Reel Murder

by Kennedy, Mary

  “Oh, you can give that one to someone on your staff, or maybe even have a radio promotion giveaway. Do you ever do contests?”

  “Well, no, actually. At least we haven’t so far.”

  I suppose we could have some sort of contest to promote her book, but why should we? The lines would be clogged with callers, and it would be a giant headache for the staff. I hoped Cyrus hadn’t promised her anything except the guest spot on my show. That was bad enough.

  She settled herself in the visitor’s chair next to me and crossed her legs. Uh-oh. She reached into her bag and pulled out a grande latte from Starbucks. I never allow anyone to bring food or drinks into the studio, but now that she’d already plunked down the coffee cup on the console, what could I do? It would be a little awkward to snatch it away.

  Luckily, Vera Mae saw the problem and came bustling in from the control room. “I’ll just leave this for you over here,” she said, whisking away the offending coffee and settling it on a low table by the door. “I’m Vera Mae Atkins, the producer,” she added by way of introduction.

  “Oh, yes, we spoke on the phone. I just have to tell you, I am such a fan of the show,” Shirley said. “You have the most exciting guests. Here, I brought a personalized copy for you, too.” She reached into her seemingly bottomless Coach tote bag, and pulled out another copy. “This book will change your life!” She gave a triumphant smile, as if she’d done something impossible—like David Copperfield levitating over the Grand Canyon, or making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

  “Well, now that’s really sweet of you.” Vera Mae looked a little startled. “I’ll get right down to reading this tonight.”

  “And be sure to call me if you have any questions, or if you just want to talk,” Shirley said, oozing sincerity. “I put my unlisted phone number on the card, and you can always reach me on my cell, my BlackBerry, or my landline. And of course, I’m on Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Gather, and LinkedIn. All my online contact information is on the back, including my Web site, my publicist’s private line, and my five blogs.”

  This was a woman who was clearly in love with herself. Narcissistic personality disorder, I decided. Like the mythical figure Narcissus, she was entranced by her own reflection and thought we should be, too.

  “Vera Mae, look at the time!” I said urgently. The second hand was winding down to 12; we’d be live in a heartbeat. Enough with the love fest!

  “Oh lordy,” Vera Mae squealed, making tracks for the control room. She jammed her headphones over her ears, twirled a dial, and pointed at me. “Go!” she mouthed.

  The lines were jammed with callers, and to my surprise, Shirley did a good job on the air, even if her answers sounded a bit practiced. Her speech had a certain robotic effect. It was as if someone had implanted a Chatty Cathy chip in her memory storage banks, allowing her to give the right answer to any question.

  Were there a finite number of comments on the chip? What if she encountered something unfamiliar, something she hadn’t been programmed to handle? Would she suddenly come to a squeaking halt like the esteemed psychiatrist Dr. Smoot? Luckily no one surprised her with any trick questions and I felt myself begin to relax. I let my mind roll downstream as she peppered her remarks with personal vignettes and feel-good stories.

  They were inspirational, often straining credibility, but the listeners ate them up. (“I told her to visualize a pile of money coming her way. Just as she was going to be evicted from her house, a mysterious stranger came to her front door with a million dollars!”)

  Still, the time passed quickly, and since I didn’t have to concentrate on the show, I could think more about the case. There were so many troubling aspects, so many loose ends. It was depressing to think that all I had were leads, no solid suspects, and I wasn’t close to finding the killer. I had the nagging feeling I was overlooking something important; but what?

  And now there was a new element to be considered—the threatening notes I’d received. Were they real, were they pranks, or were they connected to Adriana’s murder? Was I really in danger, and had my “sleuthing” caught up with me? Rafe had always warned me that my “detective work” would be the death of me, no pun intended.

  I knew Rafe would have an opinion on the notes and he wouldn’t be afraid to mince words.

  Rafe. I caught myself smiling, just thinking about him. In spite of the craziness, the emotional turmoil, and the gut-wrenching stress of a murder investigation, Rafe was always a bright spot in my life. He was exciting, dangerous, and had enough sex appeal to melt my bones.

