It also served to remind me I hadn’t eaten yet either. Cal offered to go get us sandwiches again, and I plunked down at my desk.
Max’s head popped up over the top of the partition. “That you, Bender?”
“Hey, Max.”
“I got that obit typed up that you wanted,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper.
I took it, scanning the highlights of Mrs. Carmichael’s obituary. Apparently she’d been crowned Miss Venice Beach back in the forties. She’d owned two racehorses, one that had come in fourth in the Kentucky Derby in the sixties. She had penned a romance novel in the eighties that even sported Fabio on the cover. She’d been widowed three times-by a plumber, a car salesman, and a window washer. She’d been a certified scuba diver, had a pilot’s license, and a black belt in judo. And, according to Max’s fine reporting skills, she’d been the very first person to ever play Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
Immediately a deep sense of sadness hit me. While she’d been a pain in the butt as an old woman, I’d had no idea of the kind of life she’d led before Palm Grove. I suddenly felt sorry that I hadn’t taken the time to find out until now.
“That work for ya?” Max asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I handed the sheet back to him.
I turned my watery-eyed gaze back to my computer screen, forcing the lump from my throat. Focus. I had work to do. And sitting here feeling guilty wasn’t going to help Mrs. C. at this point.
Trying really hard to believe my own pep talk, I booted up IMDB and focused on finding out who else had been in Pines’s picture with Mullins.
The Internet Movie Database has all the info on every movie or TV show ever made. Plot, production status, cast, crew, and every agent associated with it. It’s a huge network of who’s who in Hollywood. You know that you’ve truly made it in this town when you have your own entry on IMDB.
I plugged in the name of Pines’s last film and came up with a page that held the meager plot, a movie poster, and list of participants. Pines, of course, and a handful of other crew whose names I didn’t recognize. Mullins was listed, as was the kid who’d played his son and allegedly posed for Pines. But as I scanned the names of the rest of the cast, one fairly jumped out at me.
Jennifer Wood.
Apparently she’d had a small part as the kid’s babysitter. Huh. Small world. Well, considering “Samantha” was already pals with Jennifer, it was a place to start.
“Salami on sourdough.” Cal dropped a sandwich on my desk. “Extra mayo.” He gave me a wink.
I had to admit, I could get used to this lunch delivery thing.
An hour later we were parked outside the Sunset Studios lot, watching as one flashy BMW after another was waved through by a security guard who looked like he’d started shaving yesterday.
“So, how are we going to get in this time?” Cal asked behind his shades.
I stared out the passenger side window. Across the street were a liquor store, a souvenir shop and a Krispy Kreme.
I grinned. Now, this I could use…
Ten minutes later Cal and I were at the front gate, facing the baby security guard with two dozen glazed donuts.
“Who did you say you were again?” he asked, pulling out his list of those-cool-enough-to-be-allowed-entry.
“Crafts service. For the Celebrity Diet Wars show.”
He frowned, his baby-fine brows drawing together. “It says here crafts service already came in at noon.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. But, see, they didn’t anticipate how much those chubby celebs like their pastries.” I held up the Krispy Kreme box. “We had to go get more supplies.”
The guard nodded. “Oh. Right.” He consulted his clipboard again. “Okay, well, um, I guess go on in.”
I gave myself a little mental pat on the back for my fabulous acting skills as Cal maneuvered the SUV through the gates.
Five minutes later we’d ditched the tank for a golf cart and were speeding our way toward the Pippi Mississippi set. We parked outside, near a row of white trailers, and made our way onto the sound stage. Today’s filming was taking place in Pippi’s “bedroom,” a three-walled set decorated in more pink tulle than the entire cast of The Nutcracker. I tried not to gag on the cottoncandy-colored overload as Cal and I hung back.
In the center of the scene, on a ruffled pink daybed, sat Jennifer and her co-star. Jennifer was texting someone as a makeup artist powdered her forehead. The brunette was listening intently as the director gave her instructions.
“Okay, Lani, this is where Chloe confesses to Pipp that she has a crush on her boyfriend. So, I need you to look really contrite, okay?”
The brunette nodded seriously. “Okay.”
“You can do that, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Julius, I’m a classically trained Shakespearean actress. I think I can handle ‘contrite teen,’ okay?”
“Right.” I saw the director’s nostrils flare as he took in a deep breath. Then he shouted, “Back to one, everyone,” causing the crew to scatter like mice that had just heard the kitty coming.
The guy with the clapboard yelled, “Speed,” someone yelled, “Rolling,” and a loud bell sounded, signaling that shooting was under way.
“Nick totally asked me to the dance at lunch today,” Jennifer said.
“Oh.” Lani did an exaggerated “sad” face.
“What, Chloe? I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Lani said. “I just…well, I was kind of hoping that Nick would ask-”
“God, she’s doing it again!” Jennifer interrupted.
“Cut,” the exasperated director yelled. I could feel the collective groan ripple through the crew. “Doing what, love?” he asked.
“She’s going off script.”
“I am doing no such thing!” Lani protested, throwing her shoulders back.
