by Laura Levine
It looked like I was safe for now.
Soon I emerged onto the studio back lot, dotted with bungalow-style offices and huge soundstages.
I pulled my hair into a hasty ponytail and stowed the sweater I’d been wearing in my tote, hoping to obliterate any resemblance to the woman who’d just bolted from a tour tram.
Walking along, trying my best to look like I actually belonged on the lot, I passed a bunch of guys in scruffy jeans and T-shirts, their faces gaunt and hollow-eyed.
(Comedy writers, no doubt.)
They barely glanced at me.
And they weren’t the only ones who seemed to think I worked there. Several other people passed me by without incident, some of whom even nodded hello.
I was beginning to think I was going to get away with this crazy plan of mine when I looked up and saw a steely-eyed security guard in a golf cart heading straight toward me.
Dammit. Shirley had undoubtedly opened her big blabbity mouth and reported me missing to Sean, who’d sicced the studio police on me.
My ponytail wasn’t fooling the goon in the golf cart.
Any minute now, I was about to be hauled off to studio jail for illegal trespassing!
Chapter 25
In a panic, I dashed into the nearest bungalow.
“It’s about time!” cried a harried young woman at the reception desk. “I thought you’d never get here.” Then she shouted out to someone in a back room. “The new temp just showed up.
“Take this to Stage Five right now,” the receptionist said. “They’re waiting for it.”
With that, she reached behind her desk and pulled out a fake, but very hairy, moose head.
Now the honorable thing would have been to tell her the truth, that I was not the new temp, but an escapee from a tour tram. But I could not afford to be honorable. Not with that security guard hot on my trail.
So I grabbed the moose head and said, “I’m on it.”
What better way to look legit than carrying around a giant prop?
“Where’s Stage Five?” I asked before heading out the door.
“It’s three stages down on your left. And hurry!”
I opened the door, praying I wouldn’t find the security guard waiting for me and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw he was gone.
So off I went with the moose head in my arms, hopefully obscuring any glimpse of my face. When I saw Stage Five on my left, I walked straight past it. No way was I giving up my camouflage.
I wandered around for what seemed like centuries, hauling that damn moose head. Yes, it was a great cover-up, but the thing was heavy, and its molting hair reeked of mothballs and sweat.
At last, I came across a soundstage where a poster out front informed me they were shooting Lacey’s movie, Love Is in the Air.
I dumped the moose head behind a trash can and headed for a bunch of trailers parked nearby, sending profuse thanks to the studio gods when I found one with Lacey’s name on it.
Then I knocked on the door, hoping I wasn’t smelling too much of Eau de Moose.
“Come in,” a soft voice called out.
Walking up the steps into the trailer, I saw Lacey on a sofa, her tiny bod wrapped in a terry robe, knitting what looked like an argyle sweater, a script splayed out beside her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I remembered what Petra, her assistant, said about Lacey refusing to talk about Bebe’s murder. Luckily, traipsing across the studio lot had given me plenty of time to come up with a clever plan to avoid getting booted out of her trailer.
But before I could launch my plan, Lacey said, “Wait a minute. Don’t I know you?”
Damn. What if she remembered me from Bebe’s studio? My plan would never work if she knew my real identity.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m Detective Connie Monroe. From Neiman Marcus Security.”
I quickly flashed the USDA meat inspector’s badge I’d bought years ago at a flea market and saved for moments just like this.
Most people don’t look at it closely, and Lacey was no exception.
Her face paled beneath her freckles.
“I was afraid something like this would happen some day,” she groaned, abandoning her knitting and crumpling into a ball on her sofa.
“According to our security tapes,” I said, “you were captured on camera shoplifting a scarf and a bracelet.”
“I’m so sorry!” she wailed. “I promise I’ll pay you back for the scarf. And the bracelet. And everything else I’ve taken.”
Everything else? Looked like our perky young movie star had been on quite a shoplifting spree.
“I don’t know why I do it, why I risk my career for things I can easily pay for. I’m such a fool!” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Don’t worry. As long as you make restitution, we’re all good.”
But the waterworks kept coming, her body wracked with sobs. She was making such a racket, I was afraid a security guard would come bursting in to see what all the fuss way about.
“Look,” I said, in a desperate effort to shut her up, “I’m not really with Neiman Marcus.”
“What?” She looked up at me, her eyes red-rimmed from all those tears.
“You were right. We have met before, at Bebe’s studio when she was giving me a makeover.”
“I thought you looked familiar.”
“I’m the one who discovered Bebe’s body, and the police think I may have killed her. So I’m trying to clear my name. Tatiana Rogers told me she thought Bebe had blackmailed you into becoming her client. And then the other day, at Neiman’s, I saw you stealing that scarf and the bracelet. So I came to find out if Bebe really was blackmailing you.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “that miserable woman hired a detective to follow me and get dirt on me. The guy saw me stealing a lipstick from CVS. And once Bebe found out about my little ‘problem,’ she threatened to tell the world unless I became her client.”
So Lacey Hunt had a motive to kill Bebe.
A very compelling motive indeed.
