Looks to Die For (11 page)

Chapter Four

O
n my way to the showroom
on Robertson Boulevard the next morning, I stopped for a morning smoothie at Jamba Juice. The line snaked out the door, giving me time to stare at the posted nutrition guide and learn that the Orange Berry Blitz offered 390 percent of the daily allotment of vitamin C — which seemed to be 290 percent more than I needed. Tasty concoctions like Mango Mantra or Berry Pizzazz could strengthen my immune system, promote brain cell activity, and give me a healthy heart and eyes. I wasn’t sure if the drinks came in a tall cup or an IV tube.

“Strawberry Nirvana,” I said to the young girl behind the counter, when it was finally my turn. Probably practicing for her afternoon acting class, she pursed her heavily collagened lips and flicked her long black hair, revealing a dragon tattoo that wound around her upper arm. If Angelina Jolie called in sick to a set one day, Jamba Girl could be a fast fill-in.

“Are you trying to promote peak performance?” she asked dramatically, leaning forward on the counter.

“Actually, I’m just trying to get breakfast,” I said.

She rolled her purple-gray color-contact-enhanced eyes. “If you need an additional energy boost, we have ginseng and ginkgo biloba to fight fatigue and increase stamina.”

“Not fattening, is it?”

She gave a deep sigh. “If you’re worried about weight, you need the Burner Boost with chromium and thermogenic herbs to control appetite and increase metabolism,” she said, proving that she could at least learn her lines.

“Put in whatever you like,” I said, giving up. I blamed Starbucks for starting it all by insisting that “tall” meant small, and that a “barista” made the coffee. Now we’d moved on to the stage where you needed a medical degree to get breakfast.

The Angelina-wannabe spent an inordinately long time mixing and stirring, and when I finally took the cup, I tossed a dollar into the tip jar, knowing the bonus she’d really like was Molly Archer’s private email. Back outside, I settled into a café table, flipped through an
Architectural Digest
, and watched the morning bustle of shoppers. With the sun drenching down and the frothy drink (whatever it was) tickling my tongue, I could almost forget that I had more on my mind than whether crimson or persimmon was the color of the moment. I felt calmer than I had in days. Maybe Angelina had slipped me some Valium instead of the ginseng.

Ready to face my client, I sauntered over to the chic showroom and told the sullen receptionist that Roy Evans would be coming in soon. She brightened at his name, tossed back her curly blond hair as if all of life were an audition, and agreed to send Roy back as soon as he arrived. In the private display area, I milled around, pondering which of the rosewood dining tables newly imported from Milan would be right for Roy. He definitely couldn’t handle what I’d commissioned for a French director’s mansion in Malibu — a gleaming slab of sinuous steel that reflected the sunlight and sea. It got endless
ooh
s and
aah
s, but Roy wasn’t secure enough for cutting edge.

I checked my watch, then moved into the next room, which spotlighted chairs so gloriously modern they couldn’t possibly be comfortable. I sat down. Right. Forty-five minutes later, I was considering the comfort level of a suede Armani sectional when my cell phone rang.

“Lacy, can you forgive me?” Roy’s mellifluous voice on the line was sweetly pleading. “I had a long interview with that young singer Abby Jean. What a body.”

“I’m still at the showroom. I can wait for you,” I said.

“You shouldn’t,” he said. “But if you have a second, listen to this song from Abby’s first album. She’s going to be big.” He must have held out the phone to his CD player, because I heard the distant, moaning sounds of a female pop singer.

“Sexy, isn’t she?” he asked, back on the line. “I think she was hot for me. Once I told her she was going to be a big star, she didn’t want to leave.”

So Roy had been trying to score with his interview subject. The man had no shame.

“We should reschedule our appointment,” I said, sticking to decorating.

“Absolutely. By the way, how’s your husband doing?”

“Pretty well, thanks.”

“What’s new with the murder investigation?”

So here we were already. If I were suspicious about Roy Evans, I’d think that was the crux of this conversation. And, okay, I was suspicious of Roy Evans.

“I’ve been getting a lot of information on your friend Tasha,” I said carefully. I wouldn’t lie, but maybe I could get him worried. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the talk about her at the network.”

