Who Killed the Pinup Queen?

by Kelner, Toni, L. P.

  “What about pictures?”

  “I’ll be happy to include those, too.” She gave Nicole her best Prozac-addict smile. “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Then I’ll get that material for you right now.”

  “Use the freelancer desk this time.”

  “Certainly. Am I allowed to use the printer?”

  Nicole just gave her a look.

  Tilda, her plastic smile still in place, took her stuff to the open desk and unpacked her laptop once again in order to send Nicole everything she’d asked for, and then sent it to the printer, too. She was waiting for the printout when an instant message appeared on her screen.

  Cooper: WTF?

  Tilda: I hate her.

  Cooper: Don’t let her get to you.

  Tilda: I hate her.

  Cooper: She just wants to keep you from getting the job.

  Tilda: I hate her.

  Cooper: I’m sensing hostility.

  Deciding to send a different kind of instant message, Tilda made sure that Cooper and nobody else was looking, then stuck her tongue out at him.

  When the printer finished, Tilda retrieved the pages, carefully collated them, and paper clipped them together before placing then on Nicole’s desk. “Here you go!” she said perkily.

  Nicole just glanced at them, then looked back at her computer screen. “We’re done.”

  “Okay. Bye now!” Tilda continued to grin like an idiot as she packed her things back away, relaxing only when her cell phone let loose with the theme from The Addams Family.

  The caller’s number was unfamiliar, but she answered it in case it was business-related. “Tilda Harper.”

  “Hi, this is Quentin Beaudine from this morning.”

  Raising her voice, she said, “Hi, Quentin! How nice to hear from you.” She had to restrain herself from laughing when she saw Nicole’s back stiffen.

  “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go to dinner this week.”

  “I’d love to go to dinner.”

  “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is perfect.” They negotiated details, and she ended it with, “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again.”

  As she put the phone away, Cooper asked unnecessarily, “Was that the doctor you met today?” to make sure Nicole had gotten it.

  Tilda’s answering smile was entirely sincere.

  Chapter 12

  Cowtown not having a sheriff was an accident. We had a man in mind for the part, but he found himself another job right before we started shooting. So we wrote him out of the first script, meaning to cast the sheriff later. Then we got to thinking that it made sense for a town like that to be missing a regular lawman. That meant that the Cowtown Code was the law, and that made for some mighty good stories.

  —HOYT AMBROSE, QUOTED IN COWTOWN COMPANION BY RUBEN TIMMONS

  TILDA wasn’t looking forward to her next stop, a visit to the police station to get her camera back, but it was almost a nonevent. She explained to the officer at the front desk why she was there, he made a phone call, and after a ten-minute wait, another uniformed officer brought the camera out to her. There was no opportunity to tell Detective Salvatore about Louise Silberblatt, and she still wasn’t sure if she wanted to or not.

  Surely it couldn’t hurt to check on Louise’s alibi first. How hard could it be to find out if she’d been on set at A Life Worth Living the day Sandra was killed? Of course, a show filmed that day wouldn’t be on air for another couple of weeks, going by normal industry standards, but maybe she could casually ask the people in makeup or costume. Backstage people always knew what was going on. She knew that if she discussed the idea with either June or Cooper, they’d chide her about playing Nancy Drew, but they’d never been murder suspects. Tilda was pretty sure she was in the clear, or the police would have questioned her further, but she hadn’t enjoyed being suspected. It made her feel as if she was walking on eggshells, that anything she did or didn’t do would make her look somehow guilty, no matter how innocent she was. She wasn’t willing to put Louise through that unless she had more to go on than the facts that she’d known Sandra and had worked in the same job half a century ago.

  Colleen was waiting for her when she got home, obviously dying to question her about something.

  “Oh, good, you’re back,” she said. “There’s a message for you on the machine. It sounds pretty important.”

  In other words, Colleen had already listened to it. Tilda knew she should have dumped the landline when she moved the last time. It was just that sometimes she forgot to charge her mobile. Besides, she’d had the same phone number for years, meaning that it was on her mother’s and father’s speed dials.

