Hollywood Scandals

by Gemma Halliday

  “Come on, Trace. Play nice.”

  Miraculously, he walked right into my line of vision. I could swear sometimes he actually heard me.

  “That’s my boy. Now turn this way, give me a smile, honey.”

  I watched him set his beer down on a table. He reached both arms up to the sky, stretching, letting out a catlike yawn.

  “Tired? Being a movie star must be such tough work, huh?” I clicked off a couple shots.

  Trace moved his head side-to-side, working out the kinks in his neck. I lost him for a moment as he crossed the patio toward his Olympic-sized swimming pool, complete with faux rock waterfall and hot tub painted to look like a bubbling lagoon. But my lens caught up with him again as he approached the diving board.

  “Fancy a little swim?” I asked the deserted hillside.

  As if in answer, Trace dipped a toe into the water. Apparently satisfied with the temperature, he shrugged and walked out onto the diving board.

  I hit the shutter, taking three quick shots. He bounced a little, staring down into the crystal clear blue water. But he didn’t jump. Instead his hands strayed to the waistband of his trunks and, in one swift movement, they fell round his ankles.

  I froze. My eyes glued to the lens, a small bead of sweat trickling down between my breasts. I think I might have even forgotten to breath. The only part of me that seemed to still be working was my trigger finger, clicking off shots like mad. Felix would have a heart attack when he saw these.

  Then give me a raise.

  Trace kicked his shorts away, then walked his gloriously naked self out to the edge of the diving board.

  “Good God, you’re beautiful,” I whispered. Not that I expected anything less. He was, after all, a movie star. But this was one man who needed no airbrushing. How he managed to avoid that white-butt-tanned-torso thing, I had no idea. Lord knows I would have known by now if he were a nude sunbather. But he was a smooth, warm, honey color from his perfectly hardened six-pack abs to his perfectly hardened… other parts.

  “Jaime Lee must be one happy women, huh, Trace?”

  He ignored me. Of course. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it was weird to talk to him out loud. Almost worse than talking to myself. But I couldn’t help it. He had no idea I existed, but he’d been my constant companion for the past six weeks. At a safe distance, of course. If I ever actually came face to face with the movie star, I’d probably wet my pants. With a telephoto lens and a football field between us, I was cool as a cucumber at a day spa. In person? Well, let’s just say I’ve never been one of those people-persons. I liked people fine, but my gift has never been an ability to carry on clever conversations with the opposite sex while looking suave and sophisticated. My conversations with guys usually included lots of blushing and really smart comments that came to me only after the cute guy had moved on to the sophisticated brunette at the next table.

  So, some people talked to their plants, I talked to movie stars who didn’t know I existed.

  Naked ones, currently.

  I watched as he reached above his head, bounced once on the diving board, then cut cleanly into the pristine, blue water with hardly a splash.

  Sweat slid down my spine, and I could almost feel the sweet, cool water washing over my own skin. I shivered, goose bumps breaking out on my arms as I popped off a few more shots of Trace resurfacing.

  “Baby, that was amazing,” I told him, suddenly feeling like I needed a cigarette.

  I watched as he pulled himself from the water, shimmering droplets clinging to his gym-sculpted body, and wrapped a towel around his waist before picking up his beer again and heading inside.

  I sat up and peeled the lens from my eye. The distance between my secluded hillside and his fancy pool was immediately apparent, and I let out a long breath as his French doors shut behind him.

  I’m not sure how long I watched his closed doors, reliving my glimpse of Trace au-natural, before my phone rang from my pocket. Shifting in the grass, I slipped it out.

  “Cameron Dakota,” I answered.

  “Cam,” came my boss’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “Malibu. Why?”

  “We got a tip that Jamie Lee’s trying on wedding dresses in Beverly Hills,” he said, his British accent giving his words a lilting rhythm. “How fast can you get there?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. “If I get caught speeding, will the paper cover the ticket?”

