Two Cooks A-Killing (4 page)

His gaze turned inward and hollow.

“She died from a fall, right?” Angie asked. “Horseback riding. Or was that also a lie?”

“Not a lie, exactly. A rumor given to the tabloids.” His toothy smile was close to a grimace.
“It was more…glamorous…than to say she was found dead in the courtyard.”

“The courtyard?” Angie shuddered. “What do you mean? How did she die there?”

He didn't answer for a long while. “She was
found
in the courtyard. Her bedroom was on the third floor. She fell from her window.”

“Oh, no!” Angie was horrified to think of a young woman dying that way. “Suicide was ruled out, I take it?”

“Yes, definitely. She was happy, a fine actress, her whole life ahead of her.”

Another possibility filled Angie's mind. “My fiancé is a homicide detective, so maybe that's why I'm asking, but did anyone suspect she might have been helped out that window?”

He nodded. “It was suspected, of course. However, the door to her room was locked with a metal slide bolt. There was no way anyone could have gotten in or out. We had to break it away from the door jamb to get into the room.”

“Her room was on the third floor”—Angie's voice became very tiny—“facing the courtyard?”

“That's right.”

She didn't know what made her ask, she only knew the answer she was expecting. “Which room up there was hers?”

“I'll never forget. It was the last one on the left.”

Why, why, why did Angie know he was going to say that?

It was the room she'd been given. The room that, frankly, gave her the creeps.

Paavo sat at his desk in Homicide, looking out at the dreary, foggy day, and listened while Angie excitedly rambled on and on about her new job. She'd finally met the director and the only problem was that he wanted to use an old show's menu rather than hers. Disappointed but undeterred, she planned to make it the best version of the meal he'd ever had, to use exquisite recipes that would make him and the other actors take notice.

Suddenly, she gave him a quick “I love you” and said she had to hang up. Someone was nearby that she wanted to talk to.

“I love you, too,” he said as the dial tone sounded in his ear.

He was glad she was enjoying herself. Glad she wasn't up there miserable and missing him…he supposed.

Finally, he put down the receiver.

 

As Angie had been talking to Paavo on the extension phone in her room, she'd heard a door close.
She stuck her head out into the hall and saw Mariah heading for the stairs.

“Mariah, wait!” Angie quickly hung up and hurried after her. “What's this about Brittany Keegan? I heard she had the same room as me. And that she died here at Eagle Crest!”

“How should I know? I wasn't here at the time. I'm going to dinner.” Mariah walked down the stairs, her perky pigtails swinging.

“You must have heard something,” Angie said at her heels. “Didn't you? I don't know that I want to be in that room. Who else is on our floor?”

Mariah reached the foyer and spun around. “Who cares about Brittany Keegan? Isn't it enough Em talks about her all the time? What was it with her? Look, I've got a room up there, too. So does Em's chef and the scriptwriter—when she shows. It's better than you going into town or living in a trailer because believe me, the one you'd be given would be several steps down from the lush homes-away-from-home the stars live in. Get over it!”

Angie stepped back, her mouth agape.

“If you want to eat, you'd better get your butt down to craft services before it's all gone. The caterer's truck left a half hour ago.” Mariah left, slamming the door behind her.

How rude! Angie had only asked a few simple questions.

Her stomach rumbled.

Outside, floodlights and lanterns strung across the field a short distance from the house illuminated the area filled with technicians, tents, and massive pieces of equipment. Lights and shadows
created a busier and more chaotic appearance than it had by day.

Angie's spirits buoyed and she crossed the fake snow-filled lawn and lighted angels and snowmen to the tents. Her nose led to the food, a spread of ham, chicken, roast beef, green salad, macaroni salad, fresh fruits and vegetables, and a variety of breads and spreads for sandwich making. Junk food reigned supreme with a variety of chips, candy bars, sunflower seeds, bags of peanuts and cashews, packets of cookies, crackers, and sodas, fruit juice, coffee, tea, and milk galore.

Angie made herself a plate, then introduced herself to the crew. Most were newcomers to the set.

Except one.

Donna Heinz had worked as a costume designer on the original show. She was celery-stalk thin, with dull coal-black hair combed straight back close to the head, and with thin, penciled-in charcoal eyebrows. Even though she was now retired, she'd agreed to come back and help dress the stars in the haughty, self-confident style for which
Eagle Crest
had become known. Much older than the others and apparently ignored by them, she sat alone, a glass of wine in one hand, a Virginia Slims in the other.

