16 Millimeters

by Larissa Reinhart

  Robin strode to the pad on the wall. "Get off the resort." Behind me the lock chonged.

  "Did you know Vicki arranged for my double to get a listing of all your guests and their room numbers?"

  Robin whirled around. "That's not policy."

  "Vicki doesn't care about policy. She pays to get around policy. Just like she paid you to make sure I wasn't around to blow her filming schedule. Couldn't have the real Maizie appear with the Maizie lookalike." And I thought once again about Cambria's body double. "That poor woman. You really need to have them drag the lake before some golfer finds a floater. If you really care about your guests."

  I shot out of the office before I could hear Robin's angry reply.

  * * *

  Robin Coxon might want to kill me, but I agreed with Nash. There wasn't a strong enough motive for her to kill two actors and a filmographer. In fact, leaving a body at the resort was more of a hindrance than a help, regarding resort management power. I crossed her off my list. Although a crazed Cambria fanatic was still in play — after all, the soundtrack from Selena now looped in my mental playlist — I'd focus on the Pine Hollow circle. All of them — including Leonard as John Doe in villa eight — had rooms at the resort. They could have stashed the double and dropped her in the lake later that night.

  I wondered if they had wrapped her in those satin bed sheets. What a super sad ending to a life.

  At the studio gate, the production assistant checked me in, then told me Dahlia Pearson had left for her workout. She was probably running a marathon or climbing a mountain, but I decided to peek in her trailer before talking to craft service.

  Nick in Key Control had told me a key wasn't needed for her trailer. I'd flashed my badge and a lot of Leonard Shackleton name dropping on Nick. Apparently, if one were to murder a stunt man, this would be a handy trailer from which to do it. Either for Dahlia or anyone who knew she didn't like to carry a key because she "had no trust issues."

  Air-quotes by Nick.

  I knocked, but all was quiet on the Dahlia front. I considered her strength, determination, and unrequited jealousy of Cambria. Knocking Cambria off the movie was a motive, although that particular blend of crazy-plus-envy was more a Golden Age of Hollywood thing when shock treatment went hand-in-hand with Oscar trophies. It made more sense for Dahlia to expose Cambria as a diva slut than kill her. Dahlia probably feared the video would ruin the movie's rep with bad publicity. Or that Cambria's video would make Cam-Cam a bigger star.

  To kill all involved with the video? Major Looney Tunesville. And wouldn't Dahlia have figured out the lookalike wasn't Cambria during her murderous rampage? Or is that what set off the rampage?

  Now I was more confused.

  Dahlia's trailer wasn't as beautifully appointed as Cam-Cam's, but still lovely. I felt the accompanying wave of lifestyle envy. Just like in my former life, I was still hiding from Vicki, except now I was poor and hiding from Vicki.

  Dahlia's trailer smelled like pot and heavy-duty cleaner with a hint of lemon verbena. The bleach smell grew stronger as I crept toward the bathroom. I slowly pushed the door open, sniffing carefully, and stepped inside. Yanking back the shower curtain, I glanced into the empty tub, then checked beneath the sink. No cleaners although the bathroom did smell recently disinfected.

  Turning the corner down the short hall, I entered the master bedroom and checked the adjoining bathroom. I found Dahlia's bong and her copious pot stash, but no bodies and no cleaners.

  Palming the burner phone, I thumb dialed and sat on Dahlia's bed. "Nash. Dahlia doesn't have any Scrubbing Bubbles in her trailer."

  "You know this why?"

  "She's not here. It’s cool.” My gaze roamed the room and stopped on the closet door. "Her guest bath smells like it's been scoured, but there's not even a bottle of bleach in sight."

  "A cleaning service could have been there recently."

  "I'll check." Standing to the side of the closet, I reached for the handle, swung the door open, and jumped back. "No bodies in the closet."

  "With your luck…"

  "Yeah, I was surprised, too." Shuddering, I closed the closet door.

  And heard the echo of a door shutting.

  I sucked in a deep breath.

  "What is it?"

  Covering the phone's receiver, I crept toward the bedroom door to peer out in the hall. A shadow fell across the living area's floor. Quietly, I drew the door shut but stopped it from closing completely. I placed an eyeball to the crack, couldn't see enough to make a difference, then glanced around the bedroom. Closet, bathroom, bed.

