by Laura Levine
Alan, the director, stood at a microphone that had been set up at the steam table. “We’re all here,” he said, “to say good-bye to a good friend and a fine actor. Quinn Kirkland was a consummate performer, a joy to work with.”
As Alan went on to tell some highly fictional tales about what a great guy Quinn was, I looked around the room at my fellow mourners.
Dale sat, green around the gills, wearing sunglasses to hide what had to be a monumental hangover. Wells, on the other hand, had undergone a remarkable transformation. When I’d left him last night, he’d been a frail old man. Today, he was once more the urbane Brit, the kind of silver-haired senior citizen you see smiling from the pages of a retirement home brochure. Whatever vitamins he was taking, I wanted some.
Zach and Vanessa sat side by side, thighs touching, Zach’s arm draped proprietarily over her shoulder. Vanessa’s eyes were glazed with boredom; I was surprised she wasn’t leafing through Vogue.
Vanessa’s mother stood in the back of the room with the commissary staff, nervously fingering the buttons on her cardigan. And Bianca, normally such a cold bitch, was actually crying. Yes, big sloppy tears poured down her cheeks. I guess she really must have loved the guy. Either that, or she just broke a nail.
Alan finally wound down his eulogy and asked if there were any others who wanted to speak. An awkward silence filled the room. There were plenty of people who had something to say, I thought, but none of it repeatable in a churchlike setting.
Marco, the prop guy, got up and went to the mike. Marco was apparently one of those who’d been genuinely fond of Quinn.
“Not only was Quinn the best actor on the lot,” he said, causing Dale to flinch behind his sunglasses, “Quinn was a terrific human being.”
Kandi rolled her eyes.
“Mother Teresa in a jock strap,” she muttered.
“When I think of how he gave of himself to other people…” Marco intoned.
“Right,” Kandi whispered. “Sometimes as much as three times a night.”
Bianca whirled around and glared at her.
“Will you please shut up?” she hissed.
Frankly, I was surprised at her outburst. It was the first time I’d ever heard her use the word “please.”
“I guess what I’ll remember most about Quinn,” Marco said, “were his wonderful stories. Why, we used to sit here in the commissary and he’d have us all in stitches.”
I thought back to my first day in the commissary, how excited I was to be having lunch at the same table with the handsome Quinn Kirkland. It seemed like centuries ago. I remembered how I sat listening to Dale and Wells and Quinn trading stories, vying in an unspoken competition to see who could get the biggest laughs.
Of course, Quinn—with his dazzling smile and perfect timing—had been the winner. He’d told about the chef in the restaurant who used to squeeze steaks under his armpit before he put them on the grill. And those practical jokes of his, when he worked as a valet parker in a Malibu restaurant, putting crazy things in the customers’ glove compartments. Lace undies, smelly old chili dogs, and even a snake.
How funny those pranks seemed at the time. But now, looking back, they didn’t seem funny at all. I mean, who the hell wants to find a rotting chili dog in her glove compartment? Or a snake? A person could get a heart attack from something like that.
And then it hit me. I knew who the real murderer was.
Just last night Wells told me his wife had suffered a fatal heart attack when she discovered a snake in her car. She’d been having lunch, he said, with friends in Malibu. What if it was the same Malibu restaurant where Quinn worked? What if, as a misguided prank, Quinn had put a snake in Jessica Dumont’s glove compartment?
I could picture the scenario: On the way home, Jessica reaches for something in her glove compartment and sees the snake. Her heart gives out. All because of a stupid practical joke.
Wells’s life is never the same. He goes through the motions, but his days are empty without the woman he loves. And then one day ten years later, he hears an arrogant actor bragging about how he put a snake in some poor shnook’s glove compartment. He asks himself: Is it possible? Could it be? Could the snake in his wife’s car have been left there by Quinn? Casually he chats with Quinn and asks him more about his job at the Malibu restaurant. He discovers that it’s the same restaurant where his wife ate, and that Quinn had been working there at the time of her death. He knows that, however inadvertently, Quinn is responsible for his wife’s death. And he vows to get revenge.
