I followed him to the kitchen, where he had already put on a pot of coffee.
Andy and I had started on
The Yearning Tide
at the same time. In fact, we had played young lovers at one point.
“We can drink it out by the pool,” he said.
“That’s fine.”
He armed us both with a mug and we carried it outside. The house was in Malibu, not far from Paradise Cove. He had an impressive view of the beach.
“I’m so happy to see you, Alex,” he said as we sat. Then he started in with questions. “How do you like your new show? The new characters? Are you having fun playing dual roles? I smell Emmy!”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s harder but it’s a blast,” I said.
We talked a little about the new show, and then he filled me in on what was going on with
The Tide
and all its characters. It felt a little like the old days, when Andy and I used to talk a lot. I have to admit, I also felt a little left out.
“
The Tide
is not the same without you.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Andy.”
“It’s true,” he said. “We miss Tiffany.”
“When I was there, everybody thought I was a murderer,” I reminded him.
“And, for a shorter time, they thought the same of me,” he said.
“So how can you continue to work with people who thought you were capable of that?”
He smiled wanly and said, “I’m not a beautiful soap star who is in demand, Alex. I’m an aging soap actor who’s happy just to have a role.”
I had said Andy and I started on
The Tide
at the same time and that we’d been cast as young lovers, but truthfully, he was a good eight or ten years older than I was. He had lost his glow and he was no longer a heartthrob.
But today was the first time I realized that he was a sad, middle-aged man. But he was still my friend, so it made me sad, as well.
“So, what can I do for you, Alex?” he asked.
I got myself back to the reason I was there. “As I said, I need a favor. Have you ever heard of an young actor named Aaron Summers?”
“No,” he said. “Is he another of those baby hunks all the shows are hiring?”
Spoken like a former young hunk, I thought.
“I remember he auditioned for a role on
The Tide
a while back,” I said without answering his question.
“Really, Alex,” he said. “Why are you trying to track down young actors—”
“Not young actors,” I said. “Just this one.”
“What’s so special about this one?” he asked. “You think he’s right for something on your show?”
“Hardly,” I said. “He’s dead.” “Oh, jeez, the Emmys,” he said, slapping his forehead. “I meant to call you. I’m so sorry—”
“Forget it.”
“But, wait—he’s not the one who came down from . . .”
“No, that was Jackson Masters.”
“Right, right,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I read that. He worked on your show, right?”
I was surprised it had taken him so long to mention something that was the talk of our industry. Then I was surprised it had taken me so long to realize that he’d probably been drinking before I got there. If he’d worked that day, he could only have been drinking an hour or so before I showed up. I looked at my coffee. I’d already had a few sips, and it wasn’t spiked. I’d watched him pour it, so his wasn’t spiked, either. If Andy still drank the way he used to, he’d probably had three, maybe four drinks.
He’d been tense when I first arrived. Now he was starting to loosen up.
“That’s right, Andy.”
“So are you in charge of finding a replacement? Oh, no, wait, stupid me. You already said the other man was dead.”
“That’s right.”
He sipped his coffee, drumming his fingers on the side of the mug. I figured he was ready to have another drink, probably wanted me out of there quick.
“I need to find out the details of when Aaron Summers auditioned for
The Tide,
Andy,” I said. “Can you do that for me?”
“I can ask when I get to work tomorrow! Oops, I don’t work tomorrow. Or the next day, or the one after that!” His bitterness at having a lesser role in the show was showing.
“Somebody in casting will have the information. Maybe you could call?” I thought it was better if someone from the show asked about Summers instead of me. I didn’t want anyone’s antennae to rise.
“Okay,” he said, “so I’ll ask. What can it hurt?”
“Can you call me tomorrow?”
“Sure,” he said, “sure. We murder suspects have to stick together, right?”
“No, Andy.” I put my mug down on the table. “We old friends have to stick together.”
