“No, I don’t,” she said firmly. Dana was pretty sure the guy thought she was some kind of bimbo, and she didn’t want to falter.
“And why’s that?” His tone was even, but he closed his notebook, making it clear he didn’t think she could have anything valuable to offer.
“Her rings were off.”
“And that’s significant?”
“Listen,” she said. “Kitty takes off her rings to moisturize her hands. Why would somebody moisturize their hands before killing themselves? I mean, besides the obvious futility of the act. Who cares how soft your hands are when you’re dead, right? But more important, wouldn’t that make it harder to grip a gun? Have you ever tried opening a doorknob after using hand lotion?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, trust me, it’s almost impossible. And that stuff she uses is viscous enough to run your engine. But okay, let’s say she wanted to leave a pretty corpse and thought oily hands were essential. It’s a stretch, but let’s go with it. And let’s say she was able to grip the gun, anyway, and put a bullet in her head. How was she still holding the gun when we found her? There’s no way it wouldn’t have slipped from her hand. So clearly, someone was trying to make it look like a suicide.”
She studied his face, waiting for some kind of reaction. He remained stoic, but as she stared, Dana could detect, just beneath the exterior, the tiniest hint of amused condescension in his eyes. It reminded her of her father and she wanted to scream. But she just clenched her jaw.
“What?” she demanded. “Did I say something funny?”
His expression softened. “Not at all.”
“So why aren’t you taking me seriously? I’m telling you, this wasn’t a suicide. I know you think I’m some kind of idiot, but—”
“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Ms. Barry.”
“But you think my theory is stupid.”
“You’re on the right track, you just took the wrong train.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, “her skin could have been as dry as a brown leaf. If she shot herself in the head, there’s no way the gun would have stayed in her hand. Someone put it there.”
“So, you don’t think Kitty killed herself?”
He let out a breath. “No, ma’am. We’re investigating a homicide.”
8
Sherry Zidel’s black-clad assistant, Emily Lauren, led Dana and Megan to the executive guest suite, where four copies of the twenty-seven-page contract were stacked neatly on a glass-top coffee table. The space looked more like a beautifully appointed living room than an office, meticulously decorated with a plush love seat and striped armchairs, an oversize mahogany desk in the corner. The walls were painted in a shade of dark beige often called “paper bag brown.” Dana knew it was a color decorators loved for its soothing esthetic.
“We thought you might be comfortable reviewing the contracts here,” Emily said. “Mr. Honeycutt will check in shortly to see if you have any questions.”
She was a slender young woman with a clear complexion, great cheekbones and studied diction. Dana’s actor-radar flashed again, and she wondered how many Shopping Channel employees had SAG cards tucked in their wallets. She guessed that Emily was an ambitious trouper who had taken the job to get close to the career-launching Sherry Zidel. Even the name was a giveaway—Emily Lauren. It was the middle name trick, using it to replace a last name that wasn’t quite marquee-worthy. Lea Michele and Jon Stewart came to mind. Her driver’s license probably said something like Emily Lauren Leibowitz.
“That’s fine,” Megan said, taking a seat. “I’m happy to take a look now. But please know Dana won’t be signing anything until the papers are reviewed by our attorney.” She sat.
Emily smiled broadly, her young teeth perfectly aligned. “Of course. Can I get you anything in the meantime? Coffee? A glass of wine?”
“We’re good. Thank you, Emily.”
The assistant left, and Dana went to the side table, where a heavy glass pitcher of ice water perspired delicately onto a gilded tray. She poured two glasses, and they settled in to read.
By page four, Dana was lost in the legalese, and getting anxious. She wanted to review it at home, with her shoes off and her favorite cabernet nearby. “Do we really need to do this now?”
“I just want to make sure they included everything we talked about,” Megan said.
“Oh, come on. That’s why God invented lawyers.”
“And managers.”
A few minutes later there was a gentle knock on the door, followed by the appearance of Charles Honeycutt. His expensive suit still looked impeccable, but Dana could see that the man was struggling with the trauma of what he saw, and what he now had to deal with. As president, it all fell on him. His face was sweating, and his shirt collar damp. Charles Honeycutt took out a handkerchief, wiped his hand and stuck it out toward Dana.
“I wish this day could have been different for you, Dana, but I’m glad to welcome you aboard.”
“Thank you, Mr. Honeycutt.”
“Charles, please,” he corrected, and handed her a business card. She put it in her purse next to the one from Detective Ari Marks.
Up close Charles Honeycutt was handsome, if a little beefy, the flash of a gold watch and shiny Ferragamo shoes narrow-casting his success to anyone paying attention. His cologne was familiar—possibly Sauvage—but when he had leaned forward to shake her hand she caught a whiff of something sweeter. It was familiar, but it passed so quickly she couldn’t quite place it.
“Charles,” she said, “I’m very sorry for your loss. This must be so difficult.”
“I can’t imagine,” Megan added.
