Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery

by Lisa Seidman

  I didn’t have the energy to explain that Romulus would have to pay an arm and a leg to rent space at Universal or any other studio for that matter.

  “Dad, we’re not moving so just forget about it.”

  “How are you, honey?” From my mother. “This doesn’t involve you, does it?”

  I was, as Robert Frost would say, at an interesting fork in the road. I could take the right fork and tell my parents that I was the one who found her body and might be considered a suspect. But I guessed my prediction would be they would completely overreact and hop the next plane to Los Angeles to bring me home. Although, on the other hand, sometimes when I’ve told my parents what I thought was earth-shattering news, they’ve nodded and said, “Uh-hum,” and gone on to talk about something else. I wanted to tell them about finding the body—in fact, I was dying to tell them, but I simply could not predict their reaction. So, I took the left fork instead.

  “The cops don’t think it has anything to do with us,” I said. “And guess what? I got to go on location with Ray and I spent the afternoon talking with Gail Neely in her trailer.”

  I thought I had made the perfect distracting feint, but instead I got, “That’s nice, dear. But what about Rebecca? Who found the body?”

  So, it was going to be the right fork after all. My head started to pound, and I squeezed the phone between my neck and shoulder as I poured the bubbling soup into a mug.

  “I did,” I said. “I found the body. I was the first one into work this morning and there she was.”

  There was a shocked silence at the other end of the phone.

  Then my father spoke up, all business. “We’ll get you a lawyer. I’ll call Bernie and see if he knows anyone in California.”

  Bernie was my father’s accountant/lawyer, married to my mother’s best friend from college. The last thing I wanted was my parents involving their friends.

  “Dad, you don’t have to worry. Romulus brought in a lawyer. He’s representing all of us during the investigation. He was there when the police took our statements.”

  Okay, somewhat of a white lie, but I knew it would make my father feel better. And he did sound slightly mollified when he said, “What’s his name? Maybe Bernie’ll know him.”

  “Dad, I don’t think Bernie knows him. He’s with Romulus. He’s okay.” I sat down behind the kitchen counter and slurped soup from my white ceramic “What? Me stressed?” mug, under the quip, a drawing of a frazzle-haired person. My parents had given it to me as a joke during finals week my senior year of college. At that moment, the mug didn’t look so funny to me.

  I suspected my father would’ve pursued the subject of the Romulus lawyer, but my mother cut back in.

  She asked, “Are you eating dinner?”

  “Yeah. I just got in.”

  “What are you eating?”

  My mother always wanted to know this. I guess she worried that I wasn’t eating right—a fear that was usually justified.

  “Chicken noodle soup. I have a headache.”

  Oops. Big mistake. Never, never, never tell my parents I don’t feel well.

  “Look, Susan, do you want me to fly your mother out to be with you?”

  “No, dear, I’m not going out without you.”

  “We can’t both go out. It would be too much for Susan. She’d feel more comfortable with you.”

  “And I told you, dear” (or, as my Brooklyn-born mother pronounced it, “deah”), “I’m not going without you.”

  I interrupted before this got out of control.

  “Neither of you has to come out. I’m fine. Really. I told you, the cops think it was just a robbery. Her car was stolen. And her purse.” Call me a coward, but I figured they didn’t have to know about the death threats.

  “Oh,” said my mother. “She was alone in the building?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it was late at night, and the night watchman once found cocaine in her desk.”

  “Cocaine?” said my father. “She was a drug addict?”

  “I guess.” Why did I have to open my big mouth?

  “Did you know she was a drug addict?”

  “No, Dad. But when the night watchman told me about what he found, it made sense. She had a cocaine personality.”

  “You never liked her anyway,” said my mother, as if that made Rebecca’s death more acceptable.

  “I sure didn’t,” I said.

  “Do the police know that?” From my worried father. Here we go again.

  “No, Dad, they don’t. Look, I’m really tired. And I want to finish dinner. Do you think you could call Grandmom and Buby for me? They left messages, too, but I think I’m just going to crawl into bed and call it a day. Just tell them you spoke to me and that I’m all right.”

