Death in Daytime (4 page)

"We'll answer it if it rings," he said. "If your daughter's school needs you, we'll let you know." He put his hand out. I took my phone out and gave it to him.

"Nice," he said. "Can you get on the Internet with this?"

"I suppose," I said. "I don't really do that."

He put the phone down on Thomas's desk, then turned and looked at me as if he were surprised I was still there.

"You can go back out to the others," he said.

"Thanks."

** *

Over the course of the rest of the morning and into the afternoon the police questioned everyone. They also fingerprinted us, so we all ended up trying to clean our hands with water and paper towels. Production shut down for the day and we just had to sit around on the set and wait--they wouldn't let us go to our dressing rooms. To my surprise it was Cindy who came up with the idea for some of the crew to haul out folding chairs so we could at least sit down. It was unusually considerate of her. Or maybe it was just because her own legs were getting tired. Again, people broke up into groups. The techs and camera crew sat together, some of them eventually hauling out lunches they had bought from the commissary earlier in the day. The rest of us had to make do with leftover donuts someone had brought for breakfast, because they wouldn't let us go to the commissary at this point.

Cindy sat in a group with a PA, a couple of cast members and one of the staff writers.

Thomas sat with another PA, a couple of male cast members and, I thought, someone from one of the sponsors who was going to watch us tape. The police brought the hair and makeup people in to sit with us, so I ended up close to George and the makeup girl, Linda.

Thomas started moving around, talking to everyone about what they were going to have to do now that Marcy was gone. She wasn't even dead a few hours and I started to see why he appeared so hyper. He figured he'd be in charge of the show now--at least, until Marcy was replaced, and maybe even after that. He was probably right, too, since he'd been with the show the longest. I could see that some of the others saw his immediate seizure of power as being in bad taste. Eventually, he calmed down and returned to his seat, but I knew he wasn't done pushing his weight around.

Finally, it was getting so late I knew I'd have to call my mother to pick up Sarah. I walked over to one of the uniformed policemen who was standing at the door to keep us from leaving.

"I need to speak to Detective Jakes, please."

"Ma'am," he said, "he's busy questioning--"

"I know he's very busy," I said impatiently--

surprising myself with my tone--"but he has my cell phone and I need to call someone to pick my daughter up from school. She's only four years old."

"All right," he said. "Please don't try to leave. I'll go and talk to the detective."

Why would I try to leave? I wondered. Detective Jakes also had a man standing by the elevators, and the stairwells.

The young policeman returned with my cell phone.

"I have to wait and take it back."

"Fine."

I hit number two on the speed dial, hoping my mother would not have the phone turned off. She was one of the few people conscious of her cell phone ringing in a restaurant or a movie theater. Luckily, she picked up right away.

We lived in Venice, in a kind of cool, old craftsman house from the twenties that needs a lot of work. Venice is a combo of great, old expensive houses scattered right in among bad areas. There's some gang activity, but the canals, built in the twenties, add charm. Very colorful. There's also the boardwalk where artists as well as crazies sell their stuff. My mom lived in a small guesthouse out back, by the canal. It was a good arrangement. We both had privacy, and she was there for us, and we for her.

"Mom, can you pick Sarah up from school for me?

I'm stuck on the set." Literally. "Something's happened. The police are here--"

"Police? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I said. "There's been a murder--"

"A murder? Who was murdered? How did--"

Just then my manager, Connie Wilson, beeped in.

"Mom, one second, I'm so sorry, I'll be right back. Hi Connie."

"What the hell is goin' on, Alex? Are you okay? I just got a call from a friend at LA. Marcy murdered?

The fuckin' bitch deserved it, if you ask me. Did they get the guy who did it?" I couldn't get a word in. "By the way, did you read that crap script, yet? I know it's just a guest spot, and I know it's playing a cave woman on a silly Saturday-morning kid's show, but it could lead to something else! Casting wants to know if you could come in on Friday and meet the producers?"

