“I don’t know. Traffic was a bitch.”
“Goddamnit, Diana.” He leaned into me, struggling to get his wallet out of his back pocket. I could see he had shaved unevenly and what hair he had left was beginning to sprout on his usually smooth cranium.
He pulled a wad of money from his wallet and handed it to Beth. “Pay the cab.”
“I’m going to need him to take me back to Malibu,” I said.
He pushed more bills at her. “Tell him to wait.”
Jake stood up again to let her out.
“I’ll drive you home,” she told me.
“It’s out of your way,” I said.
“No, no. I’m glad to do it.” She hurried toward the entrance.
“Don’t let her order another Mai Tai,” Jake said as he sat back down. “I can’t stand women who drink too much. They get mouthy.” Jake’s crumpled shirt hung out of his jeans. Except for his expensive Patek Philippe watch, you’d never know he was worth millions. He slouched down in the booth, moody under his cap.
“What else can’t you stand, Jake?” I asked.
“Diana …” Zaitlin warned under his breath.
Jake adjusted the bill of his cap like a baseball pitcher right before he throws at his opponent’s head. “This wasn’t an easy decision for us.” His cupid lips drooped in sympathy.
“We haven’t cast anyone yet. First we have to cast Jenny’s role,” Zaitlin explained into his tea.
“You were brilliant in the part, Diana,” Jake said, “but it was the urn. Everything would’ve been cool if it weren’t for you and the urn on the news. I mean, I just can’t get my head around the image. And I don’t think the public can either. Every time you appear on the screen they’re going to think … urn.”
“You mean you couldn’t’ get your image around the image.”
He lifted his new, new chin. “There’s no reason to make this personal.”
“You’re an actor. You know exactly how personal it is. Or have you forgotten so quickly?”
I knew it was coming. But there is no way to prepare for the moment when the floor drops out from under you and you’re freefalling through your own career, unable to grab hold of anything to stop the inevitable—rock bottom.
“Jake didn’t have to be here,” Zaitlin said. “He wanted to tell you himself because he respects you as an actor and as a human being.”
Ignoring that piece of crap, I asked him, “Did you contact Sam?” Sam Haskell was my agent.
“Yes,” Zaitlin said. “But he wanted me to tell you.”
A coward for an agent. Why am I not surprised? “I guess my own agent doesn’t respect me as much as Jake does.”
Jake was taking his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipping them on.
Beth returned, taking in our glum group. “I see they told you.”
“Yes.”
“I was against it, Diana. I think you’re wonderful in the role.”
“Where’s my change?” Zaitlin asked.
“There isn’t any, and stop treating me like your gofer.”
“See what I mean about the drinking?” Jake got to his feet once more. “Well, I’m glad we got this all cleared up. I know we’ll work together again, Diana.” Then he said to Zaitlin and Beth, “Catch you later.” And the new, new was gone, gone.
Zaitlin patted my hand. “I’m sorry. But one door closes, another opens. That’s how I look at this business. That’s how you have to look at it too.”
“Did you fight for me?”
“He did,” Beth said, still standing.
Now Zaitlin edged around the booth. It was only then that I noticed how tired he looked. He pulled himself to his feet as if he were an old man. He spotted the check on the table. “You’d think the little prick would pick up the tab, wouldn’t you?” He grabbed it and went to the bar to pay.
Beth sat down and sucked up some more Mai Tai.
“Are you going to be able to drive me?” I asked.
She pushed the drink away. “Yes.” With the focused intensity of a woman who sees life through the frame of a camera, she watched Zaitlin pay, put his wallet back into his pants pocket, and trod heavily out of the restaurant. “He doesn’t look good, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t. Neither do you. It seems Jenny’s murder has taken a toll on all of us, one way or another.”
“Do you have time for me to have a cup of coffee?”
“I’ll have one, too.”
She got the waiter’s attention and ordered. I broke into tears.
“Oh, Diana, I’m so sorry.” She reached across the table and held my hand.
I shook my head. “I’ve been crying a lot lately.”
“You’re a good actress. I think you’re better than your mother was at your age. You won’t have any trouble getting work.”
“What if other people are like Jake and can’t get their head around the image of me holding my mother’s ashes? If I tried hard enough, I could blame her for all this and not Jake Jackson.”
“He’s full of shit, and you know it. He’ll be gone when he’s thirty.”
“Not soon enough.”
Our coffee arrived. The waiter gave me an extra napkin and whispered, “For your tears.” Which made me cry even more because I was sure he assumed I was crying over a man and not my career.
“I may not have another job after this one either,” Beth said. “You know the gender politics in this business. How hard it is for a woman on the other side of the camera.” Beth reached for her Mai Tai and took another long suck.
I blew my nose and wiped my face. “Oscar Wilde said that when people talk about the weather he always thought they meant something else.”
Beth let out a throaty laugh. “Are you saying I’m not really talking about how difficult it is for women in Hollywood?” She paused, then admitted, “You’re right. Jenny’s death has taken a toll on me.”