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked. “I was gonna have dinner—”
“No, thanks,” I said, standing up. “I have dinner plans.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, also standing. “Sarah. How is she?”
“She’s fine.” No harm in letting him think I had to go home to make dinner for her.
He walked me to the door, where he said, “I really was gonna call you, Alex.”
“I know you were, Andy,” I said. I hugged him tightly. My good friend. I felt so sorry for him I wanted to cry. I kissed his cheek. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Chapter 17
I was on time the next day, as I had promised. We taped my scenes with no problems, and the day ended with no further compliments from Breck.
When I arrived at my car in the parking lot, I was surprised to find Jakes’s partner, Detective Len Davis, waiting for me.
“Detective. How’s your son doing anyway? Davey, right?”
“He’s fine. Thanks for asking, Ms. Peterson.”
“You were calling me Alex last year, Detective.”
“That was last year.”
“I’m sorry you feel betrayed by Tiffany—by me,” I said, wondering if I was going to need help from security—and, if I did, if they could get to me in time.
But Davis did not have the look of a crazed fan. I’d seen them enough times before to know. It was usually in the eyes. Or possibly their sweaty palms. Or their tendency to space invade. You know, get a little too close for comfort. Or their willingness to buy your character a present for her wedding. Or when you find out they’ve just been released from prison and they know every signpost on your way from work to your home. Or they threaten to kill you and security has to walk you to your car after work. I digress.
“This isn’t about that,” he said.
“What’s it about?”
“Frank Jakes.”
“What about him?”
“He’s going out on a limb for you,” Davis said. “Putting his career on the line.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“By bringing you into his investigation, letting you know certain things, he’s breaking the rules.”
“Why’s he doing that?”
“You don’t know?”
I shrugged. “He thinks I can help him?”
“You’re smarter than that.”
“Look,” I said, “I haven’t encouraged him—”
“Haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said pointedly. “I hadn’t seen him at all until . . . until all this.”
“But now you’ve seen him a few times,” he said. “Since the other day, at the Emmy show.”
“Have you talked to him about this?”
He hesitated and then said, “No, I haven’t mentioned it to him.”
“A man was killed, Detective,” I said. “A friend of mine. All I’m doing is trying to help.”
“But you’re not helping,” Davis said. “I suggest you stay out of it and leave it to the experts.”
I was suddenly pissed at being warned off. “So why doesn’t Jakes tell me that?”
“He won’t,” Davis said. “He should, but he won’t.”
“Then maybe you should be having this talk with him,” I said, “not me. Please move so I can get in my car.”
I watched him in my rearview mirror as he watched me until we were out of each other’s sight.
I was mad, but I didn’t know who I was maddest at—Davis for warning me off, Jakes for putting me in this situation, or myself.
As I was driving home, my Bluetooth rang in my car. Living in Los Angeles means only hands-free cell phone usage in vehicles. I pushed the phone symbol on my steering wheel. “Hello.”
“Alex? It’s Andy. I got that information you wanted—”
“Hold on, Andy.”
I pulled over and parked, and then took a pad and pen from the glove compartment.
“Andy, how are you?”
“I’m fine, sweetie,” he said. “Fine. Yesterday I was a little . . . well, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “What did you find out for me?”
“You were right. Aaron Summers did audition for a part on the show early last year. Needless to say, he didn’t get it.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Yep, here it is.”
I wrote it down. Like a lot of young actors, Aaron Summers had chosen to live in the heart of Hollywood, a place called Beachwood Canyon, near the Hollywood Hills. There were lots of beautiful houses there . . . and lots of not so beautiful dives. But it is an artsy community with lots of color and history.
“Any other information?”
“Well, yeah, I got a copy of his resume and head shot.”
“Can you fax me the resume?”
“Sure. Not the head shot?”
“Sure, the head shot, too.”
I gave him my fax number. “Thanks for this, Andy.”