  “Okay, honey, you go right to bed. That’s probably the best thing. We’ll call Grandmom and Buby.”

  “Thanks,” I said, squeezing the word past the sudden lump in my throat. I could treat my mother so horribly sometimes and yet she showed me nothing but love and concern in return.

  “You’re sure you’re going to be all right, Susan?”

  “Yes, Dad, I’ll be fine. It’s great material for my next script.”

  “We’ll call later in the week, just to make sure you’re okay,” said Mom. In Mom language later in the week meant tomorrow. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to get off the phone. In the past, I’ve begged my parents to text me more and call me less, and while my dad kind of got the hang of it, Mom refused, saying she’d rather hear the sound of my voice.

  “Okay, talk to you later. Bye.”

  We all hung up. I was tempted to slide off my chair and lie on the kitchen floor. Maybe I’ll never get up. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life like this. After the day I just had, it was a pleasant thought.

  The floor, however, was cold and dirty, and God only knew what was scuttling around underneath the peeling linoleum. So I stayed in my chair, taking tiny spoonfuls of soup, until someone began pounding at the front door. I looked through the peephole and opened the door to Craig Keefer, my next door neighbor.

  “What the hell’s going on, Susan? A detective came by to see me this afternoon,” Craig said, brushing past me to enter the apartment. “He was asking about you.” His blue-green eyes, magnified behind large tortoise-shell glasses, looked concerned as he paced the small room, favoring his right knee, which he had busted three years ago playing football his senior year at UCLA.

  I ignored an onrush of anxiety and forced a smile. “Hi, Craig. It’s nice to see you, too. How’s the book going?”

  Craig barely paused in his pacing. “Forget the book. I saw on the Internet that boss you hated was killed. This is serious shi— stuff.”

  “You can say shit in front of me, you know. I’ve heard the word used a couple of times before.”

  “Susan.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, looking so worried, I dropped the act.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trying to pretend I’m not as scared as I really am. Was it Detective Wagner who came to see you?”

  “I think so. A black guy?”

  I nodded. With a scar on his arm, I wanted to add, but didn’t. “What did he want?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Was I with you last night … what did we do, where did we go …”

  “And you said …?”

  Craig combed a hand through his thick, sandy-blond hair. “I told him the truth. You came over around eight, we went to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. He asked if anyone from Baskin-Robbins would remember us. I wanted to know why—I hadn’t heard about the murder yet. He pulled a Sphinx-number on me.”

  I sat down on my sofa-bed, wanting to double over in fear, but refusing to give in to the anxiety. “The Romulus lawyer didn’t think I was a suspect. Was he lying to me?”

  “Susan …” Craig looked at me in concern. I flapped my hand in some sort of “Don’t worry, I’m fine” gesture.

  “So then what happened?”

  C
raig sat down next to me, his Levis brushing my khakis. His blue-and-white striped Oxford shirt smelled of laundry detergent and aftershave. Not an unpleasant combination.

  “We walked over to B-R. It was the same teenage kid behind the counter. She said she sort of remembered me because I come in a lot. But she couldn’t remember whether I was with anyone or not.”

  She didn’t remember Craig because he came in there a lot. She remembered him because he’s cute. Out loud, I said, “Terrific. I feel like the Invisible Woman. What did Wagner say?”

  Craig shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Do you think he suspects me of murder?”

  “I don’t know. He gives the term ‘poker-face’ a new meaning.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What’s going on, Susan? Why is some cop asking about you? Am I your alibi?” His Long Island accent, stronger than mine, seemed even more pronounced. Craig grew up in Great Neck, on the North Shore—a wealthier suburb than my middle-class hometown of Cohasset. But upon discovering we were both from Long Island, with the shared dream of becoming writers, Craig and I struck up a friendship that entailed occasional trips to Baskin-Robbins and intense discussions in the laundry room about writing. During months of rehab for a busted knee, Craig had started writing short stories to alleviate the boredom. When one actually got published in a small horror magazine, he decided to become a horror novelist. He wrote every spare second away from his job as swim instructor at the Beverly Hills Country Club. I found his concern for me thrilling, and as I launched into my story, I studied his expression, hoping to find more visible signs that he was ready to leap from friendship to dinner and a movie on Saturday nights.

