Reel Murder (15 page)

His touch was warm and comforting, and for one crazy moment, I felt like laying my head on his strong shoulder for a quick cuddle, and then I came to my senses. It would only give him false hope. I pulled back and wrapped my hands around the stem of the wineglass.

The thing you have to understand about Ted is that he’s smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. He’s probably Cypress Grove’s most eligible bachelor, and everyone—including my mother—can’t understand why I won’t go out with him. Lola always claims that someday she’s going to “pull a Demi Moore” and date him herself. I think she’s only half kidding.

Ted is everything I should be looking for in a guy, except there’s a complete lack of chemistry between us. Like the song says, it’s just one of those things. He doesn’t make my heart go pitter-patter like a certain detective does, and I don’t have X-rated fantasies about him.

Here’s how I would sum it up: hugging Ted always gives me a warm, cozy feeling inside.

But then so does hugging Pugsley.

I took a sip of chilled Chardonnay; it was dry and delicious. “Yes, I saw the whole thing; it was awful. In fact, I can’t get the picture out of my mind.” My skin prickled when I thought of Adriana lying on the sand with a sea of dark red blood pouring out of her chest.

“I can’t believe they’re going to keep on filming,” Ted said. “But from what I hear”—he gestured to the gaggle of guests attacking the cheese puffs—“the show must go on.”

“I always wondered who came up with that slogan—” I began.

“A producer, of course! Who else?” Sandra Michaels suddenly appeared beside me, accompanied by an older actor who looked vaguely familiar. She was her usual bubbly self, but I sensed a nervous edge to her banter. She swallowed half her mimosa in one gulp. “That’s what they always say, isn’t it, Sidney? Actors don’t have personal lives, do they? We’re just paid to get up there and play our characters, no matter what. It’s all about the show, all about the profits.”

His brows rose a fraction and he managed a small laugh. “That may be true. But all of us love the business too much to leave it, don’t we darling? If we weren’t actors, what in the world would we be doing?” He smiled at me and extended his hand. “Sidney Carter. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Maggie Walsh.” I paused, taking a closer look at him. Finely chiseled features, tall with a good build, thick hair that was gray at the temples. “Your name is familiar, but I can’t seem to—”

“Don’t worry, no one recognizes me.” He flashed a wry grin. “I’m not a star. I’ve always been a second-string actor; you know, the ones who turn up in minor roles in loads of films. The third male lead, the guy you never remember.”

“Sidney, don’t talk about yourself that way! Sidney is an amazing actor,” Sandra said firmly, her cheeks high with color. “He has the best training of anyone I know, and he should be starring in films, not playing character roles.” Her voice had ratcheted up a notch or two and I wondered how many mimosas she’d had. “It’s just the nature of this crappy business. It grinds you up and spits you out, and we have no control over our careers—”

Sidney laid a restraining hand on her arm, his smile never wavering. “Now Sandra, we don’t want to ruin the magic, do we? Civilians like to think that we have the best jobs in the world.” I knew from Mom that movie and theater people always referred to the rest of the population as “civilians,” meaning anyone who wasn’t in show business. He turned to me. “I hear you’re working as a consultant on the set. I’m afraid things are at a standstill at the moment, though.”

“Yes, I wanted to ask you about that,” I said quickly. “Is there any news about when Hank will resume filming?”

Sidney swirled his mimosa around and stared glumly into his glass. “I suppose whenever a suitable period of mourning for Adriana has passed,” he said sardonically. He gave a humorless little laugh.

“A period of mourning for Adriana? That would only take a New York minute,” Sandra piped up. Sidney shot her a warning look and she flushed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that all of us are used to working and this enforced . . . vacation . . . is getting on our nerves. Not that this isn’t a lovely place,” she said quickly to Ted, who was hovering nearby. She glanced out at the expanse of manicured lawn, graceful palms, and colorful bougainvillea. The palms were swaying gracefully in the night air, as if they were lulling themselves to sleep. “Under different circumstances, I think I could really enjoy Cypress Grove.”

“It’s a charming town,” Sidney offered. I had the feeling he was saying it just to be polite. He took a swig of wine, his brows knitted in concentration. “I’m afraid our nerves are a bit frazzled tonight.”

