The Actor's Guide To Murder

by Rick Copp

  I scanned the work out room and saw no sign of Spiro. Then, right behind me, I heard a familiar voice. “Jarrod?”

  At first I thought Spiro had found me and I had completely blown my surveillance. But the voice had a more feminine tone, and I turned to find Terry Duran, Willard’s personal trainer.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, still searching for Spiro. “I thought you worked at Custom Fitness.”

  “I do. I have clients at gyms all over town.”

  As nice as Terry Duran was, I had no time to waste engaging in small talk with her. I didn’t want to lose Spiro.

  “Have you figured out what happened yet?” she said.

  “You mean regarding Willard’s death?”

  “Yes. Last time I saw you, you were looking for someone who sent him a nasty birthday card.”

  “Haven’t found out who yet. But I’m close. Real close.”

  I barely glanced at her as I looked around. I didn’t want her to think I was one of those horny gay boys who spent all his time at the gym checking out the butts and abs of other male patrons. But that’s exactly the impression I gave.

  Finally, I saw Spiro on one of the treadmills, engrossed in the L.A. Times. Sweat poured down his face, and he had to keep toweling himself off as he caught up on the morning’s headlines.

  Terry knew I was distracted, so she decided to leave me alone. “Well, good luck, Jarrod. I hope you find the answers you’ve been looking for.”

  “Me too.” I watched Spiro step down off the treadmill, and saunter into the men’s locker room. I suddenly felt bad for ignoring Terry. She was about to disappear in the crowd, when I finally turned to her.

  “Still dealing with all those money hassles?” I asked, remembering how important it was to her that Willard pay for his personal training sessions.

  “Nope,” she smiled. “Picked up a few new clients. Things are much better now.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it. You take care, Terry.”

  “Let me know how it all works out,” she said as she crossed over to the front desk to greet a client.

  I whipped back around and hurried over to the men’s locker room.

  I felt a burst of hot, steaming air as I entered. There were about ten men in there. A few in white towels shaving in front of the large glass mirror above the row of sinks. A couple more in the shower. Still more stood in front of various open lockers, adjusting ties, rolling on deodorant or slapping their faces with aftershave. I heard one of the showers stop, and the door swing open. I ducked behind an open locker door to watch as Spiro dried himself off, wrapped the wet towel around his waist, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  I slipped out of my clothes, grabbed a fresh towel, and padded over to the grooming station filled with shaving kits, combs and other amenities. I squirted some Gillette shaving lotion in my hand and covered my face with it when I saw Spiro round the corner and stop at the sink next to me.

  “Good morning,” he said, not recognizing my face underneath all the white foamy lotion.

  “Morning,” I grunted as low and indistinguishable as I could.

  Spiro was so into himself he didn’t even notice it was me. But if I went through with shaving, pretty soon there would be no foam left to cover my face. And if I just stood there with a Santa Claus beard, I would surely rouse suspicion. So I quickly shaved the foam away, wiped my face with a towel and kept it fastened there as I slipped into the steam room, which was located next to the row of sinks.

  I was the only one in there, and the steam was so hot and thick I was barely able to breathe. I stared out the glass door at Spiro, who was immersed in his grooming. If I could stand the heat, I would stay here until he went back to his locker, and then I would wait until he dressed and follow him to his next destination.

  I saw a man, wearing just a towel, approaching the steam room. My heart skipped a beat as I saw the shape of an eagle emblazoned on his arm. It was Eli, the tattooed hustler.

  I stepped back, deep into the steam room and found a corner behind the tub of coals. It was excruciatingly hot, but I could hide there without anyone noticing me. Unless of course the steam evaporated, then I would be exposed.

  I slid back as far as I could as the door to the steam room opened, and Eli entered. He sat just a few feet away from me, but had no idea I was there. He waited a few moments. Then, the door opened again, and Spiro walked inside. They looked around, but the steam was so thick, they couldn’t tell who else was in there with them.

  “Anybody here?” Spiro asked.

  I kept quiet and clasped my knees tightly with my arms to stay hidden. I couldn’t believe how much time these two spent together. Were they just secret lovers, sneaking around behind Tamara’s back? Or was there something more sinister going on?

  Spiro then picked up a bucket of water and poured it over the coals. His dark, hairy legs were only a few inches from my face. The oppressive steam scorched my bare skin, but I stayed silent.

  Spiro took a seat on the blue tiled riser next to Eli. They never looked at each other as they spoke.

  “I’m finally going to do it. This weekend.”

  “Do what?” Eli asked.

  “Free myself from the old ball and chain.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Eli’s voice quivered.

  “She’s been bugging me all month to take her to that spa in Palm Springs. Says she needs to get away. Bitch doesn’t do anything all day. What the hell does she need to get away from?”

  “I know you talked about doing it,” said Eli. “But I never thought you’d go through with it.”

  “I’m so tired of her whining, pulled back, ugly face. I want out.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to wait a while, you know, until all the hoopla about her son dies down?”

  Spiro cupped his hands behind his head, and leaned back against the tiled wall. “I’ve had so many fantasies lately. Smothering her with a pillow while she sleeps. Spiking her martini with cyanide. It would be so easy, and then I’d finally be a free man . . .”