As if reading my thoughts, she cried out, “But I swear I didn’t kill her. Like I told the police, I was shooting on location in Westwood the night Bebe was killed. You can ask anybody on the crew. They’ll tell you. I was there all night.”
As much as I hated to lose a suspect, I believed her. Especially with a bunch of witnesses ready to vouch for her whereabouts the night of the murder.
“You’ve got to promise you won’t tell a soul about my shoplifting,” she begged.
“Only if you promise to see a therapist.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, nodding earnestly.
At which point, a sprightly young gal in jeans and a baseball cap came bounding up the steps into the trailer, holding a skein of yarn.
“Hi, Lacey. I brought you the yarn you wanted.”
“Thanks, Petra,” Lacey mumbled.
This had to be Petra, Lacey’s guard dog of an assistant.
“My gosh!” Petra said, seeing Lacey’s tear-stained face. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a bit of bad news,” Lacey replied with a rueful smile. “But everything’s all right now, isn’t it?” she asked, turning to me.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” I assured her, heading down the steps of the trailer.
Fine for Lacey, maybe. Not so much for me.
As far as I knew, I was still a prominent blip on the LAPD’s radarscope—not to mention a fugitive from justice here on the hallowed grounds of Spectacular Studios.
* * *
By the time I left Lacey, I wanted nothing more than to hurry home and soak my aching muscles in a nice hot bath.
But I couldn’t leave yet.
Eager to expunge “moose head thief” from my résumé, I retrieved the smelly prop from behind the trash can where I’d stashed it and started the long trek back to Stage Five.
When I finally got there, the stage door was shut. Either they were busy shooting,
or they’d shut down production for the day due to a missing moose head. Whatever the reason, I dropped my hairy companion at the stage door and ran as fast as I could.
I would have preferred running in the general direction of the visitors’ parking lot, but I had no idea where that was.
I wandered around, lost in a sea of hulking soundstages and standing sets, wondering if I’d ever make it out alive, visions of my decaying corpse being discovered behind the false front of the saloon on Wild West Street.
Then a horn started honking behind me.
“Jaine Austen!” I heard a woman’s voice call out. “Stop this minute!”
Damn. It had to be a security guard. They’d tracked me down at last.
I turned to see—not a security guard—but Heidi, my favorite haircutter, sitting behind the wheel of the cart, clad in her baggy overalls.
Never in my life had I been so relieved to see anyone. (Except possibly the delivery guy from my Fudge of the Month Club.)
“What’re you doing here?” Heidi asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said, launching into the saga of how I’d escaped from the tour tram to question Lacey about Bebe’s murder.
“No!” Heidi cried. “I heard about someone jumping the tram. Everyone was talking about it at the commissary. That was you?”
I nodded shamefully.
“I couldn’t think of any other way to get onto the lot.”
“If I’d only known,” Heidi said, “I would’ve gotten you a pass.”
“Anyhow, I’m dying to get out of here, but I have no idea where to find the visitors’ parking lot.”
“No problem. Hop on, and I’ll take you.”
I sank down next to her in the golf cart and listened as she chattered about how much she loved her new gig, styling eighteenth-century wigs for a period romance.
“So many curls! So little time!”
I was nestled in the cart, thrilled at the prospect of being reunited with my Corolla, when I remembered what Tacoma said at Fun-topia, about seeing Heidi at the Brentwood Country Mart the night of Bebe’s murder.
I needed to ask Heidi about this, but I couldn’t risk getting kicked out of the cart. So I waited until she’d pulled up to the parking lot entrance before finally broaching the subject.
“It’s been so great seeing you,” she said, giving me a hug. “I still have fond memories of us throwing darts at Bebe’s poster.”
“Yes, that was fun,” I said, climbing down from the cart. “Thanks so much for the lift.”
“De nada,” she said, waving away my thanks.
But she wasn’t rid of me yet.
“Before I go, there’s something I want to ask you. I happened to run into a gal named Tacoma the other night, an artist pal of yours.”
“Tacoma?” Heidi said, rolling her eyes. “She’s quite a character. And I wouldn’t exactly call her a pal. More like an acquaintance. A distant acquaintance.”
“Anyhow,” I plowed ahead, “Tacoma mentioned seeing you at the Brentwood Country Mart the night of Bebe’s murder. ”
At this, Heidi’s smile stiffened.
“Yeah, I was there. I went to pick up some cheese for a dinner party I was throwing the next night. What about it?”
“Nothing, really. It’s just that you told me you were home all night.”
“I was, mostly. I just ran out to get the cheese.”
“But it’s quite a drive from Fairfax to Brentwood, isn’t it?”
Now all traces of her smile had vanished.
“What are you implying? That I popped by Bebe’s studio to strangle her after I bought my cheese?”
“No, of course not,” I lied. “I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“The Brentwood Country Mart has a Stilton cheese I really like. I drove out to get it, making zero stops along the way. I barely even hit a red light. I wasn’t anywhere near Bebe’s studio that night. Believe me, or don’t believe me. I don’t really care.”
With that, she put the golf cart in gear and was off like a shot, no doubt cursing herself for having given me a lift.