“Yes, that’s it!” Sandra said. “We’re all so worried about the movie and what’s going to happen to our careers. You understand, don’t you?” she asked Ted, who had moved in closer.

“Of course.” He smiled, ever the polite host. “You must feel like you’re in limbo. The filming is at a standstill, yet you’re stuck here in our little town. It’s enough to stress anyone out. And of course, the terrible tragedy with Adriana.” He noticed Sandra and Sidney both were holding empty glasses and gently took them out of their hands. “Let me get everyone another round. Things will seem much brighter, I promise you.”

“Is he for real?” Sandra asked when he’d hurried away. “He’s so damn nice and he’s always smiling. Give him a hat and a cane and he could be Jiminy Cricket.”

My eyebrows shot up. Is that how Ted came across to people—as an irritating chucklehead? Couldn’t they see he was a just a genuinely friendly guy? “Ted’s for real,” I assured her. “He’s just one of these cheerful people. He loves what he does and he enjoys making people happy.”

“Then he’s the polar opposite of Adriana,” Sandra muttered. “She lived to make people
unhappy.
I think she thrived on it.”

“Let’s not speak ill of the dead,” Sidney said quickly. There was a long beat of silence and Sidney was the first to rally with a change of topic. “So, what is your area of expertise, Maggie? Forensics?”

I nodded. “Yes, I did a lot of forensic work back in Manhattan. So when Hank invited me to the set to look over the script and do some consulting, I thought it might be fun. Usually it’s my mom who’s on the movie set. You probably know she’s playing a small role in
Death Watch
.”

“Oh yes, Lola Walsh. Of course. I met her the other day; charming lady.”

I listened to Sidney talking about his early days in the business and suddenly something clicked. “Yes, of course I remember you!” I said. “You did some work on
Dynasty
and
Falcon Crest
. And you starred in some thrillers, some very edgy, noir stuff; you were terrific.”

“Sidney was going to be the new James Bond,” Sandra said. She patted his arm, her blue eyes clouding a little. “But it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to,” she finished, with a razor sharp edge in her voice. “It wasn’t fair; it really wasn’t.”

“Fair”? I wondered what she was driving at, unless she was still on a rant about the vagaries of show business.

“Sometimes fate intervenes in your life,” Sidney said lightly. “Things were going wonderfully for me for a while and a lot of terrific parts were coming my way. Everyone was sending me scripts; I could pick and choose the parts I wanted to play.”

“They called him Hollywood’s Golden Boy,” Sandra interjected. “The next James Dean.”

“Yes, well,” Sidney murmured, “like they say, that was then and this is now.” I must have looked surprised because he went on. “I guess some things just weren’t meant to be.” He rubbed his face with his hand as if he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. “Well, those days are over; no sense in dwelling on it. I’m lucky to be a working actor; I don’t need to be a star.”

Ted appeared with refills for everyone, and after saying my good-byes, I darted back through the hedge, like Alice.

A ruined career, a lifetime of playing second-string parts? My heart was beginning to jump and my gut feeling told me there was more to the story than Sidney and Sandra were letting on.

I knew I had to find out more. It was time to compare notes with Nick.

“Sidney Carter?” Nick’s voice raced over the line. “That was a big Hollywood scandal, or I should say, a big Hollywood cover-up. It was years ago, before my time, but I can check it out for you in a sec.” He paused. “How is this relevant to the murder?”

“I don’t know yet.” I quickly filled him in on the conversation at the Seabreeze. I was still puzzled over how furious Sandra had been but I couldn’t make sense of any of it. As Rafe always says, “usually when people are pissed off, they’re telling the truth.” But what was the truth about Sidney Carter and how did it fit into the puzzle?

Sometimes I think psychology is like detective work; both involve puzzles and require endless patience. When I was seeing patients back in my practice back in New York, I’d listen to their stories every week and try to make sense of what they were telling me. I had to figure out how all their hopes and dreams, their fantasies and disappointments fit into the big picture. What was relevant and what wasn’t? Which facts should I concentrate on, and which should I brush aside?

