Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery

by Lisa Seidman

  The plank bowed slightly in the middle under our combined weights. Sherman let me precede him as I avoided the stares of the grimy construction workers in the cement-lined pit below, letting out an unconscious sigh of relief as I made it to the other side.

  “Can’t say I’ll miss those guys,” he said, glancing down as we headed over to the production office. I looked at him in surprise.

  “They don’t bother you, do they?”

  He hefted the box more firmly in his arms. “They give me bad vibes.”

  They gave all of us bad vibes, and I’d be glad when the construction work was done and they were out of our lives. I stopped wearing skirts to work the day I realized the workmen tried to look under them whenever I used the plank to get to the other side.

  Miranda Peterson, the production coordinator, was expecting Sherman.

  “I heard about it from Patrick,” she said, looking at Sherman from over a mound of paperwork. “Ray Goldfarb’s a dickhead.”

  Sherman and I both looked at her in shock. In her mid-twenties, with baby-fine blond hair and cool blue eyes, Miranda looked like someone who’d never even heard the word “dickhead” much less say it.

  “You won’t find any argument from me,” said Sherman. He set his carton down carefully on the edge of her desk. “I believe I owe you some keys.”

  He started to unhook them from his belt loop. “I have half a mind to let you keep them,” Miranda said, further surprising me. “Then you can come in when no one’s around and use the photocopier.”

  Will wonders never cease? Don’t-touch-my-supplies-under-penalty-of-death Miranda Peterson was telling Sherman to just come on in and make himself at home? I almost pinched myself, but I don’t like pain.

  “Thanks, Miranda,” Sherman said. But he handed her the keys anyway, just as her phone rang.

  “Production,” she said. She paused, paled then said, “Okay. I’ll tell him.” As she hung up the phone she screamed across the room to Patrick, who was sitting in his office at the computer.

  “Patrick, that was Carrie. Gail’s having hysterics on the set. No one can control her.”

  Patrick tore out of his office. “Call Ray,” he said as he raced out the door.

  Miranda picked up the phone to dial again as Sherman and I looked at one another.

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  “It’s too good to miss,” he replied, and I was pretty sure he was right behind me as I raced out the door in close pursuit of Patrick.

  A crowd of people stood around the set of the Babbitt & Brooks law office. I could hear Gail screaming and crying from halfway across the warehouse. Patrick elbowed his way through the crowd and I followed in his wake. He made straight for Gail, who avoided the comforting words and embrace offered by Mack Daniels. Charles and Peggy hovered nearby, while Tabitha stood tensely behind one of the desks, her mouth a thin, tight line. Patrick put a hand on Gail’s arm and she acted as if she had been scalded, jumping away from him, her voice hoarse from screaming.

  “Who the fuck did this?” she yelled at Patrick, waving a newspaper in his face. It was crumpled and mashed and tearstained, but even from a distance I could tell it was one of the weekly rags, the National Scoop. Or, as the wits among us called it, the National Pooper Scooper.

  “How did this happen? Where did they get this?” As both Patrick and Mack reached out placating hands toward her she screamed, “Don’t touch me! Just tell me where they got this!”

  She held the newspaper before her, showing it to them, but also giving me a chance to read it for myself: “TV STAR LINKED IN LESBIAN LOVE AFFAIR” blared the headlines. And there, for all the world to see, was a color photo of Gail and Rebecca, eyes half-closed in enjoyment, kissing each other on the mouth.

  END OF ACT TWO

  ACT THREE

  1.

  “I knew it all along,” Jennifer said, after the fireworks died down, and Ray had led a sobbing Gail back to her trailer. “There were rumors floating around about her and Karen Kearney when Charles and I worked on Karen’s show three years ago.”

  Sandy, Jennifer and I were in the bullpen, huddled around the Scoop, which was spread out on Jennifer’s desk. I had managed to grab the paper after Ray walked on the set. Gail had gone straight into his arms, the paper slipping from her fingers onto the floor. As soon as Gail and Ray had left, Mack snatched it up, looking for a place to get rid of it. I approached him and said I’d take care of it. As I tried to fold the paper into some semblance of order, Mack turned to Tabitha and asked her what she wanted to do.

