Death in Daytime (7 page)

Impulsively, I leaned over and kissed his cheek. He turned beet red, and I got out of there before I embarrassed him some more. When I went back downstairs Jean came out of the kitchen.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine," I said. "Will's just going to do some work for me."

"Well," she said, "you couldn't ask for anybody better." She was so proud.

"I know that, Jean," I said. "That's why I came to see him."

She walked me to the door and stammered, "Um, we'll have to--you know, get together, um, sometime. You know, after all this murder stuff blows over."

I almost asked her if she had heard from Randy. But I stopped myself. This wasn't the right time or place. Instead I said, "That'd be nice, Jean," and then to take the onus off her I added, "I'll call you."

I couldn't do any more work on my plan that evening. When I got home, Sarah was running a slight fever. I had her sleep in my bed so I could check on her all night. Of course, I got about two hours' sleep in the process.

Sleep deprivation and I are old friends. I hauled myself out of bed in the morning, gave my little and still-hot sleeping beauty a kiss on the forehead and went in to work early to finish catching up on scenes. My mom came over to stay with Sarah.

Because we were behind, there were more cast members around than usual, and I felt myself looking at them all as potential suspects.

Cindy Pacelli had asked me on the day of the murder if I'd done it, but did that necessarily mean she hadn't? Marcy had been openly critical of the way Cindy dressed at work, calling her attire too "revealing." In return, Cindy went around saying Marcy dressed like an "old maid." I wondered if anyone had told the detectives about
that
. Thomas thought Marcy had been given too much power by the network. He didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do. He couldn't be too sad about her murder, then. Total control would be turned back over to him. He was already reveling in it. Was that something he would have killed for?

As I came in contact with other cast members during the day, I tried to figure out what motive they might each have had to kill Marcy.

I talked that over with the only person I could--George.

"Either one of them could've done it," I said, starting with Cindy and Thomas. He looked at me in the mirror and asked, "Weren't they on the set like you were when the light fell?"

"Yeah, I guess they were," I said, "but then a lot of people were around. Somebody could have slipped out to kill her, and then snuck back in during the commotion."

"Is that what the police are thinking about you?"

George asked.

"I suppose so," I said. "I'm the only one who had a screaming match with her, one that everyone heard."

"But you're not the only one who had problems with her," he said. "Not by a long shot. And I mean, even more people than just Cindy and Thomas."

"George," I said, eyeing him in the mirror, "what do you know?"

"Just little things I hear, darling," he said, smoothing the sleeve of his orange silk shirt. "And little things Linda hears when she's got some of you in her chair."

Linda was Makeup, and I knew Hair and Makeup shared a lot of gossip. "You have to give, George," I told him. "Give till it hurts."

Before he could respond, my cell sang out, "Young men!" George looked at me questioningly. "Don't ask. What, Connie?"

"Don't hang up, Al, okay? Listen up. You are hot, hot, hot and we have to strike now!" Again with this?

"Connie, I'm hot because people think I'm a killer!

I'm not interested in capitalizing on that!" She was starting to bug me.

"Al, this is different. It's a lead fuckin' role. Yes, it's a B, maybe B-minus movie and a little violent. But a nice fuckin' juicy role."

I hesitated but, ever the actress, I bit.

"How violent?"

"Now just listen. The film is being done by fuckin'

Quentin Tarantino! Well, not exactly Tarantino . . . more like an old classmate of his from film school. But they have very similar directing styles. And your character will have to kill a few people. With a hatchet. One's your frickin' boss in the movie! That's kind of fun, right? Oh, and just a little bit of nudity. Wait, wait, it could lead--"

I pressed END with every fiber of my being. Connie had clearly lost her mind. I was about to complain to George about the absurdity of the whole thing when Amanda Ballard came in, whining that her hair just would not behave.

