Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  “Yes, that’s it!” Sandra said. “We’re all so worried about the movie and what’s going to happen to our careers. You understand, don’t you?” she asked Ted, who had moved in closer.

  “Of course.” He smiled, ever the polite host. “You must feel like you’re in limbo. The filming is at a standstill, yet you’re stuck here in our little town. It’s enough to stress anyone out. And of course, the terrible tragedy with Adriana.” He noticed Sandra and Sidney both were holding empty glasses and gently took them out of their hands. “Let me get everyone another round. Things will seem much brighter, I promise you.”

  “Is he for real?” Sandra asked when he’d hurried away. “He’s so damn nice and he’s always smiling. Give him a hat and a cane and he could be Jiminy Cricket.”

  My eyebrows shot up. Is that how Ted came across to people—as an irritating chucklehead? Couldn’t they see he was a just a genuinely friendly guy? “Ted’s for real,” I assured her. “He’s just one of these cheerful people. He loves what he does and he enjoys making people happy.”

  “Then he’s the polar opposite of Adriana,” Sandra muttered. “She lived to make people unhappy. I think she thrived on it.”

  “Let’s not speak ill of the dead,” Sidney said quickly. There was a long beat of silence and Sidney was the first to rally with a change of topic. “So, what is your area of expertise, Maggie? Forensics?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I did a lot of forensic work back in Manhattan. So when Hank invited me to the set to look over the script and do some consulting, I thought it might be fun. Usually it’s my mom who’s on the movie set. You probably know she’s playing a small role in Death Watch.”

  “Oh yes, Lola Walsh. Of course. I met her the other day; charming lady.”

  I listened to Sidney talking about his early days in the business and suddenly something clicked. “Yes, of course I remember you!” I said. “You did some work on Dynasty and Falcon Crest. And you starred in some thrillers, some very edgy, noir stuff; you were terrific.”

  “Sidney was going to be the new James Bond,” Sandra said. She patted his arm, her blue eyes clouding a little. “But it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to,” she finished, with a razor sharp edge in her voice. “It wasn’t fair; it really wasn’t.”

  “Fair”? I wondered what she was driving at, unless she was still on a rant about the vagaries of show business.

  “Sometimes fate intervenes in your life,” Sidney said lightly. “Things were going wonderfully for me for a while and a lot of terrific parts were coming my way. Everyone was sending me scripts; I could pick and choose the parts I wanted to play.”

  “They called him Hollywood’s Golden Boy,” Sandra interjected. “The next James Dean.”

  “Yes, well,” Sidney murmured, “like they say, that was then and this is now.” I must have looked surprised because he went on. “I guess some things just weren’t meant to be.” He rubbed his face with his hand as if he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. “Well, those days are over; no sense in dwelling on it. I’m lucky to be a working actor; I don’t need to be a star.”

  Ted appeared with refills for everyone, and after saying my good-byes, I darted back through the hedge, like Alice.

  A ruined career, a lifetime of playing second-string parts? My heart was beginning to jump and my gut feeling told me there was more to the story than Sidney and Sandra were letting on.

  I knew I had to find out more. It was time to compare notes with Nick.

  “Sidney Carter?” Nick’s voice raced over the line. “That was a big Hollywood scandal, or I should say, a big Hollywood cover-up. It was years ago, before my time, but I can check it out for you in a sec.” He paused. “How is this relevant to the murder?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I quickly filled him in on the conversation at the Seabreeze. I was still puzzled over how furious Sandra had been but I couldn’t make sense of any of it. As Rafe always says, “usually when people are pissed off, they’re telling the truth.” But what was the truth about Sidney Carter and how did it fit into the puzzle?

  Sometimes I think psychology is like detective work; both involve puzzles and require endless patience. When I was seeing patients back in my practice back in New York, I’d listen to their stories every week and try to make sense of what they were telling me. I had to figure out how all their hopes and dreams, their fantasies and disappointments fit into the big picture. What was relevant and what wasn’t? Which facts should I concentrate on, and which should I brush aside?

