by Tracy Kiely
Christina’s face blanched. “Just what the hell do you mean by that?” she hissed through gritted teeth.
Jules opened her blue eyes very big and attempted to look surprised. She failed. “Why nothing at all, of course,” she said.
Before Christina could respond, Janice stepped next to Jules, a bright smile pasted on her face. Lightly placing her hand on Jules’s arm, she leaned her head in close. To anyone watching, it looked like nothing more than two friends sharing a quick chat. However, Janice’s words, while delivered in a pleasant tone, were anything but friendly. “Listen to me, you two-bit hussy,” Janice said, her mouth still stretched in a smile. “My daughter had nothing to do with Melanie’s overdose. Do you hear me? Nothing! But I swear to God, if I ever hear you say anything like that again, I’ll knock you on your backside so fast you’ll think you’re back at your first casting call!”
Jules took a step back and glared at Janice. Janice took another step forward, still smiling that unnerving blank smile. I really couldn’t blame Jules for taking another step back. Of course, it was this last step that landed her squarely in the pool.
thirty-three
Once Jules hit the water, all hell broke lose. She flailed about in the deep end and let loose a rather impressive assortment of expletives. Skippy seemed to think it was a game and jumped in with her. This, however, only increased her screaming. By the time we’d extracted both of them from the pool, half of the guests were wet either from Jules’s splashes or Skippy’s post-pool fur shake. Nigel and I decided it was a good time to say our good-byes. No one put up much of an argument.
“I smell like a wet dog, and I have a headache,” Nigel said, as we waited for the valet to bring our car.
“Poor baby. Come on, I know what will make you feel better.”
“So do I,” he said. “But you said we weren’t allowed to do that in the car anymore.”
I lightly slapped his arm. “That’s not what I meant. I’ll order us some Chinese food and give you a neck massage. You’ll feel better in no time.”
Nigel pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “Well, it’ll never be as fun as the car, but okay.”
Two hours later, Nigel, Skippy, and I were curled up together on the bed surrounded by half-empty take-out cartons. We had taken a break from watching the tapes and had stumbled across a Breaking Bad marathon. We were enjoying Walter White’s descent into evil when Nigel suddenly sat up. “That’s Mr. Luiz,” he said, pointing at the TV.
I looked at the screen. Walter White was ringing up a customer at his car wash. “Who’s Mr. Luiz? The customer?” I asked.
Nigel nodded. “The reporter at the Oscars—the one who wanted to buy the tapes. That’s him. I’m sure of it.”
I looked at the screen again. Nigel was right. It was the same man—or at least a younger, better-dressed version of him. “I suppose I should call Detective Brady,” I said, as I reached for my phone. “Although, I doubt he’s going to want to talk to me.”
Not surprisingly, my call went to voice mail. I didn’t really care, actually. I just wanted to be able to say that I had tried to get in touch with him. Besides, I didn’t need Detective Brady’s help in locating Mr. Luiz. I had Nigel for that.
thirty-four
By late afternoon the next day, Nigel had tracked down the information we needed. The credits had listed the man at the car wash (a.k.a. David Luiz) as Tom Jacobs. Nigel made a few phone calls and finally got in touch with his agent. In no time at all, Nigel learned that Tom worked at a bar called The Wee Small Hours when he wasn’t acting. When I asked him how he managed to get all this information, Nigel shrugged and said, “I may have mentioned something about a new reality show that followed men of a certain age still hoping for their big acting break.”
“Nicely done, Mr. Martini,” I said. “I believe that kind of detective work deserves to be rewarded.”
“And being the clever detective that I am,” he said with a grin, “I’m going to guess that my reward is a drink at The Wee Small Hours.”
I tipped my head in consideration. “Actually, it’s not,” I said. “But if you want to go there after, we can do that too.”
Nigel said that he was fine with that plan.
Around nine, Nigel and I slid into two empty stools at the Art Deco-inspired lounge. Dark paneling covered the walls, the bar itself was a sheath of glossy mahogany, and the stools were upholstered in red leather. Given the name of the place, I wasn’t surprised to hear Sinatra belting out Come Fly with Me from the hidden speakers.
Tom was chatting with another patron. While I waited for him to notice us, I studied him. His hair was no longer gray, his glasses were gone, and his complexion was now clear, but it was our Mr. Luiz. When he finally turned to us, his eyes widened in surprise, and his lips pressed together tightly. An expression of indecision flitted across his face. Pulling his shoulders back, he walked toward us with brisk efficiency. “Evening, folks,” he said with a cheerful smile, “What can I get you?”
“Two dirty Martinis,” Nigel answered. Tom ducked his head in acknowledgement and set out to make the drinks. A few minutes later, he placed two glasses in front of us.
“Thank you,” said Nigel. “You know, you look familiar. Have we met before?”
Tom smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I am an actor. You might have seen me on TV.”
“Maybe,” Nigel said, taking a sip of his martini. “But for some reason I think we’ve actually met. Wait, I know—at the Oscars. Didn’t we meet at the Oscars?”
