Death in Daytime (10 page)

But you must practice self-control when it comes to the "injectables." Or you can turn out like Lisa. She has lost all sense of discretion and has so much stuff injected into her mouth she looks like one of the fishies in
Finding Nemo
. I saw her with a cup of coffee once and as she went to take a sip, she had no more feeling in her lips. The hot liquid just came pouring out of the cup onto her immoveable mouth and dripped all over her wardrobe. She wasn't even aware it had happened until I screamed for her to "step away from the cup."

Her forehead has been injected to the point where she has absolutely no expression. Well, only one. No matter what she has to play, she looks the same, whether it is being sad, mad, glad. The same. Her face is utterly motionless. Her eyes express the various feelings needed. She looks like a trapped animal, eyes darting to and fro, up and down, trying to communicate inside a prison of Botox. She's very insecure and has a bad habit of referring to any pretty, new actress on the show as "What's her name." I guess it's a power play, her silly way of making that person feel unimportant. It's always seemed pretty weak to me.

Well, Lisa is the diva Linda said has been reduced to running Marcy's personal errands in order to keep her position on the show.

"It's been killing Lisa to pick up Marcy's laundry,"

Andy said. "Maybe Lisa decided to . . ."

"I'll have to talk to her, of course," I said. "Did you know Marcy had a husband? Well, an ex-husband."

"No, I didn't know that," he said.

"I guess she's been hiding it from us, or she'd just been denying it to herself. I'm going to talk to him as soon as I leave here. He lives nearby."

"He does? What's his name?"

"Henry Roswell."

"I know him." His eyes widened. "He lives right down the beach. It's a big glass house with a deck on the sand. He's got a pool, too. Very modern. You can walk there from here."

"How well do you know him?"

"Just to wave to on the beach. He's got a lovely daughter who--oh. No! Can that be Marcy's daughter?"

"Unless he's got another one."

"Jesus," Andy said. "Wow. Why would somebody deny a sweet kid like that?"

"Sweet?"

"She comes over here once in a while--you know, off the beach. I think she wants to be an actress. Jeez, you'd think her mother would have helped her out."

"Yeah, you'd think. Andy, do you have any more ideas about who'd want to kill Marcy?"

"Jesus, Alex," he said, "I would think pretty much anybody who knew her."

"Then why's everybody trying so hard to pin it on me?" I asked.

"Sorry," Murray said, coming back onto the scene.

"I had to make it fresh--what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Andy asked.

"Your aura, it's changed." He glared at me. "What did you say to him?" "You tell him, Andy," I said, standing up. "Thanks for your time."

"Don't you want to walk down the beach?" Andy asked.

I almost said no, I'd take my car, but then a walk on the beach sounded good. I hadn't done it in a while.

"You know, I think I will."

"Okay, Alex," Andy said. "See you at the studio."

"Thanks for the coffee," I said as I passed Murray. On my way to the beach I heard him saying to Andy, "Now relax, your aura is in flux. . . ."

When I got down to the sand I took off my shoes so I could walk barefoot. I loved the way the sand felt between my toes, and it seemed like it had been a really long time since I'd just gone for a stroll. The sun on my face was another luxury I hadn't enjoyed for a while. Along with the sound of the waves all of that suddenly made me want to take my surfboard out of dry dock. My cell started blaring and I saw that it was Connie, again. Not today, Con, sorry, and I pushed END. I stopped at the flight of concrete steps that led up to the Roswell house, brushed off my feet and put my shoes back on. I took the steps up and found myself at the pool in back of the house. I wondered if I should work my way around to the front to ring the bell or knock on the back door. I didn't have to wonder long, though, as there was a young girl in a blue bikini sunning by the pool. She was wearing sunglasses and lying on a chaise longue.

"Hello," I called out.

She removed the glasses immediately and sat up. I noticed she had a swimmer's body--wide shoulders, small breasts. Once she removed the glasses I recognized her from the photos I'd seen online.

"You must be Julia."

She stared at me, blinking. I thought it was the sun, but then she said, "Omigod, you're Alexis Peterson."

