Killer Cocktail (2 page)

two

“
Both
theories are absurd,”
said Nigel.

“Why is it absurd to think that she faked her death?” Mandy asked.

“Because contrary to the Elvis sightings routinely documented in
The National Enquirer,
celebrities simply do not fake their deaths and then disappear into thin air,” said Nigel.

“Some do,” said Mandy. Turning to me, she asked, “What do you think, Nic? After all, you're the detective.”

“Ex-detective,” I corrected. “My days with the New York City Police Department are over.”

“Fine. Then as
an ex-detective
what do you think?” she asked.

“I have to admit it's not something that keeps me up at night …” I said. Nigel opened his mouth to say something, but I quickly placed my hand over his mouth. “But, if pressed, I guess I'd have to ask why Melanie would fake her death in the first place? She'd just landed one of the most sought-after roles in Hollywood. Her career was set to take off.”

“True, but some believe her life was in danger from a stalker fan,” said Mandy. “Others believed she had a fatal illness and wanted to die without the media attention. And then there are those who claim that she just got sick of Hollywood and wanted out.”

“So, if she faked her death, then where did she go?” I asked. “In this day and age, it's kind of hard to live under the radar.”

“I don't know,” said Mandy. “But, I've heard theories ranging from she married an obscure European prince to that she's living on a beach in Tahiti.”

“That in and of itself should give you a hint as to the collective IQ of these theorists,” Nigel said as he removed my hand from his mouth. “But, even they're brighter than the ‘She Was Murdered' theorists.”

“Why? You have to admit, she wasn't very well liked,” Mandy countered.

“By those standards, half of Hollywood would be dead,” Nigel said. “And, I think that if Melanie were murdered,
someone
might have noticed. You know, like the coroner. Or her assistant. Or just about anyone on the set.”

Mandy turned to me. “I'm sure Nic would agree with me that lots of murders go unreported.”

“Not if I'm sober, I wouldn't.”

“If that's a clever ploy to get me to buy you a drink,” said Mandy with a grin, “then drinks are on me tonight.”

Nigel shook his head. “No deal. There are some lines even
I
won't cross for a free drink.”

“Fine,” said Mandy, “but at least answer me this. Nic, you're a good judge of character.” She winked at Nigel and added, “
Normally.
From what you've seen of the footage, what did you make of her?”

“She was a great actress,” I said slowly. “And obviously, we haven't watched all of the footage yet, but, from what I've seen so far, I'd say she could be…difficult.”

Mandy laughed. “If by ‘difficult' you mean a spoiled brat with a rotten soul, then I'd agree with you.”

“I was somewhat surprised,” I admitted. “She was always portrayed as America's Sweetheart.”

Mandy scoffed. “America's Sweetheart, my ass. That reputation was created by the studio's publicity machine, and even then it took a team of full-time workers to make it believable. The real Melanie Summers was a manipulative, egotistical little shit who only cared about herself.” Mandy paused and then added, “May she rest in peace, of course.”

“What a pretty eulogy that would have made,” I said.

Mandy laughed. “Oh God, the stories I could tell. She was one of the first celebrities I was assigned to cover. On the outside, she was a beautiful girl with great talent. On the inside, she was poison. Pure poison.”

Behind us a collective scream went up as the latest It Girl stepped onto the red carpet. An actress better known for her revealing outfits than her talent, she had outdone herself tonight. Her skirt was nothing more than a scrap of transparent gauze; however, this was rendered modest by the two bedazzled band-aides that served as a bodice. Mandy let out a small sigh. “Dear God, tits and no talent certainly are all the rage these days,” she said with a small shake of her head.

“Now
that's
a
dollop of a trollop,” I said.

“That's not a dollop,” Nigel protested. “That's a trough. And it makes me want to gouge out my eyes. Is that the reaction she wants?”

“Somehow, I doubt she's going for the Oedipus Rex effect,” I said.

“Somehow, I doubt she can
pronounce
Oedipus Rex,” said Nigel.

“Well, it's my lucky job to feign interest in the half-dressed minx,” Mandy said as she started to walk away. “I'll see you later at the Vanity Fair party, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Nigel said with wave. “We'll be sitting at a table with Elvis.”

Mandy's response was nonverbal, but nevertheless unambiguous. Nigel burst out laughing. “Roscoe would be so proud of you!” he yelled after her.

“Speaking of which,” I asked him, “did you really rhyme ‘golden lord” with ‘impotent gourd'?

“Trust me,” he said as he offered me his arm, “It was a vast improvement over what Roscoe suggested.”

three

Skippy did not go
unnoticed by the rest of the press. As we continued along the red carpet, Nigel offered them various explanations as to his identity:

“It's a glandular issue. We try not to call attention to it.”

“I happen to think my wife is a very attractive woman.”

“He's playing Chewbacca in the upcoming Star Wars film.
Picture him furrier. And with a dashing belt.”

“What dog?”

