Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery

by Lisa Seidman

  Ignoring curious glances, I turned the corner and raced up the rickety wooden stairs hidden behind the painted backdrop showing a view of Queens from Hank Babbitt’s apartment. I turned the doorknob leading to the attic. It was locked. When I asked nearby crew members if they saw anyone coming down the stairs, they shook their heads no.

  To my relief, Patrick Hager and Mack Daniels stood near the law office set in conversation with one another. I pushed past the sound mixer’s cart and made a beeline for them.

  “The ceiling above my office collapsed,” I said, gasping for breath. “Water came gushing down and soaked everything.”

  The two men gave me the once over, and I realized I had not entirely escaped the flood. My tan khakis were wet with water that had ricocheted off the desk, and my crotch was damp. I looked like I had peed in my pants. I casually put one leg in front of the other, as if that would somehow make the stain less noticeable.

  “Let me take a look,” Patrick said. Mack looked relieved he didn’t have to be involved and turned away to discuss lighting with Rick Froehlich, the DP. I led Patrick back to the bullpen in silence.

  The room was soaking wet and there was a huge, gaping hole above my desk where water still dripped. Chunks of plaster hung from the ceiling and lay scattered around the floor. The carpet squooshed under our feet.

  “I heard footsteps,” I told Patrick who stared in dismay around him. “In the attic. Do you think someone did this on purpose?”

  Patrick brushed the cowlick off his forehead. “I doubt it. What would be the point? Looks like a burst water pipe to me.”

  I walked over to my desk, afraid to get too near my computer should it electrocute me. A small lake had formed in the center of my desk, with yesterday’s production report and call sheet clinging wetly to its surface. The papers I had intended to file had been swept off by the tidal wave that had exploded from above.

  “Lucky you weren’t sitting there when it happened,” Patrick said, squeezing my arm in sympathy.

  I stood rooted to the damp carpet and shivered.

  “I could’ve been killed.”

  12.

  “They say bad luck comes in threes,” Jennifer said, later in the morning, after she had time to absorb the disaster herself. “I wonder what’ll happen next?”

  “Shut up, Jen,” Sandy said mildly as she walked into the bullpen. She carried a yellow legal-sized pad covered with notes.

  “What’s being done about this?” I asked her. Patrick had gone up to the attic with a couple of the workmen who were knocking the two warehouses together. They discovered that a water pipe leading to the fire sprinklers had, indeed, burst. They were chalking my claim of hearing footsteps to an overactive imagination. I wasn’t as convinced.

  “The water’s turned off until the pipe can be temporarily repaired, so don’t use the bathroom.” Oh, great, I thought, suddenly feeling a pressure on my kidneys.

  “It also shorted out the phone wires for this end of the building so at least you’ll have some peace and quiet for a while. If you have to use the phone, use the one in the production office. I called the main office. They said to make a list of what’s ruined and they’ll deal with the insurance people. They also said not to touch anything electrical.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Jennifer said.

  “What about my desk?” I asked. “What should I do with the stuff on it?”

  “Throw away the papers—unless there’s anything desperately important that can’t be replaced. In fact, throw away everything. This place is damp under the best of circumstances. We need to avoid mold.”

  She went off toward her office as Jennifer tossed me a trash bag and told me to get to work. But I felt overwhelmed by the task, the reality of Rebecca’s death finally catching up with me.

  My chair was too damp to sit on, and I could feel the wetness of the carpet soak through my moccasins. The air was dank and sticky, and I longed to be sitting out in the sun, letting the heat dry me out. Instead, I finally opened the trash bag and, with a sigh, began dumping the soaking wet papers, including last night’s call sheet, into it.

  “You know, my desk supplies will eventually dry out,” I told Jennifer.

  “So what? Romulus will get us new ones.”

  “Yeah. But how long will that take?” The company was notorious for stinting on office supplies.

  “True, true,” said Jennifer, although that did not dissuade her from dumping her calendar and stapler, three-hole punch and pencil sharpener into the bag with equal abandon. “I’ll just go to the supply store and charge it to Charles’s account.”

  I wished I could do the same, but I knew that while Jennifer would easily furnish herself with color-coordinated office supplies, I would be waiting an eternity just for a ballpoint pen. I decided to box whatever of my stuff was salvageable and stow it in the supply closet until it all dried out.

  “What am I going to do about Zack’s script?” I asked Jennifer as I stared at my electrically lethal computer.

  “Borrow Sandy’s computer,” she said. “Though I’ll bet you five dollars Zack isn’t going to be writing today.”

  That was a good bet so I refused to take her up on it. Everyone seemed to be moving underwater, swimming with difficulty through the morning, holding their breath, looking barely able to keep afloat. Ray had left to make calls from his car, which Jennifer and I thought was hilarious—although we did pity Sandy, who had to sit in the passenger seat and dial the numbers for him.