"That's right."

She gaped at me for a few seconds more, then seemed to suddenly recall she was a teenager. She hurriedly put the glasses back on.

"What are you doin' here?" she asked.

"Well . . ." Suddenly, my mouth went dry. I assumed the police had notified Roswell about Marcy's death. And certainly it had been on the news. Julia must've been aware that her mother was dead, but what should I say?

"Are you lookin' for my dad?"

"Yes, I am."

"He's inside. I'll go get him."

She stood up, shook out her tawny hair and then walked to the house as if she were on a runway, or auditioning for me. But I remembered the look on her face when she recognized me. As an aspiring actress, she'd been impressed. That was good for my ego. And she was certainly also well aware of the fact that I worked on her mother's show.

She had gone through sliding glass doors, closing them behind her, and now she returned with a tall, very handsome man in tow. Henry Roswell obviously worked out. He was built along the lines of a tennis player. I knew he was in his mid-forties, but he moved like a much younger man. Only the gray at his temples gave him away, and I liked that he wasn't vain enough to color it.

"Ms. Peterson?" he asked in a deep-timbre voice. If I'd ever seen him and Marcy together as husband and wife I would have thought, Marcy girl, you did good. He was kind of a dreamboat.

"Mr. Roswell?" I asked. "I worked with Marcy on--"

"I know who you are, Ms. Peterson." When he reached me he put his hand out. "It's a pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you?"

"Well . . ." I hesitated, and looked at Julia.

"Julia knows about her mother, Ms. Peterson," he said. "You can speak in front of my daughter."

"All right--," I said.

But before I could go any further he asked, "Can I get you something to drink? I'm being a bad host."

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"Then let's sit," he invited.

There were chairs around the pool, as well as a couple of chaise longues, but no table. He pulled two chairs over so we could sit, and Julia sat back down on her longue.

"I can only assume your visit has something to do with Marcy's murder."

Julia made a slight noise and her father reached over to touch her knee.

"Yes, it does," I said, and my mouth went dry again. What questions should I ask? What ever made me think I could conduct an interview, or even a fullfledged investigation? Once again I found myself wishing I was on a surfboard out in the Pacific. "I really don't know what I can tell you," Roswell said. "I hadn't seen Marcy since the divorce."

"Julia?" I asked. "Had you seen your mother recently?"

Julia wet her lips and looked at her father.

"Go ahead, honey. You can answer her question."

Julia looked as if she wanted to get up and run. I had the feeling she had something to say but didn't want her father to hear.

"Why should I?" she asked.

"Julia--"

"No," Julia said, standing up. "We've already talked to the police. Why should we answer her questions? Who is she, anyway?"

She turned and stormed into the house.

"I'm sorry," he said. "She's distraught. I can tell you that Julia hasn't seen her mother in months. The truth is Marcy was simply denying us this past year, refusing to admit we even existed. She thought we were both mistakes in her life."

"I can't understand a mother denying her child," I said, thinking of how much I loved Sarah.

"The truth is," he said, "we never should have gotten married, and probably never should have had a child. I don't know how we stayed together for so long--we were such different people. But . . . I hear so many couples say that. But I love Julia dearly. If there was some way I could go back and not marry Marcy, yet still have Julia . . ."

"I know exactly what you mean."

"You have a child?"

"A daughter, and an ex."

"Then you do understand."

I did. All too well.

"I married Marcy on the rebound from some great love, if you can believe that." He dismissed Marcy's

"great love" with a wave of his hand. "I can't believe it lasted as long as it did. I always paled by comparison."

I had known Marcy's great love, and there was no way I could see his memory eclipsing this man right in front of me. Marcy was such a fool.

"Ms. Peterson--"

"Alexis, please."

"Alexis," he said, "what is the purpose of your visit? Were you Marcy's friend?"

"Actually," I said, "Marcy and I didn't get along at all, Mr. Roswell."

"Henry, please."

"Henry . . . To tell you the truth I'm just . . . nosing around, trying to see what I can find out."

