Killer Cocktail (10 page)

twenty-two

Nigel and I spent
the rest of the day undertaking the Sisyphean task of trying to put the house back into some semblance of order. By nine-thirty, I was tired, grumpy, and seriously considering leveling the house with a boulder just to complete the theme. I flopped heavily onto the couch, unleashing a cloud of feathers from the rent cushions in the process. The feathers swirled around me, sticking to my hair and clothes. “I think it might just be easier to move,” I groused as I watched Skippy bark and pounce on those that floated to the ground.

Nigel plucked a feather from my hair. “You need dinner,” he said. “You always get cranky when you have an empty stomach. Just sit here and relax while I go get us something.” He removed a few more feathers from my person before kissing the top of my head and disappearing into the kitchen. I closed my eyes rather than look at the mess around me. I must have dozed off because it seemed that only a few moments later Nigel had returned. “Here we are,” he said. “Dinner is served.”

Opening my eyes, I looked at the tray on the coffee table in front of me and blinked in confusion. “We're having a bottle of Merlot for dinner?”

Nigel nodded as he uncorked the bottle. “It's an old family recipe,” he said. “But, to be safe, I also ordered some Chinese food from that place you like.”

“You're always thinking, Mr. Martini,” I said as I carefully made room for Nigel on the couch so as not to upset any more feathers. I needn't have bothered. With a deftly executed backward hop, he vaulted onto the couch. A flurry of white plumes exploded around us. Skippy immediately jumped back to attention, alternately barking and trying to catch each and every feather.

“Forgive me for asking this,” I said, as I pulled a feather out of my mouth, “but why?”

Nigel brushed a feather from his face. “You never wanted to see what it would be like inside a snow globe?” he asked as he leaned forward to pour me a glass of wine.

“No,” I said, “not after the age of six anyway. However, I'm guessing you did.”

He nodded and handed me my glass of wine. “I have to admit. It's not as fun as I expected.”

I tipped my head in acknowledgement. “Few things are.”

Nigel wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “Oh, I wouldn't say
that
, Mrs. Martini.”

By the time the food arrived, Nigel and I had moved to the floor, and my mood had vastly improved. The feathers had settled; with the majority of them lodged in Skippy's fur. Lying on his back with his paws in the air, he now resembled a molting yeti. Nigel spread a blanket on the floor in front of the couch, and we ate our dinner picnic-style from the white take-out boxes.

“What do you think could be on those tapes that somebody was willing to almost kill DeDee?” Nigel asked as he speared a shrimp with lobster sauce and popped it into his mouth.

“No idea,” I said as I chewed on a steamed dumpling. “From what I've seen of the footage so far, things seem pretty standard: petty fights, jealousies, ruthless ambition, and inflated egos.”

“None of which are exactly unheard of in this town,” he said.

“None of which are exactly unheard of in
any
town,” I corrected, as I stuck my chopstick in another dumpling and shoved it in my mouth.

“Janice seemed to hint that there were some untoward behavior on the set,” Nigel said.

“Janice strikes me as someone who seeks out untoward behavior,” I said, while chewing.

“Careful, darling. You know the affect a cynical woman with a mouth full of food has on me.”

“I do indeed,” I answered. “It's one of the main reasons you married
me
.”

“Well, that and you owned a gun at the time.”

“I still own the gun,” I pointed out.

“Which is why we're
still
married,” Nigel answered.

I finished the steamed dumplings and a few mouthfuls of the fried rice and leaned back against the couch. “I suppose we should clean up and start watching the remaining tapes,” I said with a yawn.

“I suppose we should,” Nigel agreed.

We both fell asleep sitting there. When I awoke the next morning, I saw that Skippy had kindly helped us clean up by eating the rest of the take-out.

Footage from the set of
A Winter's Night
5/7/96

The set is a nightclub. Melanie and John are in character as Hanna and Donny. Melanie sits alone at a table. She is wearing a red cocktail dress with a heart-shaped neckline and capped sleeves. Her hair is styled in a top reverse roll. John stands next to her. He is wearing a dark suit. His right eye is blackened and there is a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow. In his hand is a lit cigarette.

JOHN/DONNY

You look lovely tonight, Hanna. But then, you always look lovely.

MELANIE/HANNA (looking down at her drink)

Donny, don't.

JOHN/DONNY

Don't what? Tell the girl I love that she's beautiful?

MELANIE/HANNA

You know what will happen if my father finds out you were talking to me. I won't let you get hurt again.

