Looks to Die For (27 page)

“Julie Boden and Roy Evans,” I confirmed to Molly in a whisper, as we got closer.

“I thought he’d been tossed off the commercial. Ego bigger than his talent.”

“That’s what I heard.”

We approached the twosome from behind, and we’d maneuvered within shouting distance when Julie finally sensed someone coming. Startled, she swiveled around and seemed to shove something into the sand behind her back.

But Molly strode up to her with a friendly smile. And then, of all the unlikely openings for a desert rendezvous, she extended a hand as if she were table-hopping at Spago and said, “I’m Molly Archer of Molly Archer Casting.”

Julie scrambled to her feet and, against all odds, looked vaguely impressed. She hesitantly reached out to shake Molly’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m here to tell you that I should have cast this commercial for you,” Molly said. “Hire my agency and I’ll get Sting to star in your next round.”

If Julie was baffled that Molly Archer had traveled to Rainbow Basin trying to drum up business, she didn’t show it. Getting a gig in Hollywood was never easy.

“We have Jessica Simpson starring,” Julie said.

“You’re doing a car commercial, not the Radio Music Awards,” chided Molly. “Jessica’s fans are too young to drive.”

“Buick wanted to hit a younger demographic.”

“Haven’t they heard about Boomer power? Forty to sixty is the new eighteen to thirty-four.”

Julie paused to ponder that one. But Roy Evans, annoyed with shop talk, stood up now, too. He looked even bulkier than I had remembered, his eyes meaner. He sniffed the air like a black bear sensing trouble, then took a lumbering step forward.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” he asked.

In the odd acoustics of the desert, the deep growl of his voice resounded across the rocks, bouncing across the canyons and echoing angrily back at us.

“We’re hiking,” Molly said, thoroughly unruffled. “Isn’t this a beautiful place? And since we all ended up here together, we might as well talk.”

“I don’t want to talk. To either of you. Get the hell out,” Roy said. Behind him, the sun was sinking fast, and the spot where we stood suddenly fell into shadow.

“Thanks, but we’ll stay. This is a public preserve,” said Molly mildly.

“Get out,” Roy repeated, his voice jagged. “It’s dangerous to hike here. Especially for your friend. Her.”

And to prove it, he pulled out a gun and shot once into the distance.

I screamed, then screamed again. But the earsplitting report of the bullet overpowered my shrill shrieks of terror. I jerked back, planning to run away, but instead I tripped on a rock and stumbled. Molly grabbed for my arm and pulled me back to my feet. She held me tightly and I figured we’d hot-foot it down the hill together, but instead she squared her shoulders to face Roy and stood unbudging.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked him, with just the slightest tremble in her voice.

“Come closer and you’ll find out,” Roy said. He moved the gun in a slow arc in front of him then pointed it at me, the barrel on an even line with my chest. If he pulled the trigger, at least I’d die fast.

Julie took a few steps toward Roy and reached out to stroke his shoulder. “Put it away, Roy,” she said softly but firmly. “Put the gun away. You don’t need any more trouble.”

“She’s the troublemaker,” Roy replied, staring at me across the barrel of the weapon. “Little Miss Goody Two-shoes. I fucked Tasha, so that means I killed her, huh? Is that what you’re trying to prove?”

“I…I don’t know,” I said, my voice croaking as badly as a first-round failure on
American Idol
.

“Why would anyone think you killed Tasha?” Molly asked boldly. Despite the gun, she hadn’t stepped away from my side.

Roy snorted. “Did you tell her about the tapes yet?” he asked me. “The ones you said you threw away?”

I shook my head. I hadn’t mentioned them and, dammit, I still hadn’t watched them. I should have, because for Roy, real life was reel life, best played out on a screen.

“Then let’s clear the air,” Roy said, his nostrils flaring. He looked at Molly. “Two kinds of movies get made in L.A. and Tasha only had a chance in one of them. But even that’s tough. She was lousy at threesomes and just ordinary for straight fucking and blow jobs. But she was made for S and M. She still had that scared look when she got tied up.”

“So you were helping her get into porn,” Molly said coolly.

“Not a crime,” said Roy, even though it was. “We made some audition tapes the day she died, right after I took her to get her tongue pierced.” Roy snickered. “I should’ve had a camera there. She screamed so loud I swear the queer tattoo artist got a hard-on.”

