by Lisa Seidman
Miserably, I nodded my head, still not looking at him.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Walking down the writers’ corridor on the way to Sherman’s office was like walking the last few yards to the electric chair. Both Peggy’s and Charles’s doors were open, and the two writers were in their offices, clearly having overheard our conversation.
I glanced in on Peggy, who sat behind her desk, red-eyed, clutching a tissue. She didn’t even bother looking away when our eyes met, and I could read the same pity in her face as I did in Jennifer’s. Charles stared at a script, pretending to read it, but I swear I saw his ears twitch.
Wagner sat behind Sherman’s desk; I, in the straight-back chair next to it.
“How do you know Zack didn’t kill Rebecca?” was his first, terse question.
“I don’t,” I whispered, staring at my hands clenched in my lap. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Where is Sherman O’Dell?”
My eyes flew up to meet his. “I don’t know.” My face got red again.
“Susan, we can talk about this here or down at the station. Your choice.”
I stared at Wagner, my body suddenly ice cold. What would my parents say? The reporters were still outside the building. What if this got on the news?
“Sherman didn’t kill Zack,” I said.
“How do you know? Did he tell you that? Why did you leave the house when I asked you to stay?” There were too many questions. I shook my head as if to clear them from my mind.
“Can I start at the beginning?” I asked.
“I wish you would.”
“The next door neighbor told me about seeing Sherman at Zack’s house. I knew you’d think he’d have something to do with Zack’s death so I called him and we met. Sherman told me about Zack showing him Rebecca’s car. Sherman thought Zack was blaming him for putting it there, but actually Zack was trying to figure out what happened the night Rebecca was killed. He didn’t think Sherman killed Rebecca, he just wanted to know if Sherman remembered anything that might give a clue to the murderer.”
“And did he?”
I shook my head again.
“Sherman said he didn’t hear anything.” I paused, suddenly remembering. “He did once see Michael Keller coming out of Rebecca’s office though.”
Wagner remained expressionless. “How did he know about Michael Keller?”
I again stared at my lap. “I told him,” I said.
Wagner tensed. “Susan, you have to learn not to talk about a murder investigation. It could warn the murderer and put you in danger.”
I thought of the water pouring out of the ceiling onto my desk and chair. But that couldn’t have been deliberate. No one knew I’d be at the warehouse at seven o’clock in the morning.
“What did Sherman have to say about Keller?” Wagner asked, still sounding angry.
“He overheard Rebecca tell Keller she didn’t want to give him any more money. That getting him the job was enough. I think she meant the construction job.”
“Did Sherman describe Keller for you?”
“Yes. Though he didn’t know who he was.”
“And Keller’s reaction to Rebecca’s comments?”
“Sherman said he made a joke out of it, then he smiled at Sherman when he left the office.”
“So he actually saw Sherman?” Wagner looked at me with something approaching interest. I wondered, my heart lifting with sudden hope, whether Wagner thought Keller might be trying to frame Sherman.
“Yes. Sherman said he did.”
Wagner crossed his leg at his knee, leaned back in his chair, and regarded me thoughtfully.
“And where is Sherman now? Do you know?”
“Do you promise not to arrest him?” I asked, and then felt silly for asking it. This man didn’t have to promise me anything.
“Why are you so convinced of his innocence?” Wagner asked.
“Because I know him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Then I remembered they also said that about the Son of Sam. I quickly added, “I think Zack was calling a bunch of people to come to his house the day he was … the day he died. If you just checked his phone records—”
“Where is he, Susan?” I noticed Wagner wasn’t making any promises, but I couldn’t lie. I could only hope that the truth would eventually surface. I had a gut feeling that Wagner was a reasonable man. Or so I hoped.
“He’s staying with his girlfriend. At least that’s what he told me he was going to do.”
“And her name?”
“I don’t know.”
Wagner stared at me, his eyes small and hard.
“I don’t.”
Wagner looked at me for another second and then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. I thought he was going to pull out the Miranda warning and begin reading me my rights. I braced myself, placing a hand over my stomach as an ice pick of fear chipped away at my intestines.
Instead, he took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to me. My eyes blurred with relief, and I used an arm to wipe the sweat off my forehead. I concentrated on the piece of paper. It was a photocopy of a note. Zack’s suicide note.
“I killed Rebecca. I can’t take the guilt anymore. Please forgive me.”
It was typewritten, no signature.
“That sound like your boss?” Wagner asked.
“I don’t know. He was acting funny on Monday.”
“How funny?”
I shrugged. “Making lots of phone calls. Avoiding Peggy, Charles, and Ray. He told me he wasn’t coming in on Tuesday because he had to take care of some things.”
“What things?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did your friend Sherman say he sounded suicidal?”
“No. He said Zack wanted to find out who Rebecca’s murderer was.”
Wagner nodded to himself, as if confirming his own private thoughts. “Did Zack use a computer here at work?”
I nodded. “But he writes his scripts by hand.” I paused. “Did you find any evidence that he wrote the two death threats?”
“Why are you asking that?”
“If Zack was murdered, then maybe he didn’t kill Rebecca. Or send her the death threats.”