I plodded back to my Corolla, wondering if Heidi could possibly be the killer.
One thing was for sure: There’d be no more freebie haircuts in my future.
Chapter 26
I stopped off at the supermarket on the way home for staples (Chunky Monkey and Pop-Tarts), as well as a couple of Lean Cuisine dinners—vowing not to eat them both in one sitting, as I usually do.
At the checkout counter, I grabbed a copy of People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issue (my vote was for Justin), which I planned to read soaking in the tub.
Back at my apartment, I found Prozac snoring on the sofa, exhausted after a romp with her catnip mouse, which lay battered at her feet.
The minute she heard me come in, however, she was up like a shot, leaping onto the dining room table and parking herself next to my computer, yowling at the top of her lungs.
In the past, her yowling could mean only one thing: “Feed me!”
But now, if she was sitting next to my computer, it meant she wanted to watch the video of The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life.
Ever since that dratted video showed up online, she’d been obsessed with it, binge-watching it over and over again, never tiring of seeing herself on screen, thumping her tail in ecstasy.
With a sigh, I dumped my groceries on the kitchen counter and clicked on the video.
As she swooned over own image, I ran to the kitchen and barely got my groceries in the freezer before the video ended and she began yowling for me to play it again.
“That’s enough,” I said after playing the video eight times. “We’re done here.”
With that, I pried her from the screen and deposited her back on the sofa.
“It’s not all about you, young lady,” I scolded, plopping down beside her. “You won’t believe what a ghastly day I had, escaping from the Spectacular Studios tram and hiding from security guards, traipsing miles across the studio lot with a stinky moose head—only to find out that Lacey isn’t the killer, after all.”
She gazed up at me with limpid green eyes.
You know what’ll make you feel better? Scratching my back for the next twenty minutes.
Which, I’m ashamed to admit, is exactly what I did. And the thing is, she was right. It did make me feel better, kneading her silky fur, feeling the steady thrum of her purrs.
What can I say? I love the little devil.
Finally, when she was sound asleep, probably dreaming of herself as People’s Sexiest Cat Alive, I hauled myself from the sofa and started running the water for my long-awaited soak in the tub.
Minutes later, I was up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, a glass of chardonnay and People magazine on the rim of the tub to keep me company.
I was flipping through celebrity breakups and makeups, facelifts and feuds, ogling the sexiest man alive (I was still voting for Justin), when I came across an article about Lacey Hunt, headlined NEW STAR SHINES IN HOLLYWOOD.
It was the usual pap about a fresh-faced kid growing up in the Midwest, discovering acting in her high school drama club, moving to L.A., waiting tables and making the audition rounds until she eventually got discovered in a breakout part in an indie movie. There was some blather about her romance with an onscreen co-star, their subsequent breakup (see Makeups and Breakups, above), about life in her cozy three-million-dollar Santa Monica “farmhouse,” where she loved cuddling with her cat and knitting—the hobby that kept her occupied during the many breaks on a movie shoot, where it can take hours to set up a single scene. Her other hobbies included yoga, Pilates, and pickleball. Finally, she confessed to being a dedicated shopaholic. “I love shopping of any kind,” she gushed.
Yeah, right. Especially if she didn’t have to pay for it.
By the time the article wrapped up, with a well-placed plug for her upcoming movie, I was more than ready move on to some Before and After facelift photos.
> Eventually, tired of empty fluff, I tossed the magazine aside and lay back in the tub to think about more weighty matters: namely, what I was going to have for dinner. It was a toss-up between Chinese, pizza, and Lean Cuisine—with Lean Cuisine coming in a distant third. In the end, as tempted as I was by pizza’s gooey globs of cheese, I opted for the comforting warmth of wonton soup and shrimp with lobster sauce.
Which, I can assure you, was quite comforting indeed.
It wasn’t until I was in bed later that night, drifting off to sleep, that I sat up with a jolt, remembering something Lacey said in that People story: how she knitted to pass the time on movie sets, where it could take hours to set up a scene.
Lacey may have been on location in her trailer the night of the murder, but who’s to say she didn’t slip out and zip over to Brentwood during one of the interminable breaks to wring Bebe’s neck? With the crew busy, it was quite possible no one had noticed her leave. Especially if she wore a baseball cap and jeans like her assistant Petra. Both gals were petite; Lacey could have easily been mistaken for Petra going out to run an errand for her movie star boss.
It looked like Lacey Hunt’s airtight alibi had sprung a leak.
And back she went on my suspect list, knitting needles and all.
Chapter 27
Okay, Cocoa Puffs fans. The moment you’ve been waiting for—time for me to get back my CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt!
If you recall (and extra credit for those of you who do), Justin had given the T-shirt to Felipe, the gardener, who in turn had given it to his niece, Gloria, whose thieving roommate, Cindy, had stolen it when she moved out of their house. Gloria had no idea where Cindy was, only that she wrestled in Jello every other Sunday at the Sugar Shack, a dive bar in Redondo Beach.
So the next day, a glorious Sunday with cotton ball clouds scudding across a neon blue sky, I put Bebe’s murder on hold and set out to retrieve my treasured tee.