Death in Daytime (5 page)

"Marcy was murdered, Mom. In her office, hit over the head with an Emmy."

"Oh my heavens! Maybe it's time we moved back home, honey. I mean honestly. This is too crazy out here."

We'd had this conversation off and on since I was eighteen years old.

"Mom, this is my home. Our home, now. I know it's a weird life, but it's my weird life." Weak, but all I could think of at the moment.

"Now, wasn't that the woman who was trying to write you out of the show? I'm sorry she's dead, I mean that's just awful. But, on the bright side, now you won't have to worry so much about your job!" My mother's strange kind of optimism made me smile and wince at the same time.

"Unless they arrest me for murder."

"That's not going to happen, Alex," my mother said. "You're innocent."

My mom is, well, a mom. Five feet two and shrinking, very down to earth. Having "work done" means on your home, not your face. She doesn't even color her hair. She's a salt of the earth type, and I thank God for that.

"I appreciate the support, Momma."

"Can you and Sarah stay for dinner?"

"I can't," I said. "I have to go home, shower, change . . . Paul's coming over."

"Now there's a good show," she said. "He's so much better looking than William Peterson on
CSI
."

"Mother, Paul's not on the show," I said. "He's a consultant."

"I know, Alex," she said. "I was talking about the lead actor."

"I have to go, Mother. Come on, Sarah, say bye-bye to Gramma."

We made the short walk from my mother's small canal house to my larger one and I got Sarah situated with her markers and my old script pages I gave her to draw on. Then I went for a bottle of wine. I'm not a big drinker; I'm a medium drinker, and I decided a glass of white wine would be in order. Was my mother right--was I scared? I guess so, I mean I found a dead body today and I was suspected of murder. But it wasn't just that. I was actually feeling kind of hyped up by the fact that I'd found Marcy's body, had seen it up close. I know, I know, that sounds so morbid. But, like so many women, I have this strange fascination with forensics. Something about solving a puzzle. Maybe that's why women love to go through men's personal effects and are so nosy. We're naturally inclined to snoop and figure stuff out. Also, I was pretty proud of myself. I thought that in the end I'd handled things well with the police. The wine was my reward. I was about to open the bottle when Paul rang the bell. I let him in and he followed me to the kitchen.

"Hey, Sarah!" he called, waving to Sarah, who jumped up and ran to him, pulling her denim skirt down over her fanny.

"Paullllie!" She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he picked her up and swung her around the room.

"I love this little angel girl!" he shouted, squeezing her tightly.

She squealed and said, "I love you, too, Paulie Wally Mallie!"

Clearly she hadn't acquired any trust issues with men, yet. She had a lifetime to do that. I watched them from the kitchen and their interaction made me happy and a little sad. Another one of those love/hate things. I was worried Sarah was putting too many displaced feelings for her father onto Paul. Maybe she needed therapy. Oh God . . . already? I turned toward the sink and looked out the window, focusing on the sun glinting off a Coke bottle floating out in the canal. I didn't like feeling vulnerable.

Paul walked into the kitchen and put his arms around my waist from behind. "I came as soon as I could."

I'm sure he could feel me resisting his embrace, but he just pulled me back into his chest. Finally, I surrendered and leaned my head against his chest and sighed.

"I'm okay," I said. "I thought a little wine might help."

"I'll get it," he said. "You sit down."

I turned and he folded me into his arms for a big, long hug. I needed that. He's tall with wide shoulders and a deep chest I can get lost in when I want to. He smelled warm and safe. I was afraid I wouldn't find my way out again. So I stepped back and sat down at the table while he opened the wine and filled two glasses.

"There you go," he said, handing me one and sitting next to me. "Can you talk about it?"

"Oh, sure," I said, enjoying the bouquet of the wine.

"It went pretty well, actually."

"Good, then tell me everything," he said, leaning back, "as if you wanted me to solve it. Don't leave anything out."

I told him the whole story, leaving nothing out, and he listened with professional intensity and love--did I say that?--to every word.

