A Star is Dead

by Elaine Viets

  ‘I’m not trying to come between them,’ I said. ‘I want to help them.’

  ‘There’s major money involved, Angela. Millions. The kids will think you’re cozying up to Mom to get a cut. You want my advice, stay out of this mess. I don’t know why you’re sticking your nose in it in the first place.’

  ‘Because Clare is my mother’s friend.’

  ‘Your mother was a lovely woman and I know you were crazy about her. But she’s long gone, Angela. And she and Clare weren’t real friends. Your mom was a servant and Clare was Lady Bountiful. A lonely Lady Bountiful.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ I said and grabbed another doughnut. ‘When Mom was in the hospital, Clare visited her. Mom had worked for Old Reggie Du Pres for years, but he never came to see her in SOS. Clare held Mom’s hand and cried with her after her mastectomy. She sent flowers and food to feed my father and me when we were at the hospital every day. She came to Mom’s funeral. Reggie sent a representative.’

  I ate the doughnut in two bites, barely savoring its sweetness.

  ‘OK, I admit that’s above and beyond for a Forest bigwig,’ Katie said. ‘But I still say helping her is a risky business.’

  She reached for another doughnut. So did I. I knew I had to help Clare, no matter what Katie thought. Clare was eighty-three. She needed her family. I finished the fourth doughnut and took the coward’s way out. I changed the subject.

  ‘Have you seen the morning paper with the story about Mario?’

  ‘Couldn’t miss it,’ she said. ‘That fish wrap went out of its way to ruin Mario’s reputation. Greiman was grinning like a prize fool on the front page.

  ‘And he pulled the evidence to arrest Mario out of his ass,’ she said.

  I blinked. Katie was always forthright.

  ‘Mario admitted he gave Jessica Percocet and Xanax. Those are a bad mix,’ Katie said, ‘but they’d cause respiratory failure, not the violent reaction that killed Jessica in the limo.’

  ‘Mario told me someone set him up,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t vape. He smokes real cigarettes. He says someone planted that empty vape juice bottle in his case. I think it was one of Jessica’s minions in that limo, either Tawnee, or the make-up artist, Will, or Jessica’s husband, Stu. And of the three, Stu has the best motive. I think he married Jessica for her money.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Katie said. ‘No way he’d jump that bag of bones unless he was getting at least six figures.’

  I reached for another doughnut to ward off the vision forming in my mind of Jessica and Stu in bed. Even a Krispy Kreme didn’t help.

  ‘How did you know so quickly that Jessica died of nicotine poisoning?’ I asked.

  ‘A process called WAG,’ Katie said.

  ‘WAG?’

  ‘Wild-ass guess. The hospital suspected it because of her symptoms, though those could point to other things, and made a wild-ass guess it was nicotine poison. They checked her urine and blood and found increased levels of nicotine. They were right – it was nicotine poisoning. Made my job much easier.’

  ‘Listen, Katie, I need a favor,’ I said. ‘Can you get an autopsy report from St Louis about a woman named Brenda, last name unknown, who was murdered in an SRO hotel?’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’ she said.

  ‘Because I think her death is connected to Jessica’s and I want to get my friend Mario out of jail.’

  ‘That’s why he has Monty,’ Katie said.

  ‘Monty’s good, but he’s not infallible,’ I said. ‘And a not guilty verdict would still hurt Mario’s reputation.’

  ‘This is where I remind you that you can lose your job for interfering in a police investigation,’ Katie said. ‘Greiman is gunning for you, and you know it. You’re not supposed to solve crimes. You just report the facts to the ME.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But this is wrong. And I don’t know where to get more information. I can’t stand Jessica’s crew. They’re horrible.’

  ‘You’ve got to talk to them,’ Katie said. ‘They were in the limo when Jessica died. One of them must have slipped that empty vape juice bottle into Mario’s case. Which one is the least unpleasant?’

  ‘Tawnee, I guess.’

  ‘Take Tawnee to lunch. She’s sitting at the Forest Inn, bored shitless. Call her now.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘The least you can do is eat lunch for Mario,’ she said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I didn’t want to take any of Jessica’s gang to my favorite restaurant, Gringo Daze. I liked the Mexican place too much to subject it to their rudeness.