“What happened to the audition tapes?” Molly asked.

“Your friend the bitch has them.” He turned to me with a leer. “What do you do, watch them every night before you fuck that killer husband of yours? He get off on seeing Tasha tied up?”

“If I had the tapes, don’t you think I’d have given them to the police by now?” I asked tremulously, ignoring both his sordid question and the queasy feeling in my stomach.

The sun had dipped behind another peak and darkness was setting in quickly. Roy stroked the gun in his hand.

Julie touched Roy’s shoulder again. “Stop worrying about the tapes,” she said to him almost in a whisper. “Even if they show them to a jury, it’ll just be evidence of Tasha’s bad character, not yours.”

“I was helping her,” Roy hissed. “I got her to wax her bush. Pierce her tongue. Every time I advised her, she was grateful. Made sure to thank me regularly. Why would I kill her?”

“You wouldn’t,” Julie said briskly. “Ms. Molly Archer of Molly Archer Casting understands that Tasha must have appreciated you. She knows what people will do for a break in this business.”

“I’ve never dealt with the porn business,” Molly said evenly.

“It’s all the same,” Julie said, smoothing out the bangs around her face. “You know what they say: the difference between a movie star and a porn star is the size of her tits.”

Roy laughed and slipped the gun back into his pocket. He seemed normal again — Mr. Hyde gone and Dr. Jekyll returned. Just like that day at his apartment, a switch flipped to change him from star to psychopath — and back again.

“We need to leave. The crew is expecting me back at the hotel,” Julie said. She turned her back to us and kneeled down, digging out the vial that she’d shoved into the sand and slipping it into her bag. We gathered belongings and walked down the hill together, as if we’d just finished a late-afternoon picnic.

“How’s the commercial going?” Molly asked Julie when we got to her Range Rover.

“We should finish tomorrow,” Julie said, in producer mode. “We start at dawn to catch the sun rising over the desert. Amazing light at that hour. The whole place gets an eerie pink glow.”

For mimicking the Red Planet, pink was apparently close enough. Right now, though, everything around us had dissolved into shades of gray.

“It’s beautiful here,” Molly said. Then, turning to Roy, she added casually, “So pretty I guess you couldn’t stay away, even after Julie fired you off the commercial.”

I tensed, half expecting Roy to grab for his gun again. But Julie gave him a little kiss on the cheek and linked her arm through his.

“Roy came out to visit and cheer me up,” she said. And there was something like affection in her voice when she added, “He’s always full of surprises.”

Molly drove the Range Rover slowly down the now dark Old Fossil Road. Roy followed closely behind, his headlights beaming bright in the rearview mirror. When we hit the highway, Molly picked up speed and Roy did the same, zipping past her and disappearing into the black night. Eventually, we spotted the neon lights of the Best Western sign glowing against the dark sky, but Molly didn’t slow down. Like me, she wanted to get away.

We chatted idly, not quite ready to analyze the bizarre scene that had just occurred. But then there was a long silence and Molly finally said, “You okay?”

“I guess so.” I sighed. “This gets weirder and weirder, doesn’t it? At least Roy cleared up the mystery of the tapes. Now I’m just pissed that we came all this way and didn’t get any information on Johnny DeVito.”

Molly shook her head. “You’re like the cops. You get a theory and then you only want evidence that’ll support it. A few minutes ago you were up close and personal with Roy Evans’s handgun. Aren’t you a little curious about the psycho with the Saturday night special?”

“Is that what it’s called?” I asked. Not that it made much difference. Whether he was a bozo with a Beretta or a freak waving a forty-five, I didn’t want anything more to do with him.

Molly shrugged. “I didn’t do a ballistics test, but I can tell you it wasn’t a prop. He had a gun in his pocket, and he wasn’t happy to see us.”

I nodded. “Roy’s scary. But he seems more desperate than dangerous. Johnny, on the other hand, is an ex-con and a blackmailer. And probably a killer.”

“But Roy’s just a charter member of the Sierra Club, looking for unspoiled places to hike?”

Instead of replying, I peeked out the window to check where we were, but the landscape disappeared into inky blackness just a few feet away. All seemed calm, but I half expected a coyote or a jaguar to leap out from the murky depths and claw at our safe, sealed car. Isn’t that what had happened with Dan and me? We’d been gliding along, cozy and secure in our idyllic suburban life, when inexplicable danger suddenly menaced.