JOHN/DONNY (takes a drag off of his cigarette
and then puts it out on the table's ashtray)

What can he do that he hasn't already done? Having me beat up is nothing compared to having my heart broken. Dance with me, Hanna. Please. Please just let me hold you one more time.

MELANIE/HANNA(looks up)

Oh, Donny. I … I … (no longer in character) Oh, Christ, I think I'm going to be sick!

BARRY

CUT!

Melanie stumbles out of her chair and into a surprised Johnny. She loses her balance and lands on her knees at Johnny's feet. She begins to retch.

JOHN (horrified)

Jesus! Are you kidding me? What the hell is wrong with you?

MELANIE

What does it look like? I'm sick, you jackass!

JOHN

You threw up on my shoes!

MELANIE

Yeah. I kind of noticed that
especially as I'm the one down here puking!

Sara Taylor, Melanie's personal assistant, rushes forward. Her face is worried.

SARA

Melanie! Oh, dear God. Are you okay? What happened?

MELANIE

Hello, Sara. I'm not okay. Although I can certainly see why you might be confused, as I normally enjoy vomiting all over myself and in front of an audience.

Sara gently helps Melanie to her feet.

SARA

I'm sorry. Here, let me help you get cleaned up.

BARRY (angrily)

What the hell is going on, Melanie? Are you using again? I swear to God, if you are, you are out! Do you hear me! OUT! I can't deal with your crazy drama anymore!

MELANIE

Shut up, Barry. I'm not using. I just don't feel well. As you can see for yourself. (Melanie pushes Sara away) I don't need your help, Sara. Thank you. I can manage. And you can stop glaring at me, John. It's not like I puked on you on purpose. Although, I must admit, it was somewhat cathartic.

JOHN

I can honestly say, I don't really care what your purpose was in as much as the result is the same. I am covered in vomit. Speaking of which, can someone get me a goddamn towel?

Melanie walks away to her trailer. Barry turns to Sara.

BARRY

What the hell is going on, Sara? Is she using again?

SARA (shaking her head)

No, sir. Not at all. It's probably an allergic reaction. You know how she's allergic to shellfish. I think there was salmon on the craft table this morning for breakfast.

BARRY (nodding calmly)

Yes, well that would explain it … (now yelling)
if salmon were a shellfish
!

SARA (blushing)

I'm sorry, Mr. Meagher. Of course, it isn't. But Ms. Summers isn't using. I promise you. She just doesn't feel well. She says she's been under a lot of stress lately. You know how artists are. They get emotional. They feel things differently from the rest of us. It can be hard to understand them sometimes, but I guess that's what sets them apart from the rest of us.

BARRY, (sighing)

Just because you don't understand her, Sara, doesn't mean she's an artist. Most likely it means she's impossible to understand.

twenty-three

When we got to
the hospital the next morning, DeDee was asleep. Her sister, Nancy, was by her side. Like DeDee, Nancy had a prominent nose, wiry build, and a penchant for cutting to the chase.

“Did the police find the bastard that did this yet?” Nancy asked us without preamble.

“Not yet,” I answered.

Nancy turned back to look at DeDee's bruised face. “Well, I'm definitely going to want a few minutes alone with the son of a bitch when they do,” she said.

“You and about ten other people,” Nigel told her, “but I'll make sure you're at the front of the line.”

“Has there been any change in her condition?” I asked.

Nancy shook her head. “Not really. She said I look familiar, which is a good sign, but the rest is still a blank.”

We sat with Nancy until DeDee woke up. Unfortunately, she still had no idea who Nigel and I were, and our presence only seemed to agitate her. With Nancy promising to keep us informed, we left and returned home. There we found two police cars waiting for us in our driveway.

In the first, were Officers Hax and Kelly. In the second, was a new face. It was a handsome face, too; dark blonde hair, steely blue eyes, and a jaw that appeared to have been chiseled out of granite. The face was attached to a man I guessed to be in his mid-forties. Unlike Hax and Kelly, he was not wearing a uniform. Instead, he wore a tailored blue blazer, a white linen shirt, fitted dark jeans, and a self-satisfied smirk. From the way Hax and Kelly deferred to him, I gathered he was their superior. Back in New York, a guy in a cop car who looked like this was more likely to be the criminal than the officer. I mentally shook my head. Every time I thought I had adjusted to California, something like this happened, and I realized that I'd probably never get used to it.