Tom smiled as if he found the idea amusing. “I wish! Maybe one day, though. Fingers crossed and all that.”
Nigel turned to me and asked, “Doesn’t he look like that reporter we met? The one who wanted the tapes?”
I propped my elbows on the bar top and made a show of studying his face. Tom glanced away on the pretense of checking on the other customers. “He does,” I finally said. “It’s uncanny, actually.”
“I guess I have a twin then,” Tom said with a shrug. “What do they call those things that look just like you?”
“I think they’re called twins,” Nigel said.
“No, you know what I mean,” said Tom. “People who look just like you, but aren’t related to you,” he explained. “What’s that called?”
“A Jerry Springer episode?” Nigel offered.
“I think he means doppelganger,” I said.
Tom snapped his fingers and smiled at me. “That’s it! I guess I have a doppelganger,” he said.
Nigel pretended to consider the idea. “I suppose that could be it,” he said doubtfully, “but the resemblance is uncanny.”
I nodded in agreement as I stared at Tom’s face. “It is. I mean his hair is different and he’s not wearing glasses,” I said, “but other than that they’re the same. Especially their complexions.”
“My complexion isn’t pockmarked!” Tom protested and then stopped himself.
I smiled and took a sip of my martini. “Never underestimate an actor’s ego, Tom,” I said.
Nigel laughed. “Nicely done, Mrs. Martini,” he said clinking his glass against mine. “Once again I bow to your detective skills.”
Tom’s eyes grew wide. “You’re a detective?” he asked.
“Is that a problem?” I asked him.
Tom glanced around the bar to see if anyone was listening. “Listen, it was just a job,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t do anything illegal. I checked.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “But why don’t you tell me what your job was exactly.”
Tom sighed. “I was to introduce myself to you and tell you that I had a client who wanted to buy the tapes. I was given a foreign press pass so I could talk to you on the Red Carpet. Mr. Luiz was my own creation,” he added proudly.
“And then what?” I asked.
Tom glanced at me in surprise. “And then, nothing. That was it. I was to tell you about the offer and give you the card. Did you call the number on the card?” he asked.
Nigel shook his head. “No. I gave it to the police, actually.”
Tom swallowed a mouthful of air. “Why…why would you do that?” he asked.
“The night you offered to buy the tapes from us, our house was broken into and some of the tapes were stolen. Not only that, but our employee was viciously attacked. She’s still in the hospital.”
Tom’s eyes grew wide. “I had nothing to do with that!” he said. “I swear!”
“I don’t know, Tom,” I said. “It doesn’t look good.”
“I swear I didn’t! What can I do to prove it?” he asked.
“Well, for starters, you could tell us who hired you,” I said.
Tom didn’t even pause. “Mandy Reynolds,” he blurted out.
I glanced at Nigel in surprise. “Mandy?” I repeated. “Did she say why?”
Tom shook his head. “No,” he said. “She just said to approach you, make an offer, and give you the card.”
“Whose number was on the card?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Mandy set that up as well. If you called it, she’d contact me, and I’d become Mr. Luiz again and handle the sale.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I knew it. Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have taken the job. I just really needed the money. The competition is pretty stiff out there for guys like me.”
“I imagine it is,” Nigel agreed.
“But I promised myself that I’d give it a fair shot. I figure that if I can’t make it after fifteen years, then I’ll throw in the towel.”
“How long have you been out here?” I asked.
“It’ll be fifteen years this July,” he answered.
Nigel stood up and threw some cash on the bar. “Well, Tom, I wish you all the best.”
Tom eyed Nigel. “Hey, you’re in the movie business, right?” he asked.
“In a way,” Nigel answered. “Why?”
“Think you could give me any advice?”
Nigel drained the rest of his martini and set the glass on the bar. “Sure. Use less vermouth.”
Footage from the set of
A Winter’s Tale
5/5/96
John and Melanie are quietly running through their lines in a corner. Barry is sitting at a table drinking a cup of coffee and making notes on a script copy. Next to him sits a very pretty blonde. It is Mandy Reynolds. She is young—about twenty-four—and is wearing a short denim skirt and a blue blouse. Her long hair is pulled back into a low ponytail.
MANDY (looking over at John and Melanie)
So, how are your co-stars doing today? Any bloodshed?
BARRY
Not yet. But then again, it’s early. Give them time.
MANDY
I don’t get the animosity. This time last year, they were madly in love. Now they despise each other. What happened?
BARRY (laughing)
You really are new to Hollywood, aren’t you? Well, the short story is that John got tired of living in Melanie’s shadow, and Melanie believes that John arranged her stint in rehab to further his career at the expense of hers.
MANDY
What’s the long story?
BARRY
Basically the same thing, but with some drug abuse, affairs, immaturity, and domestic battery. Mainly on Melanie’s side.
MANDY
Seriously? Any of it true?
