A Star is Dead

by Elaine Viets

  ‘Did you find out anything at all?’

  I couldn’t kill that hope on his face. ‘I have a clue,’ I said. ‘Do you know what this jingle means? It’s not the red – it’s the blue. Breakfast is on you.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘No. Why would someone worry about breakfast?’

  ‘I don’t think that jingle was about breakfast,’ I said. ‘Becky, the homeless woman who was on-stage that night at the Lux, told me.’

  ‘Why not ask her?’

  ‘I can’t. She’s dead.’

  His eyes widened – even the beat-up one. ‘Dead! That is terrible. Was she attacked on the street?’

  ‘No, she was turning her life around. She’d sobered up and had a job. She was killed in her hotel room.’

  ‘Oh. I am sorry.’ Mario had had a difficult time when he first came to the US from Cuba during the 1980 Mariel Boatlift. That’s when Castro threw out homosexuals, criminals, and other ‘undesirables.’ Mario left with nothing, so he had some idea how hard Becky had to struggle for her achievements.

  ‘Who killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I suspect it was the same person who killed Jessica. Becky knew something. I asked her friends about that jingle and they don’t know what it means, either. But I think it was about something red or blue that was in the limo when Jessica was killed.’

  ‘I saw Will holding a red lipstick,’ Mario said. ‘He was brushing it on Jessica’s lips when she had that coughing fit. She collapsed and died before he could finish.’

  ‘Anything blue you remember? Maybe some eye shadow?’

  ‘Blue? Will would never use blue on Jessica.’ Mario sounded as if everyone knew that. Everyone but me, the woman who had to swear that she’d have her hair done before she went anywhere.

  ‘There must have been something blue in that limo,’ I said. I could visualize the interior as it roared up to the ER – sleek, black, speeding to deliver Jessica to her horrible death.

  ‘Becky wasn’t in the limo.’

  ‘She was at the hospital, and she told me she went through everyone’s belongings when Jessica’s staff spent the night at the hospital. I’m sure Becky helped herself to some of their money.’

  ‘So? They should have paid her more. I want to help, but I don’t remember anything blue in the limo. Maybe it was on the video I took on your phone the day Jessica died. Have you been able to watch it?’

  ‘No, I tried to start the phone up last night, but it didn’t work. But Katie says there are lots of programs to get it going.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Mario’s apology was cut off when a guard signaled our time was up. I pressed my hand to the Plexiglas and Mario pressed his, and I said goodbye. It was as close as we could get.

  When I got to my locker and recovered my phones, I saw a message from Will, Jessica’s make-up artist. ‘Hey, Francesca,’ he’d texted. ‘Want to have a goodbye drink tonight at Solange? I leave for LA tomorrow evening at 6:30.’

  I’d been trying for days to reach that man. I quickly texted back that I’d meet him in the bar. I had just enough time for Carlos to do my hair. I am a woman of my word. Besides, the Forest is so small Mario would find out if I’d disobeyed him.

  When I called Killer Cuts, Raquel the receptionist told me Carlos could see me immediately. That was not a good sign.

  The salon was ominously quiet. Not a single stylist was working. Even the manicurist wasn’t reading magazines or painting her nails at her station – she was gone.

  Raquel was still beautiful, but the strain was showing. Small dark strands escaped her normally perfect chignon and her face was pale and drawn. ‘Change into a robe,’ she told me. I quickly changed. All the dressing rooms were empty.

  ‘Carlos will be here momentarily,’ Raquel said when I came back out.

  ‘You had to call him in?’

  ‘Yes, but he wanted the work. You’re our only client today. Even our regulars have canceled their standing appointments. I may have to close the salon by the end of the week if business doesn’t improve.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I felt as if I was hearing about a death. The salon was Mario’s life’s work.

  ‘I just talked with Mario,’ I said. ‘He didn’t mention anything about that. He seemed to be doing fine.’

  ‘Really.’ Raquel’s voice was flat with disbelief. The empty salon chairs mocked my words.

  ‘OK, Mario was as well as can be expected,’ I said, ‘but we didn’t talk business – except he made me promise to get my hair done before I went anywhere.’

