Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  Chapter 9

  “So it all worked out for the best,” Mom said over dinner. Lark quirked an eyebrow and Mom quickly amended, “Well, except for poor Adriana, I mean.” She clasped her hand to her bosom, bowed her head, and was silent for a beat, eyes shut. I nearly expected her to deliver a eulogy. After a moment, her grieving heart magically healed; she looked up and reached for a hefty portion of veggie lo mein. Never underestimate the restorative powers of carbs.

  “Worked out for the best in what sense?” I asked.

  “Well, Hank has a new leading lady, the cameras will start rolling again, and things will be more”—she paused delicately—“harmonious on the set. And who knows, Adriana will be more popular with the public than ever. She might even be up for an Emmy!”

  “Really? I don’t think she’s in the same league as Meryl Streep or Helen Mirren.” And I’m not sure she’ll be thrilled to get an award from beyond the grave.

  “She might get the sympathy vote,” Lola confided. “That’s the way these things work. Everyone knows you always score extra points if you’re dead.” She paused, twirling lo mein on the end of her fork and her face brightened. “I just had a fabulous idea. Do you think I should accept the award for her? I have the perfect dress to wear. It’s a cross between Bob Mackie and Michael Kors. Cobalt blue and very classic. It’s a little low cut but I think I can pull it off.”

  Bob Mackie? I bet it had feathers, sequins, or both. And low cut? I tried not to picture Mom in a Jennifer Lopez gown that plunged to her belly button, because I knew the visual would stay with me for days.

  “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” I said firmly.

  Pugsley was doing his starving dog imitation and I gave him a tiny nibble of my egg roll. He had already polished off his heart-healthy dumpling, but he begged for more, his little feet tap-dancing on the polished floor.

  “I suppose you’re right. We all have to concentrate on Death Watch and make sure it’s the best film it can be.” She heaved a sigh as if she wasn’t really sure how good Death Watch would be, even with everyone rooting for it.

  “How’s it going?” Lark asked.

  “Pretty well, I guess. I was chatting with the producer right before I left the set today. She’s trying to be optimistic, but of course she has to be. That’s practically part of her job description, you know.” She gave a low chuckle. “Keep everyone’s spirits up and keep the money flowing in. A lot’s riding on how well it does at the box office. I think Hank’s had trouble getting backers lately, and if this show is a bomb—phfft! It could all be over for Marion.”

  My ears perked up. “Marion Summers?” I remembered what I’d read in Vanity Fair about Hank’s production chief.

  “She’s all business,” Lola said, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t really think she’s into the artistic side of film. But you have to hand it to her; Hank has done very well with her at the helm. She handles all the boring production details for him and I think she’s very good at it.”

  “Do they get along?” Lark asked. “Sometimes it’s hard to work with someone night and day, especially if they have very different auras.” Lark is into all things New Age: chakras, karma, auras, and I-Ching. She believes that we’re destined to meet every single person we encounter in life, either to learn something from them or to teach them something.

  I wondered how Big Jim Wilcox would fit into her view of the cosmos.

  “A good point, my dear. There’s been some talk on the set about a few bitter rows in the past, but I think they’re going to put their differences behind them now. After all, we have to pull together for the good of the movie. And God knows, Tammilynne is going to need all the help she can get. The poor thing doesn’t even know her lines.”

  “Tammilynne?” I stared at her.

  “Tammilynne Cole,” Lola said smoothly. “The new star of the show.” She gave me a knowing look. “She’s never acted a day in her life, but she has a special relationship with Hank Watson, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. It was special all right. The kind of relationship a fifty-something man has with a girl barely out of her teens.

  “So they’re not going to bother auditioning anyone else? Tammilynne is stepping into Adriana’s part, and everything else is just the same?”

  “Yes, dear, it’s just the same. They may change a few lines here and there, since Tammilynne is so much younger than Adriana, but it won’t be any big deal. They have the writers on the set right now, churning out new pages for tomorrow. Hank’s going to hand out the new sides so people can start memorizing them.” I remembered the two young guys in jeans, wearing baseball caps backward as they played air guitar.

