Celebrity Sudoku (22 page)

“I think they always say that about directors,” Liza said.

“You’re just saying that because the last one you tangled with was a bit of a sadist.” Michael went back to his story. “Anyway, Popovic loved to pull pranks on the set, the more expensive, the better. Maybe this one was a joke he couldn’t take back.”

Liza preferred to take a less charitable view. “Or maybe it was a way to shut Rikki up if she’d been bugging him to marry her. It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead and can’t explain himself.”

Michael nodded. “But it does leave a problem for Lolly. She may really be an alien—an illegal alien.”

“That’s probably pushing it,” Liza said. “But she definitely has problems with her immigration status.”

Michael laughed—a little grimly. “I guess once a publicist, always a publicist. You don’t need to sugarcoat the situation. It’s just us here.”

“At this point, I wish I was a lawyer,” Liza replied. “I’m not sure of the legalities. If Lukas Popovic was a naturalized citizen—”

“You mean if he didn’t fake that, too,” Michael put in. “We’re talking twenty years ago. Things were a bit less crazy on the immigration issue back then.”

“If Lolly’s dad was a citizen—” Liza started again.

“Oh, the whole ‘anchor baby’ thing,” Michael said. “She’d really be legal. So why are you looking at me with such a funny expression?”

“Besides not being able to get a word in edgewise?” Liza asked. “I guess it’s the publicist in me. Lolly would have to jump through a bunch of legal hoops—proving that Lukas was her father, for instance. If the tabloids got a whiff of this, they’d have a field day.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Michael admitted. “Lolly always came across as the All-American Girl. How would people react if they discovered that title had been outsourced?”

He laughed, but Liza didn’t.

“I think we just discovered why Ritz just about broke her neck to get on
D-Kodas . . .
and the scam that she hoped to pull on the set.”

Michael’s sense of plot took over. “She wanted to get next to Lolly because of that film deal.”

“Stanley Lumiere is one of the greatest directors alive today,” Liza said. “Even if the film doesn’t make bazillions, it’s sure to be a critical success. Chard Switzer was hoping to make a good impression on Lolly so she’d put in a good word for him with Lumiere.”

“And Ritz wanted the same thing.” Now Michael sounded as sick as Liza felt. “Except she had the ammunition to force Lolly to get her on the film.”

He shook his head as if he were trying to get some kind of insect out of his ear. “Ritz Tarleton in a Stanley Lumiere production. The mind boggles.”

“From what I hear, Lumiere is kind of a quirky guy,” Liza said. “If Ritz got an audition and gave as good a performance as she gave scamming people ...”

“Yeah, that’s the upside, if things went perfectly.” Michael’s face fell into a dark scowl. “But if she didn’t get the part—or the audition—well, Ritz was desperate, wasn’t she? She wouldn’t hesitate to ruin Lolly’s life.”

Liza looked at Michael as he took the facts to their logical conclusion. “Dammitall, Liza, we just turned up a grade-A, number-one motive for Lolly Popovic to kill Ritz Tarleton.”

He shot up from the sofa and began pacing around the living room. “This is all that Quigley and the celebrity squad need. They have opportunity—Lolly was the last person seen with Ritz before she died. You could even say they have means. That old bungalow was probably never brought up to the earthquake standards in the new building code. The place would have been a death trap in a serious tremor. Lolly has lived here all her life; she’d be earthquake-savvy. She’d know that one push could shut Ritz up forever.”

“And now they’d have motive,” Liza said in a tight voice. “If Ritz decided to make her pitch while they were alone in the bungalow and the ground began to shake, Lolly could have thrown her back into the collapsing building.”

“Could she really do that?” Michael asked, grasping desperately for any reason to disbelieve the scenario they were building. “The girls were both the same size, and Lolly isn’t built like you—”

He broke off, realizing the mental minefield he’d just wandered into. “I mean, she’s one of those skinny minnies who look good on camera.”

“Nice footwork, Langley,” she complimented him ironically.

“I’m just saying, did she have the muscle to throw Ritz all that distance?”

“You’re acting as if it were all premeditated,” Liza said. “If the quake happened right after Ritz dropped her bomb and Lolly was just about crazy with anger ...”

