Hollywood Confessions

by Gemma Halliday

  “What?”

  “Where do you put it all?” I asked him.

  “I told you, I got a high metabolism. Besides, I don’t wanna see Deb on an empty stomach. Who knows what stupid shit I might say on an empty stomach.”

  God forbid.

  Half an hour later we were circling the parking structure, looking for a spot within a half mile walk to BN. Which, as it turned out, we needn’t have worried about. Because as we exited the structure we saw the line to get into the store spanned all the way around the block, down the next side street, around that block, then doubled back to the first block. There had to be a least a thousand people standing in line to get a signed copy of Deb’s book.

  I whistled low in my throat. “Wow. I had no idea she was so popular.”

  “Are you kidding?” Gary piped up. “She only has the most followed Twitter feed in the world.”

  We took a place in line behind a woman with four little girls in tow and one on the way, if her baby bump was any indication, hunkering down to wait. I looked at my watch. 1:45. I sincerely hoped Deb could sign her name quickly. It would take at least two hours to get through this crowd.

  I checked out the other people standing in line and noticed most were, as expected, the mom-looking types—capris, flats, sweater sets or shapeless T-shirts covered in suspicious-looking stains. A few gathered in groups, while some had brought their broods of darlings along with them.

  Then, mixed in with Deb’s target demographic, were a few guys who looked totally out of place. One wore a suit; another held a bouquet of flowers.

  Gary nudged me. “See, I told you Deb’s hot. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

  “These guys are really here to see her?”

  “See her? I’m guessing that guy with the flowers is hoping to do a whole lot more than just see her, if you know what I mean.”

  I thought back to the pictures of Deb I’d seen. UFO-shaped haircut, khaki shorts, minivan full of rug rats. If that was the kind of woman men went gaga over, I was so misguided.

  “Look, we’re moving,” Gary pointed out as the line inched forward a step. Then came to a halt two paces later.

  “How much you think Deb makes on a signing like this?” Gary asked, standing on tiptoes to see through the crowd.

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Her book’s hardcover, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, let’s say it goes for twenty-five bucks. She gets, what, ten percent of that?”

  “Probably more like eight.”

  “Yeah, well, eight makes the math hard, so let’s say ten.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Okay, ten percent of twenty-five bucks is…” Gary paused, counting on his fingers while his lips moved. “Two-fifty? So, she makes two-fifty per book. There’s got to be at least five thousand people here.”

  “I was going to say a thousand.”

  “Five thousand times two-fifty…man, she’s loaded. I shoulda brought flowers.”

  “I have to ask,” I said, glancing down at the red sandals on Gary’s feet.. “What is that on your shoes?”

  “What?”

  “That outline on the top. Is that Spiderman?”

  Gary’s eyes shot down to his sandals. “Shit! You can still see him?”

  “A little.” I paused. “Do I want to know why Spiderman is on your shoes?”

  “You know how hard it is to find men’s shoes in a size two? I thought I could peel the Spiderman stickers off.”

  “I’m sure no one will notice.”

  “Maybe I should just go barefoot when we get to Deb?”

  “Look lively, the line’s moving again.”

  Which fortunately, it was. Unfortuntely, it stopped again two feet later.

  It took us another half an hour to wind down the first block. Another forty minutes to hit the second. By the time the front door of the Barnes & Noble was finally in sight, it was nearing 4 o’clock, and I was starting to get antsy. Not only because we were nearing the end of the allotted time, but because, thanks to that 32-ounce soda at In-N-Out, I had to pee. Badly. So badly, I felt my eyes glazing over.

  “Think we’re almost there?” I asked, shifting from foot to foot.

  Gary shrugged. “Could be. No idea how long the line is inside the store.”

  “Inside the store!” I whined. No way was I going to make it.

  Four o’clock on the dot, we reached the interior of the place. Unfortunately, that was when the announcement came over the PA system that Deb had to leave, and for the rest of us who had stood in line, she had pre-signed books available for sale.

  A collective groan went up from those assembled, the woman with kids in tow in front of us said a decidedly not preschool-friendly word, and people started filtering out the door.

  “Great!” Gary threw his hands up. “How are we supposed to interrogate her now?” he yelled.

  I wasn’t sure. But I knew one thing for certain—if I didn’t find a bathroom in the next ten seconds, I was gonna explode.

  I frantically peered through the crowd for that telltale faceless blue lady in a triangle-cut skirt. I finally found her hovering over a door near the maps section.

  “Wait for me here,” I instructed Gary. “I gotta pee.”

  Then I hightailed to the restroom, shoving through the hordes of would-be book buyers. I think I may have even knocked a couple over. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was, nature was calling and I couldn’t put off answering any longer.

  I pushed through the door, dashed into the nearest vacant stall and let out a big sigh of relief.

  I did my business and emerged a new woman. I washed my hands, pulled out some lipgloss, and did a little fluffing of my hair that had fallen woefully flat in the heat outside. I was just about happy with what was looking back at me in the mirror, when a woman emerged from one of the other stalls and made her way to the sink beside me. I checked out her reflection in the mirror.