  I finally decided that everything is relevant. Failed marriages, career problems, financial woes; everything is connected, even though the patients never realize it at the first session. The “presenting problem” is often not the real issue; usually it’s just the tip of the iceberg. It might take weeks or even months to get to the real issue, as the clock ticks by in fifty-minute hours.

  It all feels like a giant jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be solved. Of course, some patients “fail to disclose” as they say in shrink-speak, and they decide to keep some of the pieces tucked away safely in their pocket. That makes the puzzle a million times harder to solve.

  I have the feeling murderers do the same thing.

  I kept the phone clamped to my ear as Nick tapped away. I’d just finished dinner and was sprawled on my bed, going over my notes for the next day’s show. Pugsley gave a soft grunt in his sleep—he was stretched flat out on my new Laura Ashley bedspread, without a care in the world. I’d like to believe in reincarnation, because I’d be happy to come back to earth as a beloved pug.

  “Okay, here’s the scoop on Sidney Carter,” Nick said finally, breaking into my thoughts. “His career took a nosedive because of an AIDS rumor. An AIDS rumor that Adriana started.”

  “That’s awful. Why would she do something like that?”

  “Who knows? The sad thing is, it wasn’t even true. He didn’t have AIDS. He never had AIDS. But once the word got out there, his career bombed.”

  “You’re saying people thought he had AIDS and no one hired him?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Nick’s voice was soft but the undertone was deadly. “This was the eighties, after all. Things were different back then and the disease was poorly understood. Do you remember when Burt Reynolds lost weight because of a TMJ problem, and everyone thought he had AIDS? Loni Anderson talks about it in her autobiography. She said her own hairdresser banned her from his Beverly Hills salon—he thought her presence there might upset the customers. They might think that if she was married to someone with AIDS, she could be contagious herself.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yes, but that’s the way things were back then. It looks like Carter’s last decent role was in a thriller, Call at Midnight. Everything after that is character roles, small parts, nothing memorable. No doubt about it. He never scored another big part.”

  “It’s still hard to believe his career ended up in the toilet because of a rumor.” I carefully edged some papers out from under Pugsley, who had started to snore, face twitching, paws racing like a greyhound’s.

  “Those were crazy times, Maggie,” Nick said. “Even the hint of AIDS was the kiss of death for a film career. I can make a few calls tonight and find out more details. AP has cut back on their stringers, but I still have a few friends who cover entertainment on the West Coast. Want to do lunch tomorrow? Meet you at Gino’s to compare notes?”

  “Sure, sounds good. Gino’s at twelve.”

  I flipped the phone shut and thought for a moment. So Sidney Carter’s career was killed by a false rumor. But why didn’t anyone refute it? Was it the sort of thing that once it’s out there, the damage is done?

  Chapter 14

  “An early day on the set, sweetie. Are you up for it?”

  It was barely six thirty, but Mom was already bustling around the kitchen, and the delicious smell of french vanilla coffee was wafting through the air. Lark was frying some veggie sausage and my stomach ga
ve a happy gurgle when I spotted the Belgian-waffle maker sitting on the counter. Lark loves to cook and one of her recent discoveries is waffles made out of heart-healthy almond meal, topped with a homemade fresh blueberry sauce. Delish.

  My idea of breakfast is a strawberry Pop-Tart along with a few cups of java, but Lark is determined to “educate my palate,” as she calls it. I have to admit, she’s winning. Her waffles are world-class, and if she ever tires of her paralegal studies, she could be a gourmet chef.

  “I think with three cups of coffee, I’ll be ready to go,” I promised. “Just pour on those calories and caffeine.” Lark placed a steaming plate of waffles and veggie sausage links in front of me along with a side dish of sliced mango and kiwi.

  “I want you to eat every bite,” she said, wagging her finger at me in mock reproach. “You need more than coffee, Maggie. Remember, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Yeah, and my body is my temple,” I kidded right back.

