Diva's Last Curtain Call (16 page)

“Damn! Was that necessary?” I asked, sticking my finger in my mouth to staunch the flow of blood.

“Oh, that little bit of blood is nothing, honey, compared to what you got coming if you don’t stay the hell away from my man. He’s old enough to be your daddy, little girl,” she practically spat at me, managing to make the word
girl
sound like an insult.

“You need to tell
him
to stay away from
me.
I’ve got a man!”

“Then act like you got one and you can put this,” she said, tapping the top of the box in her hand with a red-tipped fingernail, “on the church’s account.” She flounced out of the shop and I heard a low whistle to my left. I turned to see Patsy Garrison grinning at me.

“Boy, you sure know how to piss people off.”

I
finished up my stint at Garrison’s and left with the corrected programs practically hot off the press. I tossed them in the backseat of my car and headed off in search of chocolate therapy, or more accurately, hot fudge cake. It was almost noon and I really needed a fix. Just the thought of cold vanilla ice cream sandwiched between layers of chocolate cake and covered in hot fudge and whipped cream had a very calming effect on my nerves. The rain had finally stopped, leaving it cool outside. I pulled into the parking lot of Frishes Big Boy and headed inside. As I was being seated, I noticed a familiar couple sitting in the back of the restaurant in the corner. It was Cliff and Stephanie Preston. I was surprised they were still in town. From their body language I could tell they were not having a good time. I headed back to say hello. Before I reached their table, Cliff abruptly stood up. He was angry and red in the face and headed out the nearest exit without even noticing me. Stephanie remained seated, staring after him with tear-filled eyes.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Preston. Remember me from the funeral the other day?” Stephanie looked a little startled then gave me a weak smile.

“Of course. But I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name,” she said looking embarrassed.

“Nola Morgan,” I said, lapsing back into my lie. Apparently, her stepson hadn’t blown my cover.

“I remember now. You did Vivianne’s hair for the funeral. Won’t you have a seat? My husband’s gone to get some fresh air.”

I slid into the opposite side of the booth that Cliff had just vacated. Stephanie was staring out the window. “Are you okay, Mrs. Preston?”

“Tell me,” she said, turning to me—her tears had caused her mascara to run in black streaks down her cheeks, “why in the world a man would still be in love with a woman who mistreated their son and cheated on him throughout their entire marriage?”

“You’re talking about your husband and Vivianne?”

“Who else?” She took a sip of her coffee.

“What makes you think he’s still in love with Vivianne?”

“I don’t think he ever stopped loving her. I mean, I know he loves me in his own way. But he can’t stand to hear a word against her. Even after everything she put him and Kurt through. How can he still be in love with her?”

“Why did Vivianne lose custody of Kurt?” I asked, since she was being so open about her family business.

“Because she was a lousy mother. Cliff told me about a time when she took Kurt to the set of one of her movies. She forgot about him and left him in her trailer all day long. He got into some of her sleeping pills and had to have his stomach pumped. He was only two years old. He almost died,” she choked back a sob. I waited for her to compose herself and couldn’t help but admire her love for Kurt.

“Another time, after Cliff and Vivianne had separated, one of Vivianne’s boyfriends beat Kurt because he wet the bed. She stood by and let that man beat her child. Cliff said he had welts all over him.” She shook her head in disgust.

“That’s horrible,” I said. Vivianne apparently had a laundry list of people she’d done wrong to who hated her enough to kill her, starting with her own son. I was amazed that my sister was the only one the police could find evidence against.

“How’d you get along with her?”

“I made sure I never had to deal with her. I think I only ever talked to her once or twice when she’d call to bitch about something to Cliff. Even after she stopped acting she always found a reason to call. It was usually over money.”

“Money? Was your husband paying her support?”

“No, nothing like that. She’d see some old movie of hers on late-night TV or an episode of some show she did a guest spot on and start calling Cliff bugging him about where her residual check was.”

“Vivianne sounds like she had some major problems. I can see why you’d be upset thinking your husband might still have feelings for her.” She nodded like she’d finally found an understanding soul.

“How’d you and your husband meet?” The question brought a smile to her face.

“I was a showgirl in Vegas,” she said, straightening her back and thrusting her double D’s out proudly.

“Really. That’s sounds exciting. Which casino did you work at?”