BARRY (shrugging)
Who knows? Melanie was a train wreck. There’s no doubt that she needed rehab. But sometimes I wonder if John didn’t use the whole sad affair as an excuse to step out of her shadow and into his own limelight.
MANDY (keeping her focus on Melanie)
Well, she definitely looks better. Her color’s back, and she’s gained some weight back, but … I don’t know, she looks tired.
BARRY (glancing up)
Does she? I guess she does a little. But then again, we probably all do. Frank has been breathing down my neck day and night about every little thing. He’s practically manic.
MANDY
Really? Any idea why?
BARRY
You mean other than the fact that he’s a control freak and a jackass?
MANDY (laughing)
And all this time, I thought in addition to being his brother-in-law, you were also really good friends.
BARRY
We are. Which is why I didn’t call him an egomaniac prone to irrational and verbally abusive psychotic episodes.
MANDY
Ahhh. Now I see the loyalty.
BARRY (smiling)
That’s off the record, by the way.
MANDY
Which part?
BARRY (winking)
All of it.
MANDY (smiling)
That’s too bad. You make for good copy.
BARRY (laughing)
Ah, the story of my life.
MANDY
Don’t let the feminine exterior fool you, Barry. I’m a reporter first.
BARRY (pretending to be confused)
Wait? You’re a woman?
MANDY
Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Meagher. Do you know if Ms. Franklin is on set? I’m scheduled to meet with her as well.
BARRY (frowning)
What?
MANDY (smiling at something behind Barry)
Oh, hello, Mrs. Meagher. How are you? I was just trying to find Christina for an interview. Did you happen to see her on your way in here?
Barry turns around in his seat. He sees a woman of about thirty-five approaching. She is plump, with a round pleasant face. It is Cecelia Meagher, Barry’s wife.
CECELIA
No, I don’t think I did. Sorry. I did happen to see her mother, though. Nasty woman. (To Barry) She demanded—actually demanded—that I talk to you about giving Christina more screen time.
BARRY (shaking his head in annoyance)
Well, you’re in good company. She’s been pestering everyone about that. The other day she even cornered one of the construction grips. Poor man didn’t speak a word of English, which now that I think about it was actually a blessing.
CECELIA
I know Janice has always been pushy, but she seems to have put the whole stage monster thing into overdrive lately. What’s her problem?
BARRY
To adequately answer that could take years, so I’ll just skip to this week’s problem. Janice claims that there’s some secret conspiracy to give Melanie as much screen time as possible—at the expense of the rest of the actors’ roles—but Christina’s in particular.
CECELIA (pausing a beat)
Is there?
BARRY
Of course not! God. Step away from the Kool-Aid, CeCe. It’s nothing more than simple math. A Winter’s Night was a 500-page book that’s being made into a two-hour movie. Melanie is playing the main character, so it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that she is in most of the film. On top of that, your brother is on the warpath about wanting this thing wrapped up on time and under budget. That means I don’t have time to give every character a fully developed story line. And I certainly don’t have time to stop every ten minutes so some idiot can yell at me.
CECELIA
Interesting.
BARRY
That’s one word for it I suppose. Annoying, meddlesome, irksome also work.
CECELIA
Are we talking about Janice now or my brother?
BARRY (smiling)
What do you think?
MANDY (standing)
Well, I’d best be off and find Christina. Thanks for the i
nterview Mr. Meagher. It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Meagher.
Mandy walks away. Barry resumes reading his script. Cecelia glances at Mandy’s retreating form and then back at Barry.
CECELIA
She seems nice.
BARRY (distracted)
Hmmm? Who? Oh, Mandy? Yeah, she’s a nice kid. She’s just starting out at HNS. She’s been assigned to cover “all the scintillating, behind-the-scenes goings on” of our movie. Or at least I think that’s what her editor called it.
CECELIA
Be careful, Barry.
BARRY (looking up)
Be careful about what? Mandy?
CECELIA
Yes. First of all, she’s not a kid. And second, she strikes me as someone who doesn’t stop digging until they get to the truth. And you and I both know that could be a major problem.
BARRY (looking in the direction of where Mandy just left)
I see your point. I’ll keep that in mind.
CECELIA
Do that. Remember, this doesn’t just affect you. It affects all of us.
thirty-five
Once we were back in the car, Nigel turned to me. “Why would Mandy want those tapes?” he asked.
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“Anything you feel like sharing?” he asked, as he gunned the engine.
“Not until I’m sure,” I answered. “Besides, you know the rules. A good detective doesn’t reveal her theories until there’s proof.”
“Much to the everlasting annoyance of their assistants. Honestly, it’s a wonder that some of them didn’t off their employers. If I were Hastings I would have trashed Poirot with my umbrella.”
“I’ll make a note to hide all the umbrellas when we get home,” I said, as I pulled out my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Mandy, of course,” I replied. “I’m going to suggest we spend a little girl time together.”
“I like girl time,” Nigel said as we pulled out onto the highway.