  Eli’s voice was shaky. “You’re just going to leave her, right? You’re not seriously thinking about . . .”

  “I know two things, kid. I want to be done with women. And I want to be rich. Leaving her means no money. So you do the math.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had stumbled upon a murder plot, and it had nothing to do with Willard Ray Hornsby. Spiro was going to kill his adoring wife Tamara.

  At least that’s what I thought. He didn’t exactly come out and say it, but he heavily implied it. It wasn’t enough to warrant a call to the police, but as I crouched behind the tub of scorching coals, my body burning from the intense heat, I knew I had to do something to stop Spiro before he got away with it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As I raced to the bank of elevators that would carry me down to my car in the parking garage, my pager erupted in an incessant buzz. It was Laurette, calling with some new offer of tabloid exploitation. I was sure of it. But my thoughts were on Tamara Schulberg at the moment and her impending date with death. I fished for my keys that were buried amongst some loose change and gum in my pants pocket as I scuffled up to the Beamer. I heard the familiar beep of the car alarm disengaging as I hurriedly pressed the black button on my key chain, whipped open the door, and jumped inside. I revved up the engine, backed out too fast, and clipped a steel pole. I heard a headlight smash to bits, but didn’t stop to check the damage. I just cursed to myself as I raced up the ramp towards the exit.

  I had to warn Tamara. I wasn’t sure if she would believe me. After all, our relationship was rocky enough. She had no reason to trust me. But I at least had to try. Tamara may have been a terrible mother to my old friend Willard, but she certainly didn’t deserve to die.

  I forgot to get my parking ticket validated at Crunch, so I lost precious time scrounging for enough change to get the parking attendant to open the gate. Neither of us had drunk our morning coffee yet, so there were no smiles exchan
ged between us. I hurled what quarters I could find at him in a fit of panic, and after stalling a few seconds just to piss me off, he raised the gate, and I sped out of the complex.

  It was still early, so Sunset Boulevard wasn’t clogged with morning rush hour traffic yet. I sailed through a few yellow lights, and one red without incident as I headed back towards Bel Air.

  On the radio, Danny Bonaduce (another former child star from the popular seventies sitcom The Partridge Family, which chronicled the adventures of a widow and her five kids who formed a pop singing act) was discussing his wild pre-teen sexual adventures during the heyday of his fame. I guess I should have been glad a club member made good and had his own drive-time radio talk show, but this morning he just annoyed me.

  I found myself talking to his disembodied voice. “You’re an asshole, Danny.”

  He kept right on going, getting more graphic with his sordid sex tales.

  “Bet you’re lying,” I said. “You were so ugly as a kid they could’ve stuck your face in dough and made monster cookies.”

  I thought that was a pretty good one. Too bad no one else was in the car to help me appreciate it.

  Right now it seemed to me that all of us child stars were just sad, pathetic screw-ups, tragedies waiting to happen. It wasn’t like I wanted to throw a big pity party or anything. I was just in one of my moods again, where I jump on the bandwagon and proclaim, “Being a child star ruined my life!” Not that kids with normal lives don’t have a tough time of it. But it seemed the odds of a child star going down the wrong road in life are far greater.

  Kitten from Father Knows Best turned tricks for drug money.

  Buffy from Family Affair overdosed.

  Ditto for Kimberly from Different Strokes.

  And Willard Ray Hornsby was found face down in his lap pool surrounded by a couple of empty tequila bottles.

  I swerved the car into the right lane and sped past a city bus.

  It wasn’t Danny Bonaduce’s fault, and I didn’t have to take it out on him. The guy was just trying to make a living on the radio. But he was there in the car with me, and I had to lash out at somebody.

  “You’re a washout as a human being, Danny. You beat up a poor transvestite, for Christ’s sakes!”

  Yes, even Danny, the Howard Stern of the West Coast, had been in trouble with the law. And now, after breaking into Willard’s house with Laurette and getting caught, I was finally able to join the esteemed ranks of busted former child stars with a rap sheet.

  As I sped back through Beverly Hills, this unexpected rant was interrupted by my cell phone chirping like a sparrow gone mad. I snatched it up, and bellowed, “What? Hello! What?”

  I must have startled whoever was on the other end with my bark because there was a moment of dead air.

  “Yes! Hello! Who is this?”

  “Jarrod?”

  It was Laurette. I rarely heard timidity in her voice. But she wasn’t used to hearing me so gruff, not to mention speaking in such a deep, manly voice.

  I softened just a bit. “Hi, Laurette. I’m a little stressed. What’s up?”

  The fire returned to her tone. “I’ve been paging you for the last hour. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Stalking Spiro. You’re not going to believe what I’ve stumbled onto!”

  “I got a call this morning, Jarrod. They want you to come in for a meeting. This is big!”

  “For the last time, no talk shows! I’m trying to put this arrest behind me now!”

  “This is a pilot, Jarrod. An NBC comedy. They say it’s a shoo-in for the fall schedule, and they’re talking Thursday nights right after Will and Grace!”

  “An audition?”

