The other guy came up from his drink just long enough to mumble, “Twenty damn years, dude.”
“Zane Carter?” I asked, addressing the second guy. He was rocking the shaved-head look and was dressed in a spandex shirt straining against a belly that looked about six months pregnant. “Keyboards, right? Loved what you did on ‘Hit That Booty, Baby.’ Such an inspiring song.” Do I know how to wikipedia someone or what?
Zane nodded, sipping again. “Thanks, dude.”
“We wanted to offer our condolences on your loss,” Allie said, sitting on the couch beside Griffin and laying a hand on his arm. “What a tragedy.”
He nodded, looking down into his drink. “Yeah. We’re going to have to cancel half the tour. Major bummer.”
I raised an eyebrow. Not exactly the sentiments of a grieving friend. “Were you close?” I asked, taking a seat opposite him on a white leather chair that squeaked as I sat.
He shrugged. “Used to be.”
“You mean back when you guys were…,” I trailed off, hesitating to say “actually popular.”
Griffin nodded. “Yeah, man, we were all tight back then. But, you know, things happen. People drift apart. Dusty was…,” He paused, his eyes searching his glass for the right word.
“Dusty was a cheating bastard!” another voice finished for him.
I looked up to find that the singer, Baxter, had finished his call and joined our group. And he clearly had no love lost for his bandmate.
“Really?” I asked. “What did he do?”
Baxter shook his head, bushy gray hair flying in all directions with the movement. “That jerk was cheating us out of millions. He wouldn’t release our song rights.”
“Baxter and Dusty wrote all of our early songs together,” Griffin jumped in. “‘Christmastime Girl’ is doing so well that our record company wants to release some more of our remixed stuff. But Dusty wouldn’t give up his half of the rights.”
“Why?” Allie asked. “I mean, it seems like it’s been good for all of your careers.”
“He said it was too commercial. That we were selling out,” Baxter said, waving his arms like I’d seen him doing earlier on the balcony. Clearly, he was one high-strung guy. “I told him damned right we were. And it’s paying off in cold, hard cash, man!”
“So what happens now that Dusty’s gone?” I asked.
Griffin’s head shot up, his eyes finding me for the first time since Allie’s twins walked into the room.
“Uh, I mean, I’m such a fan, I’d love to hear more remixed music,” I quickly covered, realizing we’d asked a lot of questions for a pair of hot groupies.
Baxter shook his head. “Yeah, I’d love to hear more, too. I’ve been on the phone with my lawyer all day. This legal shit gives me a headache.” I watched him pull a nicotine patch from his pocket and slap it next to three others already on his forearm.
“Hey, you guys were the closest to Dusty when he fell. Did you see anything funny happening?” I asked. I know, pretty blunt. But considering I was dealing with two drunks and a guy high on nicotine patches, I had a feeling subtle would have been lost on this audience.
“What kind of funny?” Griffin asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just…isn’t it weird that he fell from a seated position?” I watched the faces of the three band members closely for any sign that they might have had something to do with said fall.
Griffin looked down at his drink for more answers. Zane found a piece of lint on his protruding belly inordinately interesting.
But Baxter jumped on my wording. “What do you mean? Are you trying to say he didn’t accidentally fall?” Maybe it was the extra patch, but he was sharper than I gave him credit for.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would anyone want to push him?”
“I can think of millions of reasons,” he shot back.
“Like the millions you’re losing by not releasing more songs?”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed at me. “Hey, I didn’t push the dude,” he said, wagging a painted black fingernail in my face.
“I didn’t say you did,” I quickly backpedaled, throwing my hands up in a surrender motion.
“Look, yeah, I was pissed at Dusty, but you want to know who really profits with him out of the picture?” Baxter countered.
I leaned forward. Did I ever.
“That girlfriend of his. Tami Trix.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Why is that?” I asked.
“Tami’s been running through his money ever since they got together back in the day.”