  Raquel managed a small smile. ‘Now I know you’re telling the truth. That sounds like Mario.’

  ‘I’m working on the case,’ I said. ‘I tracked down another witness this morning. Monty is doing his best, too.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, and gave me another smile – a tired one. ‘You’re all working hard. But we’re running out of time.’

  Fortunately, Carlos came bursting through the salon door, lugging his styling case, and ended that discouraging discussion. Carlos is in his mid-twenties, with sharply cut features like a fine cameo, and long raven hair, which he’d tied back. I envied him his thick eyelashes, and many women mourned the fact that he was gay.

  ‘Angela!’ he said, and sat me down in a leather-and-chrome chair. ‘We’ll have you fixed up in a minute.’ By the time Carlos finished washing and blowing out my hair, it was more like ninety minutes, but my hair did look better. Carlos was almost as good as Mario.

  I hurried home to change into my little black dress and heels to meet Will. When I arrived at Solange at 6:37 that evening, Jessica’s make-up artist was impatiently checking his watch. The bar was packed with suits. By day, Solange was a ladies’ lunch spot, but at night the Forest’s movers and shakers took over the restaurant and bar. They didn’t mind its pink-and-black decor, and they admired themselves in its amazing mirrors.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, taking a seat at the bar next to Will. He had a neat scotch in front of him, and judging by his breath, it wasn’t his first.

  ‘You’re worth waiting for,’ he said. The soft pink lights of the bar really were flattering to everyone.

  ‘A gallant answer,’ I said.

  His hair was combed straight back and he wore a black sweater with a distinctive rust design that brought out his dramatic red hair.

  ‘Dynamite sweater. Did I see that on an actor somewhere?’

  Will looked pleased. ‘You did. Ethan Hawke, in GQ.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’m meeting Stu here at seven o’clock,’ he said. ‘We want to discuss some of the details of winding down Jessica’s show and taking her back home to California. Personal things.’

  There was a long silence, until it suddenly dawned on me, ‘And you want to discuss them here without me.’

  ‘Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.’ He looked so charming, I couldn’t be angry. No wonder Mario had fallen for him.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘No need to apologize.’

  I saw the bartender hovering nearby. ‘Where are my manners?’ Will said. ‘I forgot to ask. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘A Cosmo,’ I said, almost defiantly. I didn’t care if it was a cliché. I liked that drink.

  ‘We should order some appetizers.’ Will picked up the small menu. ‘What’s toasted ravioli?’

  ‘It’s a local specialty. The ravioli is deep-fat fried. You dunk them in a tomato-based sauce.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough grease and gravy here. No offense.’

  ‘None taken,’ I said, and shrugged. ‘I don’t cook.’

  He signaled the bartender and said, ‘I’ll have the pork belly sliders, and the lady will have a Cosmo. An appetizer for you, Angela?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Another drink, sir?’ the bartender asked.

  ‘Make it a double,’ Will said.

  ‘So you’re leaving tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, all of us. Jessica is being cremated at a private ceremony at
nine tomorrow, and Stu will take her ashes back home tomorrow night.’

  ‘Is Stu going to have a memorial service?’

  ‘Definitely, a big bash when we’re back in LA,’ Will said. ‘He’s already hired an event planner and he’s having a studio prepare a slide show. He says Jessica wanted to be cremated. At the memorial service Stu can use her favorite photos and everyone will remember how glamorous she was.’

  My mind flashed back to her body in the hospital room – a scrawny, shriveled woman with thin hair, fake boobs and a flat, flabby rear end.

  ‘She’ll go out in style,’ I said. ‘What will you be doing when you get back home?’

  ‘I have two offers, including one in Beverly Hills, and there’s some interest in my make-up line. I’m taking a meeting with investors next week.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said.

  He’d downed his scotch and ordered another double. I nursed my Cosmo.

  ‘I’m glad the cops caught Jessica’s killer so we can leave,’ he said.

  ‘I’m happy you can go home, but I don’t believe that Mario killed her. It makes no sense. He was thrilled to be her stylist.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have given her the drugs,’ Will said.

