Death in Daytime (8 page)

"Alex, what are you doing?" she asked, when I explained the situation to her. "Just let the police handle it."

"Mom," I said, "the police think I did it. Don't you understand?"

"But that one detective said he didn't believe you were guilty."

"He's not the lead detective on the case," I said. "And besides that, I think he's a little bit of a whacko. He kept trying to call me Tiffany."

"Oh my," she said. "You've told me about people like that, who can't tell the difference between what's real and what's soap opera. And this is the detective who is actually on your side?"

"Tiffany's side, is more like it."

"Well then, what about Paul?"

"What about him?"

"Why not ask him for help?" she said. "Isn't this what he does?"

"Mom. I like Paul, but I just don't want to depend on him so much. It's too soon. And I feel like I'm not being fair to him."

"Alex . . ."

"What?"

"Paul
wants
you to depend on him."

"I'm not ready, Mom. We're doing just fine--you and Sarah and I are good on our own. I don't want her to get too attached. It's complicated. . . ."

"But you need him--"

"I don't need him! I can do this," I said. "I've watched so much court TV and cold-case shows I feel like I'm an expert. It's as if I've taken a course in it."

Okay, I know that sounded naive, but that's how I felt.

"How can you possibly know what to do next?"

"There are so many suspects," I said. "All I have to do is find the one who had the most to gain from Marcy's death."

"And how will you do that?"

"By talking to them."

"And if they won't talk to you?"

"I'll have to think of something else," I said.

"Interview their neighbors, their families or best friends."

"How would you like it if someone did the same thing to you?" she asked.

"They are, Mother," I said. "They're called the police."

"At least talk to a lawyer," she said. "Your cousin Jennifer's husband is a lawyer--"

"He's a tax attorney, Mom. Look, I just need your help with Sarah so that I'm free to move around until this is over."

"What about work?"

"We're almost caught up," I said. "I have two scenes tomorrow, then a day off and then the weekend."

"All right," she said, "I'll help you, but on one condition."

"What is it?"

"By the beginning of next week, if you haven't managed to clear yourself of suspicion, you'll get help. I don't care if it's Paul, or a lawyer, or whoever, but you'll get some help."

I smiled at my mother and said, "It's a deal."

"There's my girl," she said, reaching across the table and patting my hand.

And unexpectedly I suddenly felt like a little girl again. I grabbed my mother's hand and held it.

"Mom, why is it so easy for people I work with to think I could do this?"
Mom, why won't the other kids
play with me?
No wonder I related to Sarah's pre-K

issues. She put her other hand over mine and said, "Honey, sometimes people just naturally rush to judgment without thinking. It gives them comfort and makes them feel safe to put people and things in slots, whether they're the right ones or not. It's just easier for them to think it's you."

"Thanks, Mom," I said, squeezing her hand. "You always say the right thing. Well, almost always." She made a face at me and I made one back, and we laughed. Chicks rule.

That night, after my mother left and I finally got Sarah to bed, I turned on my laptop and checked my e-mails. Sure enough, there were two from Will. I opened the first and it was a long note.
Alexis,

I did a background check on Marcy Blanchard and
found that she married a man named Henry Roswell
twenty years ago, in New York. They had a daughter
two years later. Then, when they got divorced two
years ago, the husband got custody of the daughter.
They all still live in California. The husband is in
Malibu. His address and some personal history are at-
tached. I also have some personal stuff about the
daughter, which I'll send in a second e-mail. I hope all
of this helps.

Your friend,

Will

The "your friend" at the end endeared the kid even more to me.

I managed to open the attached file without too much trouble. Sure enough, Henry Roswell's Malibu address was there, as well as some background on him. I fired up my printer and printed out the three pages.