  “And Hank still wants me there, as a consultant?

  “Yes, I know he does,” Lola said warmly. “He said he’s very happy you’re on board. Having a psychologist as a consultant will bring a lot of credibility to the movie, you know. They’re really going to play that up with the media. And he wants you back at work first thing tomorrow.”

  “I thought the production was closed down for forty-eight hours.”

  “The actual filming is, but there’s still plenty of behind-the-scenes work to be done. Hank’s expecting you there at nine sharp, actually both of us. I have a wardrobe fitting so I thought we could ride over there together, if that’s okay.”

  “So the show must go on,” Lark said, reaching down to pull Pugsley onto her lap.

  “Oh heavens, yes.” Mom nodded her head. “The show always goes on.”

  Marion Summer’s pale eyes flicked over me, like a lizard’s. She was tall and thin, a bony woman in tailored beige pants and a long-sleeved white blouse, rolled up to the elbows. No frills or color anywhere on her. She was mid-fifties with wispy blond hair pulled back in a silver clip, and she sported smart-girl glasses with black frames on a chain around her neck. Her burnished leather loafers were expensive, Dolce and Gabbana, her only nod to fashion.

  “Hank’s been called into town,” she said abruptly, “but I can get you started right away. He’d like you to meet with Sandra and then spend some time with the writers. Follow me, please.” I could see she wasn’t going to waste any time on social niceties.

  Mom had been whisked away to Wardrobe and I’d knocked on the door of the production trailer, hoping to find Hank. Most of the area around Branscom Pond was still considered a crime scene, but they’d set up a few extra trailers at the entrance to the park, marked with hand-lettered signs, Production, Wardrobe, Cast and Crew. I glanced over to the lake where CSIs were milling around on the beach and idly wondered if Rafe was there with them.

  Sandra was waiting by some long picnic tables set up under a canopy. I hadn’t seen her since Adriana’s death and I wondered how she had taken the news. Very well, considering the bright smile on her face.

  “Let’s sit out here, okay?” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “The air-conditioning inside the trailer isn’t very good.” She was wearing a sunny yellow tunic top over tight white jeans, which showed off her terrific figure. No doubt about it, her personal diet and exercise plan was certainly working. “I grabbed some iced tea and cookies for us; thank God they still have the craft services tables set up. I think we’re going to be stuck here all day, even though there’s not that much to do. The van picked us up at the B and B this morning at eight a.m. and the driver’s not coming back until five.”

  “Thanks.” I nibbled on a sugar cookie. “You’re staying at a B and B?”

  “Yes, it’s a cute little place, the Seabreeze—do you know it?”

  “I live right next door. And the manager, Ted Rollins, is a good friend of mine.” I didn’t bother telling her that Ted would like to be more than friends. He’s the proverbial “nice guy,” but for some reason, I’m always drawn to “bad boys,” the kind the nuns warned me about. You know, the ones who play havoc with your emotions and always keep you guessing.

  Think Rafe Martino.

  Sandra was
prattling on, her voice light and breezy. She sounded like she didn’t have a care in the world, so obviously Adriana’s death hadn’t impacted her very much. “Oh, wow. It must be fun living here. It’s such a quaint little place, like something out of a movie set, you know?”

  “Sometimes it seems that way to me, too.” I remembered that I’d gone through some serious culture shock when I’d first closed up my Manhattan office and moved to Cypress Grove. Everything was so laid-back and slow paced, it took some getting used to. For the first month, I felt like everyone was talking to me under water.

  And sometimes the locals still ask me if all New Yorkers talk as fast as I do. For the most part, though, I’ve settled in and have made some good friends.

  We sat down side by side at the picnic table and Sandra pulled out a script. “I’d love to just chat with you about your job, but we better look busy, in case the Bitch-on-Wheels comes by.” She opened the script and pretended to be reading it, her forehead furrowed in concentration, one hand shading her eyes. I must have looked surprised, because she whispered, “I hope you weren’t taken in by that cow. She’s friendly to your face but she can knife you in the back in two seconds flat.”

