Dead Ringers

by Camilla Chafer

  "Right!"

  "Absolutely!"

  "Shayne?"

  "Hmmm?" I turned my head quickly, finding Jenna and Daisy both watching me.

  "I asked you about Ben. Are you two doing anything this weekend?" repeated Jenna.

  "Oh, um, no, I don't think so. That is, we haven't discussed any plans." Actually, Ben and I hadn't arranged anything since we last went on a date a week ago, hiking in the Hollywood Hills. Of course, we'd seen each other at work but Ben was chasing a story and away from his desk for several hours at a time. Even when he was here, his eyes were glued to his computer screen. Occasionally, when he looked up, he flashed me a fast smile. When I texted him, I got short, abrupt answers. It was disconcerting. I wondered if I'd done something wrong but I couldn't fathom what. As far as I knew, our date was fantastic. We laughed, held hands, teased each other and had a lovely picnic. I was sure I didn't say anything to scare him off.

  "Great. Girls' night," said Jenna. "Pizza. A movie from the eighties. Wine."

  "My place," said Daisy. "We can ask Ashleigh over too. It's such a shame she couldn't make it today."

  "Great!" I grinned. Our friend, Ashleigh was a homicide detective with the LA Police Department. She’d been busy with a triple homicide. When we first met, she thought I was a pain in the butt. Her butt, specifically, but we bonded over fashion. Plus, I owed her my life. "She closed her case so she's probably free unless something else gruesome happens," I added.

  Daisy scooped the last oat of the granola into her mouth and I realized I'd been so busy eavesdropping the next table, I forgot about my brunch. I started eating quickly, hastily catching up.

  "What got your attention?" asked Jenna softly. Her eyes darted to the table behind me. "Were they talking about us?"

  I shook my head. "Something about a missing girl. Maybe two," I murmured.

  "Really?" asked Daisy.

  I nodded.

  "I mean, really missing? Girls go ‘missing’ in LA all the time." Daisy added air quotes and shrugged.

  "They do?" I asked, looking up sharply. How had I not heard about this before?

  Daisy nodded. "Sure. Only thing is they're not really missing. They get fed up at not making it after a few months and being stuck waiting tables or counters and dealing with creepy or overly demanding casting calls. They give up their dream and go back to wherever they came from."

  "Without telling anyone?"

  "Sometimes they don't really have anyone to tell. They come here with no one. They only meet superficial people who don't really care about them and then they go home, wanting to put the whole experience behind them."

  "My friend used to rent her spare room to wannabe actresses. We actually called it the ‘short stay suite’ because the girls would always pack up after three months and move. Sometimes they didn't even leave a note. Just poof, room empty and gone," said Jenna.

  "That's sad." I recalled the few months when I arrived in the city with nothing but a car full of my possessions. I didn't know anyone and my promised luxury apartment was less a dream and more a nightmare. It would have been easy to stay a week and then slip away without a word to anyone. Yet I held onto my hope of making it as a big city reporter. Even though my job sucked most of the time, I managed to meet people and now I had real friends and a boyfriend, Ben. I glanced at my cellphone, screen-side up on the table. Still no message from him suggesting a date. He ignored my latest proposal of dinner and drinks at my apartment tonight too.

  "Oh, shoot," said Daisy, glancing at her watch. "I have to run. The driver will be here any minute to take me to the set. Hair and makeup are waiting for me."

  "Your life is just awful," said Jenna. "Poor you."

  Daisy stuck out her tongue. She scooped up her napkin and dropped it over her bowl as she reached for her purse. I recognized it earlier as a limited edition designer bag that we featured on our fashion pages. Apparently, it had a waiting list. Daisy dropped a clutch of dollar bills on the table and stood, kissing our cheeks before hurrying out in a moment of silence as the other diners watched her. As soon as she was gone, the noise started again. Most of it centered on the important question, "Was that the real Marguerite Casta?"

  "When's your driver showing up?" asked Jenna.

  "I'm walking. I'm eco-friendly," I told her and she snorted. "And you?"

  "Taking the bus. I like to be one with the people."

  "Are we being mean?" I asked.

