Detective Wilson seemed to be waiting for that. “So you wouldn’t know anything about the fingerprints,” he said.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Remember all that powder being shaken around the penthouse? Wasn’t to take care of babies’ bottoms. CSI identified three sets of fingerprints on the refrigerator: Cassie’s, yours, and Molly’s. We know you were there. We know Cassie was there. But Molly? She didn’t say a word about an earlier visit. Makes you suspicious, doesn’t it? Even of your own friend?”
I ambled over to the door of the greenhouse.
“Officer McSweeney, would you like to see my flowers?” I asked.
She looked surprised. “We should finish talking first.”
“We’re finished,” I said calmly. “As for the flowers, I’m told there are at least twenty-five thousand species of orchids. I have a very beautiful Phalaenopsis with purple and white stripes on delicate petals that’s my favorite right now. But who knows what else is out there? I’d hate to jump to a conclusion. I’m sure you understand. It’s the same with what you do.”
The cops looked at me blankly. Okay, I’d spell it out.
“Flowers are like suspects,” I said. “Don’t pluck the first one you see.”
Detective Wilson snorted. “Flowers and suspects? Sure thing. They both stink.”
The next day, Molly drove with me to Cassie Crawford’s memorial service. The funeral had been private—this clearly wasn’t.
“Is it a memorial service or the Academy Awards?” Molly asked, as I tried to maneuver the Lexus through the lengthy stretch of black limousines double-parked in front of the church. It seemed like half of Hollywood had come out either to remember Cassie or suck up to Roger.
Inside the church, throngs of LA power players milled around, their concerned expressions offset by Armani suits and Zegna ties. With the town’s executive suites emptied, any deals that got done today would involve a handshake in the back pew. Molly and I both wore tailored black dresses, but I noticed a fleet of suits in navy and enough in dark chocolate to significantly raise HDL levels. Apparently gloomy didn’t sell in LA, even for funerals.
Roger stood near the front as colleagues and friends huddled around him, offering sympathy, hugs, and pats on the back.
“Do you want to extend your condolences?” I asked Molly.
“Not in public,” she said. “Later.”
Molly and I drifted toward the back of the church, away from Roger and his crowd. Here everyone was quieter—in both spirit and jewelry. I guessed that the row of young women who seemed genuinely devastated had been Cassie’s college friends and the men wearing khakis rather than Canalis were her pre-Roger pals. I got only a glimpse of Cassie’s family as they walked in—an attractive, dignified couple flanking another daughter, who looked strikingly like Cassie. Unlike Roger, the three of them spoke to nobody but one another, their grief palpable across the church.
We slid into seats and picked up the white-ribboned booklets waiting at each place, an unusual cross between Playbill and prayer book. Cassie Crawford had lived a short life, but she’d earned a long service. Six people were speaking “in memory” and five “in tribute”; there would be four “prayerful remembrances,” three “poems and writings,” and two “musical salutes.” Either Roger had dedicated himself to creating the perfect program or some LA party planner had a niche market in memorial services.
“Check out the second musical tribute,” Molly whispered. She leaned over and pointed to the name on the program.
“Paul McCartney?” I asked. “The Beatle? Singing an original song?”
“Roger knows him,” Molly said with a hint of pride.
“I bet Roger paid him, too,” I said. Not that Paul needed the money. Even after the divorce.
Molly pursed her lips, but she didn’t reply because the first chords of the organ sounded. Mendelssohn’s Fugue in A Minor. Roger had definitely gotten advice.
The next hour and a half provided a crash course in Cassie’s life. From the various speakers, I learned that she’d grown up in Orange County, the younger of two pretty sisters, attended UCLA, and had a brief first job in television. She returned to UCLA to work in the development office, raising big bucks from already big donors. A dean who spoke explained that Cassie met Roger on the job and convinced him to give five million dollars toward a library. “But Roger didn’t need any convincing to give her a Harry Winston engagement ring,” the dean said with a little chuckle.
Paul McCartney’s song had been rewritten especially for the occasion. It wasn’t exactly “Candle in the Wind,” but it brought plenty of people to tears.
