Carla nodded. “Such a terrific soiree, and what a shame he’s gone now. A great man. He knew how to entertain.” She looked around hopefully. “And this is your daughter,” she said, her eyes skimming over me.
“Maggie Walsh,” I said, offering my hand.
“My, oh my. You’re all grown up now. An actress, I suppose?”
“Not exactly.” I gave her a pleasant smile and didn’t offer any details.
She stared at me for a long moment and then glanced at Lola, a sly look creeping over her face. “Well, I’ve met your daughter. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Lola tightened her lips for a microsecond, a telltale sign that she was irritated. On Lie to Me, they’d call this an illustrator, a subtle change in body language that reveals emotion.
“This is Carla Townsend, everyone. She’s an entertainment reporter,” Lola said flatly. Okay, now I was getting negative vibes from Lola. Everyone at the table had stopped eating and was watching us with unabashed interest. “Carla and I knew each other back in Manhattan several years ago—”
“I wrote for Page Six!” Carla interjected. “I covered the record industry. I nearly wrote an unauthorized biography of Madonna!” No false modesty here, I thought, covering a smile.
“—and we both moved out to California at the same time.” Mom was determined to get the last word.
“Except you went into acting and I stuck with journalism,” Carla said, eyeing the sandwiches. “Of course, I almost went into the book biz. Remember when I was going to write a big Hollywood exposé, Lola? That was years ago.” Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Random House was interested, but I got the short end of the stick that time.”
“I remember. The deal fell through, didn’t it?”
“Only because Adriana decided to beat me to it. I never should have opened my mouth. She took my idea and ran with it. She even used some of my best stories.” Carla grabbed a tuna on rye, an egg salad on whole wheat, and a cream cheese on a bagel. Either she’d missed breakfast or she had a “hoarding” disorder.
Since I tend to overanalyze everything, I decided she was just hungry, and judging from her white pants, she had a good appetite. She was giving the brownies a thoughtful look, as if she hoped one or two might jump onto her plate. “Wonder what the calorie count is on these things?” she said, speculating.
“Oh, they’re practically calorie free,” Lola gushed. “No fat, no sugar, and hardly any carbs. Plus they’re high fiber, so that cancels everything out. Go ahead, indulge yourself; you don’t even have to feel guilty.”
“Well, in that case—” Carla, said, loading three brownies onto her plate. Lola winked at me and I realized my first impression was correct. I was right; she was no fan of Carla Townsend.
Mom methodically went around the table introducing everyone to Carla, who whipped out a notebook and started jotting down their names.
“Jeff Walker?” Carla pursed her lips. “You’re the shooter, right?” she said carelessly.
“Carla—” Mom said, a warning note in her voice.
Carla made a little dismissive motion. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean to make it sound like Columbine.” She turned to Jeff, who’d already pushed his plate away and stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked over his chair. A hot flush had crept from his collarbone up to his neck and his face was tight with anger. “Relax, sweetie, it was an accident; we all know that.” She flashed him a high-beam smile and he shot her a flinty look. “I’m hoping we can talk privately later, Jeff. Maybe you can explain to me how a prop gun works.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeff said coldly. He tossed his napkin on his empty paper plate and stalked away.
“Hmm. A little bit touchy, isn’t he?” Carla looked around the table, flashing an amped-up Hollywood smile. “These creative types always have a dark side, don’t they? Now, who else saw the shooting? I’d love to get a firsthand account.” There was dead silence while she glanced at her notes and then people began clearing the table and drifting away.
In less than a minute, Mom and I found ourselves alone at the table with Carla. We exchanged a long look. “And I can’t forget Maisie, the script girl,” Carla continued under her breath as if nothing had happened. She was ticking off names in her notebook, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone had deserted us. “Now there’s someone I really need to see.”
“She’s not here,” Mom piped up. “I think she’s going over some script changes with Marion.”
“Too bad; I bet she’d have some tales to tell.” She paused and looked up. “I wonder how long Hank will be? The cops must still be grilling him right this minute. I bet the whole thing just seems a little too coincidental to them, you know?”