"The light fixture," Paul said when I had finished my tale.

"What about it?"

"Did they find out why it fell?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't hear anything about it."

"I'm wondering if it was an accident."

"What else could it have been?" I asked. "You don't think somebody did it deliberately, do you? Tried to hurt or kill somebody on the set?"

"I was thinking more as a diversion," Paul said.

"Something that got everyone's attention while the killer went into Marcy's office and murdered her."

"Oh my God," I said. "So it was all planned."

"Only the police know for sure," Paul said.

"Unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you take me to work with you tomorrow so I can have a look."

"Why would you do that?" I asked. "Let the police handle it."

"Alexis," he said, taking my hands, "whether you like it or not, you're their number one suspect."

"Why me?" I demanded. "Just because we had a big fight--"

"Was she married?"

"No," I said.

"So there's no spouse to suspect," he said. "How about a boyfriend?"

"I--I'm not sure. I don't think so."

"Anybody else on the show have trouble with her?"

"Not really," I had to admit. "In fact, the ratings have been up since she took over, and it looks like a couple of people who she was actually writing for might be up for Daytime Emmys."

"So she's good for the show?"

"In general."

"And bad for you, in particular."

"Oh God, the Emmy . . . ," I said.

"What about it?"

"Marcy's. It was under the desk with her, and there was blood on it."

"Probably the murder weapon."

"I forgot. I threw it at her."

"You what?"

"Last week, during our fight," I said. "I got so mad I threw it at her. Well, in her direction. I remember wishing it would hit her--" I stopped and put my hands over my mouth.

"That means it'll have your prints on it," he said,

"unless it's already been cleaned. You do have a cleaning staff--" "They weren't allowed in Marcy's office," I said.

"She didn't want anyone in there."

"Did she clean it herself?"

"It's a joke around the show," I said. "She goes over everything with a feather duster once a week, but that wouldn't wipe off prints."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Damn it."

"Any chance the Emmy wasn't the murder weapon?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I got down there and took a good look. Somebody hit her with it, all right."

"Well, like I said, let me have a look around tomorrow. Who's the detective in charge?"

"His name is Jakes."

"I don't know him," he said. "But I do know somebody at Parker Center. Maybe I can get some information."

"Actually, I'd rather you didn't, Paul."

"Why not?"

"I told you, I handled the police pretty good. One of them is a big fan. I don't want--I don't need for you to go in there and save me, right now."

"Alex . . ." He shook his head. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so self-reliant. Maybe then you'd let me in more."

"Hey," I said, punching him on the arm, "you were pretty in last night. How much more in do you want?"

Immediately I regretted being so flip and well, kind of gross. Paul just looked at me. I could tell he was hurt.

"You know what I mean."

I did, but it was a subject I didn't like discussing. I knew how "in" he wanted to be with me and with Sarah, but I wasn't ready for that. I'd been taking care of the two of us since my divorce, and I thought I was doing a good job of it.

"How about letting me take you and Sarah out for a good meal."

"Oh, Paul," I said, "I haven't even showered and I don't think--"

"I'm not taking no for an answer on this one," he said. "Go and get dressed and we'll go anywhere you want."

"Well," I said, "I could use some Italian food."

"Italian it is," he said. He turned me around and swatted me on the butt. "Go. I'll sit with Sarah and watch . . . whatever she's watching."

"
Dora the Explorer
," I said. "All right. I won't be long." Then I had a thought. "Paul?" He turned to look at me. "Stay away from news shows, if you know what I mean." I nodded toward Sarah. He took a beat and nodded back.

"I've got it covered." And he moved to the sofa. I stood beneath the hot needle spray of my shower and thought about what Paul had said. It wasn't anything I hadn't thought myself, but hearing the words gave it more credence. I was going to be the best suspect the police had. That meant they would probably be talking to my coworkers, and whatever friends I had, eager to find out all about me. This reinforced my feeling that I didn't need Paul to go rushing in, stirring things up, making me look guilty. I'd take care of things myself, but I'd save him for backup, if I needed it. I knew he'd love it if I
asked
for help. At the moment I was giving it all way too much thought. What if the cops didn't key on me as a suspect? I was, after all, innocent. Why didn't I just wait and see what they would do, instead of driving myself crazy?