Amanda's a pretty thirtysomething who plays Tiffany's younger half sister, Cicely. Amanda was in a soap opera love triangle along with a good-looking, hunky guy by the name of Roman Stroud and another pretty actress named Hannah Varga. Things started getting interesting when Hannah took it upon herself to get a boob job. Not unheard of in Hollywood. Now, Amanda had a "slightly" competitive nature, and like a lot of actresses and actors, she's insecure. It kind of goes with the territory. She was used to being the "hot girl" on the show, so she decided she'd get her boobs worked over, too. Actually, she had already had one procedure. So, she went bigger. Then Hannah, not to be outdone, went even bigger. This went on for a while, until both women started looking like two toothpicks with martini olives attached. Eventually, Hannah was let go and Amanda was left with a pair of enormous bazoongas!

"I'm done here," I said, getting out of the chair. "Go ahead and take care of her, George."

"Thanks, Alex," Amanda said, taking my place.

"You're a sweetie."

I was about to leave when I noticed George rolling his eyes at me. Apparently, some of the gossip he and Linda had shared had something to do with Amanda. I decided to have a little visit.

I sat in the empty chair next to Boobzilla.

"Pretty terrible what happened to Marcy, huh?" I asked.

"I guess," she said.

"I mean, what a way to go, stuffed under her desk with her Emmy?"

She turned her head to look at me. Then her eyes widened and she said, "Omigod, that's right, you found her, didn't you?" It was clear she already knew all the facts. I wondered why she was giving me the big eyes.

"Yes, I did."

If I had been looking for sympathy, I was barking up the wrong tree.

"Well, that couldn't've been too bad for you," she said, going back to the mirror.

"What do you mean?"

"Everybody knows you and she hated each other,"

Amanda said. "I mean, we all heard the scream fest you had last week."

"That was just . . . a discussion."

"Yeah, right."

"Well, you and Marcy weren't exactly tight," I pointed out.

She looked at me again.

"What do you mean?"

"Just that . . . things get around." I shrugged. "You know. Rumors."

"Look," she said, anxiously, "none of that stuff was true. Marcy and me, we were just--"

"Yes?"

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she turned her head to look at me again.

"What are you getting at, Alex?"

"I'm just making conversation."

"No," Amanda said, "you're worried that the cops suspect you because somebody . . . everybody must've told them about you and Marcy."

"And nobody told them about
you
and Marcy?"

"There was nothing to tell." She looked back into the mirror at George and said, "That's good enough, George, thanks."

"But I didn't do--" George said, as she got out of the chair.

"You were on the set that day, weren't you, Amanda?" I asked.

"You should know," she said. "We were supposed to do that big emotional scene together that day, only you showed up late."

The scene Marcy had kept me from knowing anything about.

"Look, Alex, Marcy was a bitch, pure and simple,"

Amanda said. "We all know that, but we also know you were the one she was trying to write off the show. You're the one everybody thinks killed her."

"Amanda--"

She stormed out of the room, leaving me and George looking at each other.

"If you're gonna play amateur detective," he said, pointing with his comb at the door Amanda had just gone through, "you're gonna have to be more subtle, or that's what you're gonna run up against."

"I can see I'm going to have to play it a lot cooler,"

I said. "George, what was with the rolling eyes? What do you know?"

"I just heard from Linda that Amanda and Marcy were having . . . problems."

"What kind of problems?"

He shrugged.

"I guess you're going to have to ask Linda about that," he said.

That wouldn't be a problem. Linda loved to gossip while working on your makeup. I only wondered what she had to say about me when I wasn't around.

"I'll see you later, George."

"You be careful, girlfriend," he said. "If you need any help, you just call me, you hear? You can count on me."

He meant every word, which made me feel warm for just a moment.

"I know I can, George."

I wasn't able to get Linda alone that morning. We both had too much work to do. It was just as well. After my failure with Amanda I knew I was going to have to figure out a new--what? Bedside manner? What did cops call it? A new interrogation technique?

They had brought in Sammy Horner, aka Timber, to help us catch up. As a director he's a quick one. He saves the show lots of overtime dollars. Only one problem: He has a large belly and it affects his balance. He tends to fall over a lot. But he saves so much money the execs are reticent to let him go. Now they needed him to help us get back on schedule.

I decided to try to talk to Sammy about Marcy's death. I doubted he'd kill her over one lost show a week, but I've watched enough crime TV and read enough books--fiction and nonfiction--to know that people kill for the strangest--and smallest--reasons. Toward the end of the day I managed to spot him going into the commissary.