  Charles told Jennifer he was going to babysit the set and make sure Gail was happy with her lines. Peggy, probably anxious for something to do, volunteered to go with him, and as I watched them leave I wondered if Rebecca’s death meant less summonses to the set for Charles. Shortly afterward Zack entered the bullpen and told me he was going to take a walk. Jennifer and I once took a walk around the desolate, litter-strewn neighborhood and counted our blessings we had made it back to the warehouse alive. But I suppose Zack could defend himself if the need arose, and I merely nodded as he headed for the front door, head bowed, shoulders stooped.

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, although I didn’t want to—not after the way he had hurt Peggy. But he looked so sad, so pathetic. A small, mean voice in me wondered if what he really felt was guilt.

  “I’m going to get some boxes from the production office,” I told Jennifer, kicking the small, mean voice out of my head. “Hold down the fort.”

  Jennifer saluted before sweeping a used bottle of rubber cement and soggy B&B stationery from her desk and into yet another trash bag. I walked down the writers’ corridor, pausing before Charles Green’s office.

  His door was open, the office empty. Knowing he was on the set, and probably would be for a while, the temptation to snoop was too much to resist. Especially after having whetted my nosiness appetite in Ray’s office. I ducked into the room, closing the door partway behind me. Maybe I could find something that would tell me why Charles had fought with Ray about Rebecca the night before.

  I began shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk, sifting through the accumulated call sheets and production reports, script pages and casting notes. Nothing incriminating. I pulled his black acrylic wastebasket from under his desk and went through the papers systematically, smoothing them out, reading them then tossing them back in the wastebasket when they revealed nothing of importance.

  I paused at one of the pieces of paper on the bottom of the pile. It had been wadded into a small, wrinkled ball, and when I smoothed it out, my eyes widened as I read its contents.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I was so surprised I nearly fell backwards. Jennifer had pushed the door all the way open and was staring at me in amazement. I straightened up and tried to look calm.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” She took two steps into the room, glaring at me. “What’s going on here?”

  “Jennifer.” I stopped, my mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in ox
ygen.

  “This better be good, Susan. Or I start screaming for Charles right now.”

  I took a deep breath. When I had my thoughts in order, I said, “Charles and Ray had this huge fight about Rebecca. Last night. After you guys left.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, but I could tell by her expression that she actually did.

  “Charles was furious. He stormed out of Ray’s office. I had to see if there was anything here that revealed why he was so angry.”

  “And is there?”

  I handed her the crumpled page I found in the wastebasket. It was the memo Sandy had shown me, promoting Rebecca to co-producer and giving her two script assignments.

  “The memo didn’t go out,” I said. “Sandy told me that. Ray changed his mind. So how did Charles get a hold of this?”

  Even more important, had Charles learned of the promotion before Rebecca was murdered? And if so, had he bashed her head in during a killer rage as a result? Before Ray had a chance to tell him she wasn’t getting promoted after all?

  But before I could ask Jennifer she whirled around and fled the office, taking the memo with her.

  13.

  “Don’t say a word. Not a whisper, not a peep,” Jennifer hissed at me, as we huddled over the office coffeemaker back in the bullpen. She had taken the memo, ripped it into tiny shreds, and stuffed it at the bottom of one of the Hefty trash bags that held damp scripts and files.

  “Jennifer, you’re being totally irrational about this,” I hissed right back at her. “Just because he saw the memo, doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “I don’t care, Susan. Promise me. You won’t say a word to anyone until I figure this thing out.”

  “Why are you being so protective of him?” I paused, my hand automatically going to my mouth. “You’re not …?”

  She cut in, angry. “We’re not fucking. Geez, Susan, get your mind out of the gutter.”

  It seemed to me Jennifer was the one who usually had her mind in the gutter, not me. Not that I would ever point that out to her.

  “So, why the freak-out?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Jennifer, he could have killed Rebecca over her promotion.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” I asked.

  Jennifer looked away, tearing at the cuticle of a well-manicured finger.

  Into her silence, I said, “I like Charles, too. But just because he’s your boss, it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

  The words burst out of Jennifer’s mouth. “He lends me money, okay?”

  “What do you mean he lends you money?”

  “You think I can afford my apartment in Marina del Rey on what I make as a secretary? Steve’s T-shirt shop doesn’t bring in steady money, especially in this economy. So, Charles … helps me.”

  I stared at her dubiously. “That very generous of him.”

  Jennifer glared. “God, Susan, I’m not his mistress. He loves Ingrid.” His wife.

  I took a step back, held my palms up. “Okay, okay.”

  She softened. “He and my dad went to college together. They were fraternity brothers. So when I moved out here, Charles hired me. And when my dad died, he left my mom and me without any money … and … and Charles helps out.”

  Which explained the designer clothes, I thought. Out loud, I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “’Cause I didn’t tell you.”

  “So, what are you going to do about Charles and that memo?”

  “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  Jennifer looked close to tears, and I knew she didn’t want to do anything. She was hoping that if I kept my mouth shut, the memo would just go away—as if it had never existed.

  “You know, Peggy or Zack could’ve killed her,” I said. “They both had motives, too.”