It clicked. Tami was the vixen I’d seen in the “Summertime Girl” video. I’ll admit, I was surprised she and Dusty were still together. They must be hitting their triple-platinum anniversary in rock-star-relationship years.
“So, you think Tami killed him for the money?”
“Hell yeah, I do,” Baxter said. “Dusty’s finally loaded again, and guess who has her hand in all of it?”
“I’m gonna say Tami,” Allie answered.
“Damn, girl, brains and beauty,” Griffin said, edging closer to her.
Allie forced a smile, but I could swear I saw her shudder just a little.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get to follow the girlfriend line of inquiry, as the woman with the clipboard piped up from the bedroom doorway. “Okay, guys, we’ve got the satellite link up for the Dateline interview,” she announced.
Zane groaned, and Baxter muttered a swearword under his breath before applying another patch to his forearm.
“Don’t you ladies go nowhere,” Griffin told Allie’s boobs as all three bandmates made their way toward the bedroom on the left.
“Oh, we won’t,” Allie promised, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
The second they were out of eyesight she stood up and did a full-body shudder. “Ick. The things I do for a story.”
“You and me both, girl,” I told her, thinking about what I’d promised to do in return for her favor. “Come on. Let’s go hit up the video vixen.”
After polling my network of informants—which consisted mostly of talent agents’ interns, extras on TV shows, and the well-placed craft service personnel—I learned that Tami Trix was currently mourning the death of her longtime boyfriend at the bar in the lobby of the Oceanside Inn.
Luckily, it appeared my informants trumped other reporters’ informants, as we were the only paparazzi on the scene. Tami sat alone at one end of the dimly lit bar, nursing a martini. Even with twenty-plus years added, she looked like she could still caress the hood of a car with the best of them. She was slim, had long, straight blonde extensions that ran all the way to her waist, and a smooth, fully Botoxed complexion. Her legs were encased in black stockings, ending in a pair of heels that were at least as high as my gas bill. A black miniskirt and a low-cut black blouse that showed a pair of man-made double Ds capped off her mourning attire.
“Tami?” I asked, approaching the woman.
She looked up, a pair of red-rimmed eyes blinking at me below long fake eyelashes.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Tina Bender,” I told her, sticking a hand out to shake hers. “I’m with a local news outlet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No comment.”
Yeah, I get that a lot.
“I’m so sorry about your loss,” I said. Which was the truth. “I’m not here to hassle you.” A half-truth. “I just wanted to get a personal look into Dusty’s life. A real human piece, not the usual tabloid fluff.” Total bullshit.
She looked from me to Allie, her eyes taking in my Slutty Barbie companion. I could see her straighten her spine in a competitive gesture. “My manager said not to talk to the press,” she finally said.
“The truth is we’re not just press,” Allie said, stepping out from behind me. “I’m also a former video dancer, like you.”
Tami and I both raised our eyebrows at this confession.
“You are?” Tami asked.
Allie nodded
. “Before I got this gig, I did crunking for Ice Pic and gangnam dancing for Fry.”
“You mean, PSY?” Tami asked.
Allie shook her head. “I wish I did,” she said with an impressively straight face.
I turned away to cover the snort of laughter bubbling up in my throat.
Tami put a hand on Allie’s arm. “We all have to pay our dues at the bottom, honey.”
“Thanks,” Allie said with a sniff.
“What can I help you with, doll?” Tami asked.
It was as if Allie had done the secret handshake of the video vixen sisterhood.
“We’d love to know more about Dusty and his newfound fame and fortune,” I started.
Tami shrugged. “What is there to tell? He was hot, then not, then hot again.”
“How long were you two together?” Allie asked, taking the bar stool next to Tami. I took the one next to Allie, leaning over to see Tami’s face as she responded.
“Forever,” Tami sighed. “Twenty-six years. Can you believe it?”
“That’s a long time. I’m so sorry about the loss of your husband.”