  I wanted to slap his treacherous face. ‘Percocet and Xanax didn’t kill her.’ I tried to cool the anger in my voice. ‘Maybe you can help me with something, Will. Becky, the homeless woman who was on-stage at Jessica’s last show, told me: It’s not the red – it’s the blue. Breakfast is on you. Do you know what that means?’

  Will frowned, and swallowed his scotch in one gulp. ‘Uh, no. Ask her to explain it.’

  ‘Can’t,’ I said. ‘She was killed before I could meet her.’

  ‘She was?’ Will’s eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t know him well enough to tell if he was really surprised or faking it.

  ‘You don’t remember anything red or blue in the limo, Will?’

  ‘I was brushing on Jessica’s red lipstick before she got sick and she wore a red sweater, but I can’t think of anything blue.’

  Will was sweating now. He said, ‘Bartender! Another double! Would you like another drink, Angela?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘I found Becky’s body.’

  ‘That must have been terrible,’ Will said. The bartender set down his double and the pork sliders.

  ‘It was terribly sad,’ I said. ‘She was turning her life around.’

  I let that sentence hang there before I finally said, ‘I also found two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills squirreled away under her mattress.’

  ‘She definitely must have been doing well.’ Will took a long drink.

  ‘One of those bills had a Beverly Hills salon’s number scribbled on it: the Jorge Cantata Salon.’

  Will’s eyes darted around the room. ‘I saw some well-dressed women at the Du Pres party. Maybe one of them was going there for a makeover.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘They can get a good makeover here in the Forest for a lot less. A haircut by Jorge is five hundred dollars. Besides, that Beverly Hills salon is looking for a make-up artist.’

  ‘So? They want to talk to me about a job, now that I’m free.’

  ‘Why did you give Becky two hundred dollars, Will? And don’t deny it. The cops have printed those bills.’

  He bit into his pork belly slider. For a man tired of grease, I saw a big lump of grilled fat on his tiny sandwich. ‘OK, I gave her the money, but it wasn’t two hundred. It was five hundred dollars, actually. I felt sorry for her. Jessica only gave her a hundred and the poor woman was humiliated.’

  ‘Did you give money to Suzy and Denise, the other two women? They were also laughed off the stage. And don’t lie. I’ve already asked them.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t find Suzy and Denise is bat-shit crazy.’

  Fair enough, I thought. Poor Denise was terrified of everyone, and it took me half a day to track down Suzy in her new digs.

  I noticed Will never said that Becky could have stolen the money. ‘Give me the real reason you gave Becky five hundred bucks,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll tell the detectives on her case your connection to the phone number on the bill.’

  Will sighed. ‘OK, Becky was blackmailing me. She said I groped her.’

  ‘You groped Becky?’

  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘She claimed it happened at the hospital, the night Jessica stayed. Yes, I’m gay and she’s a mess – she doesn’t even bathe – but because of the #MeToo movement I couldn’t risk it. Not now, when I’m trying to line up investors for my make-up company. It was easier to pay her off, and five hundred was a fortune to her. Would you like another drink?’

  Sweat was running down his forehead. ‘It’s hot in here. I need some air.’ Will called for the check and handed the bartender his credit card. He used a paper cocktail napkin to wipe the sweat off his brow. He looked toward the door and waved someone over.

  ‘It was nice talking with you, Angela, but Stu is here. We need to talk.’

  ‘May I ask him about Becky’s jingle?’

  He looked doubtful, but I hurried to crush any objections. ‘It will just take a second of his time. I promise.’

  He relaxed slightly. ‘OK. Just make it quick. Please.’ That please was definitely an afterthought.

  Stu was all smiles tonight as he pushed through the crowd to us. Once again, he was totally dressed in black – from his well-cut jacket to his T-shirt and pants. I thought he was trying to look hip rather than mourning for his wife. Stu wore his sunglasses, though it was pitch-black outside. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, and ordered a double bourbon, neat.