Angie sat on a folding chair beside her and chatted about
Eagle Crest
. For Angie, hearing the inside secrets was fascinating. Finally she asked if Ms. Heinz remembered Brittany Keegan.

“She was genuinely cheerful,” Donna said. “And ambitious. I knew it would get her into trouble one day. I didn't think it would be so soon, though.”

“Get her into trouble?” Angie asked, munching on a strawberry. “So, you think she committed suicide because she was troubled?”

Heinz grimaced. “Brittany would never have killed herself.”

Angie ate, waiting for an explanation.

“It had to have been an accident,” Donna said. “A horrible accident. There's no way anyone could have entered her room.”

Angie pushed the strawberries and melon cubes to one side and took a bite of fresh peach cobbler. “Did the rest of the cast get along with Brittany?” Angie asked.

Donna eyed her coldly. “Why so interested?”

“I was a big fan, and now I've been given her room. It's made me curious.”

“I should imagine!” A shudder rippled through her. “Did she get along with others? Who knows? All these people are jealous of each other no matter what they say or how they act. Hollywood is the only place where people can literally kill you with kindness.”

With that, she finished her wine and went into her trailer. Angie joined some young audio engineers. They were polite, but might have been speaking in tongues, for all she understood of their conversation.

Going back to her cold little room held no appeal. Instead, she slowly walked around the house to the courtyard and entered through the gate. Twinkling Christmas lights gave it a magical air.

The smell of cigarette smoke told her she wasn't alone.

“Hello?” she called.

“Hello.”

Silver was at a table hidden behind a miniature orange tree. The lights and fake snow at his feet were incongruous with his rolled shirtsleeves.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” she asked.

“I should ask you the same thing,” he replied, gesturing for her to join him. “Lonely?”

“A little. I miss my fiancé,” she admitted, sitting across the table.

“Fiancé?”

She showed him her ring.

“Tell me about him,” Silver said.

She liked to talk about Paavo. How brave and strong and smart he was; how many cases he'd solved; how handsome he was with his dark wavy hair, large blue eyes, and high cheekbones; how gentle and kind he was with her despite making crooks and killers quake by his mere glance.

Silver was soon chuckling as she described her and Paavo's differences, and how, even after knowing him for some time, she was still amazed that they decided to get married.

“He's a lucky man, Angie,” Silver said. “I'd give anything to find a woman who'd talk about me the way you do about him.”

“I'm sure you will someday.”

“Not out here, though.”

“If you don't like it, why do you stay?”

“Contacts. It doesn't hurt to make them. I could use some if I ever get to Hollywood. I'd like to go. But so far, I haven't had the nerve.”

“You want to act?”

“I'd love to. My mother, when she paid attention to such things, used to tell me I'd make a great actor—that I had the looks and the talent.”

“Your mother.” Angie couldn't help but smile.

“Oh…I know what you're thinking. What difference does it make what one's mother says? They always try to uplift one's spirits, don't they? Tell one how great one is?”

“Oh…I don't know that I'd say that,” Angie admitted. Serefina was more apt to list her shortcomings than her talents. In fact, had Serefina ever mentioned her talents? She couldn't remember. She knew she was loved, but sometimes it seemed she was loved “despite” everything, not as a result of it.

She glanced at Silver. He certainly had the looks to become an actor. She found herself staring at his face, trying to find a flaw. Those she noticed—a slight crookedness to one eyebrow, two laugh lines on the left side of his mouth, and only one on the right—were charming.

“Your mother doesn't praise you? I find that hard to believe,” he said.

“I can be a burden to her, I suppose. She isn't as happy about me as she would like to be.”

“I can't imagine you being a burden to anyone, Angie. You're a good person.”

“That's nice of you to say.” Her gaze softened. “I was sorry to hear your mother passed away. I would have liked to have met her.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You wouldn't have. Trust me.”

She didn't know what to say, so she stood. “I
think I'd better retire. Tomorrow, I'm going to have to nail down the details and start preparing an enormous feast.”

“Merry Christmas, Angie.”

“Good night, Silver,” she said. A smile crept to her lips, which she tried hard to suppress.

“Say it!” he ordered.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head, trying harder than ever not to allow the laughter to break out.

“Listen, I've lived with the name all my life,” he said. “I know exactly what you're thinking.”