“Oh, you’re talking that whole hysterical-strength thing.” Michael unconsciously flexed his arm muscles. “Sort of like turning into the Incredible Hulk without going green.”

“I never liked the idea of calling it ‘hysterical,’ ” Liza complained. “But there are cases of people in extreme states showing tremendous physical ability. Parents single-handedly lifting cars to save their children, that kind of thing.”

Michael nodded. “Okay, so Lolly flew into a rage and then sent Ritz flying. It’s possible, and Quigley is sure to buy it. The big question is, if it happened, does Lolly even remember it?”

“It complicates things,” Liza said. “She now has a strong psychological reason to forget—not just blotting out the murder, but the memory of Ritz kicking her life to pieces right before.”

Then she went on, because it had to be said. “And if she’s faking, well, it’s acting of the kind of caliber that deserves to be in a Stanley Lumiere film.”

Her legs twitched. She wished she could be up and pacing, too.

“There’s another thing.” Liza looked up at Michael, pleading for him to understand. “We can’t sit on this. Quigley has already been all over us for hindering his investigation. We’ve argued that any information we come across is stuff he already knows or could easily uncover. But the puzzles—the code—these are things he’d never find out.”

She stared at his face, reading his features. It was one thing to come up with a theory, even to entertain suspicions in private. But talking to Quigley would mean putting someone in danger of a murder prosecution—a friend’s child.

“We barely know Lolly.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Met her—what? Two, three times? But I liked her. What do you think, Liza? You spent more time with her.”

“Over hamburgers,” Liza tried to dodge.

“You take a longer time to make your mind up about people than I do. I might have been taken in by her PR. You wouldn’t. So what do you think, Liza?”

“I liked her, too,” Liza admitted. “She seemed like a talented kid, ambitious, but not snotty about it. And she seemed genuinely upset about her memory loss.”

But she’s an actor,
Liza went on silently. She could have been channeling shock over killing Ritz into a performance of amnesia.

She didn’t want to say that to Michael. Looking into his eyes, though, she could see he was thinking the same thing.

“Okay. We’ll call Quigley. But—but not yet,” he said. “I’ve got to call Rikki first. Whatever Lolly knows—or doesn’t know—this is going to rock Rikki’s world. She deserves a little time to get ready.”

He went to the phone and got directory assistance, asking for the number of the motel where they’d left the Popovics.

“I hope they’re still there,” Liza said.

Michael got the front office and asked if Edna Stepanek was registered. “Rikki usually uses her mother’s maiden name,” he explained, his hand over the receiver.

He took his hand away. “Yes? Good. Thank you.”

A moment later he said, “Rikki? It’s Michael Langley. I think you’d better sit down. I’ve got some bad news. Those puzzles that Ritz gave to Lolly, they had messages—threats, really—coded into them. Ritz worked in Mexico a while ago—yes, Mexico. Somebody told her a story—”

He broke off. “There’s no easy way to say this. Lukas arranged a fake wedding when you were down there, this guy was involved with it, and Ritz got the story. We know she wasn’t above blackmail . . . so this will give the cops motive.”

Michael shook his head. “I can’t do that, Rikki. We have to tell the police. But I wanted you to know first. You’ll have to get things ready. Yes, more doctors.” He glanced at Liza. “We’ll get you the best lawyer—yes, yes, I guess the two of you will have to talk for a bit. Okay. Call me back.”

He hung up. “She asked if she could call Quigley, after she discusses things with Lolly. And then she’ll call us to give in our evidence.”

Liza looked at him. “I hope she’s not just buying time so she and Lolly can make a run for Mexico.”

“What good would that do?” Michael asked bitterly. “Lolly doesn’t have a passport.”

They sat in depressed silence for a while, until a strange noise came out of Michael’s pocket.

“Text message,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. But when he opened it and looked at the screen, he frowned. “It’s from Lolly. She says she’s waiting for me on the Santa Monica Pier, that I should come alone . . . that we need to talk.”

Liza reached for her walker. “I’m coming, too.”

Michael grabbed hold of the walker, shaking his head. “You’ve got a bad history with murderers—even potential murderers. They keep pointing guns at you.”