“I haven’t heard anything.” Roy’s voice suddenly had a slight edge to it, as if some of the polish were being chipped away. “Tell me the gossip.”

“Just the rumors you’d guess,” I said, hoping he’d fill them in for me.

“She slept around?” Roy asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, she was a cute little piece of pie. Not a surprise if a lot of men wanted her.”

“I guess not,” I said.

Brief silence and then he said, “Is there a list somewhere?”

“Of what?”

“The men. Do you think the police have a list of the people she slept with?”

“Could be, but I really don’t know.”

“Fine,” he said, much too sharply. His voice had gone from edgy to angry, and I pictured him struggling to get back in control.

“I guess if we’re going to do this decorating thing, you should see where I live,” he said finally. “Can you come over Saturday?”

I hesitated. I had to see his place if I planned to furnish it, but why did the idea of going over there make me so uncomfortable?

“Um, sure. Give me your address.”

“That’s a big commitment. I haven’t given a woman my address since my last divorce became final.” He chuckled, pleased by his own little joke. But he reeled it off, and I had a feeling that this time, he wasn’t going to miss our meeting.

I headed out of the showroom, pausing by the front door to look at a neo-Victorian mirror with inlays of polished metal. I glimpsed myself in the glass, and my hands reflexively flew to my face.

“Awful,” I gasped loudly.

“Everyone hates that piece,” said the receptionist, misinterpreting. She closed her
InStyle
magazine — which was the only place she’d see celebrities today. “I don’t know why it’s right in front.”

The mirror frame looked a lot better than I did. My skin seemed mottled, I had bags under my eyes, and what was going on with my hair? Maybe I couldn’t do much about my dark mood, but I could definitely fight back against my dark roots.

Outside, I pulled out my cell phone and hit *11 on the speed dial. Like most of the moms I knew, once my kids grew up enough that I could take the nursery school number off speed dial, I replaced it with my hair colorist’s. Who wants to get older when you can just get blonder? So many of us worshiped at the peroxide altar of youth that an appointment with Alain was harder to get than a private audience with the Dalai Lama.

I decided to give it my best shot. When Alain’s assistant, Andre, came on the phone, I outlined my problems. All of them. Hair crisis and personal disaster. I felt a little guilty gossiping about myself, but better me than anyone else.

“So it’s an emergency,” said Andre sympathetically.

“Dire emergency,” I said. “If you’re doing triage, consider me the equivalent of a massive heart attack on Oscar night.”

Andre laughed. “Come right over. I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

Bless the man. Next holiday season, I’d upgrade his gift from a wool Polo sweater to cashmere. Alain himself took the guesswork out of saying thanks — he stayed registered at Barneys year-round.

I made my way over to North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills and slipped inside, past the usual cast of power clients. Instead of being a hairdresser to the stars, Alain worked for the women behind the stars. For Hollywood networking, his salon was the estrogen-laced equivalent of Monday nights at Morton’s. I spotted a chair-hopping talent agent chatting up a studio development exec, and a screenwriter advising a Warner Brothers vice president to go brunette. “Much more dramatic,” she said in a low voice. “And trust me,
I know drama
.” Amid the streaking, peroxide applications, and wholesale highlighting, more movie deals got made at Alain’s than on the ninth green at the Bel Air Country Club.

I changed into a thin robe and sat down in a soft chair that faced a wall of mirrors. Good lighting, so I didn’t look nearly as terrifying here as I had in the showroom. Alain came up behind me dressed in blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, his own hair crewcut short and light brown. The style changed regularly but always stayed understated. Alain didn’t do flamboyant.

“I’m glad you came in,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?” He knew what was going on, of course. He knew everything.

“I’m fine. Just my hair’s a problem. Murky in the middle and brassy on the ends.”

“Oh, dearest, it’s never just about the hair,” he whispered. “You can confess to me.”

I caught his eye in the mirror and suddenly felt tears welling up. For unloading emotion, a session with Alain beat a private appointment with Dr. Phil any day.

“Everything’s awful,” I admitted. “I’m frightened for my family, and for Dan. It’s all so sinister and scary, and I have this sense of danger around every corner. Plus it doesn’t make any sense. Dan has a generous heart and he’s a good man. He really is a good, good man.”