“Coincidental? What exactly do you mean, Carla?” Mom’s voice had an edge to it. “And what’s this about the police grilling Hank? I thought he’d gone into town to pick up supplies.”
“Oh please.” Carla sat back, drumming her fingers on the paper tablecloth. “That’s just a story Marion made up. Of course they’re grilling Hank; he’s been down at the station all morning. The backers are trying to keep the questioning quiet and discreet, but I’ve heard he’s the lead suspect.”
“What?” Mom’s voice wobbled. “That’s impossible.”
“He’s got motive, means, and opportunity,” Carla said.
“But what’s his motive?” I asked. I immediately wondered how much Rafe knew and what he’d tell me.
“Easy.” Carla gave a little self-satisfied smirk. “Here’s what happened. Or at least, here’s the theory. Hank wanted to dump Adriana and put Malibu Barbie in the lead, and now it’s all going to work out perfectly for him. Funny how the universe suddenly tilted his way, isn’t it?” She gave a wry laugh.
“Is that what you think happened?” Mom asked.
“You bet I do!! If he’s innocent, he must be thanking his lucky stars that someone knocked off Adriana. The movie’s going to go forward, and his bimbo girlfriend will have a starring role. Of course, if he’s guilty, that’s another story.” She flipped through her notebook. “My biggest problem is trying to figure out what to go with for the lead. This story is going to be bigger than I thought. I doubt Hank will talk to me, so I’ll have to go the ‘confidential sources’ route.”
“Your story? You mean you’re here on assignment?” I asked, surprised. I didn’t think Hank and Marion would allow journalists on the set while Adriana’s death was still being investigated. Nick had told me he’d called earlier that day for an interview and been politely given the brush-off.
And how did Carla know that Hank was down at the Cypress Grove PD? Was he a suspect? A person of interest? My mind was exploding with possibilities. I’d have to call Nick as soon as I could get away from the set.
“It’s more like an undercover assignment,” Carla said, lowering her voice. “I told Marion I was doing a piece on the problems associated with on-location shooting.” I raised my eyebrows. “I think she must have been preoccupied, because she actually believed me. Either that, or she thinks I’m an idiot.” She gave a little chortle. “On-location shooting. That would be a snooze, wouldn’t it? But at least it got me on the set. And now I can write whatever I want.”
“You’re writing this piece for an entertainment magazine?” I asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. This could be a lot bigger. We’re talking a major murder investigation; this has national interest.” She glanced at her watch and looked at Mom. “We need to go someplace private to talk. Are you free for a while?”
“Just for half an hour,” Mom said hesitantly. “Then I have to go back to Wardrobe.” Mom and I exchanged a look. Her eyes looked troubled; I knew she was thinking about Hank Watson. They go back a long time and I’m sure she was shocked that he was being interrogated by the police. I wondered if he really was the number one suspect, or if Carla was just trying to put together a good story.
I finished the last of my iced tea and stood up.
“I need to go back to the production office and find Sandra,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you later, Mom.”
Mom nodded, distracted by Carla, who had already pulled her close for a private conversation. Carla was talking a mile a minute, clutching Mom’s arm, probably urging her to say something inflammatory about Hank. Mom was an old pro at dealing with reporters so I wasn’t really worried about her. I knew she’d be careful about what she said, especially with a buzzard like Carla Townsend who would clearly do anything for a good story.
I had every intention of finding Sandra, but as I crossed the grassy area to the production trailer, my eye spotted a familiar figure walking along the shoreline. His arms were folded across his chest, and he was staring out at the sunlight glinting on the greenish waters of Branscom Pond.
Rafe! I felt a little bullet of emotion go through me. He turned at that moment and our eyes locked. It was like a freeze-frame; time stood still. The sun was high in the sky; the air, warm and moist. I could feel his eyes on me as I made my way over the narrow expanse of gray sandy beach toward him.
“I thought you were in town this morning,” I said.
