Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  At twenty-three, she hasn’t been beaten down by life and has a sunny optimism that is at odds with my own rather cynical personality. Her favorite movie is Forrest Gump and mine is anything by Woody Allen. I think that says it all.

  “I can just picture you in a rock band, Lola,” she said loyally. “You’d be terrific.”

  “Yes, sometimes it’s like a knife in my heart to know that I could have been up there on stage with Lindsey Bucking-ham.” She gave a heavy sigh, and Pugsley gave a little yip of concern, trotting over from the sofa.

  He’s incredibly sensitive to human distress, and he’s also a big fan of Lark’s pasta.

  You decide.

  “It’s all right, Pugsley,” Lola said, reaching down to pet him. “Opportunity knocks but once, as they say, and this is a brutal business.”

  I felt another stroll down memory lane coming on. I sat down, fortified myself with a hefty slug of Chardonnay, and tossed a tiny chunk of French bread to Pugsley. He opened his mouth like a sea lion and swallowed it whole.

  “Mom,” I began, “you’re not really suggesting that you could have joined Fleetwood Mac, are you? You can’t even carry a tune. I thought you auditioned for a music video once and the director said you were tone-deaf.”

  “Well, he had to say that, didn’t he, my dear?” She leaned over to Lark and winked. “He had already picked out a girl for the role, you see. Some sweet young thing caught his eye, and I didn’t have a chance. He was blind to my charms.”

  “That’s awful; so unfair,” Lark said staunchly. She patted Lola sympathetically on the arm. “You can’t let it get to you, though. I believe in karma, Lola, and I bet that girl never went anywhere with her career. You’ve probably had a lot more success than she’s had.”

  Lola hesitated, her cornflower blue eyes flickering down to Pugsley. “Oh well. She did all right, I suppose. In fact, she’s made something of a name for herself in the music business.”

  “Really? Who is she?”

  “Beyoncé.”

  Beyoncé?

  Lark raised her eyebrows, her lips twitching. Lola has a vivid imagination and some of her show biz stories are so over-the-top, one can only smile.

  “Give me the rundown on your schedule tomorrow,” I said briskly. “You’re going to meet with Wardrobe and then do a quick line rehearsal?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Lola replied, returning to Planet Earth. “I’m going to have to wriggle into my Spanx if I want to squeeze into my outfit. I told the wardrobe mistress I was a size four. What was I thinking?” She eyed the big ceramic bowl of veggie pasta, as if angling for a second portion, and then sipped some iced tea instead.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” said Lark, ever the optimist. “Then what?”

  “Then I have a quick run-through of my lines with Hank. We’re doing a table reading. I already have my sides, so I’ll have to go over them tonight.”

  “Your sides?” Lark looked puzzled.

  “They call them sides,” I explained. “They don’t bother copying the whole script; they just give you the pages with your lines.”

  “That’s great that you didn’t even have to audition,” Lark said.

  “I know; I was very lucky.” Lola smiled. “I think Hank has seen enough of my work that he knows I can deliver the goods. I expect to have my entire role memorized by tomorrow.”

  “Won’t it be sort of odd, though, not knowing how the story ends? I mean, you only know your own lines. How will you figure out how your scene fits into the whole picture?”

  This was my cue to start clearing the table as Lola explained the mysteries of the film business to my wide-eyed roommate. Lola conveniently left out the fact that each of the principals has a copy of the entire script. It’s only the bit players who are given sides. Their roles aren’t crucial to the story line and they’re strictly supporting actors. Far be it for me to rain on her parade, so I kept quiet.

  I busied myself at the sink, glancing out the sliding glass patio doors to catch the spectacular sunset. The sun was like an orange lollipop as it sank slowly into the horizon, splashing the sky with paint-box colors: gold, flame, and burnt umber.

  Cypress Grove, my own little piece of paradise. Tomorrow it would be open to the world.

  “Lola, sweetie, is that you? Dahling, you look fabulous. Absolutely fabulous!”

  Lola and I were chatting with one of the grips on the Death Watch set the next morning, when Adriana St. James descended on us. Lola was due for a table reading in half an hour and I’d tagged along, hoping to score an interview with Hank Watson for WYME later in the week.