  “Thanks,” she said, trying to hide her exasperation, and pushed the Replay button on the answering machine.

  “Miss Harper, this is Viola, the publicist from A Life Worth Living. I understand that you’re hoping to meet with Louise Silberblatt, and I found out that Ms. Silberblatt will be in Boston later this week. Please give me a call and we’ll arrange details.” Tilda jotted down the number the woman read out.

  “Louise Silberblatt the actress?” Colleen said. “Really?”

  “That’s right,” Tilda said. “Sorry, but I need to return this call.”

  She was guessing that the police must have released Sandra’s body so the funeral could be scheduled, which the publicist confirmed once she got her on the phone. They decided that Tilda would meet Louise after the funeral.

  As soon as she was off the phone, Tilda checked her e-mail, and, as expected, there was a message from Lil with information about Sandra’s funeral. The viewing had been set for the next night, with the funeral the morning after that. Both would be held at the Hawkins Funeral Home in Boston. Tilda considered rescheduling her date with Quentin, but decided she could skip the viewing—she’d already seen Sandra’s body. After sending a response to Lil to let her know, she called a florist to arrange to have flowers delivered.

  “Who died?” Colleen asked. Tilda turned to see her roommate standing outside her bedroom door.

  “Eavesdropping much?”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping,” she said indignantly. “I just happened to be walking by and heard you say something about a funeral. Did somebody in your family die?”

  There had to be a polite way to blow her off, but Tilda couldn’t come up with one off the top of her head. “No, not a relative. A woman I interviewed died this week.”

  “That’s awful. Car crash? Or was she sick?”

  “She was murdered.”

  Colleen’s eyes grew wider. “Murdered? Oh my gosh, I never knew anybody who was murdered! What happened? Was it a robbery or what?”

  “The police don’t know what it was. She was just this sweet old lady, and somebody killed her.”

  “Are you going to go to the funeral? Do you need company?”

  “That’s nice of you to ask,” Tilda said dryly, “but the family is trying to keep it private.”

  “Oh, of course. The notoriety and all.” A thought occurred to her. “Was it in the newspaper?”

  “Yesterday’s Boston Globe had a story—I don’t know if there’s been anything since. I don’t think it got a lot of play.” For a moment, she felt sorry for Sandra, whose death had caused so little stir. “The paper should still be in the recycling bin if you want to read it.”

  “I think I will. I’ve never been this close to a murder before. It’s kind of scary.” As she went to hunt for the paper Colleen added, “I mean, why would anybody kill a sweet old lady?”

  That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Why would anybody have wanted to kill Sandra?

  Lil might still be a suspect, though Tilda didn’t think Sandra could have had enough of an estate to be worth killing over. Then again, Sandra had confided that Lil had been out of a job for quite a while, which was why she’d been free to work on Sandra’s Website. Maybe a comparatively small
inheritance would look big enough if you’d been job hunting long enough. On the other hand, with Sandra no longer around to sign photos and interact with fans on her Website, sales and interest would probably dwindle, which would leave Lil out in the cold again.

  If pressed, Tilda would also have to put Louise on the list of suspects, at least until she could find out differently.

  Who else? Another family member? Another closeted pinup queen? The ever-popular crazed fan? A serial killer, or a totally random killer? Maybe she should go to Joe’s Lost Pinups site, copy all the theories Page-Boy and the others had come up with, and put them in a spreadsheet? Or create a video blog about her suspicions and post it on YouTube? Hell, why not get “I’m a fan girl!” tattooed on her fanny divine and be done with it?

  Or she could get some dinner, then get to work tracking down guest stars from Cowtown.

  Dinner and work won the debate, and by bedtime, Tilda was feeling fairly well satisfied with herself. Mindful of the last few nights of bad dreams, she decided something soothing was called for, so she treated herself to a long, relaxing soak in the tub, with a mix disc of TV theme songs in the background. She was practically purring by the time she went to bed.

