Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors (15 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pretty and Jeannie

The Hollywood movie or TV star of the current millennium did not live in Beverly Hills or Malibu anymore. In order to be a member of the star elite, you had your main home somewhere in Homeland America, like a ranch in Montana, a waterside residence in Miami Beach, or a penthouse in New York. In modern production conditions, you spent more time in Prague, New Zealand, or Morocco than in the back lot of the LA studio system. So all you needed in LA-LA-Land was just a pied-à-terre.

Jeannie Anthony’s LA foot on the ground was a cozy and roomy beach house overlooking an endless blue sea and a semi-private strip of sand. It was a gated community; the houses had no names on their mailboxes and looked quite normal from the outside, giving the appearance that every regular, well-off family could live here. The inside was a different matter, as I found out when the Hispanic maid showed me to the living room where a girl was sitting at a desk overlooking the Pacific and typing on a small laptop computer.
 

As the maid hadn’t announced me, I cleared my throat to indicate my presence. When the girl turned around, my blood froze. This was not Jeannie Anthony; this was Pretty McAllister. And I wasn’t sure whether she was plain mad at me or was rehearsing for the female version of Hannibal Lecter because she surely had a mean gleam in her eyes. Her colleague Swan Collins had the aura of an untouchable star, and my friend Nicole Berg represented the actress of the people for the people. Pretty McAllister gave the impression of a rich parent’s spoiled brat. She had an annoying way of turning to other things in the middle of a sentence and twisting a lock of hair around a finger—and she was famous in the Hollywood press for throwing tantrums in public places. Well, all that plus some shopaholism, an occasional temporary visit at Betty Ford, and a string of Hollywood’s leading men. She was not Tinseltown’s number-one scandal producer, but she surely was a runner up. Pretty got up and came over toward me in a model-style cat walk, one foot in front of the other. She took her time, eying me suspiciously.
 

“My lawyer said,” she interrupted herself to give a high, crazy giggle, “that under no circumstances am I to slug you.”

I was taken aback. “That’s….” I was looking for a non-offensive remark. “For once, that’s good advice from an otherwise despicable profession.”
 

She giggled again. “But then, he said, if I did, I shouldn’t leave any marks.”

“But I can assure you: I would! And your skin is worth more than mine. Where is Jeannie?” I asked carefully. With this raving mad lunatic, maybe the hostess was already sleeping peacefully in the freezer.
 

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?” Another crazy giggle. “You better be! Jeannie is in her bedroom on the phone. She’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“I think I will wait outside. Don’t want to upset you,” I proposed lamely and took some steps backward from her.

She shrugged and sneered. “Okay by me. When Jeannie told me that you were having a date, I was dying to meet you. I have never seen a real burglar before. A female, too. Intriguing. As for me personally, I think that you are a stealing bitch.”

“I think it is hopeless to try to convince you that I didn’t steal your necklace,” I said dryly, trying not to get a red face.

“You are right; it is hopeless. You are here to ask Jeannie some questions, are you? Have something to ask me while we are at it?” She twisted her hair again, put more gleam into her eyes, and wiggled her hips impatiently.
 

Might as well. “Who accompanied you to the party?”

“John Berg, from the series. We came together but lost sight of each other at the party. Why? Do you suspect him?”

“Maybe. He had a motive,” I tried. Pretty looked interested, and her twist-finger stopped moving. “He had to endure you,” I said to provoke her into attacking me. My legs were just prepared for a nice karate kick into any part of Pretty’s anatomy.

No reaction from Pretty.

“Do you know a guy called Rip Delaware?” I asked.

She twisted hair again and chewed her siliconized lower lip.
Are those padded monstrosities made for that purpose?
 

“Rip. What a cool name. Sounds like an animal in bed.” I waited her out. “Who is he?” she asked.

“Maybe you remember the guy I was with when I was arrested?”

“That well-dressed guy with dark, curly hair and the killer body? Yummy! He’s your steady?”

“You….” I saw something else in her mischievous eyes and changed what I’d been about to say in mid-sentence. “You can say that. We are an item. Do you know him?”

“Well, how well do you know someone when you shared only a line of coke and a quickie?” She put her little finger in her mouth and gave a girlish smile.
 

I remembered to make a shocked face and, after a second of grace, anger. “You didn’t!” I shouted and took a step back.

“Ooh! Did I take your boy toy without permission?”

“I think you are a miserable, spoiled, cheap bitch!” I said through clenched teeth. Somehow I didn’t need to play that part because I was a little jealous, actually. “But at least that fuck was an expensive one for you!”

“I am able to pay for my pleasure. At least we have the same preference,” she mocked me again.
 

“Because right after he pulled out of you and pocketed your necklace as a payment, he came over to me and slipped the jewels into my purse.”

She laughed loudly and walked over to the bar, where she mixed two drinks, still laughing. I breathed in and out and sat down on the couch. Pretty came back and handed me a stiff Scotch on the rocks. She still had a little mean line around the corners of her mouth but was more serious than before.

“Drink this. The line of coke was true. Your boyfriend has a problem with that, just like I do. But the quickie was not true. At least not with him—and not at the same time as the cocaine.”

I drowned my drink and had to shake myself. “Bruha! Jesus, I never drink this stuff.” Drying my tears, I said, “So, he gave you drugs?”