A tiny smile flickered over his lips, but his dark eyes were steady, unreadable. “I’m going back to the station in a few minutes. I thought you were holed up with the Guitar Heroes.”
“The Guitar Heroes?” I echoed. “Oh, you mean the writers, those kids in the baseball caps.” I gave a wry laugh. “I haven’t gotten up with them yet. I’ve done some rewrites on the script but I need Hank’s approval before they type up the new version.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to get your input.”
“Maybe not. I pretty much gutted the scene and started over from scratch.”
Rafe raised his eyebrows. “It was that bad?”
I nodded. “It was awful. Bad dialogue, full of clichés and out-of-date expressions. A few lines were just so silly, I had to cross them out completely.”
I nearly told him that they’d gotten the courtroom scene all wrong, and stopped at the last minute. It would leave me open to being lectured by him on the idiocy of forensic psychology and I wasn’t up to it. I already knew Rafe’s views on the subject and I had something more important on my mind.
“I heard something at lunch that really worries me,” I began.
“Yeah? What’s that?” He moved a little closer and gently took my arm. “But first, let’s get out of the sun.” The heat was scorching; it felt like we were pushing against a solid wall of hot air and it was hard to draw a breath. We headed back toward the production office and stopped under a canopy that was set up over the drinks table. “So what’s bothering you, Maggie?” Rafe’s tone was measured, even.
“Hank Watson. That’s what’s bothering me.” I waited, and in true cop fashion, Rafe didn’t react. He could be a sphinx when he wanted to be, I reminded myself. His black eyes were shuttered, his mouth tightening slightly. There was a long beat between us and finally I couldn’t stand the suspense. “So is it true? Is he really a suspect in Adriana’s death? He’s your main suspect?”
“Who told you that?” Another cop trick. Answer a question with a question. His cell chirped. He pulled it out, looked at the display and jammed it back into his pocket.
“There’s a reporter on the set,” I said in a rush. “I don’t know if she’s just trying to create a good story or if she really knows something, but she seems to think that Hank is the only person you’re looking at. As the murderer, I mean.”
“That would be Carla Townsend,” Rafe said flatly.
“You know her?”
“She tried to interview me half an hour ago. I told her she was contaminating a crime scene and if she took one more step, I’d arrest her for obstruction of justice.”
“Oh no,” I said, nearly giggling at the idea. “What happened?”
“She backed off in a huff. I came down to the beach to escape her.” A wry smile crossed Rafe’s face at the memory. “It’s not a crime scene anymore, but she fell for it.”
“I wish I’d seen that.” I smiled back. “She can be pretty irritating.”
“Very irritating. Even for a reporter.”
“She knew Mom in the old days, in Manhattan and Hollywood.” I paused. “Mom thinks the world of Hank, you know. She’d hate to think he was being grilled as a suspect.”
“What do you know about him?” Rafe was looking at me very intently.
I thought for a moment. “Well, I don’t know him well, but he’s certainly likable. Actually he’s pretty darn charming and the actors seem to respect him.” I remembered the way Hank had swept Lola off her feet and had seemed genuinely glad to see her. And I knew she was thrilled to be included in his movie, even if it was just a small part. “He’s loyal to his friends and goes out of his way to stay in touch with them and do them favors,” I pointed out. “He seems to be a good guy in a business that’s full of players and sharks. So all in all, it’s really difficult for me to imagine him as a murder suspect.”
Rafe’s lips twitched in a sardonic smile. “What a ringing endorsement. And that’s your professional opinion, Dr. Maggie?” There was a sharp edge to his tone.
I knew something was up because Rafe only calls me Dr. Maggie when he wants to annoy me. Uh-oh, I was clearly venturing into dangerous territory here. “Well, maybe not my professional opinion as a psychologist,” I said, backpedaling quickly. “But I think I’m a pretty good judge of people. And Hank just doesn’t seem like a murderer to me.” I shrugged. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“A nice guy,” Rafe repeated slowly. “That’s interesting.” He spoke slowly and precisely as if I’d just said something incredibly stupid. He was about to say something else when suddenly he reached for his phone again, flipped the lid, and barked “Martino.” He listened for a long moment with his eyes narrowed. “Got it; I’ll be there in ten.” He pocketed the phone and faced me. “Look, Maggie, something’s come up. I have to head back to the station right away.” His face was closed, his voice tense. Rafe was back in cop mode. He speed-walked back toward the parking lot and I scurried to keep up with him.
