A Not So Model Home

by David James

  “It’s amazing how the sculpture fell just about the time I estimate Keith was probably going through his convulsions from the strychnine, isn’t it?” Jerry confided to me.

  “So someone knocked over the penis to cover the noise from Keith’s swan song?”

  “You got it. I’m sure Keith would have been making a lot of noise thrashing around when the strychnine really hit him.”

  “Since you know a scary amount about poisons, Detective Hallander,” I said, “how long would it take from the moment he ingested the poison to the time it really started to hit him?”

  “Ten to twenty minutes after ingesting it, more if on a full stomach.”

  “So that means he would have taken the strychnine about two A.M. Maybe a little earlier.”

  “About that time.”

  “Which means he probably came down to the kitchen around one-thirty to one forty-five or two A.M. to get some cranberry juice. Oh shit! It could still be there in the refrigerator!”

  “Relax, Amanda. I already had the juice rounded up for the lab. It seems kinda chancy, though, on the killer’s part. Someone else could have drank it.”

  “No, not really. Keith wrote his name on the jug of cranberry juice. Everyone in the cast is doing that since they’re all living here like one big happy family.”

  “Except that one member of this family is highly dysfunctional.” Jerry snorted.

  “And that would be different from any family how?” I replied. “Well, Lance’s trip to the kitchen was convenient too. Just in time to have the opportunity to poison Keith’s juice.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The $how Must Go On

  The cast managed to pull itself together as Jeremy called an emergency meeting in Ian’s billiard room later that morning.

  “I’ve been on the phone all morning with executives from the network. First . . .” he said, turning toward Ian. “They would like to send their condolences for the de . . . the . . . whatever happened to Keith. So . . . they’re extremely sad and sorry and everything. Now, the reason I’ve gathered you all here is to discuss the future of the show.”

  Several members of the cast scoffed at what they were hearing.

  “Now, now, before you say no to the idea of going on, I want you to hear me out. I think that if we were to go and throw away all our hard work, I want you to first consider Keith and what this show meant to him.”

  Everyone looked at each other, flashes of guilt briefly passing over their faces even though Jeremy’s statement was as suspect as a holy relic.

  Drake spoke up, “Jeremy, I know that you have reasons to want the show to go on, but I think I speak for the rest of us in saying that we’re all too filled with inconsolable grief to want to go on.”

  Jeremy maneuvered like a mongoose squaring off with a cobra. “Drake, I really want to thank you for airing those very personal emotions, but we have to consider what Keith would have wanted, and I think if he were here today, he would have wanted this show to continue. Remember, Keith was in show business, and you know what they say: ‘The show must go on.’”

  “Keith designed nightclubs and texted people to get them into those clubs,” Drake corrected Jeremy.

  “Drake?” Jeremy continued, rushing up to Drake and getting in his face . . . lovingly. “Drake, Drake, Drake, Drake. What are nightclubs but show business? You’ve got lights”—he emphasized by pointing up at imaginary lights—“music”—he cupped his hand to his ear—“and PEOPLE! It’s all showbiz!”

  Several of the guys shook their heads in agreement. Like a fundamentalist preacher, Jeremy paused for a few calculated seconds, then changed gears.

  “Now that we’ve got Keith’s wishes to think about, I want to say something else that you might want to consider. I’m as upset as you are and I want to always respect Keith’s memory—but the studio executives are saying that this latest development could send our little show into the ratings stratosphere. Higher than it’s climbed already. Even higher than American Idol!” he said as he threw in an are-you-with-me face, complete with raised eyebrows. “Think about it. You will be household names which could lead you—I don’t know—anywhere after this show. A-N-Y-W-H-E-R-E!”

  There was complete silence as what Jeremy uttered insinuated itself into our heads.

  Ian, a man used to getting a fair amount of press (not all of it favorable), swallowed Jeremy’s bait—hook, line, and sinker. “Jeremy’s right,” he said enthusiastically. “Keith would have wanted us to go on.”

