Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  “I’ll say. Somebody really did a number on it. They took out the wadding, glued a BB pellet to it, and then stuffed it back in. Pretty clever, huh?”

  “Carla, are you sure about this? It was definitely murder, then?” A bubble of disbelief was rising in me. Adriana would never win the Miss Congeniality Award, but who hated her enough to kill her? And who would know enough about prop guns to tamper with one?

  “I’m as sure as I can be.” Carla nodded sagely. “There’s no way it was a joke. A pellet being expelled with that kind of velocity could easily kill someone. Especially at close range. Boom! Blunt force head trauma and you go straight to that big movie set in the sky.” She giggled at her own wit.

  “The whole thing is just baffling,” Mom said, looking shattered. She sat down on a battered sofa and fanned herself with a take-out menu. It was crushingly hot in the trailer and I was eager to escape, but first I had to find out what else Carla knew. Her sources were clearly better than mine; she seemed to be a gold mine of information, and so far, I’d come up with nothing.

  “Baffling?” Carla said archly. “Maybe, maybe not.” She paused for effect. “Do you remember how Hank got his start in the business, Lola? Those early days out on the West Coast?”

  “Of course I do,” Lola snapped. “I was there, remember? I left New York a few months after Hank did, and by the time I got to Hollywood, he was already making a name for himself.”

  “He managed to get a job on a movie set,” Carla said snidely. “I’d hardly call it making a name for himself. His very first job with Don Bellisario. And do you know what he was hired to do?”

  “Lighting design, I think,” Mom said, frowning. “Or maybe he was a gaffer.”

  “Wrong!” Carla chortled. She popped open a bottle of Crystal Geyser, took a hefty swig, and stared at us. “He started out in props for Magnum P.I. and then he parlayed that into a job with Rudy DiSabatino. You know who Rudy is, don’t you Lola?” Carla’s voice was soft and wheedling. She turned to me, pinning me with her steely blue eyes. “In case you’re not up on Hollywood trivia, Maggie, Rudy is one of the best special effects guys in the business. Isn’t that right, Lola?”

  Mom’s face took on an unhealthy hue. “I don’t recall that,” she said stiffly. She shifted slightly on her chair as if she was bracing herself for an attack.

  Carla inspected a bloodred fingernail, drawing the moment out. “Rudy was a genius at special effects and his real area of expertise was ballistics.”

  Ballistics. The word hung in the air for a moment like a thought balloon over my head. My synapses finally connected and my stomach flipped over at the word.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Lola said quickly. “If you’re trying to suggest that Hank had some kind of technical knowledge that would help him tamper with a prop gun, well, you’re on the wrong track, that’s all.”

  She struggled to sit upright on the sagging couch that was so low, it practically dragged on the trailer floor. She licked her lips and gave a nervous blink. This kind of tic is called a “tell,” an automatic response to strong emotion. I could see Lola was shocked by Carla’s news and trying not to show it.

  Carla had probably studied up on body language because her eyes widened and she gave a smirk. “I think it’s pretty significant, Lola. Maybe Hank isn’t what you think he is and you’re letting friendship get in the way of your judgment.” She let the silence draw out for a moment.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mom said tightly.

  “Is it?” Carla started ticking off items on her plump fingers. “Let’s see; we have a movie director who wants to get rid of his leading lady. Why?” She struck a pose, pretending to be deep in thought like the Rodin masterpiece. “Oh, wait, I know! He wants to get rid of her because she’s a pain in the ass, and he has his hottie waiting in the wings. The hottie wants a chance at stardom. In fact, she’s insisting on her chance at stardom or she’s threatening to tell wifey about the whole sordid affair.”

  “All of this is just conjecture,” Mom sputtered, but Carla held up a warning finger.

  “If you think that, you’ve got your head buried in the sand, Lola. Facts are facts. The movie director happens to be a whiz at ballistics. He would know exactly how to rig a prop gun and not leave any evidence.”

  “Is that true?” I blurted out. “Are you saying there weren’t any fingerprints on the gun?”