  “Can we shoot around her until she calms down?” Tabitha asked, managing to sound sympathetic yet professional.

  “That’s fine with me, but will you be able to do it?”

  Tabitha offered him a brave little smile. “I think so.”

  But her eyes were cold, and I realized with a start that Tabitha didn’t like Gail very much. I wondered if Tabitha thought forging ahead without her co-star was a way of one-upping Gail.

  Mack gave Tabitha’s arm a comforting squeeze and the crew looked relieved to be carrying on as usual. Tabitha basked in the glow of everyone’s approval, and I turned back to look for Sherman to find out what his opinion of all this was.

  Only he wasn’t there. I searched the crowd of bustling crew members and even glanced in on a few of the other sets. No Sherman. When I returned to the production office, Miranda told me he had grabbed his box full of office stuff and headed toward the parking lot. He hadn’t even stopped to say good-bye.

  “Do you think this means Ray and Rebecca weren’t having an affair?” Jennifer asked, breaking into my train of thought. Sandy made a face at her.

  “I can’t believe you’d accept this rubbish for the truth,” she said.

  “I was there when Gail got the news about Rebecca,” I said, defending Jennifer. “She was pretty torn up about it.”

  “Rebecca could be bisexual,” Jennifer said. “Plenty of people in this town are.”

  “Where do you think they got the picture?” I asked, studying it closely. Both women were dressed for some sort of gala occasion; both held glasses of wine. While the Scoop article assumed their eyes were half-closed in passion, one could easily conclude it was drunkenness instead.

  “The Women in Television Awards ceremony,” Sandy said. “Or perhaps last year’s Christmas party.”

  “But why wait to reveal the picture now?” I wanted to know. “The Scoop wouldn’t hold on to something this good for so long.”

  “Rebecca wasn’t important then,” Sandy said.

  She had a point. The article, while hinting at Gail’s possible past lesbian relationships, made a big deal out of Gail being the lover of a murdered woman. “Was Rebecca killed in a fit of jealous rage?” the article asked.

  That couldn’t be why Gail lied to me, I thought. Or could it? Would Gail have killed Rebecca out of jealousy? But out of jealousy over whom?

  “Do you think Gail was jealous because she found out Rebecca was having an affair with Ray?” I asked out loud. Jennifer looked like she thought that was a pretty good idea, but Sandy shook her head. “To tell you the truth I don’t think Ray and Rebecca were having an affair at all.”

  “You don’t?” Jennifer looked at her aghast.

  “Don’t you remember the Christmas party? You and I were standing by the buffet table and Rebecca joined us?” Sandy turned to me to explain. “She was quite drunk, but that wasn’t anything new. However, out of the blue she asked us if we thought she and Ray were having an affair.”

  “You’re kidding?” I said. “What did you say?”

  “We said yes,” Jennifer piped in. As I stared at her in surprise, she added defensively, “Well, at least we told her the truth.”

  “So what did she do?”

  “She broke down and cried,” Sandy said. “She claimed they weren’t, that they were more like father and daughter. And I believed her.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t she say that because she
thinks that’s what you wanted to hear?”

  “Of course,” Jennifer said. But Sandy looked unconvinced.

  “Ray has three daughters by his first marriage. One’s more crackers than the next—at least by Ray’s standards. None of them are ambitious. Or particularly bright. I think Ray saw Rebecca as the daughter he never had. The one who was going to follow in his footsteps.”

  “He still could’ve slept with her,” Jennifer said, reluctant to give up her theory.

  “Charles thinks Rebecca was blackmailing Ray,” I said, referring to the argument I overheard the two men having.

  “She could have been blackmailing him over their relationship,” Jennifer said, looking defiantly at Sandy.

  Sandy sighed, giving up the battle. “Perhaps. I can see her as a blackmailer, I just can’t see her as bisexual.”