  Instead, I met Tawnee at Solange, a French restaurant. Forest matrons loved the place because it was designed to make women look more attractive. The decor was black lacquer and pale pink, with soft, pink-shaded lights. The mirrors made most of us look amazing. I never understood how, but their mercury-backed magic made stout matrons seem younger and slimmer.

  Even these complexion flatterers couldn’t help poor Tawnee. She looked tired and sallow. Her long blond hair was frizzy. She wore a soft gray cashmere sweater, black pants, black boots and a new black coat. I suspected she’d made an Uber trip to the mall.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ she said. ‘I’m going crazy watching trash TV. I mean, how many home renovations can you watch?’

  ‘They do all start to look alike,’ I said.

  The lunch rush was over and only a few diners lingered. We had a coveted corner booth. The server, a brisk, forty-something woman in severe black, took our orders.

  ‘I’ll just have the house salad,’ I said, thinking of those five Krispy Kremes at Katie’s office, and Clare’s lemon cookies.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t go all virtuous on me,’ Tawnee said. ‘I’ll have the sole almondine,’ she told the server.

  ‘Well, maybe I could use some protein,’ I said. ‘I’ll have the sole, too.’

  ‘That comes with the house salad with homemade ranch dressing,’ the server said. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, abandoning all pretense of virtue.

  ‘Would you ladies like wine?’

  We both ordered white and she left.

  ‘How’s the Forest Inn?’ I asked Tawnee.

  ‘Very Midwestern,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ My voice had an edge. I was hyper-alert for more insults to my community.

  ‘Comfortable, but not chic. Very clean. Huge breakfasts with everything fried. The rest of the food is covered in gravy. Last night we had pot roast with carrots.’ She sounded as if that was an exotic dish.

  ‘Pot roast is pretty Midwestern,’ I said.

  She smiled tentatively. ‘It was good. Very tender. Reminded me of my mother’s cooking, and that’s not a bad thing. I haven’t had red meat in ages.’

  Our salads arrived, along with a basket of crusty French bread, and we ate for a bit. The lettuce was crisp and lightly covered with creamy dressing. I patted myself on the back for avoiding the bread and watched Tawnee eat the whole basket full.

  The server removed our salad plates and brought the sole. I was surprisingly hungry. After a few forkfuls, Tawnee said, ‘This is some of the best food I’ve had since I came here.’ She sounded surprised. ‘Usually, sole is dry.’

  ‘Mine’s good, too,’ I said. ‘How are you doing? Jessica’s death must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said, and shrugged. Her tone told me that she wasn’t OK. ‘I keep seeing Jessica’s death again and again in my mind. It’s playing on an endless loop. We all tried so hard to save her, but by the time we got to the hospital it was too late. I keep wondering what we should have done.’

  ‘From what the medical examiner told me, you couldn’t have saved Jessica,’ I said. ‘She was doomed once she swallowed that vape juice.’

  ‘That’s what’s funny,’ she said, then stopped. ‘Well, not funny. What’s the right word? Ironic? She insisted we take up vaping, even though we all smoked three or four packs
a day. We hated that vape shit. We were twitching for a cigarette, but we wanted our jobs.’

  ‘I guess vaping is better for your health,’ I said.

  ‘Jessica didn’t give a damn about us. Any of us. It was better for her health.’ Tawnee was unexpectedly angry. ‘Jessica was afraid she’d get cancer from our second-hand smoke. Turns out it wasn’t smoke that killed her – it was vape juice.’

  Tawnee seemed to savor that idea. I didn’t like the look in her eyes. Did Tawnee kill Jessica? Suddenly, I could imagine her capable of murder. Jessica had ruined Tawnee’s movie career and taunted her nightly from the stage, then forced her to vape. Tawnee had many reasons to kill Jessica.

  ‘What are you going to do when you get back to California?’ I asked.

  ‘I have some money to live on,’ she said. ‘I have an agent. He’s been after me to get on the nostalgia circuit and do some dinner theater.’