  This sentiment was echoed by the other members of the cast, including one that sort of shocked me: Aurora. But as I learned, the more we filmed, celebrity—no matter how petty and short-lived—had a power and momentum of its own. It was like a train, and once started, it was hard to stop. Plus, these people didn’t want the ride to stop. And to be totally honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted that either. I mean, why not make a little more money, grab a little more fame, and get a lot more business? It’s not like any of us could bring Keith back to life, right? So sitting around feeling sad for him wasn’t going to accomplish anything. It would be better if we were out there being famous and making a buttload of money, okay? The show must go on. And what a show it turned out to be.

  A show of hands indicated that everyone wanted to continue shooting. Even my hand went up. Reluctantly, but it did go up.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Jeremy said. “Because of the studio’s concern for the safety of our cast, we’re going to have twenty-four-hour security on any set and in Ian’s home.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Jeremy,” Aurora said. “I think the cast needs to feel that this show is a safe haven, a place where they can talk about their emotions and compete in the show without being distracted. They are armed, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, Aurora, you are perfectly safe.”

  Jeremy’s assistant, Tony Marcello, entered the room as quiet as a mouse, whispered something in Jeremy’s ear, then left as quickly and as silently as he entered.

  “Okay, since we’re all on board with continuing the show, I have an exciting new announcement to make. We have a new member on the show: Darryn Novolo. His plane just got in from New York.”

  The guys were even more stunned than when they found out that Keith was dead. The reason was obvious: Just when they were settling in to the idea of one less contestant, Jeremy comes in and screws it up royally.

  David Laurant leaned over toward me. “Uh-ohhhhhh,” he muttered.

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  “Just wait.”

  “A model?”

  “Supermodel. The supermodel. I didn’t know Ian had slept with him.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t yet, but it could be in his plans.”

  Jeremy motioned for Darryn to enter the room and enter it he did. He was easily one of the most striking men I had ever seen. A perfectly elongated, slightly rounded, triangular face, with catlike green-gray eyes set perfectly far apart under deep and chiseled brows, offset the most perfectly formed pair of lips that pouted ever so slightly in the middle. His hair was slicked back in a rather rakish way. And his clothes! They were expensive, looked it, and fit like it. Probably custom tailored. No off-the-rack for this boy. It was hard to look away—you had to stare at him. You just had to. It was funny. The more you looked at him, the more he looked like a male version of the British actress Charlotte Rampling. It wasn’t just the freckles that made me think of Charlotte; it was the waiflike, yet seductive innocence that dragged you in, hypnotized you. He could toy with you and not have you suspect a thing.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Darryn Novolo,” he said in a deep, but smooth, silky voice that just completed the picture of perfection. “Some of you are aware of me from the modeling world. I’m here to be a member of the cast, and I consider it a great honor to be allowed to be here with you on this show. And, Ian . . .” he said with the kind of sincerity lacking in this crowd and with an intonation that would make you thank him for killing your mother. “I offer my
sincere condolences on the loss of your son.” This guy was the definition of suave. Of refinement. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this tribe.

  Darryn was going to be trouble. He was in the room for less than a minute and already it seemed that the contest was over. The guys were so disturbed by Darryn’s addition to the show that they didn’t seem to know what to do, how to react, or how to handle him. What disturbed me wasn’t Darryn, since I didn’t have a thing to lose to him, it was the fact that Jeremy added Darryn deliberately, sadistically. It’s not as if the shit pot needed any more stirring. This pot was ready to boil over.

  As I was musing this, another thought struck me: A few minutes ago, the future of the show was in jeopardy. So why was Darryn invited to fly across the country to be in a television program that might be canceled?

  Ian commanded Drake to fetch a seat for Darryn. Drake found one and inserted it in between David and Gilles, a few people down from Ian. But Ian had other plans.

  “Drake, would you be a good boy and put the chair here?” he said, pointing to a space between his chair and Gilles. The slight was glaring. Even Gilles, who was protected by inches of narcissistic armor, seemed shaken to his foundation. Darryn sat down innocent of the power play he had just been thrown into.