  “No trace evidence; no fingerprints. The barrel of the gun was wiped clean, sweetie. Naturally Jeff Walker’s prints were on the trigger, because he’s the one who fired the gun. But is he the one who rigged the gun? I don’t think so.” She looked at me carefully. “Really, for someone in the media, you seem to be out of the loop. Maybe you need to develop some new sources.”

  “Maybe so,” I said with gritted teeth.

  “Where did you get your news from, Carla?” Mom snapped. “The National Enquirer?”

  “I’ve got credible sources, Lola.” She peered at Mom’s flushed face. “It’s nice to be loyal, Lola, but even loyalty has its limits. You’re going to have to face facts about Hank eventually, and if the police think he’s the guy, they must have something to go on.” She picked up her oversized tote bag and flashed a self-satisfied smirk. “So, we’re talking motive, means, and opportunity. Remember, ladies, you heard it here first.”

  “That loathsome woman!” Lola said, the minute Carla had left the trailer. “I always knew she was mean-spirited, but this is just over-the-top.” She looked at me searchingly. “I don’t know why the police have focused on Hank, do you? Could you ask that nice detective friend what’s going on?”

  “Rafe? I can ask, but I’m not sure how far I’ll get.” I thought of Nick Harrison. “There’s someone else I can talk to, though. Let’s get out of here, and I’ll make a phone call after dinner.”

  It was a lovely south Florida evening, soft and balmy, the air scented with honeysuckle, but my mind was ricocheting with ideas. Traffic was heavy on I-95, and Mom and I were quiet, lost in our own thoughts.

  I’d hoped to have a word with Hank Watson before we left the set, but he was closeted in his trailer with Marion Summers and I didn’t dare interrupt them. The future of Death Watch hung in the balance—it all depended on what happened to Hank. This was a white-knuckle time for both of them.

  I still hadn’t seen Tammilynne Cole, his main squeeze, and I wondered if Hank was deliberately keeping her out of sight. If Carla knew about his fling with the young actress, that meant other reporters knew and it was only a matter of time before his affair became public knowledge. Carla didn’t seem like the type who would keep a secret. Any minute now, the rumor mills would be going into overdrive and Hank’s marriage would be in a crash-and-burn mode. Or maybe Hank’s wife already knew and the “secret” wasn’t a secret after all?

  There were so many pieces to the puzzle and I tried to put them together, my mind buzzing with possibilities. I fiddled with the radio and finally found an oldies station, one of Mom’s favorites. The mellow sounds of Phil Collins swirled around us, but nothing could soothe my jangled nerves.

  I thought about Frankie Domino, the mafioso I’d seen wandering around the set, and I wondered if the mob was somehow involved in the production. It seemed like a pretty far-fetched idea, but this was a crazy business and nothing would surprise me. I hadn’t seen the mobster on the set again, but he could be staying somewhere in town and maybe he was even having private meetings with Hank. Note to self: find a way to check this out.

  And what role did Marion Summers play in all this? According to Nick, she and Adriana had a “history.” But how would Marion benefit from the movie star’s death? As far as I could see, she wouldn’t. There was no way Adriana’s death was a good thing for Marion or for the production. Having a leading lady shot to death on the set could only cause headaches for Hank and Marion and maybe even financial disaster for the movie company.

  Plus a ton of bad publicity, and Marion had enough problems without that. Too much bad
press and the backers might pull out. And then what? The movie would be in “turnaround hell” while Hank and Marion scrambled to find a new source of funding.

  “I still can’t get over what Carla said about the prop gun,” Mom said, breaking into my thoughts. “It sounds a lot more complicated than I thought. It wasn’t just a matter of jamming real bullets into the gun. It must have taken some planning and technical know-how.”

  “Exactly. I was thinking the same thing.” I was still pondering the shooting when we pulled up in front of my condo. I live on a leafy street in a quiet, residential neighborhood that’s carpeted by banyan trees. My thoughts were still swirling. Whoever had killed Adriana had planned it carefully. So that meant it couldn’t have been a crime of passion. There was nothing spontaneous about Adriana’s murder. Someone had methodically removed the wadding and tampered with the gun to turn it into a lethal weapon. I wondered if most people who spent a lot of time on movie sets would have the know-how to do that?