I finally decided that everything is relevant. Failed marriages, career problems, financial woes; everything is connected, even though the patients never realize it at the first session. The “presenting problem” is often not the real issue; usually it’s just the tip of the iceberg. It might take weeks or even months to get to the real issue, as the clock ticks by in fifty-minute hours.

It all feels like a giant jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be solved. Of course, some patients “fail to disclose” as they say in shrink-speak, and they decide to keep some of the pieces tucked away safely in their pocket. That makes the puzzle a million times harder to solve.

I have the feeling murderers do the same thing.

I kept the phone clamped to my ear as Nick tapped away. I’d just finished dinner and was sprawled on my bed, going over my notes for the next day’s show. Pugsley gave a soft grunt in his sleep—he was stretched flat out on my new Laura Ashley bedspread, without a care in the world. I’d like to believe in reincarnation, because I’d be happy to come back to earth as a beloved pug.

“Okay, here’s the scoop on Sidney Carter,” Nick said finally, breaking into my thoughts. “His career took a nosedive because of an AIDS rumor. An AIDS rumor that Adriana started.”

“That’s awful. Why would she do something like that?”

“Who knows? The sad thing is, it wasn’t even true. He didn’t have AIDS. He
never
had AIDS. But once the word got out there, his career bombed.”

“You’re saying people thought he had AIDS and no one hired him?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Nick’s voice was soft but the undertone was deadly. “This was the eighties, after all. Things were different back then and the disease was poorly understood. Do you remember when Burt Reynolds lost weight because of a TMJ problem, and everyone thought he had AIDS? Loni Anderson talks about it in her autobiography. She said her own hairdresser banned her from his Beverly Hills salon—he thought her presence there might upset the customers. They might think that if she was married to someone with AIDS, she could be contagious herself.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Yes, but that’s the way things were back then. It looks like Carter’s last decent role was in a thriller,
Call at Midnight
. Everything after that is character roles, small parts, nothing memorable. No doubt about it. He never scored another big part.”

“It’s still hard to believe his career ended up in the toilet because of a rumor.” I carefully edged some papers out from under Pugsley, who had started to snore, face twitching, paws racing like a greyhound’s.

“Those were crazy times, Maggie,” Nick said. “Even the hint of AIDS was the kiss of death for a film career. I can make a few calls tonight and find out more details. AP has cut back on their stringers, but I still have a few friends who cover entertainment on the West Coast. Want to do lunch tomorrow? Meet you at Gino’s to compare notes?”

“Sure, sounds good. Gino’s at twelve.”

I flipped the phone shut and thought for a moment. So Sidney Carter’s career was killed by a false rumor. But why didn’t anyone refute it? Was it the sort of thing that once it’s out there, the damage is done?

“An early day on the set, sweetie. Are you up for it?”

It was barely six thirty, but Mom was already bustling around the kitchen, and the delicious smell of french vanilla coffee was wafting through the air. Lark was frying some veggie sausage and my stomach gave a happy gurgle when I spotted the Belgian-waffle maker sitting on the counter. Lark loves to cook and one of her recent discoveries is waffles made out of heart-healthy almond meal, topped with a homemade fresh blueberry sauce. Delish.

My idea of breakfast is a strawberry Pop-Tart along with a few cups of java, but Lark is determined to “educate my palate,” as she calls it. I have to admit, she’s winning. Her waffles are world-class, and if she ever tires of her paralegal studies, she could be a gourmet chef.

“I think with three cups of coffee, I’ll be ready to go,” I promised. “Just pour on those calories and caffeine.” Lark placed a steaming plate of waffles and veggie sausage links in front of me along with a side dish of sliced mango and kiwi.

“I want you to eat every bite,” she said, wagging her finger at me in mock reproach. “You need more than coffee, Maggie. Remember, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Yeah, and my body is my temple,” I kidded right back.

“Speaking of temples,” Mom cut in, “do you think this Goddess look is too mature for me?” She was holding up a gauzy pale green dress with flowing lines and thin ribbons crisscrossing the bodice. It was floaty and diaphanous, with a Grecian flair. She’d pulled it out of a Nordstrom’s bag, and I wondered if she’d picked it up at Sawgrass Mills.