“Ah, well, it was one of the smaller casinos off the strip called the Kontiki. It’s been closed for years now.” She turned to stare out the window again.

The Kontiki? Hmm. Sounded more like a strip club to me. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Stephanie’s stint as a dancer in Vegas involved a pole, a G-string and grinding nightly on the laps of strange men. Cliff Preston certainly wouldn’t be the first man who’d fallen for a stripper.

“Did you meet Cliff at one of your shows?”

“No. Actually, we met after I auditioned for a role in a movie. I didn’t get the part and someone suggested I get an agent and recommended Cliff, who had an office in Vegas. But instead of signing me to his agency, he asked me out. I said no at first. I mean, he’s old enough to be my father—”

I blanked out for a few seconds thinking back to what Winette Barlow had said to me and could feel myself getting pissed all over again.

“Eventually, he wore me down,” Stephanie continued, unaware that I hadn’t quite been paying attention. “He’s so sweet. No man has ever treated me the way Cliff has. We ended up getting married six months later.”

“And you didn’t mind being a stepmother to Kurt?” She looked shocked at the question.

“No, not at all. Kurt was such a cutie pie and he was starved for a mother’s love, which is what I gave him. All Vivianne cared about was her career. After Cliff married me, we fought for sole custody of Kurt. We won, of course. Vivianne didn’t put up much of a fight, not with so many witnesses testifying in court about her neglect.”

“Wasn’t it around that time that she stopped acting?”

“What? You think she stopped acting because she was upset over losing custody of Kurt?”

“No. No. It was just a question,” I said quickly when her eyes narrowed and her face turned bright pink under her heavy makeup.

“Sorry,” she said flashing me one of those showbiz smiles. “I just get so mad when people assume Vivianne was so destroyed over losing custody of her child that she couldn’t act anymore. It’s just such bullshit, you know. Viviane stopped acting because she couldn’t get any good parts anymore. The last gig Cliff was able to get her was as the spokeswoman for an all-natural vitamin supplement for menopausal women called Vitipause.” Stephanie started laughing and it took a minute for her to continue.

“Vivianne was supposed to do a series of infomercials and travel the country doing speaking engagements about the wonders of Vitipause. They had a whole advertising campaign planned around her. They were going to call it
Vivi for Vitipause
. But she pulled out of the contract and left Cliff in a big legal mess.”

“Why?” I asked. But was I really surprised Vivianne didn’t want to be the face of Vitipause? It sounded like a brand of doggy treats.

“She said she was way too young to be shilling for a menopausal supplement. That no one in their right mind would believe she was old enough to be going through menopause. She agreed to do it long enough to cash the big fat check they gave her then refused to go through with it.”

“Why was Mr. Preston still representing her? I’d have thought after the divorce and the custody case they’d have severed their working relationship.”

“I think Cliff felt guilty about taking Kurt away from her, though I can’t for the life of me understand why. Plus, by then, no one else was interested in being Vivianne DeArmond’s agent. She was a has-been and what’s worse than representing a has-been is representing a has-been with delusions of grandeur. Cliff felt sorry for her.”

In my opinion guilt and pity were what Stephanie was mistaking for Cliff’s so-called love for Vivianne. But why would Cliff feel guilty about acting in the best interest of his son by gaining custody from Vivianne?

“Do you and Mr. Preston have any other children?” She shook her head and gave a harsh little laugh.

“That’s been the other sore spot in our relationship. Cliff never wanted more children. He even went and got a vasectomy behind my back about ten years ago. The only reason I found out about it was because he blurted it out during one of our fights about having a baby. We almost split up over that one. He ruined my second chance. But like I said, no man has ever treated me the way Cliff does,” she said drily. The tight smile on her face made me wonder if she even believed what she’d just said, because getting a vasectomy without his wife’s knowledge didn’t exactly make Cliff Preston sound like a prince to me.

A waitress had appeared to refresh Stephanie’s coffee. I put in an order for some hot fudge cake to go. After the waitress left, Cliff returned to the table and stared down at me. His frown was a silent command for me to remove myself from his seat. I complied immediately.

“Cliff, don’t be so rude. It’s Nola Morgan, the nice young woman from the funeral home.”

“Here’s the thing,” Cliff said, sliding into the booth. “I spoke to one of the owners of the funeral home after the service and you know what he told me?” I knew but I pretended not to anyway.