  And almost swallowed my tongue. I’d know that UFO-shaped haircut anywhere.

  “Deb Davenport?” I asked.

  She looked up. And for a fraction of a second I could see how tired she was before her “on” face slid into place. “That’s me!” she cheerfully responded, reaching for a paper towel.

  “Wow, I just waited in line two hours to see you.”

  “Well, I hope it was worth it.”

  “Sorta. I mean, they told us you had to leave before we even got to the front. But here you are now, so it all worked out.”

  She did a toothy smile. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. Sorry you had to wait so long. And I’m sorry I don’t have any books to sign here,” she said, gesturing around herself with a laugh. “They do have several pre-signed at the register, though.”

  “Actually, I was more interested in talking with you,” I said.

  Her smile faltered for a half a second. “Really? Well, I’d love to chat about child rearing, but I really do have to go—”

  “Actually I wanted to chat about Chester Barker.”

  The smile didn’t so much falter this time as melt from her face faster than a Popsicle on the Venice boardwalk. “Who are you?” she asked. “Who let you in here? Are you media? Because I have nothing to say to you vultures. Nothing!” she reiterated, stabbing a finger at me.

  How quickly they turn.

  “Listen, I just want to ask you a few questions. It’ll only take five minutes of your time.”

  “I don’t have five minutes. I have to be at a photo op at Baby Gap in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll ride with you!” I offered.

  “Ha!” she said. “You really are delusional if you think I’d let you into my car.”

  She moved around me toward the door. I was losing her. I had to act fast.

  “I know you were the one who had the affair!” I blurted out.

  Deb froze, hand on the bathroom door handle. Ever so slowly she turned around, her face a perfect void that I’m sure was hard to ma
intain. “What do you mean?”

  “I know that it was you, not your husband, who stepped outside the marriage.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I paused, remembering my off-the-record promise to Don. “A… source.”

  She narrowed hr eyes at me. “My husband?”

  I bit my lip. “Um… kinda?”

  “That weak little sonofa—” She remembered who she was talking to and stopped just in time. “Look, my husband will say anything for a little press.”

  I shrugged. “That may be. But he’s way credible enough for me to print an exposé on the real reason Don and Deb split up.”

  “We’re back together now, in case you haven’t noticed. We had a reunion.”

  “In Vegas. I know. I also know it was staged.”

  Deb’s complexion lost at least a couple of hours in the tanning booth. “And who told you that?”

  “Your husband.”

  “I’m gonna kill him.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting word choice. You feel the same way about Barker?”

  “What? No! God, no!” Deb sighed and narrowed her eyes at me again, sizing me up.

  “You might as well talk to me,” I told her. “Your husband told me everything. If you want your side of the story heard, it’s now or never.”

  She blew a long breath out through her nose. “Okay, fine. You want the real story? I’ll give you five minutes. But that’s it.”

  “Sold!”

  “Come with me.”

  I did, following her out of the ladies room. But instead of going back through the crowded bookstore she turned left, into the employees-only area that funneled off into a warehouse holding dozens of pallets of paperback books. For a second I was overpowered by the scent of new pages, but I had little time to enjoy it as Deb hightailed it toward a door at the rear, where a guy in a dark suit was waiting for her.

  “Mrs. Davenport,” he said, giving her a nod as he held the door open for her.

  She barely registered his existence as she charged through, heading for a limo parked at the curb with the same sort of no-nonsense determination she displayed on the show when charging through her brood of whining tots.

  I followed a step behind, half jogging in order to keep up. When she slid into the backseat of the car, I had only a second to do the same before the guy in the suit slammed the door after me and slipped behind the wheel.

  As soon as the engine turned over, Deb hit the button to close the barrier between the driver and backseat then turned on me. “Your five minutes starts now.”

  Nothing like working under pressure. Fortunately, I’d had two hours in line to rehearse what I was going to say to her.

  “Tell me about the affair,” I said.

  She pursed her lips together and, for a moment, I thought maybe she wasn’t going to spill it after all. Finally she simply said, “It was stupid.”

  “Go on.”

  “Look, you have no idea how much pressure is involved in a show like this. It’s not like an actor playing a role who gets to go home and live his life afterward. This is twenty-four seven. Your whole life is on display. Other moms get to have an off day and feed their kids McDonalds. I do it, and suddenly the press says I’m setting a bad example and contributing to the childhood obesity epidemic. I try to discipline my kids, and suddenly I’m abusive. It’s like every little thing I do is magnified ten times and broadcast worldwide. It’s exhausting.”

  “And yet you had energy enough for an affair,” I pointed out.

  “It wasn’t like that!” she shot back. She turned to the window, staring at the billboards passing us by on Highland. “Look, he was understanding. He knew what I was going through. He was a shoulder to lean on. Don and I…every little disagreement we had was blown up on TV. It’s no wonder we grew apart, you know? And Barker was always there when things got bad.”

  I paused. “Wait, Barker?”

  “God, it was so easy to be with him.”

  Mental forehead smack. “Barker was the guy you were having an affair with?”

