Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  Rafe waited until they were gone before he pulled up a chair and sat down facing us. “Okay, Maggie, what’s going on here?” He whipped out a notebook, pen poised, a cool look of appraisal on his face. For a moment, I was distracted by the golden flecks in his dark eyes and the sexy curve of his mouth.

  “It was awful!” Mom interjected. “To think of such a young life being cut short like that. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is. Poor Adriana. She had her whole career ahead of her.” She paused theatrically. “Do you think I should offer to write her eulogy for Access Hollywood? Nancy O’Dell can’t possibly know all the inside details I do about Adriana’s life and career. I need to get Edgar on this right away. Edgar is my new agent.” She shot another flirty smile at Rafe.

  “Did you happen to see the shooting, Ms. Walsh?” Rafe cut in smoothly. If he let Mom trip down memory lane, talking about the glory days in Hollywood, we’d be here all day.

  Mom hedged, crossing and uncrossing her legs, just like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. At age fifty-eight, she has remarkably good legs and knows it. “Well, not exactly. Not up close, I mean.”

  “How close were you to the shooting?” Rafe asked. “A few feet away? A few yards away?”

  “Well, I’m not very good at judging distances,” she began but I jumped in.

  “Mom, for heaven’s sake, you were back in Wardrobe; you said so yourself.” I looked at Rafe. “She didn’t see the shooting, but I did,” I said quickly. “I saw the whole thing. I was sitting right next to Maisie and Hank Watson when it happened. It took place while they were filming, you know. So at least there’s a record of it.”

  Rafe nodded. “We’ve already requisitioned all the dailies to be turned in to us.” The dailies are the raw footage that’s shot every day, before any editing is done. “Okay, let’s start over.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and locked eyes with me. “From the top.”

  There was a coiled readiness in his posture and a watchful, alert look in his dark eyes. You could practically feel the tension rippling off him. He reminded me of a panther, ready to spring. I never could decide if that was because he was a cop or it was just part of his personality style.

  “You said you were watching the filming, Maggie. Were you expecting the actor who was the shooter—” He paused, riffling through his notes.

  “Jeff Walker,” Mom volunteered.

  Rafe blinked at the interruption. “Jeff Walker. Were you expecting him to discharge a firearm?”

  “Well, I suppose I was. It was written right in the stage directions. Jeff pulls out a gun. You can see it in Maisie’s copy of the script.” Rafe leaned back to make a note.

  “Had you seen the gun prior to the actor drawing it and firing it?”

  “No, never. I think he had it tucked into the waistband of his slacks.”

  He glanced at Mom. “Did you see the gun? Anywhere on the set before the shooting?”

  She shook her head. “I never go near the props. They keep them locked up, you know; they don’t want anyone tampering with them.” She put her hand to her mouth, her blue eyes wide with shock. “Ohmigod, is that what happened? Someone tampered with the prop gun? But how could that be? They don’t even shoot bullets.”

  “That’s what we’re investigating,” Rafe said. “We’re sending it to ballistics for analysis.”

  “Lola, I need to know something. What was your relationship with the deceased?”

  “My relationship with her was complicated,” she said primly. I nearly giggled. Complicated? Think of a mongoose and a snake. “We go back a long way,” she admitted. “But I suppose that’s true of everyone on the set. Hank tends to use the same actors over and over, so most of us had worked with Adriana in the past.”

  “Interesting.” Rafe made a note. I tried to lean over to read it, but he was too fast for me, and quickly moved the notebook out of my line of vision.

  “Maggie? How about you?”

  “I just met her for the first time today. No, wait,” I corrected myself. “That’s not quite true. Adriana said she remembered meeting me in Hollywood. Years ago.”

  “But you had no real relationship with her? No reason to dislike her?”

  I hesitated. Everyone disliked Adriana. “I didn’t have any feelings toward her, one way or the other.”

  We answered all the standard questions for the next few minutes, and when Rafe realized we really didn’t have anything valuable to contribute, he let us go. I bounded out of the trailer, eager to get back to WYME, and nearly collided with a dead ringer for Silvio Dante, the character Steven Van Zandt plays on The Sopranos. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, his hair was styled in a heavily lacquered pompadour, and he sported a pinkie ring. I almost hit him with the trailer door, but he brushed aside my apology.