  Closet was the most logical choice. Craptastic.

  Inside my palm, Nash's voice vibrated.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I opened the closet door and stepped inside. My heart hammered, my pits sweated, and my stomach churned. I brought the phone to my ear. "I'm in the closet."

  "You hate closets."

  "Dahlia came home," I whispered.

  "I told you—" He broke off with a litany of curses. "Listen, let me—"

  "No. Stay with Cambria. She could be in danger. But more importantly, when she wakes, you need to be there to question her. When she's still sleepy and drugged out. Before she thinks about why she shouldn't talk."

  I clapped the phone shut, shoved it in my back pocket, and opened my eyes. Plastic bagged outfits crowded the closet. My stomach cramped and windpipe burned as I imagined the swell of garment bags closing around me. I shut my eyes and took deep breaths.

  A door thudded. Footsteps pattered into the bedroom. A thwack caused me to jump, rattling the hangers. I held my breath and edged back. The bags slithered and whispered. Thin plastic caught at my hair and clothes, sticking and tangling. I batted at the plastic, recoiling at their rustle and cling.

  My fingers and toes felt like ice. My neck and chest damp. Hives broke out in a swath of nerve-induced perspiration. Feathery plastic threatened to swaddle me. My lungs battled for air. Each breath sucked plastic closer, slipping over my skin and clinging to the hairs. Goosebumps broke on my scalp. It took all my willpower not to rip the bags off their hangers.

  Death by wardrobe smothering. Seemed symbolic.

  I inhaled, held air for a ten count, and exhaled. The bags fluttered. I inhaled again, detected a pungent aroma, and exhaled more slowly. Felt calmer. Then prayed I wouldn't be stuck in this nightmarish closet for however long it took Dahlia to get baked.

  The wall of the closet thrummed. Water rushed through pipes. My shoulders eased away from my neck.

  Someone belted an Adelle classic.

  I pushed at the dry cleaner bags, moved to the front of the closet, and cracked the door. The bathroom door stood open. Adelle tunes grew louder. The shower droned. I crept from the closet. The bags followed. Beating back the bags, I shut the closet door and spotted a pile of items on the bed. Glanced at the bathroom again and slipped to the bed.

  A binder with "script notes" written on the cover had been tossed next to Dahlia's purse. The Fendi pouch lay open, its contents threatening to spill on the bed quilt. I pawed through the items and found a single key card for the studio.

  This was not a trailer key. Dahlia didn't believe in keys anyway, and Dahlia didn't need a key to get into the warehouse building. Why would an actress need a studio key card? There was always a door guard on duty. Props, maintenance, rigs, and other set crew might have key cards to their respective storage rooms and offices, but actors wouldn't need them.

  With a squeak of the pipes, the shower ended.

  I scooted out of the room, key card still in hand. Flying down the steps and through the front door, I halted. A golf cart screeched to a stop, blocking my path.

  "Maizie," said Vicki.

  I glanced behind me, shoved the key card into my pocket, and edged away from Dahlia's front door.

  "I know what you're doing." Vicki settled her DITA sunglasses on top of her head, careful not to mess her platinum style, and planted fists on her tiny hips. "This has got to stop. I
'm beside myself."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I've been worried sick. Sick. Honestly. I thought I was going to—" Her eyes squeezed shut and forehead threatened to pucker. Botox did its job, but I knew the sign of stress. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Oh my God. I forgot you saw Nash. He told you?" I'd almost been victim number four. Or was it three? Poor Vicki. One tended to forget she was also my mother.

  Her eyes still shut, she gave a sharp nod.

  "I'm totally okay. And I'm being care—"

  Her eyes flew open. "And now this. What have you done? How could you?"

  "Done?"

  "To your hair. And…" She waved at my outfit. "Are those," she gasped, "Birkenstock sandals?"

  I glanced at my feet. We hadn't taken the time to take the color off my toes. Deborah Lippman's "Stargasm" pink glinted in the sunlight.

  "And polyester? What is going on with your hair? It's flying straight up into the air. Did you get the opposite of a keratin treatment?"

  "I think that's static electricity."

  She tried to snort but choked instead. "I mean. Really."

  "It's okay, mom—Vicki. I'm fine."

  "She's fine," she said to the heavens.