She shook her head.

“Hey, it's not so bad. With a father named Sterling, a mother named Crystal, my older brother Sterling, Jr., I'm just lucky I wasn't the third brother. He'd probably have been named Pewter.”

She did laugh.

“Say it, please.”

She drew in her breath and said, “Hi-yo, Silver.”

He just nodded. “Goodnight. Lock your door, Angie. Around here, that's the only sensible thing to do.”

 

The moon was a thin crescent over the vineyards so devoid of illumination that no shadow fell as a dark figure approached the mansion. The alarm system was left off, now that the crew had arrived. If not, the people working late and arriving early would be setting it off continuously. Besides, the house was far too remote for mere thieves to approach.

The only dangers stemmed from those who
knew its layout, its owners, the cast and crew. And knew why everything involving them should be stopped.

All was silent in the house as the front door opened. A penlight lit the way to the living room. Audiovisual equipment filled one corner of the room. Carefully and methodically cables and wires were detached from the sockets in which they belonged and reattached to any plug, slot, or connector they could be forced onto.

The figurine of the Little Drummer Boy stood on the mantel, its lifelike eyes watching every move.

Paavo marched into Homicide, hurled the morning's
San Francisco Chronicle
on his desk, and slammed himself into his desk chair. Scowling, he took a gulp of his morning coffee.

“Hey, Paav,” the boisterous voice of his partner jangled his eardrums, “how you doing? Beautiful morning, isn't it? Good to see that sun after three days of fog. Makes us all little rays of sunshine today.”

“Hmmph.” Paavo flapped the paper and scanned the front page.

“Uh oh, Angie must be giving you a hard time about something. What's it this time? The color of your tie for her big engagement party? If the invitations should be on ivory colored paper or white with sweet smiling little cupids?” Yosh chuckled.

“Not funny, Yosh,” Paavo muttered. He snapped the paper open to page two and stuck his nose closer in a not-so-subtle hint to be left alone. He was bothered by Angie's conversation last evening. First, she'd quizzed him about her face.

Her
face?
To him, it was perfect. He had no idea what was bothering her.

No sooner had she left that topic than she told him about Brittany Keegan having died from a fall on the property. He learned more about the crew and cast than he wanted to know, not to mention Sterling and Silver Waterfield. What names! Why she hadn't yet met “Junior” puzzled him. Something about the entire set-up was off-kilter. And it was a lot more than Christmas in April.

He managed to squeeze in a few words about Connie sending Minnie Petite over to ask him to find her missing “significant other,” who happened to be a 62-year-old dwarf and was also an actor.

A strange coincidence, he had to admit, considering that Angie was surrounded by actors.

She found it amusing that instead of a hardened murderer, Connie had him chasing a wedding-shy little person…and then she went right back telling him about
Eagle Crest
scenes that took place on the very sofas, chairs, and tables, or by the bar, fireplace, courtyard, and even bathrooms she was using. By the time he hung up, his ears were ringing.

“I know why he's so grumpy.” Rebecca Mayfield, Homicide's only female inspector, interrupted his thoughts as she crossed the room to rest an arm on the filing cabinet by his desk. She had long blond hair, worn loose about her shoulders today, and a body that showed the positive effects of many hours at a gym. Her clothes were basic and inexpensive, her shoes sensible, her demeanor serious and logical. To Paavo, she was the
anti-Angie—he couldn't imagine two women more different.

Rebecca was half in love with him, or thought she was, and had been since they'd first met. Her lingering gazes and heartfelt sighs made him uncomfortable. There was nothing he could do but ignore them.

“Angie's probably wondering if the guests would prefer aspic or confit as an appetizer,” Rebecca said with a smile. “Paavo doesn't want to tell her he doesn't know what the hell she's talking about.”

Even Luis Calderon, who rarely cracked a smile, let alone a laugh, snickered at that.

Paavo crumpled the newspaper. “What do you guys know about the old TV series
Eagle Crest
?”

“Hot stuff,” Calderon called.

“All I remember,” Yosh said, “is my wife used to tell me to be quiet on Friday nights so she could watch it. It was when we were first married, too. I had other things on my mind than some dumb soap on Friday night, let me tell you. I never understood what she saw in it. Some of the women were babes, but the guys were puke-buckets. I tried to watch a couple of times. She'd get mad when I'd laugh and it wasn't supposed to be funny.”

