Hot Secret

by Sherryl Woods

“It would devastate her to discover that he only hired her to please Jeffrey.”

  “And we don’t know that’s what happened. Care to make a few calls to your contacts and see what the scuttlebutt is?” he asked.

  “Vince won’t like it.”

  “Blame it on me. Besides, he’ll like it even less if we don’t solve this case in the next day or two.”

  Molly tried to determine who might know more about how the financing for Endless Tomorrows was arranged. Laura Crain would doubtlessly know. So would Daniel Ortiz. Unfortunately, they were both on hand and still considered suspects. She doubted they’d want to chat about Meyerson’s role in GK Productions.

  Unofficially, though, one person in L.A. might talk. Greg’s agent, the man who’d put the deal together. Alan Nivens had the hottest agency in town at the moment. He liked to boast of the deals he made, and Greg had been one of his most shining success stories. Molly had met him once on a trip to the Coast and knew he had been influential in convincing Greg to film in Miami.

  She flipped open the thick address book she kept in her purse and dialed his number. His secretary put her right through.

  “Alan, I’m so sorry about what happened to Greg,” she said.

  “I know you are, babe. I’m devastated. Everyoneout here’s in mourning. Do the cops know any more?”

  “They’re working on it. You could help them out, though.”

  “Anything, babe. Name it. I won’t rest until I know Greg’s killer is in jail.”

  “What do you know about a man named Jeffrey Meyerson?”

  “Social bigwig, charities, real estate,” he said without an instant’s hesitation. Then more cautiously, he asked, “How’d his name crop up?”

  “I hear he bankrolled this picture.”

  Now Alan did pause. “Where’d you hear it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Is it true?”

  “He put some money in it, yes.”

  “Before or after Greg cast Veronica Weston?”

  Alan chuckled. “I knew I liked you, babe. You are one very smart cookie.”

  “Come on, Alan. Quit the flattery and tell me.”

  “Meyerson and Weston are an item. Everyone out here knows that.”

  “Is that why Greg cast her?” she repeated.

  She heard Alan’s fingers drumming on his desk.

  “Absolutely not,” he said finally, a little too emphatically. “He liked her work, or at least that’s what he told me. I couldn’t shake him on it. Meyerson got into the act later. Much later, as a matter of fact. Greg didn’t want to go to him at all, but Veronica insisted when she realized the picture might not get made.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep you posted on the investigation.”

  “They gonna release Greg’s body soon? We want to schedule a memorial.”

  “I’m sure his family will be contacted as soon as the police say it’s okay.”

  “He has no family. They should call me. The kid was like a son to me. I’ll take care of the arrangements.”

  Since Alan Nivens wasn’t much more than ten years older than Greg, Molly doubted the sentiment, but she didn’t call him on it. “I’ll see that the police are told,” she said.

  “Told what?” Michael wanted to know as soon as she’d hung up.

  “That Alan wants to be notified when Greg’s body can be released. He wants to schedule a memorial service.”

  “Should be in a day or two. What else did he have to say? I gathered from what you said he knew about Meyerson’s involvement with the film.”

  “He swears the appeal to Meyerson was a last-ditch attempt to salvage the film. Veronica insisted on asking him, reportedly against Greg’s wishes. No one else wanted to play, probably because of Veronica’s reputation for drinking, although Alan didn’t come out and say that.”

  “So Jeffrey didn’t demand the casting as part of his agreement to finance?”

  “Alan swears hiring Veronica was Greg’s decision and that it came prior to the contact with Meyerson. He doesn’t know why Greg insisted on it so stubbornly.”

  While they both tried to figure out the implications of the report and what Molly had learned earlier from Duke, the phone rang. As Michael listened to the caller, only a slight widening of his eyes gave any indication that he found what was being said to be fascinating.

  “Well?” Molly demanded the minute he’d hung up.

  “Just wait.”

  “For what?”

  Before he could respond, the fax began spewing out pages. Michael picked them up and started to read. His blank expression didn’t give away anything. It was driving Molly nuts.

  “Are you going to share or am I going to have to rip those pages away from you?”

  Michael stared at the report for another full minute before tossing it over to Molly. “See what you make of this.”

  “What?”

  “Just read it.”

  The investigator had faxed a report from a private hospital about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. It was dated slightly more than thirty-one years earlier. The name on the top meant nothing to her.

  “Who on earth is Francine Weatherly?”

  “According to Les’s sources in L.A., that was the name of a character from a movie.”

  “A movie? When?”

  “Thirty, thirty-one years ago. The role was played by Veronica Weston. It earned her an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress.”

  Molly gaped. “You’re suggesting that Veronica entered some hospital using her character’s name as a pseudonym nearly thirty-one years ago? Why bother? She certainly didn’t hide the fact that she went into that alcohol treatment program last year.”

  “Maybe she felt that was a whole lot more socially acceptable than having a child out of wedlock and giving the baby away.”

  Molly regarded him with astonishment. “She had a baby? That’s never been reported. Never.”

  “Obviously that was the point.”

