“What do you mean not done?”
“With professionals, there is no exchange of bodily fluids. In other words, you fake it. You move your lips and head in such a way that it looks real, but it’s not!” I found myself going through the motions of a stage kiss.
I stopped when I realized he was staring at my mouth. Flustered, I dug into my bag. I pulled out a
Soap Opera Digest
I’d picked up at the market earlier. Shayne Weaver was on the cover.
“This is her. Shayne Weaver. She’s pretty, huh? Doesn’t look like a murderer. And by the way, she’s small . . . only five-four.”
“Save me all the reasons why she couldn’t be the killer. Who’s next?”
“There’s Penny Mason. Makeup artist who works only as a sub. She comes and goes. Bev Cartwright: she’s a stage manager. I heard that maybe a little somethin’ somethin’ could have happened when he first started out as an under five on another show. Th—”
“Wait. Under five?” Jakes asked.
“Oh, yeah, you don’t know. An under five is a performer who has under five lines. Not quite a full role . . . not quite an extra. You got to start somewhere, right? As I was saying, I also heard about Jackson and Mandy Tessler. She’s another actress on my show. They dated a while and she broke it off. I don’t know why. And everyone heard about his thing with Marty Humphries. She works in the office as a casting assistant. Some say she helped him get the job. Probably just gossip. But then again, isn’t everything?” I thought I’d covered everything.
“Christ! How long had this guy been on the show? When did he sleep? Are you sure that’s it?”
“No. But it’s all I know about. And remember, it could all be bullshit. But I doubt it. But don’t hold me to it, okay?” I wasn’t thrilled about giving over the information. But maybe, if it would help find Jackson’s killer, I could live with myself.
Chapter 8
He wrote all the names down, pausing only to pop one of my fries into his mouth. I noticed I was going through my lunch a lot faster than he was and tried to slow down.
“So these are the women you think might have hated Jackson enough to kill him?”
“No,” I said slowly, “these are the women I happen to know could have possibly slept with Jackson.”
“Do you know how they each felt when he ended the relationship?”
“Detective—”
“Aw, come on, Alex,” he said. “You gotta start call-in’ me Frank.”
“Would you mind if I call you Jakes? You just don’t seem like a Frank to me,” I said. “Okay . . . Jakes, from what I know and what I’ve heard, Jackson wasn’t really into relationships.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“Know what?”
“That this superstud didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“Well . . . no, I don’t know it. I suppose he could have had someone on a more steady basis, but if he did I never met her.”
“Which would make her a pretty good suspect,” he added, “if she found out about these other women.” He finished his water. “Coffee?”
“Sure, why not?” I wanted to ask some more questions of my own.
Over crème brûlée and coffee—my crème brûlée; his coffee—I asked, “Who’s claiming the body?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Well, no one so far,” he said. “We haven’t been able to locate any family. We went through his apartment and found an address book.”
“A little black book?”
“Actually, it was green,” he said. “We’ve got somebody calling all the numbers, trying to identify the people attached to them.”
“Isn’t that a little cold?” I asked. “There’s bound to be a relative in there, and your somebody is just going to blurt it out that Jackson’s dead.”
“Well, number one, no,” he said. “We’re just trying to find out who’s who. Nobody’s going to be told anything about him being dead.”
“And number two?”
“Number two, somebody in that book is bound to have been watching TV yesterday.”
“So they’d already know.”
“And maybe they knew he was dead before the show,” Jakes said. “We’ll get around to questioning the likely suspects in person. Hey, maybe we’ll even find a girlfriend in there.”
“You’ll probably find a lot of girls in there.”
“Is your name among them, Alex?”
“What’s that mean?”
“I was just wondering if you ever played a scene with Jackson.”
“A love scene, you mean?” I asked. “On or off the screen?”
“Hey, Alex, I’m just askin’—”
“Okay,” I said, “when I first joined the show, we had a scene together. Our characters were supposed to have a history, so in flashback they showed us . . .”