“Are too. The line is, ‘I wondered if Nick was going to ask me.’ Not, ‘I was hoping Nick would ask me.’”
The director closed his eyes, and I could imagine him mentally chanting whatever mantra his therapist had given him that week. “Jennifer. Honey. Darling. It doesn’t matter. It’s close enough. Let’s just finish the scene so we can all go home, okay?”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Jennifer yelled. “I memorize my lines, but Lani can get away with messing hers up?”
“It’s called ad-libbing, Jenny,” Lani protested. “If you’d ever taken an acting class in your charmed little life, you’d know that.”
“Snob!” Jennifer stuck her tongue out at Lani.
“Twit!” Lani gave Jennifer the finger.
“Enough!” The director put both hands out in a stop sign motion. “Look, let’s just…just call it a day,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We’ll work this out tomorrow, okay?”
“Fine,” Jennifer said.
“And, Lani,” the director added. “Could you please go over your script again tonight?”
Jennifer sent Lani a smirk. The brunette narrowed her eyes, mumbling something about a donkey and Jennifer’s mother under her breath as she stalked off set.
“Are all teenage girls this catty?” Cal whispered to me.
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m pretty sure I was never a teenager. There!” I pointed as Jennifer walked off the set. “I’m going in.”
“Good luck,” Cal mumbled to my back.
Jennifer stepped outside, immediately going to one of the white trailers and shutting the door behind her. I did a quick glance over my shoulder, then followed, knocking on the metal door.
“What?” I heard from inside.
Gingerly, I turned the knob and pushed my way inside. “Hello? Jennifer? It’s me, Samantha.”
The interior of the trailer was, like Pippi’s bedroom, done in all pink-pink walls, pink carpeting on the floor, pink velvet sofa. It was like a cotton candy machine threw up. To the right sat a small table and chairs, pink vinyl on shiny chrome. On the
side table a film script sat open-faced, as if abandoned mid-read.
The queen of all things pink herself sat on the sofa, her legs curled up under her, eyeing me over an iced latte. (I had to find out where she was getting those!) “You’re who?” she asked, clearly not recognizing me.
“Uh, Samantha. Stevens. You know, from the Bochco drama.”
Jennifer blinked, trying to place me. Then finally shrugged as if it didn’t really matter that much to her anyway. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Uh, I was wondering if you had a few minutes?”
“I’m actually kinda busy right now,” she said, taking a long, noisy sip from her drink.
“It’ll just take a minute.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatev.”
I took a seat on the sofa next to her, trying not to covet her caffeine fix too deeply. “A little trouble with your co-star?” I asked.
She cocked her head at me.
“I watched that last scene you shot,” I explained. “The brunette seemed to be giving you some trouble.”
Jennifer nodded. “Lani. She thinks she’s so hot just because she’s taken a few acting lessons. She doesn’t understand that some of us are just naturals, ya know?”
“I thought I read in the Informer that you and Lani were friends?”
“Well, sure,” she said, slurping away. “But she’s, like, totally the Nicole Richie of the friendship, you know? She’s just riding my coattails.”
“Right.” Ah, Hollywood loyalty.
“So, I heard that you worked on that last Pines movie?” I said, getting down to business.
She nodded, licking coffee off her lips. “Yeah. What of it?”
“Well…” I leaned in close. “Someone told me a rumor about Jake Mullins, and I was wondering if you could confirm if it’s true.”
She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. “What kinda rumor?”
I took a deep breath, mentally crossing my fingers. “That he tried to blackmail Pines.”
The other eyebrow shot up. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Wow, that’s so not cool.”
“You didn’t know anything about it?”
Jennifer shook her head, her blonde locks brushing her shoulders.
“Nope. Man, you think you know someone.”
“Any idea if he approached any of your other costars?” I asked.
“No. Why?”
“Who did Mullins talk to? Pal around with on the set?”
“You’re awfully nosey,” Jennifer said, narrowing her eyes as she bit down on her straw.
I suddenly had a bad feeling that the blonde might not be as dumb as she played on TV. So I decided to level with her. Hey, at this point, what did I have to lose?
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m not really an actress.”
“I know,” Jennifer said.
Which took me off guard. “You know?”
“Duh.” Jennifer rolled her eyes. “That hair. Who would hire an actress with purple hair like that?”
I bit my tongue, promising myself I could crucify her in tomorrow’s column. “Right. Well, I’m actually a reporter,” I confessed.
Jennifer froze, straw dangling from her lips. “A reporter?”
“With the L.A. Informer. Tina Bender.”
She slammed the latte down on the side table. “You! What, trying to dig up more fake dirt on me? Those marijuana lies weren’t enough?”
“Hey, I just wrote what I saw.”
“Right.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at me like a two-year-old facing a plate of broccoli.
“I’m sorry,” I conceded.
“Yeah, well, check your facts next time,” she spat out. “I don’t smoke.”
“Duly noted. Look, actually, I’m investigating Mullins’s death.”
“I thought that was an accident? Overdose or something?”
“Sleeping pills. But I’m not convinced it was accidental. I think he may have tried to blackmail someone else on the set and been killed for it.”