  “Here comes the barracuda.” Lola ducked her head close to mine and whispered,” Purple alert, dear. Purple alert!”

  Purple alert? I remembered that Florida lifeguards use purple flags to warn swimmers about dangerous marine life in the area.

  “Barracuda?” I mouthed.

  “You’ll see. Or maybe a Portuguese Man o’ War,” she added vaguely. “They can attack you from thirty feet away, you know. That’s how far their tentacles reach.”

  At that very moment, Adriana’s tentacles were inching dangerously close to us. She elbowed her way through a group of gawking extras, and then paused to hop nimbly over a tangled maze of electrical cables. Her face was flushed and her smile was amped to the highest power.

  “Kisses, kisses!” she shrieked, grabbing Lola by the shoulders and planting noisy air kisses on both cheeks, European style. I nearly choked on the cloyingly sweet wave of Jungle Gardenia that enveloped me. It seemed to hang over Adriana like dank yellow smog over Los Angeles. I know it’s a popular fragrance, but it always reminds me of Fruit Roll-Ups.

  Lola and I practically break out in hives from just a whiff of it. I staggered backward as if someone has just zapped me with an entire can of Glade air freshener.

  “Nice to see you again,” Lola said in a strangled voice. Her eyes were watering and she scrunched up her nose as if she was trying her best not to sneeze.

  I started to edge away from the noxious fumes when Adriana noticed me, pulled back, and did a comic double take. “Ohmigod! Lola”—she lowered her voice to a shocked whisper—“this can’t possibly be little Margaret Anne! Good heavens, she’s all grown up! In fact, she’s more than grown up; she’s positively mature.” She tossed me a snide look. “Yes, I would definitely say mature.” She drew out the word “mature” and looked solemn, like a CNN anchor reporting an outbreak of swine flu.

  Adriana peered into my face and then let her eyes slide over my body like a buyer at a horse auction. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d slapped me on the flank or done a quick check of my rear molars.

  So now I was mature? Oh God, the dreaded M word. Lola winced before flashing me a knowing look, her expression telegraphing, “I told you so.”

  If I was “mature,” then that meant Lola was beyond mature—she was OLD. So old she was practically a leftover from the Ming dynasty. Or a centenarian worthy of a birthday shout-out from Willard Scott.

  In Hollywood-land, saying someone is “mature” is the kiss of death. Anyone who reads the casting ads in Backstage or the Hollywood Reporter knows that “mature” actresses often find themselves doing ads for Depends and denture cleansers.

  “I don’t really use Margaret Anne anymore. I go by Maggie now,” I said, sticking out my hand. Adriana ignored it and crushed me to her spongy bosom. It was like being trapped between a pair of giant water balloons.

  Like Mom, Adriana was decked out like she’d bought her entire wardrobe at Wet Seal. She was wearing skintight white capris and a gauzy blue halter top with a black Victoria’s Secret bra peeping through, and she was tottering along on four-inch espadrilles.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Adriana said, still squinting at me in the bright sunlight. It was only nine o’clock, but the day promised to be a real south Florida scorcher, and I could feel a thin layer of perspiration coating my upper lip.

  Adriana, on the other hand,
was hermetically sealed inside a heavy coating of Max Factor Pan-Cake makeup (Tan, #10), looking like she’d just escaped from Madame Tussaud’s. I doubt she could sweat, even if she wanted to.

  “Maggie darling, it’s hard to believe, but I haven’t seen you since 1970,” Adriana said smoothly. “You were just a little slip of a girl back then.” She gave a small catlike smile and I noticed the skin around her eyes didn’t move at all. Botox? Juvéderm? “You must have been what? About ten, I think.”

  She thinks I was ten years old in 1970? Yowsers. Either Adriana was no math wizard or she was getting in a quick dig at Lola.