“Hungry?” Molly asked me suddenly.

“Starved,” I admitted, grateful for the change of topic. “Or maybe it’s just that huge hole in the pit of my stomach.”

“At least it’s not from a bullet,” said Molly, with black humor.

We pulled off the road at the next exit, and for once in my life I would have been happy to see a Burger King or some golden arches. But instead of fast food America, we’d exited into last-century Americana. The town boasted a general store (closed) and a gas station (ditto). The only light glowed dimly from a small aluminum-sided diner, and Molly pulled up next to a sign outside promising
MEATLOFA SPECIAL
, $7.99.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had meatloaf,” Molly said as we went inside and settled into a booth with red vinyl seats and a speckled Formica table. The glass salt-and-pepper shakers and the sugar dish looked like they’d been there since about 1965, and a television set over the counter blasted the Classic Sports network. The two old men sitting on stools in front of it drank beers and futilely hollered for Dallas to win Super Bowl V. On the set, Curt Gowdy talked about quarterback Johnny Unitas and mentioned the college band that would play at halftime. No multimillion-dollar production with klieg lights, screaming fans, and the Rolling Stones? Even I was feeling a little nostalgic.

“They don’t have meatloaf — they have meatlofa,” I said, pulling myself back to the moment. “Which could be made out of almost anything.”

“Got to take a chance once in a while,” Molly said. “Here’s hoping it comes with mashed potatoes.”

The waitress came over and Molly ordered her meatloaf special. This was a place to watch a zone defense, not order a Zone diet, but I asked for an omelet with no toast, no French fries, and no cheese.

“And egg whites only, please,” I said.

“Can’t do that,” said the waitress, taking my menu. “You ever seen an egg that came without a yolk?”

Molly grinned at me, and when the waitress walked away, she said, “Good lesson. Sometimes you have to take things as they come. Appreciate what’s in front of you.”

I sighed. “I know you’re not talking about meatloaf. Or even meatlofa. So what’s in front of me that I’m not appreciating?”

“Do I have to tell you again?” Molly leaned forward, her eyes glinting with excitement. “Think about it. The same Roy Evans who’d been kicked off a commercial was sitting in the middle of the desert with Julie Boden, the woman who’d kicked him off. And then, just for the fun of it, he started waving a gun. He at least deserves to be on your list of suspects.”

I took a piece of white bread from the basket and began tearing it into small pieces. “So Roy’s crazy, I get that. He’s a creep. But if every creep in L.A. had also killed someone, the highways wouldn’t be so crowded.”

“Agreed. But we didn’t know this whole porn angle before.” Molly paused to take her own small piece of bread, then squished it between her fingers into a doughy square. “Here’s the thing. Roy said Tasha’s talent was for S and M and he was helping her make an audition tape. We can pretty well guess that he tied her up for the camera. Now here’s the question. What if he liked the panicked expression on her face so much that he went a little too far trying to get it?”

I squirmed on the vinyl seat. “Every actress’s dream, to die for her art. If you think Roy’s a killer, why were you so stoic out there? Did you notice the gun waving at me?”

“Sorry.” Molly smiled sheepishly. “I came to the quick conclusion that Roy wasn’t firing it, he was just stoked on crystal meth. Julie told you he uses. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, she said, right? I’ve seen actors snorting in the bathroom before a casting call. Word on the street is that it’s as good for acting as for sex because you lose all inhibitions. Dangerous, though. The stuff ’s damn addictive.”

I took a sip of water and crunched on the ice chips. “That doesn’t answer your first question — why Julie and Roy wandered into the desert together.”

Molly shrugged. “You saw the same vial I did. I figure he’s supplying her.”

I blinked a few times, trying to open my eyes to the evidence. “First time I met Julie, I’d decided that she and Roy had been lovers — and the affair went sour. But I could be wrong.”

“Or you could be right,” Molly said generously. “Let’s say she hired him for the first round of commercials because they were screwing. A few obsessive weeks together with wild sex and crystal meth. Then the passion cooled and she got disillusioned.”

I tugged at a corner of my scratchy paper napkin. “Or maybe she was still in love but heard about Tasha and decided to get rid of her rival,” I said, playing out an idea. “She wanted Roy for herself. Who needs competition from someone half your age?”