One thing about a woman and a shower. Once she gets out she's got a ton of things to do to get herself ready. That's what occupied me for the next half hour. 

On the way to work the next morning I made the mistake of buying a newspaper. Marcy's murder was front-page news in the
LA Times
. I scanned the piece until I found my name. I read that part and found out the
Times
--not the
National Enquirer
, mind you, but the damned
Times
--was trying to figure out the most likely suspects. And in their noble quest they had tossed my hat into the ring. I sat outside the newsstand, stunned that a reputable newspaper would print something so inflammatory--and then wondered why I was surprised. Apparently there was less difference between the
Times
and the
Enquirer
than I'd ever thought.

My cell began blaring the Village People's "YMCA"

(I don't know how I did it but I accidentally acquired that ringtone) and a couple of people getting morning papers looked at me, then did a double take when they saw my photo in the paper. I shrugged and smiled.

"Hi, Connie!"

"Al! What is up? I saw the
Times
. I know you wouldn't fuckin' kill someone. Things are getting bad at
The Tide
, but there are always other bullshit jobs out there. I mean I'm sure
The Surreal Life
would be all over you. Ha, Haaaa!"

"Very funny, Connie, and no! I haven't read the script. I think under the circumstances I'm going to have to pass."

"I see where you're coming from, Al, and that's fine, I get it, so much crap hittin' the fan for you. Besides, that's not why I'm calling.
Extra
and
Inside Edition
want to interview you.
Entertainment Tonight
has called twice and fuckin'
Court TV
wants you on, too! What do you think?" Connie was so close to salivating on her side of the phone my cheek felt damp. The prospect of her client, namely me, getting so much press was so exciting she could hardly contain her enthusiasm. I was less than impressed.

"Connie. No. No. No. I've been through this kind of thing before, sort of. You know that. I want no part of it. . . ."

"But, Alex! It could lead to other th--"

"Connie, no!" I hung up, only to find all the other people getting their morning papers were all staring at me, too.

"What?" I yelled. I got into my car and jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

When I got to work, there were many more paparazzi camped out in front of the studio than there had been yesterday.

"Alex! Over here!"

"Hey, Alex, tell us about your feud with Marcy!"

"How about a picture, Alex?"

Apparently, they all read the
Times
, too. I just ran by saying "no comment." I know, I know, everybody needs to make a living, but come on! Get a life, people!

We taped some of the scenes we should've taped the day before. Then Thomas told me we'd be staying late to try to catch up.

"What about Marcy?" I asked.

"What about her? Marcy's gone, Alex, and we've got work to do. I'm here to get it done, right?"

"I mean, is there going to be a funeral? Are we shutting down until a replacement can be found?"

"Oh . . . well, a funeral will be up to the family,"

Thomas said. "And Marcy was way ahead on shows. We'll tape those and I'll take over as head writer until somebody else is hired, or promoted."

Every soap has four to seven writers on its staff, and they were not going to be happy about Thomas taking over Marcy's position, even temporarily. I think the last time he was doing some of the writing,
Soap Opera
Digest
said our show had become "moribund."

Thomas was definitely more valuable as a producer.

"You're going to write the show?" I asked.

"Don't sound so shocked, Alexis," he said. "I have written for the show before."

"Of course you have," I said, wondering how long ago we were talking about.

"And somebody has to take over," he said. "Do you know anyone more qualified than me? Huh?"

"At the moment," I said, sadly, "no."

"You better go get ready," he said. "We've got a lot of work to do. Let's go, let's go." He actually clapped his hands at me. I half expected him to pat me on the butt like a football coach. I started for my dressing room, then stopped and said, "Wait, you said something about a family? I thought Marcy didn't have any relatives."