  Patting my static-y hair, my eyes teared. I knew Vicki loved me in her own way, but I'd never seen her this distraught. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you like this."

  The sea glass green eyes lowered from the sky to center on the pair that no longer matched her shade. "You should have thought about how upset I'd be. I had to learn about this from a local. Then find Mr. Nash in the hospital room?" She spat out both descriptions with equal distaste. By local, I assumed she meant Theodore and felt even sorrier for him. "They wouldn't even let me in."

  "Wait. You're talking about Cambria?"

  "Of course. Who else would I be talking about?"

  I clasped a hand to my heart, unable to respond.

  "Cambria's the one in the hospital," continued Vicki. "She's the one who was poisoned. I know you're jealous of Cambria, but this is low. You should have contacted me. As her manager, Cambria needed me. Both at the hospital and at the meetings that I know must have been going on last night."

  Behind us, the door creaked. Dahlia had heard the shouting. I thought of the key and the body that had been recently under her trailer. Goosebumps broke on the back of my neck.

  "I've got to go." I rounded the corner of the trailer before Dahlia could spot my physical alteration. There'd be no point to a disguise if my one of my suspects saw me. I'd be forced to start carrying the pink gun.

  "Hey Ms. Albright," said Dahlia. "What's going on?"

  "I'm speaking of poor Cambria's poisoning."

  "I guess you could say sniffing drain cleaner is a kind of poison."

  I plastered myself to the side of the trailer to listen.

  "Dahlia, dear," said Vicki. "It wasn't Cambria's nose that was ripped up. It was her throat and stomach."

  "I guess I see your point," said Dahlia. "Who were you talking to?"

  "Never mind that."

  "I hope Maizie's not in trouble again. She's not been helping Cambria at all, from what I understand," said Dahlia. "That's why Mr. Nash is Cambria's sitter and not Maizie."

  "Really?" Vicki's voice lowered.

  I closed my eyes to concentrate on her words.

  "How does Mr. Shackleton feel about that?"

  "Ed Farmer isn't happy about it. And if Ed isn't happy, Leonard won't be either," called Dahlia. "The truth hurts, but one must keep it real." Dahlia's uptalk tone dropped to serious, then slid toward menacing. "Maizie should lay her landmines elsewhere if she knows what's good for her."

  WTH, Dahlia. And what did that mean?

  "Come inside, Vicki. I want to talk you about something."

  "I could use a water," said Vicki. "Bottled. No gas. French spring, if you have any."

  "Don't go in there, Vicki," I muttered. Dahlia's trailer smelled like heavy duty cleaner with no cleaner in sight. Plus, there was the issue with the missing dead body beneath it. No good motive, but that was no reason to put Vicki in jeopardy.

  I rounded the corner of the trailer, but Vicki had already gone inside.

  Twenty-Four

  #KeytoEdsHeart #DoubleStuffedIndemnity

  After standing with my ear pressed to Dahlia's door longer than good judgment warranted, I decided veiled threats toward me didn't mean Vicki was in any danger. After all, Vicki had voted Maizie off the island. She'd chosen Team Cambria and Team Dahlia. That seemed safe enough. For Vicki, anyway. I trudged back to the warehouse, repeating one of Renata's self-actualizing mantras, then stopped to examine the key card.

  The key could lead to wherever Dahlia stashed her bodies. Or something completely innocent. Like a storage room where she stashed her props and costumes.

  Although she had a trailer for that. I'd seen her plastic-bagged costumes. I'd almost inhaled them.

  Either way, I wanted to find the door that went with the card. While I walked, I tried calling Giulio again, then called Nash to explain I hadn't died from garment bag asphyxiation.

  "Leonard Shackleton, Dahlia, and Cambria's agent have been here,” said Nash. “Also, Ed Farmer, who's still here.”

  I could hear muffled words in the background.

  "What he'd say?"

  "Something about you failing at goats? I don't know." Nash lowered his voice. "The guy is nutty if you ask me."

  "That's well known. Genius nutty."

  "I was thinking more like fruitcake nutty. He's holding Cambria's hand and reading lines from a script. He said he didn't want her to miss rehearsal. She's still unconscious."

  "That's sweet." I thought back to the fully drawn storyboards and Dahlia's veiled references to Ed Farmer's Cambria obsession. "Also a little stalker-y."

