Death in Daytime (9 page)

Now he was taken aback. I really had to work on my bedside manner.

"Why would I be defensive? You're the one everyone thinks killed Marcy." He started punching the heavy bag a little harder.

Now that pissed me off.

"That's exactly why I'm here. I didn't kill her. And I was wondering if you had heard of anyone else who might have a motive, you know, some hidden agenda involving Marcy?" I looked at him pointedly. Now he got really uncomfortable. He stopped punching and just looked at me.

"You heard, huh?"

"Heard what?"

"Come on," he said, "you heard about me and Marcy, and you're gonna tell the cops! To get the focus off you!"

I decided to soften my approach.

"Roman," I said, "I'm not going to tell the cops anything. Let them find out their own information. I just--

I'd like to know some things for my own benefit."

It sounded stupid even to me, but he seemed to buy it.

"Well, you must've heard the rumor that I--that Marcy and I had a . . . thing." He resumed punching in a steady, rhythmic motion. Some of his sweat flung off and hit me in the face.

"I didn't hear it was a thing, exactly." I grimaced and brushed it off.

"You're right. It wasn't a thing," he said. "It was just sex. She told me if I wanted to get a decent story line, wanted to show off more than my chest, I had to sleep with her."

"She was that blatant about it?"

"Yes," he said. He punched harder.

"So . . ."

"So we did it a couple of times--in her office, in her car--and that was it."

In her car? Marcy, you cougar.

"What do you mean, that was it?"

"She lost interest."

"Come on," I said. "She's a lonely woman and she's got one of the young studs of the soap world in her bed . . . and she lost interest?"

"It wasn't about sex for her," he said. "I figured that out later. It was just about power." His punching was starting to make me nervous. Clearly, Roman had some anger issues. I wondered if they were big enough to make him kill.

"I guess you noticed that I still pretty much just walk around in a towel."

"So she didn't keep her word?"

"Nope." He grunted and hit the heavy bag so hard it flew off its chain. "Bitch!"

I backed away a little, "Bet that made you mad."

"Of course it did," he said, picking up a towel and wiping off his brow. Then he backtracked when he realized how he must have sounded. "But not mad enough to kill her. I could never do that."

He swallowed hard and sat down on a bench. Was he, oh my God he was, he was crying. He wiped the snot from his nose.

"No, really, Alex--you're not gonna tell the cops, are you?"

From what I'd seen he was definitely not that good an actor. He was really scared. He had displaced anger and a cocky attitude, but unfortunately, he wasn't a killer.

"Roman," I said, "you should go and tell them yourself. It'd be better coming from you."

"I'll--I'll think it over. Maybe you're right," he said, looking me up and down. "Thanks, Alex."

"Sure."

He quickly collected himself and stood up. He moved in so close to me I could see every ripple of his very well-developed chest.

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry about before. You're not at all how I thought you were. You're not a--"

I was afraid he was going to say diva, so I said,

"Bitch?"

"You're totally cool. And you're still hot. I mean considering you're pretty old. Maybe we should get together sometime after work, have a drink?"

Was he kidding? What an asshole!

"Oh, I can't. I'm seeing someone . . . uh, but, thanks."

"Sure, let me know if something changes."

He winked at me as he went back to his workout. Hollywood.

I decided to try Andy next. I thought I could get him and Henry Roswell in, and then pick up Sarah. Then maybe do somebody else later in the day. I was glad that my scenes had been scheduled so early. Andy McIntyre had started on the show about the same time I had. He played the role of police sergeant Hank Miller, the elder son of the broke but decent couple who had been cruelly taken advantage of by the Benedicts. In fact, Andy and I had played young lovers when we started on the show. You know, girl from rich, mean family falls in love with guy from poor, nice family. We have been involved in the same story lines off and on for years, and although we have great sexual chemistry on-screen, offscreen he's always been like a big brother to me. I have a lot of affection for him. Basically, we grew up together on TV and we'd been in the trenches.