  “What’s going on tomorrow out at the set?” I asked Mom. “Are you shooting any scenes?”

  “They’re taking it day by day. I wonder if anyone really knows how long the production will be shut down? Marion must know, but she’s not talking.” She heaved a little sigh of disappointment. “She wouldn’t win the Miss Congeniality prize.”

  I nodded. The area near the lake was still barricaded with sawhorses, and a few officers patrolled the beach during the day. Nick had said the production would be back in business in forty-eight hours, but maybe he was being overly optimistic?

  Every day lost was an added expense. Hank had to pay the cast and crew whether or not they worked, and from what I’d heard, some of them were looking on it as a paid vacation, running up tabs at local bars and restaurants. You could hardly blame them. Without the cameras rolling, the set was like a ghost town.

  The moment we walked in the door, Pugsley threw himself at us, barking joyfully, as if we’d been gone for months. That’s the nice thing about pugs; they get excited over the little things in life. Forget moonwalks or presidential elections. My coming home is a major event in Pugsley’s doggie life. His feet were tapping the polished wood floor like tiny castanets, and Mom scooped him up for a giant hug while I checked for phone messages. Nick had called a couple of times; nothing urgent.

  “I’m making dinner tonight,” Lark called from the kitchen. “Veggie pot pie, but it won’t be ready for half an hour. Is that okay?”

  “That’s perfect. I need to make a quick trip next door to the Seabreeze.”

  Lark nodded, and Mom didn’t hear me. A Latino radio station was pounding out the pulsating rhythms of Juan Carlos Caceres and Mom was teaching Pugsley to tango. She was executing a progressive side step, holding Pugsley firmly in her arms while he looked up at her adoringly and tried to lick her chin. If they ever decide to have a canine version of Dancing with the Stars, Pugsley could be a contender. He might not have the dance steps, but he has the style and charisma. Ole.

  Chapter 13

  I zipped through an opening in the hedge of fragrant gardenia bushes that separates our condo building from the Seabreeze. Ted Rollins, the owner and general manager, was serving mimosas on the front porch and chatting with the guests. I figured this was the perfect time to mingle and pick up some information from the set.

  The wide-planked porch is definitely one of the major draws of Ted’s bed and breakfast. With wicker gliders and cushy rocking chairs, it’s the perfect place to kick back and relax during the complimentary cocktail hour.

  The porch is a showplace—a tribute to Ted’s attention to detail and his design skills. Baskets of lush ferns hang from the rafters and porcelain pots of primrose are artfully arranged around the chairs. The smell of night-blooming jasmine danced in the air along with the muted sounds of a Vivaldi concerto.

  “Maggie!” Ted rushed forward to greet me. He gave me a brotherly hug and gestured to the drinks and snacks he’d laid out on a glass-topped table. “What can I get you? A mimosa? White wine?”

  “White wine would be nice,” I said. The porch was crowded with guests, and I recognized quite a few members of the Death Watch cast and crew. “Looks like a full house tonight.”

  With its pale lemon exterior and glossy white ginger-bread trim, the big Victorian looks more like a private house than a B and B. Only a discreet, hand-painted sign made from white birch, announces guests are welcome. When the inn is full, Ted simply brings the sign inside. I noticed the sign was conspicuously absent tonight.

  “It’s been like this ever since the film company came to town,” he said, pouring me a hefty glass of Chardonnay. “They’re a great group, though, very enthusiastic. I’ve never had movie folks as guests before; it’s been quite an experience.”

  The truth is, Ted likes everybody. If he was hosting a serial killer convention, he’d probably find something good to say about each one of them. Ted guided me over to the railing, away from the chatter.

  “How are you, Maggie? This must be a difficult time for you. A murder on the set; it’s hard to believe.” He shook his head, his expression troubled. “And I understand that you were there when it happened.” Ted reached out and gave my upper arm a little squeeze. “I’ve been worried about you. This is a lot for you to deal with.” His brown eyes were full of puppy-dog devotion and he let his hand trail lightly down my arm.