  But she still dreamt about Sandra.

  Chapter 13

  It makes me feel wonderful that people still care for me . . . that I have so many fans among young people, who write to me and tell me I have been an inspiration.

  —BETTIE PAGE

  DESPITE her restless night, Tilda was determined to keep her mind on business the next day, at least until time to get ready for her dinner with Quentin. She tracked down two Cowtown guest stars living in New England, and interviewed both by phone.

  The first was William Sonnett, an actor who’d spent his career acting in cowboy serials, cowboy movies, and cowboy shows on TV. There was something about his rugged good looks that just screamed “cowboy,” and he looked terrific in a ten-gallon hat and chaps. So what if he’d been born in northern Maine, where he’d returned once he retired?

  He was pleased as punch to be remembered for his role as the cowboy who’d stolen Arabella’s heart, only to die in an Indian attack while shielding a baby with his body. He’d had one of the longest death scenes on TV up until that of Mr. Roarke’s gal pal on Fantasy Island, and could still recite it. Sonnett said he’d be happy to do promotional work for the Cowtown resort once the weather improved, but would have to pass on the fund-raiser at the Hillside.

  Lucas McCain, who’d played a visiting preacher, was in Connecticut, and was more than willing to come for the fund-raiser and participate in promotion for the resort. Tilda said she’d let the Ambrose brothers know so they could arrange details, and wanted to go on with the interview. McCain, on the other hand, wanted to talk about hotel accommodations, per diem payments, and limos. It took the better part of an hour to convince him that she wasn’t playing hardball, lowball, or even bocce ball—all she wanted to do was ask him some questions about his experiences on the set of Cowtown.

  Unfortunately, when she finally got to the interview part, it didn’t take long because he remembered almost nothing: not the storyline, his costars, or even the character he’d played. All she could do was get some biographical information and a few anecdotes about working in Hollywood in the 1950s and 1960s. She was relieved to finally get him off of the phone.

  With the interviews fresh in her mind, Tilda went ahead and wrote them up. Jillian had told her to keep them short and snappy, only a couple of thousand words each. It was hard to keep the William Sonnett interview to that limit, and hard to stretch Lucas McCain’s enough, but two hours later, she had them finished.

  She was extremely glad that she’d been so productive when the phone rang. It was Nicole, demanding to know what her status was. It was a pleasure to tell her that she’d finished two articles already, and had an interview set for the next day. It was an even greater pleasure to tell her that she was sorry she couldn’t talk longer because she had to get ready for her date with Quentin.

  Chapter 14

  If you’re in doubt about whether to kiss somebody, give ’em the benefit of the doubt.

  —JUST ONE FOOL THING AFTER ANOTHER BY GLADIOLA MONTANA AND TEXAS BIX BENDER

  TILDA preferred to arrange her own transportation to a first date in case the evening went poorly, and usually explained it by saying her apartment was too far off the beaten path. She was glad she’d done that for her dinner with Quentin because it meant Colleen wouldn’t have a chance to interrogate him. Instead she drove her own car to Not Your Average Joe’s in Burlington.

  Like her decision to drive herself, the restaurant had been a conservative choice. It had plenty of variety on the menu and a good bar, and though it was a step above the average chain restaurant, it wasn’t so expensive that a date might decide he was owed added value for paying for dinner. As Tilda parked and looked around to see if Quentin had arrived, she reflected that if she picked her roommates with the care she took on a first date, she’d probably make it to a second lease without having to switch.

  Quentin was waiting for her in the restaurant, which was a good sign. The kiss on the cheek he gave her was another.

  “You look particularly nice tonight,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Tilda said, hoping to sound as if she always wore black velvet slacks with a royal blue silk blouse, and just a bit of bling. “You’re looking pretty spiffy yourself.” She was glad to see that he wasn’t in the outdated suit, but was instead wearing a nice pair of khaki slacks with a navy blue blazer over a softer blue sweater.