  Molly didn’t believe it. Beyond the bouts of drinking, there had never been the slightest hint of scandal surrounding Veronica Weston. Granted, she didn’t strike Molly as the maternal type, but would she have given up a baby for adoption and kept the secret all these years? She studied the hospital record and the attached birth certificate trying to imagine some other conclusion. She couldn’t come up with one.

  “There’s something more, isn’t there?” she said, studying Michael’s disgustingly smug expression. She’d seen that expression on his face before, always when he was this close to wrapping up a case.

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he said with an infuriating, teasing glint in his eyes.

  “Stop playing guessing games with me and spit it out.”

  “Look at the birthdate,” he urged patiently. “Look familiar?”

  June 15, 1961. It was familiar because the cast had celebrated a birthday on that date. Greg Kinsey’s birthday.

  “Oh, dear God,” Molly murmured as she finally made the connection. “You’re suggesting that Veronica was Gregory’s mother, aren’t you?” She stared at Michael. “Is that really possible? Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, but it would certainly explain why Gregory was so determined to give her a break. It would explain those vibes Duke said he felt whenever he was around the two of them.”

  “You think Greg knew she was his mother?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Les is still checking out whether he could have found out. I expect another call in a few minutes. He has some sources with those groups that help adoptees track down their natural parents. Besides, I’m not that fond of coincidences, at least not whoppers like this.”

  “What about Veronica, though? Does she know?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? What do you think?”

  “I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “On the other hand, maybe that would explain some of the tension between the two of them. If she was feeling gu
ilty, she’d probably be very short-tempered.”

  She stared at Michael, her eyes stinging with tears at the implication. “My God, can you imagine what she must be going through, if she does know? How could anyone hide that kind of grief?” She shook her head. “She can’t know. As much as I respect her acting abilities, I don’t think even she is talented enough to cover up all the sorrow and guilt a mother would feel at the death of a son, especially a son she’d never acknowledged.”

  Michael stood up. “There’s only one way to find out. As soon as Les calls back, we’ll go talk to Veronica.”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Molly checked the production schedule and saw that shooting was to end by dusk. It was nearly eight thirty now. In no more than an hour Veronica would be back at the hotel having dinner and studying her lines for the next day.

  The film’s already rigorous shooting schedule had become even tighter with the necessity of making up for the delays due to Greg’s death and earlier snafus in production. Violent thunderstorms had postponed one day of outdoor shots. Another day had stalled when three key people had gotten food poisoning from food left too long without refrigeration on location.

  “I think we should wait and go to the hotel,” she told Michael. “Veronica shouldn’t hear something like this on location, not with everyone around.”

  “You’re right. Let’s grab a sandwich or something and then get over to the hotel to wait.”

  “Just let me call Brian. I promised him pizza tonight.”

  Michael regarded her evenly. “Maybe that’s not a promise you should break.” Years of childhood separation from his own mother had made him ultra sensitive to parent-child relationships.

  Molly was torn herself. Michael was right, especially after what had happened earlier with Hal. But Veronica was likely to need her, too. Least important but certainly a factor was her own curiosity.

  If what Michael was surmising about the relationship between Greg and Veronica was true, then everything hinged on whether the actress knew about it. If she hadn’t known, then she could still reasonably be considered a strong suspect. If she had known—or even guessed without actual confirmation—then Molly couldn’t believe that Veronica could have fired the shot that killed her son.

  “If Liza’s home, maybe she’ll order pizza tonight. Then I’ll make it up to Brian tomorrow.”

  “I thought you left Liza on location with Duke Lane.”

  “I did, but he promised to drive her home. I think he wrapped up earlier today than Veronica. It only takes about five minutes to get to the condo from Virginia Key.”

  Liza picked up on the second ring. She was at home with Duke Lane. Molly knew better than to think it was anything more than mutual love of the environment, so she didn’t hesitate to ask if Brian could join them.

  “I think there’s been a break in the case. I’d like to stay here and see how it plays out.”

  “What’s happened?” Liza asked.

  “I can’t say yet. Not until we know more.”

  “We?”

  “The police,” Molly corrected over the sound of Liza’s disbelieving laughter. She added defensively, “I’m involved, too, you know.”

  “You’re nosy,” Liza countered. “So am I. Stop in the minute you get home. Brian will be fine here with us. Should I call down to Kevin’s or will you?”

  “I’ll call. I need to explain to him why I’m breaking a promise.”

  Brian took the news with stoic good humor. “You always want squishy mushrooms on the pizza, anyway. Liza doesn’t like those.”

  Molly teased him right back. “Liza also won’t let you eat meat, kiddo, so forget the sausage and pepperoni.”

  “Who says? She always lets me order anything I want. She just picks it off of her part and I get extra.”

  “Sounds like a deal to me.”

  “You gonna catch the killer tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly said honestly. “But we may be getting close to figuring it out.”

  “Is Michael with you?” he asked, a worried note creeping into his voice.

  “Yes.”

  She heard his tiny sigh of satisfaction. “Then he’ll take care of you.”