He rattled the walker. “And with this thing, you won’t even be able to duck.”

Liza tried to argue, but Michael was adamant.

“All right,” she finally said. “Call me on my cell when you get there. Leave the phone on. That way I’ll be able to hear what’s going on, and if you need backup.”

He spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay. I’m going now.”

Liza shifted her grip from the walker to his arm, pulling him down and kissing him. “Be careful.”

“That’s my middle name,” he assured her. Then he was out the door.

By the time she struggled to the window, the car had pulled down the driveway.

Liza returned to the couch, brooding. The living room she’d always thought of as cozy seemed downright tiny, the walls pressing in on her. She kept looking at her watch, but the hands refused to move.

Hell of a time for the battery to go dead,
she thought, tapping the crystal.

Then the doorbell rang.

Liza shot to her feet, wincing at the painful protest from her injured knee. Grabbing the walker, she made her way to the door.

A pale-faced Rikki Popovic stood facing her. “Is Lolly here?”

“Um—n-no. She’s not with you?”

Rikki only looked more upset. “She stepped out of our room while I was talking with Michael. I thought she was just giving me privacy—” She paused. “But now I realize it was after I mentioned the word ‘Mexico.’ I thought she might come here.”

“She sent Michael a text message to meet her at the Santa Monica Pier.”

Rikki’s shoulders slumped. “Thank God. I kept calling her cell, but she didn’t answer. Lolly keeps telling me how impressed she was by him—and by you. Maybe we can call him in a little bit, ask him to bring her here ...”

She wobbled a little in the doorway.

“Come in, come in.” Liza brought the walker back.

I’m going to be useless if she faints,
she thought.

Rikki closed the door, shaking her head. “It’s just—I haven’t eaten anything today.”

“Follow me to the kitchen,” Liza said. “We’ll get some tea and toast into you.”

The kitchen was not walker-friendly. It was also something of a mess—they hadn’t cleaned up after breakfast this morning. Michael had cut lengths off a baguette, halved them, and made cinnamon toast. The room still smelled of it—and the butter, sugar, cinnamon, and leftover bread were still spread across the counter. The knife Michael had used to slice up the bread lay among the ingredients as well.

“Excuse the disorder,” Liza apologized as she came to a stop in front of the sink. Balancing on one leg, she snagged the kettle and brought it over to the tap to fill it.

Rikki stepped behind her, and all of a sudden, cold metal pressed against Liza’s neck.

“Now be quiet and do what I tell you,” Rikki said.

Well, at least it’s not a gun,
Liza thought as she stood very still.

The knife at her throat was an undistinguished piece of cutlery. It had been around since before Michael and Liza got married—it might even date back to Michael’s college days.

Its wooden handle was worn from use, but the blade still held a good edge when it was sharpened.

Liza carried a smudged scar near the knuckle of her left index finger from the time the knife slipped while she was slicing limes—blood all over the place—

Not the best memory to hold on to at the moment,
she told herself.

“Start moving into the dining room—slowly,” Rikki ordered.

As if I could do it any other way,
Liza thought, moving her walker.

The dining area was about the size of a postage stamp, the table set in its smallest configuration with four chairs around it. Rikki prodded Liza over to one of the end chairs, the ones with arms. “Sit there.”

Liza sank onto the seat as Rikki kicked the walker away. Now she stood in front of Liza, knife at the ready in her right hand, a roll of duct tape in the other.

“Use this to tape your right wrist to the chair,” Rikki told her.

Liza took the tape, watching the blade mere inches from her face.
If this were one of Michael’s scripts, I’d just do a backflip and bash Rikki with the chair.

Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much in the way of movie magic in the air. And Liza didn’t think she could manage the backflip with two good legs, much less one gimpy one.

Like it or not, she did as Rikki told her, making herself even more helpless. When Liza’s right arm was immobilized on the chair arm, Rikki took the tape and did the same with the left.

Nowadays, all the crime-scene shows catch people because of fingerprints they left on the sticky side of the tape,
Liza thought.
If I mentioned this to Rikki, maybe she’d take a step back from what she’s doing.