EQMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  On the set four days later, I was pouring coffee into a mug. It was cold, but I blew on it as if it were hot. Sense memory. I listened to Josh Black, the actor, tell me there was nothing wrong with our married life. Beyond the lights voices were raised from the shadowy soundstage. Josh continued his lines but without conviction until Lund yelled, “Cut, God damnit!” Then, confronting two men in suits, he fumed, “I'm shooting a movie here."

  The makeup woman rushed onto the set and began dabbing at my face. “Did you hear?” she said in a low voice. “Emma Parker was murdered."

  "What?” I slumped against the fake kitchen counter. “I can't believe it."

  The set lights dimmed. Now I could see the people on the soundstage clearly. The taller of the two men talking to Lund turned in my direction. I sucked in my breath. It was Detective Leo Heath. His dark hair was cut short and graying at the temples. His dark intelligent eyes turned hard as he took me in. The last time I saw him was in my bed. In my arms. He had left early in the morning. But he had called. He had left messages. I never returned any of them.

  The next day, Friday, Variety ran a headline: AXED ACTRESS SHOT DEAD. On Saturday I sat on my deck hiding my face from the sun under a battered straw hat. The police had questioned Lund, but when they narrowed down the time of Emma's death he had an alibi. He was with his mistress and his wife. I was waiting to be questioned.

  "Do you have an alibi?” Ryan Johns, my next-door neighbor, sprawled on my lounge chair. His house, oozing money and success, towered over mine. He wore Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, a gold Piaget watch, and Ugg boots.

  "I was here. Alone. I haven't been questioned."

  "You could say you were with me.” He belched, then leered at me. He was on his fifth Corona.

  "Do you really think I need an alibi?"

  His bleary blue eyes took me in. Then he shook his head, causing his red curly hair to bounce like springs. “This is Hollywood, Diana. They're going to need a suspect and quickly. Do you think Lund hasn't told the police you were blackmailing him?"

  "But I wasn't. Val and Carol know that."

  "Let me be your alibi, Diana. Let me do something for you.” He sat up and stared out over the railing.

  I lifted my hat and followed his gaze. Detective Leo Heath stood on the beach looking up at us. His hands were in his pant pockets. The breeze bellowed his jacket out and blew his tie over his shoulder. Sunglasses covered his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and showed his badge, as if I didn't know he was the police. It caught the sun and glimmered. He pointed at the locked gate that led from the beach to the pathway that separated my house from Ryan's. I got up and let him in.

  When we were back on the deck, I said, “I have a front door.” I sounded cold and aloof and immediately regretted my tone.

  "You didn't answer it. Your Jag was in the carport so I came around the long way.” He looked at Ryan.

  "Who are you?” He slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his pugilistic nose.

  "Ryan Johns. I live next-door."

  Leo nodded as he stamped his feet trying to knock the sand off his shoes. Then his smile slid sideways. “Nice outfit. You in the biz?"

  "Screenwriter."

  He turned back to me. “Wasn't your husband a screenwriter?” He knew damn well he was.

  "Yes."

  He nodded vaguely. “I have some questions I'd like to ask you, Miss Poole."

  We went into the living room. I demanded that Ryan stay. I needed a buffer between me and Leo Heath. Ryan and I sat on the sofa. I took off my hat and ran my hand through my hair. Heath stood by the fireplace. Colin's Oscars glimmered from the mantel.

  "What is it you would like to ask me?” I said.

  "When was the last time you saw Emma Parker?"

  I told him about going to her house but paused, remembering Lund coming out of the bedroom.

  "Anybody else there?"

  I related my encounter with Lund.

  He nodded. “Then where did you go?"

  I told him about running into Val and Carol at Saks and how they offered me the role of the wife in the dressing room.

  "Is that about the time Emma called you? I have her list of calls from her cell phone."

  I explained the awkwardness of the phone call.

  "So you lied to her."

  "It wasn't exactly a lie. How did you know?"

  "Val Franz, the mistress, said you told whoever you were taking to that you were on a Herbal Heart callback."

  "What's that?” Ryan asked between gulps of his Corona.