  ‘Angela,’ he said, his smile fixed. ‘Will told me he was meeting you for a drink. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to join us.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  The bartender swiftly set the bourbon on the bar top next to Stu. ‘Becky, the homeless woman who was in Jessica’s show, wanted to meet me for breakfast. She recited an odd little jingle.’ I quickly told him, then said, ‘And before you ask me why I didn’t ask her, I couldn’t. She was dead – murdered in her hotel room.’

  Stu looked shocked. At least, I thought so. His eyes were hidden by those dark glasses.

  ‘Really? She was the one who took off her clothes on-stage, right? That’s too bad,’ he said. ‘Have the police connected her death to Jessica’s?’ He downed his double in one gulp.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘The cops think Jessica’s killer is in jail.’

  Stu looked at Will. ‘I think it’s too crowded in this place to have our discussion,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to the Forest Inn. We can talk in my room.’

  Will nodded. Stu grabbed the check off the bar, and presented his card to the bartender. Before I knew it, I was being hustled out of the bar between both men.

  ‘Thanks for the drink, Will,’ I said.

  We walked to the door and he handed the valet his ticket. So did Stu.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ Stu asked.

  ‘I’m the black Charger by the back wall,’ I said.

  ‘The one under the light?’ Will asked.

  ‘That’s it.’ Will’s anonymous silver rental car had arrived and I was hoping he’d give me a ride to my car. I was regretting my killer heels.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Will said, tipping the valet and getting into his car.

  Stu’s car was next, and it was an exact copy of Will’s rental. I lingered a moment, hoping he’d offer me a ride, but he tipped the valet, and was adjusting the seat when I set off for my car.

  I didn’t realize how far away I’d parked. By the time I was past the first row, my stiletto heels were torturing my toes. By the second row, I was hobbling, with a blister on my heel. That’s when I saw headlights coming down the aisle. They were aimed straight for me. Couldn’t the driver see me?

  Of course not. I was wearing black. The silver car revved up, as if it were aiming for me. I limped quickly across the aisle, but the car seemed to follow me. It speeded up as it
neared me, and I threw myself over the boxy trunk of a faded gold Mercury. I held on, as the silver car peeled off the Mercury’s bumper, then roared out of the lot.

  I was gasping for breath. The valet came running.

  ‘Ma’am! Are you OK?’

  I finally caught my breath, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Some crazy fucker tried to kill you.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Damn, woman, are you lucky,’ the valet said. His face was even paler than most Forest dwellers’. Even in the parking lot’s dim light, I could see that – and the dark roots in his blond hair.

  ‘Lucky!’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘My dress is ruined.’ I had a long rip, almost to my hip, on the side of my favorite cocktail dress.

  ‘And look at my shoe!’

  When I’d leaped onto the trunk of the Mercury, I’d lost a high heel. The killer car had run over one of my black Stuart Weitzmans. The heel was broken and the sleek black satin was torn off. This was a double loss: my late husband had admired those sexy shoes.

  ‘That could have been you,’ the valet said, pointing at my crushed shoe.

  I presented a scraped, dirty hand for an introduction. ‘I’m Angela.’

  ‘Garrett,’ he said.

  Now I heard sirens approaching the restaurant. ‘I called the police,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ Despite a bloody scrape on my right knee, Garrett was checking out my legs.

  ‘Did you see the car that nearly hit me?’ I was shivering so hard my teeth were chattering.

  The valet’s eyes were wide and he was talking too fast. ‘It was silver, but I didn’t get any license number and I couldn’t see the make. I’d just brought back three silver cars in a row: a Toyota, and two silver Chevy Malibus. Those last two were rental cars. A fourth silver car that was too cheap to valet was leaving the lot. I have no idea which car it was that tried to run you down.’ Garrett talked like he’d watched a lot of cop shows. Maybe he had.

  I heard a car screech into the lot. A CFPD patrol car parked at the end of the aisle and a young, crew-cut cop swaggered over. As he got closer, I recognized the new Chouteau Forest hire, Officer Christopher Ferretti.

  Garrett the valet ran over and filled in the officer on the violent near-miss. By the time they’d reached my perch on the trunk, Ferretti had some idea of what had happened.