I thought he might grow angry at my confession, but he didn't. He was handsome and sensitive--too good to be true. I guess if he had a flaw it was probably his taste in women.

"I guess her murder hit pretty close to home for her coworkers, even if they didn't like her very much."

"Yes, it did."

He reached his hand out and placed it on mine. Was he being sincere or was he just another operator?

He squeezed and said, "I'm sure it's been upsetting. If I can do anything to help you--"

I pulled my hand away from his, trying not to do it too fast, and said, "I was just wondering if you knew anyone in her personal life who might have wanted to kill her."

He took his hand back and said, "I really don't know anything about her personal life. Oh, I see. You're hoping that the killer was not someone connected to the show. Well, I can see how you'd like that to be the case."

He had kind eyes, but I suddenly remembered what he did for a living. He dealt with high finance, bankers, investors--he was a salesman. Considering where he lived, he was apparently quite good. And then suddenly, instead of looking kind, he looked kind of crafty. I had the feeling I was being played.

"Well," I said, standing, "I won't take up any more of your time."

He stood, also.

"Would you like to go out through the house?"

"Yes, thank you. My car is in front."

As we walked through the house he asked me how I came to be on the beach and I told him that my friend Andy McIntyre lived a few houses down. He said he didn't know him.

His house was a huge modern, in a different class than Andy's, and he was quite proud of it. In fact, I think he walked me through it instead of around just to try to impress me. But he was too late; he'd already lost me outside.

He held the door open for me, took my hand and said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Alexis."

"Thank you," I said, and left. He was handsome and charming, but he was way too smooth to suit me. It was a long walk to the street and when I got there, Julia was waiting, her arms folded across her chest.

"I couldn't talk in front of my dad," she said.

"I understand, Julia."

"I went to see my mother last month," she said. "I told her I wanted to be an actress, and she threw me out.

"I don't know who killed her," she said. "Maybe you did, but I don't care. I'm not sorry she's dead. She made my dad miserable, and she wouldn't help me with my career. As a mother she really sucked."

"Where did you go to see her, Julia? At the studio?"

"I went to her house," Julia said. "My dad doesn't know, and I don't want him to."

"He won't find out from me."

She kept her arms folded tight and, except for the bikini, looked like a stubborn little girl.

"I mean it," she said. "If you did it, I don't care. I'm glad she's dead."

Before I could say anything else she turned and stormed off toward the house.

Walking back to my car I couldn't help but think, poor Marcy.

As it turned out, I didn't have time for any more interviews. I picked up Sarah, and she needed some mom time. I spent the rest of the day and evening with her--

loving every minute--before she finally went to bed. I make sure we always have together time when I get home. I don't know if she'd miss it if we didn't, but I certainly would.

After I had her tucked in and read to, I had some reading of my own to do. I went through all the material Will had e-mailed me. It was very stiff and formal info on Julia and her father, but I had learned more in the short time I'd spoken with them both. I also checked my cell's voice mail. Connie had called twelve times. In the last two days. I braced myself and called her back.

"Connie, before you start, I have to tell you that now is just not a good time for anything else on my plate, okay? Especially these silly jobs. I've got a job, at least for now, and--"

"Al! I know you're goin' through so much crap. I get it! But you have to think of your fuckin' career. You have to take advantage of all this fuckin' media attention, sweetie! Now, before you hang up,
CSI
--the good one--wants you on the show! Whaddya think of that? Is that some awesome shit, or what?"

Now that got my attention. I liked the show and I liked the subject matter . . . forensics, that is.

"What's the part? I'd even do a little part on that show. I'm sure it must be kind of juicy, right?"

"Well, now here's the thing. You'd be a corpse." I could sense Connie was gearing up for some tap dancing.

"There have to be flashbacks or something before she's a corpse, right?"

"Not exactly. You'd be in the morgue. It's one shot, but a very important one! They'd put a lot of that white makeup on you to make you look dead. It could be fun! There's a little dialogue. Al, wait--" Again, I hung up.