“Shana was the reason people watched this show. There isn’t enough star power in the rest of the Kenspeckles to carry the weight of such a show. Oh, I’m sure it will go on for a while. People will be curious to see the episodes we’re shooting right now. But soon they’ll get bored with the shenanigans of Shayonne and Shalonda and the others and that will be the end of it.”
So much for the murder giving the show a new lease on life. "Can you think of anyone who'd want the show to get canceled?" Odelia asked.
The director quickly checked around, then lowered his voice. “Eamonn was very vocal about wanting to leave the show. Unfortunately the poor boy signed an ironclad contract that basically ties him to this show in perpetuity.”
Chase checked his notebook. “Eamonn Dot is one of the writers?”
“He is. And he hates this show with a vengeance. Unfortunately he signed the contract back when he was an absolute nobody, and the network likes his work so much they’re keeping him around, even though he’s expressed a wish to be removed from the production. He’s already had to say no to several other projects he’d expressed an interest in, because he’s tied to this show.”
“What about you? Aren’t you anxious to do something else?” Chase asked.
“Oh, but I can,” said the director. “I never signed such a silly contract. I can walk away whenever I want.” He placed his hand on his heart. “But I so love my Kenspeckles. They’re a part of me now, and I don’t want to let go.”
Probably the fact that he got paid a nice packet didn’t hurt either. They thanked the director, who seemed disappointed they didn’t want to extend the interview, and went looking for Eamonn Dot, the troubled screenwriter.
They found him out on the terrace behind the guest house, where he was typing up a storm on his MacBook. He looked a little rattled when they approached him, but then writers usually are a high-strung bunch.
“Eamonn Dot? Police,” Chase said, producing his badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Shana Kenspeckle murder.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, quickly closing his MacBook.
They drew up a couple of iron chairs, the claw feet scraping against the hardwood, and launched into the interview. Odelia was starting to get the hang of this thing. Being a cop was all about asking the right questions, and trying to get the suspect to reveal stuff they didn’t necessarily want to reveal.
“Is it true you were dying to get out of this gig?” asked Chase.
The writer, a bespectacled skinny type with thinning hair and a lot of pimples, blinked nervously. “I—who told you that? I mean, not that it’s true.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I, well…” He looked around anxiously. “Are you going to tell the network about this? Cause I may not be completely satisfied with this gig, but that doesn’t mean I want to antagonize the network. Never antagonize the network, Detective. They’re the ones with the power to blackball you.”
“We’re not going to tell the network,” Odelia assured him.
He bit his lip. “All right. That’s good. That’s great.” He picked up a packet of cigarettes and offered them one. They both declined. He lit one up and took an eager drag. “I, um, yeah. Yeah, I wasn’t happy with this job. I am not happy with this job. In fact it’s probably the worst job in the world. Well, maybe not. Sewer inspector or professional dog and cat food taster or armpit sniffer are up there with being a writer for the Kenspeckles. I, um…” He took another long drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, writing those horrible treatments, outlining those stupid scenes, having to endure that hammy acting…” He shook his head. “It’s all very draining. Excruciatingly draining.”
Odelia had the impression the writer was mistaking them for his shrink, as the flow of words was almost unstoppable.
“So you didn’t like the show?” Chase asked, stating the obvious.
“No, I don’t like the show. It’s the worst show on television and I’m in it up to my eyeballs. Can you imagine how soul-sucking it is to write the kind of terrible drama that is required of me? For one thing, I have to keep abreast of all the gossip. I spend hours and hours reading gossip magazines. It’s brutal.”
Hey, this job didn’t sound so bad. Who didn’t love gossip magazines? And this guy was getting paid to do it? Cool. “So why don’t you quit?” she asked.
His hand trembled. “I—I can’t. There’s an exclusivity clause in my contract. I signed back when I was an absolute nobody and now I’m stuck.”
"So you decided that the only way to get the show canceled was to kill off one of the principals," Chase said, nodding.
“Yeah—wait, what? No! No, I—I would never do that. I… I’m not a killer, Detective. I—I can’t stand the sight of blood. And gore. I don’t even watch The Walking Dead. Zombies freak me out. And blood. It’s the senseless violence. It gets to me.” He took another, long drag. “You sure you don’t…”
“No, thanks, I’m good,” Chase said. “Where were you when Shana was killed, Mr. Dot?”
He gestured to a window that looked out onto the terrace. "Right here. In my room. I'm in the smallest room in the house. More like a broom cupboard. Harry Potter size." He grimaced. "It's the curse of the writer. But that doesn't mean I killed Shana. For one thing, I owe my career to this show. Once it's canceled, I can get any job I want. And it's made me a lot of money. A fixed income. Do you know how many writers would kill their mother to get on a show like this? Thousands. Not literally kill their mother. It's just a figure of speech. Most of my colleagues are out of work. I may hate my job, and it's one of the soul-suckiest jobs on the planet, but it's a job. I get paid."
“Do you have any idea who might be behind the murder?” asked Odelia.
The guy put out his cigarette with nervous jabs and nodded feverishly. “One of the girls here got a really bum deal. She was attacked by Shana.”
Chase frowned. “Shana got physical with a crew member?”
He expelled a jittery laugh. “Not physical, Detective, but she did make her life a living hell. Don’t tell her I told you, but I think you better have a word with Laurelle. Laurelle Merritt? She’s the stylist. She…” He coughed. “She had the bright idea to make a sex tape. She showed the tape to Shana, hoping she would make her famous. All Shana did was show the tape to her sisters. They found the whole thing hilarious and started sending it around to their friends as a joke. Laurelle was shattered.” He blinked. “Shana Kenspeckle was the original mean girl, Detectives. The Shana you see on the screen? That was my creation. The real Shana was not a very nice person.”
Chapter 20
Dooley and I had settled down at our new favorite spot: on top of that nice leather couch in the Kenspeckle living room. From here we had a great view of all the goings-on at the house, and could report back to Odelia with any new developments.
“We have to tell Odelia to get a nice couch like this,” Dooley said as he dug his claws into the leather. “I like it. It’s got everything a cat needs.”
“I like it too,” I said. “Though I don’t know what the Kenspeckles are going to say when they find out you’re ruining the couch, Dooley.”
“I’m not ruining it. I’m merely adding my personal touch.”
Rich people usually don’t have cats. They have dogs, and train them not to ruin the expensive furniture. You can’t train cats not to sink their claws into the upholstery. Not that we’re dumb or something. We just don’t care.
“So have you solved the murder yet?” Dooley asked.
“Nope. But I bet it’s a guy. Butchers are usually guys. And according to Abe we’re dealing with a real butcher. As in a professional meat carver.”
“So Dion or Damien? But Dion is innocent.”
“What about Damien? Rappers are butchers. Butchers of taste.”