had called him. But if there was one call Holly was dreading . . . “That’s incredibly sweet of you,” she said. “It’s just her father. Her mom passed away when she was little. I’ll get you his number.”

  Holly grabbed her Palm Pilot, looked up Wayne Deegan’s phone number, and gave it to Simone. “Do me a favor and express my condolences, too,” she said. “Tell Wayne I’ll be calling as soon as I can get it together.”

  “Of course.”

  Holly said, “One thing, though. Please don’t tell him about . . . what your friend saw in the sink.”

  “I won’t,” she said. But Holly could hear the why in her voice.

  “The thing is, Wayne doesn’t . . . he never knew she had nosebleeds . . . and he tends t
o worry.”

  There was a pause. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Simone.”

  Holly hung up knowing how ridiculous that must have sounded. Wayne tends to worry. The man’s only daughter was dead. She was found on her bed with a knife in her hand and more blood on her sheets than inside her body—and Simone was supposed to believe he couldn’t handle nosebleeds?

  She thought about calling Simone back, telling her not to bother with Wayne, it probably wasn’t a good idea . . . until that watched feeling returned, more forceful than ever. The rustling grew louder outside her window—too loud for a stray cat, too loud for a squirrel. A possum, maybe? A dog? Then . . .

  She heard a voice out there, whispering her name.

  Holly picked up her cordless receiver and padded to her window, quietly, carefully. She placed a hand on the curtain. “I am calling nine-one-one now!” She hit the three numbers. All she needed was to press the TALK button and she would be connected. Holly held her breath, yanked the curtains to the side, stared out the window. . . .

  No one. No one in the bushes, no one in the yard, no one running across the street. Not even a stray cat. In some ways, this was more upsetting than seeing a face pressed against her window. If she couldn’t trust her own ears, couldn’t trust her own brain . . .

  Holly grabbed the Vicodin bottle, took it with her into the kitchen, ran herself another glass of water, and cracked the childproof lid. This time, she wouldn’t bother reading the label.

  SEVEN

  As Simone ended her call to Holly, she was more perplexed than ever about the blood in the sink. But, she supposed, it didn’t matter much. Whether it was from nosebleeds or injecting or Santeria or vampirism, none of it compared to slitting one’s own throat. Besides, what Simone had gotten out of the conversation was a lot more valuable. She turned to Kathy. “Emerald’s assistant just gave me her dad’s home number!”

  “That is awesome,” Kathy said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Umm . . . call him up and ask him questions?”

  “Identify yourself, get some on-the-record quotes.”

  “Yes, that would be the plan.” Simone started to pick up the phone, but Kathy grabbed her hand.