“Hello, Officer Hax, Officer Kelly,” Nigel said, as he got out from the driver's side. Looking at the new guy, Nigel put out his hand, “I don't believe we've met. I'm Nigel Martini. And you are?”

“Detective Jack Brady,” he answered, shaking Nigel's hand. Detective Brady was a few inches shorter than Nigel and a little broader in the shoulders, but other than that, they shared the same lean athletic build. “This is my wife, Nicole,” Nigel now said, turning to me.

“Hello, Detective Brady,” I said, as I held out my hand as well. “What can we do for you?”

Detective Brady shook my hand firmly, but did not immediately answer my question. He stared at me a beat as if faintly amused. Releasing my hand, he said, “I know that you spoke with Officer Hax and Kelly earlier, but I just wanted to follow up and make sure that Hax covered everything she was supposed to. You know, crossing the “T's” and dotting the “I's.”

I stole a glance at Officer Hax. Her expression was blank. She'd make a hell of a poker player. “Officer Hax seemed very thorough,” I said. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to clarify?”

Detective Brady gave an almost apologetic shrug. “Nothing in particular. But, Hax here tells me that you used to work for the New York City Police Department. Mrs. Martini, is that correct?”

“For six years,” I answered with an affirming nod.

Detective Brady's smile dimmed. “You were an officer?” he asked, his tone doubtful.

“Oh, no,” I said with a shake of my head. His smile reappeared. “I was a detective,” I clarified. “I worked homicide.”

The smile now completely vanished. A faint line formed between his eyebrows. With a shake of his head, he turned back to Officer Hax, saying, “Guess you were right, Hax. Looks like I owe you a beer.” Officer Hax breathed heavily out of her nose, but didn't respond. Detective Brady turned back to me.

I raised a questioning eyebrow. Detective Brady saw it and let out a small laugh. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug, “It's just that you don't look like any detective
I've
ever met. Of course, I mean that as a compliment.”

“I'm sure you do,” I said.

Officer Hax coughed into her hand. Detective Brady glanced at her and then looked back to me. “So why did you leave?” he asked. He jerked his chin toward Nigel. “Decide to finally settle down and get married?”

“Not at all,” I answered. “I was told that there were going to be some…oh, let's just say, ‘openings' in the Beverly Hills Department and was asked to consider throwing my hat in the ring.”

The line reappeared between Detective Brady's eyebrows. “Openings?” he repeated.

I nodded and leaned forward. “Something about ‘spring cleaning' and ‘outdated gender attitudes,'” I said in a low voice, “but I probably shouldn't say any more until it's official.” Detective Brady blinked at me and rocked back on his heals. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to us about, Detective?” I asked. “Is there any news on who might have attacked our employee?”

Detective Brady cleared his throat before answering. “Well, that's not something I think we should discuss in your driveway. Would it be possible to go inside for a moment so we can talk?”

“Of course,” I said. Nigel and I led the three officers up the slate walkway and inside the house. Skippy met us with a tennis ball in his mouth. Detective Brady stared at Skippy in surprise. “Wow. You don't see too many Great Danes around,” he said.

“That's true,” I agreed. “Especially in this house,” I added, as I took a seat on the couch next to Nigel. Meeting Detective Brady's quizzical gaze, I clarified, “Skippy is a Bullmastiff.” Skippy dropped the ball at my feet and stared at Detective Brady.

“Really?” Detective Brady asked, eyeing Skippy critically. “Are you sure he's a purebred?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, that's what his mother claims, anyway,” Nigel added as he picked up the tennis ball and threw it down the hall. Skippy happily charged after it.

Officer Hax smothered a smile, while Detective Brady stared blankly at Nigel. “I'm assuming that you aren't here to discuss Skippy's pedigree,” I said. “Have there been any developments as to who attacked our employee?'

Detective Brady returned his gaze to me. “Well, we have a few leads.” He paused and began to lightly tap his forefinger on his pants leg. Officer Hax glanced over at him, her expression curious, but she said nothing. Officer Kelly said nothing either, but that was to be expected. The silence continued.

Over the years, I'd learned that some detectives preferred to dictate how an interview was conducted while others preferred for the witness to take the lead. The theory behind the latter was that a witness's questions could be just as informative as their answers. I was never a big fan of this technique. Detective Brady, however, apparently was. I smiled politely, sat back into the couch, and waited. Skippy bounded back with the ball and dropped it in Nigel's lap. He threw it again.

Detective Brady quietly drummed out a rhythm on his leg for a few more minutes before narrowing his eyes and asking, “You don't have any questions?”