  “Don’t worry about it, doll.” He eyed me up and down in what I always think of as the “Manhattan once-over.” I must have passed the test, because he suddenly bared his teeth in a smile. “You have a nice day.”

  I nodded and hurried to my car, wondering how a Mafia extra would fit into the Death Watch script. I’d have to ask Maisie another time. Right now, time was of the essence. I had a show to do!

  Chapter 7

  There was just time enough for a cup of coffee and some breath mints before hitting the studio.

  “Holy buckets!” Vera Mae said. “You’re cutting it close, girl. Heard about the murder on the set. Were you there when it happened?”

  I nodded. “Front and center. I’ll tell you all about it after the show.” I threw my purse on the console and grabbed the press kit Vera Mae had left out for me.

  I knew my guest had already checked in, because I’d spotted Dr. Lois Knudsen, a serious-looking woman in a boxy navy blazer and white skirt, sitting in the reception area. She looked exactly like her publicity photo, except that on the cover of her new book, she was talking to a bemused-looking ferret.

  Dr. Knudsen is a “pet psychologist” who has managed to snare some media attention with her new book, How to Talk to Anything with Four Legs. I have no idea if she’s actually a licensed psychologist, or if her “doctorate” was awarded by a diploma mill. In any case, her book is getting a lot of buzz, and Vera Mae, a big-time animal lover, seemed excited that she was going to be on the show.

  Vera Mae is the guardian of Tweetie Bird, a listless blue parakeet, who accompanies her to the studio every day. Cyrus tried to block Tweetie Bird from WYME on health grounds, but relented when Vera Mae threatened to quit on the spot. She’s strictly a love-me-love-my-bird person, and besides, she knew Cyrus would never find another radio producer willing to work for the low salary he pays her.

  I make it a point never to chat with my guests before the show. Instead, Irina takes them to the Green Room, where they can relax and have bottled water and snacks before hitting the studio. I find it makes for a better show that way. Somehow, the dialogue seems more spontaneous if I meet the guest at the same time the listeners do.

  “Live in ten!” Vera Mae yelled, as I took my seat at the console. Irina whisked Dr. Knudsen into the studio, handed her a pair of headphones, and darted out the door.

  “I’m Maggie Walsh, Dr. Knudsen. Glad to have you on the show.” I stuck out my hand before slapping on my own headphones and was rewarded with a limp handshake. It felt like I was grasping a damp tilapia. Dr. Knudsen nodded vaguely at me, then slipped her headphones over her tightly coiled gray hair, and stared blankly at the console. Maybe I imagined it, but I think she heaved a bored sigh.

  Uh-oh. My Deadly-Dull Guest radar was in overdrive. Maybe Lois Knudsen was tired from a long book tour? Or maybe she was just a lousy conversationalist? I can usually tell in the first thirty seconds whether a guest is going to be interesting and dynamic on the air, or a complete dud.

  I was getting very bad vibes from She Who Speaks to Our Four-Legged Friends.

  Was it possible that the good doctor was only comfortable talking to four-legged critters and not to humans? Har
dly an encouraging thought. I wished I’d taken more time to read her book last night; I’d only skimmed the first couple of chapters.

  This might be a long two hours.

  I gave a slightly gushing introduction. (Freud would probably say I was overcompensating for my really not liking the guest. Reaction formation, he called it. It means you go overboard being nice to someone you secretly loathe.)

  And then Vera Mae opened the lines for questions, and to my surprise, all the buttons were flashing. Her Marge Simpson hairdo tipped precariously as she bent toward the mike. “Dr. Maggie, we have Doris, on line three. Doris is from Hollywood Beach, and she has a question about her parrot, Hercules.”

  “A parrot?” I said slowly. “I’m not certain that birds fall within Dr. Knudsen’s area of expertise . . .”

  “Of course they do,” my guest snapped. “I’ll be glad to take the question,” she said testily. “Go ahead, Doris.” I noticed she used the caller’s name, so maybe she was more media savvy than I’d originally thought.

