by Laura Levine
“Hey,” one of them said, catching sight of my car as I stopped at the gate. “That might be her. The guard said she drove a crummy white Corolla.”
They grabbed their mikes and raced to my side. “Are you Jaine Austen?” they asked, thrusting their mikes under my nose.
“Yes,” I nodded warily.
“Any comment about what happened yesterday?”
“I don’t know why he did it. My father’s been under a lot of stress lately. I’m sure that with the right medication, he can return to a normal and productive life.”
The reporters stared at me blankly, no doubt wondering what the hell I was talking about.
“Actually, I was referring to what happened last night here at the studio.”
“Yeah,” the other one said. “How does it feel to have come thisclose to getting killed?”
“Well—”
But Los Angeles was not about to get the inside skinny on my feelings. Because just then a bright red Miata came zooming up behind me.
“Look! It’s Vanessa Dennis!”
I looked up into my rearview mirror, and sure enough, it was Vanessa. And sitting on the front seat beside her, looking awfully chummy, was Zach Levy-Taylor. If Zach killed Quinn to get rid of the competition, it sure seemed to be working.
I wondered if he was sleeping with Vanessa. Obviously the reporters were wondering the same thing because they dumped me like a hot potato and went racing to Vanessa’s side.
Welcome to Hollywood. Where a near murder victim is never as newsworthy as a pretty girl with big tits.
Skippy, the ancient guard, stopped me at the gate.
“I heard what happened to you last night,” he said, a look of concern in his rheumy eyes. “How’re you feeling?”
What a sweet guy. I was happy to know there was at least one compassionate person on the lot.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
“Listen, do you think maybe I could have your autograph?”
“My autograph? Why would you want my autograph?”
“In case anything…uh…happened to you, I could add it to my collection of murdered celebrities’ autographs.”
“What?”
“I’ve got ’em all,” he boasted. “Sal Mineo, Bob Crane, Phil Hartman…”
I gave the old ghoul my autograph and drove onto the lot, pulling into my coveted spot next to the dumpster. Vanessa and Zach sped past me to the A-list parking area. I could see Zach’s arm slung possessively around her shoulder. Why did I get the feeling that Vanessa would soon be reaching for another one of her bedside condoms?
I trekked over to the Writers’ Building, picking up a stale danish from the commissary en route. I settled in at my desk, wondering if the white stuff on the danish was icing or mold. I threw caution to the winds and took a bite. It was icing. I only hoped that the little black things inside were raisins.
I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Audrey summoned me to her office, looking particularly bloodless in a stark white suit and near-black lipstick. Grace Kelly meets Vampira. Stan was at his desk, reading the trades and sipping his morning cup of gin.
“We heard about what happened last night,” Audrey said.
And believe it or not, she actually looked upset. Who knew? Maybe she did have a warm and cuddly side, after all.
“And I want you to know that…” She paused dramatically.
Extra credit for those of you who guess how she finished that sentence:
A) “Stan and I are thrilled with the work you’ve been doing.”
B) “We feel so bad that you almost got your skull bashed in, we’re going to cut you a generous check for pain and suffering.”
C) “We’d like you to come on board as a permanent staff member.”
Those of you who guessed None of the Above, go to the head of the class.
“I just want you to know,” she said, tapping her nails on her desk in an angry staccato, “that I never ever want you bothering the actors again.”
So much for warm and cuddly.
“Several people have told me you’ve been prying into their lives with some pretty invasive questions.”
I wondered who’d squealed on me. Probably Zach. What a crybaby.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave any and all detective work to the police. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
Okay, so I didn’t really call her Sarge. I said I understood, and promised never to bother her precious actors again. A promise which I intended to break at the earliest possible opportunity.
At that moment Bianca poked her head in the door.
“Entertainment Tonight is waiting for you and Stan down on the stage.”
Audrey nodded.
“Damage control,” she said to me, in a way that implied that I was somehow responsible for the damage.
She got up and straightened her suit, which, of course, needed no straightening. Then she turned to Stan.
“C’mon, Stan,” she said, brushing the lint off his sweatshirt. “Time to meet the press. And remember. Let me do the talking.”
Then she sniffed his breath.
“Jesus, Stan. There’s enough gin on your breath to make a martini. Whatever you do,” she said, herding him out the door, “don’t breathe on Mary Hart.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alone in Stan and Audrey’s office, I took a look around. Compared to our office, it was the Taj Mahal. Of course, compared to our office, a toolshed was the Taj Mahal.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for. With Stan and Audrey gone, I could easily slip Lance’s treatment on Audrey’s desk.
Well, maybe not so easily, after all. I’d forgotten about Bianca.
There she was, at her post in the reception area, guarding the inner sanctum like a bitchy gargoyle. She’d never let me back in without a probing inquisition. I had to think of some way to get rid of her.
“Hey, Bianca,” I said, strolling over to her desk.
She didn’t bother to look up from her Cosmo Quiz.
“You’ll never guess who’s on the lot today.”
