Picture Perfect (24 page)

“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’m being sucked into a black hole. “But promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll leave Jack alone.”

“Jack? Lauren, you don’t really believe he’s innocent, do you?”

“He has to be,” I plead, desperate for her to understand how very important it is that I am
not
in love with a murderer.

Tanya’s eyes widen and her eyebrows lift. “He looks pretty guilty. You have to admit to that.”

“I know, but looks can be deceiving. I mean, I look guilty, too, but I didn’t do it.”

She sighs, unconvinced.

“Just promise me you won’t throw him to the wolves. Let the police find their own evidence to convict him, if there is any.”

“So, you agree it’s possible that he killed your husband.”

“Of course it’s
possible
. But I don’t believe he could do it. He just isn’t the type.”

“He did manage to beat Alan to a pulp last week.”

“He was provoked. Alan
wanted
Jack to attack him.”

“Maybe Alan went too far this time,” she says with the kind of tender tone one would expect from a parent trying to convince her love-struck teen that her motorcycle-riding boyfriend is in fact a
very
bad boy.

“Just don’t give the police any more ammunition, okay? Your job is to defend
me
, not convict
Jack
,” I say, hoping she sees fit to follow the orders of the person paying quite handsomely for her efforts.

“Okay, but if Jack does contact you, call me immediately. Things could get very ugly very quickly if the police discover you’ve been chatting with him all this time.”

“I will,” I lie, wondering if she already knows that he’s texted me. She managed to get her hands on Justine’s phone records pretty quickly. Maybe she already has mine at her disposal, too.

“My secretary will email a copy of the public statement for your review within the hour. Expect to see it on every news outlet this afternoon.”

“What will happen to Alan?” I ask out of nowhere. My brain synapses are firing all over the place and it suddenly occurred to me that, as Alan’s next of kin, I will have to lay him to rest.

“Nothing until the medical examiner has finished his investigation.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few days. I’m sure his remains will be released by the end of the week.”

His remains.

“I need to make arrangements for his funeral. I’m sure he would want to be buried near his parents. But they passed away years ago. I don’t even know where they’re—” I stop, overcome with grief at the thought of Alan reuniting with his parents in the afterlife. I don’t even know if he believed in life eternal. He never talked about spirituality or religion. Although he was raised Catholic, he abandoned the church when his mother died. And since that was before I met him, we never discussed it. Alan didn’t like talking about his family, or his life before the entertainment industry swept him off his feet. And the only altar I ever saw him worship at was the television. Alan didn’t care about salvation. He only cared about showbiz. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll have my secretary handle that for you. Email me their full names and I’ll find out where they’re interred,” Tanya offers.

“Thank you.”

Before I can even slide my ass out of the car, Tanya is on her cell phone, barking orders at whatever poor slob is on the other end. As her shiny, black limousine swiftly vacates the loading dock, and I’m left standing in the cold and fearing for my future, my iPhone buzzes from within my designer clutch. I retrieve it to find a text message from Sally.

We need to talk about Jennifer.

***

“That bitch!” Justine says, slapping her hand on the table.

“Hush,” I scold her. “Let’s try not to draw any unnecessary attention, shall we?”

She wraps her hands around her latte and nods. “Sorry. I’m just so pissed at that little twat.”

Sally dips her head as her cheeks turn crimson, Justine’s vulgar language very clearly embarrassing her. I place a hand on Sally’s arm urging her to continue regaling us with the latest Timeless Television drama playing out just down the street.

After she texted me earlier, we agreed to meet secretly at the Starbucks by the office. I did a quick change into a pair of yoga pants, a fleece pullover and donned some dark sunglasses and dragged Justine to the Sunset Strip for the hottest workplace gossip in town.

“Go on, Sally,” I say.

She takes a deep breath. “Please understand that I had no part in Jennifer’s scheme. I was just as shocked as you when I found her at your desk this morning.”

“That
bitch
,” Justine hisses, and I give her a look telling her to cool down.

“She was brought back in to reboot production on
A True Heart.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, aghast. “They can’t start production when the lead actor is missing in action.”

“They’re re-casting,” Sally whispers.