Wagner slid the the copy of the note out of my fingers, tucking it back into his jacket pocket. Then he leaned so close, I could smell traces of peppermint on his breath.
“I am not required to answer any of your questions regarding this investigation,” he said in a low, flat voice. “People are not innocent just because they’re your friends. How do I know you and Sherman weren’t in it together?”
“We weren’t.” My voice was hoarse with fear. “We didn’t kill anyone.”
Wagner merely grunted then pushed back his chair.
“We’ll see,” he said. He stepped aside so that I could precede him through the door. I tried not to touch him, not wanting him to feel—or even sense—my body trembling.
6.
Jennifer, of course, wanted to know everything as soon as Wagner walked out the door. But I had another agenda, and I stalled her pleas for a blow-by-blow by leaving the bullpen as soon as Wagner left the warehouse.
Peggy was still in her office, staring into space, when I lightly knocked on her open door.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
She pulled herself out of her reverie with an effort.
“Sure,” she said, not really focusing on me. “Come on in.”
I entered the room and shut the door. Peggy’s office was the same windowless cubicle as everyone else’s, but pretty pink throw pillows brightened the gray couch, and framed posters of exotic foreign cities warmed the dingy paneled walls. I pitched my voice low, knowing Jennifer would be straining to hear every word. “I need to talk to you,” I said. “Outside the office.”
Peggy looked at me in surprise. “About what? Are you having problems with Jennifer or Sandy?”
“No. It’s about what’s going on here. Rebecc
a’s murder. And Zack’s.”
Peggy paled and turned away. She absently tapped her pen against her teeth.
“Peggy, I overheard you the other night, with Zack. When you were crying.”
Peggy looked down at her desk. “Oh.”
“I was just questioned by the police. They’re looking for Sherman. You can tell me whatever happened between you and Zack is none of my business, but if it isn’t then I think you should talk to the police.”
She put her pen carefully down on the desk and sighed. “Did you tell them what you overheard? Between Zack and me?”
“No,” I said. “But I need to have a good reason not to.”
She stared at me then apparently came to a decision because she squared her shoulders, her head high, as if ready to face the guillotine with as much dignity as possible. She said, “How about we have dinner tonight?” Now it was my turn to look taken aback. Peggy managed a wan smile.
“I know Romulus barely pays you a living wage,” she said. “You’ve been a good assistant, and I owe you. So, dinner tonight. My treat. And we’ll talk.”
“Thanks, Peggy.”
I hoped she wouldn’t regret it.
Peggy chose to have dinner at Philippe’s, on N. Alameda, an old Los Angeles landmark, just north of downtown and on the edge of Chinatown, known for its French dip sandwiches. As we gave our orders at the counter, my mouth salivated at the thought of roast beef on French bread, dripping with the slightly salty, au jus sauce.
The restaurant was crowded and noisy, as old men, tourists, and families vied for seats at the long lacquered tables lined with stools in the main room. Maybe Peggy was avoiding this conversation after all, I thought, until she waved me over to a smaller room next to the stairs. It held six tables for four, and only one other group was inside: teenagers too involved with themselves to worry about us. Peggy and I placed our food-laden trays on a table in the rear corner, and I dropped my purse on the sawdust-covered floor.
Conversation, at first, was superficial as we concentrated on our food. Peggy kept up with small talk, although I felt she really wasn’t paying much attention. She did react in surprise to my Dress Blue spec script and Charles’s interest in it. I told her about Ray first rejecting it, then deciding to take another look, then rejecting it again. She claimed to know nothing about it.
“It’s true he’s looking for a writer to replace Zack,” she said. “But I think he’s going to try the writer out on a freelance basis first before he makes a decision.”
“Can you and Charles handle the work until that happens?”
Peggy shrugged. “We don’t have much of a choice. And with the money they pay us, we really can’t complain.” She and Charles, I knew, made six-figure salaries, which didn’t include the thousands of dollars they’d make in future residuals when their Babbitt & Brooks episodes reran over the summer, and beyond in syndication.
I could tell that, despite the comment regarding her high salary, Peggy wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming weeks and probably wondered about Ray, who was so sensitive to the portrayal of women on camera, but basically ignored their needs off. How could he hold on to the high ratings when he burdened his writers with more work and less time in which to get it done?
Peggy stared without interest at her turkey sandwich.
“In a way I envy you,” she said unexpectedly.
“Me?” A potato chip paused halfway to my mouth.
She brushed thick hair off her forehead. “I remember when I first started out. Nothing was so much fun as the first script I ever wrote. The words just poured out. I gave up lunch hours to write. Came in early. Left late. I was an assistant district attorney, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” I said surprised. I never much imagined Peggy’s life before Babbitt & Brooks.
She nodded. “Burned out by thirty.”
She looked down at her plate, lost in thought.
“So you started out writing spec scripts?”
“No. Zack was researching a screenplay he was writing, and mutual friends gave him my name. We talked a couple of times, I helped him out with the legal aspects of his script. He liked what I had to contribute. So we became writing partners.”
I took a sip of my Dr. Pepper. “But you don’t … didn’t … write together on the show.”