  I told Craig everything—about Rebecca’s death threats, my finding her body, Wagner’s apparent suspicion of me, Ray’s lack of alibi and his bribing me with a script assignment to keep quiet, and ended with Charles’s and Ray’s argument in Ray’s office. When I finished, Craig slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the built-in closet doors on the opposite side of the room.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “No kidding.”

  “So who do you think did it?”

  “You mean you don’t think it was me?” Although I was joking, I held my breath as I waited for his reaction. Craig turned to look at me, his expression one of utter disbelief. I slowly released the pent-up air, my anxiety lightening a little.

  “I don’t know who did it,” I said. “Maybe her drug dealer. Or someone she thought was a friend.” I paused. “Do you think I should tell the cops about Ray?”

  “I don’t know,” Craig said.

  “Should I take the script assignment?” I said. Craig once returned a ten dollar bill to a man who had unknowingly dropped it out of his wallet. There was no one more honest—or so I had thought.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “His wife can’t testify against him if she doesn’t want to. Suppose you tell the cops what she said, but she denies it. The prosecution has no case—unless there’s actual evidence that links him to the murder.”

  “So you’re saying it’s her word against mine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But wouldn’t the cops at least have to investigate Ray’s alibi more closely?”

  “Why should they if Winifred denies the whole thing? You overheard a cell phone conversation. Who knows what you really heard?”

  “So you’re saying I should take the script and run.”

  “No, I’m not. But if you go to the police, Ray will probably have you fired. And if he really did kill Rebecca …” He trailed off.

  “Ray’ll kill me?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  “Why not? He did it once. Who’s to say it’s not easier the second time around?”

  “That’s disgusting!” Nonetheless, I shivered.

  “What did you expect me to say? I’m worried about you, Suze. You’ve got to be careful.”

  I loved the protective tone of his voice.

  “The thing is,” I said, “Rebecca made a lot of enemies. She didn’t only go after me, she had it in for Jennifer and Sandy as well.”

  “Why?”

  I shook my head.

  Craig said, “Maybe if you found out, you’d find her killer.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  He shrugged. “You told me once she couldn’t keep an assistant for more than a couple of months. Obviously, she treated them as badly as she treated you—and Jennifer and Sandy.”

  “You think the assistant I replaced might know something?”

  “If Ray killed Rebecca, you could be in danger.”

  “And if he didn’t and I blow his alibi, I could be out of a job.”

  Craig nodded. “Do you know the name of the assistant before you?”

  “Lily something. I’m sure it’s in my files.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to give her a call.”

  I thought about this. I was curious about Rebecca. Why was she so nasty to Sandy, Jennifer, and me? And was she so nasty to someone else, in a cross-the-line-kind of way, that that person killed her? Maybe her ex-assistant knew something about Rebecca that would prove Ray didn’t kill Rebecca. Which means I could accept the script assignment with a clear conscience. I looked at Craig. “Okay. I’ll track her down tomorrow.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything to anyone else about what you’re doing.”

  “You think …”

  “I don’t know, Susan. For your sake I hope it is a homeless man. But better to be safe than sorry.”

  11.

  I lay in bed that night, listening to my thudding heartbeat and overwhelmed by a sense of doom. I kicked off the covers at five, wishing there were some way I could machete my way through the stifling blanket of anxiety and be the person I was before Rebecca’s murder. I jumped in the shower, which only made me feel worse. Maybe it was the hot, suffocating temperature of the water, the billowing clouds of steam fogging the bathroom mirror, or the claustrophobic sense of being crowded in a small area behind a large, opaque curtain. I fully expected Norman Bates to burst in, rip the curtain off its track, and stab me repeatedly with one of the carving knives I kept in my kitchen drawer.