  Jenna laughed. "No. Daisy rips us to shreds too."

  "I should head over to the newspaper." I sighed. Brunch was already the highlight of my day and it was barely ten AM.

  "I'll walk part of the distance with you. I'll tell you about my potential new client on the way."

  We both reached for our purses and Jenna signaled the waiter who arrived promptly with the check. They didn't like to hurry diners out the door, but I caught a glimpse of the queue of people still waiting to be seated. We paid, gathered our things, and started to leave. As we got to the door, I stopped Jenna with a touch to her arm. "I'll meet you outside," I told her, hurrying back to the table next to us. I couldn't shake what I overheard.

  "Hi," I said to the trio as they looked up when I came to a stop next to them. "I'm Shayne, a journalist with the LA Chronicle. You spoke to my friend, Daisy… uh, Marguerite."

  "Really?" preened Nadia but I wasn't sure what she was more impressed about: my status as a journalist or being friends with Daisy.

  "We just love Marguerite," said her friend, which answered my question.

  "She suggested I discuss an article I'm writing about new actresses to LA," I lied. "I overheard you mention your roommate was new here. Was she an actress too?"

  "She's gone now," said Nadia quickly. "I've only been here a year and I already have several credits. A year is practically no time at all."

  "We're all actresses," said the woman to her left. Cindy, I thought.

  "I'm a singer too," chimed the third, straightening her back and preening.

  "Fabulous!" I matched their beaming smiles. "Why don't I take your cards and set up times for an interview? I would love to hear your stories."

  And, I was careful not to add, find out more about the missing women.

  Chapter Two

  I sat at my desk the next morning, tapping my pen against the fresh notepad in front of me. Every so often, I caught a furtive glimpse over the top of my cubicle. Across the room, Ben had his head down, headphones on, a slight frown on his forehead as he typed quickly. Whatever he was working on, he seemed very enthused about it. Which was more than I could say for the obituary on the screen in front of me. Clyde Goodwin, 86, director of dubious B-movies in the seventies, died at home after living a largely unremarkable life. The only interesting thing about him was Bob’s admiration, since he was a huge fan of his films. Unfortunately for me, "LA Chronicle editor, Bob Chance is a huge fan" didn't take up a lot of column inches. Instead, I was relegated to writing several inches of fluffy hyperbole to commemorate the deceased man's life.

  Glancing back at my notepad, I felt a guilty twinge. Just because I was more interested in following a lead about the allegedly missing women was no excuse to ignore my assignment. After all, writing the obituaries and entertainment columns was my official job as I was so often rudely reminded.

  Yet, how could I ignore what I overheard at brunch? I turned away from the screen and wrote: MISSING WOMEN.

  Under it, I wrote: How many? Where are they? Then I added with a double underline: Crime?

  It was a long shot and Daisy was probably right. The young women probably went home in utter disappointment but I couldn't shake the unmistakable sensation that something was wrong. All I had to do was make a few inquiries to know. It wouldn't take long. And if there really was no story, great! No, actually, missing women could be a good thing.

  "Shayne!"

  My head shot up at the sound of my name being yelled across the office. A couple of heads turned and glanced my way but mostly, no one
bothered. Everyone was used to Bob's old school method of "inviting" his staff into his office.

  I screen-locked my laptop and closed the notepad, both old practices to stop any nosy desk-hoverers from potentially stealing my stories. Just as I rose from my chair, Bob yelled, "Ben!"

  As I rounded my cubicle, Ben got up and walked towards Bob's office. We arrived at the same time and Ben gave me a half smile.

  "How's the story going?" I asked.

  "I'm still wading through the interview notes. Could be a while before anything cohesive comes together."

  "Looking forward to reading it," I replied. Not that Ben gave me any hints as to what he was writing. All I knew was he received a tip about an intriguing story and subsequently spent the past week busily investigating when he wasn’t writing a few easy headline reports. Apparently, he was also too busy to hang out with me or even tell me about it.

  "After you," said Ben, holding the door open for me.

  "Close the door," muttered Bob without looking up. He stabbed the keyboard with his sausage fingers; then his eyes bugged in alarm. "I deleted a file! Where did it go?"