“No. Zack thought I needed the self-confidence to write on my own.”
“It worked. I think you’re a terrific writer.” I meant it, too.
Peggy smiled across the table at me. “Thanks. Some days I’m not so sure.” She played with her plastic fork, her smile fading.
I chewed and swallowed a rather large piece of roast beef, drenched in dip. “About that night … When you were crying …”
“It had nothing to do with Zack’s suicide. You have to trust me on that.”
“The police don’t think Zack killed himself,” I said.
Peggy’s fork clattered against her plate.
“Is that what they told you?”
She looked pale as death and I could see the fine lines a little more deeply etched around her eyes and mouth. I spent a second or two regretting my big mouth, not because she might have been the murderer but because of how this could further hurt her.
“It’s only a theory,” I hastily said. “But a typed suicide note when everyone knows Zack writes everything by hand doesn’t make sense. He even showed Sherman Rebecca’s car. Someone—the murderer probably—had parked it in his garage.”
Peggy stared at me, not in disbelief, I realized, but in amazement. “How do you know all this?”
“I was there and people tell me things,” I shrugged. “And besides, Zack killing himself doesn’t feel right.”
To my surprise, Peggy nodded. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one who thinks that.”
“The police think Sherman did it. And I know he didn’t.”
“Do you have proof?”
I shook my head. “Just gut instinct.”
There was a pause while Peggy considered my answer. “Susan, you have to promise me you won’t go to the police with this.” She placed a hand over mine, and her skin was hot and dry, as if she were running a fever.
I looked at her blankly. “But if it’ll get Sherman off the hook …”
Her hand tightened as she violently shook her head. “Promise me!”
“Okay, I promise,” I said, not all that confident I could keep it. Nevertheless, I was curious about what she had to say.
Peggy’s eyes slid away from mine, and she stared blindly at the laughing teenagers. I thought she didn’t believe me (and who could blame her?), but I realized she was just gathering the courage to continue. When she finally turned back, she looked down at her food and avoided my eyes.
“I guess it’s no secret that Zack and I were seeing one another,” she said.
I didn’t say anything—I didn’t know what to say, but fortunately, she didn’t seem to expect an answer.
“Actually, when we got this job, Zack thought we should cool things down a bit. He thought our relationship might interfere with our work.”
I nodded as if I understood, but I don’t think she noticed. Now that she had decided to tell her story, nothing was going to stop her from confessing it all.
“I agreed,” Peggy continued. “But I really didn’t take him seriously. I thought we’d be able to figure it out, and once we settled down it would be like it used to. But Zack grew more and more distant, and then one day I realized he had a thing for Rebecca and had probably been seeing her for a while.”
Her mouth twisted into a bitter, self-mocking smile, and I nodded in sympathy. Zack wouldn’t work and sleep with Peggy at the same time, but had no qualms about doing both with Rebecca.
With obvious effort Peggy went on. “But Zack never said anything to me, and I kept hoping it was all my imagination. He was behind in his script. Ray never really liked his last one, so he was under a lot of pressure to do a good job.” Peggy looked up at me. “Y
ou know how you’ll invent any excuse for a man, just so you don’t have to deal with the reality of his not liking you more than you like him?”
Oh, yes, I thought. I could relate to that.
“Even after Rebecca died I thought I’d have a chance. That maybe he’d come back to me. Can you believe what an idiot I was? Her death just made him love her all the more. Because dead people don’t have any faults.” She spoke so bitterly I wondered if Peggy hoped to find a way to kill Rebecca again even though she was already dead.
“What happened?” I gently prompted her, afraid she might lose her train of thought.
“What happened?” Peggy repeated my question ironically, almost to herself, clearly her mind focused back in the past. “What happened is that Zack came to my office. He told me things were over between us. He apologized for not ending it sooner but he was afraid of hurting my feelings.”
“Did he mention Rebecca?”
Peggy nodded. “He told me that he cared for Rebecca, although she hadn’t felt the same way. But even so, he realized he wanted to move on. He needed some time to be alone. To think about things and where he wanted to go from there. And I …” She paused, taking a sip of her iced tea while she composed herself. “I kind of fell apart. Humiliated myself.” She continued, quietly, “I’m sorry you overheard that.”
“So you’re not … pregnant?”
Peggy stared at me. “No! That’s what you thought?”
I nodded, uncomfortable. “You were so upset. I remember you said something like, ‘How do I go on?’ I’m sorry.”
“He broke my heart, Susan. I was in denial for a long time, and when I realized it was truly over between us …” Again, she trailed off, finished her drink in a gulp. I realized she wasn’t going to say anymore.
“I think Zack felt awful about it,” I said, like that was going to make her feel better. But she nodded in agreement.
“He said he was sorry, and I believed him. He also said he was taking the day off tomorrow, and that I shouldn’t worry.”
“Did he say why he was taking the day off?” By now, even my dinner remained untouched.
“He said he thought he knew who Rebecca’s murderer was, but he couldn’t be sure. He wouldn’t tell me who he suspected, and to tell you the truth, at that point I didn’t care. I was too busy feeling devastated about our break-up.”