At the entrance of the Dolby Theater, DeDee Evans, Nigel's latest hire to the company waited for us. While the organizers of the Oscars had allowed Skippy to accompany us on the red carpet, they drew the line at actually letting him inside the theater. Nigel's claim that Skippy was a service dog had not been entertained as even remotely serious.

“Hello, DeDee,” Nigel said as he handed her Skippy's leash—or reins—depending on your viewpoint.

“Hello, Nigel. Nic,” DeDee smiled broadly. “It's
so exciting to be here!” DeDee was a small and wiry woman with a pronounced nose and square jaw. Up until a few years ago, she had been a housewife living in Tallahassee, Florida, with her husband, Reggie. She had been content to put aside her dream of becoming a movie
critic so she could help Reggie run his plumbing business. That contentment changed to contempt when she discovered that Reggie offered additional services to his female clients—services that went far beyond unclogging stubborn drains. DeDee quickly filed for divorce, left Tallahassee, and moved to New York. Within three years, she'd obtained her masters in film studies. Six months later, she came to work for Nigel.

Petting Skippy's head, DeDee now said, “It's a shame that they wouldn't let you take Skippy inside. He looks so handsome.”

“I know,” said Nigel. “I don't understand why the Academy refused to accept that he's a service dog.”

“Maybe because he isn't?” I offered.

Nigel shook his head. “But,
they
don't know that. Besides, I gave them a perfectly good reason for needing him tonight.”

I laughed. “Nigel, please. You told them that you suffered from acute zelotypophobia.”

“So?” he countered. “It's not as if it isn't a real thing.”

DeDee pulled her eyebrows together. “Zeloty…what?” she repeated.

“A fear of jealousy,” I explained.

DeDee let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, this would definitely be the place to trigger an attack.”

“Thank you,” Nigel said before turning to me as if validated. “That was my point
exactly
. As it is, I'm already starting to feel anxious.”

“That's only because there's no bar out here,” I said. “Try breathing out of your third eye or something until we get inside.” Focusing back to DeDee, I said, “Thanks again for agreeing to watch Skippy tonight. I left his food out on the counter, but don't let him con you into having seconds. I also left you a dinner in the fridge. A word of advice, don't leave it unattended. Skippy's not above stealing other people's food. If he gets to be too much, put him in our room and turn on QVC. He loves it.”

“Just don't let him order anything,” warned Nigel. “He has terrible taste.”

“We probably won't be back until very late,” I continued. “The guest room is all set up for you. If you need anything, call.” I gave Skippy a dubious stare. “No funny stuff, mister,” I instructed.

Skippy wagged his tail and barked. My concerns were not mollified.

DeDee gave me a reassuring smile. “Don't worry about us, Nic. We'll be fine. I plan on working some more on the videos. They're really starting to come together.”

“Well, don't work too hard. You're already doing us a huge favor,” I replied. “The last time we left Skippy alone, he removed all of the wallpaper in the kitchen.”

“And in under thirty minutes, too,” Nigel added proudly.

“Nigel, it wasn't a good thing.”

“You never liked that wallpaper to begin with,” he argued. “Besides, it would have taken most contractors
triple
that time to do the job. Think of the money he saved us. If anything, he did us a favor.”

I stared at him. “We are never having children,” I said after a beat.

Nigel clasped his hands over Skippy's ears. “How can you say that in front of him, you heartless wench?” he whispered in mock horror. “Come here, Skippy,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “Daddy's got some bacon for you. Mommy didn't mean it.”

I rolled my eyes as Skippy wolfed down the bacon. “That better be all of it,” I warned Nigel. “I don't care if you
do
look like a product of Oscar de la Renta; if you
smell
like a product of Oscar Mayer, I am
not
sitting with you.”

DeDee laughed and said, “I'll keep an eye on Skippy. You two go have fun.”

We patted Skippy good-bye one more time and took our place in a crowded line for the entrance. Within minutes, a slight man with a pockmarked face approached us. His dry, graying hair seemed to be combed in every direction. His posture was hunched. Grey eyes watched us from behind thick glasses. The laminated placard around his neck indicated he was a member of the press. His threadbare suit indicated that he wasn't a very successful one. “I heard you are Nigel Martini,” he said. His voice was harsh and carried a faint accent I couldn't immediately place.

Nigel smiled affably. “You heard right,” he said extending his hand. “And you are?”

“David Luiz, Hollywood Foreign Press,” the man said, shaking Nigel's hand. He ran a pale tongue over his dry, cracked lips and turned his attention to me. “And this beautiful woman here must be Mrs. Martini,” he said.

“Well, it would be damned awkward if she wasn't,” Nigel said. “Now, how can I help you?”

“Those movie tapes,” Mr. Luiz continued after an uncertain glance at me, “the ones with Melanie Summers? I represent someone who wants those tapes,” he said, his voice low. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to Nigel. “I've been authorized to make you a very generous offer.”

Nigel glanced at the card before shaking his head apologetically. “I'm sorry, Mr. Luiz,” he said. “But, the tapes aren't for sale.”