Connie is always looking for other job opportunities for me. Some have been a little questionable. My relationship with her borders on love/hate. She's a little rough around the edges, probably from being in this business so long, and she's a real contradiction--a vegetarian who smokes two packs a day. Her gravelly voice makes her sound like a truck driver, all five feet three of her. Not to mention she loves to use lots of four-letter words. She's a good person who truly cares about me. Maybe she isn't so good at grasping priorities.

"Connie, I've been a little busy here. The script is going to have to wait. I'll let you know what's going on when I know." I clicked back to my mother.

"Mom, I'll have to give you all the details when I see you. The police want to question me now. Can you pick Sarah up and keep her until I'm done?"

"Of course, Alex. Whatever you need."

"Thanks, Mom. Give her something to eat, but not too much sugar. And please give her an extra big hug for me. Hopefully, I'll be out of here in time for dinner."

"Honey, are you okay? You sound . . . kind of scared."

"I'm fine, Mom. I just miss Sarah. Not too much sugar before dinner, remember?"

"Okay, honey. And sweetheart, whatever happens, you can handle it."

"Thanks, Momma. I needed that." She always knew what I was feeling, even when I didn't. I handed the phone back to the policeman. He was staring. Was he a fan, or did he think I did it, too?

Just when I thought I wouldn't make it home to have dinner with Sarah, Detective Jakes put in an appearance on the set.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have all your contact information. We know where to find you. You can go home. And please, don't anyone leave town without checking with me first."

"At last," Thomas said, getting up from his chair.

"People, early tomorrow. We have time to make up."

As everyone headed for the door, Detective Jakes came over to me and said, "Ms. Peterson? Not you. We'd like you to stay, please."

"I'm sorry?" I asked. I felt butterflies in my stomach. Surely someone had told them about the fight. Now I was going to have to explain why I hadn't mentioned it.

"We have a few more questions for you," he said.

"Would you come with me, please?"

"Am I under arrest?" I blurted.

He turned, cocked his head and stared at me as if I were insane.

"Did I say you were under arrest?"

"Well, no--"

"If I implied that, I'm sorry," he said. "We're just going back to your producer's office for a few more questions. No big deal. Is that all right with you?"

"Um, of course," I said, not appreciating his condescending manner. "I'm sorry."

"Did you get your daughter taken care of?" he asked as we walked.

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

He stopped at Thomas's door and waved for me to enter ahead of him. "Hopefully," he said, "you'll be home in time for dinner."

"We've heard from several people that you and the victim didn't get along very well," Jakes said once the three of us had assumed the same positions we'd maintained before.

"That's putting it mildly," I said. "She hated me."

There was no point in holding back now. They'd heard it from others.

"Mind telling us why?"

So I did, every last detail, up to and including Marcy's sudden appearance on the show as the new head writer.

"What happened when she arrived on the scene?"

Jakes asked.

"She was still holding a major grudge," I said. "She started trying to change my part--even tried to write me out of the show."

"She can't do that."

We both looked over at Detective Davis, who had spoken again.

"What, Len?" Jakes asked.

"They can't write Tiffany out," Davis explained, as if it were very logical. "I mean, she's almost the whole show. She's been there forever." "Thanks, Len," Jakes said, "for that insight into
The
Yearning Wave
."

"
Tide
," Davis corrected him. "It's
The Yearning Tide
, Frank."

"So you had a big fight with her a few days ago,"

Jakes said, ignoring his partner. "Tell me more about that."

"It wasn't a fight," I said. "I mean, you know, there was nothing physical."

"Just tell us about it," he said, "every detail, every word." He gave me a very pointed look and added,

"Everything you left out the first time."

"Well, all right. I had thought if I talked it out with her, cleared the air, that we could have some sort of working relationship. As it existed now, we never talked. She sent notes to me with the scripts, and she did her best to make me look bad on the show--boring dialogue, dowdy clothes, the works. I was hoping to change that when I went to see her."

"How did that go?" Jakes asked.

"Wow," I said, "it couldn't have gone more badly."

"You attacked her?" Davis asked.

I looked over at him, surprised that he had spoken. I'd almost forgotten he was there.

"No, of course not," I said. "She started shouting at me. I lost my temper. She called me a slut and I told her to grow up, and we went from there. Everybody could hear us."

