by Laura Levine
Every once in a while I tried to get in a word edge-wise, but it was a lost cause, like a guppy trying to impregnate a whale. Wells was in the middle of a story about playing Scrabble with Sir John “Goodie” Gielgud, when I let my mind wander back to the scene in the Miracle ladies’ room.
I remembered the murderous look in Audrey’s eyes when Vanessa said that a hatrack would be more fun in bed than Stan. Of course, I had to admit Vanessa was probably right. What with Stan’s prodigious liquor consumption, I had a hard time picturing him in the performing mode.
What the heck were Stan and Audrey doing together, anyway? Such an unlikely couple. But the world is full of unlikely couples. Why two people are attracted to each other is one of life’s great mysteries. A mystery almost as puzzling as how a two-ounce bag of potato chips can make me gain five pounds. I was sitting there, pondering these and other imponderables, and watching an old lady at the next table cram a half-dozen dinner rolls into her purse, when I became aware that Wells had finally shut up and was looking at me questioningly.
“Jaine?”
Oh, dear. He’d probably just asked me something, and I had no idea what it was.
“Sorry,” I said, with an apologetic smile. “I guess I drifted off a little.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I’m afraid I’ve been talking too much. I do that a lot nowadays. Guess it comes from living alone.”
I knew exactly what he meant. If I didn’t have Prozac to talk to, I’d probably be telling strangers at bus stops about my bad hair days.
“I wasn’t this bad,” he said, “when Jessica was alive.”
“Jessica?”
“My wife.” He looked down at the gold wedding band he still wore on his finger. “She passed away ten years ago.”
I only hoped she didn’t die waiting for him to finish one of his stories.
“So tell me,” he said, “what’s a lovely young woman doing having dinner with an old coot like me?”
“Actually,” I said, “I wanted to ask you some questions. You see, the police think Kandi may have been responsible for Quinn’s death—”
“Preposterous!” Wells said, indignant.
“Anyhow, I’m doing a little investigating, to try and figure out who the real killer is.”
“Investigating?” His bushy white eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Like a private eye?”
“Sort of. Last year, I helped the police solve a murder in Westwood.”
“Did you really? Why, that reminds me of the time I played the inspector in J.B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls. Marvelous play. We ran Standing Room Only for eighteen months. Oh, dear,” he said, catching himself, “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? One of these days, I’m going to have to have my jaws wired shut. So, tell me, what can I do to help?”
“I was hoping you might have seen something the night of the murder. Something suspicious, or out of the ordinary.”
“No, not really,” he said. “Most of the time, I’m afraid, I was chewing poor Zach’s ear off, just as I’ve done with you tonight. I’m sure he was relieved when I left him to do my soliloquy.”
“Do you know where Zach went when you left him?”
“No. He said something about trying to find an aspirin.”
Mmm. I couldn’t help wondering if he went looking for it in the prop room.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Quinn?”
“Not really. Quinn had his share of detractors, but I don’t think anyone disliked him enough to kill him.”
“Oh,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. Perhaps his wife did it.”
“His wife?”
“The spouse is the first person the police suspect in homicides. I learned that when I guest-starred on Columbo. It was the episode where the wealthy psychiatrist murders his blackmailing lover. Maybe you’ve seen it? The Los Angeles Times said my performance as the psychiatrist was ‘devilishly effective.’”
Whatever made me think this guy was going to be any help? I’d have been better off questioning Prozac.
“Actually,” I said, steamrolling past Columbo, “Quinn’s wife was in New York the night of the murder.”
“Pity,” Wells sighed, disappointed.
“Aside from Quinn’s wife,” I said, “can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to kill him?”
“No,” he said, “I really can’t. Murder’s such a drastic act. It’s one thing to do it on stage, another thing entirely to do it in real life.”
On that philosophical note, our chocolate mousses arrived. I ate every last speck of mine, and most of his, while Wells told me about the time he went skinny-dipping with Dame May Whitty.
At last the check came. Wells insisted on treating me. I let him. I thought of it as combat pay.
He walked me out to my Corolla and waited until I was safely strapped inside.
“Ah,” he sighed, “if I were only twenty years younger….”
Was he kidding? He’d still be old enough to be my really old father.
I smiled weakly and thanked him for a lovely evening. Then I drove off into the night, wondering how many calories there were in two chocolate mousses.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
TO: Jausten
FROM: Daddyo
SUBJECT: They can’t fool me!
Your mom has hidden the love oil. I went out to her car yesterday to look for it, but it was gone. She’s probably got it stashed away at that sleazeball Koskovalis’s condo. Your mother and John “Kinky” Koskovalis think they can fool me, but they can’t. I’m on to them both. Although I must say it’s him I blame. After all, your mother is a very impressionable woman. He’s obviously taking advantage of her. Every time I think of your mother in his greasy arms, I feel like beating the guy to a pulp.
PS. This morning I caught your mother trying to slip St. John’s Wort into my Wheatena!