  ‘I thought you told Stu you were trapped by the golden handcuffs,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not young anymore,’ she said. ‘Doing a nostalgia tour is risky. Working with Jessica was no fun, but she did pay, and pay well. I managed to save some money.’

  I tried to imagine what roles would be available for Tawnee and couldn’t. I suspected she couldn’t, either. Her star power was dim.

  We ate in silence until the server took our plates. We both turned down dessert but took black coffee. Mine was strong, dark and fragrant.

  ‘Did you expect Jessica to die?’ I knew it was a dumb question, but I couldn’t think of how else to ask it.

  Tawnee took a sip of coffee and then said, ‘I never expected her to be murdered, that’s for sure. But I was worried about Jessica when she came down with pneumonia on this trip. She hated cold weather and she was terribly sick. It hurt to listen to her cough. She’d be doubled over, coughing up her lungs. I don’t know how she made it through the Saturday show. Sheer strength of will, I guess. I was relieved when she passed out at the party and was taken to the hospital. I knew it was a mistake for her to leave the hospital early.

  ‘Sunday morning, we tried to talk her into staying at the hospital for at least another day.’

  ‘You did?’ I sipped my coffee.

  ‘All of us. Stu, Will, and me. She was in no condition to travel. We were glad when the doctor came. We hoped she’d talk some sense into Jessica, but she wouldn’t listen. Jessica insisted if she had to be in the hospital, she wanted to be in Cedars-Sinai with her own doctors. She was determined to go home to California. Well, she’s going home, all right. In a coffin.’ She took another sip of her coffee. I could feel her grim satisfaction.

  ‘What about Jessica’s husband, Stu? Did she listen to him?’ I took a drink, too.

  ‘No. He was just another flunky like me.’ I heard bitterness and self-contempt in her answer.

  ‘Did you know they were married?’

  ‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when Stu told that detective Jessica was his wife.’

  ‘You never saw any signs of romance between them?’

  ‘No. Jessica treated him like the rest of us. We were servants, and she chewed out our asses when we didn’t do our jobs to her satisfaction. Stu got his share of shit, just like the rest of us. I never saw anything tender between them. He never kissed her or even held her hand around me. I thought their relationship was strictly business.’

  ‘Why do you think she married him?’

  Tawnee didn’t hesitate. ‘Sex. She told me it was good for her complexion. Said it gave her a glow and relaxed her. She called it “the ultimate beauty treatment.” When she married Stu, she bought herself a young stud. Plain and simple. It was cheaper and safer to marry Stu than hire a hooker who could go running to the gossip columns later.’

  ‘Do you think Stu killed her?’

  ‘No. Why would he? He had an easy life. He was well paid. Like all of us, he learned to tune out her tirades.’

  ‘Is it true she ruined Stu’s career in Vegas?’ I asked.

  ‘There wasn’t much of a career to ruin. Stu had visions of being another David Copperfield, but he was never that good a magician. I saw his lounge act. It was third-rate, and I’m being kind. He could make things disappear – “but not your bar bill,” he’d joke – and he could pull a quarter out of a drunk’s ear. Simple tricks like that and corny, outdated patter. But he would have spent his life doing backyard gigs for kids if he hadn’t gone to work for Jessica.’

  I was shocked by her harsh assessment, but it seemed to fit Stu. It also seemed to give him a good motive for murder.

  ‘Jessica may have put the final nail in his career’s coffin with a word to the casino management, but he was going to get fired anyway.’

  ‘What about Will?’

  ‘What about him?’ she said. She was checking her cell phone while she talked. I tried not to be annoyed.

  ‘Will is a make-up artist,’ Tawnee said. ‘A real Rembrandt with the brushes. He is a much better illusionist than Stu ever was. You saw what Jessica looked like when you did her death investigation. You know all her tricks – the ass pads and the fake tits. She was old and scrawny. But turn Will loose with his make-up case, and she became a beautiful woman. His talent was the real magic.’

  ‘Would she have bankrolled his cosmetics line?’

  She shrugged. ‘If it was convenient for her. She was good at stringing him along. Will undercharged her in the hope that she would live up to her promise, but she had him where she wanted him. He had no reason to kill her.’