  I glanced at my watch. Another half hour and I’d call him.

  Chapter 27

  Nick called just as I was saying my good-byes to Shirley Dawson and promising to “do lunch” with her sometime soon. I put him on hold, and told him I’d be right back.

  Shirley passed out a half-dozen more promotional copies of her book to the WYME staff, including Irina, who was intrigued by the idea that you could attract money just by visualizing it. Just make a wish, and you would be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.

  “But this is, how you say, amazing, really good stuff,” Irina said, flipping through the pages. She stared at Shirley, who was beaming at her in the reception area. “You mean, just by thinking many good thoughts about money, dollars will come to me. Is that simple?”

  “It sure is, sweetie,” Shirley said. “It’s a secret, but I’m happy to share it. I’m revealing it to the whole world! Life as we know it will never be the same.”

  Hmm. Another insight into the wacky mind of Shirley Dawson.

  Shirley believes she holds the key to a world-shattering secret that will change the future of mankind. Ooo-kay. Grandiosity, anyone? Check your DSM for details. (The DSM is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, every clinician’s bible.) We’re talking serious bipolar disorder here, and we’ll keep the narcissistic personality disorder as well.

  “In my country, many people do not have money to spend, not on food, not on clothes, not on nothing. Sad, very sad.” A cloud passed over Irina’s model-perfect features, and she tapped her fingernails thoughtfully on the book cover. “Maybe I mail this book home to my cousin Sergei; he reads a little English. This maybe help him do better in life.”

  “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Irina,” Shirley said, her eyes moist. “What a touching story. I love the idea that I can reach out to people across the world!” She took Irina’s hand and squeezed it, her face radiant. “I promise you that this book will change your cousin’s life, and the lives of his whole family.”

  “I think so, too,” Irina said, her face lighting up in a smile. “If Sergei has money, he will be happy. So is good news for everyone.”

  “Yes, money will bring him happiness and security,” Shirley agreed. “And most important of all, it will bring him freedom. Don’t forget, Irina, freedom’s just—”

  Another word for nothin’ left to lose? No, wait, that’s Janis Joplin.

  “—the key to a happy life,” Shirley finished.

  “Yes, freedom.” Irina repeated the word slowly, rolling it around her mouth, her tone hushed and reverent. “You are right, very right. If Sergei has money, his life will change for good.” She nodded her head up and down several times, her blond tresses bobbing against her neck.

  “That’s true.” Shirley clasped her hands together in front of her chest, steepled her fingers, and looked pleased with herself. She’d just brought another follower into Camp Shirley.

  “And you know best part of all this?” Irina asked. Her shoulders heaved in a happy little sigh.

  “What’s that?” Shirley’s green eyes glowed with pride. I bet she was already planning on how to incorporate this touching story into her next media appearance.

  Irina smiled. “With money, Sergei not have to rob no more liquor stores, or sell no more drugs on street. As you say, dollars will just fall in lap. My mother and sister will be so happy, no more prison time for him. Whole village will celebra
te.”

  Prison time? Selling drugs on the street? Whoa there, missy, too much information! Shirley’s eyebrows knotted together in disapproval. Uh-oh. I guess she won’t be using Irina’s touching story in her next media appearance, after all.

  “Er, yes, quite right,” Shirley said, straightening up and backing away from the reception desk. She was moving at a good clip, heading for the double glass doors that exited onto the parking lot. “Thanks again, Maggie!” She flashed another Hollywood smile at me along with a cheery wave as I scooted back to my office to take Nick’s call.

  “Hey, you kept me on hold long enough,” he protested. I heard his fingers tapping away in the background.

  “Sorry, I was saying good-bye to a guest.” I figured I’d save the Shirley Dawson story for the next time Nick and I met for lunch at Gino’s. “What’s up?”

  “My L.A. contact did a little more research and something interesting came up on that actress, Lori Taylor. You talked with her on the set, right?”