Despite everything being said, nobody could address the one subject that really mattered: who killed Cassie. I kept looking around the church, convinced somebody here had the answer—as well as the motive and means. Assuming Cassie had visited the newly decorated penthouse before our meeting, she probably hadn’t gone alone. Somebody had come along who knew her well. And a good bet said that person also knew her taste for iced tea.
In the little time I’d known her, Cassie had struck me as egotistical, entitled—and scared to death. I’d thought her biggest fear involved keeping her husband happy. Maybe it was keeping herself alive.
I noticed several people glancing over at Molly, and others staring at her while whispering to friends. A haze of suspicion seemed to have gathered around her like dust around a comet. I clenched my fists. Since college, Molly had been a real friend whenever I needed her. My kids considered her their aunt. I might not be Nancy Drew, but I had a little experience now in solving mysteries. A haze of suspicion? Time for Lacy Fields to help clear the air.
Chapter Five
At 9:30 the next morning, I got to the FOX lot on Pico Boulevard and found my way to a silver trailer marked Genius Productions. I had a 10 A.M. appointment with the head genius, Andy Daniels. I’d arranged the meeting after the memorial service when Molly suggested it. She didn’t know Andy well, but she’d done casting on some of his hugely popular reality shows.
“Reality shows get cast?” I’d asked Molly, surprised. “Doesn’t sound very real.”
“And the Easter Bunny brings painted eggs,” she’d said, rolling her eyes.
Now I strolled over to the front desk, where a pretty young assistant sat applying Lip Plumpers Lip Gloss to her already shiny and full red lips. She rubbed a tiny dot of gloss into each cheek (the secret of an all-over glow! Who knew?), then snapped her little mirror shut. She tossed back her thick hair (could I ask what conditioner she used?) then flashed her BriteSmile white teeth.
“You must be Lacy Fields. I made the appointment for you,” she said eagerly, as if the call had bonded us for life. Maybe we’d become Facebook friends.
“Right, thanks,” I smiled tentatively. “I got here early.”
“What a shame. You shouldn’t have done that. Andy is always late.” She peeked at the watch on her wrist, the face almost hidden by the puffy pink leather band. “Oooh, way early.”
“Should I walk around and come back?” I asked. I wouldn’t mind wandering around the FOX lot and peeking into one of the soundstages. A lot of the TV shows were shot right here. Maybe I’d get a glimpse of Kelsey Grammer. Or Homer Simpson.
The assistant, whose name card said Dawn Rose, tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s hard to know when Andy will arrive. He likes to have breakfast at home with his wife. Then he has to drive all the way in.”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
“Thousand Oaks.”
“Thousand Oaks?” The swanky horse country outside LA offered elegantly gated communities, but the commute would be at least an hour. Two, if traffic turned bad.
“Why don’t you schedule his first appointment later in the morning then?” I asked, trying not to get grumpy.
“Doesn’t work. Sometimes after Andy gets in, he has one meeting and then heads home for lunch.”
I believed in family mealtimes, but this sounded ridic
ulous.
“He must be a fussy eater,” I said, though who would go bumper-to-bumper on the freeway for a turkey sandwich? Even if Andy were a vegan, he could bring his broccoli with him.
“Andy likes to have lunch with his wife,” Dawn Rose said, trying to hide her grin.
“Tell me about the wife,” I said, curious now. “Did she win American Idol? The Powerball lottery? First prize in Miss Universe?”
Dawn Rose nodded toward a framed picture of a pleasantly smiling woman in her early thirties who seemed to be average height, average weight, average looks.
“If you figure it out, let me know,” she said with a shrug. “Meanwhile, you can wait in his office. Play with anything you want.”
I stepped into Andy Daniels’s huge suite and my mouth fell open. I hadn’t seen this many diversions since I took the kids to Six Flags Magic Mountain and Jimmy threw up on the Canyon Blaster. A foosball game filled one corner of the room and a basketball hoop hung from the ceiling on the other side. In between stood an Xbox 360 with half a dozen video-game boxes scattered around it, a flat-screen TV, pinball machine, jukebox, miniature pool table, Nintendo Wii, and a half-filled Scrabble board.