  Molly glanced across the desk and met Michael’s gaze. “You bet,” she said.

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure.” She handed the phone across the desk, then listened to Michael’s solemn conversation with her son.

  “I promise,” he vowed, his gaze still holding hers. “I will take very good care of your mother. Later, sport.”

  When he’d hung up, a smile played about his lips. “I guess I have my job cut out for me.”

  “Oh?” she said, her cheeks flaming. There was no telling what instructions Brian had given on her behalf.

  “I am not to keep you out too late. I am not to let you get anywhere near a gun. And I am not to let you get kidnapped by the killer again.” He smiled ruefully. “He reminded me that I fell down on the job last time.”

  “He still thinks you walk on water.”

  “And you?”

  “I think I’ll plead the Fifth on that one.”

  “Worried about incriminating yourself, huh?”

  “Never mind. Can we get out of here now? I feel Otis Jenkins’s hostility practically bouncing off these walls.”

  “I know what you mean. Fortunately, I talked the brass into letting him be the one to fly out to L.A. to dig around for things like the incorporation papers on GK Productions and Greg’s will. He was more than happy to be out of this head-to-head rivalry. He should be there soon. Hopefully, he can dig up something concrete by tomorrow. Les said he’d help him with contacts.”

  They were nearly out the door when Francesca and her photographer came up the steps of the police station.

  “What brings you two over this way?” Michael inquired. “Not thinking of flying back to Italy, are you?”

  “We would like to go, yes,” Giovanni replied. “Can you not release us, if we promise to fly back any time we are needed?”

  Michael shook his head. “Sorry. I just need you to stick around a few days more.” He still held their passports to assure their compliance.

  Francesca muttered a torrent of Italian. The photographer retorted with one terse word, which silenced her for a moment. She appealed to Molly with a look. “I wish to say good-bye to Gregory. Is possible?”

  Molly gaped at her. “You want to go to the morgue?”

  Giovanni threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. “She is crazy. I cannot talk her out of this. She says she needs, how can I say in English, to closing the door.”

  Even with the slight mangling of the phrase, Molly understood what he meant. Naturally the young girl felt she needed closure, but Molly shook her head. “I don’t think this would be a good idea,” she told her. “His wound is very bad. You would not like to remember him like this.”

  Michael put a hand on the model’s shoulder. “She’s right. Let it go.”

  Francesca uttered a tremulous sigh, her expression defeated. “I cannot do this?”

  “You could,” Michael said gently. “But I would advise against it.”

  She looked from him to Molly, then to Giovanni. “I will not go, then.”

  The photographer put his arm around her and led her away.

  “She’s not really on your list of suspects anymore, is she?”

  “The long list, not the short list,” Michael replied, watching the girl leave. “That photographer could make the short list, though. He’s obsessed with her.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. And he admits coming to Veronica’s trailer after her.”

  “Where would he get a gun, though? It always comes back to that. He didn’t bring one into the country. I checked on that.”

  “This is Miami,” she reminded him. “Guns aren’t exactly impossible to lay your hands on.”

  “If you know where to look, who to ask. You think he knows
the right people?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “But neither does Veronica.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  • • •

  An hour later, after they’d sampled several appetizers at an upscale Middle Eastern restaurant, Molly and Michael took the elevator up to Veronica’s suite. Jeffrey Meyerson greeted them at the door, his expression unwelcoming.

  “We need to have a talk with Ms. Weston,” Michael told him.

  “Now’s not a good time,” Jeffrey said. “Couldn’t you come back later? Maybe tomorrow.”

  “No,” Michael said. “We need to see her now.”

  “It’s okay, darling,” Veronica called from the bedroom. “Let them in.”

  Jeffrey looked unhappy, but he stepped out of their way and gestured toward the living room. A room service tray held coffee, cups, and half-eaten chicken salad sandwiches on croissants. A pale pink rosebud—a lover’s gesture or a hotel nicety—provided a festive note to the skimpy meal. An empty vodka bottle had been upended in the trash can and a fresh bottle, its cap still off, sat on the wet bar. Obviously Veronica had given up any pretense of being on the wagon.

  Jeffrey rinsed out the cups, dried them, and offered coffee. His hand shook as he poured the still-steaming liquid into two cups. Either he was hung over from the luncheon champagne he’d finished off or very nervous. Molly wondered again what Jeffrey Myerson had to be nervous about. His gaze kept darting to the manila folder Michael had placed on the credenza.

  It was fifteen minutes before Veronica joined them. During that time Jeffrey kept up a constant barrage of inconsequential chatter, like a host making small talk with strangers at a dinner party arranged by his wife for her friends.

  Veronica swept into the room at last, her trademark chiffon billowing behind, this time in a shade of pale yellow that erupted into brilliant orange at the hem.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said as she waved in the general direction of the bottle of vodka. Jeffrey took the hint and poured a double shot over ice. He handed the heavy crystal glass to her and served up a warning look at the same time.

  “What can I do for you?” Veronica asked. Nothing in her tone or her manner betrayed any hint of nervousness.