  His touch was warm and comforting, and for one crazy moment, I felt like laying my head on his strong shoulder for a quick cuddle, and then I came to my senses. It would only give him false hope. I pulled back and wrapped my hands around the stem of the wineglass.

  The thing you have to understand about Ted is that he’s smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. He’s probably Cypress Grove’s most eligible bachelor, and everyone—including my mother—can’t understand why I won’t go out with him. Lola always claims that someday she’s going to “pull a Demi Moore” and date him herself. I think she’s only half kidding.

  Ted is everything I should be looking for in a guy, except there’s a complete lack of chemistry between us. Like the song says, it’s just one of those things. He doesn’t make my heart go pitter-patter like a certain detective does, and I don’t have X-rated fantasies about him.

  Here’s how I would sum it up: hugging Ted always gives me a warm, cozy feeling inside.

  But then so does hugging Pugsley.

  I took a sip of chilled Chardonnay; it was dry and delicious. “Yes, I saw the whole thing; it was awful. In fact, I can’t get the picture out of my mind.” My skin prickled when I thought of Adriana lying on the sand with a sea of dark red blood pouring out of her chest.

  “I can’t believe they’re going to keep on filming,” Ted said. “But from what I hear”—he gestured to the gaggle of guests attacking the cheese puffs—“the show must go on.”

  “I always wondered who came up with that slogan—” I began.

  “A producer, of course! Who else?” Sandra Michaels suddenly appeared beside me, accompanied by an older actor who looked vaguely familiar. She was her usual bubbly self, but I sensed a nervous edge to her banter. She swallowed half her mimosa in one gulp. “That’s what they always say, isn’t it, Sidney? Actors don’t have personal lives, do they? We’re just paid to get up there and play our characters, no matter what. It’s all about the show, all about the profits.”

  His brows rose a fraction and he managed a small laugh. “That may be true. But all of us love the business too much to leave it, don’t we darling? If we weren’t actors, what in the world would we be doing?” He smiled at me and extended his hand. “Sidney Carter. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Maggie Walsh.” I paused, taking a closer look at him. Finely chiseled features, tall with a good build, thick hair that was gray at the temples. “Your name is familiar, but I can’t seem to—”

  “Don’t worry, no one recognizes me.” He flashed a wry grin. “I’m not a star. I’ve always been a second-string actor; you know
, the ones who turn up in minor roles in loads of films. The third male lead, the guy you never remember.”

  “Sidney, don’t talk about yourself that way! Sidney is an amazing actor,” Sandra said firmly, her cheeks high with color. “He has the best training of anyone I know, and he should be starring in films, not playing character roles.” Her voice had ratcheted up a notch or two and I wondered how many mimosas she’d had. “It’s just the nature of this crappy business. It grinds you up and spits you out, and we have no control over our careers—”

  Sidney laid a restraining hand on her arm, his smile never wavering. “Now Sandra, we don’t want to ruin the magic, do we? Civilians like to think that we have the best jobs in the world.” I knew from Mom that movie and theater people always referred to the rest of the population as “civilians,” meaning anyone who wasn’t in show business. He turned to me. “I hear you’re working as a consultant on the set. I’m afraid things are at a standstill at the moment, though.”

  “Yes, I wanted to ask you about that,” I said quickly. “Is there any news about when Hank will resume filming?”

  Sidney swirled his mimosa around and stared glumly into his glass. “I suppose whenever a suitable period of mourning for Adriana has passed,” he said sardonically. He gave a humorless little laugh.

  “A period of mourning for Adriana? That would only take a New York minute,” Sandra piped up. Sidney shot her a warning look and she flushed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that all of us are used to working and this enforced . . . vacation . . . is getting on our nerves. Not that this isn’t a lovely place,” she said quickly to Ted, who was hovering nearby. She glanced out at the expanse of manicured lawn, graceful palms, and colorful bougainvillea. The palms were swaying gracefully in the night air, as if they were lulling themselves to sleep. “Under different circumstances, I think I could really enjoy Cypress Grove.”

  “It’s a charming town,” Sidney offered. I had the feeling he was saying it just to be polite. He took a swig of wine, his brows knitted in concentration. “I’m afraid our nerves are a bit frazzled tonight.”