“Some lookout you are,” I mumbled as I passed her.
She mouthed, “sorry,” at me.
“It wasn’t Cam’s fault,” Felix said, unlocking his car.
I paused. That statement suddenly begged the question-whose fault was it?
“Soooooo, how did you know we were here?”
“Allie told me.”
I felt my jaw clench, remembering the way her eyes had followed Cal and me to the elevators. She must have eavesdropped on the whole conversation. When I got my hands on that blonde…
“Speaking of whom,” Felix continued, unaware of the rage building in my gut, “she tells me you interviewed Pines today?”
I swallowed my temper, telling myself to save it for the blonde. (I was out of quarters anyway.) “We did. And have we got a scoop on the Mullins guy.” I filled him in on how Pines had alleged Mullins was trying to blackmail him just before his death. “If he tried it with Pines, maybe he tried it with someone else who wasn’t as confident, and they killed him.”
Felix listened with his poker face in place, mulling this over. Finally he said, “I like it. I want to know who else Mullins might have been trying to blackmail. Start with his co-stars. Find out who else was on the film with Pines and Mullins.”
“On it!” I promised.
The first thing I did when I got back to the office was head straight for Allie’s desk. Only to find out she was taking a late lunch. I hoped she enjoyed it. Because there was a distinct possibility that meal would be her last.
It also served to remind me I hadn’t eaten yet either. Cal offered to go get us sandwiches again, and I plunked down at my desk.
Max’s head popped up over the top of the partition. “That you, Bender?”
“Hey, Max.”
“I got that obit typed up that you wanted,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper.
I took it, scanning the highlights of Mrs. Carmichael’s obituary. Apparently she’d been crowned Miss Venice Beach back in the forties. She’d owned two racehorses, one that had come in fourth in the Kentucky Derby in the sixties. She had penned a romance novel in the eighties that even sported Fabio on the cover. She’d been widowed three times-by a plumber, a car salesman, and a window washer. She’d been a certified scuba diver, had a pilot’s license, and a black belt in judo. And, according to Max’s fine reporting skills, she’d been the very first person to ever play Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
Immediately a deep sense of sadness hit me. While she’d been a pain in the butt as an old woman, I’d had no idea of the kind of life she’d led before Palm Grove. I suddenly felt sorry that I hadn’t taken the time to find out until now.
“That work for ya?” Max asked.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I handed the sheet back to him.
I turned my watery-eyed gaze back to my computer screen, forcing the lump from my throat. Focus. I had work to do. And sitting here feeling guilty wasn’t going to help Mrs. C. at this point.
Trying really hard to believe my own pep talk, I booted up IMDB and focused on finding out who else had been in Pines’s picture with Mullins.
The Internet Movie Database has all the info on every movie or TV show ever made. Plot, production status, cast, crew, and every agent associated with it. It’s a huge network of who’s who in Hollywood. You know that you’ve truly made it in this town when you have your own entry on IMDB.
I plugged in the name of Pines’s last film and came up with a page that held the meager plot, a movie poster, and list of participants. Pines, of course, and a handful of other crew whose names I didn’t recognize. Mullins was listed, as was the kid who’d played his son and allegedly posed for Pines. But as I scanned the names of the rest of the cast, one fairly jumped out at me.
Jennifer Wood.
Apparently she’d had a small part as the kid’s babysitter. Huh. Small world. Well, considering “Samantha” was already pals with Jennifer, it was a place to start.
“Salami on sourdough.” Cal dropped a sandwich on my desk. “Extra mayo.” He gave me a wink.
I had to admit, I could get used to this lunch delivery thing.
An hour later we were parked outside the Sunset Studios lot, watching as one flashy BMW after another was waved through by a security guard who looked like he’d started shaving yesterday.
“So, how are we going to get in this time?” Cal asked behind his shades.
I stared out the passenger side window. Across the street were a liquor store, a souvenir shop and a Krispy Kreme.
I grinned. Now, this I could use…
Ten minutes later Cal and I were at the front gate, facing the baby security guard with two dozen glazed donuts.
“Who did you say you were again?” he asked, pulling out his list of those-cool-enough-to-be-allowed-entry.
“Crafts service. For the Celebrity Diet Wars show.”
He frowned, his baby-fine brows drawing together. “It says here crafts service already came in at noon.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. But, see, they didn’t anticipate how much those chubby celebs like their pastries.” I held up the Krispy Kreme box. “We had to go get more supplies.”
The guard nodded. “Oh. Right.” He consulted his clipboard again. “Okay, well, um, I guess go on in.”
I gave myself a little mental pat on the back for my fabulous acting skills as Cal maneuvered the SUV through the gates.
Five minutes later we’d ditched the tank for a golf cart and were speeding our way toward the Pippi Mississippi set. We parked outside, near a row of white trailers, and made our way onto the sound stage. Today’s filming was taking place in Pippi’s “bedroom,” a three-walled set decorated in more pink tulle than the entire cast of The Nutcracker. I tried not to gag on the cottoncandy-colored overload as Cal and I hung back.
In the center of the scene, on a ruffled pink daybed, sat Jennifer and her co-star. Jennifer was texting someone as a makeup artist powdered her forehead. The brunette was listening intently as the director gave her instructions.
“Okay, Lani, this is where Chloe confesses to Pipp that she has a crush on her boyfriend. So, I need you to look really contrite, okay?”
The brunette nodded seriously. “Okay.”
“You can do that, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Julius, I’m a classically trained Shakespearean actress. I think I can handle ‘contrite teen,’ okay?”
“Right.” I saw the director’s nostrils flare as he took in a deep breath. Then he shouted, “Back to one, everyone,” causing the crew to scatter like mice that had just heard the kitty coming.
The guy with the clapboard yelled, “Speed,” someone yelled, “Rolling,” and a loud bell sounded, signaling that shooting was under way.
“Nick totally asked me to the dance at lunch today,” Jennifer said.
“Oh.” Lani did an exaggerated “sad” face.
“What, Chloe? I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Lani said. “I just…well, I was kind of hoping that Nick would ask-”
“God, she’s doing it again!” Jennifer interrupted.
“Cut,” the exasperated director yelled. I could feel the collective groan ripple through the crew. “Doing what, love?” he asked.
“She’s going off script.”
“I am doing no such thing!” Lani protested, throwing her shoulders back.
“Are too. The line is, ‘I wondered if Nick was going to ask me.’ Not, ‘I was hoping Nick would ask me.’”
The director closed his eyes, and I could imagine him mentally chanting whatever mantra his therapist had given him that week. “Jennifer. Honey. Darling. It doesn’t matter. It’s close enough. Let’s just finish the scene so we can all go home, okay?”