“I wouldn't be so hasty, Mr. Martini,” he said, widening his smile and taking a step closer to Nigel. “You haven't even heard my offer yet.”

“I don't need to,” Nigel answered. “I'm not interested.”

“My client will be very disappointed to hear that.”

“I'll send flowers,” said Nigel.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Martini,” Mr. Luiz continued his voice growing anxious, “but I think you're being very foolish.”

“You're not the first,” Nigel admitted.

The line began to move. Nigel put his hand on the small of my back and began to guide me forward. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Luiz,” he said, “I need to get some air.”

Mr. Luiz regarded Nigel with a puzzled stare. “But, there's air out here,” he protested.

“True,” agreed Nigel, “but I need gin in my air. Good night, Mr. Luiz.”

Footage from the set of
A Winter's Night
5/4/96

Train Station Set in Post WWII Germany

Actors in period costume stand along the track. The camera pans over rather shakily and then stops on Johnny Cummings, a handsome young man about 24 years old, dressed in a WWII American soldier's uniform for his role as Donny. He is tall with dark hair and green eyes. He is standing in front of a lovely young woman of about the same age. She is Melanie Summers, who plays the role of Hanna. She has dark hair and large blue eyes. Her braided hair forms a wreath around her head. She wears a frayed dress of faded gingham. She looks up at him with sad eyes.

JOHN/DONNY (gently)

Hanna, please don't look at me like that. You know that I have to leave. But I promise you, I will send for you as soon as I can.

MELANIE/HANNA

I know, Donny. I do believe you. It's just hard to see you go. I … I love you, Donny.

JOHN/DONNY (pulling her into his arms)

I love you, too. It's only for a little while. Don't you know that I'd move heaven and earth to keep us together? You're my forever.

John leans down and kisses Melanie, but suddenly grimaces and pulls back.

JOHN (no longer in character)

Jesus!

A voice off camera suddenly yells, “CUT!” The camera swings toward the voice. It is the director, Barry Meagher, a tall man with messy black hair. He runs his hand through it making it even worse. He pushes his glasses up on his head and closes his eyes in frustration.

BARRY

What the hell is wrong now?

JOHN (outraged)

She bit me!

MELANIE (indignant)

Well, next time don't jam your tongue down my throat!

JOHN

Jam my …? Are you crazy? You're intentionally trying to sabotage my scenes.

MELANIE

Why in the name of God, would I do that?

JOHN (quietly)

Because you're a mess. Because you're a mess, and you've lost your touch, and everyone knows it.

Melanie reacts as if she were slapped. John looks momentarily sorry for his words.

BARRY (interrupting)

Enough! Would you two please just cut the crap so we can shoot the damn movie? You're wasting everyone's time, but more importantly, you're wasting
my
time. I swear to God, if you two don't get your shit together fast, I'll have you
both
tossed off this movie! Got it?

MELANIE

Got it. Sorry, Barry.

JOHN

Ready. Sorry.

Various crew members recheck the lighting and the actors take their positions. Barry returns his glasses to his eyes and steps behind a large camera.

BARRY

All right. Let's try again. ACTION!

JOHN/DONNY (gently)

Hanna, please don't look at me like that. You know that I have to leave. But I promise you, I will send for you as soon as I can.

MELANIE/HANNA

I know, Donny. I do believe you. It's just hard to see you go. I … I love you, Donny.

JOHN/DONNY (pulling her into his arms)

I love you, too. It's only for a little while. Don't you know that I'd move heaven and earth to keep us together? You're my forever.

John gently cups Melanie's face, and they stare at one another for a long moment. John slowly moves to kiss her. His arm snakes around Melanie's waist, pulling her closer. After a beat, Melanie arches into John, wrapping her arms around his neck.

BARRY

Cut! That was perfect! Great job everyone. Okay, let's break for lunch.

The set empties as everyone heads for the craft table. John pulls his head back. Melanie quickly removes her arms from John's neck and steps away, keeping her head down. John begins to walk away as well, but then Melanie calls to him.

MELANIE

John? Do you have a second? I need to talk to you about something.

John stops, and turns. His expression is wary.

JOHN

I'm not up for any more drama right now, Melanie.

MELANIE

Just shut up for a second, will you? This is important.

JOHN

Fine. Talk. But make it fast. I'm meeting someone for lunch.

MELANIE

Who? Christina?

JOHN

Actually, that's none of your business. Not anymore. Now what do you need to talk to me about?

MELANIE

It's about what happened when we were in Cabo last month.

JOHN (frowning)

Okay.

MELANIE

Well, there's something you should know … (Her voice drops and her words are inaudible.)

John stares at Melanie. His expression grows angry but he says nothing.

A WOMAN'S VOICE (far off)

Danielle? Danielle, honey? Where are you? It's time for lunch.

DANIELLE

Coming, Mom!

The camera swings suddenly sideways, revealing a young woman of about twenty years old standing half in the shadows. She is petite with long auburn hair. It is Christina Franklin. She is staring intently at John and Melanie. The camera swings one more time to the floor and then goes dark.