Then I opened the second e-mail. The daughter's name was Julia Roswell. She was seventeen and, apparently, wanted to be an actress. There were some stills online, and Will had copied them for me. I wondered if Marcy had been planning on doing anything to help her daughter break into the business. I printed out the file on the daughter. Since my printer didn't do color, the photos came out black-andwhite, but I knew from the ones on the screen that she was a blonde, and very pretty. She looked a little bit like her mother, who hadn't exactly been ugly. There were no photos of her father in the e-mail, but I imagined he was handsome and had passed those genes along to the girl.

I took the printed pages and a cup of tea with me to my bedroom. I put them on the night table, then got myself ready for bed.

Even as I slid between the sheets I could feel my eyes starting to close. I tried to drink the tea and read the pages, but damned if I didn't drift off to sleep without finishing either of them.

The next day, as I told my mother, I had two scenes with Sammy directing. I decided to put his words behind me and get on with the job so I could start being what I've always wanted to be--an amateur detective. I stuffed the pages Will had sent me into my bag, hoping to read them later. I decided to have my makeup done that morning by Linda; that way I'd have her cornered.

"I don't get to work on you very much, Alex," she commented.

"I'm lazy today, Linda. Besides, I'm supposed to look a little haggard--you know, dark circles under my eyes--and I can't quite muster up the courage to do that to myself."

"Great," she said, "I have to make you look less than beautiful. I get all the hard jobs."

"You're sweet," I said. "So, what have you heard about me killing Marcy?"

She almost poked me in the eye with a mascara brush.

"Alex!"

"Oh, don't play coy with me, Linda. I've been hearing all the rumors." I'd already decided that my best course of action would be a straightforward one. Best offense, and all that.

"First, I think it's horrible that she was killed,"

Linda said. "Second, I don't believe for a minute that you did it."

"Well, thank you very much for that vote of confidence," I said. "And third?" Isn't there always a third?

"Third . . . I'm not sad that she's dead, and I guess that makes me a horrible person."

"If you are, then you're a member of a big club," I said. "I guess no one liked poor Marcy."

"That's because poor Marcy was a goddamned bitch," Linda said.

So far I'd heard her called a bitch, and a "royal,"

"true" and "goddamned" bitch. Everybody seemed to share the same basic opinion of her.

"Wow!" I said. "That's pretty harsh, coming from someone who really didn't have to work with her."

"Maybe not," she said, "but I did the makeup for a lot of people who worked with her, and let me tell you, plenty of them . . ."

My heart started to race.

"Plenty of them . . . what? Come on, Linda, don't cop out on me now."

"Well . . . I was going to say there are a lot of people who wanted her--who wouldn't have minded if she got herself--"

"Are you trying to say there are a lot of people with a motive to kill her?"

Linda looked at me in the mirror. "If you want to believe rumors."

***

Linda turned out to be Rumor Central. It was like reading a gossip column.

What studly soap actor was in danger of losing his job if he didn't agree to have a little fling with the head writer on the side?

What veteran actress--not me--had been reduced to running personal errands for a certain head writer in order to keep her part viable?

What aging soap actor had been driven by selfdoubt--fueled by Marcy's treatment of him--to hire a life coach?

And what young staff writer had been forced to allow his own work to be presented as that of the head writer, who had run into a little case of writer's block?

Four likely suspects--in my eyes, anyway--and yet all of them had confided in Linda that they didn't "care" if I'd killed Marcy. And if they didn't care if I did it, did that necessarily mean they didn't?

And why would they air their grievances to Linda, who was so notorious for passing on rumors?

"Have you told the police any of this?"

"It's all gossip," Linda said carefully. "I'll tell you, I'll tell George, I'll tell some other people connected to the show, but why would I tell the cops? I don't want to cast suspicion on anybody."

"Because it could take some of the heat off me," I told her.

"Then why don't you tell them yourself?"

"Coming from me, it would just sound like I was trying to cover my own ass."

"Alexis," she said, tossing me a surprised look in the mirror, "you want me to throw some other people to the cops so they'll stop looking at you?"

I hesitated, then said in frustration, "Noooo! That would just make me a horrible person, too, wouldn't it?"