  “So, Darryn,” Ian inquired, staring through his tented fingers. “So you’re the hottest male model in the world right now?”

  Ian was up to his usual cat-and-mouse tactics.

  “Thank you for the compliment, Ian, but I wouldn’t say I’m the hottest male model in the world. I’m just popular right now. That could pass. I just finished several shows in Milan and four in Paris. Armani, Gucci, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and Versace. And here I am.”

  Gilles fired the first shot.

  “So you are here. I see that. My question ees whyyyyyyy?” he sneered.

  Darryn looked perplexed. “Because I was asked to join the cast of this show.”

  “But who ask you?”

  “Jeremy, of course. He’s the producer of this show.”

  “So, Darryn, he say you must come on the show, and you just come?” Gilles sniffed.

  “I thought about it first, but I said yes.”

  “So you come on zeese program after all the hard work we have done joost to geeet your hands on Ian’s money?”

  Everyone waited to see if Darryn would take Gilles’s toxic bait and fire back.

  “I was invited to be on the show under the same circumstances that you were, Gilles.”

  It was an innocuous answer, but it was the right one. If it were me, I would have answered, in this order: “The only hard work you’ve done has involved working hard on Ian’s cock.” “And why, exactly, are you here, Gilles?” And finally, “I think that money would be much better in my hands than yours, that way it would end up going for tasteful, stylish things and not for the disposable Eurotrash clothing and items you plow through every day.” But Darryn was not going to wear his ego on his sleeve. He had good looks and he was smart. I liked him. A lot. I was slipping into my old pattern of falling for gay men.

  Drake, never one to dive into battle with any of the other guys, spoke up, “Darryn, I’d like to welcome you to the show. If there’s anything you need, feel free to ask me.”

  “Well, thank you, Drake,” Darryn replied, showing 105 of the whitest teeth I had ever seen.

  “So, Darryn, I’m sure that Jeremy’s request that you be on the show must have come as a surprise. I’ve never seen you around Ian’s before.”

  Touché, Drake. He was trying to see whose idea it was to drop Darryn as a bombshell on Things Are a Bit Iffy.

  “I was in the middle of the Armani men’s show. It was a little sudden, but I thought it would be interesting, so here I am.”

  I was right. Darryn was smart. Good looking. In shape. Well mannered. Just the kind of guy to win this contest. And the type to get killed. His appearance on the program affected the other guys profoundly. Aurora had pretty much ended the texting and video-game playing with a single comment. Manners were tidied up for the same reason. But it didn’t take long for the guys to slip into their old routines, and the chemistry of the group, I suspect, was designed for maximum hissy fits. But Darryn changed the rules of the game in under a minute. The guys at the table were out-handsomed, out-mannered, and outsmarted. What to do? What to do?

  CHAPTER 18

  The Hottest Memorial Service of the Season

  Funerals and memorial services. Most people dread them. The cast, however, was preparing for Keith’s as a red-carpet event. Suits from Europe were arriving daily, made from previous measurements held at couturiers’ headquarters in Paris, London, and Milan. Personal makeup artists swarmed Ian’s house, mixing with the ones hired by the production company. And the reason for all this: This funeral was going to be filmed as part of the show. Like the carousel spinning out of control in Strangers on a Train, the show had taken on a life and power of its own. We had succumbed to its powers, and it made us do things we never would have considered. And we had to look good while doing it. But before you think that all I was going to do was lob stones at the others, I, too, was getting dolled up for the affair. Look at me . . . calling a memorial service an affair. I might have come under the spell of the show, but I intended to call a spade a spade.

  Rows of chairs were set up in front of a raised platform with a podium on Ian’s expansive grounds. There were speakers, a sound system, engineers, and banks of lighting. And all of this for us? Hardly. Yes, there were going to be all the usual luminaries from the haute couture hair world, but everyone was gearing for the possibility that Ellen DeGeneres might put in an appearance as a show of support for Ian and loss of the son he didn’t knew he had. While I knew Ellen was very supportive of gay causes, I felt the rumor concerning her appearance was just that—a rumor. The reality was, no one really cared about Keith, or more accurately, fewer even knew him. They were there for Ian. And the cameras. Not necessarily in that order.