  “Speaking of temples,” Mom cut in, “do you think this Goddess look is too mature for me?” She was holding up a gauzy pale green dress with flowing lines and thin ribbons crisscrossing the bodice. It was floaty and diaphanous, with a Grecian flair. She’d pulled it out of a Nordstrom’s bag, and I wondered if she’d picked it up at Sawgrass Mills.

  “Wow, Lola; that’s fantastic. Is it new?” Lark stepped back from the counter and nearly tripped over Pugsley, who’d taken up a strategic spot in the middle of the kitchen floor, practicing his “Oliver Twist” routine. His roly-poly body quivering with excitement, Pugsley fixed Lark with an unwavering doggie stare. His eyes were the size of Ping-Pong balls, and his tongue was lolling out of his mouth in a trademark pug grin. Feed me! his body language screamed.

  With Pugsley, begging for food has reached the level of performance art. It’s street theater, all the way.

  All he has to do is flash that bug-eyed pug stare and we cave, showering him with all sorts of delicious treats. Today was no different. Lark reached down and popped a veggie sausage link into his mouth. It was like putting a quarter into a vending machine. It disappeared instantly.

  “It’s not my dress,” Lola said, sniffing slightly. “It’s from Wardrobe but I’m not even sure it suits me. They want me to wear it in the party scene; you know, scene twenty-three?”

  “Scene twenty-three? So filming has started up again?” I asked around a mouthful of Belgian waffles.

  “Fingers crossed,” Mom said. “Nothing is definite but the AD called late last night and said things might get rolling again this morning.”

  “But how did you get the dress?” Lark asked.

  “Oh, Rhonda was a sweetie and let me take the dress home a couple of days ago so I could try it on with heels and jewelry. I have to bring it back this morning and give her the verdict.”

  “Why didn’t you just try it on for Rhonda while you were on the set yesterday? Wouldn’t that have been easier?” I took my first sip of french vanilla coffee. Perfecto. My neurotransmitters revved into high gear, and my synapses connected. It takes caffeine for me to have a functioning brain.

  “I just hate trying things on in Wardrobe you know? No privacy. I feel like I’m in the dressing room at Loehmann’s! All those mirrors, the unflattering lights, people gawking at each other.” She blew out an unhappy sigh and held the dress up to her chest, biting her lower lip.

  I wondered if Mom felt intimidated by all the size zeros and double zeros in the Wardrobe trailer. Drop-dead gorgeous twenty-year-olds with fake tans and perfect Barbie doll bodies, all squealing happily as they wriggled into barely-there designer clothes.

  True confession time: I wouldn’t like to get undressed in front of them, either.

  “Well, I think it’s lovely and I bet it looks terrific on you.” Lark was tactful, as always.

  “I don’t know; I think it was intended for someone, you know, older.” Lola paused. “It might be a little too mother-of-the-bride, you know? Something about the pastel color and those flowing lines. I don’t want to look like Queen Elizabeth inspecting the Palace Guard.”

  Lark and I locked eyes over Mom, who was decked out in a denim miniskirt, pink crop top, and chandelier earrings. “Mom,” I said firmly, “no one would ever mistake you for a matronly type. Or for the queen, or even the mother-of-the-bride. Trust me on this one,” I added as Lark smothered a giggle. “I like the dress; tell Rhonda you’ll wear it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She never suspected that I had my fingers crossed behind my back.

  “Oh, Maggie, I’m so glad you’re here early,” Maisie said an hour later. “We need to talk.” Mom and I had just arrived on the Death Watch set and checked the call sheet. Apparently the cameras were rolling again, because Mom was scheduled for hair and makeup followed by the party scene filming at 11:00 a.m. sharp.

  She had only a few lines in that scene, but I knew that Mom would manage to steal the show. Whenever Mom’s in a group shot, she figures out a way to stand out from the other actors. She’s the one laughing a little too gaily, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder with abandon, or winking flirtatiously across the table. It’s become a running gag with the cast and crew. They call it “The Lola Walsh Effect.” Just keep the camera trained on Lola, because that’s where the viewers are going to be looking, anyway.