TO: Jausten
FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
SUBJECT: Worried about you
Good heavens! I just heard about the murder on your show! It’s all over the news. Jaine, dear, please be careful. I don’t like the idea of your working where a murder has taken place. And poor Anthony Quinn! Imagine, him being poisoned like that. I just adored him in Zorba the Greek.
TO: Shoptillyoudrop
FROM: Jausten
Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be fine.
And PS. The actor who died was Quinn Kirkland, not Anthony Quinn.
TO: Jausten
FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
Oh, dear. I’m having so much trouble with names lately. I’d be worried about it, if I weren’t already so worried about your father. Yesterday, he bought a punching bag, and he’s been out in the garage all morning “training.” Heaven knows for what!
TO: Jausten
FROM: Daddyo
SUBJECT: Advice for my Lamb Chop
Jaine, lamb chop. Listen to your daddy, and quit your job immediately! I don’t trust any of these show business people. And now that there’s been a murder in your studio, I don’t think it’s a safe place to be. Well, gotta go. I’ve got something very important I’ve got to take care of.
TO: Jausten
FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
Your father’s just slammed out of the house to, as he put it, “avenge his honor.” Oh, dear. What on earth does that mean?
Chapter Fifteen
On Tuesday, we auditioned frogs.
I’m not kidding. Audrey wanted to make sure the frog we used in “Muffy’s Revenge” could ribbit on cue. So we spent an entire morning in the conference room as a parade of animal trainers brought in their little green friends.
Do you know how much money Stan and Audrey were getting paid to do this? Seven figures, not including residuals. And inner-city teachers are making zilch. Go write your congressman.
At one point Audrey lost her cool when one of the frogs jumped up on h
er lap.
“Don’t do that again,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the wayward amphibian.
And he didn’t. Audrey’s that intimidating.
After several hours rating amphibians, we finally selected the lead frog and five stand-ins. And then we broke for lunch.
“Guess what,” Kandi said, when we got back to our office. “My new agent called me this morning.”
“The kid in the mailroom?”
She nodded. “He thinks he can get me a movie-of-the-week.”
“That’s great! And you said you’d never work again.”
But Kandi seemed strangely unenthused.
“So why aren’t you doing handsprings?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you why. Because the movie’s called Unjustly Jailed.”
Uh-oh. Cancel the champagne and caviar.
“His exact words were: ‘The sitcom scene’s looking pretty bleak right now, Kandi, but I think I can get you a movie if they arrest you.’”
She plopped down on the sofa with a groan.
“Between the movie-of-the-week and Ramon’s multimillion-dollar lawsuit, I should be in great shape when they finally let me out on parole.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You’re not going to jail.”
“Yeah, right. Just remember to bake me a cake with a file in it. Make it a fudge cake with white icing. That’s one good thing about prison. I won’t have to worry about calories.”
“Kandi, I swear. You’re not going to jail.”
“I’ll believe it when you find the killer. Speaking of which, how’d it go with Wells last night?”
“Not very productive,” I admitted.
“Oh.” She sank even deeper into the sofa.
“Cheer up, kiddo. This is just the beginning of my investigation.”
“Oh? Who are you going to talk to next?”
Actually, I didn’t have the slightest idea who I was going to talk to next. But I couldn’t let Kandi know that.
“Uh…Vanessa,” I said, vamping. “In fact, I’m going over to talk to her right now.”
I got up and headed for the door, as if I actually knew what I was doing.
“Lots of luck,” she said, wearily.
“Can I bring you back something for lunch?”
“Nah,” she sighed. “I’ll just suck on some Valium.”
I made my way across the lot, past the Miracle roller coaster, where hapless tourists were screaming in terror, no doubt wishing they’d kept up the payments on their life insurance policies. Over on Santa Monica Boulevard, the hookers were in full flower, shaking their fannies at the johns cruising by.
I hadn’t told Kandi about the Sturm und Drang going on with my parents; she had troubles enough of her own. But frankly, I was pretty damn worried. What the heck was Daddy doing working out with a punching bag? And what was all that nonsense about “avenging his honor”? Had all those years of hanging around strange cooking appliances somehow affected his thought processes? Lord knows what those contraptions were made of. Maybe some electrical currents were leaking out and turning his brain into applesauce.
Just when I was having visions of Daddy locked up behind bars in a high-security mental institution, I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Dale Burton grinning at me.
“Hi, Jaine,” he said, running his fingers through his thick shock of sandy hair. (What was it about these actors? Didn’t any of them ever have bad hair? Was I the only one on the lot, other than Helga, with hair that frizzed in the rain?)
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Fine.”
If you don’t count the fact that my best friend is a murder suspect, and my father’s going bonkers.
“I’m throwing a little party Thursday night, and I thought you and Kandi could stop by.”
Wow. Talk about tacky. What was the theme going to be: Quinn’s Dead; Let’s Party?
“I know it might seem a little tacky having a party so soon after Quinn’s death, but I can’t cancel the caterers without losing my deposit.”