  “Well, Dr. Knudsen, let me start my saying I just loved your book,” Doris began. “I have four cats, two dogs, and an African Grey Parrot. It’s the parrot I’m calling about.”

  “Ah, yes, the Congo African Grey. Is he one of the Timneh subspecies?”

  “Um, I’m not real sure. He’s seven years old and I inherited him from my uncle. He’s blue and gold and he’s been talking a mile a minute since the day I got him.”

  Dr. Knudsen whipped out a pad of paper and began taking notes.

  “So Hercules is a talker,” she said thoughtfully. “Are you his primary caregiver?”

  “Why, yes, I am. Herb, my husband, gives him some dried corn from time to time, but when it comes to cleaning out the birdcage, it seems to be my job. Herb thinks everything is my job. You should see the cat boxes.” She gave a sardonic laugh.

  “And does Hercules talk to all the members in your family, or just to you?” Apparently Dr. Knudsen knew her limits and wisely decided not to play marriage counselor.

  “Well, mainly to me, come to think of it. But I figured that’s because I’m home with him all day long. I had a part-time job down at the Winn-Dixie but then I got laid off.”

  I glanced up at Vera in the control room, who was rolling her eyes, her finger on the CALL button. She made a speed-it-up gesture; she was probably as bored as our listeners. She added a quack-quack motion with her right hand, meaning we were going to a commercial shortly.

  “And your question is, Doris?” I cut in.

  “Oh, well here’s the thing: this bird is driving me crazy. Absolutely nuts.”

  “Really?” Lois stopped writing and pressed her thin lips together disapprovingly. “He sounds perfectly adorable; what’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s boring!” Doris exclaimed. “That’s what’s wrong with him. That dang bird talks all day about nothing. He’s just like my sister-in-law. He talks nonstop and he’s as dumb as a brick. Sometimes I throw a towel over his cage to shut him up and then he starts humming. Show tunes, but mostly ABBA. I wish I had a dollar for every time I had to listen to ‘Dancing Queen.’ He knows that song drives me crazy. Crazier than his stupid talking.”

  A faint flush had crept up Lois Knudsen’s cheeks. “Doris, what you call his ‘stupid talking’ is his vocalization. This is the only way he has of communicating with you. He obviously can’t text message you.” She chuckled at her own wit. Move over, Kathy Griffin! “Hercules sounds like an extremely intelligent, sociable bird and I really don’t understand your point. Are you annoyed because he’s talking too much—”

  “No, that’s not it. I told you; he’s boring. I don’t know how to say it any clearer. He’s duller than dirt.”

  Lois Knudsen stiffened in her chair and squared her shoulders. “All right, Doris, I’m going to give you a straight answer, but you may not like it.”

  “Right on!” Vera Mae mouthed from the control room.

  My guest licked her lips and took a deep breath. “Here is my professional opinion. Hercules is probably not getting enough intellectual stimulation from your company.”

  “What?” Doris squealed. “Are you saying I’m boring, too? Or dumb?”

  I saw Vera Mae’s finger hovering over to the boot button. We have a seven-second delay and if necessary she can cut off a caller in mid-sentence.

  “No, I’m not saying that at all,” Dr. Knudsen answered, her voice hard as granite. “What I am saying is that Hercules has nothing to say because he doesn’t get enough sensory input. For example, do you read to him?”

  “Read to him? Are you nuts, lady?”

  Vera Mae made a throat-slitting motion, but I shook my head. I was enjoying this too much to have her hit the MUTE button.

  “I would suggest you start reading to him every day. You can start with the newspaper, if you like, and then move slowly into fiction and even poetry. My own mynah bird, Themopolous, is fond of Emily Dickinson. Something about the iambic pentameter really appeals to him. He bobs his head and weaves when I start reading poetry to him.”

  “Are you for real?” Doris shrieked.

  “I’m afraid we have to go to a commercial—” I began, but my guest cut me off.

  “And one more thing. CNN.”

  “What? CNN?”

  “Yes, CNN. Leave the television tuned to CNN. Hercules will appreciate some adult conversation and won’t have to resort to small town gossip if he’s exposed to world events and politics.”