  Jeremy pulled us all together before attending the service and instructed us to reach down inside ourselves and try to bring up emotions.

  “I want tears, sadness, empathy!”

  He might as well have been asking the guys to operate a large hadron collider.

  “Remember, the cameras will be on you at all times. The show’s ratings are going through the ceiling, and today is another episode that is going to push it out of this world. After the memorial, we’re going to assemble at a local restaurant and we’re going to turn up the heat. I want to hear what you’re feeling, and I want you to really let the fur fly! Okay, get out there and make this show a smash!” he said like a football coach at a deciding season game.

  The cast filed out to the cameras and lights, filtering down toward the front to their reserved seats between members of the Mitchell and Sassoon hair dynasties and models, models, models. There was the shaking of hands, hugs, laughter, and to top the whole circus off, trays of drinks floated up and down the aisle propelled by waiters in tight black suits. There’s nothing like liquor for throwing gasoline on the fire. There was a signal from the podium and we were all advised to take our seats by the master of ceremonies. I won’t bore you with all the details of the service, but since almost no one invited knew Keith, the eulogies were centered on Ian (for his loss, presumably), which caused him to erupt in frequent outpourings of tears that ran outside his oversized and overdecorated sunglasses that engulfed most of his face. The audience was a sight to behold. The hair fashionistas sported outrageous hair styles and bad clothing while the second-tier L.A. clubbers wore sport jackets with jeans, high-top Converse sneakers, and a straw pork-pie hat—their idea of “dressing up.” Everyone was busy whispering, networking, or texting.

  The drone of testimonials was making me fall asleep when I was startled by a man carrying a flat wooden cage filled with a half-dozen white doves who passed down the aisle and headed for the podium. Just as it seemed that the eulogies would never end, they did. There was
a lot of mumbling and fumbling; then Ian stepped up to the microphone. Ian, knowing that the cat was out of the bag, couldn’t exactly relate stories of all the good times they had together. So he confined his tribute to the subject that he knew and loved best: himself. He talked about the regret of never being the dad that he should have been, which, by the time he was finished, hadn’t left a dry eye in the house.

  “We’re now going to release doves symbolizing Keith’s spirit, which we hope will soar free and up into the heavens. Fly free . . .” Ian managed to choke out through a rush of emotions, “. . . little spirit!”

  A few seconds passed and the cage was raised high and the door opened. The doves, confused and startled, no doubt, by the fact that they had probably been raised in cages all their lives and were now suddenly free, flew straight up in a pack of fluttering, battering wings, bumping into each other as they struggled to find a clear direction in which to fly. What happened next, no one on earth could have foreseen.

  From out of the leafy palms and eucalyptus branches came a Cooper’s hawk like an F-16 fighter, hitting one of the unlucky birds in midair with such force, there was an explosion of feathers and a shower of blood that hit Ian like a well-aimed red-paint baggie thrown by a member of PETA. The hawk struggled to gain altitude with its shrieking prize in its talons and slowly it rose into the trees and disappeared. It was like watching a horrific car wreck in slow motion. This was not a good omen. Even worse, dozens of celebrity gossip stars caught the event on their smartphone movie cameras in glorious color. This little episode would be on the Internet before you could say “Mel Gibson.” A few hours later when I checked the Web from the relative safety of my home office, I was proved right.

  CHAPTER 19

  A Memorial Luncheon to Forget

  Today’s shoot was a rare occasion: It was taking place at a restaurant, during which we were all there to celebrate Keith’s life in a private, afternoon luncheon. Jean-Michael was the best restaurant in town, lorded over by its namesake, who moved to Palm Springs over 10 years ago and grabbed the mantel from tired, unimaginative establishments that had been resting on their dusty laurels for decades. The restaurant was closed for the rest of the day for us to film.