In spite of being well into his forties, Andy looked great. He had dirty blond hair that fell kind of rakishly over his brow, and a slightly crooked smile that still made lots of women weak at the knees. He kept himself in shape and had maybe a little nip and tuck done over the years. Not enough so that he looked pulled, but just enough so that he looked "fresh." Unfortunately, he recently decided he hadn't accomplished as much as he would have liked to in his life. He was unmarried, no kids, bored with his job, trying to move into directing, but just couldn't get self-motivated. He had slowly acquired an entourage of sorts, over the years. This consisted of a trainer, an assistant, fan mail-answerer person, dog walker, feng shui expert and God only knows what else. When Marcy came on the scene, she did nothing but run him and his character down. I guess he decided that he needed additional help with getting himself motivated. So he hired what is called a "life coach." This is a phenomenon born sometime in the nineties, I believe. I guess these people coach people in the game of life. Redundant, but I'm still trying to figure out the concept. Andy couldn't make a move without consulting Murray. Murray the Life Coach. I know, misnomer. Murray, I believe, used to sell insurance or something until he discovered he had a certain "gift." I still don't know what that gift is, but I do know it must be good because he charges a lot of money. Andy is pretty much paralyzed without the help of his coach. He's constantly on his cell, asking for advice on everything from what to have for lunch to should he sign a contract or not. During a particularly low point in Andy's life, I guess Murray moved in and came to work with him every day. He'd sit just off the set while Andy was taping. Andy would run to him and ask how to play the scenes in between takes. Now remember, this idiot is a life coach, not an acting coach. Poor Andy's performances became really odd, which did not endear him to the rest of the cast, the directors or to Marcy. He'd laugh and cry at inappropriate times, during scenes that just didn't garner those emotions. I also had heard that Murray was taking Andy to the cleaners, I mean big bucks, life savings cleaners. Usually I would stay out of such personal relationships, but I liked Andy, so I took him aside one day and had a good heart-to-heart. I asked him if he thought it was really necessary to keep Murray around, and maybe he just needed a good therapist or a nice, long vacation. He must have told Murray about my concerns, because I received a hateful letter from Mr. Coach, accusing me of trying to undermine Andy's career and "life goals"; he promised to make my life a living hell if I didn't butt out. Jeez! No good deed!

Andy lived in Malibu, near Paradise Cove where you could find anything from a million-dollar mobile home on the beach to a ten-to twenty-million-dollar colonial on the cliffs above. Andy's home was not quite in that class, so his neighbors were not quite Barbra Streisand and Julia Roberts.

I was hoping to be able to talk to Andy without Murray the Life Coach around, but that wasn't to be the case, because guess who opened the door when I rang the bell?

"Well, Ms. Peterson," Murray said. "What brings you here?" His yellow jogging suit was blinding, as well as incongruous. His swollen, distended belly was all the proof anyone needed that Murray did not exercise. The scent of patchouli wafted out the door, either from somewhere in the house, or from Murray himself.

"I'd like to talk to Andy, please, Murray."

I had to call him by his first name, because I still didn't know his last--unless it actually was "Life Coach."

"And what is this about?" he asked. "Not going to try and get me canned again, are you, hmm?" He touched his hand to his blow-dried do. The blowdrying was an attempt at poofing it up so that it might look thicker. Instead, I was able to see right through it to his shiny scalp.

"No, nothing like that, Murray," I said. "I learned my lesson last time. Your relationship with Andy is your business and his, not mine."

"Hmph," he said, probably because he was disappointed that he wouldn't be able to get into a fight with me. "Well, all right. Come in. He's out by the pool, going over his script for tomorrow. We were running lines together."

He led me through the house and out some glass doors to the pool area. Andy was sitting on a lounge chair with a drink next to him on a white metal table. He was wearing a robe that was open, revealing his swimming trunks and a physique he still worked hard to maintain.

"Don't say anything to interrupt the flow of his aura," Murray warned me. "He's very precariously perched at the moment."

I wanted to ask him where, but kept quiet.

"Andrew, you have a visitor," Murray announced, as we approached. Andy lowered his script, saw me and couldn't hide the first flash that came across his face. I thought, not you, too, Andy.