  I smiled. “If you mean Marion, she wasn’t even friendly to my face.”

  “She’s probably jealous,” she said promptly.

  “Of me? Why?”

  Sandra popped a wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other. She looked very young and pretty in the bright sunlight, her sleek hair swept back in a ponytail. “She’s jealous of anyone who Hank admires. I think she has a thing for him, ya know?”

  “She has a thing for Hank? It’s hard to imagine them as a couple.”

  Sandra shrugged. “I heard they were an item a long time ago. There aren’t any secrets on a movie set, you know. Hank and Marion shared a room once when they were on location in Mexico. Everybody knew about it, but no one said anything. It probably meant a lot more to Marion than it did to Hank.”

  I must have looked unconvinced because Sandra laughed. “Marion was a lot younger back then.” She sipped her iced tea. “And the moment you came on the set, Hank was telling everyone about you, how smart you are, and how you had this big private practice in Manhattan.”

  I groaned inwardly. Lola must have been bragging about me again.

  “That’s my mom’s doing,” I said.

  Sandra grinned. “You can’t blame her for being proud. It must be cool being a psychologist.”

  “I’m a radio talk show host now,” I reminded her.

  “But you still know all this psychology stuff, right?” She riffled through the script until she came to a courtroom scene. “Take a look at this scene. Is this really what you would say to the lawyer if you were on the stand?”

  I scanned the page and my heart sank. The dialogue was wooden, and the tone was all wrong. Sandra’s character came off as harsh and shrewish, not calm and composed, and worst of all, she was spouting psychobabble. “Not exactly.” I whipped out a pen. “Let’s see if we can tighten up this dialogue a little.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Sandra leaned forward, interested.

  “Well, lots of things, I’m afraid. You see this part about schizophrenia? Your character, Dr. Tilden, is telling the jury it means someone has a split personality.”

  “Isn’t that right?”

  “No, it’s all wrong. I’m afraid the writers didn’t do their homework. Schizophrenia is a thought disorder. It’s characterized by delusions and hallucinations, disorganized thinking. It has nothing to do with a split personality; that’s a popular misconception. Someone who’s schizophrenic has seriously disordered thinking. Your character needs to make the jury understand that, if she’s trying to get a reduced sentence for this guy.” I hesitated. “Is it okay if I mark up the script?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Sandra said. “They can type some new sides with your revisions.”

  I worked steadily for the next half hour, trying not to get annoyed at Sandra who periodically snapped her gum in my ear. Marion Summers wandered by a few times, giving us a suspicious glance each time before moving on.

  “Marion’s not really well liked, is she?” I asked Sandra.

  “Hah, that’s the understatement of the year. None of us can stand her. Sometimes I wonder why Hank puts up with her, but there’s obviously more to the story.” Sandra gave an arch smile. “I think she has something on him. Maybe a deep dark secret.”

  “Really?” I wondered if Sandra knew something or was just repeating idle gossip.

  She nodded vigorously, her blond ponytail bobbing up and down. “There’s a lot of skeletons in this business, you know? And you don’t really get to the top without stepping on some people along the way.” She gave me a dark look. “I think maybe there’s more to Hank than meets the eye and that Marion knows the real story on him. They’ve been together like forever, but I get the feeling he’d like to dump her if he could.” She paused. “Same as Adriana.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. Who would have thought little Sandra would have so much information? “He wanted to get rid of her, too?”

  “Of course.” She leaned closer. “You know about Tammilynne, don’t you?”

  “I know she’s the new star of Death Watch. That and the fact that she looks like she’s in high school.”