I sat down on a slightly ratty sofa—shabby but not chic—and glanced at the disheveled stack of magazines on the Lucite cube coffee table. If this decorating style caught on, I’d be out of a job. An hour later, I’d gone through a week’s worth of Variety, four Hollywood Reporters, three issues of Maxim, and a very old Playboy. I got up, took a quick look at the pinball machine, and wandered over to a ledge cluttered with a dozen or two bobble-head dolls.
“You found my award shelf,” said Andy Daniels, bustling into the room, not bothering with hello.
I looked up and he gave me a big grin. He was short and slight, with long curly hair, Levis, cowboy boots, and an open-necked shirt. He must have been in his late thirties, but something about his impish size and the gleam in his eye made him seem more like a kid.
I held up one of the dolls. “What do you win these for?”
“Everything,” he said, sauntering over to join me. “I never get Emmys, so when I do a great show, I buy myself a bobble-head. Smart, right?”
I smiled. Andy’s shows earned huge ratings and made him millions. But they often caused newspaper columnists to declare the end of civilization as we knew it.
Andy reached over and took the “trophy”—a tough-looking guy on a motorcycle—out of my hand. “I bought this one after World’s Worst Ways to Die,” he said, rolling it around on his palm. “The show got a twenty-two share—considered by the networks to be ratings heaven. But The Washington Post suggested I go straight to hell.”
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
“Me too.” He grinned, and despite still being irritated from cooling my heels for an hour, I grinned back. My annoyance disappeared. Andy Daniels was one of those guys you just had to like.
He put the substitute Emmy back on the shelf and headed to his desk, a rough-hewn piece of wood propped up on two iron T-bars. Then he stopped and turned back to me, his eyes opened wide.
“Wow, I just remembered Dawn Rose said you wanted to talk about Cassie. And here I brought up World’s Worst Ways to Die. How’s that for irony?”
“Ironic,” I said.
Cassie’s first job, the one in television, had been working for Andy Daniels. She’d been hired right out of college as a production assistant—a glorified go-fer. Hundreds of eager grads would have been begging to bask in Andy’s shadow, and Cassie had snagged the prime post. She’d lasted only about six months on the job.
“Did Cassie do Worst Ways to Die with you?” I asked.
“I think so. Geez, hard to believe she’s dead.” Andy shook his head. “We must have been in production on that one about the time Cassie worked here.”
“A scary show?” I asked.
“Plenty of blood and gore, as I remember.” He laughed, his good cheer at odds with the subject. Though, come to think of it, he had a right to be happy. The show had probably scored with viewers and earned Andy a big enough bonus to buy another dozen pinball machines.
“So what are the world’s worst ways to die?” I asked.
“Hmm, let me think.” He tapped his foot. “My favorite involved a rare South American spider. After the sting, the venom rushes into your blood and travels up your body.” He twisted his fingers as if he were playing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.” “First you have no feeling in your toes. Then no feeling in your legs. Pretty soon you have no stomach, no arms, no talking, no breathing, and finally”—he clapped his hands sharply and then raised his palms toward the ceiling.
“You die,” I said, interpreting.
“Die dead. Doesn’t take long.” He gave a slightly maniacal grin. At least the man enjoyed his work.
“You know Cassie died of poisoning,” I said.
“Really? Whoops!” He put a hand in front of his mouth, as if wanting to push the previous words back in. “Not a South American spider, I hope.”
“Arsenic.”
Andy wrinkled his nose. “Arsenic? Isn’t that kind of…ordinary?”
“Real life happens that way.”
“Poor Cassie. Beautiful, beautiful, rich, rich, rich. If it were my show, she’d have died from ingesting gold dust.” He shook his head slowly, his producer’s instincts offended by the lousy last act. It was as if The Sopranos had ended with the screen going blank. Oh wait—it had.
Andy went over to a bright orange exercise ball in the middle of the room and plopped down. He put his chin into his hand like Rodin’s Thinker—only Andy’s Thinking also involved bouncing up and down. He bounded higher and higher off the rubber ball, then gave one sudden spring and rocketed onto his feet.