"Alexis," he said, smiling broadly. He was a good actor, looked genuinely glad to see me, and on any other day I would have bought it. I was going to tell him to cut the act, but Murray was still there.

"What brings you here?" Andy asked.

"I just need a few minutes of your time, Andy," I said.

"No problem," he said, setting the script down on the table. "I always have time for you, you know that. Have a seat."

I sat across the table from him in a white chair that had come as part of the table set.

"What's on your mind?"

I didn't want to tell him what was on my mind while Murray was standing there, watching me.

"Um, is that coffee? I could use one."

"Oh, of course," Andy said. "I'm a terrible host. Murray, would you get Alexis some coffee? The Special Blend Number Five." He looked at me. "You'll love this. Murray has to go all the way across town to get this, but it's worth it."

"Um--," Murray started, but Andy shooed him away. "And bring me a fresh one."

As Murray left, Andy said, "He's like a mother hen sometimes."

"Andy, I have to say what I came to say before Murray gets back."

"Now, Alex, you're not going to ask me again to fire him, are you?"

"No," I said. "That's your business. I need to talk to you about Marcy's murder."

"Oh," he said, his face falling, "that."

"I know what everybody thinks, Andy, but I didn't do it," I said.

"I never thought--"

"Oh, sure you did. Everybody does. I can feel it when they look at me, and a couple of people have even told me so."

"Well," Andy said, "you did have that big screaming match with her . . . and after everything else you've been through, maybe she just pushed you too far."

"I am so sick of hearing that! Randy took my money and left our child. Yeah, it sucks! But I'm dealing!

Things go wrong in life. It doesn't make a person a murderer, for God's sake! You
know
me! After all the time we've worked together I would think you, of all people, would know who I am and defend me."

I expected him to get angry, but instead he reached out, took my hand and said, "You're right. I've been a horrible friend to you. What can I do to redeem myself?"

I was taken aback for a moment, then felt a rush of affection for him. I squeezed his hand, and then we let go, sat back and started really talking.

"Since I didn't kill her, it's obvious somebody else did."

"I'm with you so far."

"Just hear me out before you say anything else," I said. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again and assumed a listening pose, chin and eyebrows up. For the moment I was assuming Andy didn't have his own motive for killing Marcy.

"There are a few people on the show who have had their issues with Marcy. I want your feedback on whether or not you think they hated her enough to kill her."

"Oh," he said, "oh, this is--you're investigating this yourself, aren't you? You must be so excited. You've always wanted to do this!"

At least he knew me that well. He was right; I had always wanted to do this, but not when my own freedom, or life, was on the line. I pitched him some names--like Amanda, Roman and Dave Ballwin, the young writer whose work Marcy had been claiming as her own.

"I talked to Roman this morning," I said. "I heard that story," Andy said. "Some people still try to sleep their way to the top."

"Well, I don't think Marcy was the top, but she did make him sleep with her a few times, and then dumped him. She never followed through by writing for him."

"That must have made him mad."

"I don't think he did it, Andy," I said. "After talking to him--he's cocky, yes, but basically just an overcompensating, insecure kid. It's not in him."

"Well, it's not in Amanda, either," Andy said, "and Dave, he's just trying to work his way up the ladder. He'll get credit, eventually. So in my opinion, it's neither of them."

I knew that, of course. Andy and I have been around the block, so he wasn't telling me anything I didn't know--just stuff I had to be reminded about, right now.

And then there is Lisa Daley. She's been with the show since its inception in the seventies. She's an attractive woman in her fifties. Her big problem in life is that she's still trying to play twenty-nine. This is where it can get ugly. And messy. Literally messy. She's had a decent amount of work done on her face, but nothing too extraordinary. It's just that now the fountain of youth comes in a syringe. Let me introduce you to the miracle twins: Botox and Restilane. Since they are now on the market, people can pretty much inject themselves up the wazoo. For all I know they inject there, too. Now, mind you, I'm all for maintenance. I know it's not always fun seeing yourself rotting away. But unlike most of the world, actors and actresses on soaps can see it on a daily basis. In color. On high-definition television. On a monstrous sixty-inch screen. It sucks!