“Showed you what?”
“We had to do a bed scene.”
“A bed scene? And this is your
job
? Was there any tongue?”
“Of course there wasn’t any ton—Oh, shut up.”
He smirked.
“So,” I went on, hating to have to say it, “you’re right that he hit on me once, and you’re right that we had a scene together . . . once.”
“Was that so hard?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, it was.”
“In what way was it
hard
, exactly?” He could barely contain himself, the bastard. I just looked at his smug but handsome face.
We finished our dessert, he paid the bill and we went outside. I’d tried to chip in, but he would have none of it.
“Off to work?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “we don’t work on Saturdays.”
“So what will happen now?” he asked. “Will the Emmys be rescheduled?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s up to the network— and I guess they’ll consult with the producers from all the shows. They could just hold a press conference and announce the winners.”
“Seems to me if they broadcast the show another night, they’d get big ratings, with everybody tuning in to see if another body fell from the roof.”
“Sadly, you’re probably right,” I said.
“Will you go back?” he asked. “If they call and tell you they’re gonna do that? Would you go and present the award you were supposed to present with Jackson?”
I paused before answering. Would I? And if I did, would I be able to resist looking up above me for another body?
“To tell you the truth, Jakes,” I said, “I really don’t know.”
We were walking toward our cars. He had been there when I pulled in and had waited for me to get out of my car so we could walk in together. Now we simply retraced our steps.
“Have you ever won?” he asked. “I mean, an Emmy. I’m sorry, I’m not up on these things. . . .”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve won twice.”
“Best actress?”
“Yes,” I said, “but that was years ago.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter,” he said. “I mean, how long ago it was. It’s still quite an accomplishment.”
My cell rang out, “Young man”—you know, “Y.M.C.A.” from the Village People. Jakes rolled his eyes and said, “When are you going to change that?”
“I know, I know.” I looked at the caller ID. “I need to take this. It’s my manager. One second. Hey, Connie, what’s up?”
“Here we go again, doll!
Star
and
OK!
both want to talk to you about the murder last night! How ironic it is that you have now been involved in two murders—last year, and now this.”
“Connie, I have no comment and I really don’t want to deal with anything else right now. I have way too much on my plate.” I felt my blood pressure rising. I knew what was coming.
“I know, I know, Al. It’s been tough.” She had no idea. “But I see big things in your future. We gotta strike while the iron is hot. Remember what happened after the Marcy thing? Work happened!”
I couldn’t take it anymore. Not this again.
“I don’t want any more work, Connie! I am perfectly happy where I am. Am I making myself clear?” I guess I was screaming because Jakes looked at me with concern on his face. “Look, Connie, I’m sorry. I just really think we need to take a break. Too much is happening.”
“Sure, Al. I’ll call you in a couple days when—”
“No, let me call you. Okay? Let me call you. It’s not personal. I love you. I’m just fried. I’ll call you.” And I hung up.
“Are you okay?” Jakes put his hand on my arm; I was afraid I was going to cry. I took a deep breath.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” Clearly I wasn’t. The murder and Paul and the whole Randy thing were wearing on me.
“Is this about your daughter?” he asked. My head jerked up. How did he know? “You miss her, right? I know how close you are.”
Should I tell him? God knows I wanted to tell someone. I just didn’t want to open that can of worms. Not now.
“Yeah, I miss her so much.” He cocked his head to one side as if waiting for me to go on. When I didn’t, he put a supportive arm around me and walked me to my car. He waited while I unlocked my door.
“Alexis,” he asked, “can I call you again?” I must have looked as confused as I felt.
“I mean,” he hurried along, “if I have any more questions about soap operas and the people who work in them. After all, this is only my second TV- related murder.”
“Well,” I said, starting to open my door, “in that case I can’t very well refuse, can I?”
“No,” he said, “you can’t. Do me another favor, will you?”
“What’s that?” I asked, pausing with my door half open.
“Keep your ears open when you go back to work.”