“Sure, Alex, but why—”
“I can’t hear you, Andy. I’m in a canyon. . . . You’re breaking up!” Cheap ploy, but effective. He was about to ask me why I wanted the information or what I was going to do with it, and I didn’t have an answer for either one.
I started the car and, instead of going home, headed for Hollywood.
Chapter 18
Without really knowing why or what I was going to do when I got there, I drove to Hollywood and found the house that went with the address Andy had given me. I switched off the engine and sat in my car for a few moments. I was still mad, but now I knew I was angry with Detective Davis. I was in amateur detective mode and he was spoiling my buzz, forcing me to examine not only my own motives for getting involved, but Jakes’s motive for accepting—or even requesting—my involvement.
Other than the police, who had more of a right to be involved than I did, considering what I’d gone through on stage? But who was I kidding? I was hardly Carrie, standing on stage with a bucket of pig’s blood pouring over me, stigmatized by the experience. Sure, having Jackson’s blood smeared on my face and in my hair had been shocking, but I’d been involved in a police investigation before—even found dead bodies. I was anything but catatonic over it. Instead, it had piqued my interest, making me want to know who hated Jackson Masters enough to kill him. And then I’d walked in on poor Henri’s body in his bathtub. Of course Jakes wanted to pick my brain, since I had been so close—physically speaking—to the victims, and I was deeply involved with the soap opera world, where these men came from.
Hell, I thought, defiantly opening my car door and stepping out, maybe that would sound kind of harsh to some people, but it made perfect sense to me.
The drive to Aaron Summers’s address was almost a waste of time—until the end.
His landlady answered the door when I knocked, and she rocked back a couple of steps when she saw me. She put one carefully manicured hand to her intricately painted face. She was probably in her forties or fifties, trying hard to be in her twenties or thirties, and doing a pretty smashing job of it.
“Omigod,” she said. “It’s you!”
“I’m sorry?” But I had an idea what she was going to say.
“I watch your show every day,” she said. “I mean, I used to watch
The Yearning Tide
every day. I still watch it, but now I watch your new show, too. I just love you, Tiffany—I mean, Felicia. And that Fanny! I love her accent and the way you say ‘Bad, bad, bad!’ What I don’t get is how someone as beautiful as you are can look as unattractive as that Fanny! Hours in the ugly chair, right?”
I wish I could say that was true. But it actually took me less time to get ugly than it did to get pretty.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I’m always glad to meet a fan.”
“What are ya doin’ here?” she asked.
“I was looking for someone who knew Aaron Summers.”
Her exceedingly large boobs heaved under her floral blouse. “Oh, Aaron,” she said, sadly shaking her head. “That poor kid. He thought he was gonna be a huge soap star, ya know?”
“I know,” I said. “He auditioned for a role on
The Tide
last year.”
“That’s right!” she said brightly. “He was real excited about that.”
“Did he live here a long time?”
“No, just a couple of months.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Christ, I’m a crappy hostess. Come on in. Would you like some coffee or tea? I have some donuts but I’m sure you never eat that crap, right? Always watching your figure. I know; I read
People
.” She held the door open for me.
I would have liked nothing more than to bury my head in a big box of Krispy Kremes but I didn’t want to ruin the illusion.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I just have a few more questions.”
“Sure thing,” she said. “God, my girlfriends are not gonna believe you were here.”
“Did he have a lot of company during the time he lived here?”
“By company, do you mean girls?” She grinned. “Yeah, he had lots of girls—but I’m sure you know all about that. I mean, you actors.”
I bit my tongue. I needed information. And besides, she had a point.
“Did you ever meet any of his family?”
“Nope, he never had family come over. Just his . . . friends.”
“Men?”
“Yeah, his friends, buddies. Ball games, parties, stuff like that.”
“Do you know any of his friends?”
“How do you mean know? A little flirtation here. A little flirtation there. Some of them were cuuute! I sure as hell ain’t dead yet. If you know what I mean. We older girls need to get it while we still can, right?” She elbowed me in my side.