“I think I’ve got an idea for a new series,” he said cheerfully.
“Don’t tell me you’re replacing American Idol with Death by Gold Dust.”
“Not yet.” He laughed. “There are a lot of reality shows on the air right now about singing and spelling bees. But gruesome will come back. It always does.”
“What other shows did Cassie work on with you?” I asked.
“Let’s see, she would have been around for How to Bed a Billionaire.” Andy gave a knowing chuckle. “Guess she paid attention to that one.”
“Good show?”
“Killer concept. We sent five gorgeous girls into an ultra-exclusive club in New York that only admits billionaires. Whoever got her Richie Rich into bed first won a million bucks.” Andy grinned happily.
“I must have missed it.”
“Never aired.” His cheerful face crumbled, the sting of rejection still fresh. “The network got nervous. First problem was we filmed undercover at the club without permission. Second, the whole idea of having sex to win scared the top brass. And third”—he held up three fingers for emphasis—“the billionaire who first went to bed with one of our girls turned out to have a spanking fetish.”
I saw what made Andy such a master. Just hearing about the show left me slightly appalled—and eager to see it.
“I don’t know what’s happened to network television,” Andy complained. “A little spanking is not a terrible thing.”
“No spanking, and then they fire Molly,” I said sarcastically. “What’s going on?”
Andy made a face. “Sorry about Molly. I like her. In fact, I introduced her to Cassie.” He paused to consider. “Hey, so if Molly killed Cassie, I’m sort of responsible, aren’t I?”
“Molly’s not the culprit,” I said firmly.
Andy sat down at his desk, then got up again almost immediately. I could see why he didn’t spend much time in the office—he had way too much energy to contain within four walls. He walked over to a big gumball machine that tottered on top of a bookshelf. A pile of nickels stood beside it, and he took one, put it in, and grabbed the green gumball that clattered down.
“So if not Molly, who?” he asked.
“I was hoping you might have an idea.”<
br />
Andy seemed to ponder the possibilities as he tossed the gumball from hand to hand. Then he lunged forward like a puppy going for a Frisbee and caught the candy in his mouth.
“If only Cassie had listened to me,” he moaned, chomping down on the gumball. “Right after she got married, I proposed we shoot a reality show about her. I wanted to follow her around with cameras for a few weeks to find out what it’s like being rich. Do you drink the rare, sixty-thousand-dollar vintage Macallan scotch every night? Take the private jet to Paris if you want a good brioche? Buy the diamond-studded bra from Victoria’s Secret?” He paused to blow a bubble with his gum, then added excitedly, “This is what America wants to know. What America deserves to know. The big question facing our nation: If you don’t care what’s on sale at the drugstore, which brand of toothpaste do you buy?”
I smiled. Only Andy could make it a matter of national urgency whether Cassie used Colgate Total or Crest Tartar Protection. But his enthusiasm was catching. I kind of wanted to know myself.
“Cassie turned you down?”
“Nope. She liked the idea. But Roger threw a fit. He said he had too much dignity to allow that kind of attention. If she wanted a rich guy with no class, she should have married Donald Trump.” Andy’s eyes twinkled. “That argument alone would have gotten me a twenty share.”
I laughed. “Do you know much about Roger?”
“We did some research on him,” Andy said. He looked toward his door, and as if on cue, Dawn Rose came in. Come to think of it, she really had taken the cue. Her cubicle was within earshot, and she’d been listening avidly from her desk.
“The background on Roger,” she said, handing him a folder. “I pulled it just in case you’d need it.”
The girl got extra points. It couldn’t be easy staying a step ahead of Andy—or even a step behind.
“Thanks.” He quickly flipped through the pages as Dawn walked out again.
“Anything interesting?” I asked.
Andy shrugged. “All that’s interesting about him is the dollar signs. He earned a fortune in investment banking, then started a hedge fund that made him seven hundred million in one year. He paid off his first wife big and they divorced amicably. From everything I see, they still say nice things about each other. He moved to LA and played the playboy for a while with starlets. Second wife, a model from Brazil, lasted two years. Had a solid prenup there and got off easy. Then Cassie.”
A Job to Kill For Page 5