  “No. A meeting. You don’t have to audition. Both the producers and the network think you’re perfect for the role. Can you believe it? That never happens!”

  “What’s the part?”

  “Who cares? It’s NBC! Thursday night! After Will and Grace!”

  “When do they want to meet?”

  “This morning.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Are you crazy? The last pilot meeting we had was for the Food Network. Drop what you’re doing and get your ass over to Burbank!”

  “Laurette, Spiro’s going to murder Tamara!”

  “What?”

  She thought she didn’t hear me right. So I told her again.

  “I overheard Spiro talking with Eli the tattooed hustler in a steam room. It sounded like he was going to bump off Tamara in Palm Springs this weekend! I’m on my way to her house now to warn her!”

  There was a pregnant pause. Laurette wanted to be sympathetic, and under normal circumstances I’m sure she would have been, but after all, she was a Hollywood talent manager.

  “Is there any way you could foil the murder plot after the network meeting?”

  “No!”

  “I know, I know. I just had to ask.”

  “He’s got his sights set on the Schulberg fortune, and he knows with Tamara gone, it’ll all be his.”

  “And you think he knocked off Willard to get him out of the way?”

  “Absolutely. He didn’t want him sniffing around his mother’s bank accounts if something happened to her.”

  “He’s evil!”

  “Hello! I’ve been saying that all along!”

  “Well, truth be told, Jarrod, the man may be a murderer, but he has helped jumpstart your sagging career.”

  “My career is not the hot issue, Laurette!”

  I desperately wanted to turn the car around and scoot over the hill to NBC. This was one of those opportunities that came around once every twenty years, if at all. I worked for so many years to rebuild my shattered career, and finally the universal forces came together to make it all a reality. If I had any fears of winding up as a wax figure in the Museum of Child Stars Gone Bad, then showing up for that pilot meeting would certainly erase them permanently. It was now or never.

  As much as every little voice inside of me screamed at me to make that meeting, my gut was urging me on. I kept the car steady, west bound for Bel Air. This was a matter of life and death, and if anything happened to Tamara while I was schmoozing with the network brass at NBC, I would never forgive myself.

  “Send my apologies to NBC,” I said.

  “Jarrod, please, be careful! If Spiro is racking up murders, I don’t want him rubbing you out next!”

  “I’m at least five minutes ahead of him. I left him back at the gym.”

  I veered the car through the majestic iron gates that lead up into the hills of Bel Air and raced towards Tamara’s sprawling estate.

  “You’re absolutely sure you heard Spiro right? He was definitely talking about murdering her?” Laurette asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Call Charlie. Wait for him to bring some back up before you do anything.”

  “I’m not that sure.”

  “Jarrod, don’t do anything crazy. Just call . . .”

  “Got to go. Call you later.”

  I hung up. I knew Laurette was right, but there was no time. I had to talk to Tamara before it was too late.

  I squealed the car to a stop just outside the weathered gate that enclosed the house from the main road. I rolled down the window, reached out and pressed the white button on the call box. After a few moments, I heard a distinct Latino voice speak through the static. “Schulberg residence.”

  “I need to speak with Tamara. Is she there?”

  “She not here. This the housekeeper.”

  “It’s an emergency. Where can I find her?”

  “She not here.”

  “I know! Where can I find her?”

  “This the housekeeper.”

  I wanted to scream, or threaten deportation if the woman didn’t cooperate. But anger never gets you anywhere. Kindness is always the best approach.

  “What’s your name?” I said, purring like a sleepy kitten.

  “Rosalita.”

  “Hi, Rosalita. Th
is is Jarrod, a good friend of Mrs. Schulberg’s. I have a very important message for her.”

  “She not here.”

  “I know, Rosalita. You’ve told me that. Three times. But I need to speak with her.”

  “She gone. Won’t be back until Sunday.”

  “Did she go to Palm Springs?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Do you know where in Palm Springs?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “This is a matter of life and death, Rosalita. I have to talk to her!”

  “Sorry.”

  There was a click and the static on the box cut off abruptly. Rosalita had hung up on me. Spiro was meeting her in Palm Springs. But where? I knew they were going to a spa, but which one? There were dozens of spas in Palm Springs and the surrounding area. I had no clue how to find them. But if I didn’t try, then Tamara would certainly wind up dead and I’d never be able to live with myself. The Spanish maid wasn’t going to talk even if I showed up flanked by an army of INS agents.

  I had one other option. I knew someone who would be able to tell me exactly where Spiro was meeting her. It would be risky, but I had no choice. Willard Ray Hornsby’s mother and I had never gotten along in all the years we had known each other. The fact was I disliked her enormously for the choices she made and for the shoddy way she treated her only child.

  But today, I knew I had to save her.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I returned to the house in Laurel Canyon where Eli the tattooed hustler lived, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The memories of him trying to drown me just days earlier were both vivid and disturbing, and it was possible he might perform an encore once he saw me again.

  As I made my way towards the guest house in the back, I was relieved to see the three gardeners who had rescued me from the drink the last time, dutifully trimming the hedges and sweeping up stray leaves. The younger one with the dazzling white teeth flashed a blinding smile and waved enthusiastically.