“Ha!” Tami said, pulling an olive off a toothpick and popping it into her mouth. “Not husband. ‘Boyfriend.’” She did exaggerated air quotes. “Ridiculous, right? But Dusty said he didn’t believe in marriage. He didn’t want all those suburban trappings—wife, kids.” The sudden sadness in her eyes told me there was a good chance he was alone in that belief.
“But he surely treated you like a wife, right?” I prodded. “I mean, you lived together, he supported you, probably named you in his will…”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Look, if you’re trying to imply that I get something out of his death, you got another think comin’, missy,” she said, wagging an acrylic nail at me.
“How so?” Allie asked, inserting herself between us.
Tami sighed. “Look, we were together, but my lawyer says his ‘next of kin’ will inherit everything. And that would be his son.”
“Son?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows go north. None of my googling had produced any mention of a son.
“Yeah.” She snorted. “Gold-digging brat.”
“I take it you’re not close?”
She shook her head. “And he and Dusty weren’t, either. He didn’t even know the kid existed until a couple of months ago.”
I leaned in closer, not even caring that my elbows hit a sticky spot on the bar. This was getting good. “What do you mean?”
“Look, three months ago Dusty tells me this guy showed up saying he’s his kid. I guess the kid’s mother had passed away recently, and he finally felt free to track his dad down.”
“How old is this ‘kid’?” I asked, liking the idea of another suspect.
“Twenty-three,” she replied. “Almost exactly. Dusty made me attend this big birthday bash last month for his son. Totally overdone. But Dusty said he missed so many along the way, he wanted to make it up to him.”
I felt my eyebrows draw together. The kid is twenty-three, and Tami and Dusty had been together for twenty-six years. It didn’t take a math genius to realize that Dusty had some ’splaining to do.
“Yeah, I know, I know,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Dusty said he met Skip’s mom while he was in rehab. We’d broken up for a couple of months then, Dusty was vulnerable, yada, yada, yada. It was a fling. He never saw her again, and we got back together as soon as his rehab stint was over.”
“Only, now Skip is in the picture,” Allie pointed out.
Tami pursed her lips together and nodded. “Oh boy, is he. You know, he was the one who convinced Dusty to do this whole ‘Christmastime Girl’ thing.”
“Wait—” I held up a hand, my mind moving at warp speed. “Do you mean ‘Skip’ as in Skip Warner, the record producer who put out ‘Christmastime Girl’?”
Tami nodded. “Duh, who else?”
Talk about small world. Or big coincidence. Skip Warner was known as the current whiz kid of the music biz. And Skip’s long-lost dad just happens to be an easily exploitable rock star? And according to the band, Skip was pushing for more songs to record that dear-old-dad didn’t want to give up?
The plot thickens.
“So, Skip shows up saying he’s Dusty’s long-lost son,” I summarized. “Then he convinces him to cut a platinum single, and now stands to inherit everything with his father dead?”
Tami took a long sip of her martini, leaving red lipstick stains behind on the glass. “That about sums it up. Sucks, right?”
It might suck for Tami, but it seemed like it shot Mr. Rock Producer up to number one on my suspect list.
“So let’s go crash Warner’s office and confront him,” Allie said, fairly bouncing on her toes as we left the bar.
“Oh, sure,” I replied. “Places like ABC Records let tabloid reporters in to see their executives all the time.”
Allie shot me a look. “Well, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it.”
“Sorry,” I said. The truth was, I was getting anxious about tying up this story on time. Tami fulfilled Felix’s “close source,” but my “spin” so far was all theory and no meat.
I looked down at my watch. “Look, I don’t think there’s any chance of getting in to see Skip today, and I’ve got a date in a couple of hours, so…,” I trailed off, walking toward my ride.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Allie grabbed the back of my tank. “You promised you’d help me get Felix’s key.”
Crap. I had promised, hadn’t I?
“Today? Now?” I asked, hearing a slight whine creep into my voice.