“No, some of the gangster rappers had brought some coke, and we had a little kitchen party in one of the guest bathrooms. There were about six or seven people, and we all had a line and a good time. Rip was one of them.”

“And when did you find out that the necklace was missing?”

“About ten minutes later. Well, I am not sure about the ten minutes. The coke was pretty good, and everything was so sharp and highly defined, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. I’ve never taken drugs.”

She shrugged. “Boring.” Did she mean me or the fact that I didn’t consume drugs? “Anyway, after I came down a bit, I jumped into the party again. The police arrived at that time, and I went down into the garden with the others. I noticed my necklace missing and started screaming.” She gave a small smile. “I thought it was the adequate thing to do.”

“So, it could have been Rip who stole the necklace right from you?” I asked.

“Could have, but it also could have been any other guy or girl I met in between. I could name you at least thirty people I had a quick chat with or gave some hugs and kisses in between.” She put her hand on mine. “Look, sorry about your boyfriend if he turned out to be a user and a thief. People are sometimes not what they appear to be.”
 

I pulled my hand away. “Do tell! Don’t worry. Rip isn’t my boyfriend. I just met him at the party. By accident—or so I thought!”
 

She was back into hair-twisting mode again. “Really? Oh, you had me for a minute. So, he just used both of us to steal Swan’s diamonds and my necklace?”

“That’s one of my current theories to keep me out of jail … if I am able to prove it in time.”

She laughed again. “Good luck with that.”

Jeannie Anthony entered the room from behind and said, “You two seem to be best friends already. I was hoping more for a nice catfight, hair, nails, and all.” She offered her hand to me, and I shook it.

“We were getting to that in a second,” I assured her.

Pretty chimed in, “We are still at foreplay, honey.” This was becoming a scene from a sitcom.
 

Where Pretty radiated casual sex, Jeannie radiated tenderness. Jeannie Anthony was a typical all-American girl from the west plains—Kansas, Oklahoma, or something like that. She had straight brown hair, brown eyes, and the obligatory high cheekbones. She had been an instant success in
Bringing up Baby
, the coming-of-age sitcom that was now going into its seventh season. She played a divorced single mom with a Down syndrome kid fighting the obstacles of everyday American life with a smile and a sigh. Top ratings, shelves full of Emmys, and her face in every American household—and from her appearance, it seemed that she basically played herself. She looked unspectacularly normal in her jeans and t-shirt, barefoot in her own house, offering me a Coke.

“I’ll tell you right away, we have to hurry. I’m going to be on the morning show in New York and have to take the studio’s jet tonight.”
 

“No problem, thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I said.
 

“You probably went through some questions with Pretty. What can I do for you? I have no clue what we are supposed to talk about,” Jeannie said, eying me curiously. “Sorry to ogle you like that, but I have never seen a thief before.”

“Never laid eyes on your agent?” I proposed and got the expected laugh. “I am interested in a colleague of yours who escorted you to the party that night.”

“Ron Delacroix?”
 

“Okay, thank you for that piece of information. He told me his name was Rip Delaware. I met him at Swan’s party, we chatted, got stuck in the raid, and he then whistled for the police, who found the necklace in my possession. Otherwise, I would have gotten away.”

“He did? Wow, what a cool customer!” Jeannie exclaimed. “He really did that?”

I nodded. “How do you know him?”
 

“He was working for the studio and was constantly around the set—did catering and odd jobs on the external locations we were shooting for last year’s season.”

“Catering? Not acting?”

Jeannie looked confused. “Actor? Ron? Well, as much as probably any waiter in this town.”

“How did you get involved with him?” I asked.

Jeannie and Pretty gave me a bland stare for a second, and I tried to figure out where I went wrong. Then Pretty nudged her companion and muttered, “She is not in the business. She doesn’t know!”

Jeannie nodded. “Oh, right, I forgot.”

“You make it sound as if I am not member of a club.”

“When you are a lead actor on the set, you’re under a lot of stress. The movie depends largely on you, there are last-minute script changes you have to cram into your head and, worst of all, any acne spot could develop into a major special effects effort.” Jeannie rolled her eyes at the hardships of her job.

“What does that have to do with Ron Delaware or Rip Delacroix?”

Pretty sniggered. “Don’t you think that sex is a very relaxing thing?”
 

Better not dive into that part of my life—the part I call the desert. “Sure, with the right … oh, I get you.” I actually blushed a little. Jeannie didn’t.
 

“You must admit, he looks yummy. During breaks, we sometimes chatted about this and that. He was actually witty and charming, and after five days, we screwed our brains out. And he was pretty good at that.”
 

“When was that?”

“About two months ago?” Jeannie had to think. “Yeah, we were filming the winter scenes on location in Toronto.”

“And you invited him to the Oscar after-show party?”

“Yeah, he expressed interest, so I took him along. Why not?” She shrugged easily.

“Are you still … eh … relaxing together?” I asked carefully.

“No, it stopped after Canada. A fuck here and there, but not serious or regular.” I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. Was this the generation after AIDS, or what?

I asked Jeannie about any suspicions about the identity of Rip or whether he might not be what he claimed to be, but she couldn’t provide anything enlightening.

“Listen, he was a boy toy, nothing more. We both got our kicks out of it, and there are worse things in the world.”

As it turned out, the only number she had for him was the one from the pizza shop, and she had never crashed at his place, ever.
 

Clever boy.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alibi Mundy