I looked over at Wells, watching Marco tell about the time Quinn filled a co-worker’s bathtub with lime jello. For one brief instant I thought surely I must be mistaken. Wells was sitting back in his seat, an expansive smile on his face. The picture of good-natured ease.
But then I looked down and saw his hands, clenched so tightly I could see the white of his bones.
At that moment I knew with utter certainty that Wells had killed Quinn.
But what I couldn’t figure out, not for the life of me, was how.
“You think Wells is the killer?”
Detective Incorvia’s voice rose in disbelief, as if I’d just suggested that Queen Elizabeth was a pedophile.
As soon as the memorial service was over, I’d raced back to the Writers’ Building and called him. And for once, he was actually at his desk.
“Wells couldn’t have killed Quinn. His whereabouts were accounted for the entire time the prop room was left unattended. Several people saw him deep in conversation with Zach. When he wasn’t talking to Zach, he was on stage doing his Hamlet soliloquy. And once taping started, he was on stage with Quinn in full view of the entire audience.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible that he could have nipped in and out of the prop room for a minute or two, when no one was looking?”
“No, I don’t think it’s possible,” Incorvia said. “The man is eighty years old, with bad feet. He doesn’t nip in and out anywhere.”
I had to admit he was right. I couldn’t picture Wells making fast tracks anywhere—not without a motorized wheelchair.
My snake-in-the-glove-compartment theory was growing weaker by the minute.
“I appreciate all the help you’ve given us so far, Jaine. But this time, you’re way off base. Wells Dumont had nothing whatsoever to do with Quinn’s death.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Stan Miller just confessed.”
“What?”
“He signed a full confession. Just twenty minutes ago.”
I hung up, dumbfounded.
What the heck was Stan doing, confessing to a murder I knew he didn’t commit? Had the police browbeat him? Had they promised him a martini, if only he’d sign on the dotted line?
Or was it possible that he really was the killer? Had I been totally wrong this morning? Did that look of utter bewilderment in Stan’s eyes mean that he was simply an utterly bewildered killer? After all, there was no rule in the rulebooks that said you had to be a Rhodes Scholar to commit murder.
By now, I had absolutely no faith left in my powers of reasoning. Whatever made me think I was any good at this detective stuff anyway? Every other minute I was convinced someone new had committed the crime. First it was Dale. Then it was Vanessa and her mother. For five minutes, I was convinced it was Zach. And for a hopeful moment or two, Bianca had topped my list. Last night I could’ve sworn it was Stan. And just this morning I was prepared to personally put the handcuffs on Audrey. I’m surprised I didn’t try to arrest Helga.
“Where the heck did you race off to?” Kandi said, coming in the office, eating a muffin. “You missed the free memorial buffet. I brought back a muffin for you.”
She held out a blueberry muffin. I practically inhaled the damn thing.
“So,” she said, “are you ready for your big night?”
“What big night?”
“The taping, dummy.”
In all the excitement of the past few
days, I’d forgotten: Tonight was the night they were taping my show.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A fresh crop of tourists were sitting in the bleachers, waiting for “Cinderella Muffy” to begin. I thanked my lucky stars that Mr. Goldman wasn’t one of them. The last thing I needed was an octogenarian heckler in the front row.
The warm-up guy was doing the same jokes he’d done last week. They hadn’t gotten any funnier since then.
Kandi and I stood with Audrey near the cameras, scripts in hand. I scanned the audience, looking for hearty laughers, jolly souls chortling and poking each other, ready to giggle themselves silly. What I saw was a sea of American Gothic lookalikes—fair-haired, gimlet-eyed people who sat ramrod straight, eerily silent.
“Oh, dear,” I said to Kandi. “Who are these people, and why aren’t they smiling?”
“They’re Mormons,” Kandi said.