  "That's what I'm here for." Nash sighed. "Stay in contact."

  At Key Control, Nick scanned the card. I gave him a little white "Leonard Shackleton gave me this key, but I can't remember what it's for" lie. Nick was much more obliging (and gullible) than Security Mike. We learned Dahlia's key card worked on Ed Farmer's door.

  That's what I call a big "aha" moment. I mean, why would Dahlia have a key to her director's office? Did she steal it? Was Dahlia a thief and a murderer?

  I scurried through the busy building, avoiding eye contact and carrying a clipboard I borrowed from Nick. Clipboards made one appear official. Also, helpful for hiding one's face. With a quick "all clear" look-see, I flashed the card against the scanner and entered Ed's office. Shut his shades and left the light off. The storyboards caught my eye once more. Cambria in all her sketched-out glory. Creepapaloozaville. Particularly in the dim light. Dahlia's supporting character was barely a rough sketch. More like a fleshed-out stick figure.

  That would bug me, too, Dahlia. But enough to kill Cambria's double? I turned to take in the rest of the room.

  The scattered papers on the conference table didn't tell me much, other than the schedules were still a mess of highlighting, underlining, and red arrows. Using the light from my burner phone, I found a copy of the press release.

  "The producers of Ed Farmer's newest blockbuster regret to inform the public that their current star, Cambria, was hospitalized for a throat ailment. At this time, production will not be delayed, and they expect Cambria to make a rapid recovery."

  I wondered how long it took them to craft those two sentences. I also wondered if Dahlia had seen the press release and if the word "current" had jumped out at her as it had done for me.

  Circling the room, I stopped behind Ed's desk. Sketches littered the top of the desk, many of Cambria. One of Dahlia.

  I picked up the Dahlia sketch and shined the phone's light on it. It looked like a head shot except she seemed to be leering at him. Maybe he had sketched her badly. Or it was the lighting. I flipped it over. "Phyllis Dietrichson."

  Wait. What? Wasn't that the Phyllis from Double Indemnity? Barbara Stanwyck had played the scheming, murdering sed
uctress. Barbara had been nominated for an Oscar, yet lost to Ingrid Bergman for Gaslight.

  Was Ed planning on remaking Double Indemnity? But wasn't that The Postman Always Rings Twice? Or did he mean something else? Like a pointing finger-type hunch?

  I slipped the sketch under the blank sheet on my clipboard and moved on to his desk drawers. Found no interesting Suspect X notes, smoking guns, or 20-gallon jugs of bleach. No bodies, cameras, or cleaners in the credenza, either. His official film notes were not there, but neither was his laptop. I remembered the tiny notebook Ed used for sketching during that first dinner, but that wasn't included in the detritus of loose paper and photos shoved into the top drawer.

  Order reigned in the file cabinet. The director had to take off his creative beret and replace it with a business man's fedora. I flipped through folders of mostly legal or invoice variety. The actor's headshots from casting had only their character's names handwritten on them. Nothing interesting. But a file with the name Cambria Johnson caught my notice. I scanned the papers, barely registering the content through the legalese until my tired eyes stopped on a receipt attached to a copy of her artist liability insurance.

  An insurance contract would be standard stuff for a notorious actor, even if her notoriety had been recent. Cambria wasn't a big star yet, so her antics made her risky. The producer's investors would have demanded it. However, the insurance bond had been backed by Ed Farmer with her agent underwriting a percentage.

  The director was beholden to Cambria for completing this movie to the tune of twenty million.

  Holy hells balls. Leonard had said "chunky liability coverage." I guessed chunky was the new fat. Why did Ed lay down that amount of money for an actress who'd gone from TV to stage to tabloid headline news? Cambria's Lady Macbeth must have been epic.

  Voices from the hall seeped into the room. I shoved the paperwork back into the file cabinet and slid to the door. Splitting the door's shade, I peered into the hallway. A group of arguing executives strode into Leonard's Shackleton's office. A moment later, Alvin Murphy and Cambria's PR rep, Holly, hurried in. I cracked the door, spotted Leonard Shackleton ambling down the hall, and closed the door. Waited a full minute and squinted through the shade. He stood in the doorway to his office. Staring at Ed Farmer's door.