  “Yes, but it was just for a couple of minutes. She seemed very sweet. Of course, Carla Townsend couldn’t resist making a sniping remark about Lori’s husband having an affair with Adriana, and Lori walked away in a huff. Carla’s always ready to dig up dirt on someone; that’s her stock-in-trade as a sleazoid journalist, I guess. The sad thing is, it’s probably true in this case. It seems that Adriana liked to sample the talent, and Lori’s husband is a good-looking guy.”

  “Did Lori seem angry?”

  “More hurt than angry, I’d say.” I paused. “I can’t believe Lori would have what it takes to kill someone, even if she did want Adriana out of the way.”

  “There’s more to Lori than meets the eye.”

  “Meaning what?” I pictured the pretty young actress chatting with me on the set. There was something vulnerable about her, something that went beyond her delicate features and soft voice.

  “Did you know she used to live in Utah?”

  “No, it never came up. Why’s that important, anyway?”

  “She was part of a survivalist group out there.” Nick waited a beat to let this new information sink in. “We’re talking a David Koresh type of compound.”

  “Yikes. Survivalist?” I couldn’t imagine Lori ever being part of a group like the Branch Davidians.

  “Yeah, it surprised me, too. Appearances can be deceiving. She could be a steel magnolia; you know?”

  “I can’t believe it. She looks so fragile, so innocent. She’d have to be brainwashed.”

  “Look what happened to Patty Hearst.”

  I flashed on that iconic photo of Patty Hearst holding a submachine gun. “You’re right. Anyone can break under pressure.” I thought of the young girl’s heart-shaped face and silky blond hair. “Poor Lori; she seems as delicate as a flower.”

  “She’s into firearms and she’s an expert marksman. That little tidbit was buried in a TMZ piece about her.”

  My brain finally kicked into high gear; there was no way I could ignore the latest intel. Fact number one: Lori Taylor was a whiz with firearms. Fact number two: she might have a good reason for wanting Adriana out of the picture. “So you’re saying, she’d have the technical know-how to rig the prop gun with the pellet? She wouldn’t have any problem doing that?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  My mind was reeling with this new information. I was so shocked, I could hardly take it all in. I wasn’t sure what to do next, and made a mental note to find out more about Lori.

  Nick and I promised to touch base later that day, and as I hung up, I noticed the message light blinking. Oh, no! I’d missed a call from Rafe when I’d been ushering Shirley Dawson out of the studio.

  Rafe’s message was characteristically short and to the point.

  “Maggie, some new information has come up. Do not do anything further on the case; got it? Don’t do anything until we talk.” He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else and I heard people talking in the background, station house noises and phones ringing. Had he come up with a new lead? Had he nailed a suspect? “Gotta run. Talk to you later,” he signed off brusquely.

  I was going to be in the dark until I managed to talk to Rafe again.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t continue my own investigation, did it? I was about to leave for home, when I saw the light blinking with another message: Lola.

  Her voice was the opposite of Rafe’s, breathy and excited. She told me not to bother with dinner because she was on her way to Miami for another movie audition. A movie audition in Miami? Mom’s new agent, Edgar Dumont, must be more on the ball than I’d thought. She hadn’t given any details, just that she knew this was her “big break.”

  Since Lola has been talking about her big break for the past thirty years, I hoped she hadn’t gotten her hopes up too high. With Lola, it’s all about catching the shiny brass ring, even if it means riding the merry-go-round a few million times hoping for the big payoff..

  Live in hope, die in despair, as Vera Mae always says.

  Luckily Lola believes only the first half of that sentence.

  Chapter 28

  “Was Lola excited about the audition?”

  “Excited? That’s an understatement. She was over the moon. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so jazzed about anything. It sounds like a big deal, the second female lead, with loads of dialogue. The kind of role she can really get her teeth into.”

  Lark and I were having an after-dinner cappuccino on the tiny balcony of our condo. It was a lovely evening. The setting sun was casting an orange glow over the garden below, the bougainvillea were full of scarlet blooms, and a hint of honeysuckle wafted over us.