  "Try your trash file," I suggested.

  "What's that?"

  I blinked, wondering if he really meant what he just said. I decided he did since he was a technological dinosaur. "There's a little icon that looks like a trashcan on your desktop. Open it." Bob's gaze wandered across his desk. "On your screen," I clarified.

  "Huh." Stab. Stab. Stab. "Well, whaddya know? There it is." Finally, Bob looked up. "How's the obituary going? Bet it's writing itself. Clyde Goodwin," he added, looking at Ben.

  "He died? That's a shame," said Ben. He glanced at me with a frown. Obviously, Ben didn't know who Clyde Goodwin was either.

  "A tragedy," nodded Bob. "What entertainment stories do you have lined up, Shayne? Any juicy ones?"

  "Yes, absolutely," I agreed. "Very juicy." Just don't ask me what.

  "Good to know."

  "I have a lead on another story too. It's about…"

  "And your story?" Bob asked, interrupting me as he glanced at Ben.

  "Nowhere near finished," said Ben.

  "You got another headline for me?"

  "Of course. There was a demonstration against a housing development that turned nasty yesterday. Great quotes and our photographer got a shot of both sides throwing punches." Ben handed Bob a sheet of typed paper and Bob skimmed it before handing it back. "Unfortunately, a brick caught Dan's wrist and broke it so he's out of commission for a few weeks."

  "I like it. Sex it up a bit and I'll put it on the cover. Good work, you two. As for Dan, Martha is trying to find a replacement for him until he heals up."

  "I'd like to look into…" I started.

  "Yes, yes, interview Goodwin's friends and family. Take the afternoon," said Bob.

  "No, I meant, I'd like to look into a story about some missing girls."

  "Kids?"

  "Adults."

  "Oh. Missing? How? They get lost?"

  "No, they seem to have disappeared. My contact says they vanished."

  "Are they in the industry?"

  I frowned.

  "The entertainment industry," supplied Ben.

  "Oh, yes. Actresses. Or wannabe actresses."

  "Probably gone back home," said Bob with a disinterested shrug. "We get a dozen calls a year about missing wannabe actresses. People seeking a cover story out of it. Their only shot at fame."

  "We do?" I asked, surprised.

  "And you know what?" Bob snorted. "Not one of them was ever missing. Usually they're under someone or hightailing it back home. They're never missing, just publicity hungry. Or they get into porn."

  "But this…" I started to protest.

  "I know you want a good story, Shayne, but you've got to work at it here. They won't just fall into your lap. It's not like back at the boondocks where we found you and anything qualifies as a story. Come see me when you have something solid." Bob squinted at the screen and stabbed a key again. Then another.

  Ben got out of his chair and made for the door, pausing to wait for me.

  "But…" I began.

  Bob flapped his fleshy hand. "Have the obituary on my desk by the end of today. Try and get some good quotes from his wife."

  "Which one?" I asked. Goodwin was married five times.

  "Uh… the most recent," said Bob.

  "She said she hated his guts."

  "Try something peppier. Or maybe talk to one of his kids. The man was a genius. Now get out."

  There was no point trying to argue with Bob but even as I rose and rounded the chair, I knew I couldn't let the missing women story go. If I wrapped up the obituary quickly, I could make some preliminary calls and still file my article on time.

  "One more thing," said Bob, glancing up just as I passed through the door. Ben and I hesitated. "Gabi's dropping in tomorrow."

  "What for?" asked Ben as I frowned. Who was Gabi?

  Bob shrugged. "I might ask her to write an article or two freelance. She has good contacts."

  Ben simply nodded and allowed the door to swing shut.

  "Who's Gabi?" I asked.

  "The previous entertainment columnist."

  "Oh." Then, as I blinked my comprehension, "Oh! I've heard of her before. Didn't she leave to have a baby? Do you think she wants her job back?" I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Apparently, the previous columnist had a bulging, little book of contacts and knew her way around the entertainment business. I floundered every week and hoped no one noticed. Sure, entertainment and gossip weren't my forte but they were my job. Ben had already gotten my promised job — a fact I tried to accept and not to be too sore about since he didn't snatch it from me intentionally — but at least I had a job. So why would Bob hire Gabi to write articles and not assign them to me?