"Yes," Jake said, "that's what they said. What I'd like to know, Alexis--can I call you Alexis?"

"Sure," I said, "why not. We're old friends now, aren't we?"

"That's not exactly true," he said. "I'm a cop and you're a homicide suspect. I need to know why you didn't tell me yourself that you and the victim hated each other. Why didn't you mention that you'd had a fight just days before she was killed?"

"I didn't think it was important."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't kill her."

He seemed taken aback by the simplicity and--I hoped--the honesty of my answer.

"You're either very smart," he said, "or very innocent."

"If I pick innocent," I asked, "does that mean I'm dumb?"

I smiled at him, trying to be charming, but he just glared at me.

"Can I go now?" I asked.

"Sure," Jakes said, still staring at me, expressionless,

"you can go. I'm sure we'll need to talk again, though."

"I'll be available."

"Well," he said, "thank you very much."

I tried not to show how much he annoyed me, then turned and left.

I went back to my dressing room and grabbed my stuff. As I headed out the glass doors to the parking lot, I was instantly assaulted by dozens of camera flashes and reporters yelling out my name. "Ms. Peterson! Ms. Peterson! Do you know who killed her? Were you friends?" What an idiot. I hadn't even thought of the press! I kept saying "no comment" as I jumped into my car and slowly made my way out of the lot onto the street. Crap. Not the tabloids. Again.

I pulled up in front of my house, pissed that I hadn't been able to pick Sarah up from preschool myself. At the top of my morning list is usually waking Sarah, getting her breakfast and driving her to pre-K. I don't really like her going for too long each day. I mean, she's barely four years old, so she's there only from nine a.m. to twelve thirty. And believe me, that makes me feel guilty enough as it is. As a single mom I try to be the one who drives my baby to school, or to the doctor or wherever she needs to go. It's important to me that she not be raised by strangers. I did have a nanny to help out when I had to be at work, or God forbid have a personal life, but after my divorce, that became too much of a luxury. Thank God for my mother. She came out from the Midwest to live with me and offer her help and wisdom. But more on that later.

Anyway, that day I got Sarah ready for preschool and loaded us both into what I call my "kid car," a 1999 Ford Explorer with a surfboard rack on top. (I have another car, though. I keep it in the garage. Miraculously, it survived the divorce that robbed me of practically everything near and dear to me, and left me responsible for most of "his" debt. It's a 1958 Porsche 356 Speedster I keep safe and covered.) But today I had driven the kid car to take Sarah to preschool, picking up the travel cup of strong coffee from the holder after I dropped her off. I refuse to be a one-handed driver with my daughter in the car, no matter how badly I need the caffeine hit. It's not until I know she's safe and sound that I indulge myself. So I looked forward to picking her up after school and wasn't happy when I got home. Also, I was half expecting a full frontal tabloid assault until I realized we hadn't lived here long enough for our address to become common knowledge on the Internet. And wisely I had started using a PO box to avoid such issues.

When I walked in my mother's front door, I was immediately greeted by my daughter's happy voice,

"Mommeeee!" I swept her up in my arms and kissed her head. She still had just a little of that amazing baby smell left. Just enough to make me know I was indeed home. I held her close and gave her a million kisses. I wanted to fill my mother in on everything, but I needed to stop and hear about Sarah's world first.

"Liam and Jason wouldn't play with me today, Mommy. They said I was just a stupid girl and I wasn't their best friend anymore."

Sarah had been the only girl in a pre-K triad. I was afraid the boys-against-girls thing was already kicking in, even at age four. And although Sarah was a scrappy girl, the tears in her eyes made my heart hurt.

"It's okay, sweetie. You have lots of other friends at school." I had to watch what I said. My maternal instinct wanted to teach Liam and Jason a thing or two about hurting my little girl's feelings. But before I could get too caught up in my anger issues, she shifted gears immediately, wanting to show me the butterfly she had drawn that day. Now, this kid has perspective. I spent some time oohing and aahing over her artwork until she had her fill of Mom and moved to sit on the sofa to catch up on
Dora
(you know,
the Explorer
?) Now I needed
my
mommy.