“Oh, I have lots of questions,” I assured him. “However, I assumed that you came here to
tell
us something. But, if you're trying to do so through Morse code, I should warn you that I'm a bit rusty on my dashes and dots.”

Detective Brady blinked and abruptly stopped tapping his leg. “Yes. Well, we're pretty confident that whoever attacked your employee is also responsible for some recent break-ins in the area. No doubt the intruders assumed that your house was empty, and unfortunately, your employee must have gotten in the way.”

I stared at Detective Brady. “I'm sorry, did you just say she must have ‘gotten in the way'? You make it sound like she wandered out into traffic. You do realize she was beaten within an inch of her life?”

Detective Brady crossed his legs and fixed the crease on his pant leg before answering. “I am familiar with all of the aspects of this case,” he replied.

“Then I'm surprised that you think this was a break-in gone wrong,” I replied. “The tapes were the only things taken.”

“Which, I understand, are very valuable,” he countered.

“So too is jewelry, TV sets, and stereos,” I replied. “And yet none of those items were taken.”

He aimed a condescending smile my way. “Yes, but they are much harder to carry. I think I have a pretty good handle on what happened here, Mrs. Martini. This area isn't immune to petty crimes. We suspect it's some local kids. They probably assumed the house was empty and were startled to find Ms. Evans in residence. They must have panicked and grabbed what was easy—namely the tapes. Pretty straightforward, really.”

Skippy returned with the ball, this time dropping it in Officer Hax's lap. She obligingly tossed it down the hall.

“How do you figure that the thieves knew about the tapes in the first place?” I asked.

“I believe it's been a common topic in the local papers,” Detective Brady replied.

“That's true,” I conceded. “However, the papers only reported that the tapes were being edited at Nigel's office. Nothing was ever mentioned about us doing work on them here.”

Skippy returned with the ball. He dropped it at Detective Brady's feet, where it stayed. “I imagine it was just a lucky break for whoever broke in,” he said.

“I disagree,” I said. “I think that whoever did this came here with the sole intent of taking those tapes. DeDee called my husband while we were at the Vanity Fair after party. It was clear from his side of the conversation that DeDee had discovered something important on the tapes.”

Detective Brady arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “And what was this important discovery?” he asked Nigel. Skippy laid his massive head on Detective Brady's lap, his eyes pleading. Detective Brady ignored him.

“I don't know,” Nigel said. “I couldn't hear her. I thought she was saying something about someone named Giuseppe.”

“And do you know anyone named Giuseppe?” he asked.

“No,” Nigel admitted.

Detective Brady smiled as if this proved his point. “And yet, you think that not only could someone else hear what you couldn't, but that it was important enough to come over here, break in, and attack a defenseless woman?” he asked. “Seems a bit silly.”

“Seems a bit silly that you won't even consider it as a possibility,” I countered.

Detective Hax began coughing into the crook of her arm. Detective Kelly stared at his shoes. Skippy admitted defeat. He removed his head from Detective Brady's lap and trotted off down the hall.

“Mrs. Martini,” Detective Brady said, his voice growing annoyed, “I am sorry about the attack on your employee and the break-in. And I understand that you might be tempted to put your
former
skills to use in finding out who did this, but please let me handle this. I can assure you that the only crimes connected with the Vanity Fair Party, other than a few drunken antics and some very questionable attire, was the theft of an Oscar. All pretty standard stuff for that crowd. I deal with it every year.”

“Someone stole an Oscar?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes. Christina Franklin's. She reported it early this morning. It'll turn up. No doubt in James Franco's possession. That man has an odd sense of humor.”

“Detective Brady, with all due respect,” I began. He cut me off.

“
Mrs.
Martini, please. Are you seriously suggesting that someone who was at that party—a Hollywood A-Lister, no less—broke into your house and attacked your employee?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that it's
not
a possibility?” I countered.

Detective Brady took a deep breath. “I appreciate your input,” Mrs. Martini, “but I
think
I know what I'm doing.”

I was about to answer to the contrary when Skippy came back into the room, carrying something in his mouth. Walking directly to Detective Brady, he then sat before him and dropped the object at his feet.

It was an Oscar statue. And based on the dried hair and blood that covered the pedestal, it also appeared to be the weapon used to attack DeDee.

Nigel crossed his leg and fixed an imaginary crease on his leg before saying, “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Detective, but I
think
you might want to rethink that idea.”

Skippy barked. I made a mental note to buy him a steak dinner.