“I appreciate that,” he said. “And if you have any concerns about—”
“We do,” Megan cut in, “and if it’s not too early to ask...”
“Please. That’s what I’m here for.”
She cleared her throat. “Do you know what you’re doing about the schedule?”
“We’ve already spoken to Vanessa about staying on. So the plan is to move her into Kitty’s slot, and Dana, as planned, will take Vanessa’s.”
Dana bit her lip as she took in the timing of Vanessa’s sudden change of fortune. The woman went from being forced out of a job to getting the prime-time slot. Dana let out a breath and tried to dial back her paranoia, telling herself she was being melodramatic. Vanessa wouldn’t have murdered Kitty Todd to get her job. It was so... All About Eve—the kind of thing that only happened in the movies.
And besides, Vanessa had the world’s most bulletproof alibi: she was live on air at the time of the murder. About a million viewers could testify to that.
Then it hit her. The familiar scent rising off Charles Honeycutt’s overheated neck. It was apricot—just like Kitty’s hand lotion.
God, she thought, I must stop this. I can’t take this job wondering if every person I speak to is a murderer.
When Honeycutt left, Dana told Megan she was getting the willies. “Is it really a good idea to take a job under these circumstances?” she asked.
Her friend reacted with an inscrutable smile.
“What?” Dana demanded.
“I know you,” Megan said. “You don’t like things to be easy. If this were the perfect job, you’d be bored as hell, and would probably sabotage yourself in the first week. But this. This makes it sexy.”
Damn. Megan knew her too well.
“I hate it when you’re right,” Dana said.
“Come on. Let’s go out for a drink. You earned a celebration.” Megan started gathering the copies of the contract but Dana held on to hers.
“I just have one question about that noncompete clause,” she said.
Megan waved away her concern. “It’s nothing.”
“But am I readi
ng it right? It seems kind of overreaching.”
“It’s pretty standard stuff,” Megan said, avoiding her eyes. “You can’t take any other acting or performance gigs without getting clearance.”
“Wait a minute,” Dana said. “What about Sweat City?” She was sure there had to be some workaround. No one would expect her to give up her greatest passion.
Megan sighed and tried to pull the contract from Dana’s hand. “Well,” she said, and nothing else.
“Well, what?”
Megan’s lips tightened. “Sometimes we need to make sacrifices.”
Dana held on to the contract and took a step back. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Sorry, hon. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Dana—”
“I’m serious, Megan. Were you going to let me sign this and not find out until it was too late?”
“I’m looking out for you.”
Dana’s eyes burned as she stared, stung by the betrayal. “So you’re my mother now? I thought you were my friend.”
“I’m your manager.”
Dana grabbed the stack of contracts from her. “Not anymore.”
Megan grabbed them back. “Don’t get all melodramatic on me. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I wasn’t going to let you shoot yourself in the foot.”
“Sweat City is everything to me!”
“It’s an experimental theater group that’s going nowhere and will get you nothing. In a typical year, how many people see your performances there? A hundred? A hundred and twenty? And most of them are related to the actors. It’s a sweet little group of friends, but don’t kid yourself. Sweat City is not launching careers, it’s holding them back.”
“But that’s my decision, not yours.”
“Don’t do this, Dana. Don’t blow everything for this useless little group.”
“Useless?” Dana could hardly believe what she was hearing. She knew her group did good work, knew they were some of the most talented actors she had ever met.
“You know what I mean,” Megan said. “I get it. It’s fun. It’s enriching...”
“It’s art,” Dana said.
“Okay, yes. It’s art. And this is...commerce. But you’ll make a living. You’ll be seen by millions. And who knows? In a few years—”
“Years!” Dana said, and put her head in her hands. It was all too much.
There was a soft knock on the door. Megan quickly pulled out a tissue and handed it to Dana, indicating that she needed to tidy up the mascara that had run. Dana hadn’t even been conscious of crying, but the combination of rage and betrayal was potent.
“Come in,” Megan called, and Dana was surprised to see Lorenzo standing there.
“Can I talk to you?” he said to her.
“Sure,” she said, waving him into the room.
He cocked his head toward the hallway, indicating that he needed a private word. “It’ll just take a minute.”
Dana followed him out of the room. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Did you talk to that detective?” His expression was even, but he shifted his weight from one foot to the other to cover his nervousness.
“A tall guy named Marks,” she said.
“What did you say to him?”
“Just that we were up on the roof when we heard the gunshot.”
“You didn’t tell him about the joint?” Lorenzo asked.
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure?” His dark eyes looked even more intense than usual.
“What are you so worried about?”
Just then, Emily Lauren appeared in the hallway carrying a stack of folders. Dana and Lorenzo backed apart as if they were having a more casual conversation. Emily gave them a smile as she passed, and they waited until she disappeared down the hall before continuing.
Lorenzo leaned in, hesitated for a moment and whispered, “I’m on parole.”