“He told me that he’s the one who did Vivianne’s hair and makeup. He’s never even heard of a Nola Morgan. Now what do you think about that?” he said, looking at Stephanie.

“Oh my God! Are you a reporter?” Stephanie looked horrified. Her hands flew to her mouth like she was trying to keep anything else incriminating from escaping. Too late.

“What the hell have you been telling her, Stephanie!” Cliff’s hands were curled into fists.

“Just a bunch of girl talk, Mr. Preston. Nothing you’d be interested in,” I said mildly and took a step backwards and out of pummeling range of Cliff Preston’s fists.

“I don’t know who you are. But you’d better stay the hell away from my wife, lady, or I’m calling the cops,” Cliff said menacingly.

I started to leave and could feel the eyes of Cliff, Stephanie and a few other diners on me. Then a thought came to me and I marched back to the Prestons’ table. Cliff slammed his coffee cup down, sloshing coffee on the table and making Stephanie flinch.

“That’s it! I’m calling the cops,” he said, pulling a cell phone from inside his sport coat.

“Did either of you know Vivianne had written a book?” I said quickly before he could press a button. He froze and the color drained from his face. I took that as a no.

Stephanie was staring at her husband strangely. Then Cliff regained his composure and scowled at me. He held up his phone and deliberately pressed a button. I hurried away from their table, only stopping long enough to pick up my order of hot fudge cake, and beat a hasty retreat.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of Cartwright Auditorium finishing up the last of my hot fudge cake. After placing the final spoonful of ice cream and chocolate cake in my mouth, I licked the fudge from my fingers and, feeling quite fortified, got out of my car and entered the building.

It had long since stopped raining, but it was cold, dark and overcast outside. The chill was seeping through my thin shirt and I wished I’d worn a sweater. The building was unlocked but seemed deserted, and I heard my footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. Besides Vivianne’s recognition program, which now felt as though it had happened a million years ago, the last time I’d been in Cartwright Auditorium had been eleven years ago for my high-school graduation. I remembered lining up in my cap and gown with my fellow graduates in the same lobby I was now standing in, which had seemed bigger back then, waiting to march into the auditorium and take our seats. We were all so happy and filled with hope for the future. I sure didn’t envision myself standing in the same spot more than a decade later trying to prove my sister didn’t kill a washed-up actress. Funny how life works out.

I heard someone humming and followed the sound into the main auditorium. There was a middle-aged black man in a gray uniform sweeping the stage. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer or look up. As I got closer, I could see he had a Walkman on with the music blaring so loudly that I could hear Al Green singing about love and happiness. When I reached the edge of the stage he finally looked up, noticed me standing there and almost jumped out of his skin.

“Girl, you gave me a heart attack,” he said, chuckling. He pulled his headphones off and let them hang around his neck.

“Sorry, sir. I’m hoping you can help me. I was here for that recognition program last weekend and I lost an expensive bracelet. I can’t find it anywhere and think I may have lost it here. Were you working that day?” I was hoping he had so I could grill him about who he may have seen going into Vivianne’s dressing room.

“No, sweetheart, I was off last weekend. But Joyce worked that day. Maybe she found it.”

“Is she here today?” I asked hopefully.

“She’s eatin’ lunch in her office. Just go back out there to the lobby and it’s the first door on the right.” I thanked him and headed back out to the way I came.

I knocked on the first wooden door on my right that I came to. The door had a mail slot in the center of it. A brass nameplate mounted at eyelevel on the wall next to the door read J. Clark, Manager. I knocked again and heard a distinct sigh and what sounded like exasperated muttering. I was interrupting Joyce Clark’s lunch and she was none too pleased about it. I could hear movement behind the closed door and seconds later it swung open and the smell of food, pizza to be precise, wafted out. The doorway was filled with a large, irritated, light-skinned black woman in a denim jumper whose expression told me there wasn’t a whole lot that made her happy. Lucky me.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, ma’am. But I was told you might be able to help me.”

“With what?” she asked bluntly, not budging an inch from the doorway. I could see a smear of pizza sauce in the corner of her mouth. I looked her in the eye and rubbed the corner of my own mouth figuring she’d get the hint and wipe her mouth. Instead, she looked at me like I was crazy and then peered over my head out into the lobby as though she expected to see men in white coats coming to claim me.