“Re-casting!” I can’t help but raise my voice. “How dare they? Don’t they know what a coup it was to land Jack Ford for the part?”

“They’re calling it a breach of contract. The casting director is auditioning hot young guys for the role right now.”

“Unbelievable,” I bleat. “What the hell is Rebecca thinking suspending me and then bringing Jennifer in to replace me on
my
film? Doesn’t she remember that she fired her yesterday morning for fucking it up last week?”

“It gets worse,” Sally says.

“How could it be any worse?” I wonder aloud.

“Jennifer is now accompanying Rebecca to the Women in Pictures luncheon at The Beverly Hills Hotel tomorrow.”

“What?” I screech all too loudly.

“That bitch!” Justine spits.

Sally recoils slightly, as if we’re about to kill the messenger. Despite her new chic wardrobe and sophisticated style, she’s still just a meek little assistant with big dreams in an industry much too thorny for her thin skin. All she wanted was to work in showbiz, and now she’s been thrust in the midst of a huge Hollywood scandal. I almost pity her. But then I remember that I am the one with the most to lose in this scenario, and I quickly focus again on the real villain in this story.

“Jennifer didn’t somehow get me removed from the guest list did she?” I demand.

“No, not that I know of,” Sally replies.

“Good. Call the luncheon organizer and add two RSVPs to my ticket.”

“Two?”

“Yes. You and Justine are going to be there with me when I confront Jennifer…and Rebecca.”

“Rebecca?” Sally questions.

 “She can’t just kick me to the curb after years of working alongside her only to take that skank Jennifer under her wing. It’s one thing to suspend me. Quite another to replace me,” I say, bitterness and bile bubbling inside me.

“I don’t think Rebecca is acting out of malice,” Sally says. “She’s probably just as worried about her career at Timeless as you are yours. I mean, she can’t help it that Alan died on her watch and you’re the main suspect. It isn’t her fault this tragedy happened, but she’s the president. She’s got to keep things afloat any way she can. I’m sure she isn’t deliberately hurting you.”

I give Sally a hard stare, wondering if she’s as gullible as she appears. I’ve worked with Rebecca for six years, and I’ve seen her cruelly dispense with staffers for missteps as minor as using the wrong colored pen to sign contracts. The woman is made of stone, and though she may very well be worried about how Alan’s death reflects on her reign as Timeless’s
grand dame
, I have no doubt she’d sacrifice anyone of her subjects to preserve her spot at the top. I just don’t want to be one of her victims. And I certainly don’t want Jennifer to benefit from my careening career, either.

“Sally, make no mistake. This is a war. And you have to choose sides right now. Are you on mine? Or are you on Jennifer’s?”

“Yours, of course,” she says almost apologetically.

“Be certain,” I warn, “because if you align with me, you might just find yourself on the unemployment line right behind me. I’m already on the outs. And Jennifer is no coward. She’s devious, guileful and very ambitious. She’s after my job now, but soon it will be Rebecca’s. And you will just be collateral damage.”

“Ambition,” Justine says, darkly. “That was Macbeth’s fatal flaw.”

“And everybody wound up dead in the end,” I say, fearful that my tragic tale will suffer a similar fate.

“Except MacDuff,” Sally says, and both Justine and I gape at her. “He was the nobleman whose wife and son Macbeth murdered. He beheaded Macbeth and restored Malcom, the rightful King of Scotland, to the throne.

“Wow,” I say, “You know your theater history.”

“I know a lot of things,” she says. “And I think you’ll discover that I can be a very good ally in your battle for power.”

I look into Sally’s eyes, seeing something I hadn’t witnessed in her before. There’s a quiet cunning about her that she’s carefully hidden away under her good-girl exterior. And I wonder just how much her loyalty is going to cost me.

Chapter 19

“Uh, Lauren, this is a bowling alley,” Justine says, as if I have no clue as to our whereabouts.

“I know,” I say, shutting off the engine and unbuckling my seat belt.

“When you asked if I wanted to get a drink, I was picturing something a little more, oh, I don’t know…
hip
.”

“The bartender makes great zombies.”

“Zombies? Since when do you drink frozen cocktails?”

“It’s like drinking an alcohol-infused smoothie. What’s not to like?”