  We all stared at the photo. “Maybe that was why she didn’t want to get serious with Zack,” I said. “But she didn’t want to come right out and admit it.”

  “Do you think Gail will sue over this?” Jennifer asked.

  “I doubt it,” Sandy answered. “It would only keep this in the news longer, which is the last thing Gail wants.”

  “She really was bent out of shape about it,” I said. “But who really cares? Does anyone believe this stuff anyway?”

  “You do,” Sandy said. I didn’t have an answer to that because I knew it was true.

  “Maybe someone’s out to get us,” Jennifer said. “Maybe the Scoop didn’t have this picture on file, maybe someone gave it to them.”

  “But who? And why?” Sandy asked.

  “Someone with a grudge against the show. Or Gail. Even Ray. I mean, how did this rag get on the set anyway? Gail would’ve had hysterics wherever she saw it. So it had to be lying around. And no one with any ounce of decency would leave this where Gail could find it. Maybe it was deliberately left on the set for her to see.”

  “So someone first murdered Rebecca to upset Gail and when that didn’t work he put this story in the Scoop?” Sandy looked doubtful. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?”

  “Why?” I asked. “What if the purpose is to shake up the show? Maybe whoever killed Rebecca hoped we’d close down production—either because Gail couldn’t go on, or because Ray would do the compassionate thing.”

  “So you think someone is really after Gail?” Sandy still looked skeptical.

  “Or Ray,” I said, remembering Winifred. If Ray didn’t have an alibi for the night of Rebecca’s death, then neither did his wife.

  2.

  We heard from Miranda that Gail eventually calmed down enough to resume working, and Zack, returning from his walk, even managed to produce a few pages of Act Three, scrawled in his practically indecipherable handwriting on a yellow legal pad.

  Looking tired and drawn, Zack handed the pages to me just as Ray entered the bullpen. He clapped Zack so hard on the shoulder I thought he was going to stagger over my desk and fall face first into my lap. Fortunately for both of us, he recovered and looked at Ray with a shaky smile.

  “Take a break with those,” Ray said to Zack, nodding to the pages I clutched in my hand. “We need to talk about the child molestation story. Peggy! Charles!” Ray bellowed down the corridor. “Let’s go!”

  First Peggy, then Charles, exited their offices and walked into the bullpen, neither of them looking pleased at being hollered at. Ray seemed in an uncommonly good mood considering he had just spent an hour and a half calming down Gail. He rubbed his hands in satisfaction as all three writers joined him.

  Zack avoided looking at Peggy, and Charles ignored Ray.

  “Come on, people,” Ray said. “We’ve got a child to molest.”

  He didn’t seem to notice the appalled silence that followed this remark as he turned around and headed into his office.

  Jennifer and I looked at one another and grimaced. Charles muttered “Asshole” under his breath before following Ray inside. Zack looked sick, and Peggy went to put a comforting hand on his arm, but he twisted his body away from her and followed Ray. Her hand just hung there, frozen in mid-air, before she slowly brought it back down to her side and walked away. I thought she was going to walk right past Ray’s office and head down the short corridor that led to the front door and outside. But at the last minute she didn’t seem to have either the courage or the desire, because she paused before Ray’s door as if gathering her breath, then went inside.

  “He’s a psychopath,” I said to Jennifer.

  She nodded. “I think he killed Rebecca.”

  And I had blown the whistle on his alibi. Maybe Craig was right. Maybe I was in danger. I stared bleakly at the gaping hole above my desk, then at the walls of Ray’s office. If that was the case, how was I ever going to protect myself from him?

  Jennifer spoke. “He should be fired. Charles is the better writer. If he were the showrunner, the ratings would triple.”

  Thinking back on my conversation with Jennifer about Charles, I wondered if he was capable of killing Rebecca to save his career, because she clearly had been sabotaging it. And then I had an even more chilling thought. Was Jennifer capable of killing Rebecca to protect her beloved boss? Impossible, I admonished myself. She’s your friend. But as I glanced at Jennifer, pouring herself a mug of coffee, I was starting to realize I hardly knew any of my colleagues. As I was learning, they all held secrets. What if Rebecca had found out someone’s secret, and that discovery had led to her death? If I continued to ask questions about her, would I stumble on a secret that would ultimately put my life at risk as well?