“Mormons?”
“Yeah, they’re here on a break from Bible Study Camp.”
“Oh, great,” I wailed. “There go my laughs.”
“Don’t worry,” Kandi said. “That’s what laugh tracks are for. We’ll just sweeten the show later.”
I was standing there, wishing they’d shoot me instead of the show, when I heard someone call out:
“Yoo-hoo, Jaine!”
I looked up. There in the front row, smack dab in the middle of the Mormons, was Lance Venable.
“C’mere!” he hissed, motioning me to come over. I smiled feebly and headed in his direction. Damn. What if he found out I didn’t give his treatment to Audrey in person, that I’d slipped it onto her desk like a thief in the night? But I was being ridiculous; there was no way he could possibly find out.
“Hi, Lance!” I said, trying to look as if I were happy to see him. “What are you doing here?”
“I didn’t want to miss your show biz debut. Say hi to my friend Peter.”
His friend Peter was a stunning black man with a diamond stud in his ear. He and Lance stood out from the Mormons like two croissants in a Wonder Bread factory.
“Omigosh,” Lance said, “is that your boss? The blonde in the white suit?”
I nodded.
“I know her!”
Damn.
“You do?”
“She’s one of my customers.”
“Yoo-hoo, Audrey!” he shouted, waving at her.
Audrey glanced up from where she was consulting with the director. I told myself not to panic. Never in a million years would she come over and say hello. Audrey never mingled with the common people.
Then why the hell was she walking over in our direction with a big smile plastered on her face?
“Lance, sweetie,” she said. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“When Jaine told me her boss was named Audrey, I had no idea it was you!” Lance said. “Did you get a chance to read my treatment?”
“What treatment?”
“Didn’t Jaine give it to you?”
“No, she sure didn’t.”
Lance looked at me, daggers in his eyes.
“Uh…I left it on your desk,” I stammered. “If the Shoe Fits. About a bunch of shoe salesmen.”
“I wondered where that came from.” Audrey beamed at Lance. “It’s hilarious!”
What? Had the world gone mad, or just Audrey? If the Shoe Fits was about as funny as a barium enema. Maybe she was just being nice to him so he’d give her a good deal on some Ferragamos.
“I think we can sell it to Fox.” Good heavens, it sounded like she meant it. “I’ll call you and we’ll do lunch.”
Then she blew him a kiss and headed back to the director.
I didn’t know what to be more flabbergasted over: the fact that she actually liked Lance’s shoe saga, or the fact that she didn’t seem to give a damn that her husband was festering in jail, a confessed murderer.
But I didn’t have time to stay flabbergasted for long, because just then, the warm-up guy announced that the taping of “Cinderella Muffy” was about to begin.
I’m happy to report that Act One zipped by without a single dead body cropping up on stage.
What’s more, the Mormons were wonderful! Yes, those delightful people laughed at all my jokes—and some of the straight lines, too. I guess after being holed up in Bible Camp, they were ready to laugh at anything. Or maybe they were simply discerning connoisseurs of comedy. All I know is that they were a fabulous audience, and the next time they show up on my doorstep wanting to discuss the Bible, I’m going to ask them in for coffee and danish.
My spirits were lifting. Judging from the response of my darling Mormons, it looked like I had a lucrative career as a sitcom writer ahead of me.
The warm-up guy was back on stage, doing some magic tricks, waiting for the crew to set up for Act Two. Unlike his jokes, his magic tricks were pretty good. I watched as he took a quarter from a church elder’s hairy ear. It really did look like the coin was coming out from the guy’s ear. Magicians are amazing, I thought, in their ability to fool the eye.
And then I remembered:
Wells had been a magician.
Just last night, in his scrapbook, I’d seen a picture of him as “Dumont the Great.”
And suddenly I knew how Wells had killed Quinn.
Everyone assumed the donut had been poisoned in the prop room. But what if the fatal dose of poison had been sprinkled on stage, with a magician’s sleight of hand, in full view of the entire audience?