“Who?” she said, still not bothering to look up.
“Brad Pitt.”
“Get outta here!”
At last she made eye contact.
“I heard he’s shooting a public service spot over at the haunted house set.”
“I love Brad Pitt,” she sighed. “I absolutely adore him.”
“Why don’t you go over and watch them shoot?”
“Are you kidding? Audrey would kill me if I left the phones.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll answer the phones for you.”
“Would you?” she asked.
“Sure. It’s no problem.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, smiling a brittle smile. (Hey, she wasn’t used to being nice; it was the best she could do.)
And she sped out of there faster than a BMW in a hospital zone.
The minute she was gone, I retrieved Lance’s treatment from my briefcase. I quickly buried it in a pile of scripts on Audrey’s desk and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness I’d gotten that over with. Now I could say in all honesty, when Lance next asked me, that I’d given his damn shoe saga to Audrey.
I plopped myself down in Audrey’s swivel chair and spun around. What luxury to sit on a chair that didn’t need fumigating. And then, before I knew it, I was peeking in her desk drawers. I couldn’t help myself. This snooping thing can be very addictive.
Audrey’s desk was a gleaming teak affair, a far cry from my wormy woodpile. The insides of her drawers were spotless, as opposed to mine, which were coated with petrified gum and inkstains from the Punic Wars. Her pens were lined up neatly in a pen compartment, along with some lipsticks and an eyelash curler. Her file drawers yielded little of interest. Just some old scripts and a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Too bad. I was hoping for something a lot more incriminating.
I wandered over to Stan’s desk,
where I found an impressive supply of gin bottles stashed in his file drawer. The rest of his drawers were amazingly empty for a man supposedly running a television show. All I found was a bottle of Maalox and a brochure for a vacation condominium in Palm Springs.
No rat poison in sight.
I was just about to call it quits when I looked over at Audrey’s desk and noticed her datebook. It was hand-tooled leather, buttery soft, her initials discreetly em-bossed in the corner.
I debated the ethics of invading Audrey’s private records for a second or two, then opened the book. Every entry was written in black ink, printed carefully in attractive block letters. Quelle neatnik. The woman probably color-coded her bras.
I glanced through the entries, taking in Audrey’s busy schedule of network meetings, business lunches, manicures and hair colorist appointments. Aha, so that perfect blond hair of hers came from a bottle. Very gratifying.
Every once in a while, I’d see an entry simply marked “Q.” If the “Q” stood for Quinn, and I strongly suspected it did, it looked like Audrey had been meeting him at least once a week.
On a hunch, I checked the entry for the day of the murder. There, between “network meeting” and “dinner—Spago,” was another “Q.” Did that mean she planned to meet Quinn that day? Did she want to have it out with him once and for all? Or was she beyond meetings? Had she already made up her mind? Had she decided not to meet him, but to murder him instead?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Bianca breathing fire. I looked up and saw her glowering in the doorway.
“Brad Pitt’s not shooting a commercial on the lot,” she hissed.
“Oh?” I said, surreptitiously closing Audrey’s datebook. “Somebody told me he was.”
“And what the hell are you doing in here?” she said, narrowing her already beady eyes.
“Uh…Audrey called and asked me to bring her something from her desk.”
“Bullshit.” She smiled slyly. “You were snooping. And I’m going to tell Audrey.”
“You do,” I said, “and I’ll tell the cops about the deal you made with Danny to give each other alibis.”
It was a gamble, but I had to take it.
It worked. Her face went white with fear.
“How did you know about that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I know. I just know, that’s all.”
I walked over to her, trying my best to look tough.
“You keep your mouth shut,” I said, “or I’ll call the cops. I mean it.”
She nodded numbly.
Then I strode back into my office, not missing a beat.
Gosh, I was getting good at this.
Stan and Audrey were still down on stage chatting it up with Entertainment Tonight when Kandi came back from the cops.
“How’d it go?” I asked, as she trudged into the office.
“They warned me not to leave the country.”
She plopped on the sofa, limp with defeat.
“I should’ve gone to dental hygienist school like my mother wanted me to. I should have stayed in New York and married Sandy Needleman the accountant. But no, I had to be a big-deal comedy writer. I had to have an affair with an ac-tor. And I had to be the idiot who volunteered to get those damn donuts.”
She shook her head, dazed, as if unable to believe the shit that was hitting her fan.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Any day now I’m going to be sharing a jail cell with a woman named Big Earl.”
“Kandi, honey. Listen to me. They can’t arrest you just because someone happened to see you go into the prop room. It proves nothing.”
“Do you know how many innocent people are jailed each year for crimes they didn’t commit? Hundreds, probably thousands.”
“Kandi, you’ve got to stop thinking such negative thoughts.”
“That’s what Dr. Mellman says.” She took out a small book from her purse.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A book of affirmations. I’m supposed to say a new one each day.” She opened the book and read one aloud: I trust the process of life. I am safe. I am free.