“No,” I lied, “it’s not tacky at all.”
“So can you come?”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
And that was no lie. It would be a perfect opportunity for me to do some more nosing around.
“Stan and Audrey will be there,” he said, obviously thrilled to have them on his guest list. “It’ll be great. We’ll schmooze, booze, and knock around story ideas. See you then,” he said, shooting his finger at me like a gun.
Then he bounded off toward the commissary.
If Dale Burton was in mourning for Quinn, he was doing a hell of a job hiding it.
I knocked on the door to Vanessa’s trailer, not exactly brimming with confidence. The kid had all the warmth and charm of a prison warden. I only hoped I’d be able to get her to answer some questions.
“Who is it?” Vanessa called out.
“It’s me. Jaine.”
“Jane? I don’t know any Jane.”
I was heartened to see what a great impression I’d made on her.
“Jaine Austen,” I said.
I heard her whispering to someone inside the trailer. She was probably busy calling Security.
“I wrote this week’s script,” I said.
Or, as you so tactfully put it, this week’s piece of shit.
“Oh, right. Get the door,” she barked to whoever was in the room with her.
A mousy, middle-aged woman with watery blue eyes answered the door. She smiled tentatively.
“Come in, won’t you?”
Oh, well. At least someone in the trailer had manners.
Vanessa was stretched out on a mauve chenille sofa which, unlike our vermin-infested model, looked like it was fresh from the showroom. She sat pecking at a salad and reading Vogue, a pair of oversized hornrimmed glasses perched on her tiny nose. The big glasses on her fine boned face made her look oddly vulnerable.
“Hey, Jaine,” she said, “you got a cigarette on you?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”
She turned to her mousy assistant.
“Why the hell can’t you ever remember to get me cigarettes?”
“Sorry,” the mouse said, eyes downcast, looking as if she wished the floor would swallow her right up, “I didn’t realize you’d run out.”
“And this salad,” Vanessa said, plucking a glob of cheese from the greens, “it’s got blue cheese. How many times do I have to tell you, I hate blue cheese?”
The mouse sprinted over to retrieve the offending salad.
“Shall I get you another one, dear?” she asked, desperate to please.
Remind me never to get a job as a personal assistant in Hollywood. It’s slave labor—without the room and board.
“Oh, forget it,” Vanessa said. “Just get me a Hershey bar and a carton of Virginia Slims.”
Why did I have the feeling that it was the Hershey bar she’d wanted all along, and that she’d gone through the charade of ordering a salad just to drive her poor assistant crazy?
The mouse grabbed a worn cardigan sweater and scampered out the door.
“And hurry it up, willya, Mom? I’m starving.”
Mom??? The mouse was Vanessa’s mom? How heartwarming.
Vanessa popped a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.
“So what do you want?” she said, wasting no time on idle chitchat.
“I’d like to interview you for a cover story I’m doing for TV Guide. On Teen Stars.”
Yes, I know it was an outrageous lie, but if I told her I was investigating Quinn’s murder, she might not want to talk to me. This way, I’d appeal to her vanity. There was no way she was going to turn down a cover story in TV Guide. I was feeling quite proud of myself for thinking up such a clever ploy, when Vanessa popped her gum and said:
“Bullshit.”
Huh?
“TV Guide never gives cover stories to freelancers.”
Wow. Somebody wasn’t half as dumb as
she looked.
“You’re investigating Quinn’s murder.”
“How did you know?”
“Wells told us at rehearsal. Besides, I read in the papers about how you solved that murder in Westwood last year.”
I blinked in amazement. Not that she knew about the case, but that she’d actually read a newspaper. It looked like she had more than a few brain cells bouncing around in that lovely head of hers.
“You’re right,” I confessed. “I am doing some investigating. Right now Kandi seems to be high on the cops’ suspect list, and I’m trying to get her off the hook. So is it okay if I ask you some questions?”
“I don’t care,” she shrugged, trying her best to look nonchalant.
“You have any idea who might’ve killed Quinn?”
“Of course. It was Audrey.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on, you saw how pissed off she was when she caught Quinn and me in the sack together. Quinn told me she threatened to get rid of him. He never figured she meant permanently.”
“Did he tell you he’d been having an affair with her?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“And you didn’t mind?”
“Hey. I’m a big girl.” She stuck her chin out defiantly, like a B actress in a film noir. “And it’s not like I wasn’t screwing around with other guys.”
She was trying so hard to be tough. But I wasn’t convinced. I don’t care how many guys she claimed to have slept with (and I suspected there weren’t that many), she was still just a kid. A kid who might have been devastated to learn that her grown-up lover had been cheating on her. Maybe Quinn had been as callous with Vanessa as he’d been with Kandi, and she went a little bonkers. After all, unlike Kandi and the rest of us mere mortals, Vanessa Duffy wasn’t used to being rejected.
And maybe she assuaged her hurt feelings with a dose of rat poison.
It all made sense. The way I saw it, any kid capable of treating her mother like a scullery maid could easily be capable of murder.