  Sandra snorted with laughter. “She’s barely twenty. Not that age means anything, Mischa Barton started on The O.C. when she was eighteen. But Tammilynne is different; she’s never had an acting lesson, never had a vocal coach. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing except Hank Watson and a lot of promises.” She paused. “You know what I think?” I had the feeling Sandra was going to tell me whether I nodded my head or not. “I think that things came to a head with Tammilynne. She was going to tell wifey back in L.A. that she’s been Hank’s main squeeze for the past two years. And up till now, all she’s gotten from Hank have been promises.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Hank did something to the gun, are you?”

  Sandra gave me a sly look, tucking her chin and looking up at me under her long dark lashes. “Who am I to say what happened?” She widened her eyes and gave a little shrug. I noticed her arms were tanned and very toned in her clingy tunic top. I reminded myself to ask her about her miracle diet and exercise plan sometime. She took out a root-beer-flavored lip gloss and swiped it across her lips. “But look at it this way, Maggie. Whoever fooled around with that gun knew what they were doing. It’s really hard to kill someone with one of those things. They don’t even take bullets.”

  “That’s certainly something to consider,” I said, thinking. I wondered how many people on the set had the technical ability to tamper with the prop gun, and what the report from ballistics would say.

  “If ever you want to know anything about what’s going on around here, just ask me. I’d like to help the investigation. I’m into all that CSI stuff; I watch a lot of television. I bet I could help out.”

  “Oh, I’m not really part of the investigation, Sandra, but I’ll remember that. At the moment, the Cypress Grove PD is handling the case. They seem to have everything under control.”

  Sandra gave a lascivious wink. “Did you see that hottie they sent over to interview us? Detective Martino? Wow! He could handle me anytime—maybe even do a strip search!” She let out a raucous chuckle.

  I was tempted to say something scathing, but instead I gave a little sniff, pursed my lips in disapproval, and went back to work.

  Detective Martino. It was hard to ignore the little tug of affection I felt just hearing Rafe’s name, the buzz of excitement I felt remembering those smoldering dark eyes and sexy smile. Like the song says, “zing went my heartstrings.”

  I wasn’t thrilled at the idea that other women’s heartstrings were zinging too, but what did I expect? As Sandra said, he’s a hottie.

  Chapter 10

  “Hi there! I’m Carla. Can I join you?” A middle-aged woman with he
nnaed hair swooped down on me, pulling an extra folding chair up to the long table set up under the trees. It was midday and I was having a quick lunch with Lola and a few of the cast and crew members.

  Hank was still MIA, but Marion had ordered a nice selection of sandwiches and pastries from Joey’s, my favorite deli in Cypress Grove. I’d just finished a cheese and tomato panini, and was doing my best to ignore the double-fudge brownies that were calling to me with their little sugary voices.

  Carla looked vaguely familiar. She was in her early fifties, wearing a Tommy Bahamas tropical print blouse and stretchy white pants. The pants were practically plastic-wrapped over her thighs, making them look like a pair of country hams. I gave her a polite smile and tried to scoot my chair to one side so she could squeeze in. It was a tight fit, though, and her chair was teetering dangerously close to mine—another minute and she’d be sitting in my lap.

  “Here, you can have my seat. I’m finished.” I tried to get up but she laid a restraining hand on my arm. She had Dragon Lady bloodred nails, worn very long with a squared off tip. She also had a surprisingly strong grip.

  “Oh, now don’t go running off, honey. You’re the person I want to see.” She had a hawklike nose and little beady eyes, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a bird of prey. “Well, you and Lola, that is.” She flashed my mom a broad smile, an expectant look in her eyes. Were they old friends? Carla seemed to think so.

  “Hello, Carla,” Lola said smoothly. I tried to read her expression and couldn’t. Like most actresses, Lola is so expressive she can’t help telegraphing her impressions of people, but this time she was giving nothing away. I watched and waited, intrigued.

  “Long time no see.” Carla’s tone was cheery. She waved her hand in the air and nearly knocked over my iced tea. “Let’s see; how long has it been? Seven or eight years, right? Some sort of shindig out on the Coast?”

  Lola gave a thin smile. “Yes, it must have been ten years ago. I think it might have been Swifty Lazar’s Oscar party.”