  "No clue. I'll catch up with you later." Ben patted my arm, then hurried back to his desk, leaving me standing alone outside Bob's office. If Gabi wanted her job back, where did that leave me? Perhaps Bob would promote me and I could get back into my true forte: penning serious articles worthy of the front page, rather than the puffy pieces I'd been saddled with. That was what I came to LA to write. Sure I spent the last couple of months building up my contacts so I could get the kind of entertainment news I needed to stuff my column, but that kind of reporting was like treading water when I wanted to swim in the Olympic races. I gave up a great job as chief reporter of The Montgomery Gazette to come to LA for the promise of an even higher step up on the career ladder. If not for the friends I made, I would have seriously considered leaving LA. Instead, I resolved to stick it out until I either convinced Bob of my potential or I got a better job. Obviously, neither of those things would happen today.

  I hurried back to my cubicle and tapped in the laptop's password. I had enough notes to finish the obituary. All I had to do was put my head down and get on with it.

  An hour later, I had an entire article of pithy quotes; pithy because I had to slash several of his most recent wife's comments. I had to make them shorter to sound more reasonable and sadder, along with plenty of fluff that could have been written about anyone. I did include some crucial details about his films, however, along with a note about a local movie theater holding a B-movie marathon in his honor. Bob would be pleased.

  Attaching the article to my email, I saved it to my inbox, ready to file later in the day. First, I had to do a real reporter's job: investigating.

  The cards I got from the young women at brunch were on the desk in front of me; little white cards full of possibilities. I grabbed the top one, Nadia was the missing girl's roommate, and I plugged her number into my cellphone.

  "Hello?" came the peppy voice on the third ring.

  "This is Shayne Winter from the LA Chronicle," I announced.

  "About the article? I'm so excited!" she squeaked.

  "Fabulous!" I squeaked back. "Is now a good time? I have a few background questions. I can meet you anywhere you like or even
come by your house? That would certainly add some color to the piece."

  "Are you bringing a photographer?"

  "Not at this stage."

  "Oh. " The voice dropped in disappointment, then, "Yes, I'm home. You can come by anytime. I already did three auditions this morning so I'm free now."

  "On my way."

  ~

  Nadia Randall's home was a fourth floor walk-up apartment in Hollywood. It was not quite in the seedy part of town but definitely not the nicest area. The tan-colored building was nicely maintained and someone took great effort with the large floral planters that flanked the entry doors. I walked up and found Nadia waiting for me at the door.

  "Hi," she said, holding out her hand to shake mine. As we did, I gave her a quick scan, realizing I overlooked a proper observation yesterday. Taller than me by a few inches with bleached blond hair, expensively done and well cut, slightly too blue eyes and a wide pink smile. In her denim cutoffs and strappy top, she was the epitome of a California beach girl. Only her accent was wrong, but I couldn't quite place it except that it probably came from somewhere in the Mid-West. "I'm so excited about the article. You said it was all about new actresses? I haven't been here that long but I've already had sixty-five auditions and twenty callbacks that resulted in some work. You might have seen me on the Crunchy Corn ad campaign?"

  "Of course," I said, making a mental note to look it up. "Great campaign."

  "Thank you. My agent said it'll lead to even bigger and better things. It's all about demand, you see."

  "It is?" I asked as I followed her inside.

  "Well, sure. The more in demand you are, the more everyone else wants a piece of the action so they cast you in their campaign or show so they don't miss out on the next big thing. I could be the next big thing! Can I get you an iced tea?"

  "No, thank you," I said as Nadia led us into a small living room. Sparsely furnished with just a couch and a TV on a glass stand, it resembled my own tiny apartment. At the far end was a kitchen setup, divided from the room by a breakfast bar. Two doors opened on the far side wall into, what I assumed, were bedrooms. Nadia perched on one end of the sofa, a perma-smile on her face. I wasn't sure how she could hold it without her face aching but judging from the scattered trophies on one shelf, she was a seasoned pageant queen.