“And what am I listening for, exactly?”
“Anything,” he said. “Anything at all about Jackson Masters. Maybe somebody has some info, an opinion, about him that might be helpful.”
“You know, there are some people who are going to be glad he’s dead,” I said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean they killed him.”
“I know that,” he said. “I’m just asking you to . . . be alert.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
He came close to me and put his hand on my arm. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. I caught my breath, but then he stepped away so I could fully open my car door.
“Take care of yourself, Alex. If you need to talk—about whatever—give me a call.”
Getting in my car, I nodded and then started the engine. As I pulled away I tried not to look in the rearview mirror but couldn’t help myself. There he stood, watching me drive away.
Chapter 9
Instead of going home, I drove to see my best friend. When he opened the door and looked at me, he said, “You look awful, darling. Who’s doing your hair these days?”
“Not an Emmy Award-winning hairdresser, that’s for sure,” I said.
“Come on in,” he said. “We were just about to have some ‘tea.’ ”
His partner is a writer who worked from home and rarely left during the day. He only seemed to come out of the house when the sun went down.
“Rustle up another batch of martinis, Wayne,” George said as we entered their kitchen.
“It’s kind of early for drinks,” I said.
George gave me a deadpan look and yelled out, “Make them weak. We’ve got a stick-in-the-mud here!”
Wayne rushed over and gave me a hug.
“You poor thing,” he said. “I saw it on TV. It must have been awful for you.”
“It wasn’t that good,” I said. “When I realized blood was dripping all over me, I didn’t know what was going on.”
“Do they know who killed him?” Wayne asked.
“How was he killed?”
The questions were coming fast and furious.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Give me a ‘weak’ martini and I’ll tell you what I know.”
I waited until we were all seated with martini glasses close by before I told them what I knew. Most of it came from Jakes—but I didn’t tell them that.
Wayne was too sharp for me, though. “Did you learn all of this from your hunky detective friend?”
“What hunky detective friend?” I asked, making my eyes as innocent as I could.
“Alexis,” George said.
“Oh, you mean . . . Jakes?” I’m a pretty decent actress . . . most of the time.
Wayne laughed. “Look, she blushes when she says his name.”
“I’m not—” I started, my hands rushing to my face. Then I realized I’d been had.
“You’re mean,” I told them.
“He’s mean,” Wayne said, pointing at his partner. “I’m nice.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, “so I got the information from Detective Jakes. So what?”
“So nothing,” Wayne said. “I was just asking.”
“Never mind him,” George said. “So, what’s on your mind, Alex? Are you going to play detective again?”
“No, of course not. I mean, I don’t think so,” I said. “I just—It was just a shock, you know? To have that happen? And I knew Jackson. I think if there’s something I can do . . . to help find out who did it . . . I should do it, right?” Hoping to distract them, I handed George my cell phone. “By the way. Could you help me get rid of my ringtone?”
“Why do you want to do that?” George asked innocently.
“Why do I want to do that? Because ever since you put ‘Y.M.C.A.’ from the Village People on my phone I’ve been a laughingstock. Seriously, it was fun . . . for a while. But let’s try something new. And not the Village People.”
“What would you like? You can pretty much have anything you want.”
I gave him the evil eye. “Just nothing too embarrassing, okay? I am a mother and an established TV star.” I playfully punched him on the arm.
“Ow! That hurt, sweetie!”
“Oh, shut up. You are such a wuss!”
“Oh, and Detective Jakes is a strong, hunky hero, right? Did he ask you to get involved? Because he needs your ‘help’?” George was not one to be distracted. “Or because he wants to flex those muscles for you?”
“Whatever the reason, I say do it,” Wayne said.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“You’re not in a committed relationship, are you?” he asked. “An exclusive, committed relationship?”
Well, we didn’t see other people. I knew Paul wanted it that way. At least he did before our last conversation. But now I wasn’t sure I did. Even before meeting Jakes when Marcy was killed, I had my doubts that Paul was right for me.