“How?” I asked.
“I screwed up. Something good happens, and I find a way to destroy it. I hit on her, Diana.”
“It happens.”
“I degraded myself. I groveled.” She downed the last of her Mai Tai, not bothering with the straw.
I took a sip of my coffee and once again reminded myself never to order coffee in a Chinese restaurant. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you were one of the last people to speak to her.”
“If you’re worried she said something to me, she didn’t.”
“But if the police find out.”
“From what you told me there’s nothing to find out. Making a fool of yourself is not against the law. Yet.”
“But rejection can be a motive.” She took the tiny paper umbrella from her empty glass and twirled it in her fingers. “I guess seeing what Jake did to you has freaked me out. Let’s go before I order another drink.”
Even tipsy, Beth Woods drove better than the cab driver.
“Forget what I said back at the Formosa. Okay?” She smoothly shifted the gears of her dark blue 911 Porsche as we headed west on Santa Monica Boulevard. The traffic was bumper to bumper. In the daylight her skin looked puffy. Her brows too dark, too arched, for her pale worried face.
“But why would you think Jenny had told me about the two of you?”
“I thought she might try to use me in some way so Zaitlin wouldn’t fire her.”
“In what way?”
“Forget I brought it up, Diana. I talk too much when I drink.”
“Zaitlin had no intention of firing her.”
“Why not?”
“I just learned her father was backing the film. Did you know that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think he had that much control. I mean, he’s only one source of the money. There are other backers, including the studio.”
/> “One pulls out and they don’t get somebody else, the movie stops dead. You know that.” Being a director, Beth dealt with the finances of what it would cost to make the movie the way she wanted to shoot it. And then she compromised. “At Ben’s party you told me that Jenny was evil.”
“Maybe I thought she was evil because she made me feel like shit.”
“Have you talked to the police yet?”
“No. But they’ll get around to me.”
“Do you have an alibi?”
“What lonely woman has an alibi for … when was she killed? Twelve or one or two in the morning?”
“Why are you so lonely?”
“Why are you?”
We grinned wryly at one another, then laughed. Female humor. My iPhone rang. I took it out of my purse and looked at the caller ID. It was Celia.
“Hi,” I answered in a guarded voice.
“I’m sorry, Diana, I was so mean to you and… . Oh, God, my entire life is falling apart. Can you meet me at the Bel Air house?”
“Why?”
“The pool man found a dead body there.”
“Oh, God.” My permanent chill woke up.
“They want me to see if I can identify it. I didn’t know who to turn to. I can’t involve Robert. He’s so distraught over this Jenny Parson thing. I don’t have anybody. I’m just now realizing how empty my life really is. I have no right to ask, but I need your support. I’m almost at the house now. I have to go.” She disconnected.
“What is it?” Beth asked.
“An emergency.” I looked out the window. We were passing the old Troubadour, where many famous folk singers got their start. Now scraggly young men stood outside the club, guitars slung over their backs, hoping something from the past would rub off and give them a future.
I didn’t want to help Celia. I wanted to go home and nurse my own wounds. Hold my own hand. I sighed. “Can you take me to Bel Air instead?”
“Where in Bel Air?”
“On Stone Canyon. I’ll show you.”
She didn’t ask me what the emergency was; in fact she didn’t talk at all after I gave her the name of the street. And I didn’t believe her sudden muteness was due to her Mai Tai wearing off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I was back on Stone Canyon Road again. The gates to Bella Casa were opened and the street was filled with black-and-whites, fire trucks, and ambulances. The men and women who manned the emergency vehicles were preparing to leave.
Beth stopped the car near the curb. “My God, what’s going on?”
“They found a body.”
She stared at me. “What’s it have to do with you?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m here to help a friend.”
She peered at the ivy-covered wall and the two entrance gates now with yellow crime-scene tape draped across them as if it were familiar to her.
“Do you know this place?”
“No. Who’s your friend?”
“Celia Dario. The house is empty and for sale. She has the listing.”
“Zaitlin’s mistress?”
“Small world, isn’t?”
“No. Just a cruel one.”
“Thanks, Beth.” I got out of her car.
She waved, threw the Porsche into drive, made a U-turn, and sped off.
I strode officiously up to the patrolman who guarded one of the gates. “I’m Diana Poole, I’m here to see Celia Dario.” Then taking a big chance, hoping she was on this case, I added, “Detective Spangler knows me.”
He mumbled something into a walkie-talkie, then said, “You can go in.”
He released the yellow tape as if he were an usher letting me into the reserved section at a screening. I started up the drive. Patrol officers leaned against their cruisers. The ME vans waited with their back doors hanging open. No one bothered me.
There was too much activity by the front door so I veered off onto a brick path that led behind the house. Heading to the indoor swimming pool, I stopped dead. A few feet away a uniformed officer stood with his back to me, legs apart, staring out at the dusky unruly garden. It took a few moments for me to realize he was taking a piss on a Bird of Paradise plant. Taking advantage of his reverie, I dashed to the swimming pool door and went inside.