  Quentin said, “I put our name in when I got here, so we shouldn’t have to wait very long.”

  A few minutes later, they were seated, and began the time-honored rituals of a first date. First came the discussion of the menu. The drink choice provided the opportunity to see if Quentin was a drinker, a wine snob, a teetotaler, or in recovery. He ordered a beer, which was certainly in the zone, while Tilda went for a margarita. Next came an appetizer, which they agreed on with comparative ease. Finally the main course, and Tilda noticed that he avoided dishes with garlic. That could mean he didn’t like garlic or it could mean he was trying to keep his breath pleasant for later activities. She did the same, and it wasn’t because she didn’t like garlic.

  With that hurdle passed, they moved on to getting-to-know-you questions: educational backgrounds, favorite TV shows, sports affiliations, political leanings, and delicate references to marital status. Quentin was, of course, a doctor, but though he had a Ph.D. as well as an MD, he didn’t sneer at Tilda’s lowly BA. They both enjoyed Mythbusters!, Battlestar Galactica, and The Daily Show, and though Quentin hadn’t watched True Blood, he said it sounded good. As loyal metro-Bostonians, they rooted for the Sox and the Patriots, but it wasn’t a serious addiction for either. Both voted to the Left, and neither had been married.

  By the time their food arrived, they’d moved past the preliminaries and were actually having a conversation.

  It was, in short, a promising beginning.

  Midway through the meal, Tilda said, “Did you always intend to go into research rather than practice medicine?”

  “At first, I was just planning to be a doctor of some description. My family is big into doctors—by big, I mean that I’ve got uncles and cousins working in hospitals all up and down the East Coast. I think we’ve got seven in New York City alone. Then my grandmother died of cancer when I was thirteen, even though she had the best medical care available. That’s when I realized that care wasn’t enough—there has to be better science behind it. So I decided on research. I started out in genetics, looking for cancer warning signs, but got sidetracked into Stickler Syndrome. It needs investigation, but isn’t the political minefield that cancer research can be, so I can concentrate on the work.”

  Another man might have milked the pathos, or played up the nobility, but Quentin kept it refreshingly matter-of-fact.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Was
journalism your first choice?”

  “Thank you for calling it journalism,” she said with a grin, “but I usually just go with ‘entertainment reporting.’ Anyway, my first ambition was actually to be a cowgirl.”

  “Is that right?”

  She nodded. “I took it very seriously. I read up on the types of cows and Indian tribes, and taught myself to successfully lasso my sister, as long as she was sitting still. Somehow I missed out on the fact that the cowboy business wasn’t exactly a growth industry.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  He nodded sagely. “What made you reconsider?”

  “It was what my family likes to refer to as ‘the horse incident.’ The day after my eighth birthday party—we had a cowgirl theme, of course—my parents took me for my first horseback riding lesson. The horse and I did not get along, and the horse expressed her dislike by removing me from her back, repeatedly. But I was determined. The first four times, I got right back up in the saddle, the way a true cowgirl is supposed to. The fifth time, that damned horse threw me onto a pile of fresh dung.”

  He tried not to laugh, but Tilda couldn’t blame him for failing.

  She continued. “After that, I weighed other options, but hadn’t come to a definite conclusion before starting college. I was majoring in communications, but I was pretty vague about what I was going to do with it. You can imagine how that thrilled my parents. To make them happy, and to try to make up my own mind, I signed up for every internship that fell in the right area: public information office, alumni magazine, college paper, corporate newsletter, radio program. By the time I graduated, I had stacks of clippings, but still wasn’t sure what to do with them or myself, and the job market was tight. But I’d made an awful lot of contacts with all those internships, so while I was sending out resumes, I started taking freelance jobs. I’d always liked TV and movie trivia, so it’s no surprise that I liked the entertainment work the best, especially the where-are-they-now stuff. Before I knew it, I was making a living as a freelancer. So I tore up my resume and never looked back. The irony is that Jillian at Entertain Me! has tentatively offered me a full-time job.”