  “I think your numbers are off, Adriana. In 1970, I would have been an ovum,” I said sweetly. “Not even an embryo.” I could hear a stifled snicker from Lola followed by a long asthmatic wheeze. “I’m only thirty-two,”

  “Really?” Adriana sniffed. “Funny, I could have sworn . . . oh well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Are you here auditioning for a role, dear?”

  “I’m not an actress—” I began, but Lola cut in swiftly.

  “Maggie is something of a local celebrity,” she said proudly. “She’s a psychologist and she has her own talk show on WYME. She’s here on assignment.” She stepped out of the way as a gaffer hurried by, lugging a pair of heavy Klieg lights. They were doing exterior shots here at Branscom Pond, a tiny park on the outskirts of town, but they still needed artificial lighting to get the right effect.

  “Oh, my goodness, a radio celebrity; how lovely for you.” Adriana looked flummoxed for a moment. Or she would have looked flummoxed if she could have found some way to raise her eyebrows. “I had no idea you were media.”

  Media, the magic word.

  Media opens the door to a world of freebies—free mimosas, complimentary tickets to sold-out events, and invitations to A-list parties. The only downside is that you have to interview people you have absolutely no desire to spend five seconds with, and you have to pretend they’re fascinating.

  “I’ll have my peeps call your peeps and arrange an interview.” Her tone was regal, as if she was granting me a papal audience. I nearly laughed out loud, thinking of what Vera Mae would have to say about being referred to as a “peep.”

  Adriana pulled me out of the sun into a shaded area near the craft services table. It was crowded with cast and crew members wolfing down coffee and doughnuts. The tantalizing aroma of industrial-strength Hazelnut wafted over to me and I found myself longing for a caffeine hit.

  “You can stay and have lunch with us, can’t you, dear?” Adriana was clutching my upper arm with her blood-red talons. Lola was right, there really was something predatory about her. She lowered her voice. “I prefer to eat in my trailer, but Hank wants us to pretend that we’re one big happy family”—she made a little moue of disgust—“so we’re all going to share a picnic lunch together at noon. I think he’s taking this democratic thing too far, but it’s his call.”

  She gave a snarky smile worthy of Leona Helmsley. “Everyone eating together, can you imagine? The principals, the leads, the extras, forced to socialize as if we’re equals.”

  Oh my, yes, very Leona Helmsley, maybe even early Marie Antoinette. She stopped to fake smile at a gorgeous guy strolling by with a clipboard and a headset. He was wearing a Death Watch T-shirt, so I guessed he was a techie. Probably working with the crew, waiting for his big break.

  “Sounds like fun,” I said politely.

  “I’m sure I won’t get to eat a single bite; I’ll be hounded for autographs every second. The price of fame, I suppose.” Adriana heaved a weary sigh. “As my dear friend Larry Olivier used to say, ‘it goes with the territory.’ ”

  “Hmm; yes, he was quite right.” Lola permitted herself a very small eye-roll.

  “And tell me, Lola, what role are you playing? Is it an under-five?”

  “Of course not!” Lola practically quivered with indignation. “I have the fifth female lead, I play a high-powered real estate agent, Roxanne Clark.”

  “Roxanne Clark? I don’t recall seeing that character in the script.”

  Lola’s lips tightened, but she forced a smile. “It’s a rather small part, but I think Hank will probably expand it once we get rolling. I heard there’s been some dialogue problems and the script has already gone into rewrites. So this might not be the final draft.” Lola waved the sides in the air as if she were swatting away a particularly annoying gnat.

  “Interesting,” Adriana said, inspecting one of her fake nails. She seemed supremely bored, now that the conversation had veered away from her.

  Lola was undaunted. “In fact, I want to discuss it with him at the reading—”

  “Oh, look; there’s Mitch, the cinematographer,” Adriana cut in. She pointed to a wiry guy with a deep tan who was frowning at a startling array of cameras and lighting equipment. “I’ve got to remind him to use the rose gels; honestly, you can’t trust these people to do anything right. I heard Liz Taylor used to carry her own set of gels with her. Smart girl; no wonder she always looked so terrific on camera. See you at lunch!”

  Chapter 4

  I waited until Adriana galloped out of earshot before turning to Mom. “Rose-colored gels? Are they anything like rose-colored glasses?”