Here's where the really scary part of the day happens for me. You have to be brave--very brave--to face the commissary chef, Jose. Do you remember the Soup Nazi on
Seinfeld
? Jose is a short-order cook with a psycho-killer look that scares the crap out of me. He's better known as Jose the Horrible. I'm a strong woman. I can hold my own with narcissistic leading men, ego-driven writers and sociopath ex-husbands. But our food fascist strikes terror deep into my heart. I have been known to accept, with a smile, something I never ordered, just because I was afraid to face the wrath of Jose the Terrible. Obviously, it was entirely my fault that I hadn't spoken clearly enough. This time, to be on the safe side, I just got a cup of coffee. Coffee was self-serve and not confrontational. I couldn't handle any more confrontation. Not just yet. Sammy had taken a table alone; the burger plate sat in front of him.

"Can I join you?" I asked, standing by the small table with my coffee.

Now, I knew Sammy pretty well and knew that he always sat at a smaller table because he did not want people to join him. Apparently, on this day, he didn't quite know how to say no. And besides, I was only holding coffee. How long could it take me to finish it?

"Sure, why not?" he said.

"Terrible thing about Marcy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, really terrible," Sammy said. "It's because of that bitch my workload was cut. So now they need ol'

Timber to help them catch up. I'd like to tell 'em to go fuck themselves, but . . ."

But he needed the job.

"I meant, about her getting killed."

"I know what you meant, Alex," Sammy said. He leaned over to take a bite of his burger and his belly bumped the table, making it rock. I grabbed my coffee before it could spill.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Aren't you upset?" I asked.

"Let's not pretend either one of us is upset she's dead, Alex. She was a true bitch, in the best and worst sense of that word. You know that better than anyone else. She had it out for you from day one. That, coupled with everything else you've gone through in the last two years. Nobody'd blame you if you--" He stopped short.

"If I what?"

Sammy chewed, swallowed and said, "If you killed her."

"Jesus, Sammy," I said. "I didn't kill her. I mean . . . I didn't."

"I didn't say you did," he replied. "I just said nobody would blame you--"

"Somebody else killed her, Sammy."

"You mean somebody else from our show?" he asked. "Come on, Alexis."

"You said yourself she was a bitch. You even said you're not sorry she's dead. If the police hear you say that--"

"The police have already talked to me."

"Why? I didn't see you that day--"

"I was in the building. They're questioning everyone who was around that day, not just on the set," he explained. "But even they think you did it, Alex. If I were you, I'd get a lawyer."

"B-but I didn't do it." I got up quickly to leave, making the table rock. "I forgot to get a drink," he said. "Are you gonna finish your coffee?"

I still had some scenes to tape and I'm a professional. Even though they were with Amanda, Sammy directing--two people who told me they thought I'd killed Marcy--I went ahead and did them. The show must go on, right?

When we were done I went directly to my dressing room, changed my clothes and left the building. It wasn't until I had dodged all the paparazzi--

apparently they had discovered my not-so-secret exit--and got behind the wheel of my car that I had time to think.

If the police thought I'd killed Marcy, and my coworkers did, too, I was in more trouble than I'd realized. I thought--or hoped--I was just another suspect. I hadn't wanted to believe Paul when he said I would be suspect number one, but now . . . I wasn't going to sit still for this. Bitch that she was, there must have been plenty of people who wanted to kill Marcy. All I had to do was find one of them. The right one.

Paul was supposed to come over that night, but I begged off. I was feeling confused and still wasn't ready to put my faith completely in a man. Besides, I was mad enough to want to do this myself. Maybe foolish enough, too, but there it was. All I had to do was figure out how to conduct my investigation. I had called earlier in the day to check on Sarah. My mother said her fever was down and, in a tutu and sparkle shoes, she was tearing up the house, pretending she was a chick superhero. Girls will be girls. We all had dinner together, and later Sarah diligently put sparkle pink nail polish on both her toes and her stuffed Bunny Bear's toes. I asked my mother to stay for some tea and collusion.