  I could hear Felix’s wallet squeaking in the silence in the other end. Finally he relented. “Yes.”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Felix rattled off the address of the boutique where Jamie Lee had been spotted. Then he added, “If she settles on a dress today, I want to be the first to run with a photo, got it?”

  “Aye, aye, chief.”

  “And Cam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You get any good pics of Trace today?”

  I pulled up my view screen again, checking out the series of nude shots that even a tabloid like the Informer would have to censor parts of. I couldn’t help a grin.

  “Did I ever.”

  What can I say? Being the paparazzi’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

  Chapter Two

  Half an hour later I pulled my Jeep up to the offices of the L.A. Informer. The paper was housed in an old building that once served as an apartment complex for up-and-coming starlets of Hollywood’s golden era. And it had seen little improvement since the fab forties. The same dull beige paint covered the exterior, now peeling after years of exposure to the California sun. The same faded awning hovered over the entrance, and the same rusted, metal fire escape tilted haphazardly off to the side. In all, it looked just about as rundown as some of its former inhabitants now did. Only the starlets had all had facelifts.

  But the rent was cheap, the location prime, and the parking plentiful. In L.A. there wasn’t much more you could ask for, really.

  I jumped in the elevator and rode to the second floor where the Informer kept its offices, then wound through cubicles of people busily typing up their columns for the next day’s edition, their faces all tinted blue from the garish glow of their computer screens. I slipped into the last cube in the back, my personal haven.

  While the cubes around me were filled with posters, colored pen holders, tchotchkes, and, in the case of our office manager, troll dolls and beanie babies, I prefer to keep mine as clean and streamlined as possible. Just the bare minimum of office supplies graced the top of my desk, while the fabric-covered half-walls were covered in sleek, simple, black and white photos. Mostly landscapes. Mostly filled with trees. None of them featuring celebrities preening for the camera.

  I hooked my camera up to my computer, and a couple clicks later a series of shots of the vivacious Miss Jamie Lee Lancaster popped up on my flat screen.

  A New York native, Jamie Lee had first hit Hollywood’s radar three years ago when she’d appeared in an independent film that had garnered a record number of nominations, including one for the unknown actress. She’d lost to a film veteran playing a nun that night, but she’d captured the hearts (and money-making eyes) of Hollywood. The following summer she’d starred in a romantic comedy that ended up being the season’s sleeper hit, and the following year she’d taken the role of her career opposite Trace in the mega-action Memorial Day opener Die Tough. She’d made millions and caught the attention of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor – a status she was making short work of changing.

  I scrolled through the photos I’d taken of her that afternoon. Jamie in a strapless white gown. In a spaghetti-strap ivory gown. In a snow white, puff-sleeved thing that billowed around her ankles like a chiffon cake. Fifteen dresses in all. As you can guess, she did not, in fact, settle on one today. Instead, I’d watched as she whined about the imperfections of each one, tossing aside the pricey gowns as carelessly as if they were bargain bin T-shirts in her haste to try on the next. With the wedding a mere three weeks away, you’d t
hink she’d be a little more decisive. But in Jamie Lee’s world, dressmakers worked miracles with last-minute alterations. This decision could make or break her next film contract, and as long as photographers like myself were hounding her, we weren’t likely to see the final version of her nuptial masterpiece until the blessed day itself.

  I picked out a few of the clearest shots I’d been able to get through the glass front windows of Bebe’s Bridal Salon and transferred them to my photo editing program. Then I did a little fancy enhancing – whitening up the whites, cropping out the homeless guy hanging around outside, erasing the few flyaway strands of hair around Jamie Lee’s ears – and sent them off to Felix through the Informer’s secure network.

  Next I checked my daily to-do list from Felix. And groaned. It was twenty photos long.

  My boss was wasn’t what you’d call a big spender. In fact, I was the only on-staff photographer the Informer currently employed, Felix preferring to buy the occasion shot from freelancers than fork out another whole salary. Unfortunately, that left yours truly with the job of cropping, editing, and formatting every picture that came through our offices. I glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes to five. What were the chances Felix would pay for overtime?