Dana nodded. It wasn’t a shocking piece of information. She knew he had been incarcerated at some point in his life, because she had noticed that in addition to the artful ink that trailed down his arm, there was a crude prison tattoo on his hand—a little square created by five unconnected dots. Now she burned to know what crime he’d committed.
“Do you mind if I—”
“Armed robbery,” he said.
Her eyebrows went up.
“I was young,” he explained. “An idiot. Had a shitty group of friends.”
“Do they know? I mean, the people here?”
“Only Bess Haskins, the woman in HR who hired me. She’s a friend of my parole officer’s—got a kid who’s locked up, so she was sympathetic. Otherwise, it’s nearly impossible for an ex-con to get a real job. But if I blow parole...”
“For the joint?”
“It’s a violation that can send me back to prison faster than you can sell one of those crazy-ass long dresses.”
“But you only took one toke.”
“That’s enough. And, Dana...” He paused, making sure she was looking directly at him. “I can handle a lot of shit, but I can’t go back to prison. I can’t.”
His eyes were pained, serious. She swallowed hard. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about the joint. You have my word.”
He nodded, as if he were trying to convince himself he could trust her.
“Really,” she added. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I have plenty to worry about. Weed or no weed, when that detective runs my name through the system and sees my record, I’ll be the prime suspect.”
“But you have an alibi,” she said, pointing to herself. “They’ll believe me.”
He gave a dubious shrug.
“Why wouldn’t they?” she asked.
“I think someone saw us,” he said. “Up on the roof. The detective didn’t say it in so many words, but he hinted at it.”
Dana hadn’t known anyone else was up there, so this surprised her. Still, she couldn’t see how it mattered. If anything, it gave more credibility to her statement.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Someone saw us kissing.”
“Screw them. Who cares?”
“Dana, if the detective thinks we have a romantic relationship, he won’t believe your statement. He’ll think you’re willing to lie to cover for me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, even as the light came on. This was why Marks had asked about her relationship with Lorenzo.
“It’s reality. I’m the only ex-con here. And I was the one who discovered the body. I’m going to be in some deep shit.”
Dana breathed into the mess she had created for this guy. She was the one who instigated the kiss. She was the one with the joint that could send him back to prison.
The joint, she thought. Was it still up there on the roof? And what if the detective found it?
“Are you okay?” Lorenzo said. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just... I don’t want you to worry. No matter what, I got your back.”
He squeezed her shoulder in appreciation and she returned to the paper-bag-brown suite.
“Everything okay?” Megan asked as Dana reached for her purse.
“Fine,” she said, and rummaged around until she found her dachshund key chain. She screwed off the hindquarters and looked inside. Nothing there but the white pill. Dana imagined Detective Marks finding the joint on the roof and dropping it into an evidence bag. If he were really after Lorenzo, he might do a DNA test on it, and Lorenzo could wind up back in prison.
Dana thought about hightailing it to the roof to retrieve the joint, but that would be impossible. There was police tape blocking off the end of the hall that led to the staircase. If she wanted to
go up there, it would have to wait. And she would have to hope the detective hadn’t thought to go up there. Yet.
And of course, she would have to take the job.
If she didn’t, well, she’d be leaving Lorenzo vulnerable. It would be too risky for him to retrieve it himself. And besides, Marks would think there was something even more suspicious about Lorenzo’s alibi if she suddenly decided to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime.
Dana dropped the key chain back into her purse and retrieved a pen. She reached for the contracts.
“What are you doing?” Megan asked.
“I’m signing this damned thing.”
9
Megan, of course, didn’t let Dana sign anything before an attorney went over it—several times—with something as least as fine as a sixty-eight-tooth Hector Comb. But after it was tweaked a bit, and new copies generated and hand-delivered, Dana initialed all twenty-seven pages on all four copies and signed on the line.
Meanwhile, Kitty’s death was reported on the news as an “apparent suicide.” Only TMZ revealed that police were investigating it as a homicide. But there were other things going on in the world and, much to the chagrin of her devoted fans, it quickly slipped out of the news cycle.
Before it even hit the airwaves, though, Dana had given her sister a heads-up on the news of Kitty’s death, and she’d been horrified. Still, Chelsea told Dana she had to take the job, listing the same reasons Megan had given. The opportunity of a lifetime. Financial freedom. And a shocking tragedy to make it all a little more interesting. So once the contracts were signed, Dana knew who to call for validation.
“It’s done,” Dana said over the phone to her sister. “Signed, sealed and sent.”
Chelsea squealed. “I’m so proud of you! And I understand you have to settle in and everything, but let me know when I can come and tour the studio and watch you in action. That would be amazing.”
“Of course,” Dana said, laughing. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done anything that impressed her sister.
“And will you let me go shopping with you?” Chelsea asked. “I mean, you’ll need a whole new wardrobe.”
“They dress me, Chelse,” she said, reverting to her childhood nickname for her sister. “I can go to work in sweats.”
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