  “Even better, darling. They can knock off quite a few years—they’re very flattering to mature faces.” She squinted up at the white-hot Florida sun and gave a little sigh. “Natural light can be brutal, if you’re over eighteen.”

  “It looks like Adriana is trying to plead her case with Mitch.” The actress and the cinematographer were locked in a heated discussion in front of the craft services table. “And it doesn’t look like it’s going well,” I added. Adriana was gesturing wildly like a demented mime and Mitch was avoiding eye contact with her, munching on a doughnut, his expression tight.

  “Adriana’s never satisfied with the lighting,” Mom said, glancing at the pair. “She makes life hell for the tech people. She’d like them to shoot her through a wall of Jell-O, if it were possible. It’s the only way they’re going to get that hazy, out-of-focus look she likes.”

  “How’s my favorite leading lady?” A fiftyish man with a graying beard suddenly appeared from behind us and grabbed Mom in a crushing bear hug. “You’ve still got it, babe,” he added, drawing back to look at her.

  From the way her eyes sparkled, I figured this had to be the famous Hank Watson. He was wearing faded jeans and a Lakers T-shirt, and he moved with an air of easy confidence.

  “Oh Hank, you’re such a tease.” Lola smiled up at him, and I noticed she kept her arms looped around his neck.

  “I’m here to whisk you away to a table reading,” Hank told her. “We can catch up on old times over lunch.”

  “I’d love that.” She gave him a saucy smile and then remembered that I was standing there like the proverbial third wheel. Oh yes, the Mature Daughter. Hmm. How was Lola going to handle this one? I wondered for one crazy moment if she was going to try to pass me off as her younger sister. No, I’m not being paranoid. She’s actually done this from time to time, and as a shrink I can tell you that past behavior is the best predictor of future behavior. Of course, she’d already revealed my true identity to Adriana, so I suppose that ship had already sailed.

  Lola went for the direct approach.

  “Hank, sweetie, I want you to meet someone very special; this is my daughter, Maggie. She’s a psychologist,” she added proudly.

  Hank flashed me a high-beam smile and we shook hands. No air kisses, thank God. He was quite attractive in an older-guy sort of way and I could see why Mom was so taken with him.

  “Hey, good to meet you, Maggie. I’m a big fan of your mom; we go back a long way.”

  “Well, not too long a way,” Lola teased him.” I was practically a child when you cast me in the role of Maria in Luigi’s Daughter. I remember you were afraid the role might be too sophisticated for me.” I bit back a smile. Mom was forty-five years old when she played the ingenue role in the straight-to
-video art flick.

  Hank was giving me a speculative look and I wondered if this was the best time to hit him up for an interview. “A psychologist,” he mused. “You know, we might have a job for you—” he began.

  “I’m a radio talk show host, not an actress,” I said quickly.

  “But you’re a real psychologist, right?” He turned to initial some papers a production assistant shoved at him.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Ever do any forensic work?”

  “That was Maggie’s specialty when she started out,” Lola said, clasping her hands together. “You should see the people she dealt with—psychopaths, convicted felons, all sorts of lowlifes.” She gave a delicate little shudder.” I never could understand why she wanted to do that kind of work instead of having a nice Park Avenue practice.”

  “So why did you do it?” Hank seemed genuinely interested. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about psychology, so I try to say as little as possible about my former career.

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but I really liked the rough-and-tumble of courtroom work, facing off against trial lawyers, working with prosecutors, that sort of thing. And I got a kick out of getting to know detectives and CSIs. I learned a lot from them—I had all the theories, but they had the real-life experience in crime solving.” I paused. “They taught me about lie detector tests and how the perps can beat them and how to interview criminals and keep your cool. If you show fear, you’re through.” I wondered if I was saying too much, but Hank was listening intently and suddenly he snapped his fingers.

  “Maggie, you’re exactly what I’m looking for,” His river-green eyes dazzled with excitement. “I need a forensic consultant on the set. Someone who can get inside the head of a psychopath, and tell us where we’re getting it wrong and where we’re getting it right.”