“Yeah, right,” she said, tossing the book aside. “Free to remain silent because anything I say can and will be held against me.”
“Look,” I said, trying desperately to lift her spirits, “we’ll go to Dale’s party tonight. We’ll mellow out, have some laughs, some free hors d’oeuvres. Who knows? Maybe Melanie and Antonio and Julia and Brad will be there.”
“I can’t go to Dale’s party.”
“Why not?”
“Tonight’s my night at the soup kitchen.”
“The soup kitchen?”
“I made a deal with God. If She gets me out of this mess, I promised to lead a worthy life. I promised not to obsess about trivial stuff like men and cellulite, and to devote my energies to noble causes. So I signed up to feed the homeless one night a week. And tonight’s my night.”
“That’s great,” I said, somewhat dubiously. Somehow I just couldn’t picture Kandi in a soup kitchen. I only hoped she wouldn’t wind up dating one of the residents. But I smiled encouragingly, hoping that her time spent there would help put her own problems in perspective.
“Well, I’m going to the party,” I said. “I want to nose around and ask some more questions.”
“Are you sure you want to keep doing this, Jaine? After what happened last night?”
“I’m sure.” In spite of Audrey’s gag order, I was determined not to give up on the case.
“Oh, Jaine! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Kandi’s eyes filled with tears, and she threw her arms around me. We sat hugging each other for at least five minutes.
Good practice, Kandi said, for when she moved in with Big Earl.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I was soaking in the tub, with my hair in a turban and a pore strip on my nose, writing out my list of suspects. I was determined to clarify my thoughts (and my blackheads) before Dale’s party. I had just managed to balance a legal pad on my bath-oily thighs when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.
“Hi, Jaine. It’s me, Lance. Hope you’re enjoying your bath. I can hear you splashing around in there.”
Good heavens. With neighbors like Lance, why bother with walls?
“I was just about to head out, but I thought I’d call and find out how things are going with Audrey. Did she say anything about my treatment?”
“No, Lance,” I called out. “Not yet.”
“Oh. Too bad. Let me know when she does, okay?”
And then he hung up.
I don’t mind admitting I was a bit shaken. If Lance could hear me splashing around in the tub, I hated to think what else he could hear in my bathroom. Oh, well. No time to worry about that now. Not with a murder waiting to be solved.
I went back to my list of suspects, scribbling away on the damp legal pad. And then, just when I was almost through, the damn thing fell into the water. I fished it out, and blew away the bubbles. It was still faintly legible, so if you want to read it, here it is:
My Suspects
by Jaine Austen
Audrey Miller. Ice Queen and Scorned Lover. Threatened to “get rid of” Quinn. Very possible that she did. Easy enough to slip into the prop room on her way back from her network meeting and sprinkle some rat poison on a box of donuts.
Stan Miller. Ineffectual alcoholic, specializing in gin consumption. Knew that Audrey was sleeping with Quinn. Possibly sleeping with Vanessa himself? Either way, he’d been cuckolded by Quinn. Could he have poisoned him in a jealous rage? More important, could he have stayed sober long enough to do it?
Vanessa Dennis. Did Quinn break her young heart? Did she get even with a deadly donut? Claims she was in her trailer while the prop room was left unattended, but she also claims her boobs are her own. So much for her credibility.
Zach Levy-Taylor. Obviously loathed Quinn, threatened to kill him in front of a stageful of people. Di
d he reenact his murderous TV movie role and bump off his enemy? And then, scared that I would discover the truth, did he snip the wires on the overhead light?
Dale Burton. Overheard telling his agent he was going to “do something” to save his job. Was that “something” murder?
Vanessa’s mom. Mousy on the outside. The Terminator on the inside? Found out Quinn was boffing her daughter and cooked up a way to get rid of him?
Bianca. Frustrated secretary and irritating bitch. Probably boffing Quinn. Lied to the cops about her whereabouts the night of the murder. My choice for Woman I’d Most Like to See Turn Out to be the Murderer.
Danny, the Production Ass—
No, that wasn’t an editorial comment. That was when the list fell in the water. After I blew it dry with my hair dryer, I read it over. Sad to say, no startling insights occurred. I was just as confused as when I started out. I promised myself I’d study it in excruciating detail the minute I got back from Dale’s party.
In the meanwhile, though, I had to get dressed. I threw on a pair of black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. I was going for the unobtrusive look. My goal was to blend in with the scenery, so people would forget I was there and talk openly. Leaving my hair and makeup for last, I headed off to feed Prozac.
“Dinner time,” I called out gaily.
Prozac, who was hard at work trying to shed as much fur as possible on the living room sofa, decided to ignore me.
I reached into my purse and took out a can of crabmeat I’d bought on my way home from the studio.
“Look, honey,” I said, waving the can in front of her. “Look what Mommy bought you for dinner! A seven-dollar can of crabmeat!”
She sniffed at it dismissively as if to say, What, no caviar?
“C’mon, sweetpea,” I said, heading back to the kitchen. “It’s delicious.”