“But wait a minute; what about Hank Watson?” I said. “I’d like to know if he’s really your key suspect.” It was the completely the wrong time to ask him anything, but I couldn’t help myself. My mind was starting to twitch and thoughts were sparking around my head like fireworks.
If the Cypress Grove PD was concentrating on Hank Watson as the killer, wouldn’t the real killer get away? It could have been that Sopranos character who murdered Adriana, Frankie Domino, or maybe someone who was on the set that day and was never interrogated. There were so many possibilities, why were the cops narrowing it down to one person? And why was that one person Hank Watson?
“Please, just tell me what you think,” I persisted. Rafe was hurrying down the row of cars in the Branscom Pond parking lot and I was still trotting along at his heels like a well-trained Labrador.
This time, he didn’t even bother making eye contact with me until he unlocked the car and leaned against it for a second. A flicker of amusement passed briefly over his face. “You don’t need to hear any police theories on Hank Watson; you’ve already got it all figured out. Nice guys don’t commit murders, Maggie, you said so yourself.” He waited a beat. “Unless they’re Ted Bundy, of course.”
And with that, he jumped into his geriatric Crown Vic, gunned the engine, and left me standing in a cloud of dust. Ted Bundy. Ted Bundy? That was Rafe, as enigmatic and infuriating as ever. And to think I’d let him drive away without coming up with the perfect zinger!
Chapter 11
Things were “hopping” (as Vera Mae would say) back at the station, and I dashed into the studio just in time for my show. The day’s topic was relationships, a subject that’s usually popular with my mostly female audience.
“Holy shit on a stick! You do believe in living on the edge, don’t you girl?” Vera Mae jumped up and slapped on her headphones. “I was all set to
run a retrospective of your best shows. You know, the ones Cyrus calls ‘Dr. Maggie’s Top Ten Audience Picks.’ I was going to play just a few clips from each.”
“You were?” I tried to think what shows she was talking about; I couldn’t imagine any of my shows being particularly memorable. I settled myself at the console, taking a few deep breaths to compose myself. My face was flushed and my brain was still skittering back to Rafe and the scene at Branscom Pond. “What are my Top Ten shows?”
“Well, the beauty pageant one you did was real popular,” Vera Mae said. “People always like it when a local girl makes good, and you had that sweet little Thelma Ann Hopkins as a guest.”
“Thelma Ann Hopkins?” I squinted to remember, finally bringing up the image of a teenybopper wearing a sequined blue bathing suit with white go-go boots and a dime-store tiara. It wasn’t a good visual. “Isn’t that the time a half-dozen ceiling tiles came crashing down while we were live on the air?”
Vera Mae grinned. “Yeah, that’s the one. I suppose we shouldn’t have asked her to demonstrate the talent portion of the competition for our listeners. Who knew her specialty was baton twirling? That sure didn’t come across very well on the radio, did it? Something like country music singing, or maybe reciting a patriotic poem, now that would have been real nice.”
“I do remember Thelma Ann,” I said, cringing a little. The show had been a train wreck from start to finish and the teen queen had hit the ceiling with her damn baton—twice—in her grand finale. On the double toss, the baton had lodged firmly in the acoustic tiles and a shower of white plaster dust had drifted down onto my head. “She was Miss Fire Prevention of Bartholomew County, wasn’t she?”
“No, that was her sister, Ruth Ann. They were identical twins, remember? You had a dickens of a time remembering which was which, if I recall correctly. Thelma Ann was Miss Sweet Potato Queen.” Vera Mae chortled. “Of course the folks listening at home had no idea. I held up those signs over those girls’ heads so you could keep them straight.”
Reel Murder Page 9