  Deb turned to me, surprise evident on her face. “Yes.” She paused. “Ohmigod, you didn’t know? I just assumed when you said Don told you everything that he’d told you everything. Jesus, I thought that’s why you were questioning me.”

  Well, it sure as hell was now. “So, let me get this straight. Barker seduces you—”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “Okay. He sleeps with you. Better?”

  She bit her lip, but I didn’t wait for a response to continue.

  “He sleeps with you. Then when Don finds out, Barker decides in order to save face, Don has to pretend he was the one cheating?”

  Deb nodded.

  “And Don knew Barker was the other man?” I asked, feeling played that I’d bought Don’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell line.

  Deb nodded.

  “That gives Don had a hell of a reason to hate Barker. First he bones his wife, then he paints him as the bad guy in the press.”

  “It wasn’t boning!” Deb said, her cheeks tingeing bright red. “We made love. It was…amazing. Special.”

  I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable at how my mind flashed back to my own amazing moments last night. Even though I was pretty sure it was not special, a mistake of monumental proportions and had nothing to do with the “L” word.

  I cleared my throat, forcing my thoughts to focus on Deb. “How special?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How long was this affair going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she hedged, picking at a piece of lint on her skirt. “A few weeks. Couple months, maybe.”

  “Before the nanny walked in on you.”

  She nodded, still not looking up. “God, how embarrassing. They were supposed to be at practice, but the teacher called in sick or something at the last minute.”

  “So, the nanny catches you, Don finds out, then what?”

  “Then Chester and I broke it off.”

  “You broke it off, or Chester did?”

  Deb consulted the lint again. “What difference does that make?”

  Only this—if Deb had considered the affair so special, maybe she hadn’t been happy to see it end. Unhappy enough that she might have gone to Barker’s house, snapped and gone into if-I-can’t-have-you-no-one-can mode, poisoning his wine.

  “Where were you the night he was murdered?” I asked her.

  Deb’s head shot up. “You can’t possibly be serious?”

  “I only have two minutes left. You think I’d joke with you now?”

  She bit her lip. “I did not kill Chester.”

  “So where were you when he died?”

  She put a hand to her head, massaging a space between her eyeballs. “What day did he die?”

  I gave her a get-real look. Everyone in Hollywood knew when Barker died.

  “Listen, I have twelve children, two book deadlines, a marriage that’s crumbling apart and a TV crew at my back. I’m lucky I remember my own name.”

  “The seventeenth. A Tuesday,” I supplied.

  “Oh, that’s easy then. I have yoga class on Tuesday nights.”

  “Where?”

  “Karma Konnection in Brentwood.”

  “So I assume someone there can corroborate your story?”

  “Of course. The class was packed.”

  “What time did it end?” I asked, taking mental notes.

  Her eyes flickered downward for just a fraction of a second before meeting mine again. “Ten.”

  I raised an eyebrow her way. “You do know Barker was killed between ten and eleven, right?”

  “I…stayed late at class.”

  “Stayed late?”

  “Getting some personal attention from the instructor.”

  Oh, brother. “You were boning him too?”

  “Look, Don and I are in therapy, okay? We’re trying to keep things together for the girls. But until he decides he’s ready to be a husband
one-hundred percent, a woman’s got needs!”

  “What time did you leave?” I asked, setting the issue of her libido aside for the moment.

  “It was well after midnight. Closer to one am, I think.”

  “And your instructor will verify this?”

  She nodded and reached into her purse, pulling out a business card. She flipped it over and wrote on the back before handing it to me.

  I looked down. Chad Dharma, and a number with a 310 area code.

  “You know, if you’re looking for who might have killed Chester,” Deb said, “I’d check out that partner of his.”

  My head shot up at the mention of Alec. “Why?”

  “Money.” Deb slipped her pen back in her purse. “The company was hemorrhaging money big time.”

  “How can that be?” I asked. “I mean, he’s tops in the ratings everywhere.”

  “He’s also at the bottom. Some of his shows hit, some miss. Lately the misses were outweighing the hits.”

  That was something Alec had failed to mention. Though, in his defense, I hadn’t actually asked, either.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  Deb shot me a look. “I was sleeping with Chester, remember? We talked. Sometimes about work. Chester said Alec was always riding him to cut back. But Chester was a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy. He was all about taking risks. Some of them paid off, but sometimes they didn’t. His latest show, Little Love?”

  I nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Bombed. Apparently little people aren’t a novelty anymore, and it turns out the bachelor they chose wasn’t all that sympathetic to viewers.”

  Go figure.

  “Anyway, if you want motive, talk to Alec.”

  I was about to argue that love was just as strong a motive as money when Deb looked down at her watch, then immediately hit the button to open the partition between the driver and us.

  “Pull over here,” she instructed.

  He did, and before I could even ask, he had my door open.

  “Your five minutes are up,” she informed me.

  I looked from her to the driver. “But—”

  Deb shot me a look. It was the same one she gave her sextuplets when they whined about wearing itchy dresses on stage. No argument was going to penetrate it.