  “Small town gossip?” Doris was practically squawking in indignation. “Listen, you crazy b—”

  This time Vera Mae slammed the MUTE button and I broke in, “We’ll be right back after this message from Wanda’s House of Beauty.” Vera Mae shoved a cassette into the machine and motioned for me to read a promo sitting at the console. “Remember, ladies,” I began, “beauty is only skin deep but men have little tiny pea brains and that’s what they go for. Beauty and big boobies—”

  Ohmigod! I sat still, my own brain scrambling in a million directions. Had I really said that? Vera Mae immediately switched to another commercial and the rockabilly theme of Lemuel’s Body Shop filled the studio.

  Vera Mae came tearing in from the control room and grabbed the ad copy. “Cheese n’crackers! That Irina, she’s done it again.” Vera Mae glanced at the ad copy, crunched it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  “What just happened?” Dr. Knudsen looked appalled. “Was that supposed to be a joke? About men and their little pea brains? And you actually said ‘boobies’ on the air. Are you allowed to do that?” She sniffed disapprovingly.

  “It’s not a joke,” I said, licking my lips nervously. Damn. Note to self: always read the promos before doing them live on the air. “Irina writes our ad copy for us. She’s director of promotions.”

  “Irina? You mean that ditzy blonde at the front desk? She can barely speak English. I thought she was the receptionist.”

  “She’s a multitasker,” Vera Mae told her. “She manages the front desk, writes the ad copy, and keeps the traffic logs. It’s Cyrus’s way of saving money. I’ll have a chat with him, Maggie. He’s just gonna have to bite the bullet and hire a copywriter, and that’s all there is to it. We can’t have you saying stuff like this on the air. It’s not professional.”

  “I’ll say,” Dr. Knudsen tsk-ed. “You’ll probably be getting calls from the Men’s Anti-Defamation League. They might even try to take you off the air.”

  Her lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. The Bird Woman of Alcatraz wasn’t a very nice person, after all. As Vera Mae says, “Always go with your first impressions. It saves a lot of time.”

  “Ohmigod I hadn’t thought of that. Vera Mae, do you think we could be fined by the FCC?” I wondered if I should retract my boobie comment or come up with some sort of apology. Or would that just draw attention to it and make things worse? I could feel my jaw clenching in frustration, just thinking about it.

  “After all the stuff Howard St
ern got away with on the air? I doubt it.” Vera Mae patted me on the shoulder, with one eye on the clock. In another ten seconds, we’d be live again. “Don’t worry about it, sugar,” she said, her voice soft as silk. She shot a dark look at Dr. Knudsen. “Probably no one was tuning in today anyway.”

  Big Jim Wilcox was waiting for me outside the studio and stepped in front of me as I ducked my head and barreled down the hall to my office.

  “Heard about the murder at Branscom Pond today, Maggie.” His squinty eyes were glittering with excitement and he was breathing hard, the way he does when he’s announcing a Hail Mary pass for the Cypress Grove Spoilers.

  “Yes, it was quite a shock. My mother knew Adriana from years ago.” I tried to move past him down the narrow corridor but it was impossible. His considerable bulk practically touched both walls. I noticed his jacket had fallen open, revealing an enormous gut threatening to explode from under his belt, like a muffin top. Big Jim played football in college, but now he’s gone to flab. “Marathon Man” has turned into “Michelin Man.”

  He moved closer, and I nearly choked on a cloud of Drakkar Noir. “So, tell me, Maggie, why did you do it?” He lowered his voice to a reedy whisper and I practically had to read his lips to make out what he was saying.

  “Why did I do what?” He raised one hand and splayed his stubby fingers flat against the wall. Short of ducking under his armpit, I couldn’t see any way to get around him. It was like being hemmed in by a Subaru Forester SUV.

  “The murder.” He paused, looking at me. “Was it something you planned for a long time, or was it a crime of passion? Did you know you were going to kill Adriana when you went to the set today, or did you just snap? I’ve heard that happens a lot with shrinks. They just go looney tunes.” He whirled his index finger in circles next to his left ear, the classic shorthand for craziness.

  “What?” I shrieked. “Are you insane? Of course I didn’t kill her.”