  “Hey, Cam?”

  I looked to my right to find a pair of bloodshot eyes staring at me over the top of my cubicle. They were set in a jowly face surrounded by a mess of gray hair that looked at least a month past a decent haircut. Max Beacon, the Informer’s only original employee. Original, as in he’d been here since the wheel was the invention de jour. I wasn’t sure of Max’s exact age, but rumor had it his liver was at last a hundred and three, having been subjected to daily toxic infusions of Jim Beam since before any of us were a glimmer in our parents’ eyes.

  Max wrote the Informer’s obits and had his own remembrance ready to go, detailing how he’d died of cirrhosis of the liver, and tacked to the fabric walls of his cubicle right above a poster of a furry kitten clinging to a branch with a defiant, “Hang in there, baby.” To say he was a character was an understatement. Hard not to have a soft spot for a guy like that.

  “Hey, Max. What’s up?” I asked.

  “Need a photo to run with a story.”

  “Dead guy?”

  Max nodded. “Gal, actually. Jennifer ‘Tootsie’ Wilson. Forties screen siren.”

  “Great name.” Though it was probably fake. Chances were she’d been born Gertrude Burnbaum or some other hideous combination. Most celebs of the time has recreated themselves with fake names the second they’d hit the West Coast, a practice that hadn’t entirely died out as P. Diddy and Lady Gaga could tell you.

  “How’d she die?” I asked.

  “She was murdered back in ’45. I’m doing a piece on the anniversary of her death.”

  “Murdered, huh? Very film noir.”

  “Think you could find me a picture of her?”

  I looked down at my mile long to-do list. “Um… well…”

  “Thanks, kid. I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure.” I pulled up a Hollywood archive site on my computer. “So, who killed her?” I asked, typing the year into the site’s search engine. “Jealous husband? Lover?”

  Max shrugged, his shoulders kissing his jowls. “Don’t know. The police never solved it.”

  I did a low whistle. “That’ll sell copy.”

  “Let’s hope. Felix keeps threatening to cut me back to weekly. He says the only reason people in Hollywood read the tabloids is to see if they’ve been mentioned. My guys? They’re not reading much anymore.”

  “Ouch. Sorry.”

  He shrugged again. “I’ve survived worse.”

  “I’ll email a pic of your murdered starlet as soon as I find her,” I promised.

  Max nodded, then ducked back out of view, lumbering off to his own cube.

  I typed Tootsie’s name into the search field, coming up with a half dozen shots of the actress in question. I clicked the first one, a black and white deal, enlarging it to full screen. She was a slim woman, her sleek forties ‘do curling under at her shoulders in a flattering wave. She was posing on a divan, a gauzy curtain flowing behind her. Exactly the type of scene that screamed old Hollywood glamour. She had smooth, pale skin and dark lips I could only assume were swathed in the popular blood red lipstick of the time. A strand of pearls was carelessly hung around her neck, her blonde hair pinned and tucked to perfection. I could easily see her playing opposite Cary Grant or Clark Gable without missing a beat. And her eyes sparkled with a quiet confidence that said she knew it, too.

  Compared to Jamie Lee, she practically oozed sophistication.

  I typed my username and password into the site and paid my usage fee. In return, I was shuttled to a page with a non-watermarked, high-res version of the photo. I quickly downloaded it and did a little cropping to get in close on her face, then sent the photo off to Max.

  That task done, I dug into Felix’s to-do’s. An hour later, I finally had them whittled down to an impressive spread for tomorrow’s paper. I did one last email check before leaving, scanning for any time-sensitive tips on celebrity happenings that night. One party in the hills, attended by all the usual suspects. Nothing really newsworthy there. A rumor that Courtney Cox was sporting a baby bump, which I filed away to check up on later. If it were true, I’d catch her at the farmer’s market that Sunday. And one reported sighting of Joan Rivers’ latest nose. Though, honestly, how you could tell one version from the next, I wasn’t all that sure. But I made a note to do the plastic surgeon rounds soon anyway. Those post-op, bandaged-like-a-mummy shots always sold well.