  “Toodles, sweetie.” She grabbed a coffee and gave me a hurried wave before dashing across the grass toward the makeup tent. The Grecian-style dress was tucked into a garment bag under her arm, and I wondered what the final decision would be.

  Maisie pulled me to the side, away from the cast members who were making a stampede for the craft services table. The big shiny catering trucks had just rolled in and the workers were unloading hot breakfasts in white Styrofoam containers along with gallons of coffee and boxed doughnuts.

  “Is everything okay?” I wondered if the Guitar Heroes had objected to my script changes and was bracing myself for some possible fallout. Mom had warned me that scriptwriters are notoriously temperamental and that “the boys” wouldn’t appreciate my tampering with their dialogue in the courtroom scene. I reminded myself that Hank, as the director, had the final say-so in the matter, and after all, he was paying for my expertise.

  “Are you kidding? Everything’s more than okay,” she said, breaking into a wide smile. “Maggie, I’ve gotta tell you, you did a fantastic job on those revisions; you really nailed it. Hank was so pleased.” Maisie was wearing her long red hair in two braids today. If I wore my hair that way, I’d look like Pippi Longstocking, but Maisie, in her black denim jeans and Boho top from Miu Miu looked very hip, very L.A.

  “Really?” I felt a little frisson of relief go through me. “I’m glad he liked it. I didn’t want to step on any toes”—I lowered my voice—“but there were a few things that needed to be smoothed out.”

  Maisie’s headset made a squawking noise and she yanked it off and looped it around her neck. “Just between us, Hank isn’t thrilled with the scriptwriters. Sometimes I can’t believe Beavis and Butthead have actually won five Emmys between them. It just shows there’s no justice in this world. They’re no Einsteins; believe me. Just look at them!”

  She gave a little snort and nodded toward the scriptwriters, who were playing basketball outside the production office. Someone had duct-taped a cardboard box to the outside of the trailer to make an improvised hoop and they’d managed to dredge up a battered basketball. They glanced over, gave me a blank stare, and then went back to the game.

  “Are they annoyed with me?”

  She grinned. “Maybe a little. But don’t worry about it. Hank’s the one paying your salary and he’s thrilled with you. That’s all that matters.”

  She was right. The director called the shots. Everything else was smoke and mirrors. “So what’s on for today?”

  Maisie consulted her clipboard as her headset squawked again. “We’re shooting some exteriors and the party sc
ene. If you want, you can just go over some dialogue with Sandra and talk to her about her character, or you can keep working on the script on your own. I know Hank’s paying you by the day, so you don’t have to report to anyone. Just do whatever it takes to get the job done; that’s all he cares about.”

  “That’s good to know.” This was turning into a very sweet gig, as Nick would say. Maybe with Death Watch on my resume, I could pick up some more movie work, assuming of course that Death Watch did reasonably well at the box office. If it tanked in a really spectacular way (think Water-world ), then it would be best left off my resume and never mentioned again.

  The headset squawked again. This time she glanced at her watch and blew out a little sigh. I had the feeling Maisie was always running late, that she was one of those chronically overscheduled people whose life was spinning out of control. One Xanax away from a nervous breakdown, I thought idly. “All the actors are at your disposal and you can go wherever you want on the set,” she said in a rush. “You can watch the filming, hang out with the actors, do whatever you want.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “It sounds great. I guess I’d like to start by spending some time with Sandra, if I could.”

  “Sure, no problem. Help yourself to some coffee and doughnuts and I’ll send her right over. She said she really learned a lot from talking with you the other day. She likes you.”

  One of the Guitar Heroes glanced over again and gave me the evil eye. I stared right back and he gave me a death glare and broke eye contact. If he thought he was going to intimidate me with his frat boy antics, he had “another think coming,” as Vera Mae would say. I’ve gone one-on-one with murderers, rapists, and convicted felons in my forensic work. It’s going to take more than a couple of twenty-something surfer-dudes in baseball caps to give me the heebie-jeebies.

  I smiled at Maisie. “It’s always good to have friends. You never know when you might need them.”