Justine raises an eyebrow at me. “What are we
really
doing here?”

“Jack’s mom works here.”

“His mom? What do you want with her?”

“Answers,” I say, opening the car door and stepping out into the chilly early evening air.

Justine trails behind as I hoof it to the entrance. We make our way through the game room, the sound of pins falling with a crash as teenagers high five each other and pop music blares in the background. I spot the door to the bar and pick up my pace. Justine breaks into a jog to catch up as I push open the tufted red leather door. I immediately spot Barbie behind the bar, pouring a beer from the tap and handing it to a man who looks like he’s been draining pints all afternoon.

She breaks into a wide smile upon seeing us. “Hi ladies. What can I get ya?”

Justine and I grab a seat on a couple barstools. “Two zombies, please,” I say.

“My specialty,” she says with a wink and sets about her work, filling a glass pitcher with ice, fruit and liquor.

“What’s the plan here, Lauren?” Justine asks, the whir of the blender keeping Barbie unaware of our conversation.

“I don’t know. I’m fishing for information. I need to know what Jack was up to before he disappeared Sunday.”

“And you think his mom knows?”

“They’re very close. I’d be surprised if she doesn’t still do his laundry.” This last exits my mouth just as the blender cuts out. I watch Barbie closely as she pours our drinks into two large glasses and sticks an umbrella in each. If she heard my remark, she isn’t letting on.

“Here we are,” she says, sliding the cocktails in front of us with a broad grin, apparently clueless as to my newfound celebrity status.

“Barbie, do you remember me?” I ask, curious that she hasn’t recognized me—either from the now infamous cell phone video of me at the spa, or from our first meeting a week ago. Of course, I am still incognito in my yoga gear.

She tilts her head and her brows knit together as her Farrah Fawcett hair falls over her shoulder. “I don’t think I do. We’ve met?”

“Yes, I was here last week with Jack. He borrowed your car to drive me back to the restaurant.”

“Oh, Miss Fancy Pants.”

“Yes. Actually, it’s Lauren.”

“What can I do for you?” She grabs a towel and begins wiping down the bar, the slightest, nearly imperceptible change in her voice indicating some amount of displeasure at finding me here.

I take a gulp of the zombie, allowing the sweet chill to slide down my throat before answering. Obviously, she doesn’t have the highest opinion of me. What will she think when I start interrogating her about Jack’s last movements. I clear my throat. “When was the last time you saw Jack?”

“Jack? Why?” she says, giving me a sideways glance, as if she might think I’m some one-night-stand Jack tossed aside and is now hunting him down for revenge. I get the feeling I’m not the first woman to show up here looking for him.

I spot a small sign tacked to the wall behind her that reads,
Swim at Your Own Risk,
and decide not to feed her suspicions. I put on my best authoritative voice, “He walked off the set last week and hasn’t reported to the production manager, his agent or my office. He may be in breach of contract if we can’t locate him ASAP. I would hate to see his career cut short because of a lack of responsibility.”

“That doesn’t sound like something Jack would do.”

“So you can see why I’m concerned,” I say, softening my voice and hoping she will confide in me, one authority figure to another. 

“He stopped by my place around six or so Sunday. He wanted to look at some old high school yearbooks,” Barbie says.

“Yearbooks? Why? What high school did he go to?”

“Venice, but it wasn’t
his
high school yearbook he wanted. It was mine.”

“Yours? Where did
you
go to high school?”

“Pasadena.”

“Why would he be interested in seeing your old high school yearbook?”

“Beats me,” she says with a gentle lift of her shoulder. “Although he was pretty agitated about it, really. He kept going on about my date for Senior Prom.”

“Your prom date? Who was he?”

“That was over twenty-five years ago. I don’t even remember his name anymore.”

“You don’t remember the name of the guy who took you to your Senior Prom?” I demand.

I could easily understand not recollecting the guy who brought her home from the Prom, especially if hers ended anything like mine—a belly full of grain alcohol and a head spinning faster than a pinwheel in a wind tunnel. But not recalling the name of the guy who
took
her? Maybe her earthy hippie lifestyle included copious amounts of weed as well as wheatgrass.