  I was just doing my due diligence as an Informer employee by updating my Twitter followers with the latest on the Wedding Watch, when I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to find a purpled-haired woman in a pink, skull-printed baby tee hovering over my desk.

  “She pick a dress yet?” she asked, squinting at my tweet on the screen.

  Tina Bender was the Informer’s gossip columnist extraordinaire and reining goddess of dishing dirt on everyone who was anyone in this town. Trace and Jamie Lee included. Tina and I had bonded immediately when I’d come on board two years ago. Not that we had much I common looks-wise, but I’d immediately admired her brash, tell-it-like-it-is style. Most days I wished I had half the guts Tina did.

  “Nope. The dress is still up in the air. But you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Damn. I’m short today and was hoping to pad my column.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. “How about a top shelf actor caught swimming in the nude?”

  Tine punched me in the shoulder. “Get out! Seriously? Who?”

  “Trace Brody.”

  “Dude.” She leaned in close. “You saw Trace’s wee willy winkie?”

  I nodded. Not able to wipe the stupid smirk off my face as I recalled his picture-perfect body cutting through his picture-perfect swimming pool. True art, I tell ya.

  “So dish.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Quarter roll or Kaiser roll?”

  I choked back a laugh. “Um, definitely Kaiser.”

  “Jamie Lee is so lucky.”

  No kidding. I glanced at my desk clock. “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner? Chinese?”

  Tina bit her lip. “Oh, I wish I could. But I’ve actually already got plans tonight.”

  I tossed an eyebrow. “Hot lead?”

  She shook her head. “Nope, tickets to the gun show with Cal.”

  I grinned. “Gun show? Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”

  Cal was the built bodyguard Tina had recently started seeing. And when I say “seeing,” I mean they spent every waking moment together, fawning over each other like a couple of teenagers. Most of the time it straddled that fine line between incredibly romantic and downright nauseating. But Cal was the first guy I’d ever seen Tina get serious about, so I cut her a little slack.

  “No,” she clarified. “I mean
an actual gun show. Cal wants me to start carrying. He’s going to help me pick out something.”

  “You ever shot a gun before?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything. I’m just hoping they have one in pink.”

  I grinned. “Good luck,” I said. “I’ll email you the Brody pics.”

  “Awesome! And, hey do me a favor…” Tina looked over both shoulders for eavesdroppers before continuing. “If any leads come in overnight, forward them to me, huh? Allie’s been scooping me lately and making me look bad.”

  Allie Quick was the newest edition to the Informer’s staff and had somehow landed herself in the position of Tina’s arch nemesis. Which, I guess looking at the two side by side would be inevitable. Allie was blonde, bubbly, and had the body of a Playboy bunny – basically the embodiment of everything Tina wasn’t. Personally, I had no beef with New Girl, but, then again, I wasn’t competing for page space with her either.

  “Will do,” I promised as Tina sauntered off with a wave.

  Which, I supposed, left me eating Chinese for one.

  Again.

  * * *

  After picking up a carton of broccoli bean curd at the vegetarian place around the corner, I pointed my Jeep toward home. Which for me was a studio loft above a surf shop in Venice. While we were at least a block from the beach, my third-floor studio was high enough above the trendy shops and tourist attractions to afford me a prime view of the ocean at a bargain price. Okay, well from the bedroom, I had a view of a corner of the ocean if I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck around the head shop across the alleyway. But, if I climbed onto the roof, the view was priceless.

  Which was what I did as soon as I got home.

  I dropped my camera bag inside the door, extracting my Nikon and taking it with me into the kitchen. I stuck a fork in my back pocket for the bean curd and dug in the fridge for a bottle of chardonnay. Forgoing a glass, I kicked off my shoes and padded barefoot out onto the fire escape. Carefully juggling my takeout and my wine, I climbed up the short flight to the roof, plopping myself into a folding chair near the AC vent.