  It’s a peaceful place, and we could look down at a pretty little fountain spilling into a pond. This is my favorite place to relax, and Lark, a yoga freak, does her early morning Salute to the Sun out here. Pugsley even has his own little canvas doggie bed on the balcony, although naturally he prefers to sit with us.

  Lark was sitting on one of the navy canvas deck chairs I’d picked up at Target, her legs tucked up under her. “You should see her bedroom. It looks like it was ransacked; she must have tried on a dozen outfits before she went flying out of here.”

  “Wardrobe malfunction?”

  “More like a wardrobe meltdown. She couldn’t find anything that was just the right match for the role.”

  “Oh, no.” I pictured Lola dressed as a geriatric version of Hannah Montana. Not a pretty picture and I blinked to erase it. I watched the copper-green metal dolphins twirling in the spray of the fountain. “How bad was it?” I asked, trying not to wince. “Tell me the truth, don’t try to spare me.”

  Lark smiled. “It’s not as bad as you think. Or what you’re probably picturing in your mind’s eye.” Lark knows I have an all-too-vivid imagination and visuals tend to get locked in my head forever. Once they take up residence in my memory bank, I can’t seem to shake them. “She was all set to wear that bright yellow halter top that you hate—”

  “The really plunging one? The one Lindsay Lohan wore on MTV?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” Lark made a face. “I finally told her that it showed up her tan lines; it’s the only way I could talk her out of it. She finally settled on a nice tropical print blouse from Ann Taylor with white capri pants. Pretty conservative, actually. Especially for Lola.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I felt a happy little whoosh of relief. Not that I expected Mom to dress like she was going to a Junior League luncheon, but I was glad that she wasn’t dressed too outrageously. “It sounds like Edgar is doing a better job for her than I thought.”

  “Edgar?” Lark swept Pugsley onto her lap and nuzzled her face in his soft fur. “What do you mean?”

  “Edgar Dumont, you know, her new agent. He’s the one who must have set up the audition for her today. Funny, I guess I had him pegged all wrong. I figured he was going to sign her up with the agency and then just ignore her and concentrate on his younger
clients.”

  “Wait a second; that can’t be right.” Lark turned to me, her eyes troubled. “I don’t think Edgar had anything to do with this audition today. Lola got a phone call from some Florida producer and he told her to be in South Beach at four this afternoon. It’s some sort of private audition for an indie film.”

  “An indie film?”

  “She said she’d never heard of him or the production company. I think she left a message with Edgar’s secretary but no one got back to her.”

  My heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. An unknown producer calls her out of the blue to audition for an indie film? And of course Lola, being Lola, took off like a rocket to get there. Why should that surprise me? Mom has always been impulsive; acting quickly and intuitively is part of her personality style. Usually her shoot-ready-aim philosophy pays off for her. But this time I had my doubts.

  “Do you remember the name of the company?”

  “No, I don’t think she mentioned it. I know she tried to google it but nothing showed up.”

  “Really?” Alarm bells were clanging in my head.

  Lark must have caught my frown because she put Pugsley down and stood up, twisting her hands in front of her. “Lola didn’t seem too upset over it. She said sometimes producers come into town and rent space for a few days to hold auditions. So if you try to google them, you don’t get any hits, because it isn’t a permanent address. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  A horrible thought slammed in my brain. Would someone actually threaten Lola to get to me? It seemed unlikely, and I tried to quell the little twinges of paranoia nibbling at the edges of my mind.

  I told myself there was nothing to worry about.

  But what about the Klieg light and the two threatening notes I’d received? I flashed on the mutilated photos that were sent to the station—they were enough to make anyone paranoid. My stomach churned just thinking about them.

  “Lark, do you happen to know where Lola went in South Beach? Was her appointment in the Art Deco section?” As long as Mom was surrounded by plenty of tourists and activity, I knew she’d be safe. After all, four o’clock was broad daylight and there would be people jamming the sidewalks, having coffees and taking in the sights.