  Leave the investigating to the detectives, I told myself. But as I heard the murmur of voices in Ray’s office, as I watched Jennifer check her e-mail on her blackberry, I knew I couldn’t stop asking questions. Because no matter how hard Wagner and Lu tried to unpeel the layers of Rebecca’s life, they were on the outside, looking in. Whether they liked it or not, I was in the best position to find out what happened to Rebecca. And I would.

  3.

  Both detectives showed up at the warehouse later that afternoon while I was typing Zack’s Act Three into Sandy’s computer. Sandy was straightening her office, deftly avoiding answers to what I thought were subtle questions about Rebecca’s life. Another person with secrets. Wagner’s soft-spoken, “Susan?” interrupted my unsuccessful interrogation.

  Detective Lu stood next to him. I turned to Sandy, who was frozen like a statue in the center of the room, one hand clutching memos, the other grasping the handle of the file cabinet drawer. I realized, with a jolt, that she was just as nervous and frightened of them as I was.

  I turned back to Wagner. He was clasping a manila envelope, and his expression, no surprise, was unreadable.

  “Yes?” My voice sounded unnaturally high.

  “We’d like you to take a look at some pictures. Ms. Martin, too.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Wagner opened the clasp of the envelope and pulled out some colored prints. Sandy peered over my shoulder. I could feel her breath on my neck, coming in rapid, shallow bursts—she was nervous as hell.

  There were six photos of six different men, all seemed to look in their mid-to-early thirties, all dark-haired and lean. The men were posed casually: some were standing outside, others sat in living rooms or dens, and two were behind desks in offices. One man, in particular, caught my eye. He had dark, wavy hair, large, wide-spaced eyes, and a lean, oval face. He was lying on the grass of what looked to be a park, propped up on one elbow, grinning boyishly at the camera. He wore jeans and a blue chambray work shirt, opened at the neck, revealing a hint of dark, curly chest hair.

  “Do either of you recognize any of the men in the photographs? Have you seen any of them hanging around the office?”

  “No, I don’t recognize any of them,” Sandy said, straightening up to face the two detectives, her face white. I couldn’t tell whether she was lying or just nervous about having to identify a possible murderer.

  I han
ded the photos back to Wagner. “I don’t recognize anyone, either.” Could it be possible they had a suspect? Was that why Wagner didn’t seem interested when I told him Ray lied about his alibi? Did he already know who murdered Rebecca? And why were these casual photos and not mug shots?

  But neither Wagner nor Lu was much for giving away any unnecessary information so I kept my questions to myself. Wagner asked if anyone else was around who could spare the time to look at the photos. Sandy looked like she wanted nothing to do with them, so I volunteered to take the detectives around. Maybe I could learn something that would prove who Rebecca’s killer was.

  I led them to Jennifer who was sitting behind her desk updating the Babbitt & Brooks website. She and I took turns inputting information about the series regulars, guest stars and story lines into the show’s webpage, which needed to be updated at least once a week. We also had to take a random sampling of fan comments, the good and the bad, and make copies for the writers. Without looking up, she said, “The PR office sent me info on Rebecca’s death to put on the webpage. Very respectful. Makes me want to gag.”

  She looked up, her smile fading when she saw I wasn’t alone. “Oops. My bad.” She smiled but her eyes went from them to me in quick, nervous flicks.

  “I guess it’s no secret that none of us liked her,” I said to the detectives.

  Jennifer snorted. “Oh crap. Let’s face it. We loathed her. And she loathed us right back.” She held out her wrists toward them. “So if you want to lock me up. Go ahead.”

  “They just have some photographs they want to show you, Jen,” I said in haste. “It’s all right. No one’s getting arrested.” Except for maybe one of those guys in the photos.