I So Don't Do Famous (8 page)

The room is mostly empty. Only a few members of the hotel staff remain, working on cleanup.

“At some point after dinner, someone at this extravagant affair stole Dear Elle's purse.”

Junie and I gasp.

“Dear Elle is here with me,” the reporter says, “and has agreed to answer some questions.”

Dear Elle and the reporter are standing by our dinner table. The silver purse hook is still clipped to the table. Now, however, nothing hangs from it.

“When did you first notice your purse was missing?” The reporter tilts the mic toward Dear Elle.

“I didn't notice until I was gathering up my belongings at the end of the evening.” Dear Elle runs her hand through her shiny hair. “At first, I just thought I'd misplaced it. But after scouring the entire ballroom, both on my own and with help, I finally came to the heartbreaking conclusion that my beautiful purse was stolen.”

“There's something very special about this purse. Could you describe it for our viewers?”

“The clasp is to die for.” Dear Elle places a hand over her chest. “Diamonds are a symbol of love. I'm a love guru. So every time I do a public event, I wear or bring something with a diamond.” She touches an ear. “I've worn diamond earrings.” She shakes a hand in the air. “Diamond rings. For this event, I brought an evening purse with a sparkly diamond clasp.”

“When's the last time you remember seeing your purse?” Katie Scott asks.

Dear Elle stares off into space. “I opened it”—she talks with her hands, mimicking unclasping her purse—“pulled out my tube of lipstick and redid my lips.” She draws in the air in front of her mouth. “That was just minutes before I went up to the podium.” Dear Elle strokes her chin. “Then I pre
sented the teen award to”—she tilts her head—“Blaylock Baldwin.”

“Blaylock?” Junie and I shout.

“I understand you were recently the victim of house theft?” the reporter says.

“Almost. I was out of town on a book tour.” Dear Elle holds up a copy of
Love, Revealed.
“And my neighbor noticed some suspicious activity at my house and called the police. When they arrived, they found my back door open, but nothing had been stolen.”

“How lucky,” the reporter says.

“I'm not counting on luck anymore,” Dear Elle says. “I had a super security system installed.”

“You asked to say a personal word to our viewers. Would you like to do that now?” Katie Scott hands the mic to Dear Elle.

Dear Elle looks straight into the camera with big doelike brown eyes. “Whoever took this purse, this symbol of love, please return it.” She pauses. “Diamonds are forever. Just like love.”

A drawing of the purse fills the screen. A fat 800 number flashes across it, while the anchor's voice instructs all the viewers to keep an eye open and call the number with any leads.

A commercial for car insurance comes on.

I shake my sad little head. “I can't believe I was at
the scene and didn't have a clue that a crime was going down.”

“Did you see anything weird?” Junie asks.

“Nothing. I was in a cloud. A celebrity cloud. I'm the girl who doesn't recall scarfing down three desserts.”

“I can kind of remember the purse hanging on the back of her chair when she was signing.” Junie's eyes are closed while she tries to re-create the scene.

“The thing with purses is that you pick them up, set them down, take stuff out of them, shove stuff into them. All on automatic pilot.” I twirl a few strands of hair around my index finger. “Dear Elle could easily have unhooked her purse, thrown it over her shoulder and carried it to the signing table. All on autopilot.”

“Like my mom and the garage door,” Junie says. “She always thinks she forgot to close it. But every time we go back, it's closed.”

Junie and I sit in silence. A commercial for a new camera comes on.

We snap to attention.

Thanks to Junie, we have about a million shots of the evening. Maybe even one of the thief stealing the purse.

J
unie zips to the desk, grabs her laptop and hustles back to the couch.

We huddle side by side, eyes on the dark screen coming to life.

“Where are our minds at?” I say. “That we didn't think of your photos?”

“Seriously.” Junie presses a bunch of buttons. “I pretty much chronicled the entire evening.”

“Wow, Junie.” I gape at her gajillion thumbnails. “That's a boatload of photos.”

Junie starts scrolling. “I got a new memory card for the trip.”

I touch the screen. “Stop there.” I'm looking at
several photos, practically identical, taken almost right in a row.

“Yeah, I was practicing with the sports mode. Where I hold down the shutter release button and pop off a bunch of shots fast.” She points to me on the screen. “Like here. I'd moved away from the table, so I had a clear view of you. I held down the shutter button and started clicking to make sure I got you on the way to the podium.”

“Aw, thanks.” I squint. “So, at the side of these shots, you caught Dear Elle pulling the purse off the hook and opening it. Then you missed part of the sequence.”

“Sorry. I was trying to find a different place to kneel, I think,” Junie says. “My focus was on you, not on Dear Elle redoing her makeup.”

“In this picture”—I tap Dear Elle's mouth—“her lips are all red. So she's finished with her lipstick.”

About ten more shots in, a photo shows the handle of the purse hanging from the hook.