I hurried around the pool. Opening the louvered doors, I stepped into the gallery and followed it into the dining room. In the middle of the room was an antique crystal chandelier that had once hung over a long table where I used to eat alone. I ducked under it and paused, listening to voices coming from the kitchen.
“You looking for another dead body?”
I whirled around. “Hello, Detective.”
Detective Dusty Spangler sat on a folding chair next to a built-in marble-top buffet. Wearing her gray slacks, navy blue jacket, and a pink button-down shirt, she didn’t bother to look up from the forms she was filling out. “Homicide always comes down to more paperwork.” Scribbling her name at the end of the page with a flourish, she got to her feet, put the forms on the buffet, then reached into her jacket pocket and took out a Snickers bar. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“You look like you could use something to eat. But then everybody looks that way to me.” She patted her belly. “Take it. I have another.”
I unwrapped the Snickers while she found the other one in her jacket pocket and did the same. We stood eating the candy, assessing each other. She was right, I did need it.
Finally I asked, “Why do you make me feel guilty?”
She popped the last bite into her mouth. Still chewing, she answered, “Maybe because you used my name to sneak into a murder scene.”
“I came to see my friend Celia.”
“She’s in the living room.”
“Thanks.” I started to go there.
“One sec.”
Reluctantly, I turned around.
“I saw you on TV this morning, leaving your house. You were getting into a big Mercedes-Benz limo.” She raised her blond, defiantly un-plucked eyebrows. “Parson’s big Mercedes-Benz limo.”
“He wanted to know about his daughter’s death.”
“Where was he? On his yacht? My partner and I just got back from visiting him at his house in Montecito.”
I nodded.
“Come with me,” Spangler said in her flat Kansas voice.
She walked me through the familiar kitchen. The place I would sneak down to in the middle of the night with one of my mother’s sleeping pills, which I had stolen from her, growing sticky in my hand. I’d make hot chocolate laced with Irish whiskey, then down the pill with the delicious drink. I couldn’t sleep then either. Now uniformed officers, beefy arms folded across their chests, leaned against the tile counters, talking shop while appraising me.
Spangler opened the back door and we were in the side yard. Lights had been set up to fight the growing darkness. A cold California dampness was settling in.
“Excuse us here.” She guided me around the forensic technicians in their protective clothing. “Step where I step,” she ordered.
We stopped near a collapsed outdoor umbrella leaning against a stucco wall overgrown with ivy. Slumped against the same wall was a man’s body, his long legs extended in front of him on the grass. He was clad in black jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. The hood of his gray-sweat zip-up covered most of his sandy-colored hair. “You know him?”
The candy bar welled up into my throat. I swallowed it back down. “No, I don’t.”
He was young with the kind of good looks a kid could rely on to just get by. But now his skin was as gray as his hoodie, a dark stain spread across his chest, and his amber eyes stared blankly down his splayed legs to his boots.
“He’s Zackary Logan. Dead about three hours. Shot in the chest. Name ring a bell?”
“I said I
didn’t know him.”
“I’m asking if you’ve heard of his name.” She moved closer, her belly pushed at me, forcing me to take a step back. “Maybe you even mentioned the name to Parson?”
“No and no.” But I thought of the kid in Jenny’s garage caught on the security camera with his hood pulled down over his face. “You think Parson had something to do with this? But he’s in Santa Barbara. When did he have the time?”
“He only needs to make a phone call.” She took a brown leather notepad from her jacket pocket. It had the same embossed insignia on the cover as the one Heath had read his notes from on the yacht. She noticed me staring at it.
“A gift.”
“What’s the CIU stand for?” I asked, even though I already knew.
“Criminal Investigation Unit for the Army. Couldn’t wait to get out of it. The rank and file hate you. Feel you’re spying on them. But when I got home, the experience put me on the fast track to become a detective.”
“Were you in Iraq?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Then you must know Leo Heath.”
She actually blushed, and it made her look ten years younger. “Runs a security firm. Good guy. He gave me this.”
So she was his source, I thought, as she looked over her notes.
“You know a P. J. Binder?” she asked.
“No.”
“Pool man. He discovered the body. He says he knew your mother.”
“A lot of people think they knew her.”
“He cleaned the pool when the two of you lived here. He remembers her.”
“I was fifteen, sixteen then. Are you saying he still cleans the pool at this house?”
“For about forty years. Celia Stone says the current owners rely on him, as did the past ones, and many of the neighbors in the area. Highly recommended.”
“The ‘mislaid man,’” I said, remembering.
“What?”
“That’s what my mother called him. He’s a Vietnam vet.”
“Trust him?”
“I never met him. He’d come around four in the morning to clean the pool. She’d go talk with him. That’s all I really know.”
City of Mirrors Page 10