  She put down her coffee cup.

  ‘And before you ask, it wasn’t me, either. I didn’t kill her. I had a good gig and I’ll never find one to match it. Sure, I’ll do all right on the tour circuit, but I’ve always preferred the safe choice. That’s what’s held me back all these years – being too scared to strike out on my own. I took Jessica’s abuse night after night rather than launch out on my own. So now you know my secret: I’m a coward.’

  ‘Who do you think killed Jessica?’ I asked.

  Tawnee’s eyes flared with anger. ‘You want to know who killed Jessica? She was murdered by that damned wetback.’ She must have raised her voice because two diners at a nearby table stared at us.

  I wasn’t going to let her insult my friend. ‘Mario’s Cuban, not Mexican, and he’s an American citizen. He wouldn’t kill Jessica. He was honored to do her hair.’

  ‘That just shows what a rube he was,’ she said.

  ‘Mario doesn’t vape,’ I said. ‘He smokes real cigarettes. One of you planted the vape juice in his styling case.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. As far as I’m concerned, Jessica’s killer is in jail. I hope he gets the death penalty.’

  Her cell phone pinged. She stood up. ‘My Uber is here,’ she said.

  Tawnee marched out and stuck me with the bill.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I’d eaten lunch with Tawnee for Mario, and paid the price – $72.68 with tip. I hadn’t learned anything useful, but I intended to keep digging. Jessica’s crew was still in town and there were two more members to interview.

  From my car, I called Stu at the Forest Inn and invited him for a drink in the bar at Solange. He agreed to meet me at six that night. I couldn’t reach Will, but I left a message for the make-up artist to call me.

  Finally, I called Monty to check on Mario. His office manager, Jinny Gender, said her boss was busy with a case, but Monty insisted on taking my call. ‘Mario’s hanging in there,’ the lawyer said. ‘But it’s hard on him. The Chouteau County Jail isn’t as bad as some, but it’s still a jail. It’s taking its toll on him.’

  ‘Can I visit him?’

  ‘Not yet. His visitors are limited and Raquel and Carlos from the salon have both seen him. You can see him in two days. I know you’ll cheer him up. He needs that.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘Can I bring him anything? Like a cake with a file in it?’

  He laughed at my lame joke. ‘You c
an deposit some money in his cash account at the jail. That’s it, I’m afraid. No food and no gifts.’

  Mario’s current life sounded so bleak, I didn’t want to think about it. I needed to do something. I clicked off my phone and stopped by Killer Cuts, his salon. The two cars in the parking lot told me all I needed to know. Usually I had to fight for room to beach my car.

  Inside, I was hit by the silence. I heard the subdued roar of a blow dryer. Carlos, the new stylist, was putting the finishing touches on a blond woman, covering her short, sensible ’do in a cloud of hair spray. The other three stylists’ chairs were empty, as well Mario’s orchid-filled domain in the back. No client was at the manicurist’s station – the lone manicurist was painting her own nails pale blue. Raquel was at the reception desk, frowning at her computer. She looked ready for a fashion shoot: Her long, dark hair was smooth and shiny, her smoky eye make-up was perfect and her pink suit enhanced her curves. She greeted me with a smile.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not,’ she said, and now I saw the worry under the professional facade. ‘Everyone is cancelling. We may have to let our stylists go, even though their only crimes are renting chairs here.’

  ‘Carlos has a client,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a fluke. That woman’s regular hairstylist was booked and she has to go to a wedding. I talked with Mario, and told him the situation. If things don’t pick up in the next two days, we’re going to have to close the salon until he’s free.’ By her worried look, I heard the unspoken ‘maybe for good.’

  ‘When did you see Mario?’

  ‘Yesterday. He’s worried. Angry. Wondering how this could happen to him. He loves his adopted country, but he feels he’s being railroaded because he’s Cuban.’

  ‘He is,’ I said. ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘As safe as he’s going to be in jail. He hasn’t gotten in any fights. He keeps to himself. No one’s tried to attack him. But he can’t sleep. Jail is noisy. And the food is awful. He can’t eat it.’