Then there are several shots of me pushing back my chair, walking to the podium, talking. A few good ones, a lot that need to be trashed forever. I point out one particularly ugly picture where I'm leaning toward the crowd, distorted beyond belief, with a nose longer than Pinocchio's. “Can we delete this now?”

Junie sighs. “We'll go through them later.” She
scrolls some more. Then there's a ton of photos of the signing.

“So, you took these from off to the side of Dear Elle?”

“Yeah, I was trying to get different perspectives.”

“There's Lorraine and Stef in the line. I didn't realize they ended up so far behind us.”

Junie pushes her glasses up her nose. “Here's Dear Elle signing and looking up at a girl. Actually, that's a pretty good profile of both of them.” Junie pats her own shoulder. “Now there's a gap because I changed location.”

Sure enough, the next batch of photos are taken from behind the signing table. The purse is in the corner of the picture, hanging lopsidedly over the back of Dear Elle's chair.

“She must've left the hook at the table where we ate,” I say.

Next come several blurry shots of the line. Maybe from people jostling Junie.

Then Lorraine's at the front of the line. She's smiling and chatting with Dear Elle. That girl is so friendly.

A girl about the width of a spaghetti noodle is on Lorraine's heels. “What happened to Stef?” I ask.

“No idea,” Junie says. “It's weird behind the lens. I'm in my own little world. I get pictures and don't
have a clue about all the details until later. I never noticed Stef was missing.”

The next shot is of Lorraine crouching low to the table and leaning in close to Dear Elle. Lorraine's finger is on a sentence in the middle of the book. The book is at an angle, so that the print isn't upside down for either of them. Dear Elle's head is cocked, and she's squinting at the print. Her mouth is half open as she explains something. Not an attractive look.

“Wow. Lorraine said she didn't read,” I say, “but here she's asking a question about something way far into the book.”

Weirdly, Lorraine is not looking at the page, but past Dear Elle. It's a nice close-up shot of an author and a fan, except that the fan doesn't seem to be tuned in.

Four panoramic views show people around the room and in the line. Still no Stef.

Next, the skinny spaghetti girl steps toward the table, shoulder blades jutting out from a low-cut black dress.

And then I see it—or actually, I don't see it!

I think I've figured out the sequence of events for how the purse got stolen. The bottom of my stomach drops out.

“Junie, pull up the photo of Lorraine and Stef in line together. Next to it, drag in the photo of just
Lorraine at the front of the line. Third, put the photo where Lorraine shows Dear Elle the sentence or whatever in the book. Fourth is the spaghetti girl walking away.”

“I'll play it as a slide show,” Junie says.

“Keep an eye on the lower corner,” I say.

The loop plays over and over. Dear Elle's purse dangles over the back of her chair while both Lorraine and Stef are in line. It's still dangling when Lorraine is waiting her turn. Lorraine and Dear Elle bending over the book fill the photo, so there's no way to tell what's going on with the purse. But by the time the skinny girl's approaching Dear Elle, Stef and the purse have disappeared.

Lorraine and Stef stole the purse.

And I helped them.

T
he next morning, Junie bounds out of bed and throws open the curtains. The sun is shining bright and cheerful.

This is the opposite of my dark and gloomy mood. I tossed and turned all night. In the harsh bathroom light, I look like a football player, with unattractive black lines underscoring my eyes. And I have the beginnings of a headache.

While smearing on triple layers of Naked Makeup's Cover-Up Supreme, I mull over recent events in my life. Like scratching at a scab. I practically handed Dear Elle's purse to Lorraine and Stef. They read my essay and the details of the awards dinner on the
Hollywood Girl
website, guessed I'd be at the
Roosevelt Hotel, flattered me and tricked me into getting them into the dinner. Where they nabbed the purse. Pretty embarrassing.

There's a knock at our door. “Good morning, girls,” Dad booms. “Rise and shine.” He knocks again. “I've already been out to pick up hot chocolate and doughnuts.”

Hot chocolate and doughnuts? He's really living life on the edge.

The second she's settled in the living room with a cardboard cup of hot chocolate + whipped cream + shaved chocolate and a doughnut with strawberry icing + sprinkles, Junie switches on her computer.

“Did you catch any of the news last night, Dad?” I ask.

“Just the sports.” He pats his stomach and picks up a shiny cruller. “I think I have a little corner reserved for this guy.”

Junie slurps, then starts click-clacking away on her keyboard.

“Dad, remember Dear Elle's designer purse with the diamond clasp?” I say. “Someone stole it from the awards dinner. The story was on the news.”

“Was anything else stolen?” He sets the box of doughnuts on the coffee table. “Any other purses? Wallets?”

“I don't think so.” I flip open the box and pick out a chocolate doughnut.

“Whoa.” Junie looks up from her screen. “There've been lots of home burglaries in Beverly Hills lately, and some people think the theft of Dear Elle's purse is related.”

She sets her computer next to the doughnut box, and we all crowd around.