“I don't blame her.” Rebecca snapped. “If I'd been your wife, that would have ended our relationship. I used to watch every minute of the show. Every second, in fact.”

“So that explains your wasted youth,” Yosh said.

“Stuff it!” Rebecca turned to Paavo. “Why do you ask?”

“Angie's not in town. She's gone to St. Helena for a few days to work on some Christmas reunion show.”

Rebecca gasped. “You're kidding me. They aren't in St. Helena now, are they?”

“Did you tell her it's April, Paavo?” Yosh said with a chuckle.

Paavo ignored him, and answered Rebecca. “Angie's there, so I guess the others are as well.”

Rebecca, starry-eyed, murmured, “I can't believe it. Cliff and Adrian, in
Eagle Crest
, again. Dear, sweet, hunka-hunka Adrian.”

“Hunka-hunka?” Calderon looked as her as if she'd lost her mind.

Rebecca cleared her throat and turned toward her desk.

“One of the cast died mysteriously while the show was being filmed,” Yosh said. “I don't recall the details.”

“Angie's curious about that,” Paavo said. “Of course.”

His words brought Rebecca back. “Julia Parker, Natalie Roxbury's niece. She was a bitch and a troublemaker, but it was really sad when she died. People were in tears all over America.”

“Wait a minute,” Paavo said, confused, “are you talking about a character or an actress?”

“A character, but the actress died, too,” Rebecca replied. “I don't remember her name, though.”

“Brittany Keegan,” Paavo said.

“That's right!” Yosh exclaimed. “I was living up
in Seattle at the time. My wife was terribly upset. I wasn't working Homicide yet, but it seemed they went out of their way to keep information from the public. The death was ruled an accident, but my wife said she thought one of the other women on the show probably knocked her off.”

“It was all strangely hush-hush,” Rebecca added. “Not even the tabloids speculated about anything other than it being a sad accident. A riding accident on her Malibu estate, as I recall.”

“I vaguely remember that,” Paavo said. “The newspapers made it sound like she was in L.A., but Angie swears she actually died in Napa County.”

“Weird,” Yosh said.

“Maybe I need to find out about the woman's death,” Paavo murmured.

“Ever the cop.” Rebecca shook her head. “How does Angie feel about you wanting to check up on everybody she associates with?”

He thought about Angie staying at a rich man's house with his two bachelor sons. Maybe Rebecca had the right idea.

 

“Get me out of this, goddamn it!” Kyle O'Rourke yelled into his cell phone. He lounged on the redwood deck of his split-level Laguna Beach home and stared out at the Pacific. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Once again, his agent gave him all the reasons he was not getting out of it and was going to St. Helena, which boiled down to three reasons that were bull, three that were shit, and one that was real: if he didn't show up to play the elegant albeit
shoved-around Adrian Roxbury, he'd be sued for breach of contract, and it could cost him somewhere between five and ten million dollars.

He punched the “End” button on his Nokia, snapped it shut, and tossed it onto the small table at his side. He'd already known it was way too late to get out of the deal, but the closer the time came, the more he felt the need to yell at someone about it. His agent was the easiest target.

Memories of
Eagle Crest
rushed at him. Bad memories, despite the way his career had benefited from the role. He had a good life in southern California now, a beautiful wife, two children, and a contract to star in a Ridley Scott film beginning next month.

He wanted nothing more to do with the Adrian Roxbury role or the people he'd worked with. Not Bart or Rhonda. Not even Gwen. He smiled, remembering her. Since he and Gwen had played the rockily married Adrian and Leona when the cameras rolled, it made sense that when the cameras were off, they'd find time to kiss and make up.

Gwen was cool. He believed she'd never tell his wife, and she didn't.

Still, there were always small-minded people around who used stars like him to find their way into the news. What was said in jest might have more than a little truth to it. He didn't want to take the chance. He'd insisted that his wife stay home with the kids.

Keeping his wife out of the loop was hard enough, but the real trick would be to keep the press out of it. There was too much dirt they could
dredge up. Ironically, his new film persona was based on Adrian Roxbury's character, not on Kyle O'Rourke's.

Kyle would never forget the day it dawned on him how to act when fans came up to him with tears and sympathy, saying they thought he was wonderfully nice and sweet and shouldn't have to be made to suffer so much because of his horrible brother, Cliff, and his cheating, shrewish wife, Leona.