  But Jennifer wasn’t listening to me. All she cared about were the repercussions the memo had against her beloved boss. If Jennifer was this concerned, I wondered if she knew something else that pointed toward Charles’s guilt.

  “Okay, let’s say the worst happened, and it was Charles who killed her,” I said. “Why did he have a blowout with Ray about it after she died? What possible difference could it make then?”

  “Ray could have been involved in whatever it was that killed Rebecca. Maybe Charles would have killed Ray if you hadn’t been sitting right outside the office.”

  Now there was a thought. I went over the tenor of the muffled voices in my mind, wondering if there was any point where Charles could’ve grabbed Ray’s Women in Television Award and smashed him over the head with it—only holding back due to his awareness of my presence in the next room.

  “Nah, I don’t think so, Jen. I don’t think Charles remembered I was there. He didn’t even look at me when he stormed out of the office.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Jennifer said.

  To make her feel better, I told her about what I overheard Winifred say to Ray in the car on the way to location. Jennifer’s reaction was to hand me the telephone receiver.

  “Call Detective Wagner. And you tell him about that right now!”

  The decision made for me, I took the receiver from her, surprised to hear a dial tone. The phones were back online. Was this Fate telling me that calling Wagner was the right thing to do?

  I fished out his card from my purse and dialed the number printed on it.

  “Hollenbeck Division. Detective’s room,” a gruff male voice answered.

  “Detective Wagner, please,” I said, suddenly nervous. “It’s Susan Kaplan calling.”

  There was a moment of dead air as I was put on hold. I almost hung up, now rethinking the idea of stirring muddy waters. Then I heard the familiar expressionless voice.

  “Detective Wagner.”

  Too late. I had no choice but to say my piece. I introduced myself again then launched into my reason for calling. “Ray Goldfarb lied about his alibi,” I said. I could mentally hear Craig screaming at me, but he wasn’t a potential person of interest in a murder investigation.

  Wagner, however, didn’t seem even momentarily fazed.

  “Really,” was all he said in reply. The man was infuriating!

  “He probably told you his wife picked him up and took him home.” Wagner didn’t say a word. I sensed his skepticism but marched on determinedly.

  “Well, she didn’t.” I told him what I overheard Winifred say on Ray’s cell. “Then he tried to bribe me into keeping quiet by offering to hire me to write a Babbitt & Brooks script.”

  “He actually told you it was a bribe to keep quiet?” Finally, Wagner was showing some interest.

  “Well, no, not exactly.” Over the phone I heard a chair squeak and figured Wagner’s interest was fading so I quickly added, “But he said he’d read my Dress Blue script again—I know now he really didn’t read it the first time—and that he might give me the opportunity to write a Babbitt & Brooks script. And this is right after his wife just blew his alibi to pieces.”

  “We’ll check it out,” he said. He didn’t seem the least bit excited.

  Craig was right; I shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Thanks,” I managed to say to the detective before slowly hanging up the phone.

  “What did he say?” asked Jennifer, her eyes huge and her face pale with concern.

  Before I could answer Sandy rushed into the room. “I just saw Sherman,” she said, as Jennifer and I turned to face her. “He told me Ray fired him last night. He came back this morning to pack up.”

  14.

  Sherman was in his office, wrapping the cord of his tiny TV set, when I knocked on his door.

  “Sandy told me,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live.” But he didn’t look it. His eyes were red-rimmed and his long arms seemed skinny and boney sticking out from the sleeves of his Dodgers T-shirt.

  I was furious. “I told Ray that Rebecca told you to leave the door
unlocked.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Susan. I wasn’t doing my job.”

  “Even though she told you—”

  He interrupted me. “She’s not around to back me up.” He placed the TV set at the bottom of the beat-up cardboard box sitting on his desk. “Ray said I shouldn’t have listened to her. He said I should’ve locked the door and waited for the person to knock and then let him in.”

  “And if he had been perfectly acceptable and you had let him in and he’d killed Rebecca, would you have gotten fired then?”

  “Probably.”

  “What are you going to do? Can you sue them for unfair firing or something?”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in court,” he said as he continued to pack odds and ends into the carton. “I have a friend who knows some people who are looking for a night watchman, and she’s going to recommend me to them.”

  “Sherman, that’s great!”

  He hefted the carton in his arms. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  He paused, getting ready to say good-bye. I couldn’t face that yet, so I said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “You can walk me to production. I have to turn in my keys.”

  I almost lost it then. Never again seeing Sherman walk across the basketball court, his keys jangling musically from his belt loop. His friendly smile. His never-ending supply of sympathy and support. I looked away from him as I stepped back to let him squeeze out of the office. In silence we walked across the court to the narrow wooden plank that led to the production offices and sets.

  When the network renewed Babbitt & Brooks last May, Romulus decided to open their usually tight purse strings and knock the two warehouses together. Workmen were constantly crawling around the two areas, or working in the long, narrow, cement-lined ditch that divided the buildings. The single plank was the only means available to cross from one building to the other without going outside and around.