Her eyes went big. “Dude.”
“No kidding.”
“So, what do you want to know?” she asked, curiosity starting to override her initial anger.
“Anything you can tell me about Mullins. His behavior on the set, who he hung out with, what he might have dug up on his co-stars.”
Jennifer pursed her lips together. “Jake was really creepy. Always keeping to himself, kinda slinking around the place like he had some secret. I don’t think he was really close to anyone. There was always something a little greasy about Jake, you know? Like he was just a little too desperate. But blackmail…Wow. I had no idea he’d be that stupid.”
A great quote that I mentally tucked away for later use. However, not really helpful in finding out anything further about Mullins’s potential killer. I bit my lip, trying to come up with anything else that might make this trip not for nil. My eyes rested on the script beside her.
“A new film opportunity?” the gossip columnist in me had to ask.
She followed my gaze. “Kinda.”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s one of those boring Oscar films with a micro-budget that no one goes to see but sweeps all the awards. But it’s not for me personally,” she said, scrunching up her nose at the idea of doing anything less than a summer blockbuster. “It’s for my production company. My manager thinks it will be good publicity.”
I froze, gears clicking into place.
“You own a production company?”
She nodded. “Co-own, at least.”
“That company wouldn’t happen to be here on the Sunset lot, would it?”
Again with the nod, her blonde hair bobbing up and down.
Mental forehead smack.
“PW Enterprises?”
Her shoulders sagged, and her mouth dropped open into a surprised little “o.” “Yeah! How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I mumbled. It all fit, and I felt foolish for not putting it together sooner. The company was on the same studio lot as Pippi Mississippi, Jennifer had been in the one and only film they’d produced so far, and if Pines was the “P,” it was suddenly painfully obvious who the “W” had to be. Jennifer Wood.
I cocked my head to the side, sizing Jennifer up as a suspect once again. Sure she had an alibi, but now that she was tied tighter than a Christmas bow to PW Enterprises, I wondered, how hard would it have been to get one of her “Nicole Richie” hangers-on to make the call for her?
“Did you know that someone has been threatening my life?” I asked.
“No way! Who?” she asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know yet. But I traced the threatening call to PW Enterprises.”
Jennifer blinked at me, realization slow in coming. “Wait, you don’t think that I…? No way!” she repeated.
I nodded. “Way.”
She shook her head back and forth so violently her hair smacked her perfectly powdered cheeks. “Nuh-uh. Not me. I would so not do that.”
“You just admitted you’re not my biggest fan.”
“Well, yeah, but can you blame me?”
She had a point. “Who else would have access to the PW offices?”
She shrugged. “Anyone, I guess. I mean, everyone on the lot knows where it is. And PA’s are always coming and going.”
“What about at night. Aren’t they locked up?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, probably, but we’re not like putting alarms and guard dogs on the place. Security on the lot is tight enough we don’t really worry about it that much. They don’t let just anyone into Sunset.”
She was right. I thought back to how inventive Cal and I had to be to get on the lot. While it wasn’t impossible the call was made by an outsider, chances were it was someone who actually belonged on Sunset property.
Unfortunately, that included half of Hollywood.
“Look, I totally swear I had nothing to do with this,�
� Jennifer said again. “You have to believe me!”
Sadly, by the look of true fear of bad press in her eyes, I kinda did. I sighed, realizing just where that left me.
All the way back to square one. Again.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time we finished with Jennifer Wood, the sun was setting, my stomach was growling, and the traffic on the 101 was thicker than Kirstie Alley’s waistline.
“Ready to call it a day?” Cal asked, inching forward behind an electric smart car. The driver looked nervously in his rearview mirror as if Cal’s monster truck might crush his bumper any second.
I nodded. “I’m beat. But first, you think we could stop at a drive-thru?”
“I think your aunt said she was making enchiladas tonight.”
“All the more reason to stop for food first.”
He shot me a look.
“Trust me, it’s survival.”
He shrugged, then pulled off at the next exit, navigating the Hummer into the Carl’s Jr. drive-thru. (Just barely-the top of the tank was mere inches from the clearance rod.)
I ordered three chicken sandwiches (one for me, two just in case), curly fries, onion rings, and a strawberry shake. Cal ordered a side salad and fried zucchini.
“Okay, I get the no beef thing. But are you going vegetarian on me now?” I asked, digging into my greasy bag.
“I don’t trust their chicken.”
“What do you think they put in it?”
“It’s not what they put in it,” he said, pulling back into traffic, “it’s the chickens themselves.”
I knew I was going to regret asking this, but…“What’s wrong with the chickens?”
His eyes went from my bag to me. “You really want to know?”
No. “Yes.”
He shrugged. “Okay. For starters, fast-food places have a very small profit margin on each item. So, they want the cheapest chickens out there. They go for the older ones, the sickly ones, the ones no respectable farmer will eat himself. You know what kind of chickens are in that patty?”
I looked down at my sandwich. “Yummy ones?”
“Poultry plants take the diseased chickens, cut out the infected parts, and chop up the rest for use in processed chicken products like nuggets and patties.”
Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals Page 16