  Breakfast was out of the question, the thought of my usual Cheerios and milk made me want to gag. I wanted to get out of my apartment but the memory of finding Rebecca’s body the last time I went to work early stopped me from leaving. I checked my smartphone—a graduation gift from my parents—for messages. A friend from back East had sent me a link to Peter’s Facebook page and, against my better judgment, I clicked on.

  “Congratulate us!” wrote Peter. “Casey and I are getting engaged. Wedding is June 24. Save the date!”

  The phone slipped from my hand and my eyes filled with tears. I ran out of the apartment as if I could escape Peter’s announcement.

  Somehow, I found my way to the studio. I had no memory of how I got there, my mind on automatic pilot. It was amazing I hadn’t rear-ended cars on the freeway or run anyone over. If I stumbled across another body at least the horror of it would distract me from Peter and Casey the Bitch’s wedding.

  To distract myself I checked the files and found the name and contact information of Rebecca’s previous assistant, Lily Wainess. I sent her a text, telling her I was the writers’ assistant who replaced her and could we talk as I had questions to ask her about the job. No sense in alerting her about my real reason, which was Rebecca.

  I paused, thinking I should go into Ray’s office and search for any evidence to show he may have killed Rebecca but, suddenly overcome with the news of Peter’s engagement, I sat at my desk, with tears running down my face. What was it about me Peter didn’t love? Was I too ambitious? Did I not pay enough attention to him? And would I have changed if I had known I would lose him? No, I said to myself. I would never have been happy sacrificing my own dreams to make his happen. But that still didn’t make the pain hurt any less.

  Afraid Sherman might see my car and co
me by to say hi, I grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk, blew my nose, swiped my eyes, and headed toward Ray’s office. I hesitated at his doorway, feeling guilty about prying through his stuff. But if he was guilty of murder and concluded I might tell the cops he lied about his alibi, my life could be in danger. So I quickly found myself behind Ray’s desk, opening drawers, without even being conscious of having crossed the room.

  The drawers revealed nothing but loose pens and paperclips, rubberbands, and a half-empty box of Tic Tacs. The top of his desk held production reports and interoffice memos placed in the out tray for Sandy to file. His desk was swept clean of paper and phone messages. Babbitt & Brooks scripts were neatly tucked into black, three-ring binders on the credenza, and I couldn’t help but stare at Ray’s Women in Television Award, used as a bookend for the notebooks. The triangular crystal sculpture winked at me ominously.

  The ceiling creaked overhead. I looked up sharply. Mice? Rats? Or something human?

  Above me was a loft-like attic space. It remained unused, even for storage. So why would anyone be up there? I hurried to the bullpen, following the creaks. I was halfway to my desk when the ceiling caved in.

  Water from the pipes supplying the overheard fire sprinklers gushed down like Niagara and Victoria Falls combined, flooding my desk and causing my chair to rocket backward against the wall of Rebecca’s office with a bang. I screamed—more out of surprise than fear.

  Footsteps pounded down the length of the ceiling. I stared up in shock then instinctively followed the sound, until I hit the vast, empty basketball court. The footsteps disappeared.

  The stairs to the loft were on the production side of the building, and I wasted several minutes hammering on Sherman’s locked door, hoping to convince him to come with me. When he didn’t answer, I ran across the plank that linked the writers’ warehouse to the production building, following the muted sound of voices and the glow of bright lights until I hit the set used for the Babbitt & Brooks law office.

  I skirted around Tshirted men with beer bellies calling to each other from different parts of the room, adjusting Klieg lights from scaffolding above the set and connecting cables that snaked around it on the floor below. Under the harsh glare of the work lights, the set for the Babbitt & Brooks law office looked stagey, forlorn without the actors inhabiting it. Even as I raced past I noticed that the view of the Upper West Side of Manhattan, as seen through the office window, was clearly a paint job. The black leather office couch held someone’s well-marked script, and the various antiques scattered around the room were roped off, a sign “Hot set. Do not touch.” hanging from the rope.