Instead of protesting that Adrian was simply a character he played on TV, he began to thank his fans for their concern, and say that somehow, he had the faith that this would all turn out well. The fans loved him for it. They would smile and hug him, pleased by his good nature, forgiveness, and God-loving charity toward others. Adrian Roxbury, candidate for sainthood.

Since that was what his fans wanted, he gave it to them in spades. He began looking for movie roles with Adrian-type, charming, educated good guys. And he got them.

His movies were all big box office hits—not blockbuster films, but ones that women clamored to see, that they bought on videotape, and again on DVD, and rented over and over and over, Kleenex boxes close at hand as they watched.

Someday, he hoped to be the young Robert Redford of his time. He didn't see gambling all that by letting it be known that his personal life was akin to
Return to Peyton Place
.

Negotiations for the
Eagle Crest
reunion had been well along before his agent let him in on what was happening, thrilled at the amount of
money the producers had offered, and that the timing of the shoot was pushed all the way up to April so as not to interfere with his and Gwen Hagen's film schedules. As famous as Bart Farrell and Rhonda Manning were when the show first appeared on TV, Kyle O'Rourke and Gwen Hagen were now the big stars—and the storyline for the reunion would reflect that.

How the script would mesh Christmas with the sexy sleaze of the Roxbury clan was another matter.

He had immediately asked to be written out of the story. But the producers refused and threatened a lawsuit.

The usual phone calls began. Quickly, he realized just how stuck he was. The horror was already beginning.

He caught a view of himself in the mirror, and stopped to admire the sight. He wasn't as tall as Bart Farrell, but his physique was definitely better—toned and muscular. He glided his hand against thick, sandy blond hair that reached in back to his collar, studied his cobalt blue eyes, then touched a face that sun, sea, and age had made increasingly craggy.

Robert Redford, all right.

Tomorrow, the private jet he'd chartered would be heading north.

Somehow, he would get past
Eagle Crest
and move on with his life. He could do it. He was a great actor.

 

Gwen Hagen tossed aside the screenplay she'd been reading. Not funny enough; not enough ac
tion. She enjoyed action films, ones that didn't require a lot of retrospection or insight. Ones that didn't force her to delve inside her soul to understand the character she was playing.

Some days, she was convinced she had no soul. Although it bothered her, the possibility of movie-goers seeing the same blackness was positively frightening. What would happen to her career then?

Action films were safer, as was comedy. One had to be careful with comedy, though, as it was often a humorous way to expose the same truths as drama. She was always leery of revelation.

Packets of scripts from her agent were stacked on the coffee table in the living room of her Malibu house. She was lying on the sofa going through them. It was tedious, but she was the best judge of roles she'd consider playing. She would never give that decision-making power to anyone else.

She picked up the next script, read the logline, and saw that it had a Christmas theme. She sat up and slammed it onto the reject pile. No
Miracle on 34th Street
for her, thank you. Not even
The Santa Clause.

She hated Christmas, and she particularly hated Santa Claus.

Not having seen the script yet for the
Eagle Crest
special upset her. This was the one time she had no control, no choice. It had been written in her original
Eagle Crest
contract. Restless, she stood and paced the room.

She wondered if it'd be so hokey as to have Santa
Claus make an entrance. When she was a child, Santa was the one who'd brought gifts to “good” boys and girls, but never to her. One year when she was six and believed in Santa with all her heart, she tried all year long to be a “good little girl.”

That Christmas had come and gone, and there were still no presents. Not even a Christmas tree. She never tried to be good again.

Not until she was fifteen and made some money on her own did she buy herself a Christmas present. A small teddy bear.

She still had it, too. It was the one thing she'd kept with her all these years. The one thing that reminded her of the way her life used to be, and that she'd do anything, anything at all, never to have to go back to that life again.

In her bedroom, she lifted the long, curly black wig she used to play Leona Roxbury from its box. The curls stood out about five inches all the way around her head and cascaded halfway down her back. The long, thick hair made the wig so heavy it gave her a headache.

She placed it over her short, straight black hair and became Leona once again. Years ago, after two arrests for prostitution, and afraid to go back out onto the streets, she felt her life change when she answered a casting call for a television show.

A good whore is nothing but an underpaid actress, she'd reasoned. And she'd been a good one.

She put everything she had into the reading and lied up one side and down the other on the job application. Only her phone number had been real.