I had a feeling I’d picked up that last line from a bad Lifetime movie (are there any good Lifetime movies?), but I didn’t care. I sniffled and indelicately wiped a finger across my nose.

“Dan’s practically the last honorable guy in Hollywood,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve this. He spent years building his reputation, and I can’t bear what people must be thinking about him now.”

Alain handed me a tissue. “Nobody’s thinking about Dan. They’re too focused on their own affairs. You know what it’s like in this town.”

“He’s accused of
murder
,” I whispered.

Alain snorted. “A juicy extramarital affair with a B-list star trumps murder any day.”

I laughed and blew my nose, almost at the same time.

Andre came out of the back room, holding a tray with enough little tubes of color to keep Mondrian happy. Alain pulled on thick plastic gloves and began methodically mixing.

“I never heard details. Do you mind? Who was the girl who died?” Alain asked, taking a brush and painting the new color carefully onto my roots.

“A would-be actress who never acted, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Not exactly a power player. She worked as a makeup girl for Roy Evans.”

“Roy Evans? Omigod.” He pinched his lips tightly and stared intently at the back of my head as he continued wielding his brush. Alain heard about everything but didn’t repeat much — which is why we all confided in him. But finally he murmured, “I happen to have a client who knows Roy Evans
very
well.”

“Personal friends?” I asked, trying to be discreet.

“She works with him,” Alain said, easily outdiscreeting me.

“I’m going to work with him, too,” I said, a little too quickly. “Decorating. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

“So you’ve met him? What’d you think?”

What
did
I think of Roy Evans? Self-involved. Untrustworthy. Fake as a two-dollar bill, as my mother used to say. “He struck me as having all the depth of a puddle,” I admitted, “but maybe I missed some mud underneath.”

Alain laughed loudly and set the timer for twenty minutes. “I’ve heard all sorts of big Roy stories from my client. Her name’s Julie Boden, by the way. You might want to talk to her. I’ll get you two in touch, if you want.”

“Alain, you’re too wonderful.”

“I know,” he said with a sweet grin, then flitted away.

I opened up a
House & Garden
, but I couldn’t focus on “Ten Ways to Use Paisley” when I was thinking about Julie Boden and Roy Evans and Tasha Barlow. Sometimes L.A. seemed like the ultimate small town. Everybody knew everybody. And somebody probably knew the real killer. Molly had me call Roy. Alain said to call Julie. The Hollywood game of telephone tag, continuing.

Alain came back, peered at the color under the foil, and clucked approvingly. He sent me off for Andre to wash my hair, then told him to apply undercover cream conditioner, secret-formula shine enforcer, and Code One glaze. Getting glossy hair apparently required as much covert action as joining the CIA. I leaned back against the hard ceramic sink as Andre smoothed on the products. Though my neck started to stiffen from the awkward position, it was soothing to have someone taking care of me. I wasn’t in any rush to leave the cozy salon and get back to the real world.

Cell phone reception in Beverly Hills was terrible — one of God or Pacific Bell’s little jokes — so I didn’t get a message from the headmaster at Ashley and Grant’s private school until I was heading home. I pulled over and dialed with trembling fingers. Headmasters like Mark Morland didn’t usually call with good news. I’d have been surprised if he wanted to report that Ashley had scored a field hockey goal or been unexpectedly elected class treasurer.

“I know this is a difficult time for your family,” Mr. Morland said when he picked up. “I spoke to Grant, but since Ashley’s still out, I wondered if I could help her in some way.”

“Ashley’s been back a couple of days. Maybe you just haven’t run into her yet,” I said, glad to be more in the know than he was.

He hesitated only briefly. “Actually, Mrs. Fields, I checked the attendance records before I called.” I should have figured that. “And I spoke to her teachers.” Ditto. “None of them have seen her or heard from her.”

He sounded confident, but it took a minute for the information to sink in. Monday morning at school, I’d watched Ashley disappear into the crowd. But it never occurred to me that she’d actually evaporated.

“I don’t even know what to think,” I said, suddenly panicked. “I’ll come right over.”