I looked in the mirror and saw the dark circles Linda had put under my eyes.

"How is it?" she asked.

"Too damned good," I said. "Looks like me after a particularly bad night with Sarah."

"Well, then I guess my work here is done!" she replied.

I got through my two scenes and went to my dressing room. I had the distinct feeling that everyone on the show thought I was a killer. I could feel their eyes following every move I made. Despite the words of wisdom from my mother the night before, it was still very disconcerting to think that people I'd known for a long time--some of whom I thought of as friends--could even imagine I'd hurt Marcy. And to add to the frustration, some of them--most of them?--had obviously expressed their opinions to the police. There were still several members of the cast I needed to talk to. But with the word going out--I knew Linda
wouldn't
be able to keep her mouth shut--

that I was snooping around, I decided not to approach them at the studio. I knew where everybody lived, so I was going to conduct my interviews at their homes. The same went for the ex-husband Marcy seemed to be trying to hide from me--Henry Roswell. I dressed in my street clothes--back to the comfort of my jeans and sweatshirt--and dug out the pages Will had sent me. I double-checked the Roswell address and saw that I'd be able to kill two birds with one stone. He lived right near one of the actors on the show, Andy McIntyre.

I read the background. Roswell was an investment banker, apparently good enough to eventually go out on his own, which was what he'd done when he moved to California with Marcy and their daughter. According to the info from Will, it was Roswell who had filed for divorce, citing the old standby "irreconcilable differences." Marcy had countersued with

"alienation of affection," and "mental cruelty," but that obviously did not fly with the judge, who gave Roswell custody. A closer look at the dates told me that Marcy and her family had moved to California three years ago, and divorced just a year later. There was more to read, but I needed to get moving if I wanted to squeeze some interviews in that day and still get home in time to have dinner with Sarah. I began with Roman Stroud. He was one of the younger studs on the show--the stud who apparently had been forced to sleep with Marcy in order to keep his job. He started out playing a stable boy on the Benedict family estate. It must get pretty hot in those horse stalls, because Roman was sweaty and shirtless just about every day. Alas, he got Tiffany's younger half sister, Cicely, pregnant (on the show, remember) and in true soap opera fashion worked his way up from the tack room to the boardroom.

Roman's character, Tyler Sullivan, went from shoveling horse poop to becoming a high-powered executive in the land development empire in record time, but that hadn't stopped him from taking his shirt off. His executive offices apparently had a shower and a steam room. Lots of opportunities for shirtlessness. We had had a few scenes together, mostly me screaming at him to get away from my sister, but I really hadn't gotten to know him very well. I found out he lived in Venice Beach, not far from where I lived, but in a funky apartment complex, inhabited by a lot of young twentysomethings like himself.

"He's not home," some very tan beach bunny said as she passed by me as I was knocking on Roman's door. "He's at the beach, working out in the pit," she added as she shifted her laundry to her other hip.

"Aren't you that lady on Romy's show? My mom watches you every day."

"Thank your mom for me." I wondered if she'd heard of skin cancer.

I headed out to find Roman. Apparently he was honing his "skills" at Muscle Beach, just a short walking distance from where he lived. Muscle Beach was an outdoor workout area where bodybuilders went to see and be seen. I rounded the corner and sure enough, there was Roman, in all his sweaty glory. He was wearing a tight spandex number that left little to the imagination. No wonder the writers wanted to keep him in a towel.

"Alex, what are you doing here?" he asked, dropping a huge barbell on the mat.

"Looking for you," I said.

"Slumming?"

I was taken aback.

"Why would you say that?"

"You don't talk to me very much when we're on the set," he said. "Makes me wonder why you would show up here. I mean, I'm not really in your circle of friends." He moved over to the heavy bag and started to punch it softly.

"Roman, as far as I know I don't really have enough friends at work to make a circle. I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt slighted. I'm kind of curious though. I mean, why are you so defensive?"