“Yes, now. I neeeed that key!” Wow, she had me beat in the whining department by a mile.
“Fine!” I huffed. Allie had held up her end of the bargain playing not only Slutty Groupie but Slutty Video Vixen. It was only fair that I held up mine. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll distract him. You just wait until I get him away, then go into his office and find the key.”
It sounded easy enough. “Where does he keep it?”
Allie gave me a blank look. “Well, if I knew that, I’d get it myself.”
I hated it when the blonde made sense.
As promised, fifteen minutes later I pulled my Rebel into a slot in the Informer’s parking lot and rode up the elevator. As soon as it dinged open, I saw that Allie had beaten me there. She was already in Felix’s glass-walled office, leaning over his desk, whispering something to him while displaying a healthy amount of cleavage. I’d say one thing for her: she had this distraction thing down pat.
I set my purse on my desk, booted up my computer, fiddled with some Post-its, and generally tried to look busy, all the while keeping one eye on the office. Allie had better speed this up. I didn’t want to be late for Cal because of her stalkerishness.
Finally, Allie leaned in and whispered something in Felix’s ear that must have been really good, because his face went red, and he popped up from his desk, quickly following her out of the office and down a short hallway to the restrooms.
Ick. I so did not want to think about what sort of distraction she was providing in the men’s room.
I gave them a two count, then grabbed a random stack of papers and made my way to his office. Once inside, I made a big show of putting the papers—which I now saw were last week’s style-watch reports—on his desk for any other Informer employees who might see me there. The downside of glass walls: nothing was really private in there.
I nonchalantly pulled open the top drawer of the desk, hoping I looked like I was searching for a stapler or something as I dug through its contents. Rubber bands, paper clips, movie stub, a credit card that expired three years ago, some rock-hard stale gum. I tried the next drawer. More of the same.
Four desk drawers and way too many minutes later, I still had nothing. I was starting to get nervous. I wasn’t sure just how long Allie planned to keep him distracted. And if he caught me here, I was dead.
Having exhausted
the drawers, I straightened up and looked around the small office. A bookcase sat to one side, a file cabinet on the other. For Felix’s wrinkled shirts and general disheveled appearance, he was freakishly neat in his office. No tchotchkes on his shelves, no clutter on his desk. It was surprisingly efficient but left precious few places for a snooping employee to look.
I made for the file cabinet, saying a silent prayer that it was unlocked. Because, duh, I couldn’t find a key in this place for the life of me.
Luckily, the gods of breaking and entering were on my side, and the first drawer slid open easily. I did a quick glance through the glass walls of the newsroom. If anyone saw me here, there would be no explaining why I was in the boss’s private files. At least none that would save my hide.
The files were all categorized with neat typewritten labels. Open stories, pending interviews, employee files. I resisted the urge to dig into the last one for any notes on myself that might be best purged from my permanent record. Instead, I peeked into the folder directly behind it, labeled To the Kingdom. I grinned. Surely Felix’s sense of humor wasn’t that good…
I slipped a hand into the file and, sure enough, came out with an entire ring of keys in different shapes and sizes. Which one went to the Informer’s supply closet and which to Felix’s house in the Hollywood Hills, I had no idea. That was for Barbie to figure out. I quickly slipped the entire ring into my pocket.
Just as I looked up and saw Felix and Allie round the corner, heading right back toward me.
Holy sitting duck.
I looked left and right, but there was nowhere to hide in the neat glass office. I squirmed like a fish trying to disappear in a glass bowl. I was trapped. I quickly dove for the pile of papers I’d left on Felix’s desk just as he opened the door, a frown pulling between his sandy brows.
“Bender?” he said, cocking his head at me in a silent question.
“Hey, boooosss,” I replied, drawing out the word in a cadence that sounded guilty even to my own ears. “How’s it going?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the frown deepening. “Fine. What are you doing in here?”
Hollywood Holiday Page 3