When Quinn had offered Wells the box of donuts, the audience saw him waving it away. What they didn’t see was Wells sprinkling rat poison into the box. And with the raised lid of the box facing Quinn, he wouldn’t have noticed either. That, I was certain, was how Wells had killed Quinn Kirkland.
The rest of the taping went by in a blur. I simply couldn’t concentrate on the script. All I could think about was Wells. I told myself I was being foolish. After all, Stan had confessed to the crime. Wells was a lonely old man with good hair and bad feet; why couldn’t I leave the poor guy alone? He was simply the latest in a long line of my Suspects du Jour. I really had to forget about Quinn’s death. I had a whole new career ahead of me, and I couldn’t afford to blow it over some cockamamie murder theory.
Before I knew it, the taping was over. The Mormons were filing out of the soundstage, still chuckling at Muffy’s zany adventures.
That’s where my future was, I told myself—in laughs, not deaths. After such a positive audience response, Audrey was sure to offer me a staff job.
Which is why I was optimistic when Audrey called the cast and crew together.
“People,” she said, “I’ve got an announcement to make.”
Could it be? Was she going to thank me for a wonderful script and offer me a staff job right here in front of everybody?
“The show’s been cancelled,” she said.
Apparently not.
Gasps of disappointment and surprise filled the air.
“The network just called. Too much negative publicity. First the murder, and then the incident with the overhead light.” She eyed me balefully, as if blaming me for almost getting my head bashed in.
“Well, that’s it,” she said, showing about as much emotion as a paperweight. “Better pack up and clear out tonight. The party’s over.”
So much for my budding sitcom career.
But here’s the crazy part: I didn’t care. So what if I wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes? I liked being a detective. If truth be told, I liked it a lot more than I liked writing sitcoms. And right now, I had a case to solve. I was convinced that Wells was Quinn’s killer.
Now all I had to do was get him to confess.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Damnphooeyfuckshit! Now I’ll have to go back to writing for the cockroach.”
We were back in our office and Kandi was stretched out on the sofa, staring morosely into space, bemoaning her fate. What with Muffy ’n Me cancelled, she’d be forced to go back to her old job writing for Beanie
& The Cockroach.
“Do you know what it’s like spending your days writing cockroach jokes?” She sighed with great drama.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you know how many people slinging fries at McDonald’s would kill for a job as an animation writer? What happened to your vow to never again sweat the small stuff if only God would get you off the hook for murder?”
She had the grace to look somewhat abashed.
“You’re right,” she said, sitting up. “I’m being very spoiled-brattish. Just yesterday I thought I’d be spending the rest of my life in jail fighting off advances from women with mustaches. What’s wrong with me, anyway? I have absolutely no sense of perspective. So what if I have to write jokes for a household pest? So what if the only people who see my name on the credits have Cream of Wheat dribbling onto their bibs? So what if I have to go groveling back to my old boss, the one who told me, You’ll come groveling back to me, just wait and see.
“Oh, hell,” she said, suddenly back in the valley of depression. “I need a drink.”
“Congratulations. You managed to keep things in perspective for a whole four and a half seconds.”
“What can I say?” she shrugged. “I’m hopeless.”
She went to her desk and fished a bottle of tequila from the bottom drawer.
“Cocktail time,” she said, holding it aloft.
We managed to find some orange juice in the office refrigerator and made ourselves makeshift Tequila Sunrises, a normally festive drink that seems a lot less festive when you’re drinking it out of a Muffy ’n Me coffee mug.
Back in our office, we spent several companionable moments sipping our Tequila Sunrises and watching the transvestites strut their stuff on Santa Monica Boulevard.
A muscular man in stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, and a Tina Turner wig was leaning into the open window of a Mercedes to negotiate a price for his services. His black leather skirt was cut so tight, you could practically read the label on his jockstrap.
Starting next week, the guy would be making more money than me.