  "A natural hormone for early menopause,” I snapped.

  He gaped at me. “Oh, Diana, that's a bad career move."

  "Could we get back to why you lied to Emma Parker?” Leo asked drily.

  "I couldn't very well tell her I was with Lund's wife and mistress. I mean she had just gone to bed with him. Nor could I tell her that I was being offered the part that she had just been fired from."

  "By the man she had just gone to bed with,” he said in a tired voice. Then his dark eyes bored into me. “Why not?"

  "Because she was in a delicate state and I didn't have time to explain and I didn't want Val and Carol to know Lund was with Emma."

  "Confusing, isn't it?” Ryan observed.

  "No. It's stupid."

  I felt as if I had to defend Emma. Or was it me? “This from a man with three wives?” I blurted.

  Ryan stared at Leo, then at me. Leo ignored the comment by looking at his notes.

  "Emma Parker was killed between one and three in the morning on Tuesday. Where were you at that time?"

  "She was with me,” Ryan announced too quickly, like an actor rushing his cue.

  Leo smiled crookedly. “Were you dressed like that when she was with you?"

  Ryan slammed his beer onto the table and stood. “She's not saying any more."

  "Ryan.” I took his hand and pulled him back down to the sofa.

  Leo turned to study the statuettes on the mantel. “I see you didn't get rid of Colin's Oscars. Weren't you going to do that?"

  "I was trying to let go."

  He swung around facing me. “But just for one night."

  "What is that supposed to mean?!"

  "My God! You went to bed with him.” Ryan stared at me accusingly. “I can see it on your face and his. You both look pathetic."

  "This coming from a guy wearing Uggs,” Leo snorted.

  "It was a mistake, Ryan."

  "A cop? You went to bed with a cop? You're an actress, an artist. How could you go to bed with a cop? And not me?"

  "So were you still with her from one to three o'clock in the morning?” Leo asked.

  Before Ryan was forced to answer, I said, “No, he wasn't. I was here in bed. Alone. Who has an alibi for those hours anyway?"

  "Some people do."

  "Well maybe they need to have one."

  "I would just like to say one thing, Diana.” Ryan was now at the sliding doors facing us. “When the great screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz drunkenly threw up on the table during a dinner party at Hearst's castle, he turned to his hostess, Marion Davies, and said, ‘Don't worry, Marion, the white wine went with the fish.’ Think about it.” He opened the door and left.

  "What does that mean, and why do you have to think about it?” Leo asked.

  "Maybe it means you can get away with anything as long as the white wine goes with the fish,” I said.

  "Is that why you didn't call me back? We don't go together?"

  "You were divorcing your third wife and I'm still mourning my husband. That's not a great combination."

  "You may need a lawyer."

  "Why?"

  "Lund Hagan said you were blackmailing him to get Emma Parker's role. Val Franz and Carol Hagan said all they offered you was a reading with Lund. They said they never told you that you had the part."

  "But that's not true."

  He shrugged. “If it isn't, you're being set
up very nicely."

  "You believe me, don't you?"

  "Why should I?” His face turned somber, the eyes hooded.

  "Because we went to bed."

  He cocked his head to one side and studied me. “All I know, Diana, is that I called you ten times and you never returned one call. You're going to have to come down to the Hollywood station tomorrow and give a full statement.” He sauntered out of the room to the foyer. I heard the front door open.

  "You called twelve times, but who's counting,” I yelled after him, and then added, “I was afraid.” I heard the door close.

  When I went to bed that night I didn't take my sleeping pill. The TV was on. A black-and-white B-movie, starring Bonita Granville and one of those vague male actors who never made it, filled the deadly silence of my room. I thought of Emma looking for her self-worth. How the business and her own conflicted needs had stripped it away from her. But why kill her? She was no threat to Lund or Val or Carol. Carol the wife. I remembered her at Saks fighting back tears and anger at Lund for not coming home. One mistress she could handle. But two? Did Emma upset the balance?

  I lay back on my pillows and closed my eyes. I reached over and felt the cold, empty side of the bed. When was I going to stop being afraid to fill this other side? And then I thought of how to find the murderer and call Leo Heath back at the same time. Wrapping my husband's silk paisley robe around me, I went to the kitchen and got my Filofax. I called Carol Hagan. She answered on the fifth ring.

  "This is Diana and I know who killed Emma.” Then I hung up and called Val and said the exact same thing.

  Then I called Leo on his cell phone. A woman answered.

  "Is Leo Heath there?"

  "Just a sec."

  I waited, and then his sleepy voice came on the line. “Yeah?"

  "This is Diana. Who's the woman?"

  "Let me take a look. Don't know her name."

  I told him what I had done.

  "You have a death wish?” he growled.

  "No. I just don't want to be framed for murder."

  "Jesus Christ. I'm coming over. Wait. Are you calling me back or trying to solve a murder?"

  "I'm tying to save myself.” I hung up. He has a woman in his bed and he doesn't know her name. What the hell was I doing?

  I had left the front door unlocked. And now I sat in the living room in the dark, grasping one of Colin's Oscars. It was the only weapon I could think of other than a knife. I just couldn't see myself plunging a blade into Carol Hagan's Prada-clad body. I was coming to the conclusion that maybe I did have a death wish.

  Suddenly there was a loud banging on the sliding-glass doors. I dropped to the floor and peered around the sofa. Outside Ryan swayed drunkenly, waving a bottle. I let out a sigh and turned the lamp on and then pulled the door open. Before I could tell him to go home and sleep it off, he pushed past me and collapsed on the sofa.

  "How could you, Diana? A cop. A gumshoe, a flatfoot dick."

  "He wrote a book,” I responded ineptly.

  "Was it made into a movie?"

  "Yes. But he hasn't written another one. Writer's block. Could we talk about this another time? I'm..."

  "Jesus, a cop who's a writer. How cliché is that? How cliché is writer's block? How could you do that to Colin? He was a real writer."

  "Stop it, Ryan."

  "If you were going to give his Oscars away, why didn't you give them to me? You know I've always coveted them. Been jealous of them. You know I feel like a meaningless hack compared to him. Successful but meaningless."

  "He's dead, Ryan. Go home."

  He took a hit of tequila from a bottle with a portrait of Frida Kahlo on the label. Ryan was always looking for the artist outside himself.

  He blinked his eyes at me trying to bring me into focus. “Why are you holding that Oscar by its head?"

  "I'm solving a murder. And you're in the way."

  His lids drooped. “I always wanted an Oscar and you.” The bottle fell from his hand as he passed out.

  I shook him. He moaned and slapped me away

  The doorbell rang. I froze. Then I turned the lamp off and squeezed onto the sofa next to Ryan.

  "Jesus Christ, it's dark in here.” It was Carol Hagan's voice. So it was the wife.

  "Diana?” Val's voice. It was the mistress. Did they do everything together, including murder? I hadn't thought of that. I turned the light on. They stood in the room, blinking and staring at me.

  "What's Ryan Johns doing here?” Val asked.

  "He stumbled in and passed out."

  "I don't know how anybody can be so successful and such a failure at the same time,” Carol remarked.

  "Does his presence make things a little awkward?” I asked

  "We just want to talk,” Carol said.

  "We don't want to talk, Carol,” Val corrected in an exasperated tone. “We're not taking a meeting. We're not doing lunch. I told you not to come with me."

  "I had to. After what you did for me.” Tears of gratitude ran down her cheeks.

  "What did you do for her, Val?” I asked.

  "I thought you knew. I killed Emma."

  "Actually, I thought Carol did it."

  "She's a killer, but only in business.” She pulled a gun from the jacket of her Charles Chang Lima suit.

  "The police are on their way,” I said.

  "I doubt that. Why would they come rushing out in the middle of the night on an actress's whim?"

  "How could you kill Emma? She didn't mean anything to Lund,” I said.

  "Yes, she did.” Carol dabbed at her tears with a Hermes scarf.

  "But Lund wasn't going to leave you for Emma."

  "If he left anybody, it would've been Val. I couldn't have that."

  "She was breaking up our family,” Val said.

  "Family?” I repeated the word as if none of us knew the meaning of it. Maybe we didn't.

  "That's how I think of us.” Val smiled at Carol.

  "I could never be friends with Emma,” Carol sniffed. “Not the way I am with Val. She's like the sister I never had."

  "There are all kinds of families. We create them however we can. But that's what we are.” Val spoke philosophically.

  Unexpectedly Ryan Johns rose to his feet, belching and singing the Sly Stone song, “We Are Family.” Startled, Val shot at him. He lurched forward and threw up all over her.

  Screaming and recoiling, Val dropped the gun. I grabbed it. There was a loud banging, then the sound of the front door being slammed back against the foyer wall.

  Leo Heath ran into the room with his gun drawn. Val fell to her knees. Carol tried to wipe the puke off her with her scarf.

  Ryan slumped back onto the sofa. “I've been shot."

  "She missed you.” I stared at the shattered mirror on the wall.

  "What the hell happened?” Leo wrinkled his nose at Val.

  "The tequila went with the gun,” I said.

  Three hours later Ryan was back in his house, tucked into his bed. Val and Carol were arrested. I was in my kitchen holding a hot cup of coffee.

  Hands in his pockets, Leo leaned in the doorway. “I have to get back to the station."

  "I want to say something before you leave. I've been thinking about self-worth. Emma's, Val's, Ryan's, and mine. My self-worth isn't so low that I want a man who can't remember the name of the woman he's in bed with."

  "She was my sister."

  "You were in bed with your sister?"

  He grinned. “No, she's staying with me until her house is finished being painted. She happened to answer my cell."

  "Oh."

  He studied his shoes for a moment, then he studied me. “So were you calling me back?"

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  Two days later my agent informed me that the movie had been canceled. Then the Herbal Heart people called and said I'd gotten the part, but because of the publicity surrounding Emma Parker's death, the arrests of Val Franz and Carol Hagan, and my invo
lvement in it all, they decided to go with a “lesser known” actress.

  I went out and stood on my dilapidated balcony. It took me a moment to realize that the beach was swarming with paparazzi. Their cameras were aimed up at me like the guns of snipers.

  "Smile, Diana,” they demanded.

  I went back inside.

  (c) 2008 by Melodie Johnson Howe

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  Novelette: MANILA BURNING by Clark Howard

  Clark Howard is one of this magazine's all-time favorite contributors, with five Readers Awards to his credit and numerous Readers Award scrolls. His 150-plus published short stories, and some two dozen novels and true-crime books, also make him one of the more prolific of our authors. He is an Edgar Allan Poe Award Best Short Story winner who has seven additional Edgar nominations to his credit. He rejoins us this month with an exciting adventure/thriller.

  Daniel Cargo sat on the back of a flatbed truck as it rumbled and rattled along a grossly rutted dirt road on its way from the outback of the Palayan Penal Farm to the farm's main administration building. The truck, which was a decade or more old, was painted bright yellow. Across its two side-cabin doors was lettered, in red: PHILIPPINE NATIONAL PRISONS. There were four other men on the flatbed with Daniel Cargo, all of them dressed in loose prison garb identical in yellow color to the truck.

  When the vehicle reached the administration building, it parked at a rear dock and a corrections officer motioned the men off. The guard was unarmed and the five men were not cuffed or shackled. There was no need for security since the prisoners were not escape risks; they were being released from prison that day.

  Once inside the building, the men sat in a line on a wooden bench outside an office on the door of which was painted: DISCHARGES. One by one, the men were summoned into the office. When it was Daniel Cargo's turn, he stood in front of a desk at which sat a Filipino prison department official dressed in a spotless white uniform, shiny black hair slicked back, thin moustache perfectly trimmed, with a fragrance of cologne emanating from him. When he spoke, his words were practiced and precise.

  "Inmate Daniel James Cargo, number 1172307, having successfully completed your one-year sentence for illegally trading in fossil stone without a license, you are hereby discharged from the Philippine National Prison System. Since you are a foreigner, I am